Last summer I moved to Alabama to start graduate school. I electronically signed a lease for an apartment I'd never seen in a neighborhood I'd never been to. I drove 2,500 miles across the country, my car packed with the immediate essentials. The rest of my belongings barely filled half of a seven-foot cube that would be shipped a few weeks later. I arrived in Birmingham late in the evening of what had been a very hot August day. Roads and sidewalks released the day's heat ghost in the form of tangible infrared radiation. Water molecules in the air bounced wildly, insanely. It was hard to breathe; water ran down my back. I wasn't sure if I was just sweating, or if the bouncing water molecules in the air had coalesced on my cooler-than-air-temperature body. Sweat or humidity, it didn't matter. There was no breeze, and certainly no room in the Air Inn for even one tiny H-O-H to come in off the street.
I walked to my apartment door and punched a code into a secure key box. Two silver keys fell into my hand, one for the front door, one for the mail box. I fit the door key into the lock, closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and opened the door.
The first few months in Birmingham were pretty lonely. I missed my family, I missed my friends, I missed the ocean. After a crummy first impression, though, I loved my apartment. I especially loved my walk to and from school each day. In the afternoons or evenings I'd arrive home, take off my shoes at the door, and head straight to the bedroom to turn on a small air conditioner mounted to the wall. As I passed through the living room, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Nayirah Waheed, and Henry David Thoreau welcomed me home from their seats on the bookshelf. Seed pods from the weekend's solo hike, shells from the Pacific Ocean, rocks from the Mojave, and succulents from my old California garden, chatted softly to each other in small groups. I was in very good company.
Wearing naught but my unders and an overall-style apron, I put together some dinner. During the summer, my primary dinner goal was to avoid making more heat in the already sauna-like kitchen, so smoothies and salads were common occurrences. Sitting quietly and alone, I read through scientific articles or a chapter for lecture the next day. Once my room had cooled enough, I'd head to bed, sleeping like a starfish right in the middle.
I didn't make weekend plans, I decided each moment what I was going to do next. I hiked, I went to the grocery store or farmer's market. I didn't spend much money, that whole starving college student thing being no joke. In the evening I'd return to my nest to read and think, interrupted only by my heavy-footed upstairs neighbor walking back and forth across his old wooden floor.
Fall semester was busy, the months were swallowed hot and whole.
In late November I met Adam. Our first date was at a restaurant in Highland Park. Fall had finally come, and it was drizzling outside. He wore a red and black lumberjack plaid shirt and dark pants. I wore a cardigan and cute shoes. He'd freshly shaved and was drinking a locally-brewed beer as I walked up. I had water with a lemon and no straw. Our second date was at Red Mountain Park. We hiked a little and talked a lot. The sky was full of yellow leaves, and my Vans were covered in red mud. My heart quietly executed an escape; before I could catch it, Adam was in every weekend, and most evenings.
During the winter I still walked home. Instead of turning on the air conditioner as soon as I got home, I went straight for the heater. I planned evening meals that required turning on the oven, so I could heat my kitchen and living room. Books and shells still called to me from the shelves, I still said hello. Our conversations were shorter than they had been during the summer, though. School was busier than ever, and as often as possible, I'd invite Adam to share the dinner I'd turned on the oven for. We went to the ballet, we went hiking, we ran in the rain, we went to concerts with his friends. Everywhere we went I met more of his friends. Each new friend served as a window into his life. I saw the time he spent cycling on roads and in mountains, volunteering with his dog at a children's hospital, going to concerts, and participating in running groups. I met his elderly neighbors who gushed over him like a favorite nephew. Each new person introduced me to a new sparkling facet of this sweet man I had already fallen in love with.
Winter turned to spring, and as Adam and I spent more and more time together, I found I actually had to calendar my weekends. School was incredibly busy, and there was just less free time. More and more, though, this man's hand was in mine, and more and more we made decisions together. We decided where to eat, we made plans with friends, we went on vacation. Last Friday Adam and I made a really big decision together. We decided we weren't going to travel alone anymore. On that rainy evening in the Birmingham Botanical Gardens, my sweet man got on one knee and asked me to marry him. I said yes, of course, and we both laughed and cried and kissed and laughed some more. Soaking wet, but not cold, we walked around an empty garden, hand in hand, shocked and elated that we were both no longer traveling alone.
Henry David Thoreau talked about traveling alone once. He said, "The man who goes alone can start today; but he who travels with another must wait until that other is ready, and it may be a long time before they get off." It's taken a long time for us both to be ready, prepared as we were so far away from each other, and through such different means-- but we are finally headed off!
You know, though, now that the trip has really gotten started, I guess I don't mind the delay so much.
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| Wormsloe, Georgia; a road Adam and I took together |
