Like in many love affairs, I never intended to actually fall in love with you. It was something that just happened. At first, it was mere good fun: exhilarating, intoxicating, addictive. We had no expectations, except for that we were not meant to last. We greeted each other, set no boundaries, and unreservedly explored the depth of the other.

Details were blurry, but I remember every emotion that surged through me. I was happy. Contemplative. Independent. Confident. Self-conscious. Carefree. I was alive.

I loved who I was when I was with you. And with our love affair, so began mine with life.

* * *

‘You need taxi?’

‘Yes, I do. The airport taxi stand is that way, no?’

‘Yes, yes, but it’s no working at night. My friend can help. He’s the best taxi driver in here, only 40 euros,’ said the lanky young man with short, curly locks who just sold me a Spanish SIM card, nodding to a middle-aged man beside him.

I must have been overcome by exhaustion after a series of business meetings I had in Seville and the 1.5-hour flight to Madrid, because I heard myself saying ‘okay’. O.K.! Despite the dozens of ads plastered on the walls all over Barajas International Airport, telling me that registered taxis were available 24 hours to take me to the city center for 30 euros!

I soon found myself following the “taxi driver” to an expensive-looking, shiny black car. Well, I guessed that was where my extra 10 euros went: the polish.

I should have been scared, or pissed off at the very least. I was neither. As soon as Madrid night scene came into focus, I felt nothing but pure excitement. It was my first solo-travel. I couldn’t wait to dive in, head first.

Looking back to how lightly I took the deception, I sometimes wonder if I have any sense of self-preservation. But there was I, sitting wide-eyed on the edge of my car seat. And that was how my love affair, like most, with Madrid started: with some deceit.

* * *

I remember you woke me up the next morning with your radiance. You peeked through the window of my small yet cozy Airbnb room. You let me make all the choices: to sleep in, or to jump out of bed bright and early. I picked the latter.

We had no plans; I did no background check. You simply led me through your boulevards, everyone else minding their own business. My first order of business? Getting a hearty breakfast.

‘Where you from? You have unique look.’

‘Indonesia.’ I smiled while flipping through the menu.

‘Indonesia, eh? Where is it, you don’t mind me asking?’

Our exchange of pleasantry soon turned into a short but sweet conversation. He helped me choose the winning breakfast sandwich combo, and I taught him a few words in my mother tongue. We never learnt each other’s name.

‘I need to go back work now, but it’s really, really nice meeting you. Where you going after this?’ he asked, slightly hunched over my table, unconsciously running his fingers through his hair.

‘I don’t really have a plan. My client back in Seville insisted that I need to see the Guernica at Reina Sofia. So, either that or the park.’

‘The El Retiro park is really pretty this time of the year.’ It was October 2015.

‘Well then, I guess El Retiro it is!’

* * *

The El Retiro was where it all really began: my being enamored to you.

I went to El Retiro for its autumn leaves. And initially, that was all the park seemed to be about. Just your regular public park, with a small pond and wooden benches a-plenty, where people came to unwind under the golden canopy.

Yet as I followed the trail of songs of its many street musicians, you revealed so much more: Deep blue lake with the Monumento Alfonso XII standing guard and a hidden nook right on the side where I sat and read for hours. A maze of shrubs hiding a set of staircases inside that spiraled up above the park and then nowhere. Endless narrow paths lined with mustard-yellow leaves. Each finding was its own surprise, filling my heart with such contentment.

Right before I decided to leave, notes of ‘Sway’ made their way to my ears from the mouth of a sax. They led me out of the narrow paths and onto a colossal balcony. Signifying the contrast, the balcony opened onto an even more colossal plaza, the name of which I learnt only later on: Plaza Parterre.

I stood on the brick-wrought structure of the balcony, as it has stood overlooking the plaza for decades or perhaps centuries before me. We were both speechless before the greatness ahead.

The next thing I know, I was silently crying.

I couldn’t understand then. Why was I crying? What was that feeling: so mixed I couldn’t name it, so powerful I couldn’t escape it?

Looking back, I think now I understand. Just as stark a contrast between the narrow, leafy paths and the vast plaza, was it between myself and the unfathomable of life.

What hope do I have to ever explore it in full? To make sense of its each and every little detail?

* * *

What you taught me was, maybe I don’t have to. Perhaps, to live and to love does not necessarily require a perfectly made sense.

After all, that was how we spent our days together. Mostly questions, some answers, and no plans at all. You just left me breadcrumbs all over the city — a stranger, a poster, a tip, a slip — each leading me to the sides of you that you felt necessary to show me. Not all, but enough.

That is, perhaps, the true beauty of our life affair.

Most affairs are bound to crash and burn, and along the way take the lovers down with them. Some were destined, and what started as a deceit falls into place and becomes that one true love.

Some other, like mine and Madrid’s, are just meant to be a piece of the puzzle we call life.

It’s there to complete the bigger picture.

Credits:
Photographs from Pixabay