Lucie

Then there was I living a strangely warm and exhausting life in Hamburg, something between the dream life and a nightmare, when I met her. At first she seemed a little bit like coming from a Hollywood movie, something between hippie and cheerleader, something that left me at least curious.

It was a Coffee place close to Osterstraße, I guess. I went there with a dear friend of mine whom I constantly miss. I was right in the eye of the hurricane in my personal life. My grandmother had just died miles away from me and for the first time I could really feel the distance between me and my homeland. I was trying to achieve applying to a master degree, and the every-day-party thing at home was already driving me insane.  And then this German girl, coming directly from Hawaii, appears in a (most likely cold, I don’t quite remember) summer night, and starts telling about her life for a bunch of people seating in front of her.

I’d never heard about her before. Nevertheless, I was sipping every word she said as if we were long time pals, as if she was exactly that friend I needed to meet, to talk about life and organize my thoughts. I loved Hamburg, I loved my job, and it was (that strange and beautiful German) summer. I was falling desperately in love, and was really unsure whether I should surrender to those feelings or not. And that good perspective of a fresh stable life freaked me out. Maybe, if I chose to stay longer and live properly all that amazing things that I was being offered, maybe I would never get back home.

 And then I met Lucie.

Perhaps you’ll think that I would say something like “and she talked me into staying and living my life intensely”, or that I would keep on with a love story or something. But thing is, I just met Lucie, and listened to her songs and stories in that small cozy Coffee place, and felt the Hawaiian breeze and the travelling freedom blowing upon us all.

In that pleasing afternoon I decided not to decide. Not yet. I decided not to panic out. I just met the amazing Lucie.

Por qué no contesto cuando me preguntan ¿Qué piensas?

“...y mientras me preguntaba por qué no me cuadro, no sé qué hay, que esa melodía y esas letras no me conmueven nadita, aunque se parezca tanto con lo que oigo cuando estoy sola; y de repente claro, es que soy más etérea en todo, las harmonías que escucho tienen huequitos donde puedo meter mi respirar y mis alegrías y mis angustias; ya, al final, si no quiero escribir en otro idioma, si no quiero que sea ruso, y sí español, es porque aquél día acostada en la arena frente al mar azul, las voces de niños que escuché – que se parecían tanto a la de los hijos que un día tendré – las voces decían “oye, te digo, te digo mi nombre?” (a ver, recordar suena así) y no “soll ich meinen Name sagen?”; no sé qué se pasó con mi creatividad, es como si yo tuviera que invertir tanta energía creativa en seguir viviendo, buscando trabajo, buscando estudio, buscando amor, intentando entender que carajos va pasando en ese país, que la guitarra el ukulele el charango el piano se callaron, los poemas se callaron; y eso todo es un intento hueco – ¿o etéreo? – de recuperar mis versos, mi voz (…)”

Es un universo que ni yo sé muy bien.