A Long And Winding Road

One summer, when I was about eight years old, I rode up to the top of some mountain in Vermont with my mother, older sister and grandmother. We were in one of those floating hangy dangy cable car things. I remember watching my funny, charming, musical, British grandmother, probably in her lucky four-leaf clover dress and definitely in her sling-back, open-toe heels, sitting on the floor of that hangy dangy thing, terrorized. I don't remember if I was scared too, but I DO remember my sister getting "lost" up there on that mountain and me and my mother trotting along 4-inch wide "expert ski trails," peering over the edge for her remains. That kinda freaked me out.

That same sister, after we moved to safe, mostly flat Scottsdale, Arizona, decided to scare me on a family trip up to the Mogollon Rim, by pretending to trip over the edge of a massive cliff and just at the last moment, grabbing a tree branch to stop her from plunging to her death. This is the same sister who used to secretly put her finger in her mouth and then come up to me and shove it under my nose and say, "Smell. I just pulled this out of my butt."

And I love her still.

I also know that my grandmother once got down on the floor of my parents' car and cried from fear as they drove across some big-ass suspension bridge.

I guess what I'm doing here is trying to prove that my fear of heights is a genetic thing, rather than me just being a neurotic, well I guess I just have to say it, pussy.

But, I used to fly airplanes. (Pussy, NOT!) I took lessons on a dare from my drug-smuggler boyfriend who said I wasn't smart enough to learn how to fly. I soloed when I was 21 years old. After dumping me for a 17-year-old, the boyfriend did a few hundred years in the slammer (now... who was the dumb one again?), got out because they were sick of him suing them and winning and he's now living peacefully with his adorable girlfriend (I'm afraid to ask how old she is, but I wish them both the best). His wonderful son, who was a teenager when I was his Dad's teenage girlfriend, and who now specializes in drug addiction (irony of ironies), is my friend on Facebook. I like how things work out.

There was another boyfriend, back in the day, whom I convinced to stop working 24 hours a day and take a little weekend jaunt with me. "Where shall we go?" I asked, all rosy cheeked. "I know a back road up to Prescott that you would love. It's beautiful." He said, knowing that if we went to Prescott, he could combine work with pretending to enjoy a weekend with me. "Cool!" I said, already imagining a cold beer at the Palace Bar on Whiskey Row. As he pulled off of I-17 onto a dirt road, I got excited to be out in the wild. But then he kept driving closer to the mountains and I realized Prescott was UP and this was a DIRT ROAD. So I asked, casually, "There aren't any scary cliff roads, are there?" "Oh nooooo. It's not scary at all. It's beautiful." He had to stop three times so I could get out and sit on a rock and cry and vomit and hyperventilate. I don't like how that one worked out.

A few years back, I'd say around 1997, I developed a terrible fear of flying. But only on commercial jets. If I was in a private jet, no problem. I guess I thought that a) I could see what the pilot was doing and b) there's a shitload more you can do in an emergency with a small jet than what you can do with a huge airliner. Unless, of course, you're Sully.

So, I white-knuckled it through all the plane travel I had to do for my corporate jobs, but I was miserable. When I worked for The Gay Guy to launch his skin care line (ZIRH), in addition to managing the company in roller blades and short shorts, he flew us everywhere on private jets (What a relief!) and had us transported only in limos. He had money to burn. I remember saying to him, "Why do you pay for all these private jet flights? You should just own a corporate jet." And he said, "Yeah! And maybe I can get a corporate horse, too!" He was a funny guy.

He also used to give me a Valium if we had to - horrors - fly commercial. I'll always be grateful for that. I would go into total not-caring. "Oh look! We're plummeting towards Earth! Weeeee!" It's why, when my neighbor G took me to her doctor recently because my coughing was keeping her awake (even though she's two floors down), when the doctor asked G if I needed anything else, G said, "Well, she does have a lot of anxiety." and I said, in English, "Yes. A Valium drip would be perfect." The French doc laughed out loud. I was only kind of joking. Only kind of.

So...I went to Greece this past week. (I know this seems unrelated, but I'll pull it all together soon.) G was there already, so me and my friend Lana decided to go see G in her natural habitat. That would be sunny Greek beaches versus cold Parisian streets and musty formerly-smoke-filled cafes. G's a Greek American who's lived in Paris for 20 years. She has 87 passports. She's awesome. And her Dad has a big house on the beach in Greece. I imagined myself sitting in one of those Greek restaurants on the beach, eating fresh cucumber and tomato salad and moussaka and drinking wine that tastes like my sister's finger. Heaven. I did not imagine myself doing any mountain climbing. Silly me.

We were on the island of Kea. This isn't the island where G's dad has a house. It was just an island she had never been to and so, she decided to take us there first, along with three of her friends from Athens (G always travels in a pack). Our first day was fun - traveling to the island after landing in Athens, taking the ferry boat, searching for a hotel for 7 of us and then having our first dinner. But the next day, everyone (but me) had the need to find a more "remote" beach, one where there were NO people versus the FIVE people who were on the beach right outside of our hotel rooms. (I know.) Maps were opened and much discussion ensued. We'd first take this road and then that road and then after a few hours of swimming and sunning, we'd go to the old town for lunch and then back to our hotel on this different road. OK, fine. I didn't pay much attention. I just put on my bathing suit (with my eyes closed) and gathered up my SPF 972 and was ready to go.

Well.

I decided to ride in the smaller car, with one of G's elementary school friends and her 12-year-old daughter. G, her 3-year-old, Lana and Irene were in G's Jeep ahead of us. There was a constant stream of bubble-gum pop music on the car radio, with the driver singing along and chatting, but my eyes soon became glued to the road ahead of us. It was paved, but it was going up and up and up. "Oh! Look at that!" my driver exclaimed. Silence from me. I finally choked out, "I'm really afraid of heights so pardon me if I don't speak." That made her chat even MORE. Then she and her daughter got into some sort of argument, which convinced me that at some point, she'd turn around to yell at her daughter and we'd be flying through the ouzo-misted air. I said, "Can you guys not fight so you can concentrate on driving?" I think she knew I was serious then. It might have also been all that gasping for air that I was doing. But she got real quiet all of a sudden.

G pulled off of the paved road and onto a dirt road and stopped. We pulled in behind her. G said later that she doesn't know why she stopped. She just did. I flew out of the car and burst into tears. My hands were shaking so much, I think I lost weight in my arms. I was completely, babblingly hysterical. Everybody was super, super kind. We discussed solutions. I told G that I almost passed out twice during the first half of the ride, so maybe if I get back in and we start driving again, I could pass out and all would be well. She said, "Either that, or we can hit you over the head." Hehe.

Finally, I decided to WALK. Yep. Me. Walk. The one who gets winded walking a half block to the Franprix to get my groceries. I had a choice - walk back the way we came (12 Kilometers - 7 Miles) or down the dirt road to the beach (5 Kilometers - 3 Miles). I opted for the beach. Lana hopped out and said she'd walk with me.

Did I tell you I'm so happy I had, by chance, a bottle of water and suntan lotion with me? Well, I did. And I also wore my purple suede Allstars instead of flip flops. I am soooo happy about that too. The two cars rumbled down the narrow cliff road down to the beach, leaving us in their dust. It was so beautiful and peaceful and wonderful out there. Just the silence of nature and the sea waaaaaay down below us. Lana and I had great conversations and took pictures.

I stood at the edge of the cliff road, smelling the spring flowers and staring at a monastery perched on a nearby cliff (pictured at left). I know. This doesn't make sense, but fear is not necessarily a sensible thing. I think it's because when I'm walking, I'm in control. When I'm in a car that somebody else is driving, I'm not.

G dropped everyone off at the beach and came back to get me and Lana. Very kind of her, again. By the time she arrived, we only had one corner left to turn and then one precarious, rocky descent to the beach. I was calmer now and could think straight. I told her that if I drove, we'd have a better chance of getting me down the hill. Lana enjoyed the walk so much, that she decided to continue walking. So I got myself into the driver's seat and with sweaty hands and my back as straight as a board and my thigh muscles on full alert, I started the descent. Holy shit. I was scared to death. But not crying. But then I realized that the Jeep was higher on the right side than the left and that the Jeep and I were leaning in the direction of the cliff on my left. I had to stop and get out. G took over driving as I ran down the road, with my arms waving above my head, for some damn reason. After a little ways, I was able to get back in and she drove me to the beach.

There were seven people on that remote beach. And two fishing boats. And two yachts. I'm just sayin'. The picture at left of the beach was taken by G out of the car window as we were leaving to go to the old town for some lunch.

But it was really beautiful. I jumped right into the sea. I was hot after all that walking. It was deliciously cold and refreshing. Then I sat on the beach and ate special Greek bread that looked like onion rings and were flavored with spinach or wine or cheese.

You can see a satellite view of the beach, which is called Spathi Keas, here.

Of course, we had to leave that beach, so I would be facing my fears again. I tried a little psyche trick that my friend Geri taught me, imagining a pencil drawing a line from me, across the beach, across the water and up the side of the yachts. I tried to reframe my fear from falling off a cliff to being excited about seeing new places and hanging out with my friends. I was hoping that it would work. Otherwise, I would be a mess. We STILL had to drive to the old town, which was the highest point on the island. Lovely.

We were all hungry, so we gathered our stuff and I decided to drive out of there. I was a lot calmer and was hoping my head trick worked. I got into the Jeep and we started up the hill. I don't think I ever moved from my rigor mortis position behind that wheel. My thighs were so tight that the next morning I felt like I had sex the night before and had my legs up in the air for four hours.

But finally, I made it. When I got scared, I slowed down to a crawl and cracked jokes or talked about nothing.

Me: "I love those little decorative boxes along the side of the road. They look like little churches. They have them in Mexico and they're little shrines where people stop to pray."
G and Lana: Dead silence.
G to Lana: "French French French French French..."
Lana: "Haha!" Glances at me guiltily.
Me: "OK, I can understand what you just said. They're death boxes and you don't want to tell me. They put them there when somebody dies on that part of the road."
G: "Um. Yeah."

We made it to the old town at the top of the hill. I got out of the car. I wasn't shaking. I was really proud of myself. We walked up the tiny winding alleys (they don't allow cars in town) and found a wonderful place to eat, outside on the main square, our table against a short wall where we could stare out at the homes on the cliffs and the amazing scenery that stretched for miles and miles. There was a pig turning on the spit inside, but that wouldn't be ready until dinner time, so we ate deep-fried tomato balls (fab-u-luss), feta, salad, pork-stuffed pasta in a thick lemon sauce and a baked pork dish in a dark red tomato sauce. We ordered the wine that the owners of the restaurant made themselves. It was served in a used water bottle and it was delicious. I didn't drink much, but just savored enough to make the meal all the better.

Besides, I had some downhill driving to do.

Puccini, Paquita and Me

I sold my giant villa for 50,000 yesterday, after paying 1,000,000 for it. This would seem to be a terrible loss, if it hadn't been so easy to do online. Just a few clicks and it was gone. One moment I was singing Mimi's part in O Mimì, tu più non torni (from Puccini's La Bohème) from my shady 2nd-floor veranda as I perused my thousands of sheep (black and white and also pink and green with wobbly antennae), horses, cows, bulls (two that I constantly have to separate), goats, rabbits, pigs, chickens, turkeys, swans, ducks, sea gulls, turtle and penguin (just one of each so far)... oh, and I forgot, reindeer. And also, way too many cats.

And the next moment I realized that I just couldn't sustain this lifestyle anymore.

Besides, Mimi dies in the end. Of consumption. And Rodolfo the poet, who abandoned her because he thought she was a whore (or at least that's what he told his friends and her friends and the whole neighborhood), but actually because he knew she was dying, only came back to her out of guilt just before she died.

I'm sorry, but I must interject. I just picked the above opera and song out of the air. Just to add a little context and color for your reading enjoyment. Seriously. I just thought, hmm, I need an opera. OK, Puccini sounds good. I'll go to Wikipedia and get a name of one of his operas. But I end up, by coincidence, with another story of a heroine dieing of consumption. The first story with this very same plot put a mark on my forehead for life: My mother gave me my middle name after she watched the movie Camille in the hospital (read the original Alexandre Dumas story here and weep). Camille died of consumption. She died exactly one day before her lover, Armand, who had abandoned her because she was a whore, showed up to apologize.

Just call me Lisa Camille Mimi Wines. Oh, and Rodolpho and Armand? Fuck them.

Let's just get back to real estate, shall we?

So, I replaced my luxurious Italian villa with a small southwestern adobe bungalow for 50,000. While sweeping the prairie dust from my doorstep, dressed in my home-made coyote-skin dress (made from the exact coyote that His Governorship Rick Perry shot while jogging in Texas), I have now taken to singing Lefty Frizzell's Worried Mind to the rhythmic rat-a-tat-tat of the woodpecker who's sharpening his bug-sucking beak in the dead cactus outside my door.

You promised me love that would never die.
That promise you made, was only a lie.
Now after you've gone, all alone I pine.
For all that I've got, is a worried mind.

On certain mornings, while a southerly wind rattles my nopalitos, I can be heard singing Rata de dos patas ("Two-legged rat") by Paquita la del Barrio as I slap tortilla dough within a 16th of an inch of his its life. In between crushing hot red chilis in my bare hands, I turn to my pet pack rat and say,

"¿Me estás oyendo, inútil?" ("Are you listening to me, you good-for-nothing?")

Of course, I'm not pining, nor bitter about any one man (just all of them). Really. These were just the first two Mexi-ranchera-old-west songs I found in my iTunes. Swear.

All my animals are still around (they promise nothing, but give much), since I need the income I derive from collecting their eggs, feathers, milk, truffles and er, hair. The penguin gives me a regular supply of ice cubes, for which I am most grateful in my new desert home. Now, if I could just get a few more blankies and baby bottles, I might be able to finish building that fucking nursery barn so I can safely store all my colts. I think they're getting cold.

Sigh. I wish real estate and sustenance were as simple to gain and dispose of as they are in FarmVille. And although my male FarmVille neighbors can come and, er, fertilize my crops, they aren't allowed to stay. This, as Martha Stewart says, is a very good thing.

Last week, in "real" life, while drifting along the beach with my gal pals, drinking natural wine, eating Crêpe à l'andouillette and looking for men with fat fingers, I successfully avoided making a decision about my little adobe-style home in Arizona. But, upon my return, I had no choice but to face the music. Other than a few months with my friend Kelsie staying there, the house has been empty for more than three years and I've been paying $2000 a month to sustain it. That's in addition to my expenses here in Paris. Meanwhile, from a high value of $350K, it's descended to a low of about $220K, leaving me upside down by about $50-60K.

And the market isn't going to change for at least 5-10 years. By then, I will have plowed through all of my savings (along with thirty trillion hectares in FarmVille) and probably lose the house anyway.

Last summer, when I was in Arizona, my heart broke as I walked into my little home. Kelsie went out to buy some food for our dinner and I sat in the living room and cried. It wasn't that I wanted to live there again. Nor was it Kelsie's decorating skills (as she probably imagined). It was what the house represented to me. It was my quiet oasis where I could be alone and safe, surrounded by the colorful art and furniture I had collected from dumpsters all over the world. The doves cooing every morning on my back patio. The desert and its animals just a short walk down the street. I cooked and entertained there. I read books and had sex there (not at the same time, although, that might have been more interesting).

This last week, after selling my virtual FarmVille villa at a loss and buying a new adobe bungalow and decorating it with faux cactus, I called the real bank and stopped the automatic payments for my mortgage and home equity line of credit. I'm in the process of filling out the paperwork to have my real estate agent begin the short sale process and negotiate with the bank. If she can't sell it quickly, I will be in default and have to foreclose. I've never walked away from a debt, ever. It sickens me to do it now. All I can hang on to are the kind words of my realtor, when she wrote to console me, "Lisa, this is not your fault."

I hope I can convince myself of this. Otherwise, I'll just have to blame it on Rodolfo and Armand.