Lisboa
A walk through this not-so-new city awakens his curiosity and imagination. He thinks of himself as a cat, sometimes prowling, sometimes lurking, always observing, and taking note of his surroundings.
He thinks of himself as a cat, sometimes prowling, sometimes lurking, always observing, and taking note of his surroundings. The smallest details intrigue and distract him. A walk through this not-so-new city (he’d been there before nine years ago) awakens his curiosity and imagination. The woman in the cafe that sits across from him writes a letter in pencil. The earthy green overalls she wears that is made of linen exposes a black sports bra with a mesh flower pattern. The tattoos that decorate her back and left shoulder seem like penned sketches from an artist’s notebook. On her left shoulder is a depiction of a woman in lotus position, her eyes closed in a blissful state, the drawn lines sprouting from her head, creating an abundant cascade of hair. Across the back of her shoulder blade are three birds descending with wings spread open in flight. He wonders if it’s actually three separate birds or an image of one bird in motion.
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“Where did you go?”
A small group of people are looking his way as he re-enters the venue, a beautiful restaurant in the middle of a park, in the middle of a man-made lake. To get to the restaurant you have to cross a bridge and a pathway where a row of paddle boats lay dormant for the night.
Amongst the small group is his partner. He feels embarrassed to have caused a bit of a fuss. He had sent him a text saying he needed a moment to himself but he had failed to look at his phone, engrossed in conversations with the academic colleagues that surrounded him. He’s annoyed with himself that he didn’t take a moment to just find him throughout the crowd and tell him directly instead of choosing to slip away and sit near the boats to centre himself. The relief he sees in people’s faces makes him feel sheepish, as if his disappearance was an act, something a child would to do seek attention.
He’s accompanied his partner to an academic book launch. In larger functions it’s easier for him to hide and go unnoticed but there are only fifty or so people at this event and he’s starting to feel uncomfortable, as if people are wondering who he is and how he ended up there.
The advice of an old high school teacher always rings in his ear which has served him well many decades later: ask people questions about themselves. People love to hear themselves talk. Some people seem so certain of their place in the world. They embody the parameters they have created and conduct themselves accordingly. The moment of respite by the boats has helped and he manages to manoeuvre through the rest of the evening with some lightness. He goes through the pleasantries and savours the food that arrives intermittently throughout the evening. He observes the group of intellectuals, catching small glimpses of momentary stillness in their faces. That flicker when the public mask needs rebooting, a momentary realization of how banal things are, and then a quick reset to begin again, another conversation, another drink, another moment to appear brilliant or interesting.
He sometimes senses that he makes people uncomfortable with his presence. He doesn’t mean to be aloof. He patiently waits for moments to interject, to uphold a semblance of being social, but mostly he wants to avoid people asking him about himself. He’s always thought of himself as some kind of work in progress, always in the process of becoming. He doesn't know who he is. He is amazed when being surrounded by people who appear so certain in their identity. The truth is he doesn’t feel that interesting.
When he was younger, people used to think he was a good listener because he never talked much. Back then he would listen so intently and embody their hurt and worry, wondering how to help. It cost him. Over time he has learned to listen and not-listen, to check in with himself and to breathe. But this also takes concerted effort.
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Another night he worries about where to eat with his husband. He wants to appear confident and capable, that he can make choices and stand behind them. While his husband spends the day at the conference, he walks through the neighbourhood, scouting potential places to eat. He’s looking for something quaint and local, something special but not too expensive, which is hard in the neighbourhood that they’re staying in. When his husband comes home, the dinner has turned into an evening for them and four other friends. The few restaurants in the neighbourhood require reservations. Offhand, he mentions the Lebanese restaurant he spotted and somehow the decision is made. It stresses him that his suggestion is taken so seriously. As luck would have it, a table is six awaits them in the back of the restaurant, amongst the shelves of wines, oils and jars of other concoctions. It’s an intimate affair with some loose banter. The food is expensive but savoury. A rich humus with thin slices of pita, a bright cabbage salad with beet and citrus, delicate meatballs coated in a rich rub of fig, fried Octopus on a bed of squid ink with a white foam on the side, asparagus expertly charred. Everything beautiful prepared and presented. Some of the guests are critical about how small the portions are for such an expensive meal but he doesn't care. He will keep this meal in his memory.
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Two days ago he spotted them at the Europride parade. Two young guys walking together behind one of the double-decker buses that was decorated in rainbow posters. They were a curiosity to him because unlike the other revellers dancing down the main street towards the square, they weren’t wearing anything that suggested they were queer, no overt rainbow bracelets or socks, just two blokes going on a stroll in the middle of the gay parade. He was transfixed, trying to build on their back story. Why did he feel like they were British boys on vacation? What made them join the parade? Are they even gay? Why wouldn't they be? At one point one of them slowed down to light a cigarette. The music from the bus started playing I Will Survive and the boys started to dance a bit, singing a few words under their breath. They seemed cool, unfazed by the extravagance that surrounded them. Moments later, he walked away from them, not wanting to get caught looking them and being creepy.
Yet days later, he spots them again, walking through the city-centre, two friends on vacation (maybe). He still thinks they’re British for some reason, even though he’s never heard them speak a word, and suddenly the movie Beautiful Thing fondly comes to mind.
He wants to tell his husband about it, how fascinating it is to him that he’s seeing the same two guys, here at the square, that he saw at the Pride Parade, but he stops himself. Is it even that interesting a story to tell? What does it mean, spotting two strangers again at a different location, at a different time? What kind of lame super power is that? It’s probably no super power at all, just a coincidence. Still, he likes the idea that in life there is magic. That even in the randomness, if you’re looking, there are patterns.