HOW I CAME TO BE HERE ... PART 1

So it’s a new year. And I’m thinking about how I left B.C. Canada nearly two years ago, and came to live here with Mike, in California.

I’d known him online, in Yahoo chat, for about three years. I know this sounds hokey, but I fell in love with him just a few months after we met online. Somehow I *knew* that we were going to get together one day. I was all set to wait for a lifetime, but luckily I only had to wait three years.

My life up to the point that Mike invited me to live here with him, had been (no exaggeration) brutal. Now I had a miraculous new chance. He invited me to visit for two weeks, and possibly come back to live.

My mom and two younger sisters drove me across the border. We went into the Greyhound bus station in Seattle to confirm that the ticket I’d bought online was valid, went out for lunch, I took a picture of all of us, wandered by myself through the store attached to the café, terribly excited at seeing all the evidence that I was indeed in America (strange looking money, alcohol for sale in a regular store, etc.)

The bus trip was fantastic. It took about eighteen hours. There weren’t many people on the bus, so I had a seat to myself. I had a good book, I had my camera, I had snacks. I read for awhile, then when it got dark, I lay down on the seat with my head towards the aisle, hooked my foot into the handle of my carry on luggage and pressed my purse between my back and the seat (so none of it would be stolen), and fell asleep.

I awoke periodically, and lay there listening to the other passengers snoring, or whispering to each other, and the bus tires toiling along the highway. Sometimes when I woke, I would sit up, crosslegged in my seat, and look out the window. It was dark out. When we passed through towns, I took pictures through my window, of the streetlights, or bus stations where we had stopped. They turned out surreal, especially the streetlight ones, because we were moving, there was no light (it was 1 or 2 in the morning), and it was wet out. Sweeps of color across the frame.

Occasionally when we stopped at stations, we were all told we must get off the bus. So, all sleepy, I placed my book on the seat (because that seat had become my little ‛home’ and I didn’t want anyone to take it away from me), and followed the other passengers down the aisle. Gripping my ticket so I wouldn’t be left behind, making sure I noted the place where my bus was parked so I wouldn’t get back on the wrong one, I entered the station and found my way to the washrooms where I ... A: washed my face, B: took pictures of myself in the stall (don’t laugh ... well you can if you want). I went to the front desk, and told the clerk that my luggage didn’t have proper tags (because the preceding station had run out), and “could I please have some tags so I didn’t lose my stuff” (turned out they’d run out as well, so I had to run out and stop them from removing my luggage from the hold, explain my reasons for not having tags, everybody smiled, and I saved my luggage in the nick of time!)

We passed through Oregon, and the Siskiyou Mountains. At this point I was woken up by sounds coming from outside the bus. We’d stopped ... I heard chains, and someone talking ... I sat up in my seat and peered out my window. It was just about dawn, we were up the mountain, forest on either side of the highway, snow covering the ground and sifting down from the evergreen trees. The bus driver was out there putting chains on the tires, talking with someone about another Greyhound bus ahead that had broken down with all the passengers inside in need of rescue because they were freezing.

At dawn, it was light enough for me to take some pictures of myself sitting in my seat, all excited about meeting Mike, and being in the U.S., and on my way to California, and leaving all the shit behind, and everything, and everything and everything.

We drove on, and came to the place where the broken down bus was parked. Our bus driver made an announcement that everyone was to make room for the stranded passengers. There was a flurry of activity as everyone pushed their carry on luggage aside, and the frozen, traumatized passengers from the other bus came aboard. There were men, women, and sleepy children. They had luggage, and baby strollers, and stories to tell about their harrowing night. I was (greedily) hoping to keep my seat to myself, but a man stopped beside me, and asked if he could share my seat, so of course, I had to say yes.

So the rest of the trip was a little cramped, but he was friendly. We arrived in California ... it got warmer ... I saw grape fields outside my window ... I saw egrets ... I took out my little mirror to fix my hair because I knew I was about to meet Mike for the first time and wanted to look as good as I possibly could after a night sleeping on a bus ....

Mike and I had arranged for me to get off in Sacramento, and he would drive out from his home town to meet me there. So, when the bus arrived in Sacramento, I followed the other passengers out, got my (extremely heavy) luggage from the hold, entered the station all crowded with passengers, luggage, homeless people and druggies, and sat on a bench.

Mike had already been there, found out that my bus was late because of our rescue, and gone away to kill time. So I waited about fifteen minutes, realized I’d forgotten to ask what kind of car he drove, and that I only knew what he looked like from the times I’d seen him on webcam, so ... how would I even recognize him? What if he never even showed at all? What if he was crazy and here I was thousands of miles from home, with no money ....

But I didn’t spent more than five seconds thinking about all of that, because I just had a feeling that this was *Right*. It would all be great.

Then, there he was. I saw him through the window as he approached the door to the station. I recognized him immediately. I waved ... I started talking to him even though he hadn’t even entered the station yet ... I climbed over a mountain of other people’s luggage and grabbed him in a big hug. He hugged me back, kissed the top of my head, laughed and said “It’s nice to meet you! I have to pee!” and he rushed off to the men’s room.

He had a cooler in the back seat of the car, with sandwiches he’d made for me. He had a little bag for me in the glovey with his address and phone number, and some money (so I wouldn’t feel stranded). He had a little potted plant (crocus) he’d bought for me. He had an atlas so I could consult it as we drove, and understand (for my own information) where we were.

We spent a wonderful two weeks together. He gave me a tour of his home and yard. I saw all the gifts I’d made and sent to him over the years. We looked at all the beautiful paintings he’d created. He showed me his favorite spots along the coast. We sat on the deck in the sun, holding hands. We took long drives. We ate lunch with wine. He made us the best sandwiches I’d ever had. We made love for hours. We spent a rainy afternoon in the loft, intending to nap, but ended up making love again.

He typed a little note to himself “Marian is way more beautiful and intelligent than I knew.” He told me that as soon as he’d seen me in the bus station, he knew he would ask me back to live. He told me that he felt proud to be seen with me.

I returned to Canada, to get all my affairs in order (quit my job, say goodbye to people I love, pack the rest of my stuff and arrange for the stuff I couldn’t bring, to be kept in storage with my sisters, and a bunch of other stuff....).

Okay, this post is way too long, so I’m going to continue it in the next post. It will appear shortly. Stay tuned.