romantic notions of some vague long ago [michael]

i want to know what’s true
dig deep into who
and what and why and when
until now gives way to then

feb 15 to 22nd, 2004

montaña de oro, feb 15th

It was a bit of an ask to go and do something, anything, on the first night of vacation, when a one o'clock check-in meant portkeying across the ocean at nine o'clock in the evening in Britain. But, hell, it was Valentine's weekend, and it was her birthday (almost), and Cordelia had promised it was the only thing on the agenda tonight and they could spend the whole next day recalibrating their circadian rhythms.

But touching down in California meant she could apparate in California again, without leaving some important organ in the Atlantic Ocean. And she wanted the Pacific breeze in her lungs again, wanted to show Michael why she was escaping to here and not, say, her parent's house in Ottery St. Catchpole. Not that she was thinking about escaping right this second. Was actively pushing it from her mind, actually. This wasn't hiding, it was a holiday.

She considered apparating them a little ways away from the beach, then considered how late it felt for the both of them in their bones in the time it took for her to put her arm out and for Michael to take it. The world twisted around them, wrung them out on the pebbled shore.

It was warm, compared to London, and the sun was glittering off the water. The beach was empty save for some seabirds, the waves gently lapping on the rocks. Cordelia dropped her arm, slipping a hand into Michael's palm. Squeezed his hand once, breathing the salt-kissed air in slowly and deeply.

The Pacific Ocean was warmer than the Channel, Cordelia remembered. And the water looked so still. She looked sidelong at Michael, a smile spreading slowly before tugging away, kicking her shoes away before running knee-deep into the water.

@Michael Corner

Michael checked his watch.

He’d changed it before they left, and then checked it against the clock in the Portkey station, and again when they got to the inn, as though he were trying to convince himself that it was, in fact, the early afternoon, though not successfully. This was the furthest he’d ever been from Greenwich Mean Time and he was not sure he was adapting right. If anything, he was more tired for its being earlier in the day.

In preparation for the trip, Michael had tried to research, but he’d gotten bogged down quickly in all the bylaws of Apparating across state lines, and so when they’d tried to draft an itinerary, he’d had next to nothing to offer, and thusly was this mostly Cordelia’s vacation. If it had been Michael’s vacation, they wouldn’t have started at a beach. Michael was devotedly an inland man.

He took Cordelia’s arm, and held on.

As beaches went, it wasn’t that bad. The water didn’t look violent, and there weren’t any broken bottles, and there was a little breeze through the scrubby brush on the cliffs around them; overall he felt as though he had been set down in an underwhelming oil painting, which was his favourite type of oil painting. It was peaceful, at least until Cordelia dropped his hand and dashed into the water.

“Innit cold?” said Michael, raising his voice a little. “Wait a tick.” It was less spontaneous and charming for him to go into the water, since he was not dressed for it, but he stopped at the shoreline to take his shoes off and fold up his trouser cuffs before mincing in after her, stopping a little short of where she’d landed. It was cold. “Shite,” he said, and reached one hand out for hers, just a little out of reach. It was late – or it had been, on the right side of the Atlantic – and Portkeys made him lethargic, but they still had at least an hour to take in the peace.


humboldt, feb 16th

Michael was picking most of his vacation requests off of battered pamphlets he was picking off their bed-and-breakfasts: maybe they’d stayed in the tri-valley area because it was cheap and pastoral and wine country (he was pretty sure, by this point, that half of California was wine country) but while they were in the middle of nowhere, he’d wanted to see the world’s longest-lasting lightbulb.

It turned out that visiting hours for the bulb had already elapsed, and Michael didn’t care for wine-tasting (no matter what anybody said, it all tasted the same to him), so he’d proposed they just head further up the coast to the next place and find something else to do, which had landed them here looking at the redwoods. “Tallest trees in the world,” he said – the Stratosphere Giant was nearly fifty feet taller than the next tallest tree. Made one feel sort of small. He stopped craning his neck up and looked for anything else to point out, like a squirrel or a cricket or something else to remind himself where he was on the food chain, but the dearth of civilisation here, when they’d Apparated a ways in from the road, was only making him feel less significant.

He looked at Cordelia instead, focussing on her. “So what’d’you reckon?” he said, not because he thought she would reckon anything in particular (he imagined that she was thinking what he was, which was, Jesus, those things are big) but because he wanted to hear her voice, to be reminded that in this nothingness, he was still here with her.

If it was the world's longest lasting lightbulb, shouldn't it be on at all hours? And therefore, visible at all hours? How could one be sure they didn't switch it off at night without visiting! Cordelia left the fire station feeling skeptical, suspicious, and possibly more disappointed than she ought to. It was a lightbulb. One did not get disappointed by a lightbulb. Michael was rubbing off on her rather more than she was rubbing off on him, Cordelia suspected. She had noted down the actual hours of operation, determined to get both of them back to the strange little exhibit.

The trees were fantastic, though. The woods they were in made the Forbidden Forest feel small, made all of the groves of England seem like toys. She craned her head all the way back, the bottom of her curls brushing against the small of her back. What did she reckon? "Blimey," she said, for a lack of anything else to say. She took her little disposable camera (Camm would help her figure out the film, she figured) and snapped a picture. Cordelia wasn't a photographer, but she managed to line up the center of the viewfinder with the tip of some trees that seemed to arch into the frame. She rolled her thumb against the ridged plastic, waiting for the click the shop attendant had shown her.

Cordy looked to her right, to Michael looking back at her. Raised the camera back to her eyes, snapped another picture -- just the side of his face, out of focus with the trunk of the tree seeming to swallow him. Lowered the camera, smiling. "Can you imagine a wand from this?" Cordy couldn't -- she could hardly imagine anything this big, including the trees she stood among. She felt awash in the forest in a way she hadn't in the ocean -- in the ocean, she had Michael's hand to anchor her. She reached out her hand for him, twining her fingers in between his like roots, securing Cordelia to his steady presence.


los angeles, feb 17th. cordelia's birthday, 11am

She felt a little bad about this choice -- there had been some story about Anthony and the Louvre, some sense that Michael didn't quite care for Art with a capital A. Wasn't it a little cruel, knowing Michael didn't care for the greatest art museum on the Continent, to drag him now to this one on the other side of the world?

On the other hand, it was her birthday, and Cordelia had always been one for art and artists. Michael, all in all, was a welcome and well-loved exception to her typical sensibilities. Or, given that they had quietly passed the year mark of their relationship and things hadn't imploded, maybe Michael was her type the whole time. A complimentary kind of person she never considered.

She quietly blamed Lysander for that -- Cordelia may have written off the whole house of Ravenclaw on her brother's account. She hoped that the interesting design of the building itself would appeal to her boyfriend. It was much more interesting to look at than a palace, she thought. And the view of the city -- that had been breathtaking too.

Cordelia finished basking in the oiled glow of the Monet seascape, turned to Michael. Bless him, he was still here. How's your leg? she wanted to ask, instead pressing her lips together in thought. She slipped her left hand into the pocket of her skirt, pulling out the map of the Getty. "The sculpture or the fountain next, maybe? I'd like some fresh air."

Michael didn’t quite care for art – his dad had never cared for it either, and had never tried to inure him to the unfathomably dull pastime of walking around looking at things, and his one trip to a real art museum with Anthony (insufferable know-it-all that he was) had not made the prospect any more appealing. And – he’d told Cordelia multiple times now, as well as his mother, as well as seven or eight of his colleagues – the Mona Lisa was sincerely underwhelming. He’d written essays longer than the Mona Lisa.

Anthony had been deeply affronted when Michael said that, on grounds that the Mona Lisa had taken daVinci possibly as long as a decade (who had the time to spend a decade on one painting?) but by then Michael had been firm in his belief that he was not, and would never be, an art person.

It was her birthday, he kept reminding himself. She’d put up with the Montrose-Tutshill game; he could put up with Claude Monet.

At least Cordelia didn’t want to talk about the paintings – she seemed more content to stand around and look at them, for far longer than any of them deserved, for – unfortunately – far longer than it had taken Michael to read all the little plaques in the room, and to finish reading the map/brochure he’d been chipping away at over the course of several rooms.

Finally, though, she seemed able to tear herself away from the latest painting (it was blue) and – finally – suggested they go outside. He looked down at his own map, now heavily creased – the sculpture terrace was closer, so he said, “Er… sculptures.” All morning she had seemed like she was trying hard not to be apologetic for making him come and look at art, and she still seemed to be fighting that urge, lips pressed tersely together. I am not as bored as I look, he wanted to say, but he said, “Well – those things aren’t gonna look at themselves,” and let her lead the way.


tillamook, feb 18th

He didn’t think he was fooling Cordelia even remotely, but he was pretending determinedly that he wanted to see the industrial equipment – to maintain the charade, he had dragged her on the walking tour, had stared through a glass window at some gigantic machine vacuum-sealing cheese blocks trying to let his knee recover from all the stairs, and (finally) had given it up and gone in search of the ice cream.

They were definitely driving the employee mad – Cordelia was definitely testing the unlimited offer of free samples – but Michael, hanging by the cash register with his cone waiting, did not have it in him to be embarrassed by her.

Finally she came and joined him; he paid, and dunked a generous tip in the jar for the poor employee, who did not look like he forgave them, then put his hand in Cordelia’s. “Glad we came here,” he said, offering his cone to her in case she wanted a lick of it, “Always wanted to know how to make cheese.”

Michael may have actually been interested in the machinery, but he was absolutely more interested in the ice cream. Cordelia was impressed by how much of the tour they had managed to complete. She wasn't complaining. It was certainly fascinating, but she could smell the sugar.

Cordelia hummed around the little wooden spoon in her mouth. It was good, but.. "Could I try the cherry, please?" Cordelia asked with not hint of apology. The cherry was worse than the birthday cake but better than the pecan, which was some sort of American nut Cordelia didn't know what to do with. Having tried every flavour, Cordelia finally decided on the strawberry, as she knew she probably would from the start.

Michael paid and slipped his hand into hers. Here they were again, with unseasonal ice cream. Cordelia took a nibble of Michael's scoop, more to remember what he had gotten than anything. Also, it was adorable. She offered hers up, too, narrowly missing hitting her boyfriend in the nose with the dessert. "Seems easy enough," Cordelia said, grinning. "We could start a little side business --" Cordelia paused, squeezing her eyes shut. Whatever she was going to say was interrupted by her terrible, terrible -- "Brain freeze," she explained, laughing at the ridiculousness of it.

north vancouver, feb 19th

There had been fewer issues with crossing the Canadian border than Cordelia had thought there would be. Perhaps that was just what had to be done, when two countries shared the longest land border in the world. Be friendly and make it easy. So for a day or two, they were in the Great White North.

It wasn't particularly White, or North, or Great. There had been drizzle all throughout the forecast and it held true for the morning Without ducking into a wizarding enclave of the city (where there seemed to be nothing particularly touristy to do) it was impossible to justify a repelling charm. She had bought ponchos. They looked ridiculous in them.

And it wasn't even whale watching season, apparently, so what was the point of Vancouver?

The steam clock had been unimpressive too, but someone there had suggested they go a little more north, to a suspension bridge in the mountains. At the very least it would be something to tell Michael's architect friend about, Cordelia had thought, darkly and damply.

The clouds kept their secrets now, though the sky was still overcast and threatening to pour. Cordelia pulled back the hood of her poncho, staring at the Capilano Suspension Bridge with suspicion. "But what if it breaks, anyway?" she said to Michael, clutching his hadn't with a vice-like grip. The river below them was so loud and so far away.

Every few steps across Cordy wanted to stop and turn back, staring determinedly at the next metal grate ahead of them. They reached the middle without slipping or falling or breaking the bridge, and Cordy cautiously raised her eyes.

Oh. Oh. This is what they meant, when they said this part of the world was a rainforest. She let go of Michael's hand for a moment, looking around with awe.

On the other end of the bridge, two small children dashed across. Cordelia yelped and clung to Michael's arm again.

“It’s not going to break,” Michael had said at first, but when she let go of his hand, he had to reach to grip the rope tightly, his stomach somehow somewhere in the vicinity of both his knees and his throat simultaneously. He sort of wished they’d stayed at that bleeding steam clock – he’d survived pneumonia eight times, and double pneumonia once, and a war, and would be damned if he went out because he and his girlfriend had gone for a stroll on the world’s longest, flimsiest bridge.

Was it possible to apparate midair? It had to be. Why hadn’t he ever tried?

Cordelia, thankfully gripped him again; all that meant was that if they went down, they went down together, which was a touch too much like a collective suicide pact à la agreeing to fight in the Battle of Hogwarts for his comfort. He didn’t try to loose himself, though; he just grimaced over at the clouds, gathering above them like they were earmarking them as targets, and said, not without amusement, “Alright – I think that’s enough flirting with death for me today, let’s go back.”

olympic peninsula, feb 20–21st

Michael had insisted on taking a kind of gap day – he’d never been a vacationer, and he could only take so much of vacationing at a time – to just hang around the rented cabin, doing nothing and going nowhere. If he’d had work he could bring on vacation, he would have done it; as it was, he planned to try to deep-clean as much of the place as he could – he’d found a long-dead spider in a kitchen cupboard looking for creamer.

He passed the morning vetoing every hike Cordelia suggested and then suggesting she just take a hike without him, which, as it turned out, sounded very rude, so as a compromise, Michael had suggested they go find a breakfast buffet at which to gawp at the selections and fill their plates so much that they’d have to take some home, like real Americans.

It turned out that was not allowed at breakfast buffets, unless one acted quickly and had hidden containers on hand; they had sorted it out (neither of them had wanted to Confund the waiter, given that Cordelia had just made a massive stink about the morality of messing with Muggles’ minds, so the entire thing had felt rather like a daring heist) and then they had had breakfast for lunch. He felt that breakfast for dinner as well might have been pushing it, so he had spent a while vetoing all the restaurants on the local-attractions brochure before they’d gone to the first one Cordelia had suggested.

Today, they had to do something, to make up for yesterday, so Michael had accepted the shortest hike Cordelia could find, which was more like a walk in the woods than a hike, only down to a little outlook over a river. There were benches periodically along the path, which, while unpaved, was so well-trod that he was sure he could have ridden a bike down it, if he still rode bikes.

Something in the air was making him sneeze; he rubbed gingerly at his nose and said stuffily, “I have never been outdoors this much in my life, do you know?” He meant it not so much as a complaint as a compliment – pretty much only Cordelia could have dragged him out to appreciate the world as much as he had in the last few days – but as a complaint too. “Think I’m allergic to it.”


OUT

Michael had less momentum than Cordelia did, it seemed to her. She had spent most of February gearing up for this trip, and the potential energy built up in the planning and the booking and the paying had become kinetic in her bones every morning. They didn't have to do much, but they had to do something, while the friction was low and inertia kept her moving.

That had carried them until yesterday, where Michael seemed to hit a wall and shot down every single hike on Cordelia's list. She would have to come back to try them, she supposed out loud, cross from the rejected ideas and from low blood sugar.

The resultant breakfast buffet had been a bit of an adventure, with actual genuine sleight of hand and general tomfoolery. It rather felt like something Luke would have enjoyed, which soured the stolen eggs just a touch when they had their spoils at lunch.

Food mischief managed, Michael acquiesced to a hike today (short, which was fine with her in the cold and her boots starting to wear through, though she wouldn't say it) and Cordelia had seized the opportunity. It seemed Michael was allergic to hikes -- Cordelia passed him a handkerchief, which she assumed would be ignored.

"It's the cold, or maybe pollen," Cordelia said, deeply unsure about the mechanisms of allergies. "You'd get used to it if you had to." There was a little tease in her tone, a little worry. She had the sense that Michael wouldn't normally do this sort of thing -- not just the hike, but the whole trip -- on his own, nor for most people. So, either she was forcing him, and hadn't realized, or he was willing to do such to make her happy. Both options scared her.

Somewhere up in the trees, some kind of bird cawed. Cordy looked up. "What do you reckon that is?" she asked, squeezing Michael's hand again with an unspoken Thank you.

pike place, feb 22nd

All good things, even buffet breakfasts, must come to an end sometime. So too did Cordelia's birthday escape have to end, with the slip out of the noisy, colorful world of muggle attractions into the mundanity of the magical world.

The portkey station was in Pyke's Place, a particularly derivatively named wizarding enclave in Seattle. It was, infuriatingly, embedded in the real Pike Place, through a hidden turn just past the men throwing the large fish.

(Cordelia had spent far too long watching the large fish.)

It was bustling here, too, but in a way too reminiscent of Diagon Alley. More touristy than Diagon, though -- hardly two steps into Pyke's was the Floo and the Portkey Office. Cordelia had been unimpressed with the whole setup -- the portkey that she was staring at was a bag of coffee beans.

"Seems like a letdown," she said mildly, with a glance to Michael as she adjusted her bags. "It doesn't even smell of coffee."

When the portkey went off, Cordelia had one hand on the bag -- the other firmly entwined in Michael's fingers.

[out]