There will be twenty-four hours in Berlin. Every second will be filled with the boys of last summer and all the unanswered possibilities. Your memories become a montage of the night on a park bench in the Kreutzberg district, listening to the rattle of the S-Bahn and the beating of two hearts separated by an ocean. You are lying on the floor of his flat with five hours left in Berlin and already drowning in shots of herbal vodka he brought back from Poland. And from his stereo (or was it from his lips) slips the words 'there’s still a little bit of your song in my ear...'
There will be bottles of Chardonnay and Bordeaux scattered on the kitchen table of our Montmartre plat in Paris, remnants from the night before when all you remember are flashes of a stroll along the Seine, the blaze of cafe windows, and cocktails at La Favela Chic. Drunk on summer and the charms of Europe, we laid on the grass in front of the Eiffel tower and watched Paris become the City of Light.
There will be days beside the ocean in Lisbon and nights at clubs down by the river at the docks of Alcântara, in sequined minidresses with the sea still in our hair and the boys of the day still on our arms.They whisper sweet nothings in your ear, the city fades away, and you wish you knew Portuguese.In the end, it never matters. He turns to you and speaks an international language.