## Like Tears in the Rain My friend R went to Besancon to celebrate her boyfriends anniversary. That was the original plan. A couple of weeks before they had a big fight, however, she had made a joke, he didn't get it and sent a battalion of insecurities in his defense in the form of a crusade against humor. You and me might call it teasing, for him, V, it was the end of the world. R was heartbroken at first and kind of awestruck, "WTF just happened", kind of vibes. But then she reassambled her spirits, "I'll not let some guy dictate what I do and where I go. I wanted to see Besancon, so I go". With that, she set out on a journey to the birthplace of Victor Hugo, convinced that the fact that this great writer having spent 3 months of his life here is a big enough alibi to convince her subconscious that this was a good enough reason to go. R loves French, teaches the language and has the mindset of a lifelong learner so even I am convinced. When she arrived, R immediately recognized the city's medieval, southern aesthetic, only that in the south it rarely rains so heavily, that the whole sky comes down with the drops, trees bend in a spectacularly pythagorean fashion and the sun plays hide and seek, like that kid who's really proud because it squeezed into the dusty space under the old wooden cupboard before his friends get bored and go play another game. The flight was long and something is not feeling right, so the communication with the AbnB owner is sluggish, the entrance door opens somehow and a blonde girl dressed like a fairy that swirled through the hallway could just as well have been a halluciantion. The lock on the apartment door follows some outlandish design principle and won't budge, "do you know how this works?", R asks the fairy, and together the two blonde women try to open the sexist lock, nothing, until the owner comes over and pushes the hitherto invisible pin on top while turning the key. "Here you go, miss!", he says, proud and amused I imagine, and R has finally arrived. This morning, her throat had started to hurt, "I must be coming down with something", she thinks nodding to herself while unpacking in a rather unmotivated fashion, looking out of the window. Grey like the remnants of a chimney fire, grey like the woolen sweater she didn't bother to bring because we're supposed to be in spring, grey, the parisian blue. As she sits down on a chair the reality of her emotions hit her. She's here for V and won't see him. Another relationship down the drain, even though it had such a promising start. V was intellectually stimulating first and handsome second. Calm, cultured, polite. Maybe too much so. The conversations, the understanding, the closeness you feel with the right person... As the minutes trickle down like sand and R dreams in some kind of half light induced half sleep that she herself is becoming the hourglass, her heartbeat set to flowing onwards slow as glass, she jumps to her feet: "Hey R, either you just end it all right here, or you take that map and go out!" The story doesn't end here, so she chose the map. There is a statue of Victor Hugo here. Some cities cling to any kind of notoriety. In Valence for example, Napoleon spent like a semester, not as consul or conqueror but as lieutenant while following a plain old normal and formal military career. Sure enough, that city put a plaque on a house, saying: here lived the lieutenant Bonaparte. Here in Besancon, Victor Hugo didn't write anything else but the first 3 month long chapter of his life, which for a genius like for anybody else probably amounted to sleep and diapers. Map in hand, R was determined to find that statue. "Worst case scenario: I'll stab myself like Mishima at it's feet", she jokes and if I were able to put funny grimaces into words, they'd be written here. Luckily, the drama was averted by the fact that the statue remained elusive. Not even the map cared enough to show it. It must have been 5 o'clock in the afternoon, people return from work and T comes along from the university, where he's working in the department of journalism. When he saw unhappy R, he offered his help, brought her to the statue and they started talking. And never stopped. They have been exchanging messages the whole evening. But it didn't feel right towards V. Yes they had a fight, yes he behaved like an ass, but she came here form him. With these thoughts, R gave him one more chance and also sent a message to V. He responded, slowly, in a reserved way, but they communicate. "You have to understand", R wants you to know, "that V's functioning in biblical time. If he says we'll see each other monday. It's monday 2027." So she gave him time and found herself chatting with the two men, not sure how to proceed from here. She invited T over for dinner and plannend to be completely honest, despite the worsening cold. During the night the tree in front of her apartment building had been upended by the wind. The weather still resembled an expressionist silent movie and while R was putting make-up on, she noticed a thick stream of blood running from her nose down her chin. Panicking, she tried to staunch it, this had never happened before. With a tissue pressed against her nostrils, one smokey eye and one tired one, her mirror image must have been sneering at her, "so, when do the riders of the apocalypse come down? The more the merrier!" Against all odds, the world did not end just yet, the bleeding stopped, the headache intensified and T came over for a lovely talk and R told him about V. "I have to be honest with you", he says, "I'm seeing someone as well" "Oh I'm happy for you!" "She is living with her fiancee and we're kind of in an open relationship" "Good, good. But what does this mean for us?" "You are beautiful, R. And from the first moment we just connected like old friends too. How often does this happen?". He's cute, very gentle, shows his interest but doesn't want to hurt anybody's feelings. R is unsure and they decide to leave things at that for today. But they'll see each other again before the end of the trip. While she's asking V, if he wants to meet, her phone rings. It's the owner. "Sorry to bother you this late miss" "It's about 9p.m." "I know i know but can I ask you a favor? Can a man take a quick shower at your place?" "What?!" "It's really important, he has a big event tomorrow and because of the storm going on the water heater fried" "I'm sorry no! I'm alone, it's late", why not offer him to stay over night too while we're at it, she thinks. He's going on explaining why it's absolutely crucial "But it's absolutely out of the question, sir. Who's that guy? Could be a serial killer or a psychopath for all I know" "No no no nothing of that sort. He's living with his mom" "Reassuring" "Let me start from the beginning. He's 18, lives with his mom and sister downstairs" "The blonde fairy??", R is almost convinced but the man doesn't seem to notice and goes on: "their water heater broke and he has a huge audition tomorrow morning. The boy is studying to become a conductor" "Why didn't you say that from the start. I'm a teacher you know?" "Me too!", the man happily exclaims and they find common ground as well as mutual understanding about their mission to help the next generations on their way into society. R goes downstairs to verify and sure enough, fairy, mom, a shy 18 year old who's waddling over to her place with his toiletry bag under the arm. While he's showering, R sits on the couch with "what even is life right now" kind of vibes. "Thank you so much miss!", "Good look for your audition," On the next morning, the AbnB owner calls to express his thanks once again. "I'm a tattoo artist in the shop downstairs. I'll give you a tatoo as a thank you present". R hasn't had a tatoo done since university. Every time it was a spontaneous decision to mark an important event in her life. "This week has been dense to say the least", she muses, "and things turn out fine because I stayed Zen", so "Zen" became the newest addition. During the day, V backs out, he doesn't want to see her, and she understands. They have grown apart, why prolongue the inevitable. T comes over, it is her last day, and they live a wonderful evening. While saying their goodbyes, he drops his girlfriend's name at an awkward moment, not the worst but certainly a mood dampener and they separate without any plan to keep in touch or to meet again. "You know sometimes you just meet someone who is exactly who you need at that precise moment", she tells me, but instead of conviction I feel a sense of excitement and uncertainty. Who knows what the future brings, "reste zen et puis on verra bien". The flight back is scheduled in Paris, so early easter monday she takes the train to then have a taxi she had scheduled weeks in advance bring her to the airport. Five minutes before rendez-vous, a message; "I'm not coming". Panic, 7am on holiday at Gare de Lyon Paris for a female tourist, she's running around, gesticulating, shouting, cursing, get's into another taxi and the driver somehow understands which airport she needs to go. 50-50 chance. While he's driving, R conjures up all the biblical plagues, every language's worst curse and the finest *foggiano* courtesies to haunt the other guy who didn't show up and the last three generations of his family forever. A friend told me not so long ago, that some languages sound really scary. Kazakh, some say, sounds like a diesel motor trying to start at -40 degrees. Well then foggiano is one of those toy cars that you charge up by rolling them backwards on it's wheels, you let it go, it runs off, pfeeew, your dad steps on it, hurting his foot, crushes it with his other food in anger, hurts himself even more and what he might be shouting, yelling, cursing and crying is something like R told be taxi company. "I came to the airport and got my money back", she says, "and that was about it. The plane was on time, I came back to Italy, everything was beginning to calm down. And then the Pope died, they told us on the plane".