Break the silence - Pt I

Thanks to Kayleigh Thorpe for the inspiration :) been on my mind for a while, finally found time to write it down.

25.12.2023

Christmas Saturday. Kolya and Tessa came to Eindhoven, and we had a fancy dinner at home with seafood, a bunch of strong liquors, and a stupid Dutch movie (not sure if that was the moment when I saw “New Kids” for the first time?) Before meeting them, I went shopping in the Turkish Street, and already there, stepping out of the tobacco shop, grimacing from drizzle and cold wind and looking at the milky-ashy sky, I’d thought: I’m so fucking sick of this.

The rain would not stop that entire day, nor would it cease on Sunday. Kolya and Tessa left; I followed them to the train station, then came back home, utterly exhausted from cycling against the wind (rule #1 of the Netherlands: wherever you go, the wind always blows in your face). David had gone to visit his family in Antwerp; the apartment was cold, empty and silent, which was at the same time relieving and disturbing. I sprawled face up on the bed and stayed in that position for the next few hours, until the deep blue dusk promptly settled outside the windows.

Not that I’m going crazy, it’s just winter is draining me out,

Not that I’ve got no friends, it’s just all of them are out of town,

So I’m lying the whole day in bed, staring into the wall,

Waiting for hours to pass by, waiting for something to happen.

And I guess, I disturb my neighbours a lot,

When I pick my guitar, and I start to sing,

Filling this empty space with sound,

Getting louder and louder and louder…

I just wanna scream to break this unbearable silence,

Just to feel that I am not alone,

And the echoes of my words inside these empty walls

Will keep reflecting even when I’m gone.

I think it was that day when I wrote those first lines of a new song.

I don’t know what it was that forced me to get up at last and move my butt from the bed to the chair and turn on my computer. Perhaps there is some instinctive defensive mechanism hardwired somewhere in the reptilian part of the human brain that activates itself when existence becomes unbearable and reminds too much of rotting and decomposition; like a discharge of electric current through the entire body and mind, whose only goal is to awaken you and make you do something.

So, guided by that very mechanism, I opened the map of Europe showing the weather forecast for the upcoming week. The Mediterranean region did not look promising: 18C during the day and dropping to 10C at night, with a high probability of rain almost everywhere, from Gibraltar to Cyprus. So I turned my attention to the southernmost part of Europe. Canary Islands.

Sunny the whole week. +25C.

I did not think too much. Ryanair, check flights from Eindhoven. One to Las Palmas tomorrow at 11:50 am, perfecto. 400 something euros, but screw it, my sanity is worth more than that. Next, Booking. Nothing but fancy 5-star hotels for an insane amount of money. Ok, leave it as a last resort. Airbnb. Only 3 locations left in the entire city. One of them has a double bed and a desk inside the room. Perfecto: I could even work a bit if I felt like it. Located reasonably close to the city center. 30 euros per night. Sold: I’m booking it, along with the flight tickets.

Later that night, we smoke shisha with Gleb and Egor, and they pop their eyes out when I casually tell them that I’m flying to Las Palmas tomorrow. The notion of traveling alone is still novel to them; on the contrary, myself I’ve done it so many times that now the thought of traveling in a company stresses me out in a way. It’s just so much easier to plan everything without the need to align with anyone, especially when your vision of a perfect vacation is vastly different.

Sometimes, that’s just what I need: to spend some time alone in a pretty place far away from routine.

26.12.2023

Monday morning, super fast packing (don’t forget the swimming pants!!!). Bike ride against the wind with the carry-on suitcase balancing on the handlebars, then bus ride. While drinking a giant americano in the airport’s waiting lounge, I’d finished the song. For some reason, in the second verse it got slightly political, and I also could not hold myself from inserting an homage to Simon and Garfunkel.

We don’t choose what to say, every word’s been decided for us,

Every broken connection imprints our souls with new scars,

This silence grows like a cancer, quickly spreading around this world,

What are we so afraid of, if we can’t speak a single word?

Silent radio waves broadcasting nonsense,

Filling with bullshit all empty space,

I am tweaking the knobs, but the signal is lost,

Is there anyone out there?

Standing in line for boarding under the same drizzle (Eindhoven airport, a marvel of Dutch architecture). Finally, in the air. After some fidgeting about in the Ryanair seat (which could be in the thesaurus as a perfect antonym to “comfortable”), I finally snoozed, trying to ignore someone’s knees kicking my back through the chair. Vaguely remember myself listening to my own music: just a few weeks before I’d finished mixing and mastering my solo instrumental album, and submitted it to Amuse for review and publication. I was quite happy with the result. I liked listening to it.

When we landed in Gran Canaria, it was already evening. Time zone change + short daylight time.

I knew the airport and the city. Been here before together with Kolya and Lyosha, during Easter 2022, when we rented a car and took a road trip around the archipelago, hopping from island to island by ferry. Bought a sandwich in a kiosk at the exit, frantically trying to recall the best of my Spanish, and still confusing some words for the Dutch ones. The cashier glanced at me like at a weirdo. I was embarrassed and spent the next 10 minutes, while waiting for the bus, composing the right sequence of words I should have said in my head. Una empanada met jamón, alsjeblieft. No, not “met”, that’s Dutch. “Con jamón”.

Bus ride, familiar seaside passing by on the right, the Atlantic blindingly glittering under the blue sky without a single cloud. Central station, another bus towards my final destination, as suggested by Google Maps. Obviously I got out at the wrong stop. From here, it was about 1 km to the place, but all that distance had to be walked uphill. The sun, though setting beyond the mountains, was still blazing hot, and by the time I climbed to the top, I was drowning in sweat and completely out of breath.

Finally, the last 100 m, and oh my god, is this really the place? It was the most beautiful place I could ever imagine as an Airbnb. Four-storey house with terracotta walls surrounded by palm trees, but where is it?! Facing a semi-circular terrace from which opens the view of the whole city and its bay. Mirador Cuatro Cañones. One of those hidden gems I absolutely love to discover accidentally while wandering without much purpose or destination in an unknown city (well, my sole purpose is usually finding a good view to sit down and enjoy while smoking a cigarette). And I get to stay here for 9 days. Wild.

I climb the old dark staircase and am finally greeted by the happy yelping of a tiny grey Yorkshire terrier and the slow, hesitant but warm English of the host—a small grey-headed and moustached man, in his sixties, named Juan Manuel. When I respond in Spanish, he lightens up instantly, and his speech becomes warmer still and agitated. Turns out, he lives here alone with his dog, but the apartment is huge, so he rents out one of the bedrooms for a short-term stay. When I say “huge”, I mean: it’s possible that we both wander around the apartment for quite some time and never hear or meet each other. I’m allowed to use the kitchen to cook, the gym (yes, one of the rooms is a gym) to exercise, and use his bike to ride around the city. It even has a guest toilet and shower.

I drop my suitcase. It’s too early for dinner, especially by Spanish standards. So I decide to go for a walk in the center and ask Juan to show me a proper way to get in and out by public transport. Turns out, there is a bus stop on the opposite slope of the mountain, much closer to the home than the one I got out at. We walk there, chatting in Spanish, me slowly getting my vocabulary back together. Juan promises to feed me dinner as soon as I return and puts me into the right bus.

I hop off at Santa Catalina, buy cigarettes and head toward the beach, which is just a few minutes away from the square. The sun has almost set, and I only get to catch the last traces of red halo above the west. It’s getting instantly colder, and I am happy to have brought my jacket along in my backpack. I wander among sand sculptures, then sit on the beach, barely above the foamy curve drawn by rolling and receding waves. Smoke, looking into the horizon, where the dark body of the ocean is almost indistinguishable from the dark hemisphere of the firmament.

On the way back, for some reason, I feel like listening to Bob Dylan. Of course, I’m late for dinner, and Juan has already eaten without me. But the chicken paella is still hot and fragrant, and I pounce on it like someone who hasn’t had food for a few days. The dog is jumping around and wagging his tail so hard that I’m afraid it will tear off.

“Dime si te molesta”, says Juan.

“No, no,” I laugh. “No me molesta. Es un chico lindo. Mis padres tienen casi el mismo perrito.”

The dog is listening to me, batting his round black eyes-beads.

At night, I sleep with the window open for fresh air, and it gets cold. I wake up several times, trying to roll deeper into the thin blanket. In the morning I tell Juan about it. Half an hour later—I haven’t even finished my breakfast yet—he returns from a shop and hands me a new blanket.

I can’t find enough words in Spanish to thank him.

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to be continued