7. How Are Things In La Gomera?

It had been 16 months since we had seen each other. We last met in Paris in late September of ’04 and then traveled back to Berlin together. We went to the island of Usedom, on the Baltic Sea, and walked the beach to the border of Poland. It was a wonderful trip. After that, Life got in the way. I had rotator cuff surgery in February of ’05 so I couldn’t travel. Cerstin was supposed to come to L.A. after a business junket to Houston but she was recalled to Berlin when the Chancellor called a special election. After that, I booked a summer flight to Berlin. Talk was cheap but actions were more impressive. I had taken stock of my life and it’s wants and needs and discovered that what made me happy was being with Cerstin. It was illogical for her to move to L.A. because of her job and her son. But there was nothing stopping me from moving to Berlin.

My friends were all in my corner. Most reacted to my plight with a resounding, “Are you crazy? Move to Berlin. That is so romantic?” Of course that sentiment was expressed by women. Tom, of course had a slightly different take on it. We were on a long, grueling yet beautiful, bike ride along the Pacific Coast Highway when we pulled over to take a break at our usual scenic lookout. As we stood there munching on Powerbars I broke into our conversation by saying “I believe that Rule 37 of the Best Friend’s code of conduct requires me to tell you that I am going to Germany to propose to Cerstin.” I told him that I had written out my proposal and had it translated into German so that there would be no doubt as to my intentions. That was a big step for me. Not proposing to Cerstin. That was the easy part. The hard part was informing my best friend that although he would be my Best Man I would in all likelihood be moving to Berlin. There was an awkward, silent acknowledgement of that eventuality when suddenly, two F-18s from the Point Magu naval air base, screamed low and hard past us about 3000 feet above the deck.

“Holy shit!”
“That is soooo cool!”

And just that quickly we were back to being just a couple of guys, goofing off on a weekend.

Of course that trip never happened. Cerstin got a deal to write a book about German politics and the economy and waved me off, saying that she was too crazy to take time off for my visit. I continued to write and e-mail and call but her responses grew less and less. Finally, I received a long, tear-stained letter saying everything that she had been neglecting to say. She clung to the memories of our time together but the reality was that we could never recapture that magic. I was too much of an American (her words). I would never adjust to life in “Little Europe” She was too entrenched in her life to leave. She expressed disappointment that when I had last visited Berlin I didn’t do more to find a job. As a single mom of a teenage son she had no intention of being financially responsible for another person. Fair enough.

This then was the fundamental difference between us. I don’t know if it was a man/women thing or an American/German thing or simple a me/her thing. I think she had been waiting for me to demonstrate that I was going to take a responsible approach to a life together; meaning, give up my life in L.A., secure a job and move to Berlin. She often made reference to a t-shirt I had when we first met. On the back was a quote from Get Shorty that read, “What’s the point of living in L.A. if you’re not in the movie business?” Well, I was willing to leave L.A., the HDTV, the car, football, and my friends…. But I would only do it for Love. Cerstin had laid out what it would take for me to be with her but so far she hadn’t said the words I needed to hear that would impel me to give them all up. It was only three words, but she had yet to say them. It appeared, from her letter, that she would not being saying them.

When I was planning my trip my trip to Europe I e-mailed her to say that I was coming. I thought it would be a shame to not tell her, and that if she had any desire to get together I would work that into my trip. She said that she had booked a week in the Canary Islands and that if I wanted to come there that’s where she would be. Not exactly an engraved invitation but it was something. At least we would have a chance to talk in person and clear the air. I cared for her too much to let the awkwardness of our diminished relationship linger. Besides, when would I ever have a reason to see the Canary Islands? How bad could it be?
The day before I booked my ticket I once again e-mailed her to make sure that she wanted me there on her vacation. She responded, “John, come to La Gomera for a few days. Please.” That’s pretty straightforward. Over the course of the next few weeks she sent me more information on where we would be staying. This was the afore mentioned directions detailing the small village of Vueltas, in the area of Valle Glen Rey, that I had for the most part ignored. I began to bone up on my German with an online course. It was now approaching Valentine’s Day so I sent her an e-card in German. She immediately wrote back, thanking me for the card but once again she felt she had to tell me that we were not a couple anymore. I’m starting to get that “Uh oh” feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I call her and we hash things out. I get it, I tell her. You’re letter was very clear. It was just a silly Valentine’s Day card. And people wonder why I normally don’t celebrate the stupid holiday. That’s what I get for being sentimental.

And yet; here we were. Sipping coffee at an outdoor café in the Canary Islands, overlooking a tranquil blue/green harbor dotted with small multi-colored fishing boats. Cerstin brought me up to speed on her first few days here. The apartment she had originally booked was a rat hole. A friend in Berlin had recommended it to her; She said that the first night she had barricaded herself in her room. The next day, exhausted and depressed, she was at another café, crying into her coffee. She laid her head down on the table not knowing quite what to do.

Two German men approached and asked if they could join her as the other tables were full. In the course of their talks Cerstin mentioned her horrible accommodations. The guys offered to help her find a new place as they had been coming to La Gomera for years and knew the place quite well. One of them spoke fluent Spanish as well. They got her settled into a top floor apartment with a huge outdoor terrace that overlooked the village and the Atlantic Ocean. It was only €38 a day, or about $45. I had told Cerstin to book whatever she could find and that we would split the cost. $23.50 a day in the Canary Islands!

As we clamored up the staircase to the third floor Cerstin pointed out that there was only one bedroom with two small beds. She said that she knew I would be tired so I could have the bedroom and she would sleep on the couch in the dining room/kitchen area.

Let’s allow that to sink in as well….

“Why don’t we each just take a bed?” I ignorantly asked. “John…!” She began to admonish me –
“I know. I know.” I pleaded, “It just seems silly not to sleep in a perfectly good bed.”

Back and forth went this discussion. I was, by now, feeling the need to be chivalrous, when in reality what I wanted was to be a martyr for the cause in order to abate the angst that was beginning to brew in me. “I’ll sleep on the couch then.” I proclaimed, but Cerstin was adamant, and as I have learned the hard way, there was no dissuading her once her mind was made up. I would stay in the bedroom.

We sat out on the terrace and drank a beer and then decided to walk around the village. I refer to it as such to describe its size and not to give the impression that it is some rustic banana plantation. There is a narrow, twisting street that winds down from our apartment to the water’s edge. It is intersected by another “main” street; by which I mean, a narrow pedestrian-way that is used primarily by small trucks delivering goods to the shops, bars and restaurants that inhabit the labyrinth of alleyways and offshoots of these two main arteries. The only legitimate road starts at the harbor and follows the coast, west, for a mile or so; to the next resort village of La Playa. There it turns inland and begins its ascent and assault upon the mountains. I gather that, an hour later, if you’re lucky, you end up in the main port of San Sebastian.

Cerstin and I walked along this road toward La Playa; the newer, nicer, cleaner resort. That’s not meant to pooh-pooh the rustic, third world charm of Vueltas, where we’re staying. La Playa is for tourists that go to an island and still need cable TV and laundry service. Halfway down the road we turn in to a field of banana trees. Or is it a grove? Whatever. Hidden by the bananas was a green and white, clapboard building, that for the sake of argument we’ll call a restaurant. We sat down and had an early dinner with a delectable Spanish wine served in dirty glasses; or almost – until Cerstin sent them back – much to the unappreciative surprise of our waiter, who then sent another guy to deal with us. I ordered tuna and Cerstin had the chocos (squid) which was all locally caught. I seem to recall us laughing but I don’t remember the conversation. I do know that it was nice to make her laugh and I told her as much. The sun had long since set and we walked home, arm in arm, under a brilliant pinpoint canopy of stars. I could see constellations that I hadn’t seen in over 40 years. The sound of the waves lapping against the smooth lava rocks on the beach provided a smoothing bass to the staccato, soprano croaks of the frogs tucked deep within the banana forest.

The events of my day of travel finally caught up with me and I was ready to turn in. I made one last appeal for the couch but I lost (or won, depending on your point of view). We hugged, said goodnight and went in different directions.


The next morning Cerstin was feeling the affects of sleeping on a plywood couch with a modicum of padding on it. She began to set things up for breakfast on the terrace. Bread, cheese, meat, Nutella and coffee. Exactly what we would be eating if we were at her flat in Berlin. She said that Ule and Radiger, the guys that found this place for her, were coming over for breakfast. They had some suggestions for a nice hike that Cerstin and I could go on today.

They arrived around 9:30. Both were tall, gregarious. Slightly older guys. Probably early to mid-fifties. They brought fresh bread and local goat cheese and a couple of avocadoes. Ule was a doctor and Radiger owed his own business. They had known each other since University and their humor reflected that of guys that had spent a lot of time together. Ule was married with two kids and Radiger, so I gathered, was divorced with two kids. They said that they take a “guys” trip every year. Sometimes to places other than La Gomera, but mostly here. I couldn’t tell if perhaps this was some sort of Brokeback Mountain retreat or if they just got a week off form their families to do guy things. It’s not my place to judge. They both spoke fluent English but we did occasionally run into situations where they couldn’t find the right word to express a thought. It was like a parlor game. They would offer a very detailed, yet circuitous, explanation of some concept or definition and I would have to try and discern the most appropriate word. We enjoyed a nice morning together before they left for a day of rest, as they had taken a long hike the day before.

They bid us farewell and Cerstin and I cleaned up and got ready to head out ourselves. I grabbed my camera and two large bottles of water and stuffed them into my backpack; which truth be told, was designed to hold a laptop, not hike the backcountry of a mountainous island. I asked Cerstin if we should take a couple of bananas and she said yes. I also packed a couple of light jackets as I figured it might get cold and windy. We slathered on some sunscreen and headed out the door. God help me.