Letter from San Jose 3.

Russia, Armenia, and the Sea.

DATELINE: Thursday, December 19, 2002
San Jose, California

By Todd Marshall

Today we started out for Monterey Bay at ten o'clock after finishing some last minute things. I needed to run to the post office and mail a small package of Russian chocolates to my roommate. It is some of the best tasting chocolate around! We bought it at a little family-owned Russian store in San Francisco last Saturday. It is one of my favorite stores because the owner always chases me down and gives me free samples of chocolate. He usually follows me around while I select some of the more delectable pieces of chocolate, urging me, "Try dis. Now, try dis." At first I am excited to see him, and flattered by so much attention. Soon, when I notice other customers staring in our direction, I begin the descent into self-conscious — even about my own ability to speak Russian.

Chat, Chat, Chat over Chocolates.

The owner likes the fact that I speak Russian. Even more, I think he likes the fact that I listen to him talk about his last trip to Hawaii, his booming business, his vacillating homesickness, and his tattered love for his motherland, the Ukraine. I am sure he would prefer me to speak his native Ukrainian, but our camaraderie is fleeting — ten minutes of interplay in a chocolate shop can take one only so deep into the mysteries of interpersonal relationships. Even as I stroll to the counter to pay for my delicious new things, he is close by my side, talking about his life. I want to listen courteously, but the cashier is asking, "Do you care for a bag, Sir?" I half-listen to my talkative host, feeling guilty for not giving him all of the attention he is giving me. I am relieved when I head for the door, and our deal is done: He gets a few things off his chest, and I clutch my sweet treasures.

Cappuccino and Blueberry Croissants.

After our errands we are on our way to Monterey with one quick stop in Los Gatos to see a friend I haven't seen in years. As we pull into the hamlet nestled in the Santa Cruz foothills, I wonder how Anna might be doing in this neck of the California woods. Anna is Armenian. She and her family moved here from Armenia about six years ago. Initially they all lived in a two-bedroom apartment in San Jose, but their new life in America was good to them, and when I left the area several years ago, Anna and her family were moving into a beautiful home in the hills of Santa Cruz.

Who is to say why we make the decisions we do. One thing is for sure: The more decisions we make, the more likely some of them will turn out to be wrong. Moving to the Santa Cruz Mountains was the wrong decision for Anna. Hard times have descended on this simple family, who just wanted life in America to be much like it was in Armenia. They wanted their little house in the hills. They lost it in Armenia and they are losing it in America.

We had agreed to meet at Anna's coffee and pastry shop. When I walk in with hopes of surprising her, Anna is delighted to see me. Stoic and graceful, she walks towards me and extends her solid, diligent hands for a gentle embrace. "What can I treat you to?" she smiles with characteristic Armenian hospitality.

We order a cappuccino and a blueberry croissant, then sit and talk. I cannot help but stare at her extraordinary features. What's striking is the face I don't see; obvious physical signs of the years she suffered in Armenia as a vital part of a family struggling to stay alive just aren't apparent. Her face bespeaks of dutiful years of inner peace, of doing the best one can do to make it work.

Anna's father's father is Greek and her mother's mother is Turkish. You can see the vestiges of her Roman heritage still written on her distinguished face. Her family and her pride will remain intact, just as it has through the long line of her forefathers. Anna will survive this present wave of mêlée to make a place for herself in family history. Her roots are sturdy and deep. Her antediluvian links to the spirit of the survivor are unbreakable and indestructible.

A customer walks in, and like a programmed robot, Anna rises to her feet, determined and purposeful. Once again she plays her part in the struggle to keep a family intact, to keep her roots deeply moored.

Monterey, Pacific Grove, and Asilomar.

Nothing can prepare you for this panorama of ocean, wind, surf, rocky coast, and sand. Some time ago I lived in Monterey for almost two years. I've returned numerous times since, but I am still overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of this little corner of the world. My videotapes can attest to the beauty, but who has time to watch? The thousands of tourists who visit this spot each year can attest to the natural beauty, but it is winter now, and I welcome the relative solitude. The days are too cool and the wind too brisk for those summertime faint hearts.

Today the bright sun lights up the entire ocean view. I stand with my friend, watching in awe as the waves come crashing into the rocks and splash high mists of foamy white sea. I search for aquatic life, especially the California Sea Otters, who love to roll around in the kelp. None are now in sight, but my disappointment doesn't last very long. I revel in the other grand sights and distinctive smells of the ocean environment. A few joggers, walkers, and bikers pass by, each going in a different direction, each barely acknowledge the existence of the other. I don't blame them. Their hypnotized minds are like mine, no doubt: lost at sea.

My friend offers a theory about the power of the ocean to polarize any negative energy that may cling to us. She elaborates on why the ocean is such a great source for recharging our inner battery. I know that I can feel some sort of uncontainable force in the wind, on the waves, beneath and around me, relaxing me, soothing me. That magnetic pull draws my spirit further and further away from land. I yearn to linger near the ocean's edge as it beckons me to lose myself completely.

I climb seaward on one of the larger rock formations. The waves crash around me — any closer, and I would fall into the ocean. From my vantage point I imagine that I am standing in the ocean. It would appear that way from a distance. Only the low tide prevents me from slipping under the cold, salty water. A few hours later, say nine o'clock tonight, and my perch on the rocks would be completely submerged. The thought frightens me. I turn away from the sea and head back for the steadfast shore, then turn back as if to thank the sea for letting me get so close to her. She, like a creature in the wild, is totally unconcerned with my presence, and keeps jumping and dancing, dancing and jumping in celebration of her own beautiful existence.