california christmas

Mom got a eucalyptus wreath for the front door, because she said she remembered I like the smell. Usually we enter the house through the garage, but when I do use the front door, I can smell the wreath, and I feel touched. I don't even realize this until I am driving with Jamie. On a quiet Californian highway, I suddenly feel so appreciative for mom's eucalyptus wreath.

The sun is out most days. I would lounge in the driveway with a book; it was like high school. I was reading Time of the Assassins by Henry Miller and eventually it was driving me nuts. All this talk of God. But by this time I had begun stockpiling books for the New Year:

In Youth is Pleasure, Denton Welch
Murphy, Samuel Beckett
I Remember, Joe Brainard
The Diary of a Nobody, George & Weedon Grossmith
Rebecca Solnit
Roger Deakin
Susan Sontag
Roland Barthes again
Jude the Obscure,Thomas Hardy
...

I've already made a dent into this reading list, and will be happy to discuss if you're in London and fancy a coffee. On the plane home, I read Lady Chatterly's Lover, but for some reason that's still embarrassing to say. Even if I got it for 50 cents at the little shop at my parents' local library?

Besides the eucalyptus, my mom brought in dill pickles and red wine and thick cut chips and crispy chocolate cookies.

Mom and dad took us to Whole Foods and to Trader Joe's. Jamie and I went to a frozen yoghurt shop where they let you sample all the flavours, and then you choose one and pile it with any toppings you want and it is priced by weight.

In San Francisco, which sometimes gleams and sometimes seems so empty and depraved, as always, we saw our friends' art, Colter Jacoben at SFMOMA and Edward Loftus at Gregory Lind. I am still beaming with pride to be associated with both. It is a brilliant feeling to genuinely admire work made by friends.

We drank hand drip filter coffees, incredible. Blue Bottle, Four Barrel. There is nothing like drinking coffee on holiday. Maybe coffee in a new city is even better. But this coffee, wow. I wish I had brought some back.

At Jesse and Robbie's pad in Oakland, they've written love poems to each other on the walls. They've got a friend with a singing voice like spun gold, and they all perform a Sting song with a Siberian harp, and Robbie even does some throat singing. There is a drink with mint leaves in my hand.

I'm like, only in California, and then on New Years Day, everyone is in a meadow amongst wise oaks and rolling hills and taking their tops off, even the women and I'm glad to be in California again with, you know, expressive types and lesbians who make their own pickles. And later, on the patio over Bloody Marys, one says, Do you think this is what your friends in England imagine California to be like? And I'm thinking, actually, I guess they picture, you know, Beverly Hills. Not really so much this moment.

The night before, there was hip hop and howling. We were in a ranch on a wildflower preserve. This sounds peaceful, and it was, but on New Year's Eve, this particular ranch was on fire with the echoing gaiety of queers. I waited by the side of the dance floor for ages, a wallflower. The dancing was so good, it was like the dancing from the original Fame! When I finally got up the nerve to join in, the bassy booty song ended and a slow song came on and someone pushed me to dance with a handsome man with a big beard and suddenly it was a slow dancing game called Snowball where everyone had to slow dance and switch partners when someone shouted "snowball." Yes, there was a moment just a couple switches in, where I was the odd man out, in the centre of the floor. Surely this is a cliche scene from a half dozen sitcoms. It was my Charlie Brown moment.

Later, I attempted a shameless return for more, when "Real Love" by Mary J. Blige, but Jamie wouldn't budge when I tugged. And I got hurt feelings and had a strop. Suddenly I was out in the dark at the edges of the property, along the road, having a pee. Cars are terrifying in a silent black night: The people in cars that passed me must have thought I was crazy. I didn't realise they were driving so fast because it was so close to midnight. It happened to be just before the countdown that I found my way back to the house, and in the middle of kissing couples Jamie kissed and (I think) forgave me.

A few days after New Year, we were in Santa Cruz, the beach town where they filmed The Lost Boys. We went on the Monarch trail but only spotted a few butterflies. Smelled the Eucalyptus. Saw the sea, and a boy riding his bicycle backwards. We went to a Brazilian cafe and all the waitresses were Brazilian hotties with beach bods.

Things we ate in California include: Homemade pickles, peanut butter pretzels, tacos, burritos, lashings of Chinese food, sushi, margaritas, cinnamon bears, west coast ales, Burmese samosa soup.

In the glare of the sun, fat from food, I wondered if I wanted to go home.

But it's funny, arriving back in London always feels like coming home. More than coming back to San Francisco ever did when I lived there. We circled above central London as I never have before, at least not on a clear sky. I was besotted. We were in one of those seat rows that's kind of between windows. So we strained. And still, I yelped like a puppy at the sights. Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament! The London Eye! Tower Bridge! St. Paul's! It looked amazing and unreal, like the board for some magical board game called LONDON!

We were tired and smelled like airplane and we were hungry after not eating very much plane food. But I felt ready to play the game.

Our first evening back, I was putting the stuff in our suitcases away. Everything smelled like airplane. Then, bitten by the new year bug, Jamie decided we needed to rearrange all of our furniture.

It looks much better now, so please come over and make yourself at home. We dropped a speaker, though, and we've got an unfixable fuzz if things go very high or very low. So forgive me while I fuss now and again with the sound.

But do come over, I'm sure we haven't told you everything about California.