After two savings accounts both failed me I was left contemplating how many gentrified beers my dwindling bank balance would buy me. That’s when the Brooklyn bartender told me that it was happy hour until 8pm. “Ask and the universe will provide” I thought. It was exactly this problem however that I was currently stuck on.
The Power of Places
All the wonderful places my travels had taken me on. From the blinding, sandy Sri Lankan shores, bathed in sun and swum by giants. The tree speckled ridges of Ha Long, cast like a handful of pebbles into the South China Sea, unable to be tarnished by our presence. To America’s limitless capacity. A vast swirling mix of life, and scenery. Both continually vying to fill your retinas with impossible amounts of information.
If anything had been constant throughout this kaleidoscope of experience then it would have to be me. But as the many awestruck pages in my notebook attest, each place changed me and in a new and surprising way.
This got me thinking about those couples strolling in leafy Central Park, or asking me to take their picture on top of the Rockefeller. Would they be changed by these places too? If so would their budding relationships be enhanced like the sunset light illuminating their faces, or masked by the rose filters applied to their selfies (because obviously the photos I took were perfect)?
Golden Gate
People romanticise the fateful meeting as if there was an unerring connection for which there was no alternative. Perhaps with that Hollywood romance in mind I approached a girl in seagull converse queuing for the ferry to Alcatraz on the San Francisco shoreline.
In all honesty I was mostly exercising the traveler’s right to talk to anyone and everyone who was on their own. Hostels quickly make you realise people out there need your company just as much as you need theirs.
Yet by the time we were cycling the Golden Gate together I was thinking “Oh no not again universe!” as it seemed to be providing far more frequently than was normal or healthy.
I’d begun to wonder whether my propensity for instant attachment was something to embrace or be weary of. After all, attachment has consequences, sometime bad sometimes good.
Men we know have the capacity to love even a shape. Something perhaps in part due to thoughts emanating from places other than their brains. But something of the buzz from drinking beers on the beach in the cold December air and laughing at ourselves, would stay with me.
Was it just the place and strong IPA leaving a warming glow or something else? Should I trust my intuition or be weary of impulse?
Looking to the Past
As I cautiously sip my $9 beer on the 22nd floor of The William Vale it’s obvious really. With New York’s glistening skyline laid out in panorama like the jewel encrusted peaks of some regal crown, how could one not fall in love here?
But the question remains should we? Even if it’s the smallest of feelings?
Two like minds and practical strangers found themselves together among art and life and music in Budapest. Two laid face up at the sky in a Croatian harbor, the slowly brightening sun reflecting turquoise hues from the sea below. Two more bathed under the sunset red of the Golden Gate. A chill December wind failing to break the fun the day would hold for them.
One of these lasted five years, one would never start and one remained on holiday despite our best efforts to keep it going.
How from that do we determine what should and shouldn’t have been? What was impulse or intuition?
Ignoring Advice
As a self confessed Mark from Peep Show I frequently look for Jez to let that girl know I love her and want to marry her as I hastily exit the building. Perhaps that’s due to low self worth, being a bit of a slag, or maybe just seeing the best in people. I’m not sure.
My friend kindly suggested it was the latter but also that I should perhaps raise the bar a bit if the universe seems to be providing for me like the conveyor belt on Bruce’s Generation Game #ModernCulturalReference.
That advice is probably right, and in the past I’ve probably known it. For example one Christmas friends reunion was dubbed Merry Ex-mas due to the number of my attending exs.
However, in a world that has become all too comfortable with judgement with the swipe of a finger. To a generation that has declared itself too busy to bump in to the right person while living their day to day. I like to look at it in a different way.
Like with so many vibrant Bushwick walls, snaked with thick lines of style, bursting with life. Like the Mission murals on Balmy Alley telling their hard stories with colour and passion. I would not put down my camera for a second and risk not letting that light into my life.
It’s impossible to tell whether it’s the right thing to do in the long run, but for all those pictures not quite the right fit for the living room wall, every one was still special to me in some way.
The charm of Galle provides this in abundance. Right from the beauty of the crumbling Dutch-colonial architecture, through to the smiles and helpfulness of the countless people who stopped to chat to us. Even the crow that turned up at breakfast to watch us tackle our first coconut with chilli and garlic, seemed to have a friendly tone to its caw.
Its true the Dutch engineered this place, bringing trade, architecture and even a fortification that withstood the 2004 tsunami. Inevitably when that power retreated, with it went some of the splendor of that time. But as I lay shaded by palms on the coral-littered beach, I am surrounded by families of many generations. While up on the fortifications couples sit, their smiles reflecting the warmth of this place, with the arc of ancient branches cradling their love.