C’est La Vie et C’est Jolie (Part II)

I was walking down the street admiring the Palacio de Comunicaciones and passing by the Banco Real de España. My thoughts were all over the place: What could have possibly prevented him from seeing me? What went wrong? Was it my fault? It probably was. Failure was all over me. And the worst feeling I had was knowing that I could not do anyting to make me feel better. I kept walking as I remembered how I met him.
We met in Rome walking around the ruins of Il Foro Romano. We bumped into each other “accidentally” – I don’t believe in accidents: everything happens at its time and at the right place. He apologized in English, and I replied with “It’s OK. Don’t worry.” He seemed surprised. His eyes widened as he stared at me for some time trying to figure out where I was from. Then he smiled. Gosh, how the boy smiled! He had this prince-like posture: tender and square face, with some stubble framing his masculine expression, round and sharp brown eyes, perfectly shaped nose, tall and slender body, brown hair, light flawless skin, thin and light pinked lips, and a smile that above all his features conquered my eyes. He was wearing a blue scarf wrapped around his neck, an unzipped woolen jacket with gray zigzagged-lines as a pattern, a white sweater with thin gray and black lines across, square sunglasses on his head that had the “AX” logo on the temples, and black jeans. To me, it was a perfect outfit to be walking around Rome in winter. My friends were next to me, and we were talking in Spanish joking around and guessing how the Romans during their greatest times used to live and enjoy of all the delights of their empire. We were having fun pretending we knew world history. I didn’t tell them anything about him. I wanted to keep him for me. This was going to be my adventure in Rome. As we kept walking around the ruins, I noticed he was following us- or so I thought. The idea of him walking behind us was intriguing but fun. Suddenly, he disappeared. I was disappointed. Where did he go? Was I going to see him again? What was his name? Where was he from? I wondered while my friends and I were walking towards the Coliseum. We were hungry and needed to find a restaurant soon. We had been walking all day. We had only had coffee and toasted bread with butter and strawberry jam for breakfast at the hotel.
We finally ran into Trattoria Luzzi, such a wonderful and authentic Italian restaurant. There were tables outside the street with the red and white checkered tablecloths and lit candles. The waiter welcomed us, “Quante persone?” I said three people. He led us into the inside of the restaurant and offered us some water. The inside of the restaurant was small but cozy; the walls were bricked with a reddish tone that made the place look older, and there were old pictures of the different places in Rome hung on the walls around the room. To my left hand side there were a chimney and some logs being burned. Right next to the chimney, there was a wooden door with a sign reading “La Cucina.” The environment was warm that we felt welcome in such a lovely place. My two friends were talking about how amazing the city was: narrow streets and old buildings, a trattoria located on every corner of every street, cold yet bearable weather, motorcycles parked on the sidewalks, old men walking down the streets speaking such a loud and fast Italian and moving their hands as they spoke trying to convince each other their argument was the right one. As my friends were pointing out the highlights of such a fascinating Rome, I looked around and saw him seated at the table near the window that framed the old peach-colored building across the street. Another waiter was with him, and he was ordering in Spanish with a Spaniard accent. I stared at him admiring his Spanish, his posture, his face, his voice… him. He sensed my staring and looked directly at me and smiled. I quickly looked down at the menu. I was shaking. He caught me staring at him! I couldn’t look back.
I ordered pasta and ate it uncomfortably because I knew he was right there perhaps looking at me and thinking about me who knows what. It might have been my imagination and my desire of him staring at me,and I wanted to impress him. I placed my napkin on my lap, kept my elbows off the table and my back flat and straight, ate slowly and quietly, used delicately the utensils, didn’t sip the red wine I ordered until I was finished with my dish, and nabbed my mouth when I finished eating. How I thanked my grandma for teaching me all these manners when I was a kid! After eating and paying the check, my friends and I took off. He was still there. I walked out of the restaurant wanting to look at him, but I couldn’t. The whole time we were walking towards our hotel, I was thinking about him.
The next day was Christmas Eve, and the whole city was quiet. Restaurants, stores, and museums were closed. Churches were the only ones open. So, we decided to go to Piazza Navona, which was about two hours walking from the hotel. We spend most of the day at that place. There were different tents around the plaza selling figurines for nativity sets, handmade wooden toys, and Christmas ornaments. As we walked around taking pictures and admiring everything we saw, we heard some Andean music and noticed there were people in a circle watching a band of musicians playing such music. We joined the group, and I looked around to see how Italians and tourists were admiring the musicians and what they were playing. Then, there he was again! His prince-like figure dressed so neat and so European. We looked at each other. He smiled again; I froze. How stupid I was! How could I freeze? The obvious thing was to smile back at him, but no! I had to freeze and stare at him like an idiot. One of my friends was asking me something, but I could not understand because I was paralyzed. She poked me and asked me loudly, “Do you want to go back to the hotel?” I looked at her but didn’t reply. I was still astounded by his smile, his eyes, his look, his prince-like figure. We went back to the hotel, and I was quiet again thinking of him.
On Christmas day we went to the Vatican, a two-hour-and-a-half walk from the hotel. It was a sunny yet fresh day. I felt the morning breeze and took a deep breath. I felt a rejuvenating and empowering mood: I was in Rome, and I was going to have a great day! As we approached our destination, I was amazed: the Vatican took my breath away. It was so beautiful and imposing, so grand and marvelous, so holy, and so superb. I couldn’t believe I was there! People were gathered around the piazza San Pietro: flags from different countries being waved and people from different races but only one faith. A mass was ending, and the Pope blessed us all in several languages from the balcony in the center of the basilica. Everyone screamed joyfully when the Pope was blessing them in their respective languages. The bells began to toll triumphantly as the Swiss guards began to march away the basilica. It was fascinating. We were able to go inside the church after the mass had ended and after having waited in line for about forty minutes. The beauty and sanctity of the sacred place made me forget for some time about him and his prince-like figure. I was looking up at the ceiling admiring the well-painted scenes from the bible. Suddenly, I ran into him! Oh good heaven! I ran into my intriguing prince. My feet were cold as I looked at him. I said I was sorry so timidly I could barely hear myself. He smiled at me, and I froze again!

C’est La Vie et C’est Jolie (Part 1)

Winter is cruel in Madrid. The wind blowing against my face doesn’t let me breathe. I have to close my eyes from time to time. The gloves and scarf I’m wearing are not enough to protect me from the coldness I feel. Nonetheless, I am blown away by the romantic Parque del Retiro and El Palacio de Cristal. Having walked about an hour and some minutes and taken some pictures of La Puerta de Alcalá, I finally enter the park. Imposing yet calming it welcomes me as I pass the gate with two pillars, one in each side. Each pillar triumphantly supports a monumental horse and its soldier. And as I looked at them, they silently tell me the place I am entering is sacred. So, what I am about to experience at the park is something it will stay in such a revered and quiet place. I keep walking. My feet touch the cold graveled path that leads to the center of the park. I look around and notice many couples seating on cold yet welcoming benches, and the sculptures surrounding the place are mute witnesses of what those couples reveal to each other: the first “I love you,” the romantic proposal, the saddening and heart-sinking “we need a break,” and the endearing “I’m interested in you, want to be more than friends?” And all these people look elegant as they sit and talk to each other, as they hold hands and look into the other’s eyes. They are Madrileños, and just as the city, they are elegant and proper. I keep walking to where the Palacio de Cristal is. I entered into the woods and the coldness is bitterer. But my hands are sweaty and my legs are frozen. It is not because of the coldness but for the nervousness and intriguing feeling running through my body. He said he’d be here by the lake in front of the palace. I see only a dad with his son feeding the ducks and swans. An old lady with a young companion holding her arm approaches. I stop walking so that the old lady and her guide can pass. They don’t look at me to say hi because that’s the norm in Madrid: mind your own business. I look around very carefully and can’t see him. It’s five o’clock. I know that because I asked the dad feeding the ducks and swans. Then it occurs to me. He’s from Madrid; punctuality is not one of his virtues. So, I decide to walk around and admire the palace and its beauty. I notice it is a small and simple palace, but beauty relies many times on simplicity and vice versa. I probably spend fifteen minutes admiring such a simple and beautiful palace when I realize I have forgotten the reason that brought me to this place. However, he is not here yet. My nervousness is more noticeable as my hands keep sweating and my stomach starts hurting. The cold wind does not bother me anymore. Where is he? I hate myself for not having a cell phone with me. But tutoring two people thrice a week on American English and its grammar rules barely lets me pay the rent and eat twice a day. So, there is no way I can call him… I mean, I can go outside the park and find a public phone, but what if he shows up and doesn’t see me around. He’d think I flaked and leave! This is really frustrating. OK. I need to calm down. It’s not the end of the world. I need to breathe and keep walking around the palace. How tranquil this place is! No wonder it’s called the park of the retirement. It can take you away from all the busy life happening in Madrid. It can help you forget all the issues and worries that overwhelm the soul. I think I have been waiting almost an hour, and he hasn’t shown up. What time is it? Who can I ask? Suddenly, the old lady and her companion pass by. I stop them and ask them in proper Spanish. They both look at me and notice I am a foreigner. “Que son las seis y cuarto,” the old lady’s companion tells me and keeps walking holding the lady’s arm. It’s six fifteen already. Over an hour he is late! I don’t know what to do. The night starts falling on the park and the light posts begin to switch on. I guess I have to go. I don’t really know what could have happened to him. I hope he is OK. I feel anger, though. I think he dumped me. What a jerk! I hate him already! After all, he must’ve thought I wasn’t a good catch. He might have felt interested in me because of my accented English or perhaps because I am a tourist from the New World, and it is rare to find one of us in the Old World. Yeah, he just probably thought it was a waste of time meeting me at the park in a city where there are better looking people to date. I walk towards the exit of the park. I turn around and notice how the sculptures of naked Roman women stare at me. They are probably yelling “loser” at me. But that’s OK! I am a loser, and that will stay at the sacred park.

Consuelo de palabras vanas

Impotente me siento al saber
que nada cura el error que tuvo mi ayer.
Lastimosamente, nunca se mantiene la dicha de niño
durante toda la vida: páginas de llana lucha
que jamás se termina.
Siempre he sabido con lógica heredada
la importancia de actuar con rectitud:
jamás interrumpir al que habla, siempre ser puntual,
dejar el lugar a los demás…
La inteligencia obtenida tras noches de estudio y tardes sin ruido
no ha podido llenar el vacio que invade mi ser.
Religión y oración son las alternativas,
sin embargo,
algunas veces son vanas salidas
que solo vacían mas mi interior.
Me he ensuciado con el lodo más impúdico
que solo la friega de espinas puede quitar:
que sangre mi cuerpo hasta desvanecer;
que llagas purifiquen todo mi ser.
Que llore el alma hasta mas no poder,
aunque lagrimas no purguen ni sanen
el dolor que llevo dentro sin ningún porque.
Pero una cosa he aprendido:
esfuerzo en vano es tirado al llano de la mediocridad.
Sin explicar que quiero decir,
cierro un capitulo mas de lo que siento expresar.
Nada es mas gratificante
que el poder hablar con los dedos
y llorar con las palabras que conjuntas expresan
el mas intenso sentir del alma que no me deja vivir;
consuelo de palabras vanas es el yugo
que con intensa pasión arrastra mi cuerpo
y otorga mi ser.