The road is dusty and tumbleweed-strewn. Very in keeping with the desert setting. The view just a monotonous nickelodeon of barren and industrial post-apocalyptic nothing. Something slouched toward and laid waste to this abandoned terrain. But this road trip would ultimately prove to be a lesson in perplexing juxtapositions. How even in the most desolate of wastelands one can find rejuvenating oases. The cactus flower blooms obstinately, I learn.
Polly prances up the oblong steps of Salvation Mountain. Wind in her hair and sand in our shoes. The sun makes a languid descent under the horizon and Polly’s blouse is a wash of colours and shadows from the dimming rays. It’s a mirage of biblical proportions. Both her and the destination.
Polyanthi is from Athens and, as such, it’s simple to swallow the Grecian influence of her Hellenistic beauty. Keats said it best musing earnestly upon an urn: “Beauty is truth, truth beauty. That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.” A succinct capture of the pulchritudinous Polly, Johnny Boy. A walking hyperbole, her. One of music and grace and tender of face.
Greece is frequently and fiercely flayed on the front page of the news. Which makes the introduction of Polly all the more refreshing and upbeat on our shores. She’s Greek and miles away from anything redolent of riots, economic turmoil, and all-around collapse emanating from the cradle of democracy. Quite swiftly does she snatch those media fueled misconceptions and sway you irreversibly to one verifiable conclusion: Greece has a lovely ambassador in her.
Before I’m irretrievably overtaken by her sopping je ne sais quoi I endeavor to nock and loose my quiver of go-to questions. Take aim and hope for optimal accuracy. Eyes closed, of course, as looking directly at that sightly visage and tumble of hair perpetually passis crinibus would be too much for this under-duress ticker of mine.
I let the first fly.
“So, what was for breakfast this morning?”
“Lentil soup and a ton of broccoli.”
Nourishing and novel. I wait with bated breath for the day they make Pop Tarts in that flavour. It’s probably the only avenue vegetables and non-gravy based foodstuffs will ever make it down my gullet.
“A triptych of questions: What do you love? What are you afraid of? And what’s in your pockets at moment?”
“I love exploring.”
This was but all too evident as she weaved and traversed every inch of Salvation Mountain. The acrid air of the Salton Sea nearby oxidizes and erodes everything but her enthusiasm for skipping, scrambling, and scrounging around the riot of colourful hay bales that populate the spectacle.
“I’m afraid of coyotes.”
I understand the aversion. I’m sure coyotes are rankled by her presence too. Such is their relationship to the Acme brand firecracker that she is.
“And I have a crumpled grocery list in my pocket.”
Crumpled or not; that’s one nice space to be embedded. Marooned in her dainty pocket sounds like some kind of Promised Land. My courtesy was fraying thin as I resisted the compulsion to confess that aloud. Frightful of any lull in conversation and the prospect of having to silently tread water in her tsunami of willowiness, I continued to yank back arrow after arrow of questions and sent them whizzing through the air. As per Thermopylae, my arrows blotted out the sun.
“What’s your least favourite word?”
“Snails,” said with a snarl.
“If you could have dinner with any historical figure; who’d it be?”
There wasn’t a speck of pause. “Lady Bird Johnson.”
I didn’t think anyone wanted to have dinner with Lady Bird Johnson. I’m not even sure Lyndon Johnson wanted to have dinner with her. But Polly was eager to jump into the vacated seat and break bread with Lady Bird. Enthusiastically.
Polly would like to thank the Presidential Medal of Freedom recipient personally for the enactment of the Highway Beautification Act. And she wouldn’t dare allow Lady Bird to reach for her purse once the cheque arrives. In fact, she decides, Polly would like to treat the former First Lady to a home-cooked meal. Considerate and all class. That’s her in spades.
This was the best answer I could’ve expected.
“During all your travels, what was the most valuable lesson you learned?”
“To always allow yourself enough time to get to the departure gate of your plane, train, or catamaran,” her frowny reply.
“What colour are your socks?”
It was at this point in the inquisition Polly began to get a little suspicious of the validity of the questions. Perceptive too, it seems. So the following is a character sketch of her I was able to cobble together before the answers ran dry:
She’s never performed a somersault. She’s not homesick for Greece but she does miss meandering around the city aimlessly. Walking is a privilege that Los Angeles sometimes casts aside insouciantly. She’s not one to hit the snooze button, go-getter as she is. She has a bruise on her leg that is baffling to her and I in origin. And when pressed if she had a happy childhood she answers not without a hint of rascality, “I did okay.”
The gleaming orbs she calls peepers drink every last drop of colour from Salvation Mountain. Polly’s neck cranes horizon-ward and we watch the day creak to retire. I could hear the mental horology gears ticking furiously as she works out existence and the cosmos in her head as effortlessly as an economist calculates tip. Pondering the dusk, I could tell she had a lot of plates spinning in her cranium wobble-free.
She smirks and starts the march down the mountain. And I can hear the distant din of dishes crashing to the ground. Shattered and plinking. As Greek tradition dictates.
Follow-up disclosure:
Mismatched and pastel. Of course.