My family used to live in a house where the first floor and the flat roof, a whole terrace, was ours. It wasn’t a garden, but it was big and open to the blue sky of Caracas, to scenic views of the Avila, the mountain range between my city and the sea. That terrace was where I went when I could not bear my parents -or myself- any longer. Once, I actually made a tent there. I sneaked bits and pieces from the house. There were some unused partitions, there were old curtains, and some cushions. Then I installed my radio there, a souped-up walkie-talkie product from my first dabbing in electronics, which I used to talk with other hams, amateur radio operators. The whole thing became my place, and I was proud of it. Till M. came visiting, that is. M. is about my age, daughter of friends of my parents. She never say much, so she wasn’t only very beautiful, but mysterious. I was fascinated by her. And always wanted to make an impression. Which I thought I would manage if she ever contemplate my construction and my inventions there, in the terrace. I still remember her face, sort of smelling the old curtains, and contemplating the likely destruction of some of her beautiful auburn hair, if testing my headphones, which I had assembled myself (they were just old small speakers on a wire rack).
Shall we say that I never manage to make an impression?
In Naples, a couple of weeks ago, the young people paraded the evening streets. I wish I could have understood their conversation, but it seemed fleeting, and in an italian that I would not understand anyway. I have written on the pleasure of seeing so much self confidence, experimenting and pride in the countless attire variations. But before that, the gender divide. Frequently we would hear the chatter of a group of girls approaching, sometimes before seeing them. I do not like people that speaks loudly, but I couldn’t either not smile at the sound, some sort of ongoing fiesta approaching. Then we would see them, decided, smiling, hand in hand, embracing, or simply walking together. With grace or without, with beautiful clothes or not, all happy, all knowing. Joking to each other or to others, receiving admiring looks with pleasure and disregarding any other. In a word, owning themselves and the street.
And they will be followed by their boys, of course. It seemed to me that in Naples, just like in the Caracas of my memory, young girls would not go out on their own, but with young boys. Every other group of girls that we spotted had a corresponding group of boys. To be fair, dressing individual creations with great flair, independently of their beauty, was as present in the boys as in the girls. But there stopped every other similarity. To begin with, most of the boys were following their girls, meanwhile staring at the screens of their phones. Probably scrolling for memes and relatable content, since now and then one would show his screen to the others, and some laughing would actually happens. But where the girls seem to own themselves and the street, not only by the sheer power of their presence, but rather by the sheer power of their will, noting like that was to be seen in the boys. They were just following the light and the grace of the girls.
I have no doubt that the years will pass, and these same boys will actually get to own their space, at least as much as they can. They will try, anyway. But not quite yet. In the groups I saw, the girls were way ahead of the curve of the boys, not anymore interested in phones or else, but well aware of themselves and their power, their owning of the nights of Naples.
And then I remember myself and M., so many years ago. Me playing with my electronics, hoping to impress her with an enlarged version of the houses that our parents build for us to play in the living room with a couple of chairs and a sheet. I know now that the mystery of M. was nothing else that her certainty that whatever she was interested in, I was not going to get it. She was way ahead of my curve, at least then. And I didn’t even get it.
It takes a while for us boys to catch up.
That's so true... (but with some exceptions to that "rule")