Ora o dopo

Spending a couple of weeks a year in Italy, I managed to memorize about half a dozen local words. Enough to gain confidence to place orders in my broken attempt at Italian in restaurants.

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.

A strike of luck

Heat waves sweeping Barcelona.

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.

Jen

Here we are, one year later, at the top floor of a skyscraper overlooking the city and the bay. A Michelin-starred restaurant, a reception soon to be turning into a drinking spree.

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.

Doing business

Waking up at four, three quarters an hour later checking to a lounge.

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.

Indecent proposal

Those old acquaintances. Sitting in a café, sipping miniature espresso and cutting through an enormous cake. Haven’t seen her in ages; did not long to, although I don’t mind the company. For the sake of old times.

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.

A Day in the Life

It’s 4:00 AM. I’ve been sleepless for most of the night, but finally, I made up my mind and set off for a walk through the silent streets of a deserted city.

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.