Thursday, June 20, 2013

Other Worlds (part 1)



            Surreal moments must be captured before leaving one to question if they were only a dream. I now pen this with the unease of eagerness mixed with apprehension one year later. So many different angles to this story... I still don’t know from which to start. That’s one reason for refraining all this time. The other was out of respect for the woman who has already been so copiously written about. But since meeting her and reading cavalier portrayals by popular essayists and sycophant journalists, or bloggers gripes that criticize her, I figure it’s time my story with her has its place, too.

*
          While my girlfriend sat around a dinner table cloaked in white linen with the other invitation-only guests during the golden hour, I meandered between cobblestoned and paved streets in the glow of the enchanting city of Edinburgh. Entrenched by ancient, uneven walls, I allowed my fingers to graze lightly over their rough rocks while circumventing the newer, white concrete patches.
          Even after some time, the subdued yellow hues of early twilight still hung quite clearly.  I had enough time to eventually come across the queen’s castle if I continued downhill.
          The stone palace came into view with its blue-slated towers, enclosed by black, wrought iron and heavy oak gates. Across the way, there was a green clearing, and at the edge of that a long, steep trail that wandered up beside a rocky crag overlooking the town. Since the sun had only just seemed to set, I decided to explore and made my way to climb the sharp, rocky path that disappeared in the approaching evening fog.
          The higher I went, the harder it was to see. Soon, I could only make out a stone’s throw ahead of me as the thick, white mist slowly rolled around boulders of different shapes and sizes on the higher spreading, grassy knoll. Surprised by my appearing, little, brown cottontails watched me from the corner of their eyes as they lopped to join the others across the trail. Through the patches of fog, I could make out beyond the edge a ruined cathedral framed by crumbling spires. It reminded me of a poem I once wrote about failing and falling.

          Alone in the mist, I began to feel as weightless as the clouds around me for the first time since everything happened. Unconstrained here, I thought I should at least try to reach the depths of my soul’s underworld for some release of its purgatory. Instead, I just found a rock to rest on and watch to see where the rabbits had gone.
          The now lavender and gray dusk continued to confuse the hours that had passed, but somehow I managed my way down to the neighborhood streets and old churchyards that led me back to my room at the Hotel Du Vin, a contemporary remodel of what was once Edinburgh’s insane asylum.

*
          Becci had a horrible night’s sleep with her upcoming presentation. She left me to breakfast saying she’d come get me on her way out. As I sat in the hotel restaurant sipping my coffee from my personal french-press pot, I observed the European décor. The goldenrod plaster and iron plant hooks were reminiscent of the master bedroom I decorated a few years ago as an anniversary surprise for my now, ex-husband. I swallowed a tear along with my last drink before Becci came down. I wanted to be able to hold her hand steadily on our way to the last session of TED Global at the EICC (Edinburgh International Conference Center).

*
          The mind-boggling conference was forced to finish with an indoor picnic due to the weather. Becci had plenty of people who wanted to talk with her and whom she wanted to speak to, as well. Of course, I looked for the familiar faces we often found ourselves standing next to and chatting with throughout the week. One of which included the petite powerhouse whose sheer aura seemed to occupy extra space, especially when she spoke and looked at you with her fiery, sapphire eyes. Since I don’t follow pop-culture, and I had only seen a handful of her movies, I wasn’t quite sure it was simply her name that intimidated me or her gravitational qualities of authority and ardent soundness delivered so casually and without pretense. Nonetheless, I figured the few friendly conversations regarding what we’d enjoyed throughout the week and the longer conversation when we first met warranted she wouldn’t mind my company.
          The first time the actress and I chatted was on the opening night of the conference in the Scotch Chamber of our hotel. Earlier that evening, Becci had spotted her amidst the crowd that surrounded her in the courtyard of the Edinburgh Castle at the outdoor, opening dinner party. I had to walk around to see who the tiny, blonde woman was in the glittery, pink pants and flat sandals. Neither of us had the gumption to interpose in the circle that encompassed her. Instead, we leaned against the covered bistro tables next to the catered food, wine in hand, of course, while discretely glancing at badges that branded names, professional title, and geography. Becci’s proudly proclaimed: “BECCI MANSON, PHOTO-RETOUCHER, SPEAKER, BROOKLYN, NEW YORK”, while mine inconspicuously read: “Emiko Hall, photographer, Vancouver, Washington”, which most people confused with Canada. For whatever reason, one man stopped by at our small table with roaming eyes and a badge that told us he was a professor and scientist.
          “Professor, eh?”
          “Hm?”
          Pointing to his badge, “You’re a scientist, too. What do you study?”
          He nonchalantly swept his hand,  “Minerals,” as his eyes continued to sweep the crowd, “... in cosmological settings.”
          “Oh, like moon soil and the growth of crystals to study evolution and ontology of life on other planets?” My recent leisure reading happened to include a book by an astronomer who believed in intelligent design.
          His gaze briefly turned directly on me. “Yes, actually. You’re familiar with it?” Just then, he spotted the person he had obviously been looking for, waved and quickly excused himself.
          Rather awestruck by such a highly specialized and intellectual crowd, we were happy to be ushered to the gates by the cannon walls that overlooked the metropolis cloaked in its sunset colors of soft yellow, purple and blue. A classy dressed, gray-haired, American woman kindly volunteered her daughter to take pictures of us with my large, digital camera. We chatted about the glorious evening and introduced ourselves showing our badges—the gray-haired mother’s revealing the founder of Zipcar.

          Overwhelmed, we got on the bus that would take us back to our hotel, only to be followed by the petite actress and a comrade of hers (come to find out, one of her producers and best friends). We were confused at the thought of her staying in our small hotel when another woman came boisterously bounding up the bus, traipsing over the woman and her friend, making sure they were coming to the after-party. Becci and I looked at each other, “What party?” The bouncy lady then sauntered up the aisle to us, seeing whom, indeed, was going to be there before taking her seat.
Edinburgh by Becci Manson


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To Kill a Mockingbird Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets The Da Vinci Code 1984 Pride and Prejudice

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