Day Dreams, House Boats, and Boys I’ve Kissed Iona Bielby

DISCLAIMER

It is in our nature to romanticize the past. We pick up, put down, swap, and

otherwise, mish-mash certain aspects of what we remember, perhaps in a

subconscious attempt to reflect our current personal state of being. It is with this

in mind, that I must warn you: these accounts may be filtered through slightly

coloured glasses—glasses of a slightly wiser, and in some cases more foolish,

self. I am the narrator of these stories, as well as the one who has lived them,

thus the lens in which I write, may double expose my current thoughts and self

reflection in a way, which may prove it difficult for certain memories to take any

sort of concrete shape. Some are mere fragments covered by a hazy fog of

uncertainty, while others are stark and bright and eager to meet their words. But

it is the shapelessness that allows me to write with such precision, and it is this

irony that helps me make sense of myself.

1.

I was wearing white tights that had a slight shimmer to them. My mother picked

them out, so to compliment the royal-red dress with a tulle skirt I was wearing for

the special occasion. I liked to dress up. I still do. And seeing The Nutcracker,

was, and is, my perfect escape from which to do so.

Perhaps this was the first time, or perhaps the third time I had seen the show,

and I was either seven or eight. We see it every year, so the details of this

particular production cannot specifically be called upon, unless it was the

production that my grandmother fell asleep, in which I was mortified. But what I

do remember is exiting the theatre—the transitioning out of one world into

another—a transition that I observed so intensely then, which could only be the

spark of my need to create, today.

It was a peculiar feeling of innocence and wonder and happiness and awe. The

glamour of the stage had managed to weave its allure into the outside world,

secretly breaking its hardy fourth wall. The deadness of the night sky was revived

through strung Christmas lights, twinkling like lights on a stage and glowing with

silent reassurance. The pinkness of my nose was that of a ballerina’s slipper, as

were the rosy cheeks of the dispersing audience. Sugar plum ladies dressed in

fur coats chittered and chattered in their own careless tune, while little boys

pranced about dawning wooden swords and unrivaled confidence like the

Nutcracker himself. Gasps of wonder dotted the crowd as it began to snow, and

the air was filled with glitter and a crisp winter air, making the entirety of the

moment as light as a ballerina’s twirl.

While I stand and I watch, I see that the moment became mine, and the world

was mine too, and everyone was dancing as I wrote it through my head,

transcribing in ways I saw fit, creating a scene I could replay through my head as

years and years went on. I was my own composer, my muse, and this was my

work. I had been awakened to magic and spirit alike, and it is this awakening I

have yearned to pursue ever since.

2.

The air of awkward forgetfulness is inevitable when one graduates High School.

Slowly and surely, the names of faces you have passed every day dribble out of

your mind, no longer needing reason to occupy the space that will be taken by

later, and greater, adventures. But if you’re lucky, a few key moments and people

will stick; like a remarkable teacher, your best friend, the boy you had a crush on

for four years.

Wait, what?

Yes, it’s true. On the day of a usually very traditional and proper Vespers

ceremony, I, Iona Sarah Bielby, willingly embarrassed myself in front of my

peers, teachers, and community during my commencement speech; by admitting

I had been staring at a certain boy in class for the entirety of four years. Trying to

write about this memory is hard, as it involves creating a tone of nostalgia with a

comedic flare all while trying to reveal a very vulnerable experience. A 3rd person

account of the time I declared my love for Mike Shay could never do the moment

justice. So instead, what follows is my almost-exact thought process as I took the

stage.

*

In forty-five minutes it will be over.

The end of one chapter, the beginning of another—a cliché ringing so true for

today’s events.

And they asked me to speak? They must have been desperate.

Why are the lights so bright? Why is this gown maroon?

Maroon is not my colour.

One speech to go before mine.

They really must have been desperate.

It’s a perfect blend, really. It’s funny, wise, quirky, intelligent—shit, it’s awful.

I’m starving.

Is he here? Is he—oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no no no no no no no no

He’s right there. He’s RIGHT in front of the podium.

His cheekbones... his eyes…

My sweaty palms! My chattering teeth! Is it my turn?

How do I have a stain on my gown already?

I’m standing, I’m walking, be calm, be calm.

Is that chocolate? Smells like chocolate.

Start with the thank-yous, yes, now the Kanye West joke.

Good. Laughter. They like it. I think they actually like it.

Waves of silence, tension, a cough, a sneeze—

My voice is carried in the air of the auditorium.

Speak like the Queen. Speak like the Queen.

One line before the joke. Goodbye High School. Goodbye reputation.

Goodbye—

Did I really just do that?

I’m blushing. Everyone’s laughing. Oh I’m REALLY blushing.

Woops, hollers, awkward eye contact.

Very awkward eye contact.

Avoid eye contact. Avoid eye contact.

I smile, congratulate, and walk back to my seat through a queue of high fives.

The only more embarrassing way of proclaiming such a feeling would be to write

about it—thank God that hasn’t happened yet.

3.

The boat rocked back and forth gently, as if cradling us all to sleep. I, awake in

my bed of the houseboat we had rented, waited for my eldest sister to arrive

home from a date in the lamp-lit streets of Amsterdam.

It was late. Midnight, maybe. The room had one window. It was circular, open,

and welcomed a breeze which found its way into the oval shaped room, tickling

my skin as I warmed up with an extra duvet wrapped around my body like a coat

of soft armor.

I loved this city. The cobblestone streets twisted and turned and navigated their

way around a series of sneaky canals. Tin-coloured bicycles patrolled the streets,

which sat at the foot of swooping and perfectly crooked buildings.

We had dinner that day on a rowboat docked in a quaint canal. The meal was

simple and delicately tasty. Roasted cauliflower, brazed cabbage, charred

Brussels sprouts. We dined overlooking the city from the water, which held a

reflection of the sky forming above us. The twinklings of the quiet city had begun

to arise as the sun set into a chrysalis of pinks and violets.

Awake at the thought of dinner, I pulled a caramel wafer from the package sitting

on the bedside table. I took my sister’s laptop, which was also nearby, and

decided to watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I had already seen the film seven times

then (eleven times, now), but there is something ever so comforting about

watching a film over and over, Breakfast at Tiffany’s specifically. Perhaps it’s the

sense of control and predictability it provides. We know how it starts and we

know how it ends. We know when to feel emotional, and can fast forward past

bits we want to. It’s as if we are restoring a little sense of order in our little parts

of the universe. Perhaps that’s what makes it so timeless. Perhaps that’s why I

like talking about my memories as if they’re scenes in a film—seamless and

warm and soft and inspiriting.

But before Audrey Hepburn could finish her Danish pastry, the door of the room

opened slightly, allowing a slice of light to sneak into the room, widening as my

sister pushed the door open quietly. I turned on the lamp.

“How was it?”

“Dreadful.”

“No.”

“He asked if I wanted a lift on his bicycle. I told him not to worry, but he insisted,

so I had to sit sideways on the back of his bike and he could barely peddle up the

hills.”

I laughed.

“And the worst part is, you have to get on these bikes with a running start, so he

began peddling away and I had to bloody jump on!”

We continued to laugh about her night filled with awkward conversation, not

properly fitting on the back of her date’s bicycle, and an unpleasant kiss. We

laughed as Breakfast at Tiffany’s played in the background, as Holly Golightly’s

stylish antics steadily accompanied our giggle-studded whispers. It had begun to

rain, and the soft pitter-patter on the roof of the houseboat sounded utterly lovely

as sleep overcame my sister and I.

4.

I began and ended the day in a rather tipsy state. The night before, filled with

regrettable decisions and too many red solo cups of God-knows-what, had left

me walking home at 1 in the morning, only to climb in bed for three hours before

having to catch a flight to New York City for another day at my Calvin Klein

internship.

But as soon as I arrived to the office that morning (Head: pounding, Eyes:

drooping), I was shooed straight back out the door by my mentor, Kat. Apparently

we were five minutes late for a male underwear photo shoot. Yes, you read

correctly. Male. Underwear.

Me.

Male.

Underwear?

Secretly, I was beside myself. I was screaming and dancing and popping

champagne bottles in my head. But this was a big internship, and I was set on

proving that I wasn’t just another awkward teenage intern who had good

connections. I quietly nodded my head and replied rather coolly, “Oh, okay,” as a

black Cadillac SUV was quickly requested to pick us up.

Perhaps it was nerves, perhaps it was the taste of cheap vodka that was still

pulsing in the back of my throat, but I felt rather nauseous as I entered a room of

chic chaos. Simply put, it was overwhelming. Boxes of designer underwear were

casually scattered around as hairdressers, makeup artists, photographers, and

other people who seemed terribly important ran around frantically. I tried to push

the feeling of insignificance that had developed in my lower stomach out of my

mind, as I followed Kat like a stray dog to watch the current model being

photographed.

That’s when I saw him.

We’ll call him Ronaldo.

Now, Ronaldo is a quite well known model who I may or may not have Google

Imaged a few times in the past. So seeing him was a bit strange, and it was even

stranger when he started walking towards my mentor and I, in a shiny, suave,

and very shirtless way. “Ronaldo!” Kat squealed, kissing both of his razor sharp

cheekbones, which looked as though they were crafted by the Heavens.

Is this real life?

He then leant his broad and tan 6 foot 1 inch (yes, this is a precise measurement,

I just Googled it) body down to my 5 foot 6 frame and embraced me lightly,

kissing each side of my face. I was not expecting such a friendly gesture, nor

have I ever come that close to a male model’s face, so you can imagine that I

suddenly turned a colour comparable to that of a very ripe and very roasted

tomato.

“Oh, sorry,” He giggled in a thick Brazilian accent, clearly noticing my awkward

and shocked stance. “I forget that kissing is not acceptable sometimes.” Mouth

slightly agape, I managed to stutter in reply, “No! No, it’s all right! Honestly, it’s

fine. I’m…. yeah! No it’s fine, really.”

As the awkwardness of the moment played out, Kat and Ronaldo chitchatted

away like long lost friends. This was when I gradually became aware of what I

actually looked like. That day I had decided to wear extremely sparkly flats, after

some encouragement from my mother, which resulted in my feet being covered

in Band-Aids, due to blisters and cuts from walking in the New York City heat. I

then noted my height and weight compared to the tall, gorgeous, and in-shape

Gods and Goddesses that occupied the room. Even the janitor is better looking

than I am. This may or may not have been around the moment I realised I was

sweating profusely, which was great because I was wearing a long sleeve, grey

tunic. To make matters worse, while I was standing in front of this tall, dark, and

handsome man analyzing myself, I had missed the question he had just asked

me.

“Sorry, what?” I choked back, looking deeply into his dark…brown…. eyes….

“I said since you are moving to Paris, we should exchange numbers. I go there a

lot.”

Apparently during my daily session of self-scrutiny, my mentor had managed to

drop in the fact that I was moving to Paris in a month’s time. “Oh… yeah… sure,”

I said coyly as I grabbed my phone from my pocket at a pace that wasn’t too

eager, but not too dawdling.

I handed him the phone. He added his number. He winked at me. I gawked.

Luckily, someone called him over before the conversation could develop any

further. This was a good thing, for I could only imagine I would have said

something strange, or revealed my naivety, and he would rip the phone from my

hands and retract his number before asking me to leave the studio.

Instead, Ronaldo came back fully dressed, inviting me to go up to the rooftop

with the rest of the crew and “Have a glass of wine, maybe a, uhh cigarette.” As

this was not the time to reveal that I wouldn’t be able to drink because of my age,

nor would I be smoking any time soon, I gawkily nodded and agreed, and

pretended to act like a confident twenty-one-or-older, as I ordered a glass of rosé

from the bartenders, who probably wondered who I was, why I was avoiding eye

contact, and why I was there in the first place.

We sat on the rooftop for two hours or so; I, listening to conversations of wild

nights and strange encounters while sipping my wine and pretending not to stare

at Ronaldo. I sat and watched and analyzed the people and stories that were

being told before me. That’s what I love about New York: the hectic glamour and

randomness and perhaps, cliché possibilities that it comes with—the fact that, if

only for a day, I was included in this insider world of posh mystique.

After Ronaldo and my rosé were gone, I took a taxi back to my apartment, where

I told the cab driver about who I just met and that this time next year, we would

be happily dating.

Four months later, when I was living in Paris, my mother and I were wandering

around the streets after dinner one night, only to look up at the walls and see a

large poster of Ronaldo in his underwear cheekily staring back at us.

5.

My first night in Paris strangely foreshadowed what the rest of my semester

would be like: awkward, overwhelming, and pretty weird.

We had been invited to my mother’s friend’s houseboat for a welcoming dinner.

Her name was Marisol. She was French; yet spoke perfect English, as did her

twin brother who happened to be a marquis, as well as my mother’s ex-boyfriend.

Since seeing my mother last, Marisol had remarried and had a stepson, named

Milan. His head was a curly mop of blonde on a set of wide and flirtatious

shoulders. His English had just the slightest French accent to it, which I found

rather amusing.

Vegetarianism in France is not common. So in order to cater to my vegetarian

family, we were treated to what seemed to be a pan of roasted vegetables

sprinkled in cheese. Nonetheless, conversation flowed, as did the wine, and the

weather was pleasant with a cool breeze from the boats that passed by. French

and English words were used interchangeably, proving to be quite the workout

for my brain, which was not yet used to a steady rhythm of intertwining

languages.

“Qu’est-ce que vous étudiez?”

“Je ne sais pas, mais j’aime beaucoup l’histoire des arts”

“Ah bon! And what would you do with that degree? Wait tables?”

“Ha.”

Sat between my mother and her ex-boyfriend, I decided to focus on other

aspects of the dinner, rather than the thought that the man sitting next to me may

have had the potential to be my father once upon a time. Slightly disgusted by

my ponderings, I looked around. Flowers covered the stonewall of the Seine and

I could feel the soft current of the river bring the house up and down, up and

down, as we ate outside under the late summer’s sun. Pedestrians walked by on

the riverbank, enjoying their nights, as did the occasional rat, which are much

more popular in Paris than one might think.

I had never really experienced Paris as I was experiencing it in that moment. I

knew Paris more as a pleasant thought than a livable reality. Sure, I had been to

La Tour Eiffel and indulged in my fare share of le fromage de chèvre, but I had

never lived in Paris and I had certainly never been cooked a meal on a house

that doubled as a boat. And although I was in the company of friends and family,

I felt isolated with the weight of my thoughts and my growing self-doubt. My head

felt scrambled and jumbled, and I had stopped trying to listen to the conversation

around me, as I contemplated life without my parents and the safety of familiarity.

“And that’s when I told him, je m’en fous!”

What am I doing here?

“Non! Oui?

Am I actually about to live in Paris?

“Ouai! C’est vrai!”

Alone?

It was around this moment that I caught the eye of Milan, who must have been

staring at me for quite some time, judging by the unwillingness to shake the eye

contact when I acknowledged his gaze. This eye contact must have remained in

the back of Milan’s memory, as a week later during a texting conversation, he

would remark, “You had passion in your eyes, I could tell.”

Later that night, Milan walked my parents and I to a nearby taxi stand. He helped

us in and said au revoir, but before leaving to go back to his houseboat, he

motioned for me to roll down my window. I did.

“Would you mind if I got your number?”

My cheeks burned. My parents were sitting right next to me, holding back

laughter and slight surprise.

“Uh, sure,” I said back to him, slightly taken aback by his French forwardness.

I allowed him to put his number into my phone, before awkwardly saying

goodbye for a second time, allowing the taxi to speed away from the Seine and

into the rest of the night.

6.

I like writing about colour. It just makes sense to me. I’ve always been enamored

with the poetry one can sew into a scene, merely by describing the colours one

perceives. This is most of why I like going to nightclubs, where music and colour

are bundled as one. It’s like submerging yourself in an underground world filled

with thousands of shades and hews all flashing and blinking and cascading their

luminosity on everyone witnessing. It’s that Qualia, which makes everything so

subjective that I find so interesting—my blue may be different from your blue, his

green different from her’s. This song may sound red to me but perhaps it is violet

for you. It’s fascinating, it’s wonderful, and it’s just how I think.

So when my university’s announced their “Welcome Back” party would be a

masquerade ball held in a Paris nightclub, I was more than willing to attend.

Upon our arrival, my friends and I were bestowed black masques and

champagne to accompany our short dresses and heels, completing a look of

modern-day-15th-century-chic. Two, or three, or maybe it was five, champagne

glasses later we found ourselves surrendering to the energy of the night and the

freedom we had as young, foolish things.

After a few songs, we decided to take a break. We dispersed from the dance

floor, weaving our hazy way in and out of masques and dresses and a blur of

new faces, which was when I must have gotten lost, because I suddenly found

that I was alone.

I like to think that I have a certain type of charm—a certain type of je ne sais

quoi; but in reality, it is my awkwardness as a person that is enough to naturally

break the ice in any social situation. So it only seemed natural for me to wonder

to a new group of people. But first, champagne.

As I was walking towards the champagne table (which may or may not have

stopped serving me, due to my large intake of the silver fizz), I realised I was

being watched by a boy coolly leaning against a pillar.

“Ça va?”

“Oui, merci.”

He smiled. Wait, he’s like, really cute.

“Are you uh… lost?” He asked me smiling, his thick French accent causing his

words to slur together.

Part of my so called charm, is that I get nervous talking to guys, and have a

tendency to continue talking when really, no speech is needed in the first place.

In addition to this, my cheeks decide to burn a shade of a rosy bright pink, as

soon as I realise that I’m talking too much. Luckily the lights were low, so this

latter consequence was not to be discovered until later on in our interactions,

which would one day, include him spilling a bottle of red wine on my white dress

(but that’s a different story).

“What is, uhh your name?”

I told him my name, and he told me his. We’ll call him Jacques.

He looked at me with a sort of curiosity, as if he were going to say something, as

if he couldn’t quite describe what he wanted to say. And in this moment, the

music and lights began to beg for my attention, as shades of blue engulfed their

mesmerized dancers. The lights gloated their utter glow and shone silver-violet-

grey beams, which slashed the air, creating gossamer pale streaks across my

face. Translucent pale greens and blues and whites caused my diamond choker

to glint and twinkle, maybe a little too much, because that’s when Jacques pulled

me a little closer to him.

“You have beautiful eyes,”

My cheeks were red.

And soon the music would turn again and the drums would echo in my ears

almost as much as my heart was, for there was a French boy in front of me, and I

was merely myself, and he had just said I had beautiful eyes.

But the lights! Everything was so blue! An iridescent, cascading blue! Piercing,

harsh, electric blues that morphed into venomous greens, then crisp apple reds,

to scattered purples and yellows, which contributed their share of fluorescence to

the cosmic chaos. My mind was a jumble of opalescent words and glasses of

champagne so I didn’t really notice when Jacques pulled me closer and closer,

yet further and further out into the hundreds of people dancing, which was

strange because when he kissed me it seemed like we were the only people in

the room, and the lights were quiet, and the music was slow.

I wish I could say the night ended like this. I met a cute boy and I kissed him and

that was it. But the next day, we were assigned student advisors—older students

of the university that would be implementing tours, apartment checks, and

handling any questions we would have as we settled into life in Paris.

And of course, my student advisor was no other, than Jacques.

7.

There are few hours of the day in which I prefer to be alone. The boundaries of

their existence are not completely set, but one may find that it is the waning of

one day into the waxing of the other, which proves to be the most appropriate

setting. It is a period of time in between day and light, when shadows slowly die

and the soft glow of a new promise can be heard. I’d like to call it the hours of

youth, but such a title would strip away the fluidity of ambiguity the moment itself

exists under, which is why I’ll leave such entitlement to the reader, in hopes to

make sense of their own peculiar hours as well.

Perhaps the best way to explain the concept is this:

It was hot. It was summer. The sun had set. I was immersed in a collection of

thousands of bodies gathered for the same purpose. The concert lights were

ablaze, polluting the sky with their glimmering and shimmering brilliance, dancing

along with their patrons. Flashes of light, like lightning hitting our senses,

acknowledged by our retinas, and swallowed into the pit of our stomach where

the thud of the bass decided to live, its heart beating in time. Blues and violets

and whites cascaded over our bodies, submerging us in a grip of brightness and

a sense of unreality.

I bathed in this light: I belonged to it. I was to it, as it was to me, as it was to we.

The connected consciousness of us all was exhilarating, exhausting. Under the

pearl-grey moon and decorations of bohemian opulence, we stood, we danced,

and we celebrated ourselves.

We celebrated ourselves as the moon sank back down into its little cocoon, for

the train ride home brought the calmness of a dead wave, a tranquility that tends

to follow revelry. The city lights swooshed by like swirling fireflies and I found

myself dreamily spiraling into a state of bliss, as the moments of the day unfolded

in my head, allowing space for a new beginning. It was in my solitude I could

reflect while I conceived clear and new thoughts, a doubleness only available in

those precious hours where one is as inspired by one’s self as by one’s

surroundings.

And I was, and I am and that’s all I ever want to be: inspired.

8.

Some of the most rewarding memories are memories that just could not be

shared—moments that exist purely in their natural time, failing to meet any sort of

arrangement of words, fleeting almost as soon as they’ve been experienced.

And that is exactly what this memory is. Like pinning down a butterfly for the

purpose of collection, trying to make sense of certain memories kills the spark of

life they naturally possess.

But I will tell you this: It is sweet, it is simple, it is pure, and it is perhaps the best

memory I could ever have, and I am grateful for its inability to translate on paper,

for because of this, I think of it as eternally mine.