Balcony to Sea Entries
Moments from a new relationship
The call left me baffled in comedic confusion. Talking to him on the phone was like seeing the world before I put contacts in. It was as if my ears had to squint in concentration. I couldn't use his expressions or body language, leaving me just with the fragmented sentences and French twang. It seemed like an ideal closure call. We would keep in touch, but long distance wasn't desirable. I was about to hang up, sad yet satisfied, when he made one final statement. It was in the clearest of speech, his accent took a back burner and the words strung together into a grammatically flawless sentence.
“Anna, I’m glad we’re staying together.”
With this triumphant line, he hung up. I laughed aloud. If anything depicted our relationship, it was this call. That cycle of trying to come to an understanding and always reaching new, perplexing conclusions. We did, however, build a relationship without language being a predominant foundation in how we connected. Our relationship inspired more creative, untypeable communication.
Mallorca- mid August 2022
I met Sami three months prior to the call. I was quick to judge him, skinny- jean wearing, chain-smoking, mysterious, and seemingly arrogant, when I first spotted him in Palma de Mallorca, Spain. We met through a group of vivacious Italian students. He was reserved, always with an eyebrow raised and a smirk. We did seem to catch each other's eye at the right moments though, ones of humor or slight judgment towards the Italians’ dramatic “allllorrraas.” Sami had an inexplicably cool demeanor.
That first night at the discoteca, his French whispers grew closer. The more I looked at him, the more I began to see. He grew up in Paris, but was Algerian, and spoke two and a half languages (his English wasn't quite there). He was tall and lanky, with abs and broad, sharp shoulders. He had powerful eyelashes and doe eyes. I hate cigarettes, but when one dangled from his lips, and his brows furrowed in dismay, I was enthralled.
In the days following we lay on beaches listening to disturbing French rap, danced salsa, shared joints on random boats, and skinny dipped at dawn. The setting and our attraction distracted us from the language barrier, and we laughed like old friends. I liked how he delicately crossed his legs when he sat down and how his head was always tilted upwards as if he were pondering something profound. He was a prideful man, but he was curious. I also liked the way he looked at me. We flew to Budapest.
Budapest- late August 2022, one week in
My last moment in Budapest felt scripted; meant for, or already in, a film I had seen. There was a familiarity entwined in the scene, or perhaps just a hint of cliche.
The hotel in Budapest, Pest to be exact, although I think in hindsight I did prefer Buda, was the first place I felt settled in some time. Sami was sick for the first day. My bringing him soup and watching him melt into that bed felt like we had returned to a standard of normal life that I could grasp.
Everything was just right in Budapest, to a tourist and for a tourist. The vibrant white castles that looked like elaborate playmobil sets….the European city quintessential river splitting the two sides….the narrow winding streets of Pest stacked with karaoke bars all toppling over each other….the vertical tram that slowly carried us to the top of Buda for our examination of the city from above…..
Unfortunately, it is far more complicated than that to a Hungarian. Sami’s friend that lived in Buda made this quite clear in his explicit disdain for the seemingly magical, but politically corrupt city. I wondered how much my tourism ruins it. A place to visit, but not to live.
Budapest was a montage scene; right after the Act I break amidst the rising action, before any sort of true conflict. It was a series of clips that I romanticized through my own lens. We didn’t even talk much, but it never felt silent, almost like there really was music playing between us, over us, all around us.
Our hotel had free virgin drink vouchers if you stayed more than three nights consecutively, so on the last morning in Budapest we sat at the bar. The bartender had long limbs and a dark bob. She had a face that I can still picture vividly, it was an actress’ face. All her expressions were meant to be captured and seen again. She made us sour lemonades and started chatting as her arms extended this way and that shaking and squeezing our virgin cocktails.
“You two are together, yes?” She said to Sami in her Hungarian accent. Listening to this accent was just as ambiguous to distinguish, describe, and place on a map of accents, as hearing the language of Hungarian itself.
I was unsure what the right answer was, although taken simply, we were in no doubt together in Budapest. At least that being that we were not there for any other reason besides to be with each other. But I suppose that isn’t really what together means. We awkwardly nodded.
“The Hungarian accent is so is so….specific.” Sami remarked, attempting to carry the conversation elsewhere.
“So you are french?” She replied smirking at the irony.
“Yuh yuh.” Sami’s typical answer, it was almost his way of revving himself up into a conversation. Especially for ones that would be in English.
“And you American?” Now the bartender seemed skeptical, but curious.
I laughed and replied “yes.”
“And how did you find each other?”
There was a long and slightly embarrassing pause as Sami and I glared at each other. I could tell we both felt silly, but whatever occupied this pause, this moment of reflection, filled us both with a rush.
“We met in Spain last week.” I laughed lightly, casually, but my face felt hot and I knew I was blushing.
Her eyes widened, vibrant and lit. She was Keira Knightly in an era of brown eyeliner and short hair.
“Ahhhhh. I will ask no more questions.” She grinned, giving each of us separately a moment with her eyes.
“Here are the lemonades.” As sour as they were, there was a lingering sweetness.
Lake Como- the old couples, two weeks in
The B&B was tucked into the mountain backdrop of the lake. It was the home of two ancient Italians who spoke no English, yet communicated everything seamlessly with elaborate gestures. We settled into their singular guest room and listened to the faint Italian opera and heavy rain swirling outside our window. The rain thickened into droplets of hail, clattering above and drowning out any notes of song still playing. The smell of wet pine wafted into the light-less wooden room. Trapped in the effect of our own spontaneity, our next move felt unclear. We turned to face each other in wonder and waited until the rain finally ceased.
The lake was still, unbothered by any ruckus from above, when we winded down the hillside. A huge concert hall emerged as we pulled into the only place to park our tiny rental fiat. We wandered inside to find hundreds of elderly, elegant Italian couples dancing. It was an Italian dance I'd never seen before, somewhere between a salsa and a waltz. There was a live performer in an orange dress, far younger than the majority, belting out theatrically as she weaved about the couples in twirls. Behind her, a coral bow-tie wearing band jammed away. All the couples were doing the same steps, yet only in rhythm with their partner, communicating in their own language. It was as if their hearts had been doing this synchronized dance for decades on end. Not one pair of eyes broke apart from their other half. We sat watching speechlessly in fascination, not daring to step out on the floor, knowing our colored hair would draw attention to the reality that we weren’t nearly as in sync.
The B&B couple laid out a breakfast feast the next morning…cheese, hams, breads, juices and jams. I pictured how they might dance with one another. As we ate, Sami and I stared at each other and the old Italians stared at us. Rain began to rattle outside, opera belted from one room over, but in the kitchen, eyes were wide open and mouths were shut, aside from brief moments to sip the juice and chew the bread. What chemistry among strangers in such intimate silence.
Portofino- love languages, three weeks in
We sat drinking martinis and eating olives with the Mediterranean swaying about in front of us and a string of pink and orange 2-dimensional houses behind us. The green shutters and windows displayed against the warm tones were hand-painted props, adding to the pristine scene that was Portofino.
“I have good feelings with you” was what the google translate depicted when he revealed the phone to me after minutes of silently typing as I slurped down olives. He gave me a grin and his cigarette flopped. This one line, seamlessly already ‘translated,’ could mean anything. He feels good when he is with me? He has feelings for me? I squeezed his hand and accepted it in all its lack of sense. Google translate was an asset, but it also loomed over us, abusing its power to connect us and manipulating a distance between us.
After another martini, we discussed the American phenomenon of love languages. “Mots d'affirmation, temps de qualité…”, they sounded more romantic in French. I explained these were just a baseline for partners to understand each other. He criticized how Americans must label and categorize everything to make sense of it. He was right. I suppose we are constantly trying to relate to one another as a way to feel less alone or vulnerable. Love languages are not quantifiable. Each couple creates a language of their own, like the dancing Italians. For now, our language would consist of google translate’s lines like “I have good feelings with you,” and other mysterious Mots d'affirmation that led to our various interpretations of one another.
The sun sank as we snuck onto a hotel beach and lay in the sand hiding behind the stacked lounge chairs and closed umbrellas. We dipped into the warm salt and drove back to Milan soaking the chairs of our rental fiat.
Milan- my red pants, 1 month in
There is no feeling quite like finding the perfect pair of red pants. Not only is it just inexplicably satisfying to encounter a well-fitted pair of slacks on the first try-on, but there is also something invigorating about the color red. Red pants feel classy, but snazzy….a staple, but still unique. Shopping with a man you are seeing can be stressful for any woman, so to have the seamless experience of sliding right into these flattering red pants was empowering. The material was thin, but not cheap. The cut was sophisticated, but not pretentious. They were straight legged, tight and lifting around the bum, clinching ever so slightly at the waist, and loose at the bottom. This is why people come to Milan. Only in Milan do you find the ideal pant, at the ideal time, in an unexceptional store like Mango…at the train station might I add. I came out of the dressing room grinning at how good I felt and how fabulous I knew they looked. I did a spin. He made me feel special, but it was the pants that provided me with the confidence to allow him to do so. I wore the red pants almost every night in Milan, and when I didn’t, he asked me why I wasn’t in them.
Now when I see myself in the red pants I feel just the same as I did in the Mango dressing room in the Milan train station. It’s comforting to remind yourself that insignificant objects can connect different moments or evoke prior feelings that can override present ones when you need them to.
Angers- the jog, 6 weeks in
I grabbed leggings from one of the many shelves he had allotted to me. I was slightly dismayed to see that he, too, was wearing skin-tight leggings, but I let his eagerness to join me running override my horror at how tiny his thighs appeared compared to my own. His pace was rapid, with enormous strides, yet he stopped every minute or so to lean his body over a bench and procrastinate in various other indulgent stretches. After twenty minutes of fragmented bits of running, he said he was too hungry to continue and had to stop at the boulangerie. I jogged in place trying to cling to my rhythm that had been shattered by the need for a danish. As soon as he swallowed the last crumb, I took off to finish my run on my own.
Both of us had work to do, though the work of the other remained unclear. With I in my satin brown blazer, and him in his fleece lined jean jacket, and both our bags packed with unknown supplies, we departed in opposite directions. I knew that I was headed for the Starbucks up the hill. I knew I would be sending emails trying to sell a live astronomy program to schools as I sipped on an iced latte with oat milk. I wondered where he was and what he was up to. The normalcy yet mystery entwined in it all was haunting, but comforting. It was almost a routine, yet there was a layer of pretense that lingered. It was the false sense of permanence. What was missing lay lost in the confusion of what we were doing and how long it would last. On one hand he told me he loved me, on the other, he didn’t feel the need to truly explain his job. Was that just because saying the words I love you were easier or simpler ones to occupy our conversation? I didn’t love him, but I did try to explain what I did each day in Starbucks.
Early in the afternoon he appeared near Starbucks in good spirits. We ate gyros and he told me he had a surprise to show me. The afternoons held no routine, they were spontaneous and exciting and always unknown. I clung to our morning routine, to the security and independence it granted, but more secretly, I lived for the moment I could let go of myself and have the freedom to be dependent in the afternoon.
Stockholm- late October 2022, 3 months in
When it came to writing about Stockholm, there was a hesitation and procrastination that I couldn’t seem to shake. There was a heaviness to the seemingly utopian and oddly simplistic city, to the task that was understanding it. In theory, Stockholm was homogeneous, even, equal, and one dimensional, but visually, it was difficult for me. The density of the architecture, the thickness of the air, the fragmented pieces of land wrapped about by pockets of water...there was no organization, no rhythm or reason. Half of it felt sunny, delicate, and elegant; the other half gloomy, industrial, chaotic, and confusing. It was perplexing, layered, and thus, “heavy.”
Conversely, there was an innocent kind of contentment emulating from everyone I passed by though. The energy was comforting, making me wonder if my labeling this city “heavy” was misguided. Perhaps that didn’t even make sense. Even if Stockholm were “heavy,” even if visually it did appear contradictory or complex, the movement of the city, those that filled that visual, were buoyant and soft- not impenetrable. I procrastinated and hesitated because my argument for the “heavy city” had no basis. My conclusions about Stockholm were clouded by how much I was stuck in my own head. We both were. Weighed down by ourselves, each other, and quick to displace it. Stockholm was just a setting. The heaviness lay in our goodbye.