I believe in fairies. I don´t believe in St. Claus (sorry, kids!).
I believe in magic. I don´t believe in bullshit.
I am a romantic. I am not stupid. ´Wonder: why so many people keep thinking these two are synonimous?
I believe in the urgency of love in our lives. I also believe in sex and the balance (hormonal, emotional, psychological, many etcs on the equation) it brings. I know we´re humans; we´re also animals, no matter how much we try to deny it.
I believe women and men are searching for that partner that makes them feel life is ALIVE (I know: it sounds like a pleonasm; it probably is and I mean it: life can feel dead or alive). I also believe we can be better by ourselves than with the wrong person by our side. Solitude doesn´t mean, necessarily, loneliness.
I believe we´re all sexual beings – aside from many things. I don´t believe women are only searching for love and men, those beasts!, are only searching for sex. Life – Humanity – is more complex than that.
This is probably how I fell in lust – damn it: I meant love – with a musician at the Hermitage theatre in the gorgeous (magical) city of St. Petersburg, Russia. I fell in lust (ups: I did it again!) love with a perfect stranger in a simple, straightforward, womanly(some of you will question it), you Tarzan & me Jane manner:
There I was, a good girl and a good student, ready to educate myself a little further, to watch a Classical Ballet show at the famous Hermitage theatre and to behave like a lady. Everything looks so beautiful, civilized, cultured, sophisticated and polite. Above all, polite. The Hermitage orchestra started to arrive, each instrument neatly located in its own place, handshakes and bows to the maestro, the whole protocol treated like an unshakeable English 5 o´clock tea. Then he arrived. He. This word would be enough to make me fly into lands women are rarely allowed to visit.
You gotta give me some credit here: I´ve spent 8 years of my life in Egypt, working as a star (whatever that means) dancer, literally running away from men in ways Sherlock Holmes and James Bond would have never imagined. I could write an whole book on the art of running away from men – that´s how much practice and expertise I´ve gathered.
Staying away from troubles – aka egyptian/arab men – was an essential part of my survival kit and that has – no doubt – created a weird, difficult to understand thirst/fear in relation to the male presence. Sure: I was bathed in testosterone (managing and working with 12 musicians on a daily basis) and I had my relationships, all of them a bitter sweet reminder of the mentality/cultural bridges we can NOT cross without losing our own identity/dignity.
Still…the pleasure of observing a gorgeous man without the fear of being sexually harassed for the rest of my days or ending up married within a week is something new: a candy so sweet, perhaps so dangerous that only St. Petersburg could have offered it to me. Why St. Petersburg? Why that fancy, chic, uber-civilized theatre in the midst of the highest cultural environment? Why? I guess life – or God, if you wish – has a funky sense of humour. I can appreciate the irony, laugh at it and even love it.
Back to the lust love bird. My 5 o´clock tea cup fell on the ground and broke into 1001 pieces (1001 – not more, not less): my civility turned into a Paleolithic female rage: vagina dentata all over again (although with a modern twist): my focus on the culture, the dance, the music suddenly became absolete: who cares?
The lights went out; the ballet show started; a particular violin solist made me fall in love (or lust? I´m lost…I don´t know it anymore) with his performance but all I could think of, very unromantically so, was how much I wanted to STOP: STOP: STOP the whole thing and point my finger towards that man, the landscape that caused the hormonal party inside my body, that piece of desire who kept staring at me during the whole show, The Flame, a gorgeous sight of the male species:
-Hey, you! Come with me. N-O-W.
To have a genuine glimpse of the scene, you have to imagine that fancy theatre suspended in a frozen moment of a pretty unexpected life event: ballet dancers holding their legs up in the air, dumbfounded, muscles aching from the unusual effort; musicians are floating, trying to catch their instruments which are also dancing in the air, naturally out of control; the audience has turned to stone, perfectly immobile, waiting in a limbo between the past and the future. Darkness covers the theatre except for two follow spots – one over me and another over my man.
We leave the theatre, walking (no: running!) – in a sweet distress – towards a beautiful, old, magnificent house of St. Petersburg downtown.
What would come next is a space that remains open – use your imagination and forget that outdated lala land version of the story: she was searching for love and he was searching for sex. Yeah, right!
-Can I know your name? – He asked.
–Err...ok…do you want to know my name?
-I have no interest in your name.
-Where are we going?
P.S. If you´re wondering how this real story ended, remind yourself of a quite upsetting fact: I´m such a catholic! Still…