The Trip

With the slightest remains of a hangover and a nauseous stomach, we braved one last January evening in New York City. The snow was falling outside and our faces were frozen. We'd just completed a successful date profiling at a local bar when we felt it safe to allow her sister to have dinner with the young man. He was harmless, a web engineer, 35 and a heart of gold. Harmless and hopeless at the same time. We both smiled at each other and said "This will last about 10 minutes." We braved the outdoors and trekked through my favorite part of New York's Village, Stanton and Allen. We slid down the icy sidewalk looking for a warm meal. We passed by wine bars and local clubs focused on filling our bellies with a warm meal. I don't remember scouring too many menus before we stumbled through a tiny door, blindly drowning into a giant red velvet drape. As we reached light, we found ourselves in a quaint Italian restaurant called Frankies. According to the menu, it was the oldest Italian restaurant in the Village. We devoured our meal, drank incredible wine and stared at one another for two hours. I think I ate short ribs, and she enjoyed ravioli. It didn't really matter, it was our first trip together and we could finally enjoy freedom from it all. It was the first time we put it all away and just focused on each other. I think it was the first time we truly realized how in love we were with one another. She looked amazing, with her giant green orbs staring through me. They pierced my heart and mesmerized me.

Our table was situated right by the door, so each time a new diner passed through the red drape, a zero degree draft would burst through and glaze our faces. Fortunately our table was only about 24 inches across in diameter, so as the wind blew, our hands, then arms, then noses rubbed closer to each other. By the end of the evening our only impediment from a full embrace was a 2 foot piece of pine that held an empty bottle of wine and two red stained glasses. I'd never felt this emotion, it wasn't just love, it was a feeling of life. A life restored from the dead and resurrected for one final dance before it was all to end. I felt a sense of desperation as I knew this was one of those moments that I should pause and record.

The painted bricks to her left, the brown and orange scarf in her hair, the white bracelet, her laugh, the red drape and the music. It was as if a soundtrack was playing to this very scene. I actually stopped her and asked "What song is this, I've never heard it and it's amazing?" She looked at me and said, "I have no clue, let's ask." So as our waiter approached we both looked at him and in unison asked, "What song is this?" He had no clue, but checked with the owner, came back and said, "It's the owner's iPod playing and it's a band called Midlake." He pronounced it Midlak-E...So we copied accordingly and called the band by the same name. Later that year, at SXSW, we embarrassingly discovered the band preferred to be called Mid-Lake, like it looks. He wrote it down on a Frankie's comment card, I folded it and placed it in my pocket. The romance of the evening continued on and we braved the bitter chill of New York City in January. Our faces frozen the winter breeze, were only warmed by the evening's last kiss. She buried herself into my newly acquired Marc Jacobs jacket and I carried her home, back to the warmth of our giant bed.

As the evening closed, I undressed and put on a giant sweatshirt and sweatpants, she the same. I plopped down on the bed and noticed a small card open on the ground. I bent over, grabbed it and read the simple word...Midlake. I had to hear the song again. To relive the evening's joy. I jumped out of bed, snatched my laptop from it's bag and plugged it in. iTunes connected automatically through the hotel's Wi-Fi connection. I typed Midlake into the search field and five albums appeared. I had no idea which one it was so I clicked on the most recent release The Trials of Van Occupanther.

The album's covered displayed two men, one sitting the other standing in the woods. They looked as if they were forced to dress up to impress their girlfriends at bad Shakespearian Renaissance Festival. Never-the-less, I moved on from the cover and played the first track. It was Roscoe, the song playing at our dinner and it was amazing. A guitar riff stolen from Lindsey Buckingham and a vocal never before heard. The lyrics were referring to a villager who ventured to the outside world, discovering what the world had to offer. Upon his return he couldn't reconnect with his past. As if the present poisoned his past. I listened intently as he spoke of 1891 and his fear of change, but the inevitable outcome of growth. He was forever changed and could never go back. He crossed that line and once you do so, your life will never be the same. He spoke of sadness only to be replaced by the joy of moving on. It spoke to my heart as I stroked her hair as she slept. Her auburn locks draping over my leg and my hand caressing her curls. I looked down and saw my present, as my past would slowly being devoured.

Track 2, Bandits, was a marvelous description of life anew. It's amazing how human nature perpetuates the same patterns whether you're living in today's iPod, Wi-Fi world or in 1891, when your cabin was robbed and you're left with only a fox and an apple. I felt as if I was left in the same predicament. My past was now gone and I was sitting here with my new fox on my leg and an apple...iPod that is. I was forced to start over, though I had already come so far, I had chosen this path for my happiness. Bandits quoted:

Did you ever want to be overrun by bandits;
to hand over all of your things and start over new?
while we were out hunting for food
our house was being robbed
I caught an apple and she caught a fox
so I caught a rabbit but she caught an ox

so upon our return, we found everything gone
which for us was no loss
and we started over

It's amazing where you discover that album you've never heard. For me, during this time of life, I discovered them amongst my deepest and most love inspiring moments. I lay in this hotel bed, with a set of headphones blaring and the love of my life sleeping on my chest. It was at that moment when Track 8 came on...We Gathered in Spring. Ironically, I begged for spring in this chilly New York moment. The song's aching lullaby and the 70s driven organ were all overshadowed by the acoustic guitar. This song connected with me like no other....

I'm tired of being here
On this hill
Where I'm sure to find my last meal
No-one lives to be three hundred years

The sadness of the inevitable and the truth that yes this could be where you eat your last meal, on this hill. I was hoping that this was the first track of the album and not the last. The hopeful discovery of life in Roscoe and the rebirth of life on Bandits were only swallowed by the sadness of Spring. It's almost as if he the first half of the album was a dream only to be drowned by the reality of spring gathering and life's inevitability of the choices you may be permanently affixed to. I found this album liberating and it spoke to me like no other.

I placed my head on the pillow next to hers and whispered into her ear, "There is no hill, I have my apple and you are my fox."

Morrison