marriott

Sophisticated, charming, like a sister. I’m thinking of what I want to be and how close I can get to it. I was in Boston last week for a trauma conference and my work placed me in a hotel that I stayed in once before when I was 12, with my sister and our friend for her 15th birthday. Then, we shared beds. Now, I had a room with two beds and I slept in the middle of one of them like Eloise. On the first day of the conference I woke up early and drove into the city. It was a long day and I forgot to eat or rest or pay attention to myself closely and ended up crying near a woman named Valerie. We were doing a yoga practice in the last seminar about instinctual movements when pushed. They asked us to pay attention to what’s happening in our bodies, do we push back or allow, does it feel smooth or rigid. Valerie was so pretty, like if you could see your best friend as a kid. She had vibrancy. She was probably in her 60s and I say that because my mother is in her 60s so I know what beautiful women look like when they’re older. She was wearing red denim jeans and a pink blouse, warm. In the last practice, they asked us to collaborate while our partner pushed against our arm, asked us to think about what we care most about in the world, what we fight for, what our passion is, and pay attention to how our body responds. Does it move? Become stronger? Become fluid? Begin to flow? I couldn’t focus. All I could think of was my niece, but I was trying to think of more. Anything, something more. I would have taken the smallest thought in the world. Everyone else looked like they really cared about a lot of stuff. They were downright gleeful, or war-ready, or moved and my mind was blank. My arm was loose and Valerie moved it around like a stick-shift. She asked what I was thinking of and I said, I can’t think of anything, my mind is blank. Her eyes widened with shock and I think that set me off. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal until I saw her eyes, “woah”. I started to panic. She said, oh honey, what’s wrong. She held and rubbed my hands and told me mine were cold. The thing about crying in public with hundreds of trauma-informed specialists around is that it feels safe and nonjudgmental, but I didn’t want to be doing it. I was being a baby. I didn’t eat or sleep enough and my brain was experiencing significant growth and I wanted to be alone to wail. I swallowed my tears for another ten minutes until I could leave. Another girl in the crowd took the microphone and said her mind went blank during the practice and Valerie smiled at me and I smiled back best I could.

I left and ran 5 miles with a group of strangers by the river. It was hot and violet blue and dreamy. On the way home I ran into a lost woman named Natalie. She was drunk on the sidewalk and told me her aunt was waiting for her in the restaurant in my hotel. I was excited I could help her get to the one place I knew how to get to. I walked her, well, walked in front of her since she was dragging behind me. Natalie told me it was her 45th birthday and we cheered and danced for her on the walk. We found her aunt and I bought us shots in celebration, 2 casamigos and a malibu straight up. No ice. I took a sip and it was disgusting, so I left it to them, said goodnight, and headed back to my room. The thing about being in a hotel room alone is that you can pretend it’s your entire life. Like Eloise: steam shower, room service, tv in bed. Wrapped up like a rich dog, I think I spent too much time in the world during my trip instead of laying in bed, heavy exhale dripping in regret. I was 27 floors up. I didn’t have to close the curtains when I changed. I was eye level with birds, almost high as a plane. Below me, there were rooftops with lounge chairs, tables, and umbrellas. Rooms. I felt like I was the sky, watching. I turned off the cold air, laid on top of the bed, and watched the city without background noise. No humming, no sounds. I can’t remember the last time I let myself drift off without setting an alarm. An embarrassing realization, I think, to be such a hardass towards myself. To be so rigid, like I’m earning my own freedom, proving to myself that I deserve to let go. I’m dropping my hands.

There was a mirror on the ceiling of the elevator in the Marriott I spent a lot of time looking into. I spent a lot of money in a short amount of time but I’ll get it all back in expenses. One night, I got so imaginative at dinner that I saw my bartender as a teenager in Argentina. He told me what to order when I asked him to, tonna crudo and carbonara. I was letting my thoughts run wild. I felt like I was in a movie. I had a thought that I was the first person to ever get high in Massachusetts. I thought it was illegal and everyone knew who I was and that they were going to hunt and kill me for breaking the rules. I was laughing with myself. There was something colonial about the whole thing. I think I channeled some old energy of the area; quaker, exile, execution. I walked back to my hotel in the dark. No resistance, no rush. The air was a weightless dream late spring before June, before heat comes to smother the city in heaviness. I stopped under a tree to take photos of myself with the brick sidewalk, green plants growing silently, the quiet, quiet city. A lonesome college kid scootered by, avoided eye contact. I wanted to keep the city like a beach rock. Baked by the sun, weight in my pocket like a piece of god, will feel it on my fingers after I’m gone. The places I visit, I make them home inside my heart, and I ask them if they’ll let me stay. I ask them if I’ll fit, if there’s space for me. I’m learning I always will and there always is. I end up leaving anyway.