July 7, 2010
Sat in the County Arms last night watching the World Cup with 15 or so Uruguayan girls and their counselor. They’d brought their cheery national flags and wrapped themselves in them, and kissed their hems for luck. Whatever else might have happened, I was pro-Uruguayan that night. They lived and died with each maneuver. Most of their comments were in Spanish, but they are here to learn English, presumably, and one girl spoke in English, with hilarious solemnity, phrases such as, “Dirty one!” and “Go have a shower!” Of course, Uruguay was mowed down by Holland, leaving me 0-3 in terms of teams I’d rooted for. The girls took the final results without comment, snapping pictures of each other in the street outside the pub. The girl I met in the bar of the Russell was Dutch, and I thought of her at the end, how happy she might be.
My anniversary. 34 years.
Evening. Looking back on an abundant day. I wrote in the morning– spectacularly, in terms of volume and hopeful starts. In the afternoon I gave my students Shakespeare. The evening I spent with Steve. Steve O--, which I know now because he gave me the card for his cleaning service. He is a footballer, and practices on Tuesday nights. This not only explains his fitness, but his knowing elucidation of tonight’s World Cup game. The Pickerel was highly in favor of Spain, and Spain won, so I taste the spice of victory at last. Steve and I started out at the same level of inebriation–or perhaps I was a little ahead– so tonight’s conversation was more balanced, less curious, more like friendship and less like a scene from an independent movie. I had fears about my superficiality the other times, wondering if I would like him as much if he weren’t handsome. The answer was clear tonight–oh yes, yes I would. But he is handsome, and I take this little extravagance as God’s (overdue) blessing. Walked him to his bus stop, thinking I had lived my life here.
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