I had already written at least four versions of the first post and reread them all, trying to improve them. I gave up everything I had tried to say so far and started from scratch. I cried a lot as I wrote those words. I reviewed, edited, published, publicized on social networks and left the cafeteria, losing access to the Internet. It was like burning the ships. It was done and I didn’t want to go back.
I was afraid of judgment. What would the friends who knew my story think? What would my family say? Did I expose myself too much? What would my fellow journalists think of my text? What would people think of the decision to tell about myself on a blog? After all, will any soul be interested in reading it?
Even today, remembering all these questions and fears, I have a secret desire to go back and erase everything I’ve told you since, but I burned the ships. There is no going back. There is no way to “unpublish” it. The word, once spoken, is like a thrown arrow. Can’t go back again.
I went to the Shoe Memorial on the banks of the Danube River and stayed there for over an hour thinking about human cruelty.
During WWII, Jews captured by the Nazis in Budapest were executed and their bodies thrown into the river. Queued on the banks of the Danube, they were forced to take off their shoes before they fell into the water, shot down in the head. Men, women, the elderly, and children died this way and some pairs of shoes were eternalized in bronze in memory of them.
At that moment, I forgot about my personal drama. My vanity at the possible criticism that could be emerging on the Internet was irrelevant in the face of the death of so many innocent people. I wondered what was the sin of being born Jewish, black or Gypsy?
By the time I arrived in front of the Hungarian Parliament building, the horizon was already pink and lilac. It was hot and the city was starting to light up again. It was amazing how all the sights and bridges had the same golden lighting.
The Parliament lit up behind me and I spent some time trying to get a good shot until I remembered to look for a wifi signal. As I was standing in front of a public building, I had free internet and started reading the first comments about my blog. I was really thrilled to read dozens of messages praising my strength and courage.
I was silently watching the boats docking on the shore and I cried for allowing myself to live it all.
I was about two miles from my hostel and I came back walking and feeling the night breeze. Car headlights and people crossing the busy streets and straying on the sidewalks seemed to have rehearsed a dance. When I arrived at Elisabeth Square, I was crying with joy and happiness and I wanted to hug the children playing in the playground.
From far away, I heard someone playing a Pagode[10] tune. A samba circle was beginning to form and I sat close, feeling at home. On the other side, you could see a huge illuminated Ferris wheel. The Samba soon gathered Brazilian tourists, and then some foreigners trying to imitate our swing.
I returned to the hostel to pack my luggage for the next day, and just as I was in the shower, watching the foam run down the grimy drain of the box, I remembered that the next day I would meet Conor in Milan. At that moment, I was glad to realize that, besides making me feel good about myself, that flirting wasn’t getting me out of my way or making me anxious.
I got out of the shower and talked to him for a few minutes on his cell phone.
“I’m on my way to Dublin to catch the plane. I’ll spend the night at a hotel next to the airport in Milan,” he said, sending a picture of the car’s steering wheel.
- Are you anxious? I asked.
- Counting every second.
I went out for one last beer in Budapest and the next morning I left the hostel at 4:30 carrying my backpacks. I paid 3 euros for the direct bus to the airport and said goodbye to Budapest.
32 – ANGUISH AND PLEASURE
The airport bus dropped me right in front of a cafeteria at Milan Central Station. I bought a bottle of mineral water, asked for the wifi password, and put my two backpacks on the wooden table outside. It was around 10:30 and very hot.
Conor emerged from behind a bus. Sunglasses, light shorts and a brown T-shirt, flip-flops and a wheeled suitcase. With his cell phone in one hand, he was looking around trying to find me. I smiled and waved. I could tell he was a little nervous. We didn’t kiss and he complained about the heat.
When we got on the taxi, he finally took my hand and asked if I was okay. I said yes with a smile.
The hotel, chosen by him, was on a busy corner, next to a subway station and just 300 meters away from the Duomo Cathedral.
The receptionist didn’t hide how strange he thought the situation was. My old jeans, white T-shirt, filthy sneakers, and two backpacks had nothing to do with the fancy European guy who handed him our passports. Still, he smiled and seemed to like my messy hair tied up and my shirt tied around my waist. The typical hostel backpacker and the classy European tourist. It seemed like the perfect adventure for people with lots of imagination.
We left the luggage at the front desk and went looking for somewhere to have lunch and kill time until check-in. We got into a restaurant in front of the church and I couldn’t believe my eyes with the price of a salad. I put on a poker face and Conor didn’t seem to care.
While I was eating, he asked me an unexpected and disturbing question.
- What is the maximum number of orgasms you have ever had in a single night with a guy?
It took me a few seconds to think, but I had understood the question perfectly. I asked him to repeat just to buy time. I’d never been asked a question like that.
- Why do you wanna know? – I asked buying more time.
- Curiosity – he smiled, frowning his face around his blue eyes.
- Three times – I answered disguising how embarrassed I was.
Canada came to mind immediately and I don’t know why I couldn’t remember anything about my life before the divorce. It felt like I had no right to talk about my marriage as my experiences. It was like everything I had lived with Felipe was someone else’s story.
- I’ll give you four – he said with his blue eyes staring at the horizon while sipping water calmly.
- How confident! How can you be so sure? – I provoked him.
- I read your whole body the first time we made love – he put his glass of water down and stared at me.
I spent the next two minutes listening to the fullest description anyone could’ve given of my behavior in bed. Fork suspended and mouth slightly open, with a slight smile of embarrassment and satisfaction altogether. I couldn’t understand everything, but I didn’t dare interrupt. What I could understand was enough to make my whole body tingle. It was so unexpected and surprising that I can only remember a few words. It was as if the world around me had slowed down and I could hear the wind being cut by the wings of the pigeons a few feet from our table.
We spent the rest of the afternoon locked in the hotel room and Conor only had some rest after keeping his promise.
Exhausted after having so much attention and after many days sleeping in strangers’ houses and smelly beds in cheap hostels, I fell asleep deeply in the white sheets of that huge comfortable bed. When the cathedral bells rang at 6 pm, he woke me up with a kiss and showed me a picture he made while I was sleeping.
- You sleep like a drunk princess. I’ve been out for a beer, I came back, showered and you’re still in the same position – he stumbled, pulling the sheets off my naked body – I made a reservation at a restaurant for 8:30 pm – he said.
I took a long and relaxing shower and, after my little spa, I wore my prettiest dress, put on some makeup, and we walked to the restaurant. It was a lovely evening and, before the restaurant, he ordered some appetizers at the Martini bar, a bar designed by Dolce & Gabbana.