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somewhere over the rainbow (and other stories)

  Exactly two years ago I found myself flying through a corner of a rainbow, and landed in Oaxaca, Mexico. It was the last film festival I traveled to, a brutal and sweet experience in the harshest of realities, trying to wrap my arms around the slipperiest industry and failing magnificently. Surrounded by fresh faces and eager eyes I ran from the rooms and into the street time and again, wandering off with the camera in my bag as a companion. I took pictures of a blind man that sang on the same corner every day, of wedding parades, of an old woman waiting to see the dentist.  Literally somewhere over the rainbow, I met the ugliest answers to questions I had been dragging my feet towards for years. Cramming the most delicious food into my mouth, joking at the nightly rooftop cocktail parties, grinning like the Cheshire Cat it was all coming to an end. Actually, it had ended before it even started though - and on the plane back to New York and finally Moscow the bone-crunching ...
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the train station negroni (a celebration)


There was a plan to have a Negroni in a piazza, on my way to the airport. The Roman sun is in my eyes, sweat spreading across the small of my back as I surrender to the moment. I will go home as quickly as I came here, all for a screening of Blackbetty at a festival. The award certificate is tucked carefully into my bag, and I can see it even when my eyes are closed. A mantra swirls in my thoughts, as humility gives way to some hard-earned chest thumping. "Why are you here?" I wish someone would ask me, because I finally have a reason. But no, I am just a tired face in the narrow streets that lead to the central station. All is as it should be.

There is a bar open to the street and I like the bartender's smirk. I walk inside, suddenly unable to speak. And then I say "Negroni." He seems to agree, as if he is a doctor confirming a diagnosis. I collapse into a low chair as gift bags for N and V and E dangle from my wrists. Shirts and dresses, a little raincoat, a scarf. The drink arrives, and it is strong. The gin hits me hard. My forehead somehow feels like it is twenty miles wide. The cubes dance and talk as I realize how long it has been since I had a Negroni, maybe years. I check the time, I have maybe ten minutes. The impulse is to suck it down, paying before they bring me the check. But somehow, I believe that the moment can be savored, that the train will be waiting for me. The drink dilutes a little, and the orange comes forward. This is not the place or the bar I planned on, but I will take it. A minor victory is no small thing in this life. I stare at the glass, scratched and heavy. What a life it has had, what lips it has slid against cold and bitter, sour and sweet. The drink is now perfect, puckering my tongue as I take it all in - this life, being alone, accomplishing something rare on my own terms. My eyes close, and I hear the music of the cash register, the language floating around, broken words and car horns. The dust in the street kicks up.

It is time to go home.
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