Life – Page 11 – Britt Skrabanek

The Love Spy

Maybe it’s because spring comes so early here in the Pacific Northwest, but lately, love has been happening all around me.

Just this past week, I saw two different puppy love scenarios.

At the local pub we visit often, there was a young couple across from us at the bar. They were nose to nose, talking and laughing, genuinely into each other.

The petting was tasteful and they only had eyes for each other, like they were the only two inside the crowded bar—and, to hell with the rest of us.

Mr. H and I couldn’t help but smile at them. With love contagious in the air, we moved our barstools a little closer to each other and stayed that way.

Then the other day I went for my usual long hike up to the Pittock Mansion and ended up behind another couple the entire uphill journey. They matched my speed perfectly—and, I haul ass—so there was no way to pass them without sprinting suddenly like a weirdo.

I was annoyed at first, because hey, it gets really old staring at the same asses for an hour when you’re climbing technical trails, trying to enjoy nature.

There was a lot of hair flipping and giggling coming from her, while he strutted up the hill with his hands in the pockets of his baggy basketball shorts. Mr. Cool Guy.

They were heading to the same place I was, so I stopped being a cynical asshole and decided my fate was tied to the bouncy cute couple until I reached the top.

At the top of the hill, where Pittock Mansion is, lies the lovers bench many of you have heard me go on and on about for the past year. If you need to get up to speed, you can check out The Fate of the Lovers Bench.

I thought I could peek at the new bench to see how many love carvings had come about since last fall. Back in October, Portland Parks & Rec replaced the beautifully battered bench from before, because its old wood was unrecognizable from the romantic “vandalism” it had endured over the years.

As it was a Saturday, I assumed the bench would be taken. And, it was.

He matched the trees and she matched the roses next to the bench.

I felt a little guilty taking this picture, but like the couple at the bar earlier in the week, nothing else existed.

The bench was their world. Me and the other thirty or so people wandering around the grounds were invisible.

I didn’t stay long. I wanted to go home to my man. To be looked at, to be kissed, to be loved.

The Fate of the Lovers Bench

I didn’t have any master plans to write this particular post on Valentine’s Day.

To tell you the truth, I’ve never been much of a fan of the holiday. As a young girl, Valentine card rejections and those gross chalky hearts made a cynic out of me.

Some might actually see this as a cruel story to tell on a romantic holiday, but it depends on how strong your belief in love is.

For some, love is about happy endings. For others, the true romantics, they know that real love never ends.

The story about the lovers bench began last year in May, when I wrote The Bench Where Lovers Had Been.

This spot with the bench is my favorite place to rest after a long hike. The view of Portland is absolutely stunning.

The whole city—slender streets, busy cars, shiny buildings, expansive bridges—is surrounded by sleepy volcanoes and undulating mountains.

On a clear day your eyes hardly know what to do with themselves. It’s that gorgeous.

And the bench, worn by Pacific Northwest rain for many years, was covered in love carvings.

I used to touch these carvings, imagining stories of the lovers who decided to boldly tattoo their initials and hearts into the wood in this public place.

Perhaps these couples were still together, or perhaps they had grown apart, but the lovers bench allowed their tender moment to live on.

Until one October day, I walked over to the bench and my heart fell. There were no more professions of love embedded in the wood.

The wood was blemish-free, devoid of the beautiful scars which told so many stories.

When I wrote The Lovers Bench Is Gone, many of you were as heartbroken as I was. And like me, you all wondered what had happened to the old bench.

Had they repurposed it somehow, turned it into a piece of art for someone’s home? Or, had they done something else?

Well, I found out.

It took me about a month and I was thrown around to some different people before I got my answer. I have been sitting on this information for some time, but today I have decided to reveal the fate of the lovers bench.

Hi Britt,

Due to a combination of overzealous carvings and wear n’ tear on the bench you mention, Portland Parks & Recreation had to replace the bench with a new one. We reused the metal parts that were salvageable.

Hi Britt,

My colleague in maintenance just asked me to clarify. We actually re-installed the same, refurbished bench. Not a “new” bench. What you see up there is the same bench just with new boards, and we had the leg irons freshly powder coated. History lives on!

Hi Portland Parks & Rec Guy,

Thanks for the info. We writers are a curious bunch, so we were dying to know. Did anyone keep the carved boards, do you know? Seems like they would make neat art decor. Perhaps they were too beat up and ended up in recycling though.

Hi Britt,

The best guess is that the old boards were used for bark dust in our system. Had they been salvageable our guys would have repainted them and replaced ’em.

So, there you have it, folks. The bench is still there, but the boards of love carvings have become part of the earth.

Instead of being sad over the fate of the lovers bench, I remembered something that made me hopeful. On that October day when I discovered the new bench, I looked down and saw this on the shiny new armrest…

I haven’t seen the bench since last fall, but I know that new love stories have been created and carved. When I see it again, I will trace the carvings and smile.

Because love doesn’t have an ending. It lives on.

“The minute I heard my first love story, I started looking for you, not knowing how blind that was. Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.” – Rumi

Moving Like I Used To

Besides writing a bunch of nonsense in my journal from a young age, there are two things I did without fail.

Dancing and swimming.

I first learned how to dance by watching Janet Jackson and Paula Abdul music videos when I was seven.

I mimicked every move they made and forced my poor dad to video tape solo performances I would choreograph in my bedroom.

Dressing as shitty as possible was the cool thing in ballet class.

Until finally, even though we totally couldn’t afford it, my dad asked me if I wanted to learn how to dance for real.

I was a complete disaster in class, out of control with no technique unlike the other girls who started dancing when they were five.

But, starting dance class was one of the happiest moments of my life. My enthusiasm was unstoppable.

I worked hard with my “bad feet” and “bad turnout” and used my non-dancer’s body to my advantage, often dancing with the boys because I could jump as high as they could.

I performed in every imaginable place—in parking lots, on football fields, in parks, in classrooms, on stages, on the Queen Mary, a Lakers game, some hotels, gyms, classrooms…I know I’m forgetting plenty.

I wore leotards that always rode up my butt and I was probably the buffest ballerina to ever wear a tutu.

Dancing was something I did while working through all of the bullshit of growing up.

I danced forever and taught for a decade until two years ago, when I got so burnt out that I stopped.

I got really into Yoga, got certified and taught quite a bit. It was an incredible experience, but along the way, I felt like something was missing.

I missed moving my hips to a gorgeous rhythm. I missed moving my feet faster than I ever thought possible. I missed moving my arms through the air like they were my special wings.

No, I didn’t get back into my pink tights and pointe shoes. About a month ago I started taking Zumba again.

What I love about Zumba is simply this…you just shut up and dance.

There isn’t a post-mortem after every combination, you’re allowed to laugh at yourself for messing up, and you get to shake your ass non-stop.

I don’t feel the negative effects I knew intimately in the dancing world, like perfectionism or an unhealthy body image.

I didn’t want that. I just wanted to effing move.

Since I starting dancing again, I’ve been overjoyed. I returned to a part of me that I tried to ignore, but I couldn’t.

I know, this dive is worthy of an Olympic medal.

I was one of the few Southern California kids who struggled with swimming.

Near-drowning moments and claustrophobia made me fear swimming. Hey, when you’re under water, you can’t breathe.

Kids made fun of me for being a bad swimmer and wearing my floaties well past the acceptable age.

More than anything, I was determined to swim, because I loved the feeling of moving through water.

Swimming was like dancing to me. It was tough and beautiful.

And, just like dancing, I threw every part of myself into swimming. I got over my fears and swam like an ambitious fish.

Then, I got busy with being an adult. Then, I moved to places where swimming was hard to come by.

Portland proved to be challenging as well, except for the gym by my work, which (cue angel singing) has a salt water lap pool. So, I bought a bathing suit, a goofy swim cap, and goggles.

I went swimming on my lunch break yesterday. I got water up my nose and felt like I’d been hit by a car after ten consecutive laps. But for the rest of the day I was serene.

Now I have it down. I’m moving like I used to.

Rockin' the velour and Dorothy Hamill haircut. So stylish. — Rockin’ the velour and Dorothy Hamill haircut. So stylish.

What about you guys? Are there activities/passions you used to do as a kid that you’ve revisited as an adult?

My Thoughts in the Wind

I had a romantic notion about Twitter the other day.

Come on now, hear me out.

I was watching one of my favorite movies that I hadn’t seen in ages. Stealing Beauty.

This is my coming-of-age movie I’ve seen about a billion times. Bernardo Bertolucci directed it, and though it’s in English, it has all of the things that I love about foreign films.

Nakedness is celebrated, not shunned or exploited. It’s slow-paced, not action-packed. It’s peaceful, not violent. It’s artistic, not shallow.

The soundtrack is awesome—Billie Holiday, Portishead, Stevie Wonder, Nina Simone, and Hole somehow work seamlessly together.

The main character, a young American woman named Lucy, is on a journey of self-discovery. Liv Tyler plays the part masterfully, with depth and a quiet beauty.

She travels to Italy in the summer to stay in the countryside with some family friends, to wander around and have her portrait painted.

All of it’s gorgeous—the scenery, the people, the food and wine. There’s also some regular napping and weed smoking.

Sounds rough, I know.

Her deceased mother was a poet and Lucy is a writer as well. Being that I idolized this character a bit, I wonder if it influenced me to become a writer in some way. Perhaps.

She keeps a journal with her at all times, scribbling her youthful angst and woes. I even copied her journal, with an envelope glued inside of the cover to harbor pictures.

But Lucy doesn’t keep what she writes.

She tears the piece of paper out of her journal and either burns her thoughts over a candle or releases them into the wind.

It’s a lot of what I do now in this online writing world I live in, especially on Twitter. I write my thoughts and set them free, often forgetting they ever happened.

Sometimes my thoughts are caught by another and read. I am reminded of that thought, whether it was meaningful or not.

But I smile, because someone connected with a little piece of me.

Then, they let my thoughts go in the wind. They travel on to others, caught and read once more, or they disappear, never to be seen again.

I don’t know why I thought this, but I’m kind of in love with the idea.

My Awakening City

I’m a sucker for cities on a weekend morning. With nobody rushing off to work, the restless streets are hushed and vacant.

I started a new Saturday morning tradition.

I drag my ass out of bed, then get dressed in mismatched Yoga clothes. I wander over to the boulangerie right when they open, before the line goes out the door.

I grab a fresh chocolate hazelnut croissant and a latte. Their comforting smells warm me.

This morning I felt inspired to capture my awakening city.

I took the kind of photos I could never take during the day, without people thinking I’m Crazy Stalker Lady.

If any of the local businesses in my neighborhood look at their security cameras, they’ll either think I’m planning a heist or just another starry-eyed tourist.

Let them think what they want. I had to share this beautiful secret.

Sleepy bakers are preparing for the pandemonium, not yet cloaked in flour or sweating beneath their aprons. Though that will all change soon enough.

A couple shares a quiet cup of coffee together, enjoying the empty cafe before they begin their day.

The library on the corner awaits the invasion of eager minds. The chairs sit still, watching over the books as they sleep.

Cutlery echoes from the restaurant opening for brunch. The sandwich board sign is set out, directing crowds inside for hot food and cozy conversation.

The tavern is unusually silent and clean. Liquor bottles rest against one another behind the bar. The old fireplace is cool, but you can still catch a hint of wood in the air.

Slowly, darkness succumbs to morning light. A runner flies past me, more cars ease down the street, and doors swing open to welcome the day.

My city is awake.