a kiss to build a dream on

Staying in a guest house has good sides too.
When I got back the other night, there was some kind of a party going on outside by the swimming pool. I didn’t feel like seeing people. I didn’t feel like doing anything. Actually, I was a bit low. I don’t know why but I said hi. And they greeted me with a cup of wine. It was somebody’s birthday. The most handsome guy there. Fernando, alias Fer, was celebrating his 40th birthday. He could only speak Spanish. So I called my brain to summon up the little Spanish that I remembered. With a little help of his friend, Hache, who did the translation, I told himself a quick summary of my story. Oh, God! I can’t help talking. If you ever meet me, stop me before I start. Then, all of a sudden, Fer said “give me a hug”. Hesitating, I embraced him. “A bigger hug”, he said. Everybody was watching. I had just arrived and, out of the blue, I was in the arms of the guy everyone was drooling at. When the hug was over, they looked at us as casually as possible. I said: “he asked for a hug, I gave him a hug. So what?”
But it was the warmest hug I had had in ages.
A soothing hug.

Later that night, being with Fer and Hache in a disco, I asked Fer "dame un beso". He not only gave me one kiss, but a dozen, a hundred. And enough hugs for the next few weeks. And his smile to build a dream on.

 

Click here to read the French version of this post.

The kindness of strangers

strangers who became friends in Hout Bay
(click on the picture to enlarge it)

There’s a quotation in A Streetcar Named Desire, the play and film based on the play by Tennessee Williams I’ve often related to : "I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers", says Blanche Dubois, Stella’s sister in a tragic scene as she is being taken to a mental asylum. I don’t know if there’s a hospital waiting for me when I get back to France –or a psychiatrist for that matter. But I intend to have a specialist’s insight on my disappearance. Yes, I have already written about it, but I really think this disappearance is the closest thing there is to suicidal. Anyway, in this personal journey, I’ve met wonderful people who have been very kind to me. I might at times have seemed to self-indulge in depression. I left France being depressed, I don’t see how that depression could have vanished. I am sorry, Lezanne –if you ever read this– but I still disagree with you, depression doesn’t go away because you decide to get up and do something with your day. Sometimes it is beyond understanding, logic or willingness. However, your countless efforts to lift me up, to make me meet your friends, have made me more optimistic on human generosity. And should your French become better or worse when I leave this country, I will be the only person to blame.

It is amazing how quickly strangers become friends. Jonathan didn’t ask me a thing on the reasons why I was in such a despairing state – no matter how hard I tried to hide it, he knew I needed kindness. I have met his mum and dad, his friends too. They proved me that South-Africans can be warm and welcoming and… more concerned about my welfare than their wardrobe : proof is the two pairs of jeans Jonathan gave me.

Oh no! I didn’t ask anyone for charity! It’s just that I can’t tell I’m a regular visitor when I’m not. I can’t tell I’m just hanging around, enjoying the wonders of South-Africa when I’m on a recovery journey.

What about your Bic?

Some say they’re signs, some say they’re just coincidences. Anyway, the first sign I saw was when I was writing in the plane, deciding what shapes my journey could take if I wanted to keep my sanity. So I looked at the pen I had bought at Paris-Charles de Gaulle airport, an ordinary Bic. You can’t read the inscription until you look at it very carefully. I couldn’t believe my eyes. On the side of the pen, next to the blue cap, is engraved South-Africa. I hadn’t chosen it, the seller picked it aimlessly. I was in a hurry. I didn’t have a pen. I needed one.
A few days after I arrived in Mother City, I went to a store to check if my pen was the only one to have that inscription. Imagine my surprise when I found out that all the Bic Cristal Bics were “South-African”.
What about your Bic?

 

A glass of wine before an early night

If you have read bits and pieces of this blog, you know that I'm Thomas. But I'm not really Thomas. I have to admit I like being anonymous. The French guys who are currently staying in the guest house know my real first name - I can't always think to tell my interlocutors I'm someone else. They wanted to have a bit of a chat with me. They didn't notice that, as I was cooking my dinner, I might have wanted to stay by myself. But never mind. Since I'm polite, I said hi and asked them questions about their day. They asked about mine. And while I was starting to eat my pasta, standing in front of them - the four of them -, one almost had his face on my plate. - You want some? I asked. He reacted by suggesting we'd have a bottle of wine. - Oh, you have some manners, I said.
The one with whom I'm sharing the bathroom looked at the notebook where everyone keeps a record of his drinks: - Thomas... who's Thomas? We missed that one...

I’m Thomas but I decided to keep it for myself.

Me and Tom Hanks

Gansbaai harbour

What do I have in my luggage anyway ? Bermuda shorts, a swimsuit, four pants, three white t-shirts, a blue t-shirt, a polo, two sweaters, a cap, flip-flops, my Camper shoes I had planned to get rid of in Paris, socks, toiletries, books, a camera, a laptop, my passport and a can-opener.

In my darkest and most ludicrous thoughts, I had this film on my mind: Castaway. Tom Hanks played a man who survived a plane crash and landed on a deserted island ; I remember scenes when he got injured because he couldn’t open the cans that had miraculously beached at his feet. This is what I was thinking about when I stole the can-opener in one of the seedy hotels I rented during my Parisian week, not knowing what would ever become of me, not knowing where my ravings would lead me, not knowing if, in a fit of insanity – or lucidity – I would decide to jump over a bridge and put an end to everything. As a response to my letter, C wrote something like “you could have left in a more dignified way”. I answered that my disappearance was, in a way, a failed suicidal. In the sense that I had seriously thought about killing myself but hadn’t had enough courage to do so.

In my luggage, I even have a butcher knife (8’’ blade) – Tiaan saw it and his mouth fell open. I told you (in a previous post) not to tell me it’s dangerous to go around naked. Luckily, Jonathan’s maid didn’t put her nose in my stuff, or she would have been horrified.