09/01/2011 § Leave a comment
“You keep talking about it, it doesn’t allow you to be here.”
“I know, I know. I just don’t feel like I gave it a chance. I felt like I needed to come back and now I feel like I need to go back. I am so torn.”
“Dude, don’t worry about a thing. Do what you want and the rest will figure itself out.”
We sat at dining-room furniture on our balcony in a mid-summer night’s dream sipping on French table wine. It was the night that I pulled in the option of flying back to Buenos Aires. Still, I was floating.
And then Summer turned to Fall turned to ice and I still hadn’t slept. So many people to see, so many things to experience, coffee, coffee, bike ride, walk to the store, snuggle with Tala or Tony or Hannah, Boardwalk Empire, Bored to Death, coffee, coffee, movie, wait, walking with camera in hand, a trip, a trip, a bike ride stumble, food is not necessary, but what about bourbon?!, what do you do? I work in a coffee shop but I like to write, curious and confused faces, broken pencils, expeditioning, deadlines, startlines, finish the line, “but life is not linear”, coffee, coffee, I’m making some coffee.
I wore my relaxation like one does a leather glove in the summer.
One morning, I gave myself the chance to sleep in. In a sense, I gave in and let go. That was not the day I decided to return, but I began to break down. I questioned my decision for months despite the cushioned support from family and friends. I barely remembered to pack my stuff. I was in motion, but less.
In Port Perry, I unfolded my dirty laundry by curling in the corner of the love-seat.
“Just go with the flow, my baby b.”
I remember my mom singing to me when I was a kid, but for some reason I only remember her singing one song:
When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother what will I be.
Will I be pretty? Will I be rich? Here’s what she said to me…
Que sera, sera! Whatever will be will be.
The future’s not ours to see.
Que sera, sera!
I used to have a washed-out-red t-shirt with the phrase “Que Sera” emblazoned in blue. At the time, I didn’t like it. Red was not my colour, it was too tight and I was too stubborn.
“Try the fried portabello. It’s delicious,” Tala tempted.
“No. I like what I like. Mushrooms make me puke.”
That was a breakfast morning in our second-year-of-school, Guelph house on Raymond Street. It was also the morning I put my pride (fear of puking in front of people) aside and tried the buttered-crisp mushroom. It was delicious.
This past Friday was my first night back in Buenos Aires. I got a bottle of Irish Whiskey and played my dance album (“Brothers”, by The Black Keys). Dusk was falling and my belly was sloshing. I needed food. Leaving, I asked the doorman, Ricardo, where I could find delicious meat. He said to the left or right so I walked. And walked. And walked. Straight.
I ended up in San Telmo, nibbled on some ribs, grabbed a beer and headed to an all too familiar square. I sat on the stone wall and watched what I had already watched many months ago. People sipping, bohemian artisans, tango dancers, tourists, locals. And then I was approached,
“My dear, are you happy?”
“Yeah, I’m alright. A little tired, perhaps, but getting better.”
“Join us! We are a table of artists and writers and musicians! We believe in living!”
“That sounds awesome and thank you, but not tonight.” And I walked away. And walked. And walked.
I entered into a pub that I had been to before. I ordered my usual and took it to the patio where I sat on the same bench I had sat on before.
“May I sit here?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Where you from?”
And so it began. Canada, Ontario, Toronto, yes I love it there, yes I like it here, you don’t like it? you want to be a writer? do you not think that everyone has a story that shows his or her beauty? you think people are dull? no, no, you think that portenos can be stiff? but it’s not so bad, no, no, why don’t you just ask people, talk to them? you don’t think people are wonderful?
“So, you ask me these questions about me and what I think, but who are you? What are you thinking?”
“Listen, I have to get back to work, but I can get you a drink. Yes?”
“No, but thank you very much. I think I might take off after this one.”
On the quiet cab ride home, I stuck my arm out the window and let tiny droplets spit onto my hand.
Now, I am here.