āYou think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read. It was books that taught me that the things that tormented me most were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, or who had ever been alive.ā ā James Baldwin
āIt occurred to me that all my encounters that have ended in relationships thus far in my life have been quite romantic. Iām perceptive enough to have noticed my own romantic tendencies but it hadnāt yet struck me that not kissing straightaway, being high on someoneās company alone and quietly swooning over them were all rather romantic reactions to meeting someone you fancy.
There was nothing at all romantic about the first night Andrea and I met alone. She was wearing more makeup than on the three previous occasions I had seen her. She looked better than on those occasions but not because of the makeup, which she had layered on too much of, but because sheād let her golden hair down and was wearing an attractive white dress.
Our previous meeting, the first time we had spoken properly, was enough to have told me this wouldnāt be a romantic encounter of playful flirting. Her persona was too forthright, her manner too forceful for it to be ā qualities she didnāt know how to switch off, but thereās genuineness to this that I would come to love.
While I enjoyed Andreaās company; she was interesting, intelligent, funny, she had a good sense of humour ā the next day, I couldnāt help feeling Iād been gipped a little. While on occasions where there is nothing but attraction you understand what you might be getting yourself into. When there is far more than attraction; a connection of intellects, worldly experiences and interests, you feel youāre owed a certain chemistry or at least a romantic cherishing of the moment. Rather than letting the music take us and rhythm leading the way, I felt, the next day, like that night with Andrea was a well practiced salsa ā each step carefully counted so as to take away from the rhythm and beauty of it all.
All affection was reserved for the bedroom, and though my criticising of this may seem contradictory to the not kissing straightaway comment, that wasnāt the kind of delay I was referring to.
She once said to me her friends teased her about being cold. Iād never thought of her as cold but now I believed it. And, writing as honestly as someone who bears no burden of someone reading his writing can, it adds a sleaziness to her warmth ā as though it were somehow a primal instinct as opposed to anything deeper. Jumping from cold to hot. No time for enjoyment of the in between, going through the motions instead of experiencing them. Like a man who fishes for survival, not for the pleasure of fishing, he rushes his catch back to the oven.ā
His heart sped up for a split second when he thought of that face. The expression she made when they were making love standing upright, when her legs rested over the inner joints of his elbows, when he bent forward slightly, seemingly fatigued but actually just wanting to face her eye-to-eye while continuing. It was a face of confused passion. She didnāt know what this was, her lips separated and pouting as she breathed heavily, frowning lightly as she maintained his gaze.
No girl had brought his heart to pace at the mere thought of her before.
It hurts to love. It's like giving yourself to be flayed and knowing that at any moment the other person may just walk off with your skin. - Susan Sontag
She told me of her Mediterranean family, how despite living in cold and unyieldingly European Belgium, there always emanated that Mediterranean warmth from her household. Her family was big; two sisters a brother and innumerable cousins always buzzing around the place. I envied her stories of big family dinners, birthday and Christmas get togethers, music on, everybody dancing. It reminded me of glimpses of my childhood. My family could have been like this, but it never fulfilled such potential. Her stories of Sardinia, where her grandparents live, again filled me with more envy. The rugged landscape, the olive oil, the beaches, the loud, bickering, warm family ā it was how my memories of Tunisia should have been.
What hit me most was how connected she was to the lifestyle within Europeās big cities. Sheād studied us city guys well. She knew when and why we could be cold, she knew of our warmth, she understood our pride, our making fun of white people ā she got it all.Ā
Her conversation was competitive, just like Spanish women but without the interruptions. She loved to talk and be talked to. I felt like my senses were being attacked from all angles. Not only was she strikingly beautiful, she had appealed to my sense of nostalgia for the Mediterranean. And her knowledge of everything else made it so that I my own stories didnāt have to come with many explanations of context.Ā
I wanted nothing more than to press her body up close to mine.
Fuck.
Weād pull away from each other, abruptly halting the kiss to inspect one anotherās beauty before reconnecting as abruptly as weād disconnected ā like children exploring a coral reef, sticking their heads above water to catch breath but quickly plunging back under so as not to miss the excitement.Ā
There was a perfectness to our Mediterranean bodies standing there under the showerhead. Our black hair slicked back by the water, our naturally tanned bodies glistening, enveloped in each other. It had never felt so right before. Iād told a friend the next day that I was afraid of sounding like some kind of opponent to interracial unions, which all of my previous relationships had been, but this had never felt so right. As ridiculous as it sounds, David Gandy and Dolce & Gabbana ads on the Med kept popping into mind.
I like this girl, thatās already a problem, but now Iāve cornered myself into a bigger problem: my inability to accept failure. I donāt want to go away with her and feel obliged to entertain her, show her a good time, go out, dance. Like a pussy Iām scared. My cowardice in accepting my own shortcomings means I rarely disappoint myself, or at least dwell on those disappointments. Iām not honest with myself. Were I to go to Rio alone, stay in a hostel and go out with the people there, there would be no pressures on myself.
If I have a bit of a shit night I can deny it to myself, if I have a good night, a bonus. The way I explained this story to friends demonstrates how much of a pussy I am. I framed the story in such a way that emphasised how weāve only been out twice, how it was her who said we should go away together, how it was me who found this weird.
I am my own propaganda machine, manipulating the stories of my life. This is bullshit. Itās entertaining and topic-stirring for listeners but itās not real. Whatās more, I donāt know what kind of effect it has on the poor girls involved. If Iām telling these stories in such a light, to what extent does the process cloud my view of whatās actually true? To what extent do I now believe this girl to be too forward and slightly obsessed? How do these things affect how I now interact with her?
Then youāve got the fuck everything streaks. Hip hop is the orchestrator. I feel Iām destined to be a hip hop kid, I canāt escape this destiny. Wherever I go these nostalgic feelings of hip hop, New York and fuck the world because this is my first love, this is where I come to cryā¦these feelings come back. I travel the world, do different things, meet different people but this is perhaps the one style of thought and being that never leaves me. I adjust my way of talking and thinking and canāt help but feel like this means Iām a sell out. Itās not exhausting for me but I rarely see it as canny or shrewd. Oftentimes this self that sits dormant under the layers of bullshit rises to the top and people are disappointed by what they see because itās something they canāt understand. They canāt understand the introvertedness, the reticence, the irreverence.
There are few things more pleasant in life than walking along a street on a warm summerās night. Preferably the street would be passing along a coastline or, as I found myself doing two years ago, slicing through a buzzing metropolis like Madrid.
Madrid has the right mix of inner-city greenery, classic architecture and residents seeking fun on a Saturday night. After leaving a bar Iād been at with the CEU gang, I passed through the backstreets of La Latina, trying to find my way to one of the city's main arteries. Pissy corners, and the abstract echoes of crowds' conversations clattered through the cobbled alleyways. Many a street in Madrid can seem like a suspicious one. That is, until something or someone who could be nothing but wholly unthreatening appears to lighten the mood. Usually that thing is an old man pissing while garbling the end of a conversation to the person he doesnāt realise is no longer with him, or a couple of bohemian 20-somethings, shuffling their way to the next house party.
Emerging halfway up Gran Via is like being welcomed into the city again. In front of you lies a six-lane street, lined by restaurant tables and towered over by some of the cities most dominant hotels. To the right is the downhill walk to plaza de cibeles, the beautiful fountain and old post office building, and a little further along, the gates to the city.
To the left, also downhill, but homeward, is plaza de espana and the princesa hotel, visible for miles thanks to the letters that spell out the name along the roof.
Gran Via is best walked slowly so the sweet summer vibe can be absorbed with all its vitamins. Unlike central London, central Madrid isnāt completely overrun by tourists. Groups of Spanish students and middle-aged couples talk loudly as they head towards the stuffy underground bars of Fuencarral or the popular tapas bars near Ćpera. Though it is well past 1am, there are still Spaniards who feel the need to eat. Couples eat slowly, sipping on red wine. Despite being one of the busiest, with Gran Via thereās none of the unpleasantness usually associated with dining next to a main road. The lights set a nice backdrop, the cars add to the atmosphere and the slant of the road plunges the dinerās eyes into the darkness of leafy plaza de espana, or upward to the vibrant lights of Callao, the square at Gran Viaās plateau.
Meandering my way across the street and down Gran Via, I caught the eye of a girl walking with her friend. I turned to catch another glimpse and so did she. We exchanged a playful smile. I confess to thinking about circling the block, though she was far too young and my number of situations involving females in Madrid far too high. I passed by the plaza and onto calle princesa, where the city loses some of its edge. The streets are less filled and become characterless until the junction at ArgĆ¼elles approaches. The road is still as wide as Gran Via but without the soul to fill it. At 3am there are cars sliding along, mostly taxis. This being in the direction of the university, groups become younger. The ubiquitous discarded coke bottles, usually filled with a cocktail of spirits, line the low-lying walls and elegant street railings. MadrileƱos donāt try to be clean, but they pull off their sluggish attitudes towards picking up after themselves with a style that makes up for it.
The familiar lights of el corte ingles close in with each window panel passed. Home is near, though I wish it werenāt. Walking any further in the same direction leads to nothing of great interest at this time of night. I wish turning around and doing the whole walk again were feasible. The smaller scale of Madrid in comparison to London makes its centre more intense and interesting to the eye. Ā
Calle gaztambide is the final stretch. The home straight after a 45-minute wander. The street is dark but there are groups still around, sitting, nudged up against the apartment block walls or spilling out of a small club below the only block of flats I ever saw in Madrid that resembled a council estate in London. The street lights give off a sharp peachy yellow colour that compliments the heat. Still walking at an old manās pace, appreciating what in a few hours will be overexposed with light, the entrance to our apartment block comes into view.
Iād sometimes wondered when the culprits of the graffiti on our ground floor shutters committed their acts of rebellion. It was this that first occurred to me when I saw two people seemingly reaching up to my window. Though it wasnāt uncommon for girls, usually beautiful girls, to congregate in our doorway, having been locked out or waiting for friends, this was different. Both people were darkened by the lack of light, though one was much bigger than the other, definitely a man.
It was only when I got closer that I heard the whispers of the smaller one knocking on the window.
There was only one voice I knew of in Madrid that sounded so uncharacteristically naĆÆve and lost when spilling from the mouth of a drunk person: the voice of Mathilde.Ā
Iāve commandeered mumās kindle, now if only I could finish the fucking books I keep starting. Iāve finished a couple, but the list of books I should, must and really ought to read keeps growing. I hope itās all having some sort of affect on me, profound or practical. Perhaps, in todayās day and age, practical would be best, since thereās not much of a living to be made in the profound. The most profound yes, but mediocrely profound, well then youāre just one of millions.Ā
Reading the opening passages about Robert in The Sun Also Rises, it has occurred to me that the exact pain I tried to explain to Vivian was the pain I inflicted upon her.Ā
Never before has her whiteness occurred to her. She had never had to define herself as white in more than a physical sense. My awareness of my own colour shocked her. To her it was unnecessary and irresponsible. Instead of manifesting these sentiments with questions that seek to understand, she lifted her drawbridge and fired through the arrow holes rhetorical questions and condescending statements.
āWhy does it matter? Thatās so ridiculous.ā
āIāve never thought about this. To me it has never mattered.ā
People love to say such a thing as race has never mattered to them, before tacking on ābut Iāve simply only ever ended up with white girlsā as though it were something they had no control over. True perhaps, if they live in rural England. A little harder to believe when theyāve spent a considerable amount of their lives in London.Ā
I regret Vivian feeling my pain. I never intended to make her conscious of her own colour in regards to us. She began to think twice about whether she was what I wanted, whether she was good enough. Having avoided her for 27 years, her whiteness had now jumped from her skin and slapped her across the face to declare its presence.
Perhaps this is the best way to get someone to understand an experience ā to have them experience it, too. In a horribly ironic sort of way, this is also how I ended up experiencing her lifeās pain.
āIt's a funny thing about the modern world. You hear girls in the toilets of clubs saying, "Yeah, he fucked off and left me. He didn't love me. He just couldn't dealĀ with love. He was too fucked up to knowĀ howĀ to love me." Now, how did that happen? What was it about this unlovable century that convinced us we were, despite everything, eminently loveable as a people, as a species? What made us think that anyone who fails to love us is damaged, lacking,Ā malfunctioningĀ in some way? And particularly if they replace us with a god, or a weeping madonna, or the face of Christ in a ciabatta roll---then we call them crazy. Deluded. Regressive. We are so convinced of the goodness of ourselves, and the goodness of our love, we cannot bear to believe that there might be something more worthy of love than us, more worthy of worship. Greeting cards routinely tell us everybody deserves love. No. Everybody deserves clean water. Not everybody deserves love all the time.ā - Zadie Smith
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