There's always room for gelato.
Finding family 5,000 miles from home.
True teenage reflections.
Stepping out from behind the thick wooly curtain, I was part of something.
Tiny silhouettes of my teenage classmates sitting on the floor distorted my perspective as I was blinded by the stage lights overhead. It was the first production I'd ever had a hand in writing, and I'd been put in the cool girl's group to do it.
Thank God I was wearing a mask.
Although it was torture at first getting involved with this group of blonde theatre girls, who up until this point, had not even acknowledged my existence, the social approval stroked my ego in just the right way. We were all bonding, figuring out our play for weeks on end. My 16-year-old gibbon-like frame finally coming down from hiding in the canopy to exercise a little creative freedom.
The piece we'd written was typical edgy teenager stuff. Something about depression, memory, and breaking free from loss. There was an empty mirror frame involved, you get the picture.
My long, emo hair and generally dark demeanour meant it was no surprise when I suggested Slipknot's "Dead Memories" for the climax track of the story. Their faces wincing at even the thought of using such a, and I quote, "this is so depressing, how do you listen to this oh my gosh" song.
I simply laid back and basked in the red light of their disgust.
It was every teenage boy's dream to talk to girls about weird, creative ideas and actually have them listen. Delegating out obscure absurdities. Especially when, at that age, I would rather have continued to be invisible than be perceived at all. Not that I had much choice in the matter this time.
The lights dimmed and we stepped back behind the curtain, overcome with joy at the performance we'd given. An end-to-end original piece. I was sweating through all of my clothes, my face pulsing from the adrenaline. We were awarded the highest grade in our class, nearly full marks, on something I'd had a hand in directing. Even if my Drama teacher thoroughly despised me (for reasons I still don't understand today), we had won.
However, just as quickly as the lights faded, so did my newfound friendships.
Eyes shifted away, personal jokes dissolved, and the walk between classes fell silent. The connections I'd built were gutted bare, burning out the moment drama class ended. They were never my friends at all.
I wasn't high on the social ladder in school, yet this was a stark reminder of my true status in the pecking order. I sat in the grey area between the hyper-dorks who got bullied and the cool kids. The nobodies. The crowd that was remembered only when it was useful.
One day part of the club then rugpulled the next.
Sliding between the layers of social fabric, I went quietly unnoticed.
Editor's note: As I write this, I continue to discover new themes in my past where (dead) memories, forgetting who you are, and where you come from are important. It seems I've been in a Fight Against Forgetting far longer than I initially thought.
Give me that California sun.
I was once again returning to the Barracks.
A gorgeous but, admittedly cramped space, housing a number of my close friends for a few weeks. The comfy couch, and the view from the balcony more than made up for the sense of claustrophobia that permeated the entire space. You had to escape for a cigarette occasionally but, it was also the best couch I've ever slept on. - Wax Walls #1
But this time, the Barracks were different.
Old furniture had been tossed over the balcony (metaphorically, you narcs), to make way for a sharper hacker-house setup. Calvin, a man of true Viking heritage, was strapped into his editing desk as incense subtly burned in the background. I suspect he was attempting to channel the Old Gods of video production, whilst simultaneously cutting through the potent pheromones that one can only acquire by shoving six men in their 20s and 30s in a single apartment for weeks on end.
I've heard Chinese medicine enjoyers pay top dollar for this kind of concentrated testosterone. But, I forgot my distilling equipment that week.
"I'm arranging a little get-together tonight, a family dinner with the San Diego gang. Will you be joining us?" Volody proclaimed, lurching from his bedroom doorway.
His classic Fila sweater and navy sweatpants combo reigniting goofy sides of my personality that had been dormant for months.
We share a strange and delightful bond. A connection we originally established with many winks and sarcastic comments between activities in our double-dip trips to Morocco. Only to further extend it over pints of dark Guinness and cigarettes when I wasn't stuffing my face with corned beef hash at Harbor Breakfast.
"A family dinner, you say? Me, you and whom exactly?" I implored playfully in my thickest British.
A tiny smirk rolled up around the Ukrainian's face.
"Oh, you know who."
I know this grin all too well. Perplexing and mischievous with a sprinkle of self-indulgent amusement. He has a secret, and he wants you to know about it.
Volody is a man who calls when I think about him too hard. His sudden appearance is never a surprise but, it is always unexpected. The Cheshire Cat of our motley crew.
Dusk began to settle and the doorbell was let loose. Rachel, David and McCoy descended upon us as I steamed my Ralph Lauren shirt for the night ahead. Handing out hugs and rekindling our connections over cigarettes and shared dreams. Growing up, I'd never been invited to house parties, nor was I really able to throw any. Leaving my teenage years filled with late nights of video games and writing music alone. Raving to my own four-bar drum loop.
McCoy locked eyes with me in a way that felt so sincere, it broke all of my British programming. Interest so genuine I began to question whether I was being the asshole answering his questions. Because back home, this kind of vulnerability would be used as fuel for a back-handed compliment six months down the line. American optimism continued to spook the culture of cynicism I grew up drowning in.
Reaching for Volody's High Noon in the fridge, I caught a glimpse of a receipt photo I left on the door back in May. At the time, I'd been carrying around one of those kids' cameras that prints out every photo you take. Largely for the hilarious comments it would garner, and also to leave a little piece of my memories everywhere I went.
Although the photo was now faded with time, it filled me with a sense of belonging.
Proof that I had been here before, proof of my existence outside of my own mind, and proof that someone cared enough to preserve it.
Maybe it was the claustrophobic nature of the Barracks but when someone said they missed me, my heartstrings didn't immediately recoil in terror.
I knew they meant it.
A big group in Little Italy.
San Diego's Little Italy brings such warmth to my perma-frost of a British soul.
The whole area is touristy, in a cute kitsch way, with restaurants often actually run by Real Italians™, even if the food is tailored to an American palate. How do I know this? Because having spent time in Rome and Florence, I know true Italians will not refrain from a look of disgust if you order something inauthentic from the menu.
They'll often visibly wince and still expect a tip for giving you the privilege of their attention.
Then sometimes, if you're lucky, they'll about turn with a smiling sucker punch, making you feel like a million bucks, bringing you free wine, and taking selfies with everyone at the table. Tucking in your seat, and feeding you every mouthful of pasta as if it were personally crafted by their great-grandmother.
Which is why I love visiting the area.
You never know which dark and brooding or charismatic angel of a waiter you might get next.
So, with our group of nine crashing into Barbusa's, we sat down with the meteoric impact of the local mob family. Silence around us as we made our entrance, the imaginary curtain closing quickly behind to protect us from the riff raff of the street urchins.
A long table with a black checkered cloth sat before us. It could have been Christmas or a birthday party, but no, this is just how we rolled.
Loud, rambunctious, fresh off a pint or two, conversations manifested up and down the table. There was no pause, no censorship, no hesitation. The type of scene you see in movies, never expecting to live through yourself. Pink cocktails arrived, and conversation continued to flow like wine. I was unable to keep up.
Soon we were surrounded by plates of neon green gnocchi, chicken pasta, creamy mushroom sauce and of course, lasagne. Spoonfuls of food gliding through the air to share little bombs of flavour with each other. It was beautiful and delicious chaos. Cameras could have started rolling, and no one would have missed a beat. There was no tension in my heart, no fear, no worry. Even the family photo was just part of the moment. Taken without hesitation.
All those moments in the Sahara, in Morocco, in Barcelona, in San Diego were all real. The stargazing, the dancing, the exhausted coach rides, the early breakfasts with bread and honey - they were all real.
For the longest time, I had been solo with some internet friends. A lone ranger, keeping everyone at arm's length, expecting to be stabbed in the back. But, here? Here, the Disney-grade woodland animal friendships blossomed out of each person effortlessly.
We were meant to be here. I was meant to be here.
(Politely) Stealing the last of Rachel's pasta off her plate, we stumbled back out onto the street to the bustling sounds of hospitality around us. Cheap royalty-free music sprinkled between layers of vocal fry salads and clinking wine glasses. Dim street lamps bounced off our rotund stomachs as we waddled like toddlers learning to walk.
I stared up at a neon-lit chapel on our way home, knowing that tomorrow there would be no tension, no comedown, no pit in my stomach, fearing loneliness again. There was no threat of disappointment, no expectation that my vulnerability would be turned against me, or skills exploited.
I knew these friends were actually my family. Even if it took 5,000 miles to see them.
"Gelato?" Volody chirped from the back, breaking my line of thought.
"Yes, let's." I said alongside him.
Because there's always room for gelato.
Connor x
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