Backpacker Brain: Cuba Flight Feb 2017
So here I sit on my Cuba flight. I discovered upon a google search just 10 minutes prior to boarding that they may not have ATMs at the airport, and even if they do, US cards may not be accepted. I have 9 euros to my name as far as cash goes, but hey - itāll work out, right? Or not? Canāt be fucked to care to be honest. Thereās technically no where I need to be at all.
This flight is chasing the sun so no darkness will come, which I find aggressively agitating. Whatās a flight without getting wasted and watching shit films on a tiny screen and some uncomfortable dangly neck naps in the dark? But all the same, I indulge in my favorite pastime here with a tiny bottle of grey goose in tow, which just so happened to be cheaper than the Johnny Walker I was eyeing at the Duty Free. On top on that, Iāve ordered a tiny bottle of prosecco with olives - it was a combo deal, so how was I to resist? The question is, how do I pour some vodka into this glass of prosecco without unearthing myself as a melancholic borderline alcoholic with a deeply unrefined palette?
Anyway, itās in moments like this that I have the fun realization that probably I will end up alone. I often compare myself to other figures, and no matter how different we are, I ogle their depravity and simply assume I will meet their bar or anchor in below it.
I mean, for fuckās sake - weāre on a flight to Cuba. No one is going alone, save for me and the sweet German woman beside me. Itās not her first time in Cuba, and how voluminously she describes the phenomena that is a friendly, overweight local woman chugging on cigars through a yellow smile. āItās another world,ā she says, in German, āitās my world.ā I smile and say to her reciprocally, in my best German accent, āthen you must buy a house and live there.ā She smiles and looks around the plane. āItās not so full, there are empty rows.ā I scan the surroundings and consider scooting into a row upon which I could sprawl out comfortably, though I know this would probably offend my new temporary best friend, so I decide against it. She intervenes, āare you flying alone?ā
Her question makes me feel a bit on edge, but as a choke back a tangy circumference I am feeling in the mood to practice my German for what may be the last time in a while.
āSure. I often travel alone,ā I say, gasping out sour speckles of bubbles through an unintended click from my throat.
āMe too. I like it to be alone.ā
I echo her sentiment, āYes, itās nice to meet new people - to have freedom.ā
And shit. As I write this my current fix has run dry. And the sinking realization that traveling alone for me was probably always a means of escaping a disconnected reality in order to find common threads is pulling at my throat like a wire weapon.
Traveling alone is so fucking easy. Being considerate and collective is whatās exhaustive. I hate being told I am brave for going it by my lonesome. Being alone is legitimately the most convenient thing you can do for yourself. To be completely honest, three years ago I was so confusedly and unjustly heartbroken over some Brazilian concert pianist whose name hasnāt expelled off my tongue in what feels like lifetimes that I hit a point where I just didnāt give a shit which way the winds blew. So when I walk home alone in the dodgy side of town or drunkenly put my thumb up for a hitchhike experience that I almost never seem to achieve, or strike up conversations with strangers at stations - itās not purely because I am this vivacious little gem of a human, though itās not not because of that. Really, I just lost my inhibitions. But the reality is, that is not at all a pleasant platform on which to dance and tousle for long.
I look up for a moment to form the opinion, āJesus Christ Ricky and the Flash is a full-blown horror of a filmā. Good thing there are at least 20 other relatively terrible films to choose from. I begin to scan the assortment. Anywaysā¦
My half-hearted notions for the stellar romanticized experience of traveling solo are interrupted by visions of a handful of hot dudes with girlfriends. Everyone looks so happy and normal whilst they make their way to their destination. I remember crawling into the tiny pseudo, plastic bed with Matti on the overnight bus in Vietnam. He insisted I wouldnāt fit in this coffin, but I was insatiable in my quest to cuddle. I jetted over like a flying squirrel and nestled in just perfectly. I think thatās the memory I look back on most often with Matti, because he was laughing his velvety laugh with his cheerful squinty eyes, and I could feel his chest convulse with each release as I pressed into him while he threw his head back in laughter like fucking Chewbacca. I was so, so joyful in that moment and so proud, and I could feel it so authentically that our happiness was in a state of powerful exchange - not of give and take, not of push and pull, just cycling through in such a handsome, enthralling sense. But only just then, really. Just that one time probablyā¦ maybe another time somewhere. But letās try to mute that.
And as I mean to mute it I realize, how that fuck could I ever feel that way again? I scoff to myself. I am beginning to hate the past. I glimpse out the airplane window and my blood boils at seeing a sunny sky still. These are nighttime thoughts. I anticipated the upset of the clouds remaining illuminated, but confronting it over and over is dragging sandpapers over my crawling skin.
I pour the remaining grey goose into my empty prosecco cup. I try to be subtle, but Iām certain that everyone and their uncle sees, but not the sweet solo lady next to me. Itās her judgement Iād like most to go undiscerned. Yes, indeed, I am both classy and cool, and not at all a glisten of tragedy in any dexterous movement of mine. My eyes are welling up a bit as I type, as itās been a while since i considered any of the lovely moments with that stupid bitchboy. I have blood scabs under my skin from playing the drums, I am picking at them incessantly out of nervousness as I deflect these adorable, ugly feelings.
Girl On The Train, that seems like a more appropriate choice for viewing. 10 minutes in and Iām thinking of shower sex. Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā
And shower sex in Hong Kong, at the backpackers. We were so drunk and insatiable, but was he only reflecting my character and complexes and concealing his own? Was I so different before him? I donāt think so, not much. I know he was different for me, but it was probably just temporary. I wonder if he still does all the cute things I found so endearing, prisms and mirrors of tendencies I probably initiated myself, voices of my own that he mimicked, cute phrases weād drummed up together in half English and half German. I hate that idea. I hate so much the idea that he could be how he was with me with anyone else. But I also hate the idea of him being unchanged by me, or disinterested in being his best, with or without me. I think I hate that most. Or maybe I just hate all of it. I even hate thinking of it.
Thatās it, dammit. I am so riddled with these vivid memories and thoughts up to the brim of the barrel, how could I possible find vacancy for anything else? I imagine myself in 20 years and have a disgusting notion that I will be this woman beside me, a lone wolf with anxiety about not being able to smoke for 11 and a half hours. She complains often about having to sit still, about how shallow the leg room is despite the fact that she too is petite like me. She orders too many processed snacks and drinks coffee before sinking into a nap. I imagine her in Cuba, too excited and too confident in her independence with an underlying emptiness all the same for not being able to share these visions and moments with another witness. It reminds me of me. Sheās dozing off, but gripping onto the little tray table like itās her confidant, she eyes the digital flight plan with the CGI airplane ominously scooting over the ocean and blinks infrequently. I canāt tell actually whether or not sheās asleep.
She is friendly with kind sunken eyes, but I donāt want to be her, nor do I want to be my other friend in Austin who is in her 30ās and revels in her colorful escapades with men from the era of her 20ās, but has ended up with so many troubles and unrealized diet goals that all she has to showcase in the present are pictures of her very ordinary dog and the occasional over-amplified story of a flirtation which never seems to materialize. Nor do I want to be the friend who is in her 40ās who resigned to end up alone only to meet her āpersonā, yet she was nearly unfaithful to him no less than a month ago. She confided in me about it and it fucked me up. She was my idol in a lot of ways, I thought that to end up like her would be a lovely finish to an overcomplicated but colorful life. Could I become all these things I donāt like due unto an undying aggression to savor more experiences and tap into every possibility that unfolds itself? Does it ever end? The questioning? The seeing? I see myself in every ugly trait Iāve ever seen in another person. I see my heartbreak in every expression of love that ever was. I see my pain in every happiness I realize. I hope that stops! Boy wouldnāt that be fun and fine. Change that plane of thinking. Get it? I made a plane pun from the sky, guy.
I still have a few quick swigs left from the mini grey goose bottle, but sheās awake now - my neighbor. And watching this bitch on Girl On The Train getting tanked is making me jealous and unsettled. AND PHEOBE FROM FRIENDS IS THERE! Iām ecstatic. So excited, in fact, that Iāve dropped my dumb plastic cup on the floor, and leaning over to grab it makes my favorite necklace sound off like a dog collar, waking up anyone who has ever craved rest in this world. People are standing around, Iāve never seen anything like it on a flight. I discretely (at least in my mind) pour the vodka into my sweet, now favorite plastic cup. Weāve been through so much together. The liquor looks like water and I am deeply pleased. I smile, even.
Somehow I have a ticker in my brain that reads āMatti matti mattiā - imagine that. Thinking of Matti? I never! Welp, Matti, I wanted you, really. But in retrospect, I may have just wanted to prove to myself that I could have it all, that I could tame and control something in a sphere of my reality that was chaotic and free and exuberant. I could have EVERYTHING I wanted, because I knew what to want, right? That didnāt work. Now I know not at all what I want, and thus can have nothing. That doesnāt work. I audibly chuckle to myself, shaking my head, rolling my eyes so far back you can see the whites. Well, not you specifically, as you are not the German lady next to me who is now letting her eyes widen as she scans the horizon as if sheās disoriented and disassociated. We make contact and I smirk at her weakly but genuinely, hopeful that she asserts that my eyes are watering due to a particularly traumatizing scene in this film rather than the process of excavating the hardened textures of the paintings in my mind which is currently underway. I break my glance and though I cannot hear it, I can see from my peripherals that she has let out a sigh and sets her head against the plastic wall. I feel warm inside as if my humanity soothed her for a moment and helped her to relax into rest.
Back to my head gallery. I think I want one person forever, but I donāt know if thatās in the cards for tiny little me. Maybe Iām being type-casted into the lives of these lovers, and once theyāre over the spontaneity and crave stability Iāll always be tossed out to the curb with my dumb rucksack that can fit all the things I own, envying the roots planted through peoples feet around me as I think to myself, I too am a tree and Iād like very much to be planted, thanks. I tap on my former loveās glass window and say, āhey wait.. I can be planted.. just.. just dig a hole.. Iām small and it doesnāt need to be that wide or deep.. just enough to cast soil over my small person shoes.ā
A stewardess passes by and brushes her hand against my shoulder as another stewardess approaches to bring water - a Godsend. Itās the closest thing Iāve had to intimacy since I hooked up my friend Dimitri in Switzerland on fucking Valentines Day, a session which ended in a complete disregard of what had happened, a session which I would hardly describe as intimate at all. And as I consider the physicality of what transpired, itās undoubtedly decided that the stewardess is my closest ally after all.
I sit with my knees pressed against my chest on this sky death vessel shared with an endless array of strangers to cast eyes upon, and none of them know me just as Iām starting to think I know not myself. I tick the alert button over my seat as Iām craving more olives. Only olives of course. But that combo deal is a steal so best get them with a side of a tiny prosecco bottle and queue up a dark comedy, ideally a British one.
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