217 - And Then There Was One…
THE END WAS NIGH.
We both felt it.
After Victoria Falls, Leslie and I returned to Kasane (Botswana), loitering two nights in the lap of luxury at an upmarket hotel. It was sublime… but we knew what was coming…
We flew back to Maun, fired up Sparky, and returned to Johannesburg.
And still, we knew it was coming…
In Johannesburg, we stayed close to the airport for expediency’s sake. We spent a few days tying up loose ends, to include giving Sparky a bath and buying plane tickets.
The end grew closer…
At the car wash, the owner struck up a conversation dripping with racism. They’ve overrun the country. We used to play in the streets as kids until they took over. You can't trust any of them. In lieu of getting murdered, she and her family were going to Botswana. Alrighty.
We’d just met this fucking woman. I can’t explain why she felt comfortable bearing her racist soul to strangers, other than to assume the sentiments were so widespread, it never occurred to her we might find them offensive. This wasn’t the first instance of such behavior. I guess people have no problem sharing when we’re all on the same “team.”
The end closed in…
We left most of our gear at the bed & breakfast in hopes someone would find a use for it (dinnerware, cooler, gas stove, etc.). That someone was super excited or super irritated by the impromptu fire sale. We packed up Sparky for the last time and headed to the Avis airport office for what we thought would be a struggle of epic proportions. Over two months, we'd involved three separate Avis offices in our shenanigans and switched vehicles in the process. Too much paperwork. Too many employees involved. Too much confusion. And since we'd exceeded our allowable kilometers, we prepared to take it right in the stinker. To our surprise, the return went smoothly. We did have overages, but the Avis rep was courteous, competent, and reasonable. She even waived a few charges in light of our constant struggle during the journey. Ahhhh… so refreshing.
Parting wasn’t sweet sorrow. It was just sorrow. Leslie decided to return home. Her mother’s illness factored into it, but it was far from the whole truth. She had become “quite fond of me” over the preceding months, which was her roundabout way of confessing her love. She needed to know I felt the same, or it was time to protect herself.
I was less than forthcoming, to put it mildly. Much to my shame, I was something of a closed book. I didn’t mean to be, but years of repressed emotions ossified my ability to be open and honest. So, I said very little. If that wasn’t bad enough, we never had the chance to say a proper goodbye. We kept putting it off, saving it for the last possible moment. That moment was to be in Dubai, where we both were to catch connecting flights—she back to the US, me to Turkey.
It was not to be. Leslie confused Dubai (where I was headed) with Abu Dhabi (where she was headed). She realized it on the plane, but my revelation came at the airport in Dubai. No words can describe the abject hollowness I felt upon learning the truth, though Leslie does an excellent job of capturing her emptiness in a blog post (see below).
I wanted her to stay, though I never told her how much. She was going home to check on her mother, and I didn’t want her to feel guilty. Still, if I could’ve said goodbye, I believe she would’ve understood, on some level, her effect on my life. A simple oversight robbed us of our tearful farewell, something that haunts me to this day.
This was not the end, of course. I returned home two months later. We’d kept in touch and continued to do so… for a time. A reckoning was at hand. Time for me to do one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done—answer the unasked question.
I loved Leslie, but not how she needed me to, not how she deserved to be loved, not the way she loved me. This tore us both apart. Still, we agreed to remain friends always. Five months after returning home, I flew to Portland for a visit. It didn’t go well. I blame myself. I’ve always blamed myself.
I hurt her, and it was a deep hurt. I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t cruel, but I can’t deny the damage I’d wrought, not just to her, but to myself. We parted friends in Portland, but the chasm between us grew. This, too, was my fault.
I’d come to believe she was never in love with me. Not really. How could she be? How could I be worthy of so much love? I knew with time she’d see this. I knew with time she’d see me as a feckless Don Quixote type without all the romantic undertones.
How could I not love this woman the way she deserved to be loved? We had everything in common. We never grew tired of one another, not even for a minute, which was remarkable considering we were inseparable for six months. We spoke for hours on a wide variety of subjects, and I told her things I’ve told no one else. She, likewise, shared highly personal details of her life. Leslie is one of the best people I’ve ever known, if not the best. Only someone broken, or perhaps defective, could fail to fall completely in love with her.
Our correspondences grew more erratic over the years. This, again, was my fault. I knew she’d give up. She had to. It was the only logical course. She would move on. She would find someone special and forget about me, or at least relegate my memory to a secondary archive.
Leslie thought she understood—my behavior stemmed from a misguided chivalrous belief that I was protecting “poor Leslie” from her own feelings. I can’t deny there was an element of truth to this, but it wasn’t the full story.
My feelings evolved. In the ensuing years, I experienced deep regrets and emotions that often threatened to overwhelm me in an instant. I wasn’t afraid she still had feelings for me, that she still needed me. I was afraid she didn’t, and I couldn’t bear the truth.
I’d fallen down an abandoned well of despair, one I believed I’d never escape. I didn’t want to see Leslie again. I needed to see her again. My life came to a standstill, an existential limbo. I thought of her life. What are you doing right now? Who are you doing it with? Do you ever think of me? Of us? Do you still have a warm place in your heart for our time together? Such thoughts could and would send me into a downward spiral that took days to recover from.
Yes, we kept in touch, but my e-mail responses were tepid at best and dismissive at worst. Many e-mails went unanswered, especially ones related to upcoming trips abroad that I desperately wanted to accompany her on. She interpreted all this as disinterest, and understandably so. But this was anything but reality.
How could I tell her how much I missed her? How could I tell her I’d made a terrible mistake? How could I dump years of pent-up anguish in her lap when I’d been such a shitty friend? How was this not patently unfair?
And so, I retreated farther into myself.
In 2018, she sent an e-mail to which I replied, something I hadn’t done for some time. In a twist of digital fate, she never received it and assumed I’d blown her off once again. When I didn’t receive a response, I knew it was the end.
Or so it seemed…
Five years passed with no word. In that time, I’d fantasized of a reunion, one with me showing up unannounced in Portland, at a coffee shop perhaps, in a desperate hope that she’d be overjoyed. In this fantasy, I’d turned things around and was now deserving of her love. This vision brought tears to my eyes, but my longing wasn’t enough for me to reach out. I felt inadequate and couldn’t burden her with my loneliness and despair.
But then, there it was—a message in my inbox. And I knew. I knew I could fight it no longer. I couldn’t stop myself from responding, even if I still believed it was better for her, and probably me, in the long run. She never gave up. She never vanquished me to the trash bin of her personal history when she had every right to do so.
“It's hard to believe that tomorrow marks thirteen years since I boarded that plane to Istanbul. Time passes — speeds up, really — and yet the memories are clearer than those that came before and after. I'll be out for a run, sitting in traffic, or in a crowded room, and I'll suddenly travel back in time. My body still clearly in the present, but the rest of me elsewhere; equal parts euphoria and melancholy, if that even makes sense.
It would make me so happy to know how you are — to see your face and catch up with my dear old friend. If you have time for a Zoom call soon, nothing would make me happier.”
- Leslie
She never expected me to respond, and who could blame her?
I was unprepared for the emotional tsunami that hit after our first conversation. I knew my feelings had expanded far beyond where we left each other in South Africa, but couldn’t comprehend the full impact her absence had on me. I was debilitated by the tremendous joy and heart-wrenching regret struggling for real estate inside my heart. It was brutal, but I’m incredibly grateful for her perseverance, understanding, and compassion. She is still the Leslie I knew, only more so.
I don’t know where this story ends. Feelings have eclipsed expectations, and I fear I’m losing control. I long for the day we can be reunited, when I look into those eyes and say all the things that need to be said. I only pray it’s not too late…
This started as a travel journal in September of 2010, when I said goodbye to my friends and family, and boarded a plane headed for Istanbul, Turkey. With a one-way ticket, backpack filled to the brim, and a head full of ideas, I welcomed my twenty-sixth year, alone.
I didn’t know where I would go, who I would meet, or how long I would stay away. The only thing I was certain of is that this chapter would be about me – a first, I might add.
My journey took me to Turkey, Tunisia, Morocco, Mauritania, Mali, South Africa, Namibia, Botswana, and a quick stop in Zambia. I traveled by plane, train, bus, ferry, and car. I watched the sun rise and set amid dunes, atop mountains, across oceans, and just about everywhere in between. The stars had never shined so bright, and I had never been so happy. For a while, I felt calm and content, as one day faded into the next.
For six and a half months I wandered, roamed, and drifted about aimlessly. New experiences led to new feelings, which led to new questions.
Somewhere in the midst of it all, I met Rich, who quickly became my home away from home. While together, he was my friend, family, and confidant. Looking back, I’m still amazed at how seamlessly our lives became entwined. I’m a person who values space, yet rarely did I feel the need for it while in his presence. Some of my most cherished moments are simply the two of us talking, laughing, and staring off into oblivion.
My time away was far from a “vacation” in the conventional sense, but then again, true travel never really is. It was challenging, often tiring, but all together lovely. Not a day goes by that I don’t feel blessed for having had the opportunity to see and experience so much.
As one might imagine, closing this chapter wasn’t an easy decision, but in the end, something inside let me know that it had run its course – that even though I didn’t want to return, I needed to. I wrestled with it then, just as I do now. Sure, I missed home, but not the one that awaited me. I wanted so desperately to stay suspended in that moment, tied to those feelings, with everyone else at arm’s length. After all, there are many ways to build walls; only the most obvious tower above you.
Making my way home meant crossing Botswana, and returning to Johannesburg. The last few days were some of the longest, as I tried to make sense of what was and what wasn’t. While I prepared to return to Portland, Rich was busy making plans to depart for Istanbul. In some ways, it seemed fitting that he would end his trip where mine began.
With our bags packed and tickets in hand, we sat in the terminal, side by side, as we waited for our flights to board. We were both relatively quiet that morning, as we exchanged glances and thoughts about the many months and experiences we had just shared with one another. I tried to stay present, not let my mind run away with my heart, as it often does, but in many ways it was too late, and far beyond my control.
We had coordinated our flights, so that we would depart within minutes of each other and share a layover in Dubai, before catching our connecting flights in opposite directions. As they announced the final boarding call for his flight, we made our way to the gate and said our preliminary goodbyes, knowing that we would see each other again in a matter of hours, just a continent away.
Shortly after, it was my turn. While sitting there aboard Emirates flight 762, I glanced at the small screen on the back of the seat in front of me. I watched as the miniature plane made its way North, and as my eyes followed the red line plotting its course, I could feel my heart plunge to the pit of my stomach. My flight was no longer headed to Dubai; instead, it was landing just 75 miles away, in Abu Dhabi.
Minutes might as well have been hours, as I sat there quietly, unable to move. I waited and watched, hoping for change – hoping for a mistake – hoping for anything, but hope can only carry you so far. I didn’t have the chance to truly say goodbye. I didn’t have the chance to thank him for one of the best friendships that I’ll ever know. And in that moment, I realized just how much I’ll miss him – miss this.
In many ways, I’m still waiting… only now, I’m not sure what for.
Leslie Peralta, “All Good Things Must Come To An End, March 2011” — Soledad: Notes From My Travels