A Man Worth Writing For

Once, you asked me to never write about you again. 

I'm sorry, but that's the only promise I've made to you that I can't keep.

Our worlds collided on a sunny Monday morning in late March. I stepped onto the first city express bus, and when I looked up after dipping my ticket into the machine my heart jolted in its chest. You were sitting on the right-hand side of the bus, third seat to the back. 

It was too late to pretend I hadn't seen you, like I'd done a couple of times with other people I'd run into from high school over the years. No, your eyes and mine had already locked and there was no pretending that I didn't recognise you. So I put on my most nonchalant smile, walked as calmly down the aisle as I could and took the seat behind you. 

"Adam Ward." It was more of a statement than a greeting. You smiled back at me and I hid my hands under my thighs so you wouldn't see them trembling. See, I've never been good at the whole small talk thing. People think I am, and trust me, I put on the best possible act that I can in the moment but the truth is I have horrible social anxiety. Walking into a party full of people is my worst nightmare, so being trapped for an hour with the class smartass I wasn't friends with in school and hadn't seen for 12 years wasn't the most ideal Monday morning bus ride to work. 

But somewhere within that hour between Narrabeen and Wynyard I became enarmoured with the sound of your laugh and hungry to hear it again and again. No one else existed. When we reached our stop it was only then I realised the bus had slowly filled around us with businessmen and women.

Reluctantly, I said goodbye when it was time to go our separate ways but later was startled by the way my heart soared at receiving your first text message.

It was a strange mixture of feelings, those first couple of weeks. I felt like you knew me, like you saw past everything and straight into my soul but I couldn't separate this man I had met on the bus from the high school clown, and I was scared. I was scared to let go because too many years had been carefully spent healing and trying to toughen each layer upon layer and then you had just quietly appeared out of nowhere and I felt myself unfolding, dangerously.

Surely, surely it's all a trick. Why would you meet me for the second time on my birthday and take me out for lunch? Why would you meet me after work on a Friday, get me drunk, kiss me tenderly and walk away without the mention of sex? But finally, it was on Narrabeen beach on a starry Sunday night, staring at the night sky and wrapped up against your warm skin, I knew that this was a deep and true love. 

A maddening, sickening, free-falling sort of love that left my knees consistently weak and my eyes stained with the colour of roses. 

I couldn't be apart from you for a moment, so you never left my warm little studio on Ocean Street. My soul recognised you as its mate from another lifetime and nothing was going to tear us apart now that we'd found each other again.

So I guess then that the first fight was a shock. Your molten eyes became cold and hard. I was so desperate to bring that warmth back but so erratic in my own anger that our little love nest became a battlefield. I'd never experienced anything like this in any other relationship and the aftermath left me feeling devastated. So I did the only thing I knew best and I wrote about it. You read it, and I know it wounded you deeply. My sword had found its mark.
We were learning so much about each other in such a short amount of time that all the differences began surfacing and I was beginning to understand we were people of opposite minds. My head was a constant lecturer: it won't work, it kept insisting. But my heart... No, my soul continued to fight for you, to remind me that a love this great was worth the fall. 

Slowly, I began to understand your anger. It had planted its seed in you from an early age, eating dinner as a little boy while your father yelled at you for putting your elbows on the table. When he slammed the table with his fist unexpectedly. When he packed up and left your mother and your sister and you for his other family. When years later your heart was shattered into a thousand tiny pieces by your first love. 
I was seeing the bigger picture and understood the children inside ourselves had been bruised by our fathers and we needed to be sensitive with each other, to compromise and work together through the anger and the differences. 

And soon I began to see him; that little boy. He stole your face while you slept. He demanded pizza when you were sick with a stomach virus. Looking into your eyes, I tried searching for the angry man who months before we had met had head-butted one man in a fight and pulled a knife on another, but I couldn't see him. 
I knew he hadn't vanished, but he was just tucked away now, somewhere deep inside. In his place was; is the most incredible, beautiful, sweetest, strongest human being I have ever known. A man who makes me laugh every day, who makes me realise my potential as a woman and a man I know I will continue loving into my afterlife. 
And I'm not afraid anymore. I've stood naked before you with every layer unpeeled and every nerve, fibre and blood vessel exposed, and you have found me beautiful still. 
I know the path ahead together will be rocky at times, but I would take a million falls in life to wake up every morning next to you. You are worth the fight. You are worth the heartache that follows and the stinging, salty tears. Because I know that after all of that will be the endless windy kisses, the smiles brighter than fire, the laughter louder than thunder and the home I have been searching for my entire life and have finally found, in your arms. 

LuLu In The Sky With Diamonds

The world outside keeps turning,

inside this room it’s still.
Time itself became stuck in time

on the day that you got ill.
Now the colours of the world

blend into black and brown and grey.
We take turns holding your calloused hands

hoping today you won’t slip away.
Nanny, stay a little while longer.

do you have to leave this soon?
I don't want to share you with the stars;

the earth, the sun or the moon.
As we watch you sleep I realise
I’m so frightened to let go
of the lady who bathed me in her kitchen sink
24 years ago…

You filled the space of my missing parent,

my first smile belongs to you.
You were the safe harbour for this little ship

as she loved and learnt and grew.
I would climb up onto your lap at night   

and when tucked within your embrace,
trace with my fingers the echoes of War
in the creases of your face.

And now finally all these years later,
I am coming undone at the seams
As I sit beside your bed and watch
you wrestle and choke against dreams.
I ache to reach out and save you
from the touch of death’s caress,
To have you hold me one last time
against the comfort of your breast.
Time becomes unstuck for a moment,
and then you open your eyes;
I find myself drowning in baby blue
as my crote says her final goodbyes.
Then suddenly the loud silence -
we feel your grip on life release;
and in that silence I have never seen
a person look so much at peace.
That afternoon became overcast
but the gathering clouds did not cry,
For soon my Nanny's soaring spirit
would be dancing with them in the sky.

When morning came, so did the sun 

and I could feel your smile in its warmth,
Mother Earth, awake at last, 
sent the colours of the world forth.
They spilled out onto the ocean like diamonds,
a scattering of baby blue.
I realise now I wasn’t gazing at the sea,
Instead; I was gazing at you.
Your spirit glows in everything;
the dust, the grass, the trees,
I can even hear your voice whispering
in the rustle of the leaves.
And there’s also the memories I have of us
that burn like flames within my heart;
If I keep them there and hold them close
We will never be apart.

Happy birthday Nanny, thank you for being the best Grandmother in the world. Not a day goes by that I don't miss the sound of your laugh or the smell of your skin. This blog might be about finding my father and his family but it's also about finding myself along the way, and you were such a big part of making me who I am. I hope I make you proud most of the time (I'm also aware there are times I probably horrify you as well, sorry about that) and although it's been nearly three years since you passed I know you are still looking out for me. I hope as I write this you and Grandpa are dancing slowly in the clouds, young again and in love with nothing but an eternal stretch of time together. 

All my love forever,

Tushka 

Hugo Hunted

I'm sitting in the visitors' centre at Channings Wood prison, concentrating hard on keeping back the bile slowly rising in my throat. It is 1:30pm and in half an hour I will be let into the room where I will meet my father for the first time in 22 years. Around me, vibrant chatter is filling up the room from the other visitors and to distract myself I study them silently. A 'chav' is signing in and I am slightly amused by how well she fits the stereotype. Her hair is slicked back into a severe ponytail and she is wearing heavy eye make-up, track pants and a tight tank top that shows off her flat stomach. I can smell the stench of cigarette smoke emanating from her across the room and she is laughing hoarsely with a volunteer who is checking people in. She mentions she is here to visit her boyfriend and is soon striking up conversation with a young mother who is briskly pushing the pram containing her baby boy back and forth as she talks loudly about the long journey she has made on the train to get here. Diagonally across from me, a well-dressed middle-aged couple sit together, holding hands and talking quietly amongst themselves. A beefed-up guy with a shaved head wearing tight jeans and a wife-beater singlet shifts next to me. I look up at him and he is staring at the tattoo on my left arm. His narrowed blue eyes look up and meet mine and I can see him registering the rising panic in them. 

"Alright love?" 

I force a tight smile and nod, then turn away to discreetly study the lady sitting directly opposite me. I guess her to be in her mid 50's, with mildly greying brown curls, a walking stick for possibly a bad hip and kindly eyes. For a good 10 minutes I wonder who she is visiting, then come to the conclusion it is a wayward son. Maybe he fell in with a bad crowd and lost his way? No, he took the fall for someone else. I am satisfied with this conclusion and just as I am beginning to relax, the shadow of the volunteer clouds my vision and I look up into her face, creased with concern.

"Are you okay, sweetheart? You seem quite pale!"

I dig the fingernails of my left hand into my right palm and focus on a silver wisp of hair that has settled on her forehead. I struggle to remember her name and fail.

"I… yes I'm…" My voice breaks slightly and I take a deep breath and try again. "This is just my first time and I haven't seen him for 22 years. We haven't seen each other for 22 years. Me and my dad, I mean." 
My voice sounds shrill and alien to me and has come out a couple of octaves too high. I am aware of a few pairs of eyes on me and flush, embarrassed.

"I'm sure he will be very pleased to see you and everything will be wonderful," she offers kindly and pats my shoulder. The human contact in such a gentle manner pushes me over the edge and before I can control myself I lurch forward, letting a shocked sob escape. I stand up abruptly before I become wracked with more and run out into the drizzly English afternoon. Earlier that morning I had taken nearly 2 hours carefully applying make-up, doing my hair and picking out the perfect outfit. Now my cheeks are streaked with mascara and my hair is a wet mess. My father won't think I'm beautiful at all and I berate myself miserably. After a few minutes of deep breathing I calm down enough to return inside, eyes on the floor, and take my place back on the seat next to beefed-up guy who is pretending to be enthralled by something on the wall. I glance at the clock and it's now 1:52pm. In 8 minutes I will be staring into my father's eyes. Will they be small and brown like mine? Will I see myself in them? Anxiety knots my stomach and I try to think about how I got here again to take my mind off the clock fast approaching 2:00pm.

I had returned to the hostel from Victoria Station exhausted. When I entered my room I was dismayed to find the French guy still asleep in my bed. Instead of kicking him out like I had so boldly told myself I would earlier that morning, I decided to pass some time by heading out and getting a coffee instead. After an hour of struggling through another drawn-out chapter of Vikram Seth's 'A Suitable Boy' at a nearby cafe, I returned to my room and this time closed the door loudly as I entered, causing the French guy to wake up in a rather startled manner. 

"Afternoon!" I chirped enthusiastically. "I'm so sorry for waking you. Bloody door is so heavy."

He rubbed his eyes and yawned. 
"It's okay, thanks for letting me sleep in your bed. How was Devon?"

I smiled bitterly. 
"Devon didn't quite happen, I ran into some complications. But I'll head out there on Monday."

We chatted for a while and I discovered that he was in actual fact not an attractive French guy, but an attractive Russian guy named Sergei. We touched on common topics like uni, writing and weed. After he left with empty promises of later returning with a spliff, I lay in bed for hours, eyes wide and unfocused on the ceiling and accepting that by the third hour sleep was not going to be arriving any time soon on its dark horse to take me away. In the late afternoon I decided I would go and watch Looper at a Leicester Square cinema to take my mind off what the hell I was actually doing here. I sat alone at the back of the cinema with my box of popcorn and it turned out that watching Looper proved to be a great distraction. I was thoroughly impressed with Joseph Gordon Levitt's interpretation of a younger Bruce Willis and left the movies feeling the closest to normal I'd felt in a while. I returned to my dorm and settled in for a good night's sleep. Tomorrow I would check out some museums and attempt to be a better tourist. There was no point speculating on the task ahead on Monday, I would leave sleep deprivation for Sunday night. As I curled up into a fetal position, I felt my head grow heavy on my pillow and was soon lost to a black mass of dreams. Hours later I was abruptly awakened by the 7 German girls I was sharing my room with returning from a night out. The lights went on and a whole lot of door slamming and squealing ensued. There was one girl standing right next to me with her head inches from mine, laughing loudly and talking in rapid German while the others screeched in reaction. I checked my mobile for the time. 2:42am. I was fucking pissed but decided to give it a cool 30 minutes before being that person. 30 minutes and a whole lot of violent images of ending 7 lives with a machete later, the situation was continuing and I threw back my covers dramatically, hissed a vicious "for fuck's sake!" and climbed down the bunk bed slowly and deliberately before making a show of storming out of the dorm and slamming the door shut behind me. 

I was getting way too old for this shit. 

Up at reception I demanded to be moved to another room. Why the fuck was I roped in with a group of loud girls who I had heard speak English but refused to talk to me and made (for the second night in a row) a racket into the early hours of the morning? Generator could go fuck themselves, I wanted a new room. They told me I wasn't able to move to a new room tonight but could switch to another 8 bed dorm tomorrow at 2:00pm and the people in the room were all solo travellers like me. I sucked my breath in through my teeth and issued a sulky "fine" before heading back to the dorm for an awkward entrance. The girls were all staring at me as I made my way through the room back to my bunk. I stared one fat little brunette down before climbing up to my bed and immediately rolled over to face the wall. Tomorrow I would change rooms and meet new people, nice people. 

People a little bit like me. 

After a sound morning's sleep I checked out of the dorm and spent the day drinking coffee at Trafalgar Square, trawling over paintings at the National Gallery and watching (another) movie at Leicester Square - The Perks Of Being A Wallflower - in which I cried quietly into my popcorn in the sad moments I felt I could relate to and then laughed inappropriately loudly at the moments I found hilarious. I was starting to feel like that weird girl who spends way too much of her time alone, so after the movie I checked into my room and met Ahi, a Kiwi who was also cruising solo. The afternoon passed quickly with chatter about movies, New Zealand and city vs country. Soon a Scottish girl obsessed with Dean Cain joined us and the three of us talked and laughed softly into the night until sleep made our mouths slack and gently overcame us. 

In the morning I had breakfast with Ahi. He was talking about his mining job in Perth and I nodded and murmured but was really making mental notes on how white his teeth were in contrast to his dark face every time he laughed. I could feel my purpose slipping as I imagined myself leaning across the table and wiping the milk from the corner of his mouth, and decided it was time I leave to make a phone call to a certain prison. I could not afford to get distracted like this again, it was much better to just be alone. I wandered out of the hostel and down the street to where the reception got better and dialled the social visits number Mr Shah had given me. It was now past 10 and my heart fluttered against my chest as the phone rang out twice. On the third ring an English lady named Leanne answered and her pleasant tone gave me courage.

"Hi Leanne, my name is Tushka Sanchez and I'd like to book a visit to see my father." 

I was pleased with how strong my voice had come out. 

"Sure, Tushka! What's your father's name and when are you wanting to book the visit for?"

"As soon as possible. Tomorrow, actually. I've flown all the way from Australia and I'm actually meant to be leaving tomorrow but I can extend my flight if I'm able to meet with him. His name is Hugo Jose Sanchez." 

There was a pause and then Leanne asked for his prison number. Once I had given her the details she said she would see what she could do and call me back. I was preparing myself mentally for the unlikelihood of having the visit granted at such short notice when Ahi walked past. I called out to him and ran over. 

"Hey," I said rather awkwardly. I was flushed and shaking and couldn't imagine how I must have looked to him.

"Hey yourself," he said with a puzzled smile. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to organise a visit to my dad. He lives here in the UK." 

"He didn't know you were already here?" Ahi seemed surprised.

"Uh - no. It's a long story." 

My phone started to wail out 3 6 Mafia's 'Where's Da Bud'.

"Oh!" I was surprised at how quickly Leanne had called back. "I have to answer this, I think it's my dad. Hey, it was really good meeting you! Good luck with everything!"

Before he could respond I had answered the phone and was walking away. 

"Hi, Leanne. Thanks so much for calling back. Any luck?" I hoped she couldn't hear the desperation in my voice.

"Hi Tushka. Good news! I've managed to grant you permission to see your father tomorrow for the visiting hours between 2 - 4 pm. Just make sure you bring identification and we'll issue you your visiting order tomorrow when you arrive. Try to get there about half an hour early so you can check in at the visitors' centre."

I was speechless for a moment, then recovered myself in time to stifle a squeal.

"Oh Leanne, that's amazing! Thank you so much, you don't understand what you've done for me. Seriously, I can't even begin to explain how incredible this news is!"

Leanne laughed and I bade her goodbye before hanging up, ecstatic.

With a big grin on my face, I allowed myself a moment of triumph before running back to the hostel to check out. Soon I was all business again as I headed to an internet cafe to extend my flight to Spain by a day, book a bus to Devon and a night's accommodation in Newton Abbot, the little English town where my father's prison was tucked away from the world in. Whether or not he knew I was coming, I didn't care. Tomorrow was the day that had kept me up nearly every night for 22 years, whispering quietly into the dark the first words that I would say to him as I looked into his eyes. I was going to walk into that prison tomorrow with my shoulders back and my head held high and make the man who left me all those years ago wish he'd been there to see me grow into the woman that I'd become.

14:00. I am having trouble breathing. Please God, Allah, Buddha, Pachamama, whoever. Please don't let me have an anxiety attack, not today and not at this moment! I close my eyes and breathe in deeply. I will not crumble now, not after all the strength it's taken just to get me here. I snap my head up as the volunteer calls each of us out as numbers. 

"…and number 7. Please hand over your visiting orders and then proceed down to the prison."

I stand up shakily and half stumble over to her. 

"I don't have an order yet because I only booked my visit yesterday," I say, my voice above a whisper. She nods and smiles at me. 

"That's alright sweetheart, you'll be issued yours down at the prison when you show them your ID."

I thank her, pull my jacket on and stuff my shaking hands into the pockets as I exit the office and step out into the rain. Walking down to Channings Wood prison, I focus intently on the sound of my boots crunching on the gravel as the sky's tears lick at my cheeks. Once inside the prison we line up in front of a desk where an officer is checking our passports. I feel my bladder weaken as a slight rush of warm urine tries to escape. 
Fuck! 
I'm 26 years old and about to piss myself in the prison line-up. I imagine myself through my father's eyes upon our first meeting. Mascara-streaked face, wet, unruly hair and stinking of piss. Awesome. I grit my teeth and order my piss to step down. It's now my turn to approach the desk and I am surprised to find the officer is young and extremely good-looking. He grins at the state of me.

"First time?"

I blush, look down and mutter a "yep."

He laughs and takes my passport. 

"Tushka Sanchez, hey? What a lovely name."

I smile despite myself and shrug. 

"Thanks but it's one of those names you probably won't remember in 2 minute's time."

He hands my passport and a visiting order back to me and winks. "Oh, I'm sure I will."

My smile widens and as I walk away, I glance back. He is watching me as he takes the chav's passport and I quickly turn back around, blushing furiously. I am shocked at myself. What the hell is wrong with me, flirting with a prison guard before I'm about to go in and meet my father? I tell myself to get a grip as I'm ushered along into a locker room. They want me to put my backpack into a locker so I am carrying nothing on me once in the visitation room. I line up behind the other visitors as each gets body searched and patted down and the lady with the greying brown curls and kindly eyes touches my shoulder gently. I whirl around, startled.

"I overheard you're seeing your father for the first time in a while, love?"

I nod and attempt a weak smile.

"It gets easier with each visit. I was terrified when I first came here, but you've done the right thing. I'm sure he'll be so happy to see you."

I am touched by her words and thank her before standing in front of a female officer to get searched. Afterwards, I walk down a long carpet as a golden retriever sniffs at me and am then ushered along to a table. I glance around at the room. It's big, with a tiny cafeteria and a few dozen rows of tables each with 3 swivel chairs locked into the carpet on one side and 1 chair on the other. I try to imagine my infant self on my mother's lap, sitting next to my brother at a desk like this when we visited my father 25 years ago at Long Bay prison in Sydney for drug charges. I paint a vision in my mind of my pretty mother, her blonde hair fashioned into a perm, her green eyes absently watching on as my chubby little hands bang against the table. I shake away this unsettling image and attempt to study my present surroundings. The chav and beefed-up guy are at the cafeteria, buying some snacks for their loved ones. I feel a little guilty that I am not doing the same, and as I contemplate going back to get some money the prisoners begin to enter the room.

My lovely lady with the kindly eyes embraces an older man for a moment, and as they pull away from their hug they share a passionate kiss. So, no wayward son. I decide I don't want to imagine what this man has done and turn away from them, embarrassed to be prying in on such an intimate moment. Other prisoners enter and I don't want to watch the reunions anymore. I stare hard at the table and begin to convince myself that my father won't come out. He won't want to meet me and I'll spend the full 2 hours sitting here alone, staring at the table. 
But something in the deep recesses of my belly jolts. It's like the swift kick of instinct, and I just know. I know that my father has entered the room. Slowly, with my heart fluttering wildly about in my throat, I turn in my seat.
He is standing amidst 3 officers and his arms are open, palms outstretched, a wide smile on his face. I pull myself to my feet and stumble blindly towards him.   

Hunting Hugo

9am at Victoria Station in London and I'm tired, alone and cold. I want to go back to the hostel and sleep but I gave up my bed to an attractive French guy I found sleeping in the bar at 4:30 this morning. I had planned to travel out to Channings Wood prison in Devon and be away for the day but due to a series of unfortunate events and a dozen tube rides around London I ended up where I began - Victoria Station.

The last few days since I arrived in London, luck has been by my side. When I called Michael Stradling, the barrister who represented my father once he was extradited from Australia to the UK, he gave me the contact for the solicitor who dealt with the case, Mr Manzoor Shah. I wrote a rather heartfelt and put-on e-mail to Mr Shah stating who I was and he agreed to meet me the following day. After catching a train to Wembley I met with him and gave him my birth certificate and a bunch of photos of my father and me when I was a baby. I even managed to provide a photograph of my father, looking on as my mother holds me out to Santa Claus, wearing a name-tag that states clearly: 'Alfredo Sanchez'. Rather boldly, with my head held high, I told Mr Shah it was pretty indisputable that I was Alfredo 'Hugo Jose' Sanchez's daughter (I suppose the irony in that is it's not exactly a claim to be proud of). Mr Shah went against protocol and gave me the name of the prison my father is currently incarcerated. He even went as far as writing to my father and then calling the prison to see if we could book a visit. It had to all get sorted through 'social visits', who of course are fucking closed after 4pm on a Friday. The earliest I can contact them is Monday, and I fly out early Tuesday morning. They need at least 24 hours to book an appointment and my father's agreement. The Gods have been on my side every day up until this moment... and today is the first day my plan is turning to shit.

Needless to say, I've been sitting here at the station feeling pretty pitiful. Hundreds of people pass me by - some with curious glances, some with blank expressions - and it is in this sea of blurred-together faces I feel incredibly alone. Up until this point solidarity has been a comfortable shadow to hide behind as I focused all my energy on this trip giving me the closure I've so desperately craved since I was a child. I took the luck that crossed my path in finding the people who would lead me to my father as little signs from the universe. Whereas some people claim there is nothing more to life then being born, living and then returning to the earth as dust... I just can't accept that. I cannot accept that I am sitting here for nothing. And just as I begin to think that this whole trip has been nothing but a waste - the flights, the accommodation, the money spent travelling around London - a Mark Twain quote from a travel forum for my upcoming South America trip catches my eye:

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."

And with that quote being duly noted, my faith in the universe restored, I am going to get up and out of this self-pitying state and head back to the hostel, kick the attractive French guy out of my bed (or ask him to move over), get some much-needed rest and when I wake up, I'm going to come up with a new plan on how I'm going to find what I came here looking for.