Most of us are used to seeing the world through our own eyes and getting out of our skins can be a very tricky business indeed. I always have a problem, for example, with perspectives. Intellectually, I know that things are the way they are but I can’t help feeling differently about them under different circumstances. I find it hard to absorb that the thing itself did not actually change; it was I who did.
We all take mobility for granted. And why not? If you can get from Point A to B, say, in anticipation of a reward, the faster you get there, the more likely you are to claim your reward. At least that’s how our society thinks and functions. I’ve never had a problem with that until the last week or so when I hurt my knee. Apparently I twisted some nerve and dislocated it. To say I’m in pain is an understatement. Every step is torture and stairs are the epitome of evil.
It was the definition of serendipity, our story. Boy is on holiday, boy meets girl. girl brings boy around her city. fun. laughter. connection. boy leaves. boy keeps in touch online and with letters and girl does the same. girl saves up to visit boy, twice. boy puts girl up, takes her around his city, puts up with her anal-retentive crap.
What could be more perfect? We all think we know what perfection is, but the fact is that it’s so rare, at least in my life, that I probably wouldn’t recognise it even if it were to slap me in the face. We are often told that perfection is hard to come by, impossible to attain, even. But no one’s ever talked about how to hold on to it, should it ever come knocking on your door. Besides perfection is just a point of view, isn’t it? What’s perfect to you may not be perfect to someone else.
We have a connection, a real one. He knows what I’m saying before I finish, and I him. We read each other pretty well. All the elements of the classic love story are there. Except the love bit. I’m the romantic, he’s not. I’d like to believe that I can do anything if I put my mind to it; he says it’s impossible. Plus, we are 6611 miles apart. If you list them down, the cons are almost as long as the pros.
It was the definition of serendipity, our story; I guess I got enchanted by it myself.
God. The French have apparently not heard of escalators. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve dragged my luggage up and down stairs today. The flight was pretty uneventful; there was a 2hour delay and it made me so tired I slept most of the way through. It turned out to be a good thing though, the delay, since I have to wait *just* 3 hours for the train to Avignon.
It was worth it though. I love train rides. I love looking out the window and seeing everything roll pass in perfectly composed panels. I especially love the big ass power structures that seem to be resolutely holding up the colossal blue sky. It’s really hard to tear your eyes away from the different shades of green and that impossibly blue blue sky. The butterflies in my stomach settle down a little as the train rolls on and on and I remember thinking: a smoke would be perfect right about now.
The station is quiet. Not many alighted here in Avignon; most were heading to Marseille further south. There isn’t a soul in sight. He promised he’d pick me up from the station. He even called me a stupid bitch for worrying so much. I drag that deadweight of a luggage across to the other side. Sunlight pours into my eyes, blinding me for a second and when I focus my eyes again, I make out a figure stretched out on the seat on the phone. It has to be him; there’s no one else around. I walk towards the figure, he’s still on the phone. And when he finally looks up, he jumps up and envelops me in a big bear hug while still on the phone. “Work,” he mouthed.
And work is apparently all he does. Even after we dump the luggage at his place, he has to run errands for work. He wakes up every morning at 10 and heads in to work, comes back for a nap in the evenings, goes back in and only comes home to sleep at 3 in the morning. You’d probably have to give him credit for doing this for as long as he has, without dropping dead somewhere at work. It’s been a year since I last saw him in Paris but already so much of him has changed. He’s put on some weight from all the junk food he eats. His face, which once used to be so open and light, has taken on a web of fine worry lines and a slight case of eczema. He’s apologetic about the situation; he had wanted to take some time off to show me around but could only snatch some time from work to drive me to somewhere and then pick me up when I’m done.
I don’t really mind actually. Maybe it’s cos part of me still can’t believe that I’m actually here. In Avignon. In his house. With him. But then I never really care about tourist attractions. To me, a holiday is about getting up when you feel like it, climbing onto the mini balcony to have a cigarette while trying to decide if it’s going to be cold that day. It’s slowly walking along the streets maybe popping in to get some pastries from the boulangerie or the supermarket to get more substantial supplies. Maybe walking to the Centre for a couple of hours and on the way back, a kindly looking man says bonjour while you squint into the setting sun. It’s talking rubbish with him–the easy vibe that’s been with us from the beginning has thankfully not changed–eating microwave dinners and playing with his cat. It’s figuring out how things work. It’s doing everyday things in a different way. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier in my life.
