#006 - Unexpect the expected
I’m writing this on a flight back to L.A.—which is great because I want to get home, but sucks because I was forced to experience an airport.1
Actually, if I’m being honest, even that wasn’t so bad. We flew in and out of Miami International, which doubles as an airport and a hell mouth; it was a breeze in both directions. I still don’t fully understand this, but this confusion perfectly bookended the trip. The experience of visiting my ancestral home was a net-positive—not a mathematical impossibility, but a phenomenon as rare as the Transit of Venus. Even the weather cooperated. There were a few rainstorms. They were fairly brief and quite soothing.
Given the head space I’ve been in the last few weeks about this place, this has completely thrown me off. Was I actually enjoying all this?
When we arrived, the jetlag hit hard. I stayed up till around 4am reading in what used to be my room. Even with the space completely remodeled and bearing no familiar furnishings, I still found my erstwhile Fortress of Solitude comforting. Most of my youth was spent engaging in that same activity in that very room, often at that hour.
I considered digging through the closet to see if any of my things were still there after 22 years of abandonment.
A few months ago, my sister posted a picture of a daily planner I maintained at some point in middle school with “Contact Attempt #1” listed alongside a note to watch the new X-Files episode. Figuring out who the hell I was attempting to contact has haunted me for weeks, and I was hoping access to the rest of that planner would shed more light on the question.
My best three guesses were: a girl I may have liked…
…actually, I was all out of ideas after that.
Two Birthdays and a Wedding
Had this not been a Beguiristain event and the same weekend as my recently retired dad’s birthday, I may have skipped this one. The last couple years of postponed events (read: weddings) finally occurring one after the other, plus all the traveling over the last year has left me financially and emotionally depleted. I’m all wedding’d out, folks.2
At this point, we can take my antipathy toward Miami as read. Please add it to the board as well.
My sense of family is also a little miscalibrated: my mom’s family—who I spent more time with growing up—has been openly fractured since grandpa died over seven years ago. This has left me feeling like “family” and “sleep with one eye open and keep a knife under your pillow” are complimentary concepts. (Which isn’t to suggest I get along with nobody on that end, but the tendrils of that cold war are long and have affected every relationship in different ways.)
But this wedding was a Beguiristain affair. I haven’t really seen my dad’s side of the family since one funeral or another several years ago and, honestly, they have never been anything but good to me. Ever.
And I mean that about all of ‘em, by the way, which is no small feat: my dad’s family is absurdly large. Lest you doubt their Catholic bona fides, pops is the second of nine kids. And those kids had kids, and some of those kids also had kids, and—I might definitely be making this up—but I think some of the kids’ kids had kids, too. (Look, we need more people in the world who know how to spell Beguiristain correctly, and—trust me—simply instructing people and hoping for the best is a fool’s errand.)
Plus, it was my godfather’s eldest getting hitched. So off we went.
And let me tell you: it fucking ruled.
I complain about weddings a lot, but this was the joyous kick in the butt I didn’t realize I desperately needed. I caught up with all my aunts and uncles and cousins—some of whom I’d never really met before—drank as much as my stomach could hold, and lamented those who couldn’t be there. There was a supplemental birthday celebration for my aunt Olga, followed by one for my dad at midnight.
There was nothing but love in that room.
[As a personal rule, I try not to post pics containing young kids in them. I Google image searched for “godfather” and “wedding”. I got something very close to the real thing, so here you go.]
The staff finally kicked us out of the ballroom around 12:30am. Several of us took over the hotel lobby—because an assemblage of Beguiristains cannot be stopped—and continued catching up with each other. My uncle Kevin appeared with glasses of tequila which periodically refilled themselves.
We were this close to locating a bar to keep the party going, but my poor mom—a lifelong teetotaler—passed out.
To be fair, it was 3am.
Nonetheless, my dad, Jen, my mom, and I all continued flapping our gums as soon as we got home, until 5:30am.
What T F is a Wynwood?
At the reception, my cousin Alexa and her husband Rocky recommended we visit Wynwood and the eponymous Wynwood Walls.
The neighborhood is an interesting paradox for me. My maternal grandparents lived in Allapattah—about 1 mile west—where I spent an absurd amount of time. So I’m as familiar with the neighborhood as far as any 0-9 year old could be familiar with anything beyond their solipsistic existence. I haven’t had occasion to spend any time there in the past 32 years. I only have murmurs of “this is a bad neighborhood and we are saving up money to move to the burbs” from my childhood and friends’ Instagram posts to go on.
I gotta tell you: I loved it.
The neighborhood felt vibrant and alive. It was beautiful to see people walking around, spending money, and—god help me—being touristy in this part of town.
Since writing about art is like dancing about architecture (or something like that), I’ll just post a few pics and let you enjoy.
Then we had lunch down the street at a place called La Tiendita. I don’t mean to suggest Miami never had good Mexican cuisine, I just didn’t expect it. I was a very picky child.
Anyway, La Tiendita can go up against the best of ‘em.3
I Want to Believe
On our last day, my mom located the mystery planner for me.
I learned a few things.
I only used this planner for three weeks. 75% of it is empty.
There was a lot of me telling myself to do homework, conclusively proving this planner was a colossal waste.
The date in question was May 13, 1994—the same night the season 1 finale of The X-Files (“The Erlenmeyer Flask”) aired. I would have almost been 12 years old, and hanging out with my cousin Osci at our grandmother’s house, drawing our own comic books.
It is littered with the Cool S, as it was the 90s and it was also the logo for my and Osci’s comic book company. We were, respectively, 11 and 12, so you know we were 100% serious.
Seriously, homework sucks.
There were two other contact attempts—one labeled #2 and another labeled “final”.
Unfortunately, this has only created more questions which—without the aid of age regression therapy or some other Fox Mulder approved pseudoscience—I fear will remain unanswerable. I have run this by my friend Beca as well as Charles and, completely independent of one another, both suggested something of an extraterrestrial nature. Given this occurred the same night we were watching The X-Files, I cannot dismiss this out of hand.
The End
I finally got my Seinfeld-obssessed dad into Curb Your Enthusiasm. This felt noteworthy.
My bud Beca is directing The Queer Theatre Project’s production of Much Ado About Nothing in Boston. I spoke with her over the weekend and she filled me in on the treatment for this particular production. I can’t spill the beans, but it’s going to be a good one. There will be four performances: 5/20 & 5/21 at the Armory, Somerville, and 6/3 & 6/4 at Powderhouse Park, Somerville. Mark your calendars.
I managed to do some reviewing and a even little bit of writing for my novel during my down time while I was there. (Most of it takes place in Miami.) Still toying with this idea, but once I’m done and a trusted circle has given it a critical eye, I may publish it here in serialized form. Not 100% sure on that, but I just put it out there, so hey…
Our interview on Blowing Smoke with Twisted Rico dropped last Thursday. It was fun, and goes pretty deep into our history as a band. Even more fun: Steev was around during the first year of Aloud. This was a trip.
Till next week,
Henry
At last, I failed to get one of these out by 8am Wednesday. Jet lag is very real, dude.
Patrick and Erin, if you’re reading this: thank you for having the decency to celebrate your nuptials in Los Angeles. You are both heroes.
Fun fact: El Cochinito in Silver Lake won Best Cuban Sandwich at the International Cuban Sandwich Festival in Florida in 2018. The cosmic scales must remain balanced, I suppose.