I noticed a smudge on my glasses as I scanned the crowd for the face I had only seen in photos. I took them off and wiped them with my shirt, bouncing nervously on tip toes, squinting now to distinguish facial details. I was still wiping my lenses when he made eye contact with me. "Nice, Al," I thought. "Smooth." I stuffed them quickly on my face as he walked over.
"Hello," he said smiling, greeting me with a kiss on both cheeks.
I don't even know what version of "hi" I said; my mind was like a radio without signal, only emitting static.
He was wearing a brown leather jacket and a small, cross-body camera carrying case. We started walking, and I knew he was different from those first few steps because immediately, he requested, "So, tell me something about yourself."
***
"What do you write about? Or what genre?" he asked me as we walked past the designer label shops on Passeig de Gracia.
I told him realistic fiction. "I like writing about people I meet, my experiences, my friends. I like actually using my friends as characters in stories that I write. I'm fascinated with the relationships between people."
"Would you write anything about tonight?"
I wasn't sure if he was joking or not, but I laughed nervously and said that 'Yes, I could...' ("Could" was the operative word here; in writing, I have learned there are two things I cannot count on: my ability to stay awake and inspiration. I should have known that neither would be a problem for that night.)
***
I looked up at Casa Batlló - I still can't believe I saw it! And I couldn't believe that he had wanted to come, but I'm really glad he did. The façade was washed with white lights, so it seemed more like a stage set than a real building. The visiting tourists visible through the huge middle windows were the only clue to its depth.
I would like to know how many pictures he actually took with his fancy black SONY: my guess is more than 200. To put it in perspective, I took about 60. I liked watching him take the pictures; I could tell he was a perfectionist, sometimes taking the same picture three times just to get it right.
One time, I was taking a picture on my phone, which takes a long time when there is dim lighting, and I thought he was waiting for me. I turned quickly around after it took and was surprised by him making a small "Uff" noise, pulling back his camera from where it must have been propped over my shoulder. I told him he could still take the picture, but what he answered, I never expected: he said he couldn’t. Once the moment was gone, so was the photo. My stomach dropped. I apologized for ruining his shot and laughed anxiously because I knew that feeling I had given him. I can’t describe it exactly. . . . It was like missing a perfect pitch in softball: you knew another would come, but you still think “Man, that was a nice one. I shoulda had it.” I hated being the cause for that missed pitch – or well, pic.
He took photos of the people
there too sometimes. It was amazing: he saw opportunities for photography – and
in a broader sense, art – not in everything, but I think in life. I don’t mean
this to sound over-dramatic; I say “life” as in people, nature, and natural
forms (things that mimic nature). He confessed to me that he sees light
differently, and it makes complete sense. He sees it as a tool to be
manipulated for his craft, much like an author uses words, I suppose.
***
As part of the tour, you get to sign a guest book, writing
something about your experience in the house, something to Gaudi, etc. He asked
what I was going to write. I had absolutely no idea. I thought hard while he
asked if I had a pen.
“An author always has a pen,” I replied with a smile.
By his responding smile, I could tell he liked that response.
I hesitated and then bent down to write in the book lying open
on a wooden table. He tried to look over my shoulder, and I blocked him
laughing. I wrote,
From one artist to another, thank you for the inspiration!
He took the pen from me and scratched in the book,
Aquí comença una llarga amistat
From Catalan, that translates in English to: “Here begins a long
friendship.”
I was stunned.
I felt embarrassed about my inscription. I loved his.
***
Our conversation varied, sliding easily from one topic to another, both of us wanting to hear more from the other. I felt relaxed in talking to him, not like I had to blurt out everything about myself to impress him.
We talked about our hometowns and showed them to each other on Google Maps; it was nice to see home again even if it was virtually. I'm grateful that he gave me that.
He was interested in my writing and asked if I had anything published. I confessed that I was not far down the road to publishing yet. Most people might have left it at that; however, I should have known he wouldn’t: he wasn't "most people."
"Why?"
I laughed and took a sip of Sprite to buy time. "I just have been very busy with school. . ." I laughed again and looked down. "I don't know. . ."
He said calmly, "You know that's not an excuse? School."
I knew what he has already accomplished at twenty-two: he already had a job of a photography company with his own clients and he was completing his senior thesis. He knew about balancing a passion for a craft with schoolwork. Giving “school” as an excuse to someone like him was pretty lame. I looked down at my lap, shaking my head. "I know. . . I know. . ." I looked up at him embarrassed but grateful. "You're right," I said with a bitter smile. "You're right."
That
got me thinking, Why can’t I get published now? Why have I not been trying?
That’s the eventual goal, isn’t it? Well, why not have it come sooner than “eventually”?
He saw that, and for years, I didn’t see it as something close, something
already reachable. I now realize the excuses were only working on me.
***
"Do you think you will write anything about this date?" he asked over our dinner of burgers and bravas.
"Maybe. . ." I smiled at him from across the wooden table-for-two. "But the date's not over yet."
***
"You find me interesting?" I asked.
"Yes." He asked surprised, "And why shouldn't I?"
I tried to not give the obvious and vague response of “I don’t
know” but found it to be inevitable.
He said he thought I was understanding, too, and I wondered how he could tell from the little time we had known each other.
He said he thought I was understanding, too, and I wondered how he could tell from the little time we had known each other.
I didn’t know yet how to describe him then: he was a lot of
things all at once, and it was hard to identify which words to use at first.
(As you can tell, I’ve found some words now.) He was someone who surprised people
and didn’t seem to see the amazing quality about himself. He was someone who
left an author speechless.
***
He took me to an open square in front of the MACBA (Museu d’Art Contemporani de Barcelona) where people around go to skate, drink, smoke, and talk.
We stood in the square away from everyone, just talking. We stopped talking a moment and looked at each other. And he surprised me by nonchalantly opening his arms. I wrapped my arms around him and turned my head to rest on his leather-jacketed shoulder. It felt so natural: his hug was firm and comforting. I smelt the leather as I breathed in. I closed my eyes for a couple moments, remembering what it felt to have that connection with someone. I hadn’t succumbed to that in months – letting myself relax in someone else’s arms. We let go, and he walked a few steps away while I looked back at the square. Then I looked to him a couple feet toward the street. He said, "I wanted to show you this."
***
After that night, I am happy with
what I wrote in the Batlló book because although originally, I thought I was
writing to Gaudi, I was really writing to an artist who was much closer
to me.
