When I Travel to Tucson

Then there was this one time I drove to Tucson in college.

It's only a two hour drive, but I had never done it before. In truth, I had never much seen the point in visiting Tucson. I like metropolitan areas - big, anonymous areas with tall buildings and public transit. Tucson, with its Southwestern history and small town appeal, held little interest. But I had friends going to college down there and thought, "What the hell?"

It is a desolate drive from Phoenix to Tucson, a straight shot expanse of Sonoran desert terrain and truckers. A four-lane highway divided by miles and miles of sequoia tree medians.

Just past the halfway point, I could see a wreck up ahead. I didn't stop to put the pieces together until later, but a little Asian-made car had managed to collide with a Mack truck. Well, not the entire truck. It didn't have anything in tow, just the front cab section. There must be a name of that part of a truck, but what the hell do I know?

I would not have given this accident a second thought but that it had only just occurred. Smoke still rose from the little passenger car, and the truck driver had yet to emerge from the median. Even this state of affairs might not have been enough to get my to give pause. After all, I hadn't seen the accident, so I would be of no use to a police report. The first rubbernecker is not witness, at least not in the legally culpable sense.

No, the only reason I took note of this accident and stopped was that the driver of the little Asian-made car had been thrown from the car and lay tossed in the road, half in the ditch. I pulled off the road and approached the driver.

He couldn't have been more than twenty. He lay on his back, looking up at the sky, his eyes blinking deliberately. His left arm was stretched out at his side on the pavement with his right resting gently on his chest. From a distance, he might have been laying on the grass on a bright afternoon by a lake. Instead, his right hand lay motionless inches away from a darkening cloud on his belly.

I am not a doctor or anything, but that boy was in need of immediate medical attention.
Luckily enough for me, the truck driver was on his radio calling for help. I say luckily enough for me because I did not call for help and would still be racking myself with guilt to this day if help had not arrived. Sadly, though, it was not lucky enough for him.

He heard my footsteps approaching and turned his head towards me.

"Mom? Is that you, Mom?"

How do you answer that? I crouched beside him and took his hand. By then, it was damp with blood, but I would have mistaken it for sweat by touch.

"I'm scared, Mom."

He looked right at me, though I know he didn't see me. Or maybe he did and that was the greater kindness - allowing me to participate in this final comfort.

"You're going to be alright, baby," I cooed. "I'm here."

I didn't make it to Tucson that afternoon, either.

Truth, embellished

She tapped her pencil idly against the desk as she listened to the patient on the other end of the phone. Working in an "alternative" doctor's office generally meant dealing with a lot of really needy people. She was used to it.

Mina gradually became aware of a figure filling up the patient window in front of her. She glanced up just enough to see an attractive tie against a blue button-down shirt. "Be right with you," she said to the figure, making sure the patient on the phone didn't hear. "That's a nice tie."

It was then that her eyes traveled all the way up to the figure's face. Her green eyes widened as she took in the Adonis before her, and she completely forgot about the person droning allergy symptoms into her ear. He had a perfectly chiseled jaw and deliciously tousled hair. He had full, soft lips and brilliant blue eyes. He had caused her to shift uncomfortably in her chair without even realizing it.

"I'm just here to pick up some vitamins for someone," he said quietly, and his voice was deep, rich, and musical. Mina nearly swooned.

"Yes, I'll make certain to have the doctor call you as soon as he is able," she managed to respond to the phone, albeit a bit breathlessly. She finally hung up and couldn't help but notice those blue eyes alighting on her lips, however briefly. She was suddenly glad she'd worn her favorite autumn-orange tank top and taken the time to do her makeup that day.

She rang him up in a mild daze. All too soon, he had disappeared out the door. Of course Mina couldn't help but notice the perfect buttocks filling out those well-tailored slacks. Who was he? How did he end up in her humble doctor's office? Why couldn't she get those eyes out of her mind for the rest of the day?

***

"Did you like my present?" asked a well-known voice the following week. Mina glanced up and spotted Tom, one of her favorite patients. Tom was in his 60s, jovial, and rather enormously overweight.

"What do you mean?" she asked as she totaled up his office visit and the jars of various herbs he had been bidden to purchase. "Did you send the fruitcake? It was ... special."

"Of course not. I sent my son to pick up my supplements last week. I figured you all would enjoy his visit." Tom winked at Mina's ancient and oblivious coworker sitting at the other end of the counter. Mina carefully schooled her features.

"I'm not sure who you mean ... although there was someone I didn't recognize who came in last week. He had a nice tie, as I recall."

"Blue eyes?"

"I think so."

"That was my son Mark. He's a Calvin Klein underwear model."

Mina swallowed. Now that was just unfair. "He seemed nice."

"Well, if you're a good girl, I'll see if I can get him to drop by again sometime soon." Tom winked and swept his significant bulk out the door. How could that man produce an underwear model, she mused. Well, if Mr. McHandsome wanted to swing by again, she certainly wouldn't complain.

Damn, and when she'd almost gotten those eyes out of her head, too.

***

It wasn't long before Mark was back in front of her. He had waited until closing time, which generally made her quite angry, but somehow her ire stayed quiet. This time he was wearing a simple t-shirt, which subtly highlighted his muscular chest. Unfair, really. And this time, his gaze definitely stayed upon her lips far longer than should have been appropriate. "I need to pick something up for my dad again," he told her. A sentence like that should not have been able to sound so caressing. How did he do that? Great, butterflies. She hadn't felt butterflies since high school.

Mina rang him up briskly -- too briskly. He knew the effect he was having on her. Oh, who was she kidding, he expected the effect he was having on her, because she was certain it happened to all living women and at least half of the dead ones. Then she nearly burst out giggling at the thought of zombie bimbos crowding and cooing at Mark.

"What's your name?"

"Mina." She was breathless again.

"Are you headed somewhere after work?"

Say yes. Say you have to get home. This guy is just a player. Look at that face. He'll break your heart and leave you by the roadside. "No, don't really have any plans ..."

"Can I take you out to dinner?"

"I -- sure, okay." Mina was helpless to respond any other way. And also to keep the giant grin off of her face.

***

Dinner sailed by. The conversation was easy and wonderful, though afterward as he drove she realized she could barely remember anything they'd talked about. After a while she realized he wasn't taking her home yet. She wasn't surprised. He pulled into a park and stopped the car. Here it comes, she thought, mentally rehearsing her self-defense training in case it was necessary.

"I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since I first laid eyes on you," Mark said. "You're one of the most beautiful creatures I've ever seen."

Mina swallowed and decided to be honest. "I've felt the same way about you," she said.

"Come with me." They climbed out of the car, and as they walked up the hill he took her hand, as naturally as if they'd known each other for years. He led her to a secluded corner of the park, where a tree had grown conveniently sideways.

"I often come here to sit and think," he said. "It's so peaceful, and hardly anyone else ever comes up here." He scooted closer to her on the tree trunk. "I've been sitting here thinking about you," he said. "About doing this." He leaned toward her.

Mina had been expecting him to kiss her. She was expecting to like it. She was also expecting him to be sweet, tentative, exploring. Not so. Mark was going to take what he wanted tonight. And she suddenly realized she wanted him to take what he wanted from her. She wanted him to be rough, dominating. And now she was going to make him work for it.

Mark's lips crushed hers in a savage kiss. He plunged his tongue into her mouth. She tried to pull back; she scratched at his arms. But he knew, he somehow knew she wanted to be dominated, that ultimately she wanted to give into him. His hand which had been firmly cupping the back of her head now gripped her thick chestnut hair, and he pulled. Hard. Mina whimpered as much from raw desire as from pain.

"I know you want me as much as I want you," he murmured hoarsely against her neck. His hands possessed her full breasts. Caring nothing for any passersby, he tore her shirt upwards and yanked down her bra, catching her hard nipple in his teeth. She gasped and writhed, not knowing if it was to get away from him or to give herself over more fully.

Mark quickly stood and pulled Mina up with him. He ducked in to kiss her again, but she twisted away. He grabbed her face, somehow vicious and tender at the same time, and once again crushed his lips against hers. He then spun her rapidly around and pushed her down onto the tree trunk. He held both of her hands behind her back so that she was nearly immobile. The bark bit into her bare flesh and she cried out, which earned her a hearty whack on her suddenly-skirtless ass.

"You don't want to draw attention, do you?"

But then she couldn't help crying out again as he plunged into her. He thrust deeply, powerfully into her -- and the feeling of being dominated so completely by this demigod brought crashing waves of pleasure washing over her almost immediately. Feeling her tighten around him as she crested the first wave, he grabbed her hips and pulled her against him so that he could fill her even more completely. He clamped a hand over her mouth, never breaking his rhythm, as Mina incoherently screamed her pleasure. He brought her to orgasm again and again, until she was completely hoarse, and he finally howled his own release into the night sky.

It was some time before Mina was able to make her legs work. She rose from the tree trunk and wiped away the drops of blood trickling down her stomach. Mark watched her as she pulled her skirt down and adjusted her shirt. Once she was presentable again, he gently cupped her chin in his hand. This time he kissed her gently, sweetly, even lovingly. "Let's get you home," he said.

Once alone in her apartment, she stared at herself in the mirror for a long time. At the cuts covering her midsection. At her bruised lips. At her wild hair. She now knew what all those women in romance novels had meant when they talked about being "taken." And she decided she liked it.

When I Travel to Dime Store Novels

I had only ever cheated on my husband once before.

Richard and I separated for six months in our third year of marriage. It had been my idea, the separation, but he had agreed to it too quickly. As our empty house would settle at night and my friends would congratulate me for demanding the sort of treatment I deserved, I would sit and stew. It was all well and good to throw out your husband, if he came back. But what if he didn't? Was I really prepared to lose this house? This lifestyle? This marriage? Was I ready to date again? Diet again? Primp and preen and wait by the phone? I wasn't a girl anymore. Did I still have it?

I got my keys and got into our car, a Ford something-or-other with leather seats.

Richard still had it, that was for sure. At least, I certainly thought so when I met him. And everyone had said so when we married, especially my girlfriends. The years had made him look more paternal. Damn him. Aging makes a woman look maternal, and maternal is the opposite of sexy. But aging makes men look paternal, and paternal is so damn sexy.

I had been driving and fretting for hours before I realized where I was going. Richard's parents had a cabin upstate, and here I was driving the red eye straight to it. I didn't really think he'd be there, but I had to be sure. Helen hadn't returned my calls, and she was single. She was the sort of friend who would steal your husband. She dated a married man almost six months back in college.

Of course, if Helen was the problem, then I didn't have much to worry about. Helen had stringy, curly hair; Richard preferred silky, long black hair like mine. And even though Helen was slimmer than I was, she was more of a petite woman. She had small breasts and small hands. Richard needed someone more his size, or at least more his equal. I had played volleyball in college. That was how we met, actually. I was tall and strong and athletic, and Richard loved my body. No, Helen would not be a problem.

By the time I realized I was almost out of gas, my only option was a dingy truck stop off a two-lane highway. Harley & Quinn's, or so the sign proclaimed. It was one of those long, boxy cafes with yellow-lit windows all across the front exposing a long counter and a row of booths. There was only one gas pump out front. An attendant came out and began to pump my gas. I told him I was going in for a bite and could he please just leave my car when he was done? He snorted.

I slapped him. I slapped him right across his handsome, grinning face. Right across those oddly straight and white teeth under that dirty, motor oil streaked face. Right across that strong jawline. Right across those piercing blues eyes that seemed to twinkle as soon as I struck him.

I couldn't believe I had hit him, and he could tell. His thin lips curled into a mischievous smile, his eyes never leaving mine. My mouth dropped open and closed, open and closed, like a fish slowing dying on the line. He unscrewed my gas tank lid and pushed the nozzle in hard. The car shook with the force and I shuddered.

He grabbed my wrists and pulled me towards him. I was terrified and intoxicated by the strong smell of gasoline and musk.

"Open the door," he commanded. I wrenched one of my hands free of him and obeyed.

We slid into the back seat, me on my back and he on top of me. I stared directly into his eyes, and I felt him grow stiff against my thigh.

"I want you to tell me that you don't want me, that you could never want me. I want you to tell me I'm unattractive, that I'm unfuckable. Can you do that for me?" As I told him what I wanted, what I needed, I ran my hands up underneath his sweaty work shirt. I could feel the slope up the center of his back, hot and slick with sweat. The muscles across his back tensed and bulged beneath my fingertips. His hands found their way to my breasts, squeezing them hard.

"I can do that for you," he breathed.

I stiffened and looked at him sternly. "Then show me you understand."

He stopped his hands dead in their tracks, eyeing me suspiciously. Then, without warning, he fiercely shoved his hand down the front of my pants, deeply probing me.

I have never been so utterly degraded, so thoroughly satisfied, and so
perfectly understood as I was that night with a gas attendant whose name I never bothered to get. At the time, it didn't seem to matter. And, in retrospect, it doesn't.

But that was the last time I cheated on my husband.

When I Travel to Seattle

So, then there was the summer I lived in a hut on the beach.

Now, in fairness, the beach was on Friday Harbor Island, a very small and very pretty little place nestled between Washington state and Canada. Forget about the picturesque and tropical scenes of the Caribbean. This was nothing like that. We're talking arctic waters here.

Still. It was a hut on the beach. And I lived there for a summer.

In any case, this is not a blog about places I've lived. This is a blog about places I've traveled. And now begins the story.

During the summer I lived in a hut on the beach, my friend Dashing and I made an excursion to Seattle. Why would we leave the scenic beauty of an island paradise for the dingy charm of an urban landscape?

Firstly, the rustic nature of island life had started to wear thin. We delighted during the first several weeks that a small rowboat was our only means of accessing the main town; this novelty wore off quickly.

Secondly, I dislike nature and was ready for some city time.

Thirdly, Bruce Lee.

"Qua," you ask.

"Let me explain," I reply.

My friend Dashing had yet another friend, a man who loved Bruce Lee. Bruce Lee is, evidently, buried in a cemetery in Seattle. In a gesture both touching and well-considered, Dashing wanted to make a rubbing of Bruce Lee's gravestone. He would frame this rubbing, accompanied by an 8' x 10' of Mr. Lee, and make a gift of it at an upcoming birthday.

I had never tracked down a grave before, let alone a famous grave, and agreed to join the journey.

Journey, incidentally, is not hyperbole. The trek from Friday Harbor to Seattle required a boat ride, followed by a long bus ride. This trek left us hungry upon our arrival to Seattle and prompted Dashing and I to find a small Indian buffet for lunch.

Let me say here that I adore my friend Dashing. That being said, let me add he is also the most frugal being I've ever met. At movie theaters, he will ask for a free cup of water, then add lemon juice and sugar packets to it from the condiment bar until he has a substance that palettes something like lemonade.

The point of this inclusion of character? That our Indian buffet, while absolutely delicious, was also less than $5.00.

"Plot point," you ask.

"Naturally," I respond.

With deliciously and cheaply filled bellies, Dashing and I began the long walk up a tall hill to the grave site of Bruce Lee. The cemetery was about what I expected. Large. Grass-covered. Rolling hills. Hemmed in by an ivy-covered chain-link fence on three sides. Lots of headstones, broken up by the occasional mausoleum.

Dashing and I decide to split up and find Bruce Lee's headstone. It is only moments after Dashing is out of visual range that I realize I need to use the restroom.

Immediately.

Perhaps this is common knowledge, but it had not occurred to me until that moment that cemeteries do not have bathrooms.

And so began the concentrated powerwalking that comes with convincing your body it does not need what it needs. I marched at a frenzied pace about the graves, muttering to myself that I would be fine, that the gurgling in my stomach would subside, that I absolutely did not need to go to the bathroom.

But who was I kidding?

At the far end of the cemetery, near one of the chain-link fence boundaries, I saw a nice-and-wide mausoleum. Safely hidden behind its walls, I gave my regards to the Peterson family, dropped my pants, and braced myself.

Do you know what goes through your mind in a situation like that? I mean, the instant you accept the fact that you are shitting on a family's grave?

"How am I going to wipe?"

That's what you think.

While in the midst of working out that little logistical problem, I came upon another. Leaning there against the Peterson mausoleum and finding some modicum of gastric relief, I realized that the ivy-covered chain-link fence was more sparsely covered in ivy than it appeared at a distance.

This realization came with a second one: there was a preschool playground gurgling just beyond the sparsely ivy-covered chain-link fence.

Do you know what goes through your mind after such a realization?

"I am going to jail today."

That's what you think.

Did I go to jail that day? Did the group of four little girls playing hopscotch by the fence look over, meet my eye, realize I had my pants down before them, and begin a shrieking cacophony of children? Did I escape notice altogether? Was I forced to sit-and-drag like a stray dog? Did I actually pause upon leaving, paying my respects to the Petersons for their hospitality?

None of these details matter much. But that's what happens when I travel to Seattle.

I'll trink to that!

As this be a travelin' blog, Heidi suggested we set the stage with some tales of travels past. I like this idea, so here is the exciting story of my one real excursion out of the country, to the mystical faraway lands of Germany.

(I did walk across the border to Mexico once, but I don't think that really counts.)

Once upon a time I was 15. I was in high school, with all the angsty-yet-meaningless high school problems you might expect. I played violin in my school orchestra as well as Symphonettes, one of Arizona's young-folks orchestras, and I had a healthy and bizarre father-crush on the man who conducted both.

That year, the powers-that-be at Phoenix Symphony Guild decided to take us Symphonette players and our bow ties to Germany. We would go for a week, stay with host families, play a few concerts, tour some interesting stuff, and head back home. My parents sweetly decided to cough up the however-many thousand bucks it would take to send me over there. I know it must have been difficult though I'm sure I didn't appreciate it enough at the time; now that I'm older and wiser I'm all the more grateful to make up for being a bitchy teenager back then.

You can't really take in a foreign country in a week, of course. But my host family was delightful, the food was amazing, and it was very, very cold. Today I couldn't tell you what pieces we played for our concert, but I remember clearly the halting and dictionary-laden conversations with my host family, the crazy windy roads, the delicious cheese-and-butter sandwiches my host-sister? made for me to take to rehearsals.

Other things I remember clearly:
~There was a kitchen both upstairs and downstairs in the place where I stayed. This often led to my complete confusion as to which level I was actually on.
~Seriously, the simplest meals were fucking amazing.
~Coke was everywhere. There were giant advertisements telling me to "Trink Coke." My host family, assuming that since I was American I loved the stuff, gave it to me with pretty much every meal. I hated Coke.
~Teenagers should never be allowed to have amazing world adventures. They're just too bitchy to appreciate it. We went on a double-decker bus tour of several chateaus, and the bus driver told us about each castle as we passed it. Of course, most every kid just wanted to gab with their friends, play video games, make out in the back seat, etc. So every time this poor man spoke again the groans got louder and louder, until he finally came back on the intercom and said haughtily, "I think I just won't talk anymore." A few, including the girl sitting next to me, cheered. We got into trouble. ... Looking back, I feel pretty bad for that guy, even though I wasn't a cheer-er. Teenagers are assholes.
~Germans apparently don't pull their punches when it comes to journalism. We received a review in a local paper after playing a concert; they described our skills and our screwups with equal page-time. I think it was embarassing at the time but now I think it's funny. ;-)

Germany at 15 was fun and interesting. But I really didn't appreciate it the way it needed to be appreciated. Which is why I want to travel now at the ripe old age of late-twenties, where I won't have the layer of hormonal angst to obscure the wonder of going somewhere radically new. This time I'll cheer the bus driver on. ;-)

What is "Heidi and Jeannette Go To Tokyo?"

Hey folks! Welcome to the new collaboration between Heidi and Jeannette of "Heidi and Jeannette Go To Tokyo" fame!

Heidi and I have a dream. We want to get to Tokyo within two years. I've never been there, and she hasn't been there recently, so it's time to go!

This blog represents not only our hopes and dreams, but also an excuse to write more often which we both desperately need. So add us to your RSS feed and click an ad or two if you feel like it. Tokyo ni!