Unsent Letters #11

A train memory

Photo by Jack Catterall on Unsplash, rendered black & white by me

Dear B.,

I'm trying to take in each of the billions of frames passing out the window. One by one; the train running at full speed. My eyes darting left to right, unwilling to miss anything, taking photos in burst mode without a camera. I’ve always loved doing that, remember? Looking out the window the whole time. Neglecting the books and the papers. Forgetting about whoever I’m traveling with. Not for the scenery per se, or its variety and colors. But for the thoughts it generates. While time flies. 

Except when we had that epic fight thirty-five years ago on this very train, Swiss Alps-bound. As the thought resurfaced, I laughed loudly, and decided to write to you. 

We just left the station where, furious at you after that fight, I ran off the train to catch one heading in the opposite direction and return home. The last station before the Swiss border, where the train usually stops for customs and ID checks. You stayed on, and continued. This was the start of one of the many ski weekends we did back then, whenever that awesome place your folks rented for years on the Swiss Alps happened to be vacant. Once home, I left you a message on your answering machine saying that I was sorry, and an idiot. This was before cell phones -- you were probably twenty, I must have been twenty-three. Just kids, Patti Smith would say. 

It wasn’t unusual for us to have heated arguments. We couldn’t be more different. Yet, we did last a few years, alternating profoundly romantic symbiosis to vitriolic separation. Ours sure wasn’t a boring story. We never got to move in together, though -- a blessing in hindsight. 

Remember what we were arguing about on the train? When the memory of that occurrence first hit me, all I could remember was us yelling at each other, and the whole coach silently listening. But that was when the diatribe had already degenerated. Then I finally reconstructed it: we were talking about female attractiveness. 

My point was that, to me, a woman is attractive when she isn’t aware of being so. A view that has been reinforced over the years, and I still hold. It sounds like a paradox: find me an attractive woman on this planet who doesn’t know she is, you defensively countered. What I’m saying is a little more nuanced, I explained. Okay, elaborate then, you said. And started to sound nervous, legs crossed and arms folded.  

And so I went on a rant about beauty versus attractiveness, two qualities that people tend to overlap while I think they have little in common; but hey, that’s me. How can beauty not be part of attractiveness? I think it’s a fundamental ingredient. A beautiful woman is attractive almost by definition, you said. Not true, I replied: I can show you plenty of non-beautiful attractive women. That said, both beauty and attractiveness are highly subjective. I think this is really a complicated subject to discuss. I just wanted to say that I find particularly attractive a woman who isn’t aware of what attracts me in her. A quality that she doesn’t know about, that she carries spontaneously. These precise words echo in my head as if I were hearing them right now. They were my attempt at closing the argument.   

But you weren’t in the slightest ready to close it: Is this a way of giving me a hint? Are you saying that you don’t find me attractive? 

I don’t know if you remember, but at this point the middle aged lady seated next to you closed her book, took off her glasses, and clearly focused on following the argument. Shortly afterwards, the gentleman next to me did the same. Very discreetly, they figured they were about to witness an interesting spectacle.

What followed is enveloped in fog. I don’t have a clear recollection of the details. I remember your rage, and the high pitch of your voice, and your carelessness about anything and anyone around you. Including the lady and the gentleman seated next to you and me. I remember my bewilderment, and my what-am-I-doing-here? kind of thoughts. We called each other ugly names, like two kids fighting in the school yard. I didn’t like raising my voice; I still don’t. Yet my memories are full of yelling. From you and from me. Until I just lost it, got up, grabbed my stuff, and hurriedly got off the train. 

Much later that same evening, you called me back saying that you were sorry too. Peace was made. And in the dead of night, I got in the car to come to you, up there, in the Swiss Alps. Only a twenty-something fool would drive through those mountains for hours in the middle of the night. You weren’t expecting me; I thought I’d surprise you. I had to wake you at, like, four in the morning to let me in. And we spent the weekend as if nothing happened.

Anyway, that’s what I was thinking about on the train today. Over the years, we always laughed about that day, and I thought I’d crystallize what’s left of this memory in a letter that will outlive us both. You know, writing about this makes me think about how fortunate I am to have remained in touch and good terms with you and everyone else I had the privilege of sharing a piece of my life with. It is true that what I learned about myself, I learned from those who had the will and the courage to peek inside me for a portion of the journey.

I haven’t heard from you in a few years. Please do reach out, if you feel like. I stopped arguing long ago, nothing good ever comes out of it. Not worth it. Frank Zappa used to say that people will agree with you only if they already agree with you. Such a simple yet precious thought. 

I’m still the same, without the arguing.

---

"Unsent Letters" is a series released every other week. These are imaginary letters to fictitious or real individuals who may or may not have influenced my life, not always mirroring actual events.

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