Memories

It's Valentine's Day here in Shanghai, and it's absolute murder trying to get a taxi. Of course that's also because it's right on the cusp of Chinese New years, and there are A) more people trying to get them, and B) less people driving them. So I thought I would just stay home today and write something about Valentine's Day. Not that I'm a huge fan of this day mind you, but then again I have nothing against it either. I can honestly say that I've been single for almost every Valentine's Day of my life, and yet I could never understand all the morbid single people sitting at home eyeing the razor blades and cyanide because they had no sweetheart on Valentine's Day. Does this mean I am not a romantic? I'm not so sure.
Upon reflection, I think one thing that surely makes you 'a romantic' is how much you dwell on memories. I dwell on them all the time. I love my memories. Conveniently, the human brain has a lovely mechanism for softening all the rough edges of our memories. Things I did even three years ago that were absolutely mediocre at the time now seem like great events. DJ tours I cobbled together on small budgets that were tough on me (and my back - carrying around heavy record bags) now seem epic. Yeah, remember the time we went to Poland and played in Krakow and Warsaw and slept on the promoter's couch and spent the rest of the time in the car? Remember all the bad food (I'm pretty much veggie, and we're talking Poland)? Remember the Krakow gig with maybe a hundred chain smoking students? But it's never like that. Instead I look back on the few snapshots I took and it feels more like the Beatles at The Hollywood Bowl or something. Memories do that to you. Time does too.
So I've been going through an old photo album today. Well not just any photo album, but me and my ex-girlfriend's photo album - something I haven't been able to look at since we split up around six months ago. I just couldn't face it until today. But then I thought, it's Valentine's Day and I wonder what she's doing now? So rather than go down that slippery slope of shame and regret, I thought I'd just open the damned thing up and face my demons - and write something too, of course. You know what? It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. A little bit sad, of course, especially when I see how happy we look in those pics; jauntily posing at the beach, amidst the ruffled bedsheets of the seaside hotel, peering over some rare flowers in a misty mountain park. But more than sadness, an old familiar feeling crept in as I looked at these moments frozen in time. I felt nostalgic. Yes, memories and their magic have done it again. A small smile curled the corners of my mouth as I retraced those steps in Singapore, and recalled that restaurant in Vietnam with the amazing tamarind crabs.
As I mentioned, I've been alone most Valentine's Days in my life, but for a few years recently I was not. I bought flowers and presents and had nice dinners with my ex, but I'm not sure that makes me a romantic either. After all, flowers and candy are nice, but nobody remembers them. Where we went for dinner, the table we sat at, how her hair fell across her eyes as she glittered and shone with excitement at my small gift. These I remember like they were yesterday. And looking through our old pictures I again remember sandy sarongs and beach burials; scenic overpasses and warmth beneath covers on chilly nights in rustic cabins. But the inevitable tiffs and misunderstandings I can't recall now. Memory has deleted them. The boring times when we both felt the need to get away is absent now, but surely it was there then. This picture of us sitting back to back on the beach; I look so happy. Surely I must have been, but was I thinking about the Red Sox at that moment, or of some work related hassle? Was she wondering about her new job, or whether or not to buy those new boots? Or worse, was she wondering how she ever got into this situation with me? Memory tells me we were very happy there at that beach, but it's hard to know.
I think I am 'a romantic', but not necessarily a romantic person. I never cared about flowers or presents until there was someone who meant something to me, and then I just wanted to make her happy all the time. It wasn't about the chocolates, and it's not about Valentine's Day; it's about really caring about someone and realizing that these things will make her happy. So I'm not sitting at home slitting my wrists today because it's Valentine's Day and I have no significant other. I'm looking over the past and realising that I will always remember it fondly, despite anger, heartbreak, resentment, or sadness. I will remind myself from time to time through a few snatched photos that I will occasionally look at. And it will always make me smile and feel warm inside, as it did today. And so I guess I really am just an old romantic.