I Dreamed a Dream...

You may want to put on some Carpenters music, grab a box of soft, nose-friendly tissues, your favorite teddy bear and a box of chocolates from Fabrice Collignon which you can use as comfort food before you venture any further into my heartwrenching yet painfully true memoires. Yes indeed, fate has once again turned her lipstick-less frown my direction and suddenly I find myself identifying with John Travolta in "Grease" as he so convincingly sang "Stranded at the drive-in, branded a fool, what will they say, Monday at school?" I can already feel your tears of compassion welling up in those cute little peepers, but that is just the beginning of the tragic saga which is still unfolding...

It's finally time for the weekend and while I should be celebrating, I find myself falling down a bottomless pit of despair. I am all on my own, not unlike Eponine in the second act of Les Miserables, only without a full orchestra to back me up. My only hope is that I don't accidently pull a Fantine and die of consumption or boredom before the weekend has passed bringing with it the promise of a new day. Marco is crunched up in economy class travelling to Canada where, I presume, he will go moose hunting, coming back with a brand new pair of antlers he will turn then into a coat rack which the neighbors will be talking about for weeks.

Joe and Nik are sipping drinks at 36,000 feet en route to Barcelona where they will lounge on the beach, shop, go to parties and basically embrace the joie de vivre that seems to have evaporated from my own little life. I am here in Amsterdam with nothing to do but laundry... There aint nothing going on but the rent and I find myelf contemplating cleaning my refrigerato just for something to do. I too was supposed to go to Boston's sister city. Now, you may have already picked up on the fact that I am not one to easily take ownership of any of my own woes, preferring instead to point the finger of judgement and blame at some unsuspecting yet well deserving culprit, and fo now, all fingers point to Nik. See, I was initially invited to go to Barcelona and partake in the frivolities that are sure to run rampant all along the coast over a month ago. I was initially hesitant, but after getting over my many misguided and unfounded misgivings, I threw caution to the wind and said "OK."

Immediately I heard Agnetha asking me "can you hear the drums" and although she kept calling me Fernando, I took it as my very own weekend theme song. After so many long and empty years on the sidelines, I was elated to be included in such a jet-set and glamorous team adventure. It is with great pain that I divulge the following: I was always the last one chosen for any team sport except dodgeball, and that was only because my evil classmates wanted to slam me with the ball leaving one of those painful rug-burn like marks on my fragile yet enviously acne-free skin. Nik's invitation made me feel like I was finally the first runner up, instead of the lonesome loser in a beauty pageant. Few brief moments in time, the tiny hand-dipped candle of hope flickered it's little candle-like light into my grey and dull existance bathing me in shades of van Gogh. I was tempted to cut off one ear, but being a fan of semetry, I voted against it.

Sorry, I strayed for a minute... Please forgive me my senseless, disappointment-fueled ramblings. I am sure you now how trauma tends to make us all a bit more susceptable to overwhelming surges of grief and introspection. Or perhaps you don't, and if not, you are lucky, but anyway, that is neither here nor there, not unlike where I find myself at the moment. I am just on one emotional trauma chopper ride, strapped into my seat, not knowing when and where it will all end.

Where was I? Oh yes, I had my big, handle-with-care, this-side-up heart set on going to Barcelona. Well, try as I might, and I did give it a lot of effort, I was unable to find a room for the whole weekend. Every place worth sleeping in, and even those that were not, was sold out for Saturday night. I even took a biblical cue and phoned a stable, but was told there was no room. I quickly and responsibly relayed this information to Nik who told me quite confidently, if not a touch arrogantly not to worry because he would sort something out. I also told him I would wait on him before arranging my ticket because I did not want to find myself sleeping in Parc Guell with an old edition of 'El Pais' as a blanket, my delicate blond capped head resting on cold Gaudi tiles. Again and again I pleaded for Nik's intervention and every time I was told "I'll do that tonight and get back to everyone." Week after week I heard this and week after week I stressed my stress regarding accomodation. I lost sleep. I lost weight. I almost lost my very soul, which I was just about to sell to some shady character in a white hat in exchange for a room with a view.

Quite suddenly and at the very last minute an apartment large enough to sleep us all was found and reservations were made. For me it was too late. The window of opportunity had slammed shut and I learned it was made of bullet-proof glass. I could not get a decent flight. In an ironic parallel to my Broadway career, my weekend was over before it began. I should have seen it coming. I should have expected it and yet I was knocked senseless by the red dodgeball of reality. Game over. And to make matters worse, I am sure Joe and Nik will come back with all sorts of juicy, tantalising, blog worthy tidbits from the Spanish coast which they will endlessly and continuously dangle before me like candy in front of a baby, rubbing salt in an already painful and festering wound. Is it too late to have my feelings amputated?

Perhaps some emotional liposuction is in order.