Bagpipes and Dreams

When I told my mom I was coming out to Carmel, the wheels started turning. She's always 100 steps ahead of the rest of us. While we're enjoying breakfast or a morning walk, she's planning the hours and days ahead. I arrived to a list of things we were going to do while I was here and my goal was to get through at least 75% of them. (My mom just sent a friend to Paris with a similar list and said friend enjoyed it so much she suggested my mom copyright it and sell it.)

At the top of the Carmel list were bagpipes and kayaking.

It's a tradition in our family to sip a bottle of bubbly, preferably from my handmade "happy place" flutes, and to go visit the bagpiper at Spanish Bay on your first night in town. He plays on the famed golf course as the sun sets. Like constant church bells, my mom and I always tear up listening to him. She's reminded of her father and I can't stay tearless when I see mom welling up. New friends sitting next to me at our California fire pit noticed and asked, "You're totally going to have bagpipes at your wedding, aren't you?"

"Yup!" I replied with a grin.

The cocktails, mojitos and dirty martinis with blue cheese-stuffed olives, are usually followed by dinner at Pebble Beach's Tap Room. The Tap Room's food and service have gone considerably downhill since my last visit. The hostess and manager split serving duties that night because the server who took our initial drink order was ne'er to be found the rest of the evening. The potato skins were disappointing -- they were basically baked potatoes and they weren't even crispy. My salad was dressing with a side of vegetables. The Tap Room will sadly no longer be a part of the welcome-to-town equation.

All this was secondary, however, to an amusing turn of events. My mom and I bonded with three men and a lady at Spanish Bay. They were a jovial, mish-mosh bunch of characters: a 50-something-year-old woman and three men in their mid-thirties. One was the flirty ringleader -- the kind you meet in a bar who breaks the ice and introduces you to all of his friends. One was a quiet, soft-spoken, blond baby-face -- the kind I'd have a crush on. And one was a big, burly, teddy bear of a guy named S-.

I assumed they were celebrating a birthday, a bachelor party (with mom as chaperone?), an anniversary, or even a wedding. After the alcohol started to seep in, they became more and more chatty and they shared some sad, unexpected information with us. One of the guys, S-, just discovered his wife of four years had been involved in a year-long affair and he called an emergency weekend with friends. They love this guy so much one flew in from Hawaii to be with him for a mere 48 hours.

We all need friends like that.

You would never have guessed from the group's smiles and laughter that one of these men was hurting so bad. I cannot begin to understand the complexity of sadness, devastation and disappointment S- must be feeling.

My mom and I had a duty to keep these guys in good spirits, but we had to meet my brother at the Tap Room. When we told the crew we were leaving, it was nothing but sad, puppy faces.

"Where do you girls think you're going?" one of them asked.

"Tap Room!" I yelled, "My brother's hungry and waiting for us."

"Where is that?"

"At the Lodge at Pebble Beach. It's great."

We wished them all the best and more good times with S-, and assured them it was a pleasure to have met them all. The friendship and support they showed S- was an inspiration to both of us. As I got up, S- slipped me his name, phone number and e-mail on a piece of paper -- I'm staring at it now -- in case I wanted to keep in touch. I was flattered, though not romantically interested, and I hoped I could help S- realize that there are plenty of cool, single females out there in this world.

My mom and I continued our 17-Mile Drive bar crawl and met my brother. Not halfway through our mediocre dinner, a man practically fell in my mom's lap before he threw his arms around her neck, "Well heh-LOOOOOOOOOOOW ladies!"

I died. It was the return of the party boys. They didn't even know where Tap Room was and here they followed us to keep the night, and their friend, alive.

Before I could say golf, S- was sitting at our table carrying on a conversation. He was staring at me waiting for answers to his questions, I was staring at my mom looking for answers to his questions, and my mom was reveling in an ear-to-ear smile at the whole situation. I was as red and hot as a steamed lobster and could not wait for it all to end.

After the "Where are you from?" and "What do you do?" and "Oh, you went to Virginia" conversation, my mom and I went our separate ways.

There was loose mention of getting in touch with the boys the following night, but I knew it was more of a nicetude than a reality. These guys needed to be with their friend, sans female distractions.

Before we left, my mom shared something the ringleader told her he had told S-.

"You have to walk across a bridge, turn around, burn that bridge and never ever look back."

I am 10,580 nights old today, and in a minute fraction of this time, I was touched by three men who helped change my perspective on life's lemons. Nothing is that bad that you can't go out and kick it, and even make a fool of yourself, with your closest friends. I will never forget my moments shared with these strangers, listening to the bagpipes with hopes and dreams that we all find our bridge to forever.