Sunday, July 26, 2015

Sunday, June 10, 2012

The Day as Sentence (Chapter 1)

We are entering white water, nothing seems right, we don't know where we are, the water is green, no white.
—Claimed to be the last words transmitted from Flight 19 before it disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle


It was about time they played a familiar tune. I began singing along to keep from drowsing, but soon realized I didn’t know any of the lyrics. Undecided then whether to hum or whistle, whistle or hum, I tried flipping a coin in my mind and settled on faking the words as I went along.
Memory is like this, I crooned, like a song we think we know-oh-oh
There was no end to this fog. I considered yawning and reached for the cup of coffee I suddenly remembered mid-gesture was already empty but had to shake anyway to confirm before being able to refocus on the road.
The driver in front simply had a busted taillight, though connecting that faint demon glow to the other good taillight, to the car, to the person in it, proved to be a protracted and convoluted mental transaction. I yawned and tapped the brakes to keep up the delicate sensation of being alone in the universe, reduced now to this dark, winding mountain road somewhere in western Massachusetts. As the frequency modulated musicians faded into their final notes, I switched off the radio to preserve this timeless state of being I’d entered into from commercial interruption. Watching another dark mile vanish from my rearview mirror, I was spooked by a sudden urge to let go of the wheel.
The fog infected everything with a dangerous yet dreamlike delirium.
As the convertible continued to burrow through the night, I knew it was only a matter of time before my interior narrator would begin drawing discouraging conclusions from dull observations again. The time was 2:51 am. You’ve been on the road for over four hours. It’ll probably turn out to be for nothing. I leaned over for a look at myself in the rearview mirror and saw the familiar print of Picasso’s The Old Guitarist reflected over my shoulder on the bathroom wall. The man replied, “Things as they are are changed upon the blue guitar.” The wince seemed to precede the philtrum nick. “Really? This is what you’re telling me?” I exploded suddenly beside myself with fury. “So that’s life, then: things as they are?”
It was pointless giving this narrator a piece of my mind when I, by a preponderance of the evidence, was in no way to be mistaken for the projection. The mirrorself, smug, made no move to rebuttal as I finished taking off the beard with more mindfulness. Slapping on some aftershave, I resolved to put in for some time off as the sharp, alcoholic sting sang arias through every tired cell in my body. The string of sixty- to seventy-hour workweeks that had culminated in a disappointing compensation review had pushed my mid-life cliché to crisis and left me with barely enough energy in the evenings to nurse a few drinks before falling asleep in front of the television. Cultivating such life-denying distractions only granted a very limited sort of access to a certain lowest common denominator level of happiness that was nevertheless spoiled by a sad awareness that what I ended up watching most nights were widely acknowledged cultural abortions requiring very little thought.
You were so tense you had to conserve all your energy just to withstand it.
I honestly couldn’t make up my mind on where to go. The real problem was that I’d kept thinking in terms of stepping into an entirely new life, the one I was actually meant for, rather than in terms of taking a short break from this one, and two weeks was really not enough time for all that. It was barely enough to de-stress a tick or two before returning to work with a few anecdotes you’d polished to entertain colleagues while waiting for elevator doors to slide open or meetings to reach quorum. Maybe the sense that I needed something a little more meaningful had led me to procrastinate, but before I knew it, I was officially on vacation without having booked a flight or a room anywhere.
I’d gone home, nursed a couple of drinks, and proceeded to fall asleep in front of the television somewhere towards the end of an episode of The Real World, where the girl with the angel wings inked into her shoulder blades seemed to want to communicate something urgent to me, personally, on the other side of the screen, before I vanished into a fractured unconsciousness, or a fade to black from her side. It must’ve been around 2am when it hit me that I was actually on vacation, free to do what I wanted. Not a bad feeling at all.
The mind's major journey now is to find its way back through a depth of surfaces to a childlike wonder where vacationing becomes an impenetrable state of mind.

After finishing a full pot of coffee the next day over a leisurely brunch with a typographically complex newspaper, I’d tidied up around the apartment to my Korean language CDs. If you had driven more carefully, you wouldn’t have had that accident, I repeated in the third conditional. This was the grammatical structure that allowed one to think about unreal situations in the past. With the laundry folded and dishes stacked away, I was about to power down the laptop, but then decided instead to turn my attention to the long-neglected novel figuring that if I wasn’t going on vacation, I might as well work.
I’d fixed myself a Hendrick’s gin martini (which gave the scent of a scene: so he asks my character, Grant, you like ‘em wet or dry? I like ‘em wet, I reply, trying to approximate his peculiar Midwestern patois, and then wait a beat before pretending to be telling him a side-handed secret: like my women, I whisper. He pretends gross feminist offense. With a twist, please, I specify, returning to my normal voice. I wonder if he’s ever messed with anyone’s drink. I consider how much he would need to mess with mine for me to send it back. Penis-stirring, I confirm silently to myself) while waiting for the manuscript to print. Then I took both out onto the balcony where I spread open the parasol and sank into the now shaded but still warm pages, pausing over paragraphs to make notes to myself in the margins. It wasn’t until I reached the end that I even noticed the trembling in my body. The temperature had dropped unseasonably, unreasonably, and furthermore, unkindly, as if the early August sky could somehow recall the bitterness of being born in winter, and dimming, lazily announced the first few stars of a night’s midsummer dream. I scratched at phantom bug bites, the body’s memory with mosquitoes. The day had been one long blur of a sentence whose period had nevertheless come. I’d kept shivering, staring up at the darkening sky until it’d dawned on me that the stars had been there all along.
Recognize anything?
Reading about my narrator waiting for a mysterious woman in a Brooklyn café made me remember that teenager putting up posters in a bus depot in Cameroon. A few chapters later, I remembered the night it occurred to me that it should occur to my character that suicide was really for the young at heart. My thoughts and memories responded to each scene as if they had originated in me, only I couldn’t remember writing them out. The actual sentences felt foreign, and page after page, I could only recall what stirred behind the written words like indistinct shadows in a cave. I thought about working the idea of someone else with access to my memories abandoning a novel for me to finish into the present novel somehow.
I got up from the chaise, stretched, and went inside to attempt the perfection of another martini. As I twisted the lemon zest, watching the citrusy spray settle over the chilled surface of the drink, I had what might pass for some as an out-of-body experience. All of a sudden, here was this moving, acting “I” who tasted the drink and topped it off with more gin, who put everything away, wiped down the counter, and pulled on a sweater before returning to the balcony to find half the pages had blown off the side table. And with that, he was gone. Gone with the wind. Honestly, kid, who gives a fuck? I heard him paraphrase just before disappearing into some Bermuda triangle of the mind. I drank my drink, pulled myself together, and wearily gathered what pages hadn’t blown into the abandoned lot below.
Something about the lonely rattle of a rickety shopping cart just then (reminded me of that indefatigable voice imploring passers by to  help feed the homeless, help feed the hungry, again and again as I’m waiting for the longest red light to change on the corner of 31st and 7th on my way in to work until this one time as the signals switch and the halting hand blinks into a man supposedly in motion, I think I hear him say to help feed the homeless to the hungry), influenced by the strange effects of an orange supermoon poised low between two buildings, sirens blaring in the distance, and a woman’s laughter floating up from the patio bar around the corner, conspired in me, and I suddenly saw myself flinging the rest of the pages clear off the balcony. As I watched the white, serene sheets flutter through the early evening air down past the windows of my neighbors on the lower floors, the silence in my head came to resemble the flurry of snow in a thoroughly shaken paperweight. It was liberating, in its own way, like tearing a thousand losing lottery tickets into a million confetti-like, if celebratory, pieces. Call it my private party contribution to an abandoned lot already so littered with construction debris, cigarette butts, broken beer bottles, and the excrement of half the neighborhood dogs.
This is the story of your life, reminded the narrator.
I lay in bed that night thinking about this story and how it wanted to end. Maybe the story just needed to be put out of its misery, but this led to thoughts about life in general, and I fell asleep with a profound sense that I really was well past the point where I needed to know what the plot was about.

The next morning, I’d forced myself to sit at the desk for a few hours marking up newly printed manuscript pages in red ink, getting up only for bathroom breaks and bourbon, forgetting to eat, and then another few hours deciphering the elaborate system of strikethroughs and additions scrawled between lines and spilling into the margins with arrows and footnotes referencing other footnotes on the backs of pages, and made still further changes as I incorporated these handwritten edits electronically into a revised document that any critic could tell still lacked a definitive engine, some fundamental mechanism driving the plot.
I turned on the radio, already tuned to a local classical station, and fixed myself a Woodford Reserve Manhattan as I had just before pissed out what would probably prove to be the last of the gin, thinking Chopin certainly knew how to waltz up and down those keys.
I stepped out onto the balcony to clear my head only to be blindsided by yet another vision of the endless telescoping of days. Construction debris, check. Cigarette butts, plenty. Broken beer bottles, you betcha. Dog shit. I could smell it from here. But curiously not a single page in sight, a fact that I would come to puzzle over sporadically throughout the remainder of the week.

Eventually, I settled on moving forward a chapter a day, but over the next few days, the work progressed very mechanically (better your work than your sex life), with rhythms imported no doubt from what I could no longer kid myself, almost seven years later, as being just a day job. I reached the last page only to find myself exactly where I left off over a year ago, right back where I went wrong, with no real idea what the story was about or where it wanted to go. Using the last page to catch my fingernail clippings, I coolly considered killing off a character or two. Naturally, one would have to be the narrator.
You would hope that so much thinking and writing would lead somewhere.
Maybe mining the raw material was behind me, and maybe all that was really left was to refine it for a shape and structure that the material itself would suggest—naturally, magically, or otherwise; I was open to suggestions—but the lifeless lines remained silent, and left me feeling far from equal to the task. Anything good demanded a certain level of sustained concentration, and I knew beforehand that writing in this mode, living in this mode, bit by bit through the years, would only produce inferior results.
A belief in your dreams demands disbelieving in the facts that surround you.

The following few days, I guess I’d fallen into something of a funk, with all the torturous thoughts that accompany this overriding sensation of nonexistence symptomatic of writer’s block. I locked myself up in the apartment so that my only contact with the outside world were the guys who brought ethnic food to my door. What are you doing with your life? they’d ask in various fake accents and disguises, counting out my change as I calculated in my mind how much cash I could come up with on short notice, and how long it might last me in a country like Thailand or Mexico or wherever the food happened to be from.
One night, I even found myself chatting up an absent Amber, seeing the whole twenty-minute conversation play out in my head, concrete and inevitable, like a scene just before I’d write it down. I thought about calling her in California, but just touching the receiver somehow transmitted the somber, freighted realities of our relationship, and I lost all nerve as they sank in.
I didn’t open my mail, didn’t watch television, didn’t connect online. I did nothing to remind me that there was even a world out there that I was very actively ignoring. I thought about everything that I could be doing but wasn’t, choosing instead to pass the time looking through old shoeboxes of memories, rereading unsent love letters, doing pushups and sit-ups, testing how long I could hold my breath under water in the bathtub, rearranging the furniture. I imagined what I would do if I were stranded on an island, if I won the lottery, if I met the next love of my life. I compiled mental lists of other people’s secrets, other people’s joys, other people’s sorrows. I could lay in bed for hours before thinking of a good reason to get up. I’d spent most of my time lying down, and if not in bed, then on the yoga mat, or in the tub, or on the couch. And when I wasn’t horizontal, I found myself pacing round and around, with my thoughts racing in similarly fervent, if futilely fashioned, circles. I started drinking before breakfast, or whenever my first meal happened to be that day.

Then last night, I dreamed something horrible, only all the horror was underneath, and what made it worse was that it was the only dream I remembered having all year, maybe more. These days, when I slept, I seemed to lose consciousness for only a matter of seconds, not enough time to reach the REM stage of dream production, but sure enough, the night would have passed, and in the morning I would wake up feeling fully restored with the will to face yet another day.
In this particular dream then, Eli was running after random pages and shouting out random lines from my unfinished manuscript, which the wind scattered up and down a deserted shore. He performed football tackles and moonwalks in the sand. He waved at us, at Amber and I, playing cards on an immaculate beach blanket. Eli shouted something that got lost in the wind. “What?” we shouted back simultaneously, as if calling for the punch line of a joke we’d heard too many times mistold. “This is the story of your life!” he shouted goofy and giddy with glee. Amber’s eyes flashed a conspiratorial smile over her cards before she fanned them out on the blanket to reveal a royal flush.
It was a few moments later, before I even realized we’d been playing poker, that I woke up in a cold sweat feeling like her hand had changed my fate somehow, forever and for the worse, and that the only person who could set things right again was Eli.
The first time I called him earlier in the day, there wasn’t an answer. I called again a few hours later and left a message. Then I tried his cell, which was no longer in service. Another hour later, I called and someone picked up.
“Hi, Eli,” I said, strangely relieved. “It’s Grant.”
After all these years, it left me wondering whether we’d parted friends when he hung up.
I tried the number again and again, but no answer. I kept getting the machine each and every time until I realized that calling wasn’t going to accomplish anything.

So here I am. Listening to Hotel California on the radio. The one song I recognized all night—one that somehow always manages to put me in a weird place.
We are all just prisoners here of our own device.
Billboards began to reappear as the road straightened out past the mountains. Picture Your Ad Here. I rolled up the windows and turned on the heat to the highest setting. Then fumbling with the buttons and knobs on the radio, I imagined ringing his buzzer, him turning on one light after another to reach the door still groggy and speechless, but starting to smile. Holy shit! I swerve in the nick of time to avoid a woman in a faded yellow nightgown hovering over the middle of the road, her feet clearing several inches off the ground, and the last thing I see before passing out is a trail of sparks in the rearview mirror.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Hey, that's my pig!

The tow truck driver made me think of a hard-living Santa Claus, the way he might dress on the other 364 days of the year, smoking a cheap, nauseating cigar. After he unhitched my car at the garage, I decided to check in at the motel down the road, a cheerless little place I could tell, even in the dark, hadn’t seen much recent business. Several dozen keys on identical chains hung from nails behind the front desk, where someone was sleeping slouched way down in a cushionless, wooden chair. I debated the best way to wake the teenager behind the reservations desk, when she woke on her own with a sudden start.
“Hey, that’s my pig!”
She seemed to wait for me to say something in response.
“Hi, I need a room. Just something basic. I’m alone.”

I’d cycled through the stations twice, giving the content on each channel no more than a few seconds to interest me. A car exploded, a man offered another man a cigarette, a woman smiled into a thousand rooms like mine, the lessons of Christ were preached, a vacuum was dragged across the carpet, I was told what to want, a gun was fired, the credits rolled past. I didn’t quite know what to make of this flickering screen of miscellaneous humanity, but couldn’t help from feeling a little disappointed as I turned it off. I cracked open another bottle of something from the minibar, allowed myself briefly to contemplate my own death, then read a few pages from Finnegans Wake, chosen at random, to help me fall asleep.

Monday, January 17, 2011

When we were still keeping up the charade that nothing had changed between us

I drove the remaining distance to Eli’s loft in North Adams. The building, once a textile mill whose dyes drained into the Hoosic River, had been converted and divvied up into ten large artist studios. Eli’s was the corner unit in the back of the building with windows facing south and west.
I knocked, listened, then knocked even louder. It was silent on the other side of the door. I tried the handle. It was unlocked. I let myself in and locked the door behind me, an urban habit that was probably unnecessary out here.
A very clear impression of the last time I’d stepped foot in the studio suddenly caught up with me. It must’ve been in the fall leading up to the divorce, mid-Octoberish judging from the foliage that scattered in the mind’s winds, when we were still keeping up the charade that nothing had changed between us. Eli’s response to the awkward stretches of silence was to focus our attention on his new dog, a Maltese that responded to Romeo. He couldn’t get Romeo to sit, shake, beg, play dead, or any of the other tricks he’d claimed the dog knew, and all of a sudden, I realized things would never be the same again. The moment quickly lost all urgency as I started preparing what I would say to leave. “Bang,” he repeated again, and again Romeo cocked his head like Eli was crazy. In the end, I told him how sorry I was for them both and left it at that.
They both pretended not to have heard, but they heard, and in hearing, knew exactly what I meant.
The place looked more or less the way I remembered it, minus what Amber took with her to California. It was an absence made more acute by memory. Over by the large south-facing windows, I perused the surface of a few dusty canvases leaning against the wall, all portraits of Amber in what seemed to be exercises in abstract styles. I didn’t know how long I stood there staring into this one oversized canvas of her face. It was very true and realistic, but at the same time, my mind was reluctant to recognize her. As my gaze traveled over the sunken landscapes of her cheeks, the receding seas of her eyes, and that wilderness of hair, I became aware of how much he had really loved her.
“Hello?” I called out suddenly.
But no one was there.

Monday, December 13, 2010


             The next morning, using the term loosely, I shower, shave, and put on the white linen suit hanging in the closet, which it turns out is not such a bad look for me.  I survey the sea outside my window, flipping through the aquamarine postcards of my past—Cancun, Ko Phi Phi, Bali, Kaanapali, the Amalfi coast, Mikonos—and begin to feel a little nostalgic for home.
I pass another hotel guest in the hall who greets me in Spanish, though clearly not her native tongue.  I take the elevator down to the lobby and find the restaurant where brunch is being served.  The maitre’d seeing me, bows impressively, and says konichiwa without the least trace of an accent.  I consider setting him straight, to say that I am not Japanese per se, but Korean-American.  Not that it matters here.
             Konichiwa to you too, hermano.”
             He shows me to an empty table by the window, and out of habit, I start scanning the scenery for clues as to where I might be.  There’s nothing in any of these advertisements, street names, or passers-by but a vague suggestion of somewhere cosmopolitan.
It dawns on me that there isn’t a wait staff, just people bussing recently vacated tables.  After another few glances out the window, I casually make my way to the buffet spread in back.  I pile on the bacon and pick at it in line for a made-to-order omelet.  There is freshly squeezed carrot juice sitting out for the taking and a barista brewing artistic lattes.
             After brunch, I decide to pick up a pair of sunglasses and a guidebook in the hotel gift shop after confirming that there is a credit card in the wallet.  Signing the receipt, I think, Today I’m Grant Koo, which seems not such a bad name for me really.

This being my first time in Barcelona, I decide to go out and do the tourist thing.  I figure you can’t go through life watching pay-per-view, emptying the minibar, and ordering room service.  There’s a limit after all to the amount of time you can measure by the growth of your beard.
I consult the guidebook and make my way to Parc Güell where there’s a winding road near the entrance to the top of a vista point overlooking the city.  Butterflies flutter by, et cetera.  I admit it’s nice.  A couple of musicians are playing Brazilian bossa nova at the base of the tower while their dog lazes next to the open guitar case for donations registering every coin.  I climb the tower, and of the half dozen or so different languages I encounter on the way up, English, the US varietal in particular, is easily the brassiest.  Everyone seems to be from somewhere else, and I’d almost feel like I fit in except that, as usual, I’m the only one without a camera.  I stand off to the side, trying to stay out of other people’s shots, but inevitably my image will get circulated, globally if unnoticed, in the backgrounds of other people’s memories.
I descend into the city, order tapas and wine in a crowded restaurant near the massive unfinished basilica I had wondered about at the top of the park, ramble through the gothic quarter avoiding the pickpockets and prostitutes, and emerge on a tree-lined promenade teeming with caged birds and flower stalls, sidewalk sketch artists and living statues, but most of all fellow tourists, for a late dinner at Els Quatre Gats before heading back to the hotel.
The day had taken its toll, and I fall asleep to the hallucinatory architecture of Gaudi’s reptilian dreams sheathed in Mediterranean mosaics.

The quote unquote next night, it is the fairy-tale domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral projected onto the backs of my eyelids; the night after that it is the clot of red bicycles on any given corner in Beijing; and the night after that the dust and light settling over a residential street in Mexico City after a soccer match.

             I’ve been away for what feels like a thousand and one Arabian nights.
The last time I tried contacting people back home turned out to be an impressively poor pantomime of the past with clearly no place for me in any of their futures.  It’s no good, began the persistent lesson unlearned, if no one believes the one thing you can’t explain.
             I’ve had my fill of shows, museums, and restaurants, of lounging under parasols with books, of engaging strangers at bars in stray bits of conversation, and of stumbling through the red light districts.
I’ve climbed the Egyptian pyramids at Giza, rafted down the Amazon, dined alone in the Rainbow Room at Rockefeller Center.
Once, inspired by the spirit of experiment, I managed to hop on the rail and pee on the bulletproof glass protecting the Mona Lisa.  Not that I have anything against the Renaissance or women or even the French for that matter.  I made it halfway out the Louvre, and paid my dues with a night in jail.  The next morning, in a comfortable little bed and breakfast just outside Baghdad, there was no mention on Al-Jazeera of anyone giving da Vinci’s masterpiece a golden shower.
Oh, yes…there is a rather cosmopolitan air about me.

             The next night, for lack of a better term, I fall asleep to the mad cacophony of jungle birds, the death and forgiveness along an endless desert road, the press of bodies in the bazaars of Kolkata.

The morning begins with a bewildering explosion of awareness as I jerk my body out of bed.  The very presence of this person sleeping next to me seems a direct violation of some “immutable” law of physics, or maybe metaphysics, neither of which I claim to make heads or tails of.
It is startling when she stirs.  She mumbles something in her sleep and rolls onto her side, revealing tiny angel wings tattooed under her shoulder blades.  It isn’t until she quiets down that I remember to breathe.
I peek past the curtains, noting almost immediately the change in scenery, and though I suppose that’s only to be expected, it seems ominous somehow.
             I’ve gotten so used to this bizarre string of holidays with nothing in between that I consider quietly collecting my things for the day, as if it were all just a matter of tiptoeing out on this inexplicable aberration before it has the chance to develop into its own puzzling pattern.
She rolls gently onto her other side.
I freeze, and for a moment, let my mind go zen.  I hear the non-sound of a hypothetical tree falling in a forest I’m not in.
In the end, I realize my decision to stay is arbitrary.  It’s not even avoiding the cliché of sneaking out on a woman before she awakes.  I just want to see what happens next.  That’s when it occurs to me, in afterthought, that she and I might have something more than waking up in the same bed in common.
I look around as if to identify an external source for the high-pitched tone in my head, and conclude that there’s really no telling whose room we’re in.
She was very good-looking though, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d seen her somewhere before.  Like maybe in a toothpaste or airline ad.  I find the recollection I’m stuck with of joining a cult in Kolkata last night unfortunate, but not unfair since being free to choose our memories makes as little sense as being free to choose our own futures.
More than likely, she’ll turn out to be like everyone else, bullied along by the natural flow of history, and accumulating and spending in ways that have nothing to do with me.  I try to imagine myself into what she might remember of last night, knowing how impossible decent conversations were with anyone who thinks you’re crazy.
             I turned on the TV, lowering the volume to barely audible.  It seemed the most natural thing to do given the circumstances.  I stared at the television screen and thought about how things would go when she awoke.

“Good morning,” she says with deliberate sleepiness.
“Yes,” I agree.  Turning off the television uncovers a silence.
“What time is it?” she asks, finally.
“Almost one,” I say.
“Almost one?”
“That’s right.”
We look at each other.
“Did you sleep alright?” I ask, not at all sure what the circumstances called for, but figuring that a little politeness couldn’t hurt.
She nods appreciatively.
“It’s dark,” she comments.
“I’ll open the curtains.”
Sunlight floods the room.
She nods.
We observe each other in the sunlight.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
She shakes her head, and takes in the room as if seeing it for the first time.
“I’m a little thirsty though.”
“Let’s see what’s in the fridge,” I say, jumping to my feet.  There were two bottled waters, a can of cola, a can of ginger ale, and an orange soda.
“Water, please.”
I stretch to hand her the bottle, and watch with interest as she breaks the safety seal, untwists the cap, and lifts the bottle to her lips.  She empties the bottle in a single swig, not taking her eyes off me.  She puts the cap back on the empty bottle, gasping for air, and all of a sudden, she seems on the verge of tears.
“I don’t understand,” she confesses, “what’s happening.”

I suggested a walk along the Han River for some air.  It’s brisk, briny and good.  I picked up a bag of butter roasted squid and a couple of beers from one of the stalls.
“I’m sorry about the crying earlier.  I just felt like I was losing my mind back there.”
“Happens to everyone.”
“I must be homesick.”
“Me too.”
Some women in matching track suits jogged by.  A young couple in high school uniforms walked past us in the opposite direction holding hands.  Another guy my age sat on a bench absorbed in the opening pages of a thick book.  Everyone seemed engaged in activities that presumed tomorrow would be a continuation, a build, of today.
“Where are we again?” she asks.

“How long have you been on, um, ‘vacation’?”
“I’m guessing several years.”
“Several years?”
“At least,” I say laying the false modesty on thick, which she doesn’t find amusing, and to be honest, neither do I.
We both thought our separate thoughts as the sun continued to shine.
“I woke up in Vegas once, and rented a car,” I suddenly remembered.  “I was only about five hours from home then.”
“How was it?”
“There was a lot of confusion and strange looks.  People hadn’t changed a day,” I shrugged, negotiating a sad little smile.  My younger brother, who had to cancel a date, sulked all through the impromptu family dinner I’d arranged.  No one could understand why I was being so emotional.  My dad pulled me aside and asked if I were on drugs.  The memory was beginning to crowd out more and more of the present.  I hardly even noticed the way she was looking at me.  “I guess the difference in context sort of put a strain on the conversations.”
She stopped suddenly, and leaned in for a kiss.
Not bad, I thought.
She pulled away and smiled.
“Don’t ask what that was about.”
We tossed the empty bottles and bag into a nearby trash can and continued on in silence.

It being her first time in Seoul, she agreed to let me show her around.  Our first stop was a trendy little sushi place tucked away in the back streets of Apgujeong.  The waiter who came to take our orders, spotted us for tourists and amiably began practicing his English, but the whole time it was like we were in on a secret that excluded him.  I smiled.  She smiled.  I admit it’s nice.
After lunch, we headed to the tower at the top of Namsan Park.  We took a subway to the cable cars because it was faster than a cab at that hour.  She claimed she couldn’t remember the last time she’d made an effort to save time.
The way we held hands in the subway made me think of the high school couple we’d seen earlier in the day.  Sadness was coming for us all, but it was easy to ignore for the time being.  After all, we were just another ordinary couple waiting for their stop to arrive.  Nothing sad about that.
I arranged at the ticket counter to have the cable car to ourselves.  The gingko trees were going gold towards the top, less with the memory of autumn, it seemed, than in anticipation of winter.  She didn’t like it when I tried rocking the gondola, but it all ended in laughter and a second kiss.
Not bad.

We looked down on the city from the top of the tower, and fell into a conversation about the views from other cities we’ve seen: the Empire State Building, the Petronas Towers, the London Eye, the Jin Mao Building, the tower at Parc Güell...
“I’ve been there,” she says remembering.  “I’d like to go back someday.  There was something about the mood that place put me in.”
Something about the mood that place put me in.
My mind reeled with déjà vu.  For a moment I had the sensation that I wasn’t merely repeating the same day in different cities, but that I was repeating the same moment, here, again and again, with her, and in repeating this eternal moment, I was repeating with it the exact same sequence of memories of other days, other cities, other existences, over and over and over again, here and now. 
“Did you happen to stay at the Princess Hotel?”
“That’s right!  How did you know?”
“I think we may have passed each other in the hall.”
“Buenos dias,” she smiled in recognition.

After a walk through the palaces and secret gardens at the northern end of the city, we strolled around the art galleries and alleyways of Insadong, crossing the main thoroughfare into the neon-lit backstreets packed with people flowing in and out of restaurants, bars and karaoke rooms.  We chose a crowded barbeque place, and ordered a bottle of soju.
“Do you remember anything at all about last night?” she repeated louder to be heard over the din of competing voices.
“I don’t think either of us remember a ‘last night’ happening.”
We clinked glasses using both hands, and downed the ice cold soju.  I refilled our shot glasses.
“I was in Kolkata,” I added.  “You?”
“Cape Town.”
“Here’s to cities by the sea.”
Pretty soon we were out of soju, and neither of us wanted to be the one to say that tonight could very well be our last night.
Yeo-gi-yo!” I yawped, adding as an aside that that’s how they do it around here.
“What does that mean?” she said giggling.
“‘I’m here!’” I shrugged, distancing myself from the culture.  “Patrons scream it all the time, and no one considers it rude.  You should try it.”
Dinner passed pleasantly with that second bottle of soju.  The conversation grew increasingly animated as we toasted each other, and then life, and then memories of the future, and then chance connections, et cetera, until we could no longer stand the anticipation, and took a cab back to the hotel.

Afterwards, we lay awake for as long as we could, and settled on our final words.
“I’m glad I met you,” she said.
“Same here,” I said.
“Maybe our paths will cross again?” she asked.
“I’ll be sure to look for you,” I answered.
She let her eyes flutter closed for the night.  I listened to her breathing grow slow and quiet.  Sleep would have to come eventually.  You couldn’t avoid sleep, but forgetting—that was another matter.  I looked at her one last time before closing my eyes too, and serenely surrendered all worries of what tomorrow might or might not bring.