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Habla espanol? No.	[Mar. 30th, 2009\|11:07 am]
So I'm going to Costa Rica for a month. This is where I'll write about it: wordfemme.blogspot.com Considering I have two friends on this thing, I doubt this post actually means anything, but I thought I'd let one realm know about the other.
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That One Time in Nice;

[Oct. 19th, 2008|05:55 pm]

[	mood	\|	amused	]
[	music	\|	Slow Runner, "You're In Luck"	]

From my paper journal, dated 8 April 2006, 6:00ish

We made it to Nice last night and the good times have yet to cease. I know it's still the honeymoon stage, but it's absolutely beautiful here. Our hostel is amazing. One hundred seventy beds; our room looks out over the city and the coast. We've also met some very cool people. Magen, Barry, Ragive (Rageeve?) and Andrew we met on the bus to the hostel. Ben, who's sleeping on the bunk below me, is also a nice chap. He's in a band, so it's cool to talk music.

We're on the beach now. The waves splash up on the pebble surf and burst. Effervescent. Like opening a fresh litre of Sprite. The breeze is cool, but the sun is warm and lures us to stay. The water is picturesque. Aqua, teal, turquoise all swimming, blending together to make that perfect Kodak moment. Houses spot the rocky cliffs--mansions to millionaires and heiresses and old money. All I can think about are the first pair of eyes that set sight on the virgin land, the first pair of feet that staked claim to the surf, the first pair of hands that built a house over-looking the coast. Was he in awe? Did the beauty of nature leave him breathless?

This is where I met Ben. We spent a few hours of a few days in a dazzling French city, walking the streets, laying on the pebble beach, sinking our teeth into fresh strawberries we bought at the farmers' market. I only have spotty memories of that time. Skippy peanut butter under his bed, a not-quite-ripe avocado on his pillow, playing Mao in our monastery-turned-hostel's dining hall, finding him perched against a wall writing music. We exchanged an email or two after our backpacking escapades and then we lost touch. But we were never really in touch, so it's weird for me to say that.

I get the occasional update on MySpace or Facebook about his band or his current status. I never read them. The one day I lazily click on his band's MySpace bulletin about tour dates, Santa Fe pops from the screen. Becca and I decide we have to go. How random that the boy we met in Nice two years ago is playing a show in Santa Fe?

He's still the same size zero he was when I met him two years ago. He's taller than I remember, but I'm 30 pounds lighter than Europe Jillian, so he doesn't seem as slight. But he's a giant behind the piano--confident, assured, heart-breaking. He banters back and forth with his bandmates. They tell jokes that the audience isn't privy to understand, they laugh at mistakes only they are aware are made, they enjoy each other's talent and the beauty of what they're creating together on stage. My crush from those few hours of those few days those two years ago is revitalized.

When their set is over, Becca and I make our way over to the merch table. Becca hands him the avocado and recognition lights in his eyes when he puts two and two together: the girls from Nice who stole his not-quite-ripe avocado as a joke. We make small talk about his band, about Europe, about New Mexico. Off stage he's more awkward, more real, less autonomous. His gaze is penetrating, like he's interested in what we're saying but maybe not. He fiddles with his Blackberry, he wrings his hands as though he's nervous.

We invite him and his bandmates to grab a drink, but they have to get on the road. Phoenix tomorrow. San Diego, Los Angeles, San Francisco the days following. New York City, New York City, New York City. With a CD and hug, we leave. Maybe another day a reunion again. Most likely, he'll be too famous next time around.

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