FAVORITE MOMENT #5

The only way to be sure of catching a train is to miss the one before it.

I was not a crier as a child. In fact, I was almost stoic. Many of my childhood friends frequently commented on my lack of tears growing up. Of course, this all changed once I got older. It still perplexes me when I find myself sobbing over the same movie for the EIGHTH time. The frustrating thing is I rarely cry when I’m sad. I cry when I’m happy, or when I’m furious (which just makes me even more pissed because half of the time when I’m mad, it’s during a confrontation and it’s really difficult to appear bad-ass when you’re shedding tears and your nose is running).

My first major non-injury cry occurred when I was five years old. My grandmother had bought me an anthology about dogs. It had everything from the different types of breeds, to proper training, to courageous stories of St. Bernards in the Swiss Alps, or ordinary mutts saving their owners from a grizzly bear or pulling them from an icy river. All of the stories were very inspiring, and even though I somehow knew that none of our dogs would ever reach that kind of noble distinction, I was awed nevertheless. Then I came upon the story of Gelert.

This is how the story goes:
Around the 13th century in Glaslyn Valley in the mountains of Snowdania in North Wales, there was a prince named Llwelyn. His father-n-law, King John of England, gave him a giant Irish Wolfhound named Gelert. Gelert was the prince’s favorite dog; together they spent many days alone hunting. Everyone who knew Gelert remarked on his gentle nature, but his ferocity on the hunt. Now, the story I read said his wife died giving birth to their son, Gruffudd (but there are other versions where she lives). Gruffudd and Gelert were the only two things that brought the prince comfort. Gelert was intently devoted to Gruffudd, refusing to go on hunts so he could remain at the infant’s side. They were inseparable. One day, upon returning from a hunt, the prince went into his son’s room and found everything disarrayed. His son was nowhere to be found. A bloodied Gelert greeted him at the door. In a rage, the prince drew his sword and plunged it into Gelert screaming, “You killed my son!” As Gelert slumped to the ground, his eyes looking at his beloved master as if to ask, “why?” The prince heard a noise; he pulled back a blanket and found his unharmed son next to a giant wolf that Gelert killed to save him. Overcome with grief for killing his beloved hound, the prince, they say, never smiled again. He built a monument to Gelert.
I bawled. I was completely inconsolable.

The story had quite an effect on me. Perhaps it was the betrayal of loyalty. Or maybe it was knowing the consequences that a split-second action could take. Or maybe it was just the profound sense of loss. Growing up, I thought about the story often. It was always referenced in my mind as the first story I ever cried over.

When I was 17, I went to The University of Wales in Aberystwyth (you have no idea how long it took me to pronounce that). Located in a small town on the West Coast of Wales, it had hills, beaches and castles. My room overlooked Cardigan Bay. It was an amazing experience: we got to meet and hear a lecture from George Martin (the producer of most of The Beatles records) watch a performance of Oliver (with original accents) and attend a reading by Dylan Thomas’ daughter (which was actually quite pathetic and disturbing and a whole ‘nother story). On the weekends, the professor would rent a van, and anyone willing to chip in gas money was free to go wherever he was headed. Together we went to Amsterdam and Scotland; I went to London and Ireland by myself. Usually, once a week, we went on field trips around Wales.

One night, after a considerable amount of vodka, I decided it would be a fantastic idea to go swimming in Cardigan Bay. I even managed to enlist a friend. I grew up swimming in the icy waters of the Puget Sound so I was used to the frigid temperatures. What I wasn’t used to was the pounding waves. After about thirty minutes of jumping up and down in the surf, the next morning, my ribs were so badly bruised I could barely stand up. I contemplated staying in bed for the day, like my friend, but decided to go on the field trip instead. Besides, I could stretch out in the back and have people bring me newspapers and ginger ale.

As usual, I had no idea where we were going. Itineraries didn’t interest me; I just climbed in the van with my usual bag of raw peas that I bought at the market, a journal and a camera. We joked around, listening to the same mixed Elvis tape the professor brought (the only tape he brought and the only one we were allowed to listen to). We made a few stops that day, but in the afternoon we stopped in a small village – Beddgelert. The village seemed oddly familiar to me, and I couldn’t help but feel an acute sense of déjà vu. We walked around until I found myself standing in front of a large pile of rocks. I stopped, suddenly, realizing I was standing at the grave of Gelert. The town, Beddgelert, literally meant, “The Grave of Gelert.” The already crushing feeling of my ribs coupled with my rush of euphoria made me dizzy; I almost fainted. It wasn’t just the memory of my childhood, or the effect the story had on me, it was the realization of possibility. Being raised in a small town in Washington State, I never thought I would actually one day be standing at the foot of a grave from a story I had read about in a far-off place 12 years before. I made everyone take a picture of me, at least twice, just in case some freak accident happened and the photos didn’t turn out. In the photo(s), there is an excited, but slightly pained look on my face. What you might not be able to tell from the photo is how proud I was to be standing there.

I have been thinking about this story a lot lately. It seems to pop in my consciousness for different reasons. The current state seems to be the travel bug; I think it was triggered by my recent trip to Japan. It’s such a joy to be able to glimpse another culture. There are still so many places I want to see, and so many things I want to do. In an ideal world I would spend most of my time just writing, learning and observing – free to do the things I want. It’s a child’s dream that I can’t seem to let go of no matter how hard I try.

I am firm believer that you can learn from every experience, all you have to do is pay attention. Everything around you is an adventure. I can’t bear to see people who are lulling into the mundane hum of technological distractions. SUVs and big-screen TVs have become their shields of mediocrity. It’s a protective standard that has digressed people into a compliant state of watching other peoples’ experiences, instead of living their own.

Commuter – one who spends his life
In riding to and from his wife;
A man who shaves and takes a train,
And then rides back to shave again – Elywn Brooks White

It’s funny no matter where I go or what I see, I can’t help but credit that afternoon spent on my parents’ itchy green couch, wrapped up in an afghan my mother knitted (which we dubbed “Monkey Puke”) and reading about Gelert as the start for my lust for adventure. Possibility is always looming - you just have to pay attention.


Second to the right, and straight on till morning.