February
The first day of February was also the first day I tested negative for COVID, meaning I was technically free, but by then I had gotten over my self-pitying antics and only felt dread at the prospect of not being able to lounge in bed and watch Attack on Titan all day. I knew that during the previous week, I had done those things and felt absolutely horrible, but the rosy haze of memory only reminded me of a week in which I indulged every aspect of my laziness. Besides, I’d gotten accustomed to a certain lifestyle in which I woke up before the sun, wake-and-baked, and listened to Laurel Hell through my ModPods. There was no way I was going to give that up so soon, so I used Alex still testing positive as an excuse to extend my staycation by a week before eventually returning to work.
Once I got back into the habit of dragging myself out of bed every morning, though, I felt a bit grateful to once again have a routine, especially since I was giving presentations on how Americans celebrate Valentine’s Day, which doesn’t have the same corporate vice-like grip on Spain. I’m only mentioning this because I had the kids make Valentine’s Day cards, an innocuous activity turned into a catalyst of heartbreak for one first grader, who didn’t receive a card back from the girl he professed to the whole class he loved. I gave him the Valentine I had made as an example, but nothing could comfort his aggrieved state, which was ironically worsened when the girl gave him another card she’d made because, according to him, “she only made it for him because she felt bad.” Looking into his big, watery eyes that were gushing tears down his chubby cheeks, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he was probably right and that, honestly, dating will only get worse from here on out.
And even though I wasn’t lying (I once went on a date to Chipotle with a guy who had an undercut that made him look like he was wearing one of those raccoon hats, which was horrible in its own right), I had gone on a date the weekend prior that proved an exception. We had met that Saturday night in Valencia (after I had gotten an incredible haircut, might I add) and had walked around the darkened Jardín de Turia smoking a joint and taking some other… substances before getting drinks at a nearby bar. I’d like the record to show that I had had a few trepidations about doing drugs with a virtual stranger, but his calm demeanor and ubiquitous smile made it difficult not to feel comfortable around him. Anyway, after two glasses of wine and my first taste of licor con hierbas, we smoked some more and then headed to my friend’s apartment, where we ingested more drugs and alcohol until we went out to a few clubs. The night from here was fairly hazy, but I know that throughout it my date and I danced and drank and kissed, while my friends puked in a trash can and made out with ugly boys–– events I’m only able to recollect because of the many surreptitious pictures Alex took throughout the night. Not the first time I’d learned this lesson: if Alex is with you on a night out, prepare to be victimized by her compulsive photo-taking.
The next morning, my date saved us from having to take the first train in the morning by driving us back to Gandia, where my friends slept while my date and I watched Rick and Morty as well as–– get this–– Attack on Titan. When he left later that afternoon I couldn’t remember when I’d had a date about which I had nothing to complain; instead, I was left with a nice warm feeling that was intensified by the anticipation of seeing him the next weekend, when most of my friends would be in Madrid without my broke ass.
The week that followed was more or less the same as every other week, though it brought with it some enjoyable peculiarities like that minor Valentine’s Day card hiccup, and the happy arrival of warm weather that allowed me to go to the beach with my friends. I remember too that on actual Valentine’s Day, Alex and I had people over to celebrate by drinking wine and smoking weed, none of which did anything to temper my competitive spirit while playing Uno but I think was the cause of Alex being unable to discern the colors of the cards and subsequently lose every game.
When the weekend finally came, I went up to Benidorm for my second date. The unexpected presence of rain after a week of sunshine, however, meant we were unable to explore Altea (a pueblo near Benidorm that is putatively amongst the most beautiful in all of Valencia) so after eating we merely went to his house and lounged on the couch watching American movies with Spanish voice-overs and smoking joints. We did other things too, but I’m not one to kiss and tell.
The next day, after a quick stop at the mercadillo, we went hiking in one of the most beautiful mountain ranges I’d seen, and that was made all the more breath-taking by the intense blossoming of the almond trees and the indescribable view of the entire mountain range available from the peak we climbed up to. On the peak, we–– you guessed it!–– smoked some more and sat in a meditative silence while taking in the tranquility of the birds chirping and the rustling of the brush whenever a light breeze would go by. Then, we made our way back down and strolled through a pasture of cherry trees nestled in the softest soil I’d ever stepped on. As we were walking he excitedly picked up a rock with a shell fossil embedded in it and proceeded to hold it up to the sun, his eyes glittering with pure awe; he wanted to give it to me, but I already felt guilty knowing that it would only be thrown out in a few months when I’m stressed-out packing up and devoid of all sentimentality, so I told him to keep it.
Afterwards, I was absolutely famished, a word I forgot existed until it was the only one I could use to describe the empty state of my stomach. We drove to a burger restaurant and ate on a balcony that had its own impressive view of the mountains, which made the ice-cold wind targeting my hair and face worth it. The burger itself was fine, but proved to be enough for me to be reborn into a person and able to converse with the friendly owner, who gave us free chupitos of Fireball (!) and more herb liquor. I left feeling a little tipsy, but we took a nice walk and chatted a bit so I could sober up for my bus ride home.
I ended up having the next few days free because of a series of circumstances that are too much work for me to explain; I thought these free days would solely provide an opportunity for me to recover from my exhausting (though, obviously, incredibly fun) weekend. And I was partly right, but this unexpected free time brought with it an emotionally intense surprise, which was the force with which I missed my friends and family. I knew I did, of course, but the distraction of routine had unknowingly served as a sedative that didn’t allow me to feel the full extent of how much I missed them until I spoke to my mom about her upcoming trip to visit me. Long story short, the day consisted of me calling my dad crying, and my sister and I sending each other strained voice messages full of tearful assurances of how much we love and miss each other. I even called one of my best friends just to hear her voice.
The sudden and unexpected outpouring of emotion during a time in which I wasn’t expecting my period was confusing to me, but also acted as a stark reminder of how much time had passed since I’d seen so many of the people I love.
I realize I can be extremely susceptible to the comforts of nostalgia, but I still find myself at times wishing I could open my eyes to the sun shining through the big colonial windows of my room in Allston, having been woken up by two of my best friends laughing and making coffee in the kitchen; I want my slowly awakening brain to shuffle through images of the night prior, when I would have had friends over to sit on my balcony and smoke from a bong in the warm summer night as we alternated between pondering what the future might hold for us and how we can be happy, and creating backstories for the neighbors whose silhouettes had manifested themselves in brightly lit windows. Sometimes I go even further back and wish I were reading in my childhood bed, listening to my dad tap away on his keyboard while outside my dog barks at my sister swimming in the pool and my mom hoses down her beloved garden; my only stresses would have been doing my homework before soccer practice or how to respond to my high school crush’s text, which are admittedly such boring concerns that it makes me grateful to be older.
In April, I’ll be twenty-three and I truthfully can’t imagine my life being any better than it is now. I don’t want to stop the progression of time because with each year that’s passed my life has unfurled into new experiences I hadn’t dreamed possible for me, but there are times when I wish I could relive the past a little simply because I’m tired of figuring out what’s next and who else will be absent.
I know we’re all just accumulations of matter and star dust and that the universe is getting bigger and on a galactic level nothing is important, but that just increases the significance of what is immediately and interpersonally present; in many ways, our social relationships are all we will look back on with the most fondness when we’re shriveled up and our bodies are preparing themselves to decompose and to be recycled into the physical compounds of future bodies.
I didn’t expect to get so soppy (some might even call me gay af, but whatever). I guess I’m just writing all this so I can keep it in mind as I progress through the various stages of my life (which will now feature more prominently our looming nuclear destruction?), but it’s truly what I think.
Anyway, that was February.
Omg i love this!! Love and miss you Mod!