There's More to Life - Unfortunately

"I'll fly to Frankfurt, rent a car, visit Annemone, drive to Karlsruhe to stay with Chris for a couple of days or so, then I'm off to Cologne where I'll stay in Suzie's guest room. Then I'll drive up to Hamburg to see you, Chris will come, too. The rest of the time I'll be in Berlin from where I'll fly back to Seattle. Arrive back here in the morning and will attend my first lecture in the afternoon. How cool is that?"

"Nice. I'm looking forward to seeing you. Plenty of time to talk then. I should let you go."

"Dad, I've got 20 bucks on that prepaid card. Don't worry. How are things in Hamburg?"

I was too excited about this whole trip to just hang up. So we talked for an hour. Then I called my brother Chris to let him know he'd be indeed reunited with our father. He hadn't seen him in something like 20 years. Dad wasn't exactly hip to the whole queer thing, ya know. But now he was gonna put it behind him. Wisdom of old age, I thought. Even though every time I thought of him I remembered him the way he was when he was living in the fast lane. He still had a lot of that crazy energy left that would drive "normal people" up the wall.

How did this trip come about? I don't know, really. I've never felt the desire to fly over and visit. Never. Suddenly the idea popped into my head and in no time flat the flight and car were booked, thanks to the IT. I rationalized the expense as an early graduation gift to myself. A quarter early, big deal. And flights were cheap. And I hadn't seen the man in forever, either. And he said he'd come to my graduation. How very unexpected. It all seemed weird and unreal but I like weird.

Exam dates were announced and I realized I could fly a day earlier, even two if I would be really organized with packing and all. I had this sense of urgency which seemed to intensify by the nanosecond. But no, no seats available on an earlier flight. Too bad. Oh, well. Spring Break in Europe! Whooooo-heeeee. Party, party, party in Beeeerrrrlllin. Yeah.

I didn't sleep one second on the flight. Popped my jet-lag pills and wiggled around in the chair. Tried to re-read Virginia Woolf for my honors thesis. As if I could focus on that...

So then, a couple of days later, I thought I'd phone Dad to let him know all was swell. I thought I should - even though he never did strike me as one who worries like other people over 60.

His live-in girlfriend answered. "Well, you know, I'm not sure you want to stay here.... there's a problem..."

Oh Jesus Christ. What now? Did he have to ask her permission for my stay or what? I was not gonna put up with her shit. Nuh-uh. We're gonna make the Dad-and-Chris-do-Oprah-Winfrey-ish-Reunion. Come hell or high water. That bitch wasn't gonna get in our way. End of story.

"I tried to call you but you were already on your way, I suppose."

How delusional was she? I'd cancel my flight b/c she didn't like our little family gathering? Come on, Blondie, get real.

"I'm sure we can sort this out."

"Well, it's.... I'm going to just come out and tell you.... Your father died. You were probably on the plane when he died. A heart attack. He died here, the paramedics couldn't do anything anymore."

Dead. The man was dead. No family reunion, no talks, no kissing-and-making-up. Ever. No good-bye.

I cried, I smoked, I partied, I got laid. I cried while I partied. And I chain-smoked like an idiot. Bro and I got drunk together and shared what we remembered and knew about the man. He reminded me on him. A lot. The way he could tell a story. The way he laughed.

I realized that I had a gazillion questions I needed to ask my Dad. Shit.

I flew back as planned. The chain-smoking didn't stop. I lost weight with the speed of light. I couldn't sleep. I thought I was sick or something.

The way this whole thing went down bugged the hell out of me. What was up with that feeling of urgency? Why did I feel the need to fly over there? Why now and not a year before or two or three? Or never, for that matter? Where did this idea come from in the first place? WTF? I mean, I'd been living my life all these years, my whole life, basically, without the man. I've seen him on few occasions. Still, I felt closer to him than to my mother. And I actually met her and stayed with her and stepfather # 3 (8 years MY senior) for two months. Can't believe I was related to that Texan (by frigging choice. Uggh.) Manipulative Bitch Barbie. But I sure as hell was his daughter.

"Coincidence. Sheer coincidence." Said Jenna who subscribes to The Objectivist. She looked at me like I was some sort of lobotomized victim of my Christian upbringing. Some time ago I might have agreed with the coincidence-theory, sort of. But this was too weird. It felt too weird.

I like things I can see, explain, measure. Logical stuff. When all is clear and talking about it doesn't make me sound like someone who believes in aliens or the second coming or one of the many conspiracy theories. I don't have a problem with something like this happening in lit/film. There I might find it interesting. But not in my own life, not in my "reality".

I hate premonitions partly b/c I can't tell them apart from other impulses. They are not visuals, just feelings. And then there's the other thing - when you visit a place for the very first time and you have strong feelings about it. Love it (like Turkey) or hate it with a passion (like France) for no apparent reason. Sure, my Dad's ancestors can be traced back to Switzerland where they lived for a while after they fled France. Huegenots. But gimme a break, what's that got to do with me? Why should I feel uncomfortable when I'm in France?

Still, I did. And I nearly got raped there, had to deal with racist cops and realized that there are situations where maze doesn't do diddly squat for ya. I could have used it after the fact but revenge wasn't my thing. I would do that now and not bother with the cops. But then again - not going to France if I can help it. La Streisand doesn't perform in Germany, either.

I happily forgot most the French I've ever learned at school. I notice I still use words and phrases I grew up with. French and Jiddish. We are a multicultural and multiracial lot. This means I don't have to act so frigging pc around people of other cultures if they act like complete idiots. An idiot is an idiot no matter what race or culture or whatever.

Jane Espenson went and did the work. She read Dan Brown's supposedly badly written bestseller and noticed the overuse of events or things triggering memories. She's right, we often don't know why we remember stuff at a certain time. It actually takes digging what triggered the memory. Could be a sound, a smell, whatever.

Today would be my paternal grandfather's birthday. Maybe that's what woke me up at 3:55 at night and triggered this. Maybe it was the red lentil soup.