I am back from Costa Rica, where I photographed Field School's first annual 8th grade trip. I haven't edited all of the pictures yet but hope to get to them this week.
We hiked an ancient volcano on a gorgeous afternoon and then watched lava at night as it tripped down the sides of a different, active volcano. We ate mangos and avocados and a lot of corn chips. We went to a coffee plantation and a beach. We read books and played cards and splashed around in hot springs. We saw monkeys and sloths and toucans and a 6-inch grasshopper. Besides the other adults, the boys were excellent company and I only had to turn around in the van once to tell a certain someone to "please just stop talking" in my sternest teacher voice. (He was saying nothing of significance, I promise you).
But they are boys, and teenagers, too. So we heard a lot of laughter, a lot of whining at each other, a lot of rowdy boy noises.
Pictures soon...
In the meantime, a most bizarre story:
I flew home in first class, seat 1C, by way of El Salvador. There were 12 seats in first class. Eleven of them were filled by members of the band and production for Guns n' Roses. Sweet child o' mine, can you believe it? I couldn't either.
Axl Rose did not make the flight; he was still at the hotel sleeping by our 12:30 departure. But everyone else was there, attracting attention like rock stars with their long hair, neck tattoos, dark sunglasses, black clothing, studded boots, guitars in hand.
And then there was Meredith.
In linen pants and sneakers, my hair pulled back in a teeny bun, reading a Jhumpa Lahiri novel.
But because I talked with the sound producer and ate my first class steak salad alongside the rest of them, the flight attendant assumed I was part of the band. And after landing, but before the plane door had swung open to the heat of San Salvador, he asked me about the concert.
"Are you playing tonight?" he asked.
"What?" I said.
"Are you playing a concert tonight?"
"Oh, no, it's tomorrow night," I replied correctly, since I'd learned about the upcoming tour dates from my seatmate (El Salvador, Guatemala, Puerto Rico, then home to LA--wrapping up a 6-week South American tour).
"But I'm not with the band," I said, surely blushing, stepping closer to the door and further from the men.
"Oh, I just assumed," he said, gesturing a hand towards my chest. I was wearing a dark grey t-shirt with a large eagle flying across it, the wide neck slipping down and revealing the curve of my shoulder. Guess it looked kind of GnR.
"I thought you were the manager," he finished.
"No," I said, totally embarrassed.
"She's our opening act," someone joked behind me.
And then DJ Ashba, a guitar player with neck and arm tattoos, a lip piercing, and black liner rimming his ice-blue eyes spoke up: "No, man. She's the band's masseuse!" And then he laughed, turning to look at his band mates around him, nodding his head in agreement with himself.
By now the door was open. I was off the plane first and not looking back.
Really, those aging rock stars aren't so different from teenage boys.
Playa Espadilla, Costa Rica, April 8, 2010.
