What am I looking for still?

AOG, Madrid

My search for the eternal past continues, but this time I think there is a lesson somewhere which is staring me in the face, but I just can't quite put my finger on it.

Thanks to the magic of facebook, a couple of months ago I contacted a friend of mine from when I went to primary school in Mexico City back in the Dark Ages of Disco. 

As luck would have it, he was going to be in London over the Christmas season visiting his brother and his new niece. We agreed to meet and meet we did. I waited for him by the National Gallery’s entrance in Trafalgar Square. 

If you’ve been there then you know that the entrance to this wonderful museum is a bit like a balcony from which to wave to one’s subjects. It was raining and I stood right by the balustrade to make sure I could see him. 

This is important to know because this past Holiday season, I have been the coldest I’ve ever been in December. London was a continuous rain fest, and although it is usually not cold when it rains, this past December, it was cold all the time. 

So there I was, unprepared for the weather (because I, who am so smart, left my rain coat in Madrid and went to London with a knitted jacket and little else), waiting for my tardy friend under freezing cold and wet conditions. 

He showed up about 25 minutes later, but I was happy to see him. He asked if we should get a beer, and I suggested we went for coffee. 

During this time my partner had opted to let us meet before hand whilst he had a beer and then meet up with us. A wise move I think, though at the time I was very nervous and would have liked him to have been there. But in retrospect, I think is was just as well he wasn’t.

No drama, just a fact.

So my friend and I went for coffee at Costa Café in Soho. We ordered, we sat down, and we started to sort of catch up. We hadn’t seen each other since about 1980. Where do you start?

We did the usual, married? Kids? Job? bit and moved on. He started to ask about my accent in Spanish, how it was very soft and although identifiably Castilian, it was not thoroughly Spanish. “I can hear some of Mexico when you speak”, he said. And rightly so. You can. I like that about me.

It was then that I mentioned that my partner, who is from Spain, had a much stronger accent. 

A few sentences later I went from partner to “he”. And I could see my childhood friend almost jump back on the sofa.

There was a very apparent and even negative reaction to this bit of news. Maybe it was just surprise. In any case, I think he quickly came to terms with the new paradigm and our conversation continued.

Soon after my partner showed up. Introduced himself, and we stayed for another half an hour at the café. Then we asked my friend if he would like to go for a drink.

“Yes, that would be nice!”

“We are going to a gay bar, are you ok with that?”

Silence lasting a very long second, then reply:

“Well, erm, I am in London, and nobody knows me here, so I think it is ok”.

Nothing else was said and we continued our conversation as if his reaction had not occurred. Of course, it had, and at that point I was torn between wanting to chat with my old friend, and wanting to say goodbye to someone who might be slightly homophobic. 

Still, all those years not knowing anything about each other weighed heavily in my decision and he did seem generally interested in being with us, even if it was at a gay bar.

At the bar we spoke for about an hour and then he had to get back to his brother’s place in South London.

I walked him to the bus stop at Centre Point in Charing Cross Road, and along the way he began to semi apologise for not having bothered to look me up at all.

“You know, in life, when I close a chapter it remains closed”.

To that I replied that my life has been very different, and that I tend to reopen closed chapters now and then.

Just before he got on the bus he said that he would have never bothered to look me, or anyone else, up. Was this an apology? Just a fact? I don’t know. I said to him that it was ok.

“I did the looking up for both of us, and I’m glad I got to see you”.

I walked back to the bar to be with my partner and our friends, who were curious to know how it had all gone. I had told them the night before that I was meeting up with someone I hadn’t seen since we were both 9 or 10 more or less.

I was feeling a bit strange about all this. I think part of the problem is that the last time I saw him was on a normal school day. I left the classroom at the end of the school day and never went back. I never said good bye to any of my friends. We changed schools in one day.

Is this why I want to see them? So that I too can close a chapter which was shut but remained unfinished? Was this some sort of childhood closure?

I still don’t know. Over the next few days, my Christmas tour continued. And when I say tour, I mean I slept in about 6 different beds and 5 different towns since the 23^rd of December before I got back home to mine. 

My thoughts about my friend stayed with me and I was wondering what was the problem with me. Why was I not happy?

Well, last week he contacted me. He was coming to Madrid. Could he stay at mine?

Certainly. No problem. It will be a pleasure.

So last night he arrived close to midnight. I made him a sandwich, and we sat to talk in front of the tv for a while. What did we talk about? Not much, not even small talk.

It soon became obvious that we were strangers who shared some sort of common past. But then he said something nice:

“This trip I’ve been thinking about our infancy. About the school, do you remember…”

And I did remember. And I remembered him, and me, but something was a bit off. Something was awry. But I don’t yet know what.

He will stay one week with me. 

The Boyfriend

AOG, Barcelona

I am not an expert on relationships, nor am I an expert on human relations. I know I will depart this planet having learned precious little about our species. With this in mind, I must bring up what just happened on the way to the Airport. 

I got on a bus from Plaça Catalunya, and headed out, hoping to make it on time (no, I don't know what it is about me which makes me always run late). 

About a minute after the bus departed, the man behind me got a phone call. 

I tried not to eavesdrop but it was hard since he was talking in a normal voice, and my ears were a few inches below his cell phone. 

His girlfriend/boyfriend had called and was saying good bye. She/he was mostly in tears, and was sad by this guy's departure. 

I never heard his/her voice, but I could hear full well how the man behind me spoke to his lover. 

I must say that I found it very hard to believe that this guy loved the other person. He was not rude, nor nasty, nor was off-putting (much). But his good-bye sounded like a continuous apology. 

"I'll be back soon"

"I'll call you from Madrid"

"I love you too"

"Don't cry darling"

Perhaps he too was in pain. I'd like to think he was if he really loved the person on the other side of the phone line. Perhaps I misjudged the entire episode.

But, for my money, he was not as sad as the other person. I am not entirely sure about why I think this, but there was just something in his tone of voice. 

A lack of interest, maybe fatigue? I also have no idea what it is he may have to face when he gets back home. Maybe that affected his mood. 

He would sprinkle his conversation with Italian words here and there, bacci, ti amo, things like that. But they were just not said in a true enough way for me. Was the other person Italian? I'll never know. 

He was from Argentina, so maybe that is just how he spoke to people. 

As you know, many Argentinians have Italian ancestry, so it is not unusual for them to use Italian words now and then.

Am I being misanthropic? Perhaps. 

Perhaps this guy is fantastic, but he came across as the flower, not the gardener. Is this necessarily bad? No.

It is a mutual dependency that between a flower and his gardener, but he just seemed like a slightly impertinent flower at times. 

Especially the second time the other person called back and, yes, unfortunately, he complained. 

In a low voice, almost apologetically, but complain he did. It was obvious that he did not want that second call. 

It was much less welcome than the first one. True, I have no clue what was going through his head at the time. Maybe he faces some horrid tribulation. I don't know.

What I do know, is that the tone of voice was, unfortunately (for me) much too familiar. It cut just a little bit close to the bone. 

I too have heard in the past that "I love you but I'm busy" tone of voice. 

"I love you but you are calling at the wrong time". 

"I love you but I already said good-bye at the station". 

"I love you but darling you are making me spend money every time it cuts off and I get your voicemail". (Actual part of the conversation)

All of those 'I love you's' that come with a caveat.

Fortunately for me, I learned very quickly that "ILYB" (I love you...but) really translates as "I love me, period", and that you are just a passing flight of fancy. 

Something to keep them entertained for now, but which costs them no great emotional investment. 

Perhaps I am being too cynical. But this guy just sounded a little bit bored, a little bit busy, a little bit insincere.

When the bus got to the airport, part of me did not really want to look at him. I thought the aural experience had been enough. But as I put my backpack over my shoulders I did look at him. And I was surprised by what I saw. 

His voice was that of a much younger man. But his age really threw me aback. Late 40s, maybe early 50s. His appearance was scruffy: jean jacket, jeans, unshaven, greasy hair across his forehead. In other words, an adult, middle-aged male who looked like a thin version of Burt Reynolds with lung cancer.

I was surprised because I usually think that by that age, men are pretty well sorted. 

And if not, woe be to him/her who falls for one of these sad Lotharios. I left the bus, and tried not to see anymore of him. 

I wasn't upset, but I was intrigued by his whole "performance" on the phone.

Why lie? Why go through all that trouble? Why not just be honest, especially to yourself? Would he be coming back from Buenos Aires to see his lover? Probably. 

He said he'd see the other person on the 31st. 

Of what? Of never?

Childhood lemonades

AOG, Madrid

I think the first drink I ever learned how to make was lemonade. I can't say that anyone in particular taught me, I just 'knew' how to make it.

 Lemons, sugar, water and ice. What else could I need? 

But before you answer, I have to tell you that the author of this post once discovered that food coloring existed at his mother's kitchen and proceeded to create (is that the word?) a culinary invention known as 'Blue Rice' which my loving family ate and even praised me on.  

Yes, obviously, families lie out of love. 

My sister, she of the sharp no-nonsense tongue, didn't make much of a fuss that day. And to this day, the Blue Rice comes up now and again. Madame Mère often says how it was very tasty. I can't say I agree, but I love that she thinks so. 

I could have made Green Frog Vomit Rice and she probably would have loved it too.

But back to Lemonade. Around the time that lemonade skills came into my life I was living in Mexico, a land known for its "aguas" (which only means 'waters'). 

My sister and I were not allowed to ever, under any circumstance, drink any of these "aguas" on the street.

A lack of hygiene and a fear of worms and intestinal whatnots drove my mother to ensure we didn't even come close to the "aguas" vendors. 

Except that, now and again, especially on a Sunday outing to Chapultepec Park, or to Xochimilco and its meandering canals, when surrounded by screaming children, tired parents, and a general good feeling, Madame Mère (who loved nature like all Russians do) would cave in and, yes, we'd be allowed an "agua" of something. 

If you've ever been to Mexico, you know the country is blessed with nature's bounty (I think this is the most Southern sounding sentence I've written in a long time!). 

Papaya, tamarind, mango, guava, watermelons, grapefruits the size of a small child's head, and just about any other tropical fruit you can think of. 

And "Aguas" sellers know how to rope you in. Their stands are simple. 

 On top of a plank of wood, or a cart, they ply their wares from massive, transparent tanks of water, glistening in the sun, and ever-swirling with the aid of the sellers' gigantic soup ladle. 

I can't recall the calorific intake but it must have been diabetic-coma high. 

Yes, in poor countries, the more sugar something has, the more of it you'll sell. Mexico is no exception. 

My favorite was always pineapple "agua", or "agua de piña", part of my ever-evolving love/hate relationship with that particular fruit. 

My sister, she of the "I love bitter things...like vinegar!" school of thought, would often go for the "agua de tamarindo", something which would make me have the smallest of sips before I started convulsing. I loved it, but I hated it too. 

So bittersweet ! And I hate bittersweet stuff (I confess to having an issue with some Chinese dishes, like sweet & sour anything...eek!). But yes, here and there, we would partake of that innocent Mexican custom of drinking street water laced with who knows what plus sugar and fruit juice.

With that in mind, that I should attempt to make lemonade is surprising. But, soon enough, I became the official lemonade maker in the family. I can't say there was much trial and error, though now and again I remember adding things to it to spice it up a bit.  Like oranges, or prickly pear juice (my favorite fruit in the universe). Sometimes even a small splash of chili. Ice, however, was never a big part of the equation. Not until Texas that is.

When we moved from Mexico back to the US, my lemonade repertoire was slightly diminished,  so I had to improvise a bit with the local foodstuff. 

I remember adding mint, cinnamon, (I discarded chilies long before that), honey instead of sugar, and even molasses. 

In fact, the one day I made lemonade with molasses is the day I produced the first batch of BLACK lemonade on earth! 

And no, it could not be drunk by humans. 

The dogs loved it though! 

There was one surprise which I could never actually reproduce: Pink Lemonade. 

Too bitter for me, it soon became a family favorite. 

Madame Mère and my sister loved the stuff. I however, declined to drink much of it. 

It was around the time I discovered I could make Ice Tea by making normal tea, and sticking it in the fridge for a few hours. 

Who said I was bright?

But that is a story for another day.

A non ex in Madrid

AOG, Madrid

Many years ago, perhaps 10, I met someone in London who appeared to be semi interested in me.

Nothing ever happened between us, since we met at a friend's place, and then all of us went out to dinner together but I noticed during the bus ride that I was being watched. However, my self esteem being what it was, I never gave this much thought. Neither one of us acted on it.

Then time passed, and I didn't see this person again. I forgot about them. Relationships came and went.

Then a few years later, I visited Madrid, and there was this person again, smiling. I didn't know they were no longer in London.

I was surprised.

Thinking we could have been friends I went over. We spoke.

This person confessed some sort of feelings back then (much more than what I expected) and did so just as we were leaving the locale. Other plans, other commitments that night, ensured we got nowhere fast and our conversation ended slightly abruptly.

All I heard was a "Don't you see what effect you have on me?" and that was it. Until then I had not seen that "effect". Intuited, yes.

We said we'd catch up the next day. Same neighborhood, common interests... But no. I was there, half hoping to see them again. But they did not show up.

I left the next day for London.

Then more time went by, and I moved to Madrid.

Last week I saw this person in a bar. No longer attractive. Older. Undesirable in "that" way. And yet I wonder if I should have said hi. Hello. How are you?

But I didn't.

It was a case of me seeing this person, and this person not seeing me back.

I'm not upset, or anything like that, far from it. I just hoped I wouldn't be so shy and could just say hi to people now and again.

What does protocol dictate about speaking to non-exes?