REFRAMING A CITY

A long-distance relationship has its obvious drawbacks. Seeing one another requires a constant review of logistics. Early on, my ex proudly announced some sort of monthly calendar rotation regarding how we’d spend our weekends: one his place, one my place, one “wild card,” one off. Or something like that. He’s a planner and the plan made him happy. Settled even. I’m definitely not a planner, but I’ll never knock anyone’s efforts to set things in stone, even if it turns out the stones roll. 

 

Despite my customary resistance, I too had to allow for some degree of planning in the relationship. A spontaneous text—“Wanna come over?”—doesn’t work when it includes crossing an international border and takes about three hours (for him) or five (for me—extra stops along the way, naturally). 

 

There is an upside in any breakup…once the cycle of humiliation, sorrow and WTF wanes. Okay, even during that cycle. That upside is more obvious when the relationship was long-distance. I have roamed Vancouver freely without any concern I’d run into him on the sidewalk, in a store or even online while scrolling people near me on Grindr. 

 

Out of sight. Out of mind? Someday.

 

Last time I fell in love, it was also a long-distance scenario. A guy in Portland. When “we” ended, I knew I couldn’t quit the place. I still loved the city. I’d risk a chance encounter. I’m not anxious about the possibility anymore because we worked our way back to friends and, besides, he moved to Iowa. (Why?!) 

 

I’m not willing to give up Seattle either. I’d visited many times before my two years of love. I’d built up a song’s worth of my favorite things, nothing involving bright copper kettles or whiskers on kittens. Three months after he dumped me, I returned for a couple of days. As a first time back, it was easier knowing I wouldn’t run into him. He’d moved to Denver which, if I harshly rewrite our personal history, I’ll say he did for the primary purpose of making me fly there to be immediately dumped. What an ending!

 

He can have Denver. He can do whatever it is he does there without any worry I’ll happen to be jogging past him. Technically, I’ve been back there, but it was only an airport layover en route to Philadelphia. It’s hard to imagine it’ll ever be a destination again. I’ve already turned down a family reunion there in July. (A prior commitment in California comes close enough to being a conflict.)

 

I’m regularly hit with memories of him as I go about life in Vancouver. Sometimes I shrug; often, I swear in my head. It’s my substitute for that old lady routine of grabbing a broom and telling a cat, a warren of dust bunnies or a DoorDash dude waiting for a tip to “Shoo!” Sorry, but sometimes “Shit!” feels so much better. Any transition from the stages of loss to nostalgia remains somewhere in the future. 

 

I knew the first time back in Seattle would be something I’d just have to get through. The Vancouver reminders are well into the repeat cycle now, but Seattle presented my first glimpse of the relationship highlight reel, Emerald City edition. 

 

For the most part, I played things strategically. My first evening, I ran to and around Green Lake, a place I could never convince him to join me for a walk. Green Lake has always been mine, all mine. He wasn’t a fan of ice cream, so I enjoyed a scoop of “rhubarb upside down cake” (yes, I’m still talking ice cream) at Molly Moon’s and a scoop of vegan “salty caramel ash” (a flavor, too) at Frankie & Jo’s. Zero memories triggered. 

 

But, slowly, carefully, I went to places clearly associated with him. I returned to his neighborhood and used my soon-to-expire parking pass to park on his street so I could write at Eastlake Coffee where I’d written so many times before. I was always comfortable there; the sessions were always productive. If he still lived down the block, I would not have gone back—ever. Too stalker-ish. 

 

I passed all sorts of bars and restaurants we went to. Didn’t go in. Didn’t need to. As I’m still going through a rough patch with my eating disorder, a scoop of ice cream served as an entire day’s intake. He was all about tacos and margaritas. Haven’t had either since. Passing up Mexican restaurants was helpful-ish, but I couldn’t pretend the spots had vanished. Even if I never go into any of them again, they will be tombstones marking a dead relationship. 

 

Adios! Hasta la vista (Terminator-style)! No burrrrrito for me. (I can’t roll my Rs so I always overemphasized it to make my ex laugh. I do miss hearing such joy and seeing it in his smile and his eyes. Gone. Take me down, Ah-nold.)

 

My wanderings became a mix. New things. Me things. We things. Meeting a friend near Pioneer Square, I got turned around coming up from the light rail station—that always happens when I emerge from underground. I auto-saved the experience as an anecdote to share with him later in the day. It was a harsh slap across the face when it dawned on me there was no later period for us. Our nightly shares and Seattle meetups were history. Twenty minutes below street level made me lose all bearings, far beyond just my sense of direction. 

 

Single again, you fool. How the hell did that slip your mind?

 

I suppose the whole breakup episode is still a mindfuck. I don’t understand. I just have to accept. 

 

While walking downtown, there was so much architecture I wanted to hear him explain to me. Such an expert! It was sexy listening to him talk cornices, railings, gates and lighting. Without him, I regressed to a word bank of pretty, detailed, and tiles. Sigh. Sometimes it’s like we never were. 

 

Would that have been better? 

 

I went to an Alexander Calder exhibit at the Seattle Art Museum and, knowing there was a Jacob Lawrence exhibit coming later in the summer, I bought an annual membership. It was a good sign. Arts supporter. Breakup survivor. I would not shy away from the city. I’d deal with the memories. I would continue to be blindsided by out-of-the-blue recollections, but maybe I would stop trying so desperately to bat them away, to not cry in public. 

 

I'll always have the troll.
Some consolation...

Maybe I’d become resigned to such moments. You again. Only not him, of course. A ghost of him. Not scary. I don’t have that association with spectral images. Not a ghoul but perhaps never a friendly incarnation either, à la Casper. Just a presence, his aura a part of me for the short-term. Just like his actual being in life as it turned out.

 

The second visit is now a month away. Less frequent than what used to be calendared. Nonetheless, I’m glad Seattle is still on my radar.

 

  

FROM LONG TO LONGER

Dan Fogelberg took the word longer and made it romantic.

Longer than there've been fishes in the ocean
Higher than any bird ever flew
Longer than there've been stars up in the heavens
I've been in love with you.

 

My long-distance relationship is about to be longer. No so romantic. From Vancouver to Seattle, the distance is 150 miles. A three-hour drive, with a tunnel that backs up, the border crossing and a final crawl until the Space Needle comes into view. In the nearly two years we’ve been seeing each other, I took a sea plane once, the train another time. Mix things up a bit. We sometimes met at in-between spots, each of us taking different ferries to Victoria, a cabin on Whidbey Island, a campsite, and Airbnb in farm country. 

 

But so long, Seattle. Evan got a terrific job opportunity he couldn’t turn down. (We talked about it for weeks and neither of us wavered from our gut response: “Do it!”) This morning the movers came and loaded up his things. We have two more days in a Seattle apartment, entirely empty but for three suitcases and an air mattress. I’m writing this while sipping a Caffe Vita oat latte in a vibrant open space adjoining KEXP radio studio as the station’s eclectic playlist pipes through the speakers and I gaze at the Space Needle, a short walk away. In this city I love, these are a few of my favorite things.  

 

The job is in Denver and, no, it’s not one of those work remotely deals. While known as the Mile-High City, it’s almost ten times the distance compared to Seattle: 1,440 miles away. Three days’ drive instead of three hours. (The days of driving seventeen hours straight and sleeping in autobody parking lots ended three decades ago.) 

 

If one of us had moved to Sydney or Singapore, I’m sure we’d have accepted the change of circumstance, committing to make it work. But that kind of physical separation lends itself to clearer guideposts. Four visits per year perhaps. Two for him, two for me. See you next season. Romantic. Cue Dan Fogelberg.

I'll bring fire in the winters
You'll send showers in the springs
We'll fly through the falls and summers
With love on our wings.

Does the fact the song’s lyrics are accompanied by a harp and flugelhorn make them more compelling or less real?

 

The Vancouver-Denver distance is middling and thus a tad muddled. We won’t be seeing each other three weekends in four, but once a season sounds too sparse. Visits will be negotiated more in terms of frequency and length. For the most part, we’ve alternated between Vancouver and Seattle. For the future though, I’ll be collecting more frequent flyer miles. I can write anywhere. With a nod to Dr. Seuss: In a plane, on the train, on a boat, across a moat. On a box, in striped socks, beside a fox that’s wearing polka-Crocs. Oh, the places I’ll write! Here, there and everywhere. And now Denver.

 

Relationships have to adapt. Denver I shall adopt. The move is a return for Evan. He lived there two decades ago. His parents and other relatives are near, as are friends from high school and university. Lots of pluses, but he will miss the Pacific Northwest. I’m not the only one who thinks Seattle is awesome, a place of trolls, a monorail that goes practically nowhere, free bananas for those who venture to the heart of Amazonland and a destination wall to add your chewed up wad of Hubba Bubba Sour Blue Raspberry bubblegum before taking and posting a selfie NO ONE wanted to see. The city can’t match the Keep Portland Weird vibe, but it tries (especially in Fremont). No doubt, his return, while offering the chance to rekindle connections, is laced with confusion. Is going back going backward?  

 

I have connections to the city as well. My sister now lives less than an hour away, my niece and her new baby are in one of the suburbs and a university friend is a prof at the University of Denver. After three decades in my corner of Canada, I’m not sure how close any of those relationships are. 

 

As for Evan and me as a couple, we’ll be closer to his family cabin (half an hour out of the city), his Airstream in Taos, New Mexico and plenty of new hiking adventures, one of our core common interests. I’ve already pitched a road trip to Moab, Utah and Antelope Canyon in Arizona. My Instagram will have better pics than some wall coated with saliva and spearmint. 

 

I’ll find whatever quirk Denver has on offer. Already, I’m wanting to eat at Casa Bonita, a kitschy Mexican restaurant with cliff divers and newly renovated by the creators of South Park (for realz). Another Insta post! Plus there will be dozens of new cafés to try out as writing locales. We’ll find new bike routes, too. We’ll make new memories.

 

Of course, as rosy as I try to spin things, there are plenty of unknowns. What if? What about? When will? How long? I prefer questions with answers. For all others, I’m just going to bat them away. Plug my ears. La-la-la. Sorry. Can’t hear you!

 

We’ll figure it out. (Fingers crossed.)

 

Longer in distance, but hopefully closer in the ways that truly count.