About That Year

It was a cold December night in Riverside. The house smelled like damp wood and wet carpet, it had been raining for a week straight. The weather was gloomy. The city was gloomy. And I, especially, was gloomy.

I was lying in bed that night, watching the Christmas lights that flickered through my dark curtains like 4th of July fireworks. As usual, decorations were up far too soon, which was somewhat unsettling as I had yet to have found pleasure in colourful streets, sugar cookies and elves. Earlier that day, I had gotten into a fight with my roommate. She had a certain annoying motherly characteristic that somehow only flourished when we moved in together. This made me wish I had gotten a studio apartment to myself. After the fight, I thought I’d go and de-stress with a bunch of friends from the university, but all I felt was emptiness and a lack of motivation to achieve anything I had set out to do when I moved to California. Of course, that could have been due to the passing of my grandfather a couple of weeks after I had arrived, but I knew he was ill. I guess not being able to go to his funeral made me realize how far I truly was. Far from home, my family, my friends… Everyone, really.

In the midst of their pointless conversations, I suddenly felt incredibly suffocated. My heart started to pound, and my breath etched with a crucial, distinctive need for air! I got up and everyone looked at me with a puzzled expression that made me feel like no matter what I’d say, they still wouldn’t understand. I felt alienated. I turned, walked out, and said nothing.

I remember the cold weather that afternoon. How it kissed my face with the wind nuzzling my hair like it truly wanted to comfort me. I walked along the pavement of the city center, passing by Ralph’s and Subway, honestly wishing I had a camera to capture the movie-like feeling that I got. While walking, I remembered a key chain I had seen earlier that week. The Santa Monica Pier. It gave me a sense of immediate, heart-warming comfort that I felt I needed to follow. I saw a yellow cab dropping off a man at the corner of the street, instinctively bolted towards it, and stopped by the driver’s window to knock on it. “Hi… Would it by any chance be possible for you to take me to Santa Monica, please?” He looked at me for a few seconds, at what I imagined was a sad, cold, desperate face full of confusion and dire need of an escape. “Hop in,” he said. My face immediately lit up, just like the Christmas lights that were up too early, every year.

Nick, the cab driver, and myself, spent about two hours driving to a destination that I’m sure he didn’t have in mind when he woke up that morning. We listened to his CD of classical rock music and sang along to my favorite, Guns N’ Roses. By the time we arrived at the pier, Nick had already heard a long story about a girl that left home far too soon. I got out of the car, and to my confusion, he got out of the car with me. “It was a long drive, I need to stretch my legs,” he said with a sincere smile. So, he walked along with me up to the end of the oh so familiar pier full of music, art and funky people. I walked up to the sign that read “End of the Trail” and I remember thinking that I would’ve walked all the way home if that sign hadn’t pointed out the obvious: walking on water was only meant for the divine. I sat alone on the edge for a long while, as Nick thought I’d need some space. Breathing in the cold oxygen that gently numbed my face, I watched the ocean getting darker and darker, and witnessed the sun dip itself into it like an orange biscuit in a cup of blue milk. I hadn’t felt that calm and relaxed in a long, long time. And that was the moment I fell in love. I fell in love with winter, the ocean and Santa Monica.

I paid Nick when we got back to Riverside, although he seemed like he was having an internal struggle on whether or not accept my money. But I insisted. I walked into the apartment, and sighed as I saw my friend sitting on the couch, looking worried and truly concerned. “I got to go back home,” I said. She tried to convince me to stay, but I just needed home. I needed to be more prepared, and it truthfully felt like the right thing to do.

That night, I called my parents and told them about how I felt, and to my surprise, they agreed. I guess they knew best, too. After an hour long conversation detailing my bookings and how I was going to deal with my furniture and things, I finally went to bed. I was lying in bed that night, watching the Christmas lights that flickered through my dark curtains like 4th of July fireworks, saving it in my memory as the day I decided that there was nothing wrong with admitting what you can’t handle. I understood that home was where I needed to be, for just a little while longer.