06/14/25

    I have been rereading Murakami’s What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. One passage stood out to me, which it must have stood out to me in an initial read as I had dog-eared the bottom page–something I do when I don’t have a pencil and want to remember. Towards the beginning of the book Murakami quotes Mick Jagger saying “I’d rather be dead than still singing ‘Satisfaction’ when I’m forty-five.” He then points out that at sixty Mick Jagger is still singing Satisfaction. This book was published in 2007, so Mick Jagger is now 81 and is most likely still singing Satisfaction. The point being that many people often can’t see themselves at an older age. Myself included.

    When I was 17 I would tell my friends that I never wanted to grow old. That I would go as far as killing myself at 40 to avoid aging. In my senior year of high school I truly didn’t see a future for myself. I had no idea what I wanted to be, what I wanted to do. I skipped class everyday nearly failing to graduate. I certainly wasn’t going to college. I couldn’t imagine myself in five years and I never thought about life beyond my teens. The one thing I knew was that I didn’t want to grow old.

    I woke up this morning in my apartment on my living room couch. My parents, having landed in NYC the night before, were asleep in my bed. I got up, did some morning movements, drank some Metamucil and got my things together as quietly as I could to let my parents sleep as much as they could before departing for our 7 am train. In the car I worried that the strong stench of air freshener would give my father a headache. After boarding the train I wondered whether I should give my parents a quick briefing before meeting H’s family. Instead I sat with my headphones on in the seats across from them and listened to a moody playlist of Midwestern Emo songs, not speaking until we reached Albany.

    After an excruciatingly long stopover in Albany and another two or so hours of sitting alone, H messaged me that he was running late to pick us up and to call his Dad. I opted to text. After exiting the train we waited for a couple of minutes before R pulled up to the station parking lot. No prep for the meet and greet. We said our hellos and I gave introductions before getting into the car. As if sensing the need for an icebreaker, a fellow train traveler grabbed our attention before our doors closed and asked if we could give her a ride into town. R didn’t hesitate. She jumped in the backseat and once again we gave introductions. Setting off, I rolled down my window and went back and forth with R about our trip up and we bantered with the stranger in our backseat after accidentally driving past the motel she was staying at, comically doing circles in the Walmart parking lot not knowing how to get back out. But eventually we did and dropped off our guest before moved along, filling the air more easily now that we had a few laughs.

    We arrived at the house in perfect timing with R’s good-for-nothing son. I gave my parents a quick tour of their sleeping quarters and went up to mine to admonish H—not seriously but just enough to make him feel bad. 

2:15 pm

    The weather had begun to clear up, having been cloudy and threatening to rain since we left the city. We made plans to drive the boat down the lake for dinner.

    As we sat leisurely on the deck having gin gimlets and eating chips and nuts I played a collection of Música Popular Brasileira and some of my favorite Latin jazz pieces. Songs that made me want to dance in the humid summer air and reminded me of our boat trip in Antigua. Dad questioned my choice. I said there was no better music to listen to in the summer. He began to reminisce on when he met my mother working at a Mexican restaurant back in Florida. He remembered the exact song, I played it for him. I put on the Beach Boys as we packed for the boat ride.

    We rode fast then slow, fast then slow. Slowing to look closely at the large waterfront houses and to give little details into the history of certain rock faces. Speeding to make up time in areas that were less interesting. About 15 minutes from our dinner spot we tied up at a dock attached to a little island to have drinks in a civilized manner, as R put it. By that he meant at a picnic table rather than on the boat. We were alone on this little island. R whipped up gin and tonics. A platform nearby for the purpose of setting up tents read in faded numbers, 14.

    At the table we all went back and forth reminiscing. At one point my mother, father, and I explained what makes a po’ boy a po’ boy; it’s the bread of course. My dad went into the history of the name. My mother recalled eating roast beef po’ boys from a near by gas station growing up. I scoffed at the absurdity of a roast beef po’ boy. She told of her father making “red gravy” and my Dad told us of how he had no idea what that was. I told the story of my most treasured New Orleans memory the year I turned 21: I returned to New Orleans for the first time in years with just my mother and I. I got so drunk the first night having had every alcohol imaginable including what they call in the French Quarter a “Hand Grenade”. We ended up towards the end of the night at a spot called Port-of-Call. They’re known for huge drinks of unknown mixings which you drank out of oversized styrofoam cups. They had no fryer in the kitchen so they only served baked potatoes. I remembered taking about six quarters to the jukebox and selecting multiple songs only to hear David Bowie’s Let’s Dance play for what felt like eternity. Still the whole place sang along each time.

    Growing up I felt like my mother would tell stories of her past too often. Over and over, I’d hear the same stories. Of course I felt annoyed that now with a new audience she was telling them all over again but this time I wasn’t mad, I didn’t roll my eyes. I listened because I’ve learned that this is who she is, I wanted to hear more about her. I wanted to see what she remembered. My dad too. There were so many stories I never heard. 

    The sun was shining. Through the trees of our little island we could see the water was glistening. Two drinks in, I felt good. The spirits were high. We got back on the boat and headed to dinner.

7:56 pm

    We departed from the restaurant, boarded our boat and waved goodbye to the dock assistant. The sunset slowly enveloped the sky in a swirled cotton candy flavor. We cruised past the Lac du Saint Sacrement as it made its loop around The Sagamore. The water was as smooth as butter, rippling and glossy, and we were flying across it. I played New Order at my mom's request. Dreams Never End, as it has a cheery and hopeful tone. Then I transitioned into The Clash’s Straight to Hell. When I played Galaxy 500’s Tugboat my dad asked what it was. During The Gun Club’s The Breaking Hands I asked him if he had ever heard this one. 

    H and R were at the helm and mom, dad, and I were sat in the bow. I looked up into the sky and basked in our warm feelings despite the cool night air making my feet purple. We were going fast, we realized if we hurried we could make it just before last call at the Wind Chill. As we drew near our bay, Mick Jagger‘s voice resonated melancholically through The Stones’ Wild Horses. We all sang along.

    We made it to the Wind Chill. Flavors of the night were: vanilla, chocolate, red raspberry, and pistachio. With a mixture of all I created my own spumoni flavor. Tasted just like when I was a kid.

    Back at the house, fireflies twinkled in the overgrown grass of the front lawn. Everyone else headed in but I walked to the grassy knoll, lied down, and looked up at the stars. I am alive. This is how I turned 30. 

Playlist

Misty Blue - Wilma Burgess

Your Summer Dream - The Beach Boys

Next to You - Macseal

Chan Chan - Buena Vista Social Club

Ceremony - New Order