Coronado Pt.2

"The dead are the heart of the living."

portrait of a girl trying to convince herself that she's fine

In the bathroom of a cute and cozy Italian restaurant, right before the musical starring Idina Menzel, which I had planned an entire trip around and waited a whole year to see —  a huge wave of sadness suddenly hit me.

You’re wearing mascara for the first time in months, Alexa. Don’t cry.

I cried the mascara off. And it was probably for the better because there were many more tears (sobs) to come that night.

Bathroom Floor

I thought she moved to San Diego after only one visit because she liked it. Why is she crying in the bathroom on this “fateful trip?”

You’ll see. I promise.

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After waking up late for my flight (for the first time in my life) and making it to the airport by the skin of my teeth (which would happen again six months later), I finally arrived in San Diego.

I spent the day with a friend who generously drove down from LA to hang out with me. She picked me up from the airport in San Diego and off we went to a highly recommended taco spot in Hillcrest (Steak and Bones.) I insisted on sitting outside even though it was a little chilly. I focused on the sunshine on my face and the fish tacos in front of me. It’s a beautiful day, you’re on vacation, you can have fun, let yourself enjoy this. 

We then grabbed an afternoon coffee and drove to Balboa Park to visit museums and wander around. I remember playing a game of “eff, marry, kill” on the drive, using Taylor Swift songs instead of romantic partners. It was one of the lightest conversations I’d had in months, having been so tightly woven into my cocoon of grief. It felt strange, comforting, and awkward to be talking about our favorite songs. Ironically though, a song Taylor wrote for her grandmother was incredibly cathartic to me in those early days of grief. 

grieving.room

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What died didn’t stay dead. 

What died didn’t stay dead.

You’re alive, you’re alive in my head.

-Taylor Swift, Majorie

Balboa Park was beautiful and way bigger than I imagined. I do remember feeling quite distracted from my grief here. I let myself get engrossed in the artwork, pose for photos, and people-watch. I probably pushed down some thoughts about how much my friend who couldn’t come on the trip would love Balboa Park. It’s the kind of place that’s right up her alley. 

By late afternoon, we headed to my hotel in Coronado to get ready for REDWOOD; the long-awaited musical I had waited a year to see.

After checking in, we were given a room right off the parking lot on the ground floor. It was a perfectly fine room. There was nothing wrong with this room. And yet, something inside of me felt…off. Maybe I was sad to be staying in a hotel room instead of the Airbnb that my friend and I had picked out so painstakingly. Maybe I was hoping for a better view, or just more privacy.

During those first early months of grief, my tolerance for emotional discomfort was high - but my tolerance for physical discomfort was low. And something just felt off in this room.

I politely asked the front desk receptionist if there was any chance that something on a higher floor, or a little more secluded, was available. 

I like to think that I was a pretty nice person before being hit by this season of grief, but I know for certain that grief made me kinder. As disappointed as I was with that hotel room, I went out of my way to ask about another room in the nicest, meekest way possible, out of fear of offending or annoying that kind receptionist. I had no idea what she was going through, and she had no idea what I was going through. Whether she was able to change my room or not, I knew that I owed this woman kindness. Not because I would be seeing her for the next few days, and not because she worked in the hotel I was staying in, but because she was, and is, a human being who deserved kindness.

She upgraded me from the parking lot room to an upstairs suite in the mansion, at no extra charge. I was stunned speechless. 

This wouldn’t be the last time that someone was so unexpectedly kind and generous to me on that trip.

After freshening up in the hotel, we made our way to La Jolla to visit the world’s oldest family-owned bookstore, before grabbing dinner at an Italian restaurant called Barbarella (which I highly recommend.) 

And there in that restaurant, is where the sadness hit. 

I wanted to keep showing up as my bubbly and fun self for my friend. We had been having a good time together all day so far, and yet, something felt off inside. 

I told myself to think about the fact that I’d be seeing Idina Menzel in just an hour. Think about your hotel upgrade. Think about the incredible pasta you’re about to have. 

But I couldn’t. I felt a little itchy, which I’ve learned is a sign from my body that intense anxiety is coming on. 

All I could think was, This isn’t how it was supposed to go.

And it wasn’t. This wasn’t how the trip was supposed to go.