danceislove

July 4th
I go to a party in the gay district of Madrid.  One of my classmates lives there with her husband in a beautiful hardwood-floor apartment.  I am dying to move aside the dining table and dance, but my colleagues have been sucked into the large white couches and are talking about where they are from, recent vacations, and the like.  I am bored.  My Irish colleague pipes up, “Oh, yeah, Liz, I was thinking:  why didn’t you move to Paris?  I mean, I’m sure there’s much more lindy hop there than there is here!”

I stare at her for a brief moment, then jump up from my chair.  “Oh!  Am I in the wrong place?  Excuse me, I think I have the wrong city!  Uh, I have to go!”  I grab my purse and make for the door.  All the guests laugh heartily.

There is a big street festival and parade today.  When I do leave the party I wander the scorched, dry, crowded, colorful streets, full of garbage and shouts and laughter and loud music.  I’ve already decided not to stop by Taj’s barbecue.  I don’t have anyone to bring with me anyway.

The bars have set up counters in the street.  At one of these I order a large Coca Cola Light, a bucket of it really, with an enormous amount of ice.

Then I text my new British friend, the one likes ice cream and who helped me choose a phone plan.  “I just spent six euros on a diet coke in Chueca.  Highway robbery!”

Broken Heart
Sometimes the pain occurs acutely.  A stab here, a vicious pinch there, a wave of nausea.  The sensations tend to aggregate at my solar plexus, or the heart itself, or somewhere in between; additionally, my thoracic spine (opposite my heart).  Most often they arrive as bewildering flashes and then leave me alone.

This afternoon, though, I experienced a violent throttling of all the tissues in my upper belly and heart region.  My third and fourth chakras do not get along.  My heart knows how to cry, but my solar plexus does not ground my identity, doesn’t know who I really am.  It’s deaf and dumb.

Wake it up! Wake up! Wake up!

It is perhaps because of my identity problem that I find myself surrounded by people who want me to be a certain way.  It is just the same here as it was in the States.

When my colleagues here learn that I taught people to dance in the States, they say, “But are you going to be able to teach dance classes here too?” not considering that perhaps I want a change.

Today a fellow student asked me, “Your plan is to stay for a year or so, right?”

I opened my shoulders and said, “My plan is to keep you guessing.”

Loss of love removes the buffer between me and the universe.  I must learn to draw a picture for those that surround me, to fashion that picture into a puzzle, patiently showing them how each piece fits together.  Then I must leave one piece out and, with much ceremony, drop it miraculously into place.  It will be very satisfying for them.  I will finally stop feeling so bad about how easily I confuse people by living my strange life.

The trouble is that I crave to be understood.  Now there is no Alexander Boom asking me, “Who are you, really? How are YOU? How was your day?  What else is going on?  Are you interested in that? What do you feel like doing?”  There’s no one like him, who knows the essentials of me already, who at each encounter wanted to know what was new and different.

He always rebuffed my gratitude with a shrug:  “I just ask questions.”

Sometimes love is like a drug. Without its embrace, my problem with the world remains.  Since I cannot retreat into the comfort of being understood, I must now work to explain myself to those around me.  The pain prods me forward, leading to joy as more people see who I am really, because I make it clear.  The joy redoubles as I explain and describe and elucidate more content with more accuracy.  I see now how my lost love pulls in its wake the truth I have wanted to give to the world in the first place.

The difficult part is tearing down people’s assumptions, their unwillingness to cross a threshold into imagining the unpredictable.  I have to meet and then gently shift the same questions that people ask me over and over, e.g. “How are you going to start a lindy hop scene here?  Are there a lot of people who lindy hop?  How long are you going to stay in Madrid?”

For Alexander I never had to do this, because his constitution can handle, and in fact welcomes, mercurial and unpredictable possibilities.

When I really think about the situation, though, of course I realize that people just need a picture, an outline, a jigsaw puzzle to help them cross into my shapeshifting world.  Frequently, they like the change.

“I have been a dance instructor in the past.  But you know how sometimes people need a change?  Well, I needed a change in my life and that’s why I decided to move to his totally different city.  Madrid is so different from where I come from!  I want to change my whole life for now, just to do something different.  It’s very hard to change when you stay in the same place, you know?  So now I am in a different place and trying something new.  No, I don’t know how long I am going to stay.  I used to plan everything, but now I want to change that too.  I just go with the flow.  For now at least.  Make sense?”

I could speculate as to why this initial outline of information has been so difficult for me to deliver in the past.  I attract that behavior because elucidating my identity is now my task.

That’s about all I’m going to do for now.

Facebook messages

June 27 2009 1:20 am
Hi Taj,
It was nice meeting you today at school. Congratulations on the child care gig - that is rad!

Feel free to send me the details on your upcoming excursion to the Derek Trucks show.

Oh, and I plan to make peanut butter this weekend. I will also be moving to The Center, as it seems to be called. Don’t know what your location is, though.

Cheers,

Liz

June 27, 2009 10:43 am
hola,

what is the center? we are heading to the compultense pool today. if you would like to join us it is near …..

peanut butter sounds so awesome let me know when it is done. i will repay you with another kind of food if i can work around all of your allergies. maybe next weekend sometime when we move into our new flat. anyways if i dont see you this weekend enjoy and ill talk to you later.

hasta luego

p.s. i will fill you in on all of the info soon but im heading to the pool in this moment

June 27, 2009 1:43pm
Hey, sorry I missed you on the chat. I hate it when I forget to log off.

Pool sounds amazing; can I take a rain check? Today I’m moving into my new place in the center of Madrid (I have heard people refer to that area as The Center). I also must make time to finish most of my work for TtMadrid and start preparing for next week’s classes.

Next weekend sounds great as I will be less busy. I’ll get you some pb by then. I’m sure that as a versatile cook you can easily manage to make something without poppy seeds, coconut or kiwi.

ttys

Liz

July 3, 2009 9:50pm
hola liz,

we are having a house warming party tomm at 5. you should come and bring a friend and my peanut butter. we are cooking it up for the 4th. it should be a blast and i hope to see you there.

later,

Conversation between me and my roommate, Mathilde
Me:  So, I met this guy at school.  I think he is flirting with me but I’m not sure.

Mathilde:  Really.

Me:  Yeah.  The thing is, he’s younger than me.  A lot younger.  His Facebook messages are all in lowercase.  Only younger people do that.  It reminds me of my old dance partner.

Mathilde:  So?  Who cares?  That doesn’t matter.

Me:  I know.  Anyway, he’s invited me to a party at his place tomorrow, and he said that I should bring a friend.  Are you busy?

Mathilde:  Yeah, I have training.

Me:  OK, that’s good.  Well, I’ll ask Willow.

Text messages between me and Willow:
Sunday, July 4th, 9:54am

Me:  Hey, gorgeous, what are you doing today?  Want to go to a 4th of July BBQ with me?

Sunday, July 4th, 2:36pm
Willow:  Wish I could!  I’m in Barcelona with Joe.  Another time?  BTW, it’s no big deal, but in the future please don’t text me before 10am on a weekend.

D’oh.

Work goes well.  Around one I am sending something to print when a guy I have not seen yet comes in and sits at the screen next to mine.  I don’t look up but notice that he smells freshly showered yet already warm, a little sweaty.

Graduates of the program routinely come in to use the computers, books, listening activities.  Sometimes current students bother the alums with questions about getting work so I try not to do this.  If I want information, I will offer to take the person out for a drink or coffee.

This recently showered guy, though, is describing his day to anyone who will listen.  Apparently, this morning he showed up to a dog sitting gig but the owner (one of the school’s directors) had forgotten to tell him she’d decided to take the dog along.  “So I spent about half an hour looking everywhere for him,” he says.

“How annoying,” I comment, clicking over to my gmail screen, searching for some info I sent earlier that I need now.

“It so was.  But I just got this other job working for a family in Arturo Soria.  It’s five hours a day of basically child care.  They just want me to speak to the kids in English.  So we’ll spend the day at the pool.  They’re gonna pay me 1000 Euros.  500 per week.”

I push back my chair.  “Nice work!  I have a similar gig in July making pretty good money but not that good.”

“Well, I figured I’d start high and come down if I needed to, but they were like, OK.”

“That’s what you gotta do,” I say.

“What’s your name?”

“Liz.”

“Taj.”

I shake his hand, which is sweaty. He’s from Florida.  He attempts to say “Boston” in a Boston accent so I have to correct him from “Bah-ston” to “Bwo-ston.”  I add, “We only make that other sound when there’s an ‘r’ involved.”

“Like what?”

“Like…. ‘I can’t drive anywhere until I find my KHA-KIS.’”

He laughs.

“‘Would you like some CRACKIZ?’” I say next.

“But you don’t talk like that.”

“No.  I’m actually not from Boston but I feel like I am.”

“What did you do there?”

“Taught people to dance.  All types of dance, but my favorite is the lindy hop.  It’s like swing but more intense.  It’s faster, and you can throw the girl.”

“Hey, check out this video.”  He’s already stood up to go, but now leans over the keyboard.

“OK,” I laugh, and stretch sideways a little to look at his Facebook page.  “Look at you in that pile of chicks.”  His profile photo shows him surrounded by no fewer than three girls, each shoving an alcoholic drink toward the camera.

One of his earbuds has fallen out and dangles in front of him.  I can hear a scratchy hint of music.  “What are you listening to?”

He stops clicking and looking around for the video long enough to pull an iPhone out of his pocket.  “Atmosphere,” he answers.

“I love them.”

“Really?”

“Well, I love their song, ‘Say Hey There.’”

It’s becoming apparent that Taj can’t make the video work.  I say, “Why don’t you just send it to me? You can add me.”

“Now that would make sense.”

“Elizabeth Jean Miller,” I say, looking at the screen again to verify the spelling.

“We have one mutual friend,” he reports.

“Who could that be?”

He clicks on the notification. Melissa Patrick.

“Oh, of course.  I was in touch with her in the couple of months before I moved here.  ‘Melissa, is it true you can travel wherever you want and no one gives you a problem?  Melissa, where can you buy peanut butter in Madrid?’”

Taj turns toward me.  “Where can you buy peanut butter in Madrid?”

“Depends on what kind of peanut butter.”

“Any kind.”

“If you want the kind with sugar and hydrogenated oils and all that crap, you can find it in the supermarkets.  It’s pretty easy to make real peanut butter in a food processor, though.”

“Oh,” he says dubiously.

“I’ll make you some.”  I turn back to my screen.

“That would be amazing.  I could make something for you in return.  I’m good at cooking.”

I finish clicking through his friend request and then, for the first time, I actually look at Taj.

Normally I would not have given him a second glance.  He’s not my type.  But the hazel eyes are very pretty.  So are the light brown curls.  His left shoulder rounds forward as he looks over it at me.

I ask, “Do you have a favorite thing to cook or does it depend on the day?”

“I do.  Let me think of the name.  I can’t believe I’m forgetting it.”

I click on my G-mail tab and look at my inbox for a minute.  Idly I wonder whether he’ll say, “risotto.”

“Thai curry,” he declares.

“Sounds delicious.  Unfortunately I can’t eat it because I’m allergic to coconut.”

“What happens to you?”

“It sucks.  I get all anaphylactic.”

“What else are you allergic to?”

“Poppy seeds.  Kiwi.  Cantaloupe.  Those are the main offenders.”

“Well, I’ll see if I can make you something anyway, so we can do a trade.  Hey, you like blues, right? No - what’s that music you dance to?”

“I love blues,” I say, with all the love in my heart.

“What about jazz?”

“My favorite.”

“My friends and I are going to see the Derek Trucks band, July 25th.”

“Hmm, I don’t know them.”

“You know the Allman Brothers?”

“Of course! Ha ha, I was just singing ‘Blue Sky’ as I walked into school today.”

“Well, Butch Trucks was the drummer in that band, and Derek Trucks is is his son.  He’s married to Susan Tedeschi -”

“No way!  She’s from Boston.  Wait a minute, I was just listening to her this morning!  This is getting weird.”

He humors me with a smile.  “Anyway, Derek Trucks has a band, and we’re going to see them, in Galicia, I think.  I don’t know if we’re going to rent a car or take the bus, but you could come along if you want.”

“I’m in,” I say.  “Can you send me the details?  And I’ll probably make some peanut butter this weekend, so you can tell me how to get it to you.”

“Yeah, I’m off to the pool now.”

“Sweet.  Nice to meet you, Taj.”  I stand up to shake his hand.

What a charming young man.  I purposely don’t look at his birthday on his Facebook profile.

Six days later, this is what happened.

I left for school with my headphones on.  I’d purged most of the sad music from my iPod, and filled the playlists with more upbeat songs, even some trance.

Some tracks hadn’t registered on the post-breakup radar, and I noticed one of them as I hurried toward the metro:  Susan Tedeschi’s version of “Angel from Montgomery.”  I considered before listening.  Too sad?  Contraindicated for my broken heart?  Probably not.  I hit play.

If dreams were thunder
Lightning was desire
This house would have burned down
A long time ago.

Maybe these are my new favorite lyrics, I thought.  If I’m not mistaken, John Prine wrote them.  Could I get his version somewhere? What kind of relationship inspired such bare, powerful images?

As I descended the second escalator, Susan was singing, “How the hell can a person/ Go to work in the morning/ Come home in the evening/ And have nothing to say?”

I wondered that, too.

My train arrived in a flash, as usual.  I got a seat and fished out my notebook and began writing, as usual.  I wanted to write the story of how Alexander had effectively broken up with me over Gmail.

About 25 minutes and one train change later I got out at Cuzco and ran up both long flights of stairs.  The clarinetist on the landing - he’s there every morning when I run past - was playing Pachelbel’s Canon. Once on the pavement, I hit play again and let the Foo Fighters regale me.

My thoughts went like this:
It’s Friday of week 3, my fifteenth day at the TEFL program (Teaching English as a Foreign Language).  Landmarks on the walk to school now feel comfortably familiar.  The flashing red digital sign that juts over the sidewalk and usually tells me that I’m late, today instead proclaims 9:21.  Then it flashes back to Mas Jamon! Mas Jamon!

Maybe I have time to buy a diet coke.  At least, I want gum.

Pausing at an apartment doorway, I let down my backpack and open the front pocket.  Ooh, a missed call.  I saddle up again and listen to voice mail.

Veronique from one of the agencies.  She received my CV and needs a teacher starting Monday.  Can I come speak to her ASAP.  She’s on another line when I call back, so I continue on to school.

“You’re my blue sky/ You’re my sunny day,” I sing as I breeze through the door, even though the Allman Brothers are not on my playlist.

I get permission to skip the morning.  I head to my impromptu interview.

Veronique is a classy French lady, unafraid to grin, with a polished-stone necklace that might weigh as much as me.  After ascertaining my availability, she leaves me in an empty conference room to prepare a short lesson on the second conditional.  Rock.  We just covered this in school.

I open the door and ask Veronique where I can get some water.  “I’m ready when you are,” I add as I cross the office to the water cooler.

Several minutes later a handsome white-haired guy enters the conference room, explaining that he’ll be my student for the sample lesson.  As predicted I rock it, except for one thing.

As Nathan - who is the director of studies for the agency - explains, there is a logical reason for using the past simple in the second conditional structure.  I hadn’t made this reason clear in the lesson.

“We use the past because the situation is remote from the present.  ‘If I ruled the world, everyone would get a million dollars.’  It’s a remnant of the subjunctive.  That’s why we use were after the first person.  But usually we don’t talk about that with students because it’s confusing.  We just say that we use the past because we’re remote from the present situation, and the verb “to be” with the first person singular is an exception.  Actually we know that it’s a remnant of the subjunctive mood.”

“Oh,” I breathed, “how beautiful.”

At school I continue to forego class, in favor of doing homework.  Instruction currently is supposed to focus on how to gear English classes for business students, but as far as I can tell it’s just anecdotes a la, “And this one time?  I had a student who did this?” plus questions from students beginning with, “What do you do if someone…”

Two of my classmates - one from Ireland and another from here - are also in the computer room, further justifying my decision.  I stretch my body before sitting.

“Sleep in?”  says the Irish girl brightly.

“No.  Landed an agency gig.”

That wasn’t exactly the end of the break-up.  I decided to go see Alexander the following Saturday.  I wore my most flattering tight shirt and cutoffs, and divided my freshly-washed hair into two braids.

I didn’t believe that he really wanted to give up sex with me, because in my suffering over this rejection, I’d forgotten that sex is not a big deal for men.  They can go out and find it if that’s what they want.  Certainly this is not a problem for a handsome, smart guy like Alexander who has the whole sweep-the-girl-off-her-feet thing down to a science.

I, on the other hand, have a big problem related to sex.  If you’ve seduced me, congratulations and beware.  It takes a very mysterious combination of traits, interaction, timing, and chemistry to get me to want to so much as kiss you.  However, then I imprint, and I get addicted.  As long as I’m in love with a guy I cannot imagine being close to anyone else.  When he breaks up with me I’m both devastated and fairly convinced I won’t have sex again, not because I won’t find anyone willing but because I just won’t feel like it.

When I arrived at Alexander’s apartment building he was outside with the dog.  An elderly woman stood nearby, gesturing at the dog and letting off a big stream of chirpy Spanish.  I shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably, waiting.  The sun was frying my braids.  Little streams of sweat began to gather front and center in my bra.

Finally Alexander took his leave of the woman and tugged on the dog’s leash.  We walked to a nearby park.

“I get it,” I said.  “You’re just not that into me.”

“What do you want the boundaries to be,” he said, “around our friendship?”

“Friendship?  I need time.”

“Well, what happens if I run into you? Should I just run the other way?”

“Whatever.  I don’t know,” I said.

“I care about you, Liz.”

I sighed.  “You want to be friends.  Fine.  I just need a couple of months.”

“OK.  The ball is in your court.  I’ll wait for you to contact me.”

“Thanks.”

A couple of boys about hip-height ran past me, shrieking, toward the colorful playground structure off to my left.  I don’t remember ever having felt so tired and annoyed.

“Can I still come to your book signing?” he added.

I smiled.  “Of course.”

“I know it’s going to happen.  I’m just surprised it hasn’t happened already.”

When we parted he gave me a long hug.  I slogged back up to the metro and home, ready to get out of my tight clothes and lie down for a nap.

The questions at me began immediately.  When did I get here? Where was I from? Oh, was that a coincidence, or did I come here with Alexander?

I smiled and deflected.  “I just wanted a change,” I said.  “I never traveled, never studied abroad, so, better late than never.  My main focus right now, though, is my book.”

That was it.  For almost the rest of the night I got to talk about my book.  A charming redhead in a ruffled black blouse seated clear across the room began discussing art, relationships, and egoism with me.  Her name was Willow.

It was the type of party that broke up suddenly, one person or couple touching off a domino effect of standing, hugging, kissing, thanking, and bidding goodbye.  I was in the bathroom when this occurred, so I quickly finished washing my hands and strode toward the entryway exclaiming, “Does anyone want a lollipop?”  I maneuvered through the small crowd to grab the plastic bag I had left in the kitchen.  I handed each of five large red heart-shaped lollipops to the five other women in attendance, including Willow.

Willow and her guy Joe stayed behind.  The three of us helped Alexander clean up.  “So, are you and Alexander dating?” Willow asked me.

“Ask him,” I said, too sharply.

She did.

“I don’t think we really know the answer to that question,” Alexander sighed.

“Joe and I are like that too,” she said lightly.  They left before long.

I scrubbed the stove and talked to Alexander a little more. “Laura couldn’t make the party?” I asked, about his flatmate.

“No - she got all dolled up to go somewhere,” he answered.

This could have been a great opportunity.  We were alone in the flat, if you don’t count the dog.  But our interaction was completely stilted.  I was trying to give him space and he was holding everything back or maybe he really just didn’t feel anything for me anymore.

I said goodbye, without touching him, not even Spanish cheek-pecks or an American hug.

“I know you’re not happy,” he said, the next evening, on g-chat.

That stung.  It was one thing to try so hard to conceal my pain, to make things as easy as possible for him.  It was another to be found out.  He always found me out.

“Can we talk about it on the phone?” I ventured.

“Unfortunately, Liz, I have a paper due tomorrow.  As I’ve said many times before, I just don’t think I can meet your needs and demands.”

“I feel like we have been hanging out on g-chat lately.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry about what?”

“That you feel we’ve been hanging out on g-chat.”

Now I knew he was being unfair.  I told him to go work on his paper.  We emailed back and forth that night and the next morning, as I got ready to go to school.  His last message contained the old line about wanting to be there for me but not in the capacity that I wanted him, and hell, he could really use a friend right now.

So I called him.  It was June 16, 2009. Eighteen days after my arrival in Madrid.  I was running late for school and hurrying toward the Metro.

Alexander answered the phone.

“I thought you would at least have had the respect for me to break up with me in person,” I said. “I don’t know what I have done wrong.  I will do practically anything for you, including give you space and time.  Unless you are just not into me anymore.  Sometimes that happens.  You don’t want to sleep with me, you don’t want me.  Is that right?”

He said it was.

“Well then,” I said, “this is goodbye.”  I looked at my blackberry, hit the end button, and would have knocked my head into an iron beam if I hadn’t heard the loud exclamations of workmen nearby.

Somehow I had walked into a reasonably well-marked sidewalk construction zone, head down, hat brim into the light rain, mind elsewhere completely though not surprised that this was all happening to me again.  My heart’s been broken before.  It just usually gets broken by this one person, because I let him.

In a day or so I had a few little dates lined up.  Frequently, as I was looking at my email, Alexander would start g-chatting with me.  On Monday he sent me a link to a conference he planned to attend, part of which would take place in Segovia.  He asked if I wanted to take the train out there and spend the afternoon with him, on Saturday July 11th.

On Tuesday while at school I saw a Facebook invite from him for a dinner party.  No one had responded yet so I didn’t either.  I worried.  Would this party amount to Alexander holding court with fourteen of his best female friends?  In that case, I didn’t want to go.  In that case, I had better go.  Not a good situation either way.

By Friday only one person had RSVP’d yes:  someone calling herself Willow Vanderwoman.  I continued to hold out, even though the party was set for Sunday.

I went on the first of my little newspaper-mediated meetings. I met the guy in Sol.  I knew right away there would be nothing between us, because he was too attached to ice cream and made many comments about what I probably should do and how I should be careful in Madrid, and, oh did I know, that everyone leaves in August, so it will be difficult for me to find work?

I had already heard this song and dance from countless people.  I hate it when people tell me to be careful and tell me what I should do, as if I don’t already know what people think I should do.  I’m going to fucking do what I want anyway, and get hurt and be broke and live my life thank you very much, and thank you for your concern but I’m just going to sit here and smile and nod.

Then, however, I decided to try to educate this particular guy.  I told him that I was not like most people and that despite my slight appearance, I was tough, used to working hard, and accepted tribulations as learning experiences.

Surprisingly he seemed teachable.

Encouraged, I told him how I felt when people told me what to do, and he didn’t seem to think I was being a bitch.  “There is one thing I do need your advice on,” I added.  “I have to do something about my phone plan.  It’s really expensive.”

Malcolm explained patiently how to switch my plan.  (In Spain, it’s not always possible to find out whatever you want about any local company by googling it.)  Then he took me for a walk, pointed out interesting sites, and made some snarky and entertaining comments about the many tourist-engorged bars in our immediate surroundings.

The next day, I changed my phone plan, and then went to Zara to try to find something smashing to wear to Alexander’s party.  It all but exhausted me.  I was fried from the first week of school and teaching my private student on top of that, every day.  At the last minute, I cancelled my date for that night, with a different guy.  I went home and lay down.

My gmail bluked at me.

Alexander and I chatted all evening.  He talked about school a lot.  He said it wasn’t turning out to be what he expected and he wished he had chosen the other school that had accepted him.  He was tired all the time and he’d lost thirteen pounds.  He said, “I’m beginning to really dislike Spain.”  I felt a bit alarmed for him, tried to listen as best I could in this chat medium.  At length he began to send me links to pictures and jokes and video.

Near midnight he typed, “Did you hear that?”

I reflected for a second and realized that it had just thundered quite loudly.  I might have been close to dozing off.

“Yeah.  Is it raining where you are?”

“No, not yet.”

“I don’t think it’s raining here either.”

We never said goodnight.

My plan had ever been to arrive late at the party.  I did a Spanish/ lindy hop exchange with my friend Isa, whom I had met at one of the lindy hop dances.  I trekked all the way back from Atocha (middle, south Madrid) to my current place of residence in Simancas (way east) and told Carlos that he should leave without me.  (Rosa was off visiting her sister.)

I took an hour getting ready, showering, shaving my legs, putting on eyeliner and mascara.  I used Rosa’s blow dryer to good effect:  my hair turned out amazing, smooth on top, flipped up on the bottom.  I put on a sparkly black boat-necked blouse with a sequined strapless bra underneath.  I had deliberately bought the blouse a size too big so I could let it fall off my shoulder and show a small enticing swath of nakedness, unmarred by any bra strap.

I added knee-length black shorts, silver heels, and a sparkly purse.

At the large mirror that faces the exit of the apartment building, I gave my appearance a final appraisal.  You have never looked better, I thought to myself, and meant it.  Oh, maybe except for on your wedding day.

I rode the metro instead of the bus this time.  Travel still took the better part of an hour. As the Linea Cuatro train approached the Avenida de la Paz stop I counted my breaths and played india.arie’s “Strength, Courage, and Wisdom” in my head.

I could hear The Dog barking as I climbed the stairs in Alexander’s apartment block.  “It’s only me!”  I cried, stepping inside the door and petting her head.  She calmed down.  “Oh, look, the lampshade is gone.  Hi, Alexander.”

“Hi.”  He smiled his familiar wide slightly nervous smile: the smile of a host.  I knew it well and I knew how it felt to wear that smile myself.

I didn’t touch him.  He seemed busy, and he was sweating.  I edged a bit into the kitchen.  Two young women seemed to be putting the final touches on a salad.  He introduced me to them.  They were calm and long-haired and graceful, an orchestrated and unthreatening duo, like Wendy and Lisa in the early Prince videos.

“I’m going to go sit in there,” I said unnecessarily.

Just outside the pub I got rid of my gum in a trash can, then barreled past the patio into the warm interior.  It was crowded, noisy, and spacious, with a light colored hardwood floor and the heavy scent of beer.  Shouts and laughter rang above the clatter of cutlery from the booths along the edges to the central bar and back, echos of unintelligible Spanish.  Waiters hurried along a similar trajectory.

Unlike in the States, when you walk into a bar in Spain, no one greets you or cards you or asks if your party is complete.  This lack of attention suited me as I scanned the place.  Finally, when I had turned almost 360 degrees, the slow wave of Alexander’s arm caught my attention.  He was seated on the patio, next to a large open garage-style window.  Alexander doesn’t usually wear black, but it looks good on him.  His button-down matched his glasses, the black hexagonal ones.  Metro through and through.

I leaned down and kissed him on the lips and then took my spot across from him.

He indicated the quarter of a sandwich that remained on a small white plate before him.  “You can have that if you want.”

“How did you know I was hungry?”  I took a bite.  Pork, ham, and cheese surrounded by white bread greeted my senses.  Although now cool, the sandwich tasted crispy outside and tender inside.

“This is delicious, too.”  He slid his large goblet of beer toward me.  “It’s Leffe Rouge.  It might be better than Westmall.”

I blinked hard and stared at him.  “You must be kidding.”

“Try it.”

I sipped.  “Rich and caramelly.  Almost like a latte.  I might even get one.”

Alexander waved over a waitress and ordered for me.  I was grateful.  Technically I knew how to order in Spanish but I didn’t feel up to the task.

A very small, wide eyed, snowy-haired girl careened in the direction of our table and stopped on a dime, blinking at each of us.

“Hola,” I smiled.  It was easy.  I’m not referring to the Spanish word, but the voluntary interaction with a child, without getting paid for it.  I was conscious of auditioning for the part of the person with whom Alexander might someday want to have a discussion about considering the possibility of having his child.  Yes, I did mean to write that sentence that way.

Presently, an even smaller child zoomed in a curving path toward the first, who shrieked and ran.

“They’ve been doing that for a while,” Alexander chuckled.

Strangely they did not annoy me.

My food and beer arrived.  Alexander and I chatted:  school, money, living situations, Spanish people, the dog, etc.  I didn’t want to push him into the discussion we needed to have.  Also, I wanted to give him the opportunity to start it the way he saw fit.

Then it was late, and an unexpectedly chilly wind began shaking the awning above us.

“Aren’t you going to finish your beer?” he said.

I sighed.  “I think I’m too full.”  I took a half-hearted sip.

“Well, obviously you don’t have to,” he said.

“I don’t?” I said sadly.  His encouragement of my drinking has been an old flirtation between us, almost as old as the night we met.  “Drink up,” he has said, so many times, with a stern glance at my wine glass followed by suggestively playful gaze into my eyes.

We split the bill and got up and went out onto the sidewalk.  He said, “Well, I live this way, so -”

“Don’t you want me to come over and help you fall asleep?” I said, smiling.

He mumbled something.

“What?”

“You can come see the conehead.”

“Oh, the conehead.  Oh.”  The dog’s head was still partially imprisoned by a lampshade-like object that prevented her from chewing her stitches.

We walked to his apartment, chatting some more.  He had finally found a jacket that fit his long arms, and he was going to wear it.  We took the dog out.  I huddled in the sweater he lent me.

Back inside the apartment, he didn’t turn on any lights until we got to his little bedroom.  All of the rooms are little.  He dropped his keys on the desk next to his laptop.  I took hold of his hand and that made him turn toward me.

I kissed him.  He kissed me back, and it went on for a while, but didn’t go anywhere. When my neck was tired I let my head fall against his chest.  His arms closed around me.

I had to start talking.  I had to be the one to move us forward, even if forward meant the rubbish heap.

“There’s a lot I want to tell you, and ask you.”

“OK.”

We sat down on the foot of the bed.  I took off his sweater and began to fold it in my lap.  It was brown, and I never wear brown.  “What do you think?”  I said.  “About the relationship.”

“Well, I’m just not really sure.”

“Not really sure….” I repeated.

“Yeah.  About us?”

He was talking like a girl, using a questioning inflection at the end of what should be a declarative statement.

“I know,” I said.  I mean, it’s okay.  It’s okay if you don’t know whether we’re going to work out long term, I mean, I don’t know either, but, I want to try and see what happens.  I have thought about you a lot in the past two months.  I really want to be with you, and I am willing to wait for you.  I know you don’t have a lot of time, because of school, and that’s okay with me.  I don’t have to see you all the time, once a week is fine, whatever you want.  Your terms.  You can decide all the terms.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.  What about your terms?”

I shrugged.  “Relationships are like that.  This is what I am willing to do for you, for us.  I’ve thought about it a lot.”

“The things is… I’m just not sure….”

“Oh,” I said, as a bolt of pain suddenly skewered me, in at my middle and out through my back.  “Oh, you mean - OK, don’t tell me right now. I don’t think I want to know.”

“No, it’s not - it’s just that I don’t know.”

I managed to breathe.  “OK, well, I should probably go and leave you alone.  But I want to ask you something.  Do you still care about me?”

“Of course, yes, I care about you.”

“Well, it’s cold out, and it’s late, and I might never see you again, so I shouldn’t take your sweater, but it’s cold.”

He laughed.  “No matter what happens, you’ll see me again!”

“No.  I can’t be just friends with you.  You’re too damn sexy.”

He laughed again.  “Come on.”

“You still don’t believe me,” I said quietly.  “After everything.”

“So it’s all or nothing for you, huh?”

“Sounds like it’s all or nothing for you.  If you don’t know whether you want to be with me long-term, you don’t want to be with me at all.”

He sighed.  “I’m tired.  Can we -”

“Well, that was the favor I was going to ask you.  Could I just sleep here tonight?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

“Thank you.”

We got ready for bed and he crooned to Sharma a little bit and told her to go lie down.  I lay down next to him on the bed.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked.  I told him I was.

After a long, long time, I slept.  After what seemed like a short time, I awoke.  It was still dark.  Alexander was curled around me, his arms around me.  I had to think.

When he woke up I talked to him.  “I came up with three options,” I said.  “The first is, you just decide you don’t want me, and that’s the end.  The second is, we can go out on a couple of dates in the next month, and I won’t expect to go home with you, and you can see how you feel.  The third is, after your term is over in July I could whisk you off to a nice weekend in a pet-friendly hotel.  I’ve been doing some research on those.”

He laughed.

“Then we could just spend some quality time together and see if we reconnect,” I continued.

I talked to him a little more, because he asked.  He always wants to know more about what is going on in my mind, and I have never been able to resist telling him.  On this morning I told him that in our past together I tried to deny my feelings for him and thought they weren’t legitimate.  Looking at all of my past relationships, with the benefit of age, I realized that there were legitimate reasons for the feelings between me and Alexander, and we had of course been in love.  The months we’d spent at Serendipity Central had made even clearer to me how deeply connected we were.  “We know each other so well,” I said, “and yet we honor each other in the ways we change and develop.  I think it’s beautiful.  I mean, maybe this sounds ridiculous, but I believe in us.  The record shows how good we are together.  So I am willing to do whatever I can for you to make our relationship work, if you want to try.  Seriously.  I’ll make you food, do your laundry, walk the dog, whatever, anything, to make your life a little easier.”

“What about what you need?”

“Look.  If the most important thing was being with a guy who’s there for me every day, telling me that he loves me, I would still be married.”

He was silent for a moment.

“I want you,” I continued.  “I know that I want you, not anyone else, because of how you make me grow, how you see me and know me, and most of all because of how you make me feel.  I’m willing to sacrifice for that.  People do it all the time.  You’re in school.    In lots of couples, when one person is in school, like med school or law school or business school, the other person sacrifices a little more because it’s required.  Then later maybe the balance shifts.  So I really hope you’ll just - give me a chance.”

We talked a little more and then I had to get going.  “Thanks for letting me sleep here.”

“Liz, it’s easy sleeping next to you.  That’s easy,” he said.  I still don’t know what he meant.  Which part is difficult?

Of the three options I had proposed, he picked the one where we go out on a couple of dates and see how he feels.  I realized later on that was the worst option for me, because it essentially meant he got to keep me around without giving me the title of girlfriend.  I had meant to ask him for that, just that, but then in the moment it had seemed too much.

Thus history repeated itself.  See Christmas, 2000.

Well, that meant I could email guys who had posted personal ads in the expatriate newspaper.

Also at Serendipity Central, though more recently, I had begun lying down as a hobby. I often did it instead of logging on to Facebook, or looking for new music, or worrying about something.  Sometimes I felt like getting up again after 10-20 minutes, but my schedule featured blocked-off “shut-down” times 2-3 hours long to ensure time for rest.

Why did I do this?  It worked for me.  With more rest, I felt better.  In particular, my emotional mood was reliably good.  I dealt easily with stress and the occasional short night of sleep.

So now, since I wasn’t entirely sure what to do next, I lay down.

Presently my computer went bluke again.  I got up and walked to the desk, and brought my laptop onto the bed.  I arranged myself so that I could both lounge and type:  “That was a short nap.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Alexander explained.  “My mind is going bzzzzzzz.”

“I could come over and seduce you.  Then you’d be sleepy,” I typed.  Immediately I clicked away from the Gmail tab, onto some YouTube dance clip and then online shopping.  After I saw that he’d answered, I took a deep breath and clicked back.

There was one word:  “Tempting.”

I sprang up and ran for the shower, where I shaved everything.  I skipped the blow dry but curled my eyelashes and applied mascara.  That, plus concealer and a little foundation, amounts to my upper limit of makeup.

Dressed and wearing earrings, back in my room, I hit the spacebar on my laptop.

He’d written again.  “I’m going to sleep for real now.”  Then there was a message saying that Alexander had disconnected, and any messages I typed now would be delivered to him when he came online.

I supposed it would be quiz night for me after all, down at the expatriate cafe.  It didn’t start for several hours, though.

So I lay down.  I pulled one knee up toward my chest from under the fabric of my black skirt.  In spite of current circumstances I felt desirable.  I will feel loved again, I thought, whether by Alexander or someone else.  The important part was the feeling.

Bluke! 9:05.  I must have dozed off.

“I sent you a text,” he’d typed.

“Hmm, that’s strange,” I answered.  “I didn’t hear my phone chime.”

“Do you want to meet up for a beer at this place?”  An underlined link appeared.

I clicked on it, then plugged the address into Google.  Since I as yet had little familiarity with public transit times in Madrid, I typed merely, “I’ll leave in 5 min.”

It turned out to be fifteen.  I fretted over my appearance, wondering if I was wearing too much black, finally exchanging the skirt for jeans.  I put on the pair that had once inspired him to comment “nice butt” on a Facebook photo.

As fast as my little ballroom sandals could carry me on cobblestoned and grooved pavement, I traversed the seemingly many blocks to the bus stop at Arturo Soria and Garcia Noblejas. I counted my breaths as I waited for what seemed a long, long time.  Perhaps the metro would have been faster.  We both live in the eastern part of the city, and the metro necessitates going in toward the center and back out.

I couldn’t help but wonder if Alexander might have made a bit more of an effort.  I was his fellow American, fellow Bostonian, newly arrived in a foreign country.  Never mind whether he considered himself my boyfriend.  Couldn’t he, last week, have acknowledged his inability to pick me up at the airport, or to do anything to welcome me?  Instead, my roommate, who barely knows me, and with whom I can barely communicate because of the language barrier, shouldered my bags, helped me change three metro lines, settled me in to his apartment, took me grocery shopping, spoke to the cashier for me, and generally managed my entire hazy transition as I struggled with fatigue and with ignorance of Spanish.  I felt woefully indebted to Carlos.

On this Friday evening, some part of me thought that the least Alexander could have done was to choose a bar a little closer to my place.

Then again, the stress of trying to find a new location in a strange city can make a person like me have unreasonable thoughts.

Armed with Google directions, I nevertheless had trouble because it was too dark to see the street signs from the bus.  I ended up overshooting, disembarking just after the Arturo Soria metro stop and fairly running back in the direction the bus had conveyed me.

“Where ya at?” Alexander’s text chimed at 10:02.

I called him.  “I’m almost there.  I’m sorry to keep you waiting.  Oh, here’s the street.  I’ll be there in a minute.”

One week after arriving in Madrid I taught my first private English lesson.  My student was possibly the most charming metalhead I ever met.  She is the 15-year-old daughter of the woman who owns the shop downstairs from Carlos and Rosa’s apartment.

On the walk home I considered calling Alexander because I doubted he had anything going on that night. He’d been studying all week for a big exam, which had probably just ended.

I left my phone in my bag, though, and kept on walking, enjoying the weather:  warm, bright, breezy.

Carlos and Rosa were out teaching dance classes when I arrived home.  I walked through the front hall and past the kitchen, left at the living room, down the corridor past the bathroom on my left and Carlos and Rosa’s room on my right, adjacent to the guest room, which I will occupy till June 30th.

In Madrid, apartment floors tend to be made of an off-white cement tile, hard and cool.  It feels good under bare feet, so I took off my old blown-out flower-embroidered black Skechers and put down my backpack. I sat heavily at the  long, broad formica desk, which is built into the wall and which holds a large monitor, hard drive, printer, and fax machine.  None of them work.  Fortunately there is just enough room for my laptop and inevitable little pile of things.  I opened the former.  There’s always stuff to be done online.

Five minutes later my computer emitted a familiar sound:  bluke! My Gmail tab oscillated between the white-grounded red envelope Gmail logo and a flashing orange field around “Alexander says…”

I should make him wait a minute, I thought.

I finished typing a Facebook message, breathed, and clicked on the flashing tab.

Alexander wanted to know how my day was.  He asked in Spanish.

Apparently I don’t have to wait for him to call or text or email anymore.  Now that we are in the same time zone again, I just have to log onto Gmail.

I answered his question briefly, in Spanish at first, and then asked him about his exam.

He’d realized, while walking out of it, that he’d done the first question completely wrong.  There had been only two questions on the test.

Completely wrong?  I didn’t completely believe him.  Saying that Alexander is a diligent student understates the case.  He reminds me of some of my college friends who daily described, in detail, insecurities related to their academic performance, yet consistently rocked everything.

“I hope he gives partial credit,” Alexander typed, referring to the professor.  “Well, it’s over now.”

“You must be exhausted,” I typed.

He said that in fact he was going to take a nap, so I said goodbye.

In the bright 7pm sunshine from the window, I lay down on my own bed, Carlos and Rosa’s guest bed, which is a twin.  I found it quite comfortable, particularly after eight months on the too-plushy futon I had bought in the hopes that Alexander would come over and sleep with me.