An Infectious Disease

We look cute together. He is tall, skinny and blue eyed. The kind that grows a little rounded belly at thirty. I have a funny Spanish accent that sounds even funnier in Czech. It’s exotic to be an international couple. It’s cool and it’s definitely in right now, but like other international couples I know, we are a bit crippled.

It is nothing too serious. It’s like a chronic illness. In theory you can live forever, but let’s face it, your chances are lower than those of other healthy people. Only, unlike an illness, you can get rid of your partner and look for somebody more statistically suitable, some relationship with higher life expectancy, something that would be blessed by Hindu parents with high quality standards.

You could, if only it was so easy. Once the parasite gets inside you it’s rather hard to get rid of it. It’s not only about the shortage of blue eyed guys in Spain, but the kick you get from having by your side such a different point of view, and I do not mean somebody that supports Barca instead of Madrid, but somebody that queued for bananas during communism. I’m talking adventure; I’m talking the kind of inspiration that compels you to write a post comparing your relationship with an infectious disease.

It’s not easy at times. It’s tough when you need to use Google translator as a relationship aid. But it is also fun; it is a nasty road trip, with bumps and camels in the middle of the way. And my job is not that interesting. I often need that kind of kick.