Your Holiday, My Misery

Your Holiday, My Misery

Protesters swarmed outside your window. Orange and green paintballs criss-crossed the night air, illuminated by the swirl of red and blue police lights. There would be blockades. You’d need to cross town on foot. The density of the chants muddied the words but the message was clear. Get out of town. You told yourself not to take their rage personally, but raised fists and placards made clear the danger. Your suitcase lay open on the bed of your modest Airbnb. The suitcase, a dead giveaway.

You checked your reflection. Jeans, linen shirt, no hat, hair loose – simple, unobtrusive. You stuffed your remaining bills into the zippered belt along with your passport and credit card, and concealed it under your waistband. You checked the contents of your small purse – a comb, some mints, your cell phone and charger. Once safely landed in another country, if you could find a welcoming one, you intended to replace clothing, toothbrush, shampoo. You gazed on the flared floral skirt and sky blue silk blouse in the open suitcase and heard your mother telling you that these were just things, not people. “Things are replaceable.” And you wanted to believe that.

When you stepped into the street, the crowd swallowed you. You lifted your fist into the forest of arms. The distance to the train station lengthened as the mob thronged northward.

At a stone monument, a lone figure shouted from a megaphone, protesters now pulsing at his feet. Liberation. You understood that. You heaved along with the uprising, echoing the passion of those who belonged. You’d immersed yourself in the culture, the language, the history and art of this place for three intense months. You understood. Tourists go home. Your holiday, my misery. You joined in. Not for sale.

Rosemary, mint, and fervent sweat thick in the crush of bodies pushing you further from the hope of safety the train station promised. And now, a different sort of contact, intentional but neither hostile nor sexual. His hair bound into a knot, one long strand trailing from his temple. In the pale streetlight his hair shone copper, his sunstone eyes sparking silver. Comrades, his gaze said. We march together. Hours of learning the language, of pressing the flesh of an orange at the market to haggle with confidence, of discussing football with the café owner. But now. The urgency to turn around, go upstream, get out of town, argued with his open collar, his gemstone eyes, the scent of cloves or cardamom. If you opened your mouth, he would know. The crowd would turn. To you he offered a smile of solidarity before returning his attention to the agitator and pumping his fist. Your holiday, my misery. He was regal and you were a fraud with notions of belonging, envious as always of the ones whose roots grow deep.

When you took a step back, your rational mind on escape, his arm descended. Even in the cacophony, you understood his words. Stay. You placed what you hoped was a reassuring hand on his forearm, because in truth you had already seen the two of you naked or half-naked, no need for words, somewhere nearby. You still had the door codes to your room. But he was saying something more, his hot cheek pressed to yours, his spice breath in your ear. Cup. Wine. Café. You knew the café he named, close to your Airbnb. Where the owner knew your name and your country. Tourists go home. You were no tourist, you’d told yourself. No, you’d come to truly know this place. You’d studied the language, the art, the architecture, and the food, believing this had exempted you. But when you felt, before you heard, the swelling rage outside, you hadn’t questioned its provocation. Your holiday, my misery. The strikes were city-wide. He was waiting for an answer, the deep pools of his eyes asking you to dive in. His shoulders broad, fingers smooth, his smile impossible not to mirror. His right to be there.

Orange metal fencing barricaded the road to the north, police vehicles lined the streets to the east and west, blue and red lights swirling into the heated night. You followed him south, away from water and paint guns aimed at a starless sky, away from the bullhorn and throb of angry bodies.

At small round tables sat locals in football jerseys, old women in headscarves, and teenagers laughing over their screens. You hadn’t been lonely, having filled your days with learning, looking, and listening, until these moments of clarity when everyone belonged but you. Neon light spilled through the café doors to where you sat with your fingers on the edge of the table, your thighs pressed tight to keep from shaking. A mournful song played from tinny speakers.

Where are you from?

If you answered, even with your newly minted language, your pretense would be unmasked. You coughed, put a hand to your chest, shaking your head. Just let him speak, you told yourself. Let him believe you shy.

He signalled the waiter, called for wine. He glowed with a beauty you could barely tolerate. You dragged your gaze away from his open collar and the delicate gold cross resting in a nest of dark hair there. He regarded you with a look so frank and open it took your breath. It travelled from your eyes, down your chest, and flickered at your waist where the money belt distorted the line of your jeans. “You’re not from here are you?” he asked in perfect English. It wasn’t a question. You wanted to tell him you weren’t a tourist, not one of the ones who clogged the streets experiencing his city through their phones’ lenses. Instead, you took the wine from the server’s hand and sipped.

“Do you think it matters to me?” He lifted his glass to you. “Do you imagine me so small-minded to judge you for loving the city I love? The city I was born in?” His English flawless, his accent a sonnet. “You are here and I am glad.”

You wondered if this could be the beginning of a love story, a story of belonging, a way to remain. “You don’t mind? I mean, the protest. You were so fierce, so involved. Don’t you want us all gone?”

That tendril, the escaped one, shot with copper in the café’s harsh neon, how you ached to reach across that small table and wind it in your fingers.

When you shifted into his language, he wanted to know where you’d learned it.

“In immersion.” You were precise with the emphasis.

He told you what you already knew, that Airbnbs had priced locals out of apartments, and what you didn’t know, that when rents were increased, many, including him, had to find places far outside the city. You wondered aloud if it should be a government issue to resolve and the feathered wings of his eyebrows lifted as if startled by your insight.

You drank and listened to the song in his words, the music of the land, as he spoke of his family, the early promise of a football career, and how he was now a tour guide. Would you like a tour of the old town where no tourists go? Of course not – you know the city in and out, yes? And how the protest was not because of you, but – just as you noted, it is for the government to act because, he laughed, which seemed a little out of place, without your kind I would have no job, no income.

You waited for a lapse or pause, a particular gesture that signaled the right moment to invite him back to the Airbnb you’d just vacated.

Your arms linked, you drew him to where you’d abandoned a year’s worth of clothing and your hopefulness. Before you pressed the door code and before you kissed for the first time, he’d hesitated, his slightly worn, yet still youthful, face tightening.

But then there was kissing and clothes on the floor, opera drifting down through the ceiling – from a drunken scene you recognized – and warm skin to skin to skin, fingers and tongues and lips. Bodies speaking their language with fluency and grace.

Breath settling in the almost still afterward, you noticed how his gaze moved about the room as though searching for a particular thing. But you were sated, and as you drifted, able to touch the notion of remaining. He murmured in his language what sounded like a lullaby. At the edge of dreams you heard him speak all four of his names, proud as a proclamation.

Morning burst into the room, white and stark. You wondered if he’d gone out for pastries and coffee.

On the back of the guest rules sheet, he’d written a note in his language. With elegant penmanship he thanked you for allowing him to sleep in his childhood bedroom. Beside his signature, he wrote, “I’m sorry that went sideways.” Beside the note lay your empty money belt, its frayed insides exposed.