Only Two Sleeps to Go

I didn’t sleep very well last night, so I should be okay tonight. As much as the week is going by fast — the work I’m currently doing evenings is not going well and I wish I had more time — I get these moments when I feel that Friday can’t get here fast enough. As much as it makes me seem like a immature teenager, I just can’t wait to see El Poema again.

We spent more than 2 hours on the phone yesterday evening, and we probably could have kept going if we had had supper. But at the same time, the phone just doesn’t cut it. There are things that are better said in person — the whole “being able to see the body language” thing, I guess. And that goes both ways. It’s little wonder some of us resort to emoticons when writing e-mail. Funny how the phone has been around much longer and we haven’t figured out an equivalent.

It will be good for El Poema and me to spend three whole days together. The only distraction will come on Saturday, when we’ll be moving his stuff to a new apartment. I’m planning on taking him to Québec City on Sunday, an idea he clearly loved. And the suite I reserved in Montréal sounds promising. Clearly I’ll be getting something out of this trip, but my main goal is to make these three days a treat for him.

At one point during our call last night, he said something that I’ve thought myself. “If you weren’t coming to Montréal this weekend and I never saw or spoke to you again, I would always carry a fond memory of you.” Indeed, if the only obstacle to getting to know each other more were the distance between Halifax and Montréal, that wouldn’t be a big deal because I’d already decided to move to Montréal prior to meeting him. But the odds are against El Poema still being in Montréal by the time I move there, and Montréal / Mexico City is an entirely different ball of wax, one that I’ve been thinking about in some ways but also ignoring because it’s far too early days still at this point.

I had a very disturbing dream last night. I was taking El Poema to a very chic restaurant. We had just been seated at our table when the waiter came to us and declared to me (that is, pretending that El Poema wasn’t even there), “I’m sorry, sir, but this establishment reserves the right not to serve his kind,” clearly referring to El Poema being mestizo. To which I promptly got up, punched the waiter in the stomach, then very loudly informed the other patrons of what I had just been told and suggested they walk out with us. And then, taking El Poema by the hand, did so …very slowly and glaring at people as if to say, “You fucking assholes! How dare you kick out a prince!?”

And that’s when I woke up, shaken by anger.

The only funny part of the whole dream is that I would never punch someone, although I do think I have it in me to make a scene if pushed too far. But as for the source of the dream, it’s pretty obvious: I’ve been very disturbed by El Poema’s accounts of the racism he’s experienced in the short time he’s been in Montréal. Racism is unacceptable no matter how you slice it, but the thought that he would be the target of it makes me angry and ashamed of this country I call mine. That brings me to thinking about how racism is generally underhanded in a place like Halifax, but much more “in your face” in places like Montréal. And while either form is disgusting, I have to concede the latter form, being so empirical and obvious, is easier to confront in some ways. Plus, I know I have other (selfish) reasons for being upset about what El Poema has experienced, namely that I would want him to fall in love unequivocally with this country and have no reservations about settling here permanently.