REPEAT REPEAT REPEAT.
(AUDIO: Six Different Ways by the Cure)
When I returned to Trastevere, Rome, Calie was naturally and glaringly absent. I’d come alone, or so I thought. Soon, I realized the catharsis of re-imagining a once-happy place without that happy someone might be more masochistic than healthy.
After finding a New York-style loft a block from our old flat, a block on the other side to famed and beloved Piazza di Santa Maria di Trastevere, I began making friends.
First, it was Roberto the Storyteller who told of Mr. Walt Disney’s half-life in Rome and the restaurant cellar that inspired his Fantasia. Then it was two Cuban brothers from Miami who arrived in the neighborhood with a 115 lb. rare sub-breed of Pit Bull. Then it was a washed up 60s hanger-onner that lived in a laundromat, and later a grieving Italian-American widow from Long Island City.
But when Veronica moved in with her diplomatic father in the penthouse of the palazzo next door, I was infatuated. Half-Dutch, half-Peruvian, having grown up in swanky ambassadorial Washington D.C., at 28 she was a fun, sophisticated party girl.
Her sultry, inflexibly disarming voice had a way of playing tricks on me. She was a ghost, something I couldn’t quite touch, nor truly understand. She was lovely.
She came downstairs to my ground floor loft that first night. My front door was open and I was sitting on the cobblestone in front of the building, drinking a glass of wine, smoking a Dunhill cigarette. I was 21 then, and I felt strong and brave no matter how burned and broken. She had confetti in her hair, and I never asked her why. I poured her a glass of Chianti and we sat there for an hour before going inside.
It was one of the moments where you can stay up for 60 hours without blinking. You wait for so long for that sneaking glance at happiness, that a simply ‘good’ conversation seems saintly. Every word off her sharp tongue seemed breezy and flirtatious.
Music seems rich, its tiny crescendos purposeful, its lyrics true and honest. When I’m in love, I can play one song on repeat for two weeks without falter. That night it was three songs, included in the moment for no reason other than the weird joy of association. The three songs circled around the room, circled around themselves and played fluidly without complaint until she left.
Then of course, they contined for another 7 days, while I hoped desperately to recapture the feeling of that night. If you were wondering, they’re still hopelessly dear to me, and will always be played in threes:
1. Six Different Ways by the Cure
2. Mrs. Robinson by Simon + Garfunkel
3. Colours by Donovan
