Well, and then the waitress asks when do I want to have my lovely companion’s tiramisù to be served.
And I stare blankly.
And the cover is blown.
Well, and then the waitress asks when do I want to have my lovely companion’s tiramisù to be served.
And I stare blankly.
And the cover is blown.
An annual meeting.
I’m done. Over pretending I enjoy things I don’t. Three days in a boardroom definitely ain’t my thing.
The gang disappears towards the airport; finally!
Off to Parc Güell, perhaps chasing a hit of nostalgia I need; it’s one of the first spots I visited in the city back in a day — when it was still free and readily accessible. It’s 18 euros these days, if anybody cares.
Listening to my old mixes, sitting on a bench surrounded by a touristy crowd, just watching and chilling, oh, it’s bloody beautiful!
Heading back towards the centre when I get a message. Air traffic controllers are on strike in France, people are returning from the airport, flights are cancelled. A beer? A dinner?
I pause for a moment to think it over. I wanted to walk by Barceloneta.
An hour later, I am munching steak and a having a laugh on La Rambla; the gang is back and the night is unexpectedly brilliant.
A pure strike of luck.
She takes the seat next to me and I sense something more. She’s spontaneous, charming, beautiful. And her delicious accent — oh, dear, it’s gonna be tough.
She wants to socialize. With me.
I do, too, but I’m conscious. Knowing myself well enough to see few steps ahead. And I do not want to risk that road.
So I keep my cool.
— Shall we have a glass of wine?, — the angelic voice asks.
— Not tonight, babe, I’m staying sober.
She is not, though. It’s wine. Then cocktails. Then shots. Then more cocktails and more shots. Tell me she’s English without telling me she’s English, right?
By midnight, there’s a few emerging contestants circling her, hoping to get lucky.
It won’t happen; I’m pretty sure, not on my watch, unless she’d want to. And she does not, pulling me aside, complaining about some guy grabbing her arse and another being too insistent. Well. Welcome to Eastern Europe, honey. Stay calm. You’re safe.
The venue closes and the mob is about to go clubbing. Jen’s tipsy to say the least and vultures are flapping louder, ready to engage. She’s scans the crowd and finds my eyes watching from the distance. I smile gently and walk in; this is my moment.
— We’re going home, babe?
— Yes, please.
— Hold my hand.
She grabs my hand and we slice through the pack starring in ave like two sweethearts in love. Oh, she’s so naturally radiant. And wasted.
— You’re my sugar daddy, — she whispers.
— Sure I am.
Back at the hotel, I score a kiss before the elevator doors close. More than I expected. More than I asked for.
I sleep well.
We skip the event the next day, hanging about together — beach, walks, coffee, pier, long chats and lunch. And eventually a taxi and a quiet sofa in the lounge at the airport.
— I’ll have wine with you now, it’s safe.
— Here, it certainly is.
One more kiss and she’s back to her life, as I’m off to mine.
It hits me later — this might have been my Lost in Translation moment. Fleeting yet unforgettable.
Calling the guy on my way from the airport:
— Let’s grab a coffee. I’ll pick you up in the lobby.
— What, we’re not meeting at the hotel?
— Nope. We’re heading downtown, get ready.
He does not argue, un caffè e un cornetto in the sun is a far better way of having a meeting than dark hotel corners.
I like doing business differently these days.
More espresso. Less drama. Better light.
Trying my best charming me, not to impress her, there’s no need, but perhaps to practice. I am so at ease:
— You know, maybe it’s good to have somebody to hang out with occasionally. To get out of one’s bubble.
— I can look after you if you want, — she quips, completely blowing the innuendo. Somehow I expected that.
I’m laughing it off, clumsily avoiding hurting her, as she means it more seriously than it sounds. I am not interested. Never have been.
Those who were on the radar once are long gone. We crossed paths, going from giggles to awkwardness and back, or vice versa, and then splitting for good. They reside in my address book and in the darkest corners of my head. And I still love sending and getting random Christmas and birthday messages, somehow to demonstrate an imaginary connection never really disappears.
I’m laughing it off.
That went smoothly, me thinks.
Play the Beatles, I say, and Siri obliges with A Day in the Life. Beautiful. I like the choice.
The city is fast asleep. I lived here for many years and maybe I will again someday. I still call it home, though only part-time now.
I keep walking until the rush hour hits, then I catch a tram back. Shower, shave, and a drive to the airport.
The lounge — a few calls, emails, and then the first flight. Another airport, and as I approach the gate, they call my name.
— You called my name, I believe?
— You’ve been upgraded to business.
That ticket cost a bloody $3,000, so it’s a bittersweet redemption. Maybe I’ll finally sleep on the plane!
— Thank you, that’s wonderful.
And it truly is. It’s over a ten-hour flight, so lying flat and getting some sleep will help pass the time. Porcelain plates, tablecloths, champagne, and olives don’t thrill me anymore, though.
The steward calls me by name.
We land in Denver, back to reality. Just one more flight to go.
— What are you going to do there?, — a friend asks during a badminton game.
— Not much, really. Meet some people, walk a lot, and take a few photographs.
That about sums it up.
Vegas, baby, Vegas. I haven’t been here in six years. I’ve forgotten how to navigate from Caesar’s to Mandalay Bay through tunnels and corridors alone, and I’m about to find out.
Not just yet. Not yet. Uber, hotel, lights out, aircon off, bed — coma.
I’d love to turn you on.
Longing for an adventure calls for an easy fix — and then one’s hugging the pillow at 3 AM, just to go places. Does that make any sense? An empty, cold suite someplace far, is this what one wants? Dying alone ain’t ever going to be fashionable.
It’s a drag.
This week, I fell asleep twice during presentations I attended, a clear manifestation of my drive and ability. I don’t give much fuck, but I’m a junkie and edging is my favourite sport.
Listening to Air or Pink Floyd, spending time walking around and in a gym; it’s like early noughties, sans illicit drugs, late-night escapades and chasing chicks.
Sipping a coffee, this black viagra of business, to keep me going. Got a promotion of sorts and I’m dragging myself through more airports now, trying to remember more names and make an impact on a larger scale.
I guess that’s the nice part — when I see they want me to come and change things. When they ask me to step in. When they trust I’m helping.
I have to learn to see myself that way.
Right, right, just I need a bed first.
And there she is, a silhouette in the window, looking for me, calling me. What took you, she serves, yet it’s so sweet I’m melting.
I score an intense, heartening hug — and then I get an hour of laughs before we part ways again.
Without any hint of what may or may not come next.
A messed up thirteen year old with a driver license.
Does it feel any different now?
Had a great meeting in the morning. My only attempt at work today. I love the smell of money in the morning far better than the one of napalm. Good meeting, I say.
Lunch with friends. An hour which turned into three and a half. A Lebanese cuisine in the middle of nowhere. Mexican beer. Nonalcoholic.
Licking ice cream while the sun is setting.
Two more hours to drive home. Should I hurry? Sometimes I wonder.
Drank Czech beer and English one, too. Plus gin, of course.
Got a nice phone call just after a lunch in a former don’t-be-evil office. The topic I asked about the other day.
Flew home relaxed.
More holidays to come.
It’s only work, I remind myself, no need to rush. They don’t really need me much, there’s no point to stress.
Seems that I can finally take things somehow easier now.
Executive meeting.
I love them, especially when our corporate president shows up. Everybody’s making jokes, yet they’re a little clumsier than usual. A shade of anxiety is hanging about.
Still, it’s a game. A guy with a salary of millions of dollars plus stock options will share his precious time with mere mortals who make ten times less. Or less. Sharing his time and valuable advise on shit he only knows from a helicopter ride.
He pretends he knows and we pretend we learn and accept his view. Yeah, right, sure.
Oh, how much does it remind me of myself sharing my valuable advise with staff in offices across the continent.
Then, we dine at a Michelin restaurant only to split again, meeting again in a few months. Vienna, Istanbul, Prague, Paris.
Convenient, at least I can take those long night walks on my own, snapping a picture here and there. I’m not asking for more.
Except for a payrise.
Sipping coffee and waiting for my flight. The first one since the turmoil started a year and a half back. A foreign country, a small airport, one of two daily scheduled domestic flights. It’s quiet but it feels normal. Espresso, chitchat, people glued to their screens. Wouldn’t it be for a face mask, it’d be easy to forget what’s been going on.
An airplane taxis to the gate. Let’s go, we’re back in business.
I came to know. First few months were a sort of a game. A sort of a challenge — oh, we’re locked down, cannot travel, what are you going to do, huh?
Challenge accepted, I learned to walk from one of my places to the other, taking advantage of having two of them, conveniently located about two and a half miles apart. A nice stroll along the river. And it was spring, so fresh air and gentle sun were a regular bonus to me walking.
Then the summer came and went. I left one of the places permanently and settled in a house large enough to keep me occupied for years to come. Few visits abroad made the illusion of normalcy and freedom almost perfect. Yet I was deceived.
The autumn was dark and rainy — with one particularly bleak shivery morning I can never forget. It was numbing; numbing more than anything I’ve been through before. And it still lingers.
Where was I? Oh yeah, lockdown. It started hurting, it’s been a bit too much, nauseating, obnoxious.
Went to the mountains for a few days. Unplugging and seeing the nature showing off with three different seasons within a span of a long weekend was rejuvenating. At least for a moment.
Winter? Well — it’s been a long cold lonely winter as somebody put it a few decades ago. Haven’t seen that much snow in over twenty years. But I didn’t have to clean the windshield or unfreeze the car. It just sat quietly in a garage, waiting for its moment which failed to come. I haven’t traveled for four months.
A new spring is coming. And maybe it’s all coming to a close. It’s a kind of solace I live with, too tired and longing for times that are possibly never to return in the same way, form or shape as before. A little more complexity for lives of commoners seems inevitable.
And here I am, a year later, desperately hoping for this nightmare to end, indifferent to few more regulations, accepting the new normal as it unfolds. I cherish the family. I cherish each ride I take. I cherish each place I visit. For I learned the hard way what I knew but never fully realized — that nothing can be taken for granted.
Notably freedom and life.
Dear Ralf:
I threw a little celebration party earlier this week as my original email to you has already marked its first month anniversary without being replied to.
That being said, I hope you're doing fine. But as you may understand, I'm starting to feel a bit worried. It would be great if you could find some time to reply to me with a blank email, so I know there's no need to panic. Ctrl-R and Alt-S would do if you happen to have a PC with Outlook in English.
And I patiently wait for your full-scale email and your advise on processes for another month.
Kind regards
dw