On the plane to Seville, after watching The Eight Mountains on Mubi— so beautiful and quiet. I never get how male friendship works with as little conversation as possible; men’s silence on the mountains is full of untapped potential. And in this vast space of silence resides the male ego. why was I patiently waiting for a bromance to unfold? A few rows ahead, a man is three mini-bottles of wine and three bags of chips deep into a Netflix binge; by my calculations, he’s reached that sweet spot of altitude-induced intoxication. He waves at the stewardess again, tapping on his empty wine bottle. Then there are two cute pilots; one is ginger-headed and the other is a nice brunette with golden ash-brown hair who have apparently set the plane on autopilot to stretch their legs. Both looking like they’ve been processed through the same Ryanair machine I’m currently in. This plane is essentially a narrow and long, pressurized pipe designed to scrutinize the soul and the body for the sake of cost-efficiency. Behind me, a group of people are chanting some Schlager-like Czech music, hyping themselves up for the marathon they’re in for; I only figured out their whole deal because of the print on their t-shirts announcing the race in Seville. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here running a different kind of marathon in my mind, thinking about the things I actually want to happen for me, mostly just being published and then writing my next novels.
But for now, I just want to get to the mainland, stretch my legs, and get something nice to drink, like coconut water. How nice would that be? I’m happy to go away, to go farther from my routine to somewhere new and beautiful, to be inspired and “woahed,” to dance and listen to flamenco and walk down the Plaza and just marvel.