I Won’t Live Without Your Love, No

Lately I received in the mail from my mother a small package containing these items:

—A copy of Karin Muller’s book Hitchhiking in Vietnam: A Woman’s Solo Journey in an Elusive Land.

—A CD labeled “Best of Adiemus” with a note that track 1 is best.

—A CD labeled “Maná: Amar Es Combatir”—love is war—and a printout of some handy phrases for romance such as “I’m like a beast” and “Send me a love sign.” I couldn’t wait to try them out. I thought I’d start with some of my coworkers and work my way up.

My parents have been learning Spanish for some years—my father started long ago and can watch TV in Spanish with relative ease—so I assumed my mother was sharing one of her Spanish lessons, namely the chapter on how to flirt, and that the CD would be a man pronouncing the phrases over and over—I must have been traumatized by that “sotay” thing.

I sent my mother an email asking what it all meant, which she answered by saying "Who?", so I decided it would have to remain a mystery, but it turned out the CD is actually of music, and the printout is the words to the first song, in Spanish and English.

Last Monday night I went to see Jeff for some acupuncture. By then I’d figured out how to play the guitar without causing left hand pain, but there was a twinge elsewhere that needed his attention. He is also a guitarist, so he showed me some stretches.

Tuesday night was laundry night, and on Wednesday evening I went to volunteer at the Bike Coalition, where I had a lovely time. Thursday night was my final class on whole body breathing. If the person I’m about to discuss ever sees this, I hope there aren’t hurt feelings.

On one hand, I believe everything I see, hear, smell, feel and think is part of my story, and so I have the absolute right to write about it; on the other, I dread the thought of someone making his or her way here—joining the elite Group of Eight—and thinking, “Good lord, someone put stuff about me on the Internet.”

Sometimes I’m even a little shocked that I’m putting stuff about ME on the Internet, plus some of my own relatives would leave me in a pool of blood if I even mentioned their names, so I’m pretty careful about not saying too much about other people unless I’m pretty sure they don’t mind. (Lisa C. once said she’s counting on my blog to bring her worldwide fame, so it’s OK to say a bit about her and David. I’m sorry the fame is taking so long.)

In my short-lived book club, there was a young man who came to the last session who sat right next to me for a couple of hours or so while managing to ignore me almost completely. It was somewhat unnerving and unpleasant, though it played no part in my decision not to go on with the book club.

Lo and behold, this same person turned up in the whole body breathing class. I thought about saying hi, but it wasn’t as if I could honestly say, “Nice to see you.” After thinking it over for two seconds, I decided I wasn't obliged to say anything at all, so I didn't, and neither did he. I wasn’t at all angry, not that there’s anything wrong with being angry, and it wasn’t one bit hard to sit in the same room with him for five Thursday nights without speaking—we didn’t sit near each other; I’m front of the room and he’s back of the room—even when we passed within a couple of feet of each other near a doorway.

But at the end of the final night, when I was chatting with Victoria, I noticed this guy had something that changed the situation completely: a bicycle. I said, “Excuse me for a moment, Victoria. [Unfriendly young man], are you riding back to the Mission?” He said he was. “Do you want to ride together?” He said he did want to; he’d just acquired the bicycle.

So I took him down Gough St.—I offered to go over to Polk where there’s a bike lane, but he said he’d try Gough and that he’d follow my lead—and I know he had fun, because how could he not, and we rode to the Mission, chatting a little at the red lights, and when we parted, I said, “Good night; take care,” and he said, “See you later,” and so that was a happy ending to a slightly strange thing.

My mother said maybe he’s shy, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find that was the case, but he was talking to the other two people at the book club meeting. Maybe he just took an instant dislike to me, which is certainly allowed; I take an instant dislike to people all the time, often later finding out I actually like the person very much. Maybe I would have disliked this person right away if he hadn’t beaten me to it.