My life, in an Eve

I walked home tonight. Clouds were out but the sky was dry, so I could see the beautiful moon. La luna. It's funny, we have all these different names, but the moon knows no language. It's just there, and to it, we are here. We may even be living on its moon. The same moon I was on in high school, looking up from a blanket in a field one night in spring. The same moon as in college, amid buildings and frigid winds, I avoided my homework and the authorities. The same moon I looked at 24 hours ago, out from under portici. In Bologna, the buildings go out over the sidewalks, covered by porticoes. The city is known for them. It bored itself into my heart forever because of, among a great deal more, them.



We landed in moonlight on Friday, and began what became one of the most special weekends of my life. The idea came months before, when 'Rokalypse and myself sat in my lounge reminiscing about another singular weekend, when we first dipped our hands in the waters of the ancient Danube. This time around water wasn't much of a factor, but we submerged ourselves nonetheless. 48 hours in a place but a lifetime of love.

Back here in Madrid, I wasn't excited about my empty room. Erik invited me to a bar for NFL and I said right on. There, while we watched the Jets get knocked out of the playoffs, we listened to Americans talking and yelling, or making a blend of the two. E and I remained silent and considered - he's still not been back, even after 15 months. And I went and felt why I'd left.

We said goodnight and I started home. I thought about the small streets and bricks and cobbles of Bologna. The columns getting hugged by our friends and their friends. Then I found myself in Plaza de España and I turned to regard the scene. No people. Little light. Leaves were blown and scraped the ground while I looked up and took in what I'd seen so many times - the Don Quixote stretching out over the pool, obelisk behind and grand edifici even further back. In the night I stood and looked and for the first time I saw a map in my head. 3000 miles from the place I was born, I find myself walking home in the center of the Iberian peninsula. Wondering on this, I realize there is no plan nor mould to fit. No fanfare to sound through the streets that I call calles. But I'm here. Life, I'm learning, lives. I mean that - it is not a picture, not a puzzle, not a story with a well-written plot. While I stand and think back to my younger years, I wonder what got me here. Five years ago... "you'll soon live in Spain"...? Never. But life takes its own path, just like writing makes its own story. Maybe it's because I don't start with an outline, in either affair.

But that's because that's how I do things. I have an idea and start to run. It takes me to Boston, to London, and then to Madrid. You know, I'd planned on Italy when I was younger? But a woman said Spain and I said sure. Now I walk home and stop in a bar and as I'm regarded with suspicion I order red wine and think to myself that it's all too crazy and I've no control at all. Then they raise their glasses in salute and give me my money back.

Would you have predicted that?

Americans say take care and Spanish say "until later". Italians just say ciao, and the French say "to the see again". I don't quite know what says it best, but 24 years ago I came into the world on, what in English we call Christmas Eve, with no vision of what lay in store. If anything makes sense of that, then I don't want to know. For now I'm more than happy staring at buildings in awe and telling people "until later".

But pretty soon, I think I may switch it up...


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