In My Solitude

God, but life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shrill tinsel gaiety of “parties” with no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear. And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter – they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long. Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship – but the loneliness of the soul in its appalling self-consciousness is horrible and overpowering.

― Sylvia Plath
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

It’s surprising, the extent to which my life is still ruled by the desire to have someone to sit next to at lunch. I often exist just along the edge of social groups, which is to say, I have the comfort of being welcome at any lunch table, but still, there is no one in particular who saves me a seat. As much as I love the freedom that being an outsider grants me, it gets really lonely sometimes. I have always longed for someone who really gets me and sticks around anyway.

It was sort of inevitable that I should become a writer. I want to share, to be understood, to connect, but I also need to wander off alone periodically to sort myself out. I need to write to make my thoughts stay where I can find them again later. It’s been my general observation that writers need some solitude.

One of my favorite things about my relationship with the Work Bestie is that this never bothered him. He needs solitude too. Maybe he’s not mulling over word choice, writing and rewriting passages in his head, wondering if he said that already. Still, it’s just as much a part of his peace of mind and we respect each other’s alone time as critical to mental health instead of being all butthurt by the other’s wish to not be attached at the hip 24/7.

I think our solitary natures make it that much more precious when we do choose to spend time together. Whether in romance or friendship, I love going separate ways, coming back together and telling each other all about what we discovered out on our own. It’s all about finding the right balance of time spent apart gathering stories and time spent together sharing them.

The Work Bestie had come to visit me the last weekend of May, right before my departure. It was a chance for us to reconnect and for me to wish him a happy birthday, a couple of days early, but in person. Originally, the plan was for me to fly to San Diego, maybe spend a few days with him there and then fly from San Diego to Portugal, but it turned out that SFO had much better flights to my destination, and there was not enough time between finals and my flight to reasonably fly to San Diego and back. So the Work Bestie flew up to see me, instead.

On my transatlantic flight, I made a promise to myself that I would write him a mountain of love letters. Not quick, flirty texts, not needy emails sent in rambling first drafts, but honest to goodness hand-written letters, with ALL the Portuguese stamps. I wanted to write him the kind of love letters that end up on display in museums to make future generations blush and daydream.

It was always easier to write about wanting him than about loving him. Lust is easy. Women can get sex like it’s tap water. It’s basically free anytime we want it, but that’s just quantity not quality. If one fool doesn’t want my lust, that’s okay, there are plenty of others who do. That rejection doesn’t really hurt.

Love is trickier. That makes it hard for me to find a person I want. If I don’t feel love I can’t really access my lust. Romantic love is scary, though. Partnership is hard work, and worse than that, it’s vulnerable. Putting your most tender, sacred self out there, exposed, defenseless. Rejectable. It’s terrifying. Trusting someone enough to love them in a way that I can lust for them is really difficult. So when I find someone I love, and they love me back, that miracle ought to be celebrated. I arrived in Portugal determined to write the most lovingest love letters ever written.

Somehow two weeks slipped by so quickly. I’d tried to find stationary, but the Loja Chinesa (translates literally as Chinese store, they’re like dollar stores) had small sheaths meant for little girls. I was not going to write epic love letters, that could redefine romance for generations to come, on pink Hello Kitty stationary, or lined notebook paper. Nope. That would never do. I was low-key looking out for good stationary and a post office but I was also busy, exploring the Azores, going to class, doing my homework, and doing my job back in California. Two weeks and not a single letter had been written.

It had only been two weeks, but quarantined in my room, I missed him like I hadn’t seen him in For… Ev… Er. Long-distance was a terrible thing to do to a relationship, and it was made so much worse by different time zones. To quote Honoré de Balzac, “Solitude is fine but you need someone to tell that solitude is fine.” It seemed like we’d gotten out of sync so abruptly.

Fortunately, I am the queen of silver linings. We didn’t have as many phone calls as I’d hoped for, but summer is a busy time of year at his work. So what if all of my classmates were off having fun without me. I became determined that I would come back to all of the beauty and adventure of São Miguel. Only the next time, I would be here with the Work Bestie.

The esperança plaque on the convent wall
Dolphins!
The view at the Gorreana Tea Plantation
Iconic Azorean hydrangeas.
Pineapple babies grow like thought bubble clones above their parents
For my Renaissance Faire family at Casa de Fruta, I give you this sign at Casa da Fruta.
There’s something strangely familiar about this museum exhibit (says the woman who works surrounded by domes)
My backyard was tiny, but it still managed a nice view
So many beautiful things just living their best lives in random places
Basalt details are ubiquitous in Ponta Delgada, but always striking.
Speaking of beautiful ways to use basalt
I’m honestly a little obsessed with Portuguese sidewalks
I love the hill at the end of the road
Each story seems to have a different character
I have a weird fascination with peeling paint and architectural decay
This building was surely grand in its day, I still find it beautiful
Romantic street art juxtaposed with a building in disrepair gives me joy
In Ponta Delgada we swim with the fishies

There were museums, and gardens, and all the field trips I was missing. I was sure I could get a list of recommendations from the professor to make up at least some of that. The Work Bestie would be able to experience the music, the food, and the people for himself. We could geek out on the geothermal electricity generation and all the other measures that make the Azores a certified Sustainable Destination.

I had a great landlord in my short term rental. Of course, the Work Bestie and I wouldn’t need two bedrooms, but maybe the landlord had something smaller that was just as well-located. I think the Work Bestie would like a day trip to the pineapple plantation with its cool aquaponic-esque irrigation, and maybe he could be talked into visiting the tea plantation, too.

Did you know that the English court got the tea drinking habit from a Portuguese princess? It’s a whole thing. Being inclined to enjoy a cup of afternoon tea myself, I loved everything about our tea plantation visit, the view, the aroma, and especially the friendly cat. I don’t have any pictures of the cat, because it let me pet it and that occupied both of my hands until the group had to move on.

The Work Bestie doesn’t really drink tea or coffee, but I’m still like 90 percent certain he’s human despite this glitch. And, he’s always been one of my plant nerd friends and I love geeking out about plants and agriculture and stuff. So the tea part wouldn’t excite him, but maybe the plant part would.

We could do a whale watch, though it would almost certainly not be the same. Our professor said that in all the years she’d been doing this program she’d never had a better whale watch. Almost every moment we were out, there was something to see, whales and dolphins and Portuguese man o’ war jellyfish, oh my. Also, though, she’d never had a worse whale watch. So many people were sea sick on what I’m guessing were rougher than usual seas. No, it probably wouldn’t be the same, but I think even in a worst case scenario you still get to see the ocean and the islands and that’s all beautiful, too.

The giddy excitement of planning this someday trip kept me from succumbing completely to the ambient depression and FOMO (Fear of Missing Out) inherent to my quarantine. I loved the idea of spending a weekend with my man in Furnas, make that a long weekend so we could spend extra time just holed up in our hotel room together. Maybe getting stuck in my room with Covid was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. It would be so worth it when we returned for our romantic getaway. Sharing the Azores with him in person would be even better than just telling it to him over the phone.

In the meantime, the rest of my group was starting to test positive for Covid, too. Another girl tested positive on the same day as me, and it seemed like one or more students were testing positive every day after. This was a nightmare in the hostels. Students who were positive had to be moved out of rooms that were shared with people who weren’t but those designations were changing every day. And the beds weren’t always adding up, so sick people ended up sleeping on the floor on at least one occasion.

Even with the Covid shuffle constantly moving people between bedrooms that were positive or negative, there were still bathrooms and kitchenettes that had to be shared regardless of status. Not every guest in either hostel was with our program either, and so the game of musical beds was being played with some cloak and dagger level secrecy, besides. My roommate, ended up back in my room with me, though our other Golden Girl stayed uninfected in her own room.

Shortly after my roommate tested positive, my quarantine ended. So, I had to move to our living room couch, where my roommate had been when she was negative and I was positive, because now she was positive and I was negative. This involved cleaning everything I took out of the room. I brushed my teeth one last time in the little quarter-bath attached to our bedroom before throwing out that toothbrush (and buying a new one at Continente, a Portuguese supermarket, later that day). I did my best to immediately clean everything I did take it out of our sick room. I wiped down the cover of every book, but not the pages. It was an imperfect system.

The whole process was exhausting, but when it was over I finally got to shower. Eight days is a long time to go using only baby wipes to clean my body. I will forever be grateful for that long, steamy, post-Covid shower and all of its sudsy glory. For that moment I felt like all of my quarantine blues were being washed down the drain and all I had left was my daydreams about returning to the Azores together, without Covid.