Tu y Yo

Sunday in Paris, end of August. The city is still relatively quiet, and I’m sitting on a terrace in Rue Montorgueil sipping coffee. I still have a few posts to put up from the summer trip, but that can wait till later. In a week I’ll be driving west to attend a friend’s wedding, alone, instead of accompanied as was previously planned.

I take pride in being a very positive and happy person by nature. I believe this is largely due to the amount of love and affection I received as a child from my family, and partly due to learning from experience that, even though sad events seem overwhelming when they take place, they always tend to be ephemeral, and life brings about happier events shortly afterwards. There is, however, an exception. I have consistently failed to overcome the grief of what the French call “couper les ponts”.

Here’s a photo (badly taken!) of a painting I just put up in my apartment :

I only bought it a few days ago back in La Paz. I spoke (very poor Spanish) with the artist, Eusebio Choque, for a few minutes trying to negotiate when and how the painting gets to my hotel where I can pay him the full amount in US dollars instead of Bolivianos. He then smiled as he talked about his work a little, joked a little more, and finally said: “Tu y yo (the title of this painting), staying really friends today.” — I believe he meant “You and I are real friends today.” — I smiled politely, shook his hand, and left. I will never forget that man. Not his face, not his smile. Nor will I forget that gentle lady that kept shaking her head beside him while noting down the address. I do not forget people. Every word uttered by someone that has any significant emotion linked to me somehow, stays engraved in my memory for a very, very long time. It is therefore painfully harrowing to know that someone I love is out there, alive and reachable… but it’s just that we cannot communicate.

When I was younger, I would simply not give up; I would call and show up and do all what it takes to not lose contact with the person. But we all grow up. Respect for the other’s wishes and, to a lesser degree, norms imposed by society, make us more “reasonable”… and of course that reminds me how overrated reason is.

People that have disappeared from my life will always be there. They will always show up in my mind when I read, when I write, when I see something on the streets that reminds me of words they said or moments we’ve lived, no matter how few those were.

In Potosí, during a guided visit in a monastery (more about that in a future post), I took this:

Some people will never come back because they’re too hurt. Others will never come back because they’re too bad. But some will come back because they can forgive, and they know they can be forgiven; because they know that love, friendship, and contact, is more important than anything else. For those, my smile will always be there :)