My cell phone is broken. A conspicous brown spot has appeared on the backseat of my once spotless six-month-old car. A fine film of sand covers the entire flooring surface of my home. There’s gum on my wall.
But quiet has returned to my home. I’m not exactly sure how I feel about that. I wouldn’t necessarily say that quiet is better.
When I said goodbye to the chicas at the airport, I felt unexpectedly choked up. I was going to miss their crazy ramen songs and impersonations of impersonations of celebrities. I would no longer be peppered with questions about politics, environmentalism, or Greek mythology in the most unusual of surroundings. I’d also have to go back to work, dagnabbit.
I hope the chicas have taken with them lots of memories that they’ll cherish for years to come. For me, my favorite memory was when the two embraced me out of nowhere and stared up at me with impish grins. When I asked what they were up to, they just shrugged and said, “Nothing, we just wanted to hug you.”
“I’m going to enjoy this moment,” I said gazing down at them as they snuggled closer while still wriggling with pre-teen antsiness. “In a few years, you’re going to hate me.” Why is that? they asked, such a thought still inconceivable. “Because most teenagers have disdain” — they’d already heard this word many times on their trip — “for adults. I did.”
“That won’t happen,” Micaela insisted, shaking her head emphatically. “You’re just a big kid.”
I’ll remind her of that sentence the first time she rolls her eyes when I offer advice. Oh, wait…
Day 1: Las Super Chicas Invade LA
Day 2: Santa Monica and the Hollywood Bowl
Day 3: Raging Waters, Raging Chicas
Day 4: Disneyland and California Misadventure
Day 5: I Think They’re Turning Japanese
Day 6: El Capitan, La Brea Tar Pits, Friends and Family
Day 7: Sin Chicas, Silencio