Merenda

1

I'll tell you a story. I live in Portland, Oregon. Nice place. Much of the time I'm off touring the world as a musician, but when I'm home, this is home. I have a lovely little family here. My partner works a more normal type of job, and our son goes to school much of the year, so I usually find myself with weekdays free. The solitude I get like that is such a contrast to the touring life. I like both.

Part of my chill routine most weekdays involves taking a walk. I'm a news junky, so I'm often listening to a BBC podcast or something while I'm walking, which is a good chance to catch up on that stuff. Although the act of walking tends to make me zone out and think about other things, so I don't actually catch much of the broadcast after all.

My favorite place to walk is to the campus of Reed College, which has a lovely swamp with a circular trail wrapped around it, a sort of forested valley between the two main sections of the campus. If you don't want to walk in the swamp, there's a foot bridge that goes above it, for students who are actually trying to get from from their dorm to a class or something, efficiently. For those just out for a walk, or to smoke a joint or something, there's the swamp.

I see interesting-looking people, students and visitors, that I think about saying hi to. I like people. That's why I enjoy touring, among other things. You meet a lot of people, including lots of interesting ones. At a show it's easy to meet people. They're coming to up to me afterward, buying a CD or something. But in other situations I rarely meet people. I don't talk to people I don't know, generally.

Usually when I'm walking around there I try to be mindful of other peoples' space, especially women. Parts of the swamp are slightly isolated, and I don't want anyone to feel intimidated. I tend to just keep walking, not really say hi to people much, out of respect for their private swamp experience there.

One day last winter, that changed. I had walked around the swamp once, and was considering a second lap, when I saw someone sitting at the picnic table below the bridge.

Sometimes in the space of a few seconds, a hell of a lot can happen in one's head. As you approach the picnic table under the bridge, coming from the west, I suppose it is, the path goes directly toward the table, before veering uphill and around it. There's about a ten-foot stretch where you're walking toward it, which would naturally be a time when you might inadvertently get a good look at whoever might be at the table, even if you're trying not to stare.

When I saw the woman sitting at the table, I had to pay attention to my footing on the path, as I was suddenly in danger of losing it.

To put her in context... I do a lot of traveling and see a lot of different kinds of people. But when I'm home I get used to my surroundings. When walking around the campus of this hippie liberal arts college, I get used to those surroundings. Although hippies have a reputation for being very tactile and with a positive orientation toward bodily pleasures and other good things, I find that they're often actually somewhat traumatized-looking young people with a tendency toward wearing very baggy clothes, and they often look pretty uncomfortable in their bodies. One of the reasons I tend not to say hi to them as I'm walking down the trail is they look so fragile, like they're hiding.

She didn't. She did have the trappings of hippiedom, to some extent, in that she had dreads. Long, elegant, very light blonde ones, tied back with a thick black piece of string. But her clothing was black, and aside from the faux leather jacket, it fit tightly around her athletic little body, and she was leaning back with the picnic table behind her, fully in my view.

In the space of a millisecond I took in her beauty and self-confidence, felt the powerful desire to say hello, and the equally powerful desire to avoid doing so, since that's what all the guys want to do and she must be tired of it. But then she looked right in my face, and I looked back. And to complicate everything, she looked familiar.

Which is often very awkward, when a shockingly beautiful woman looks familiar. Because half the time it ends up that I don't actually know them, on the rare occasions I'm bold enough to actually say to her some pathetic line like "haven't we met before?" But she did look familiar, and I was thinking at high speed about whether I should say hello or keep walking. I made the compromise of smiling at her, acknowledging her presence, but continuing to walk down the trail, up the hill, around the picnic table.

Then I heard my name from behind me.

"Steve?"

I stopped, turned around, walked back to the picnic table. Now she was sitting on top of it, more upright than before, smiling.

"Where have we met...?"

I was wracking my brain but had no idea. Maybe it was in a past life, and she was one of those women riding the flying horses coming down to Earth to take me to Asgard. As it turned out, I wasn't so far off base.

"I'm not sure if we've really met, actually, but last time I saw you you were sitting outside at Cafe Escobar with a friend of my sister's."

Cafe Escobar? I was trying to think of a Cafe Escobar and was drawing a blank. And then a little partition inside my brain fell away and I remembered. Her American accent was a little too perfect. It occurred to me, therefore, that she could be from Scandinavia.

"You're from Copenhagen?"

My memory for people and places is divided geographically, that's how it works. I suddenly remembered the cafe in Blagardslads where I've eaten brunch on so many occasions.

And I remembered seeing her, though it was years ago, although Copenhagen is full of gorgeous, black-clad blonde women, the memory stuck like glue, of me sitting with Anna in front of the cafe, and this girl – she was only a teenager then – saying hi to her from about twenty feet away, her mane of blonde dreads washing down her back, upright on top of a bicycle in her tight black clothing. I remember thinking, wow, she's so beautiful, before trying to force my attention back to the conversation at hand.

"You're a friend of a good friend of my sister's," she reminded me, as I was recalling that scene in the Norrebro district of Denmark's capital city.

My head was reeling, much as I was attempting to get ahold of it and make sense of the situation. I'm on my private, anonymous walk around the swamp. Despite the performing for a living and all that, I'm usually anonymous. People don't recognize me on the street unless it's my neighbors or something, or I'm standing in front of the venue I'm about to do a show in. I've been recognized in airports by fans four times in my entire life. But here we were.

I tried to act casual, but my mind was rushing, and I was trying to think of something to say. I knew I needed to say something. All of my initial thoughts and impulses were not at all useful. Trying to shovel the thoughts away that were not related to sex was difficult, but I somehow managed to get to Denmark, which seemed like a safe spot.

"You're not in Copenhagen! Are you visiting here?"

The question immediately felt like I could have done better, but she was perfectly happy answering it.

"Actually I'm a student here now, at Reed."

Usually when I'm in Europe and I mention I live in Portland, most people have no idea where that is, and know nothing about the place. Sometimes they're fuzzy about where Seattle is, too, so I've taken to describing it as a city about a long day's drive north of San Francisco. But there are certain places in Europe where people are as clued-in about hipster culture in the US as they might be in the US itself, and one of those places is Denmark. So seeing a Dane at Reed shouldn't be too shocking. But it was, anyway.

I felt like I should either know her name, or ask her what it was. I tried to act as if I just needed a little reminder for some reason, but I really had no idea.

"What was your name again...?"

She looked as if she was about to say something, and then stopped herself before saying, "Merenda."

As if she felt like she needed to clarify something, she went on. "My sister used to go to your shows in Copenhagen, so I didn't, I was too cool for that. But actually, I like your music, and I was wondering if I might run into you here. It says on your Facebook page you live in Portland. You don't play much here, though, do you?"

Head reeling again. She doesn't just recognize me, she likes my music, and she's visited my Facebook page. Oh, and she's asked me a question. What was that again...?

"No, I don't get many gigs here somehow or other. I probably play about as often in Copenhagen."

OK now I should ask her a question... Damn I feel stupid.

"What are you studying at Reed?" Stupid question.

"IT," she responds readily, eyes glistening.

Oh shit, I thought. A subject I knew absolutely nothing about. I needed a follow-up question. She seemed to sense me struggling.

"Were you walking around the swamp?" she asked. "I'll join you, if you don't mind."

Somehow once we started moving, I was able to relax a bit. The conversation became less forced. We talked about Denmark, and the US, and Portland. How easily you could find a good breakfast joint here compared to there. Where they had the best vegan options. She was a vegan. She didn't ask me if I was one, and I probably pretended that I might be, just to impress her.

She told me about how dangerous it was to ride a bicycle in the US, by which she meant Portland. I said I thought people here might find that amusing, since Portland is known to be so bicycle-friendly. She quoted one of my songs, where I make reference to this fact.

We were about to walk another lap around the swamp when it occurred to me to see what time it was. Two o'clock.

"I'm afraid I have to go pick my kid up at school," I said.

She nodded. Danes aren't big on niceties like "hope to see you again" or shit like that. But the bright-eyed look on her face told me that if she weren't Danish she'd probably be saying something like that. I said it, anyway, and I hugged her.

There are many ways someone might respond to a hug in that situation. Worst case they might freak out and feel terribly violated, but I was confident this wasn't one of those situations. They might do the polite, upper-body kind of hug, or they might completely sink in and make as much contact as possible. Between these two poles, on a scale of 1 to 10, it was a 7 in terms of sinkiness. Fairly intimate, but still respectable for the end of a first encounter of some length. Slightly ambiguous, but by Danish standards of how one might behave at this stage, very promising.

I hadn't gotten her phone number or anything, but to say that I very much hoped to run into Merenda again soon would be a serious understatement.

2

Later in the afternoon I let the kid play Minecraft longer than I should have, since I had important things to do like try to find Merenda on Facebook. It seems it's not a very common name, and there was no sign of her there that I could find. But of course people often use different names on Facebook.

As I was doing this I was also trying to talk myself down. Maybe she's not interested in this particularly carnal way that I am, I thought. Maybe she's monogamous, and has a boyfriend or girlfriend. Maybe she doesn't have one. But I do, and maybe she's very fragile and needy and can't deal with such situations, and I'll just end up breaking her heart or creating a terribly complicated situation right here in my home town. I thought all these things and more.

The next morning after dropping everybody off at their respective destinations – school and work -- I put on my waterproof walking shoes and headed toward Reed. I had mentioned to Merenda that I normally left for my walk around the campus at around 11. Which isn't true. In reality, I leave for my walk anytime between 9 am and 2 pm, and sometimes I walk in the opposite direction for variety's sake, even though there's no lovely swamp with a trail around it that way. But I figured if I tried to be more consistent about when I went there, there might be a better chance of Merenda being there.

The sky was drizzling. A common thing in Portland in the winter, especially. Also very common in Denmark, except there it would usually be colder and windier as well as a bit wetter, I reminded myself, hoping the rain wouldn't keep her away, and also figuring that quite likely she had other things to do than walk around the swamp in the rain with a middle-aged dude who very evidently doesn't get nearly as much exercise as she does. She could have classes today, or free lunch in the cafeteria to eat, or a computer to program (if that's what IT majors do), or any number of other things, I thought.

Again, walking down the steps beneath the bridge, looking down toward the picnic table below, I had to steady myself and slow down to avoid tripping. There she was. Not sitting on the wet picnic table, but standing, looking at the water. I took the opportunity to stare for a few seconds at her beautiful body, clad once again in tight-fitting black clothing and a faux leather jacket. (Maybe vinyl or something, I thought, given that she's a vegan.)

I felt a rush of pleasure like a wave through my entire body. She's here again. It seemed unlikely to be a coincidence. Knowing, or at least strongly suspecting, that she came back at this time because she thought I'd be here, was a very good feeling. I still didn't know the nature of what might be happening, necessarily, and I really didn't want to make any wrong assumptions or otherwise fuck anything up, but I was feeling a lot more confident than the day before, though still nervous and completely distracted by things like my racing heartbeat.

"Enjoying the Danish weather?" I asked.

She turned around. I felt like my facade of nonchalance must have fallen off of my face like a heavy porcelain mask crashing to the floor. The look on her face when she turned to face me was one of undisguised excitement. "You're back!" she said, quietly, but in an unmistakably happy way. She sort of pranced a bit, in a way that reminded me of American teenagers more than Danish punks, which made it even more adorable somehow.

I recovered my decorum enough to think of something to say that wasn't related to to thoughts that were taking up most of the available space in my brain, which all revolved around Merenda and I being naked on a bed together somewhere.

"Walk with me?"

She smiled and followed me down the trail.

"You don't have classes or something this time of day?" I asked.

"No, they're all early morning or late afternoon as it happens."

The potential implications of this for these walks becoming a regular occurrence were almost too good to dwell on. I shifted the subject.

"How do you like Portland?" Boring question, I thought, but at least one I hadn't gotten around to asking the day before.

"It's nice," she responded. I could tell she felt like she should say more. But I know from people interviewing me that the broad questions like that can be the hardest to answer.

"Do you miss home?" Another boring question. I just couldn't think of anything more interesting to ask.

"Sometimes," she answered. Her eyes drifted. It looked like she was thinking of someone, maybe wondering whether she should tell me more. I like more, generally. Looking at her wandering eyes, it occurred to me, too, that this gave me an opening to ask about something that might otherwise seem too early in our friendship to ask about.

"Are there any particular people you miss in Denmark?" I asked.

She smiled. "My boyfriend in Copenhagen."

I tried hard to keep the same facial expression on, whatever it might have been, and not register the dismay that this word immediately filled me with. I don't know whether I succeeded, but a second later she added, "and my boyfriend in Alborg."

I went from dismayed to elated just as quickly, and tried to sound like I hadn't just been fishing for information about her love life, make the subject a bit more general again. "Not a fan of monogamy?" I quipped.

At this question, Merenda quoted another line in one of my songs to me, one I wrote a long time ago praising polyamory. Then she informed me that I lived with someone named Sachi, and that she knew this because her picture was all over my Facebook page, along with pictures of our little kid.

"That's true," I confirmed. "I was looking for you on Facebook yesterday but couldn't find you anywhere."

"I'm taking a break from Facebook," she said. "It's too distracting. Too inane, too public." She looked as if she were considering whether to say the next bit for a moment. "Plus, well, I think I'd like to be a little more mysterious."

Then she asked me the same question I had asked her, if there were any particular people I missed in Denmark.

"Yes," I replied.

"Are you and Anna still together?" Her sister's friend. I didn't know if she knew Anna and I had been lovers, but clearly she did. The truth is she broke up with me years ago, and then slept with me a couple times since then for good measure.

I think I replied, "not really" – not wanting to say "no," just to emphasize the point that I also really like relationships that are open.

"I've never understood monogamy," she said, somewhat randomly. That little sentence made my ears warm. My ears loved to hear it, as did the rest of me.

We came back to the picnic table, and then started around the swamp again. Time went somewhere again, and it was getting toward when I needed to start heading home. Merenda knew this. We stood beside the picnic table and talked for another few minutes.

"See you tomorrow?" she asked, with a hopeful look on her face.

We hadn't talked about making this walk around the swamp a daily thing, but her question tacitly indicated to me that I wasn't the only one thinking about this idea.

"Yes, please."

She seemed especially happy about my response to her question, and quickly rose to her tiptoes to give me a big hug, and a big kiss on the cheek.

For some people – the French, the Spanish – a kiss on the cheek, without a hug, is a standard greeting. But in Denmark a kiss on the cheek is not the norm. It was such an expression of affection, by my interpretation, that I felt emboldened enough to ask what later seemed like a really premature, brash question.

"Can I kiss you?"

I barely had a chance to look her in the eyes to ask that question, before our mouths were locked together. There was a tingling sensation that made me think of fairy dust and Tinkerbell. (When you have a young child, these sorts of thoughts are more frequent than they might normally be for other adults.)

"Are you real?" I found myself asking, while catching my breath.

"Last I checked I wasn't a tree nymph," she said, moving to the side a bit and touching a nearby tree. "But I might have certain aspirations in that regard," she added playfully, still holding the tree. Then she smiled. "Go, I'll see you tomorrow."

I managed to leave her there, and walk up the stairs, out of the little valley, towards home, and the car, and the school, and the family.

3

Whether or not I really knew what was happening, it felt good. Those "new love" endorphins were going nuts in my brain. Times like these I wished I had a more open open relationship at home. Sachi was willing tolerate anything she didn't have to know about. Which comes with lots of internal and external challenges, that "don't ask, don't tell" understanding, though in some ways it's the easiest way to go.

It's a lot like cheating would be in a more standard monogamous relationship. It bears all the trappings. Except that it's not. (Unless you're saying you're in a "don't ask, don't tell" relationship but your partner doesn't know that, which is a whole different form of dishonesty.)