Spreading out at The Gathering

December 7. Day 160.

As I drove a friend to the airport this morning, a former grad school colleague, I asked him if he thinks I can finish by this spring based on how much I've written.

"Depends how long your next chapters are," he replied. Code for: Don't get your hopes up.

After we parted, I found myself strangely itching to get some work done -- I can't imagine why...

By now, I'd estimate that Mr. A and I have been to about 80 percent of the viable cafes in central San Diego, laptops in tow, I writing and he reading.

Today we stopped at a new Starbucks in Mission Hills (new to us, that is), but were thwarted by a horde of preteens in soccer uniforms -- boys? girls? no idea, I just noticed they came up to my shoulders and were very noisy. So we walked a block due west, to The Gathering, a restaurant that's been a neighborhood institution for ages and recently survived a scary fire.

The plan: spread out at a table and work-o-rama until dinner time.

The question: would they mind? We weren't exactly a high-net-worth table, and it was close to dinner time, and it's a nice restaurant (not technically a diner or cafe). Would a couple of coffees and dessert, at best, cut it?

I walked in, candidly stated our intentions and asked the bartender if we could set up camp somewhere out of the way -- if it wasn't conflicting with their dinner schedule or whatever. He zoomed to the back area, looked for plugs, and welcomed us to the biggest table there. A waitress brought us endless cups of coffee and two oversized bread puddings with gooey tequila sauce. And... I made major headway on my chapter! In fact, in about two hours I finished this section. The same section that's been killing me since September.

And at a certain point during this cramfest, I turned to Mr. A with this revelation: "Once I'm done with this dissertation, I'll be able to come home after work, open a book and read for hours and... not feel guilty!!!!"

So

a) I feel the end getting closer

and

b) apparently, I'm looking forward to doing the exact same thing as I do in grad school -- reading around the clock -- only without the deadlines. Way to think outside the box, Rox.

Gained: A comfy, welcoming restauroffice. And a dash of hope. (And, just now, a new word! Restauroffice? Only one "valid" usage when I Googled it. Would you use it?)

Tango, at last...

December 6. Day 159.

When I was growing up, December 6 was a very important day: St. Nicholas Day. My sister and I used to put our shoes by the fireplace and so many magical things used to appear in them. Chocolate oranges, jump ropes, scissors, pencils, a magnifying glass, a tape measure. (Those are the cool treats you get your dad is an architect!) First there was blind and absolute belief in a supernatural power (i.e. St. Nick himself) and eventually came the knowledge that my parents were responsible. But I don't think it went from one to the other abruptly; rather, it shifted over a year or two. And in those years, when I no longer took the magic for granted, nor had a real and rational answer, that's when the whole affair was suspended in the most delicious air of mystery, and that's the feeling I most associate with that holiday.

St. Nick's day this year was just as mysterious and every bit as magical!

Not only did we dance, but we did so in an amazing location: Tablao Flamenco. I've posted pictures, but they're really bad. So sorry! I will invest in a small camera one of these days, but for now it's just my cell phone.

This intricately adorned building used to be a restaurant and flamenco performance venue. Then, suddenly, about 15 years ago, it shut down. Its beguiling facade -- of several gigantic dancers in bas-relief, stretching their arms up to the highway overpass -- was preserved, a stucco chrysalis, a mystery that resurfaced every time I drove past the building on the highway.

For years I'd wondered what happened. No one dared buy it, or sell it, or tear it down. I wondered if it wasn't a success; maybe the prices had to be too high to cover the construction costs, or its location (visible but not obviously accessible) meant the loss of valuable foot traffic, or people simply didn't appreciate Spanish culture? All tragic options.

This tango society somehow had the keys to this place, even though there was still a For Sale sign outside. And inside, 'twas truly gorgeous! Seemed unchanged, actually. So strange.

I told Mr. A about the building's history, and he also got curious about the owner.

"Do you think he ever comes in the building when no one is around?" he asked.

"I do."

"And how do you think he feels?"

"He cries," I speculated. "I think wonders why he couldn't make it work. It was his dream. He poured every waking minute, every penny, into these decorations, hoping to make this the heart of Iberian culture in Southern California, and still, people didn't come. Maybe he's here now, dancing, and no one even knows him."

Before we left, one of the tango dudes approached us to say hi. He works for the society, so I had a chance to get some answers.

"How did you get a hold of this place? Isn't it for sale?"

"We bought it. We're about to redo everything -- get a liquor license, fix the bar, add food. In a few months."

"That's amazing! And what about the old owner? Do you know why he had to sell?"

"He's crazy. Old guy. He just closed the doors one day. The place was doing great, and he just shut it down."

"Wow."

He told us about upcoming events and I gave him my email.

Gained: Tango con mi tanguero. And, satisfied an old curiosity!

Little white house with the blue garage

December 5. Day 158.

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!

Asked: for a flexible move-in date.

Gained: a flexible move-in date.

YAAAY!

Application fee -- refund guarantee?

December 4. Day 157.

Not sure if this is good or bad: After months of scanning Craigslist, looking for an apartment for myself and then, gradually, for something Mr. A and I could share, I found it.

A vintage Spanish style house, two bedrooms, dining room, hardwood floors, built in bookcases and cabinets, lots of windows, coved ceilings, garage, awesome neighborhood, and a small wrap-around yard where the owner -- who just happens to be an NPR correspondent whose work I so admire! -- used to plant tomatoes (before covering the presidential election). For a reasonable price!!

Couldn't dream up something better.

Well, I just checked Craigslist moments ago, so I could include a picture here, and the posting was removed. Does that mean it's been rented? To us? To someone else? ARGH, the uncertainty!!

Not one, but two askings worked their way into this particular house hunt.

1) I stopped by the open house on Wednesday afternoon and instantly liked it. But Mr. A was at work, and I couldn't decide unilaterally. That evening, we stopped by the house again to look at the neighborhood and show him at least the outside, and the lights were on. It was a no-brainer. I knocked and asked for a second tour. Mr. A also loved the place. Score!

2) The next day (which brings us to December 4), on my way to drop off the application, I called the management company to make sure the property wasn't rented. I didn't want to pay the application fee for nothing.

No answer.

Called again in an hour, no answer.

I drove to the manager's office, but he wasn't there. So, I left the application, with the cash, but included a note that said something to the effect of, "Hi, here is the application. I tried reaching you to ask if it's already been rented as of this morning. If not, great. If so, I trust you'll return the application fee to this address: xxxxx. Your smitten househunter, La Roxy"

I also talked to the property manager's partner and the receptionist, to get verbal guarantees and a receipt for the application fee that states, in all-caps undeniable ink, "REFUND IF PROPERTY RENTED AT NOON."

Taking care of business.

Gained: A verbal and written promise of a refund, if applicable. A refund I really hope I don't need!! Fingers crossed...

Ciao, Hawaii!!!

December 3. Day 156.

Triple amazing news:

My cousin is coming to visit from Italy for three weeks in January. We're going to Hawaii. And I found a super-mega good deal on Expedia!!!!

This cousin can only be dubbed La Divina because she truly is glamor incarnate, a veritable 21st century Monica Vitti, tousled hair and all. She lives in Milano, and when I used to visit her in the summers of high school and college, we rocked the club scene and regularly woke up in time for dinner.

Before I booked the package, I called the Sheraton to try to weasel out some sort of extra-special deal. I explained that I'm coming to Kauai for the first time and selecting between several hotels. Theirs looks lovely, but I'm still looking at a few options. Is there any chance they'd be willing to throw in a free car rental, to help seal the deal?

"We do have a free car option! What nights would you be coming? I can make the reservation right now. That rate comes out to... let me see... $368."

Cough. I explained that I'm going to book it through Expedia, and she replied that the car promo doesn't work with any other reservation but theirs.

Next, I tried for a luau.

"Perhaps you can offer a free luau? It's just there are so many hotels to choose from, and I'd really love to attend a luau."

By now, after 150+ days of asking, I really am shameless. Not terribly successful, it seems, but at least the anxiety of asking has long subsided.

She friendly-ly declined, but said they'll do everything they can to make my stay as nice as possible.

I didn't wait much after I hung up to reserve the package. Five nights, including air, at the Sheraton Kauai, which has a poolside bar -- crucial! $750. 24 hour sale. Couldn't pass that up, luau be damned.

Gained: Nothing. But, I will definitely see if I can score some deals once I'm there, and stretch these grad student dollars...

From solo tango -- to solo tango?

December 2. Day 155.

One Tuesday night in June a few years ago, at the UCSD campus, I was holding a man tight and gliding across the room. And feeling, as usual, utterly indifferent toward him. It was tango -- just tango, an incredible dance, an enchanting way to pass an evening, but far less dramatic or seductive than it seemed in the movies.

The music stopped and I walked back to the side of the room, when from the middle of the dance floor an unfamiliar face walked up and asked:

"Would you like to dance?"

I said yes, and for the rest of the night we talked as much as we danced. I couldn't stop smiling.

And here I am, writing these words on his computer, in his apartment, as he sleeps in the next room.

Tango, you see, is it for Mr. A and me. It is our beginning, our metaphor, our game, our regular date night, our promise to one another. We've danced tango to Texas two-step when we didn't know those moves, and to "Brown Eyed Girl" when it was too hard not to. When I visited Buenos Aires last spring and danced with stranger after stranger, I wished every cheek I grazed were his.

You need to know this, gentle reader, to understand that what I asked him last night was not easy. For either of us.

Mr. A has been working insane hours lately. I know that's normal in his industry, and I know he's doing it with a clear goal in mind, yet I can't help but wish things were different. I waver between wanting to help somehow, or at least encourage him to stay healthy and enjoy life a little -- and somehow respecting his decision to prioritize work over sleep and food, let alone fun.

For the past months we've kept saying we'd go to tango. But: he was at work, or finally asleep. I wanted to carve out an evening, not an hour. So on.

We started making plans, again, and then I asked, tentatively: "How would you feel if I went to tango by myself sometimes or with other friends?"

His answer -- ''Sad" -- made me sad. But he continued to say that of course I should go, and of course he should make time to go together. Of course I don't normally ask his permission to do activities, go out, see people on my own. But tango is different. Going without him, in San Diego, seems like a betrayal.

I've been wondering, since seeing Mr. A's schedule lately and realizing I'll look for a job soon, What's a couple to do. Reading tips about scheduled sex and weekly date nights and taking 10 minutes every day to chat makes me want to scream. But being two separate and insanely busy people with separate and insanely busy careers is exactly where we're headed.

So what to do? Build individual interests? Keep busy and stimulated, but always make time together a priority? And are some things -- tango -- sacred?

My questions are old, banal, uninteresting. They've been asked, and answered, in so many different ways. Yet I'm not satisfied.

What will we do?

(ps: Writing this two days later, I still haven't gone; nor have we...)

Stop locking my phone?

December 1. Day 154.

Standing in line at (you got it) a cafe, I reached for my cell phone to make a call and noticed the keypad was locked. This could only mean one thing.

Mr. A was glancing the menu on the wall in front of us, looking forward to an iced coffee, or maybe a smoothie. Blissful. Still.

"Hey, could you not lock my phone?" I asked.

"No."

"I'm asking."

"I'm refusing."

"Please. It's really annoying when I have to unlock it. I don't change your phone's settings."

"Locking it is not a setting."

"Yes it is."

"Not blocking your cell phone is not a mental priority for me."

"I won't lend you my phone anymore."

"Fine. Next time I forget my phone we'll turn around and get it. Even if we're an hour away."

"Not if I'm driving."

"OCD."

"I'm not OCD."

"OCD."

Gained: A racing heartbeat and flushed cheeks, but not for the reasons I wish.

PS: A few moments before this exchange, the customer before me asked the barista, "Is your medium here a large or a small?" Crazy, crazy times.