A chance encounter, a flurry of SMS messages, and a week-long trip to London, make a long distance romance lasting and real.
Fil Inocencio Jr.
“By seeing London, I have seen as much of life as the world can show.” — Samuel Johnson
“If I’m going to have another go at love,” I had said to my friend Dante over blistered Hungarian peppers, “I’d rather it be a big, expansive story; something unexpected and maybe a little nuts.”
“Okay, did you just use the ‘love’ word?” intoned Dante, lingering on the “L.” “Well, that certainly is nuts.”
I ignored the barb.
“The last thing I want,” I continued, “is another lame-o story about whose turn it is to do the dishes or scrub the toilet.”
“I get it,” said Dante. “Avoidant attachment is your thing.”
“Anything is better than codependence,” I said.
This was going to be my third visit with Ramzi. We first met in the UAE, after nearly a year of heavy texting. Then we met up again in New Mexico, where he was part of a group show at the newly opened Vladem Contemporary. Unexpectedly, unbelievably, each visit seemed to deepen our connection and what had started off as a moment of “Oh, why not text back this shirtless torso’s three word DM,” had turned into something inexplicable and compelling.
Despite this growing connection, however, the barb still pricked. Was I really trying to build a long-distance relationship that stretched all the way from the channeled scablands of Eastern Washington to the seven hills of Amman? If so, what better word to describe the endeavor than nuts?
After all, I wasn’t a teenager anymore. I had seen too much and knew how things worked. There are no soul mates. There are no happy endings.
And yet there I was, as giddy as Gidget, smiling at every WhatsApp notification, sending NSFW pics, and doing my best to hide, however poorly, my absolute goofiness for the man.
“I’m just glad you’re finally dating a brown man,” said Dante, dabbing at his lips. “What is he again?”
“I don’t think that’s how we’re supposed to ask that,” I replied.
“Bitch, please just answer.”
“He’s Jordanian.”
“Sooo, what do you know about Jordania?” asked Dante.
I laughed. “I know enough to know that it’s not Jordania.”
Dante pursed his lips. “I was educated by evangelicals. Sue me.”
Jordania
Apart from knowing that it was unequivocally not Jordania, I had to admit that I was woefully ignorant about the world that Ramzi came from, was shaped by, and inhabited every day. Even after a year and half, I was only just getting a handle on the pressures and tides that pulled at him; as a gay man, as an artist, as a Jordanian, and as an outspoken version of all three.
Even this trip had been shaped by those forces. He had invited me to London because it was one of the places that it was fairly easy for him to visit. Instead of a long, unpredictable process, some new regulation had taken effect and as a citizen of Jordan, he was now able to get an entry permit to the UK, online and in just 24 hours. He would not, for example, have been able to as easily go to Paris for the Summer Olympics or to the Circuit Festival in Barcelona, both options we briefly considered.
My phone dinged, startling me out of my reverie. It was Ramzi and as always, I couldn’t help but smile.
[Oh hbb. Bad news. I just found out that I have to have a German visa.]
[What? Why? You’re going to the UK.]
[I know, but since I’m flying through Frankfurt, I have to have a German visa.]
[Just to transfer at the airport?]
[Yes, I know. It’s called a transit visa. So stupid.]
[But that doesn’t make any sense. I’ve never had to do anything like that.]
[Because you’re American.]
My fingers paused. Tone was impossible to read in a text message, but I couldn’t help but feel an indictment in those three words. Guilt and shame made an unexpected and show-stealing cameo. Guilt for the thoughtless ease of my life; shame for the ignorance that allowed it.
I thought then of the seven pieces of THCandy secreted in my backpack. While Ramzi was stuck navigating rules that made no sense, risking not only our vacation but future legal problems as well, I was riding high on my entitlement; about to smuggle illegal drugs into another country.
The thought raised my anxiety a notch.
My phone dinged again.
[I really want to see you, *hbb. I miss you.]
Some of that teenage-level goofiness filled my heart. Wasn’t love supposed to be able to solve the problems of the world? Wasn’t love the universal language? Didn’t love win?
[I want you, Boy.]
[I want you too, Hayati.]
Good grief, I thought the minute I hit the send button. Hayati? Some casual googling had introduced me to the word. Literally translated, my life.
There was something in the looseness of the virtual milieu that allowed for this sweet — if somewhat aggressive — nothing. It felt downright romantic in written form, but now that we were about to cross into IRL territory, I wondered at the weight of this term.
Was it like “hbb”; something that could be said to almost anyone? Or was it a pronouncement; an admission of something more serious?
As with so many things involving me and Ramzi, the questions piled up.
What if he got turned back at the Frankfort airport? What would I do in London alone for a week? What if all of the texting was that, just texting? What if this vacation was the final dose of reality that doused this infatuation? What if I got stopped by a drug sniffing dog at passport control?
My phone vibrated and a little red emoji heart appeared, pinned to my last text. That molten shot of oxytocin. My own little emoji heart began to beat a little faster.
Together Again
“I brought you something,” he said, extricating himself from my embrace. He dug around in his suitcase and emerged with a little box.
“Ohhh, you shouldn’t have,” I said.
“I wanted to, boy.” The grin on his face was irresistible. “Open it!”
It was a simple bracelet; a black cord adorned by a blue glass bead.
“This is a kharazeh zarqa,” he said as he helped me fasten it around my wrist. “It will protect you from the evil eye. Now nothing bad will come to you.” He kissed my hand.
“Your heart will be safe.”
My goodness, I thought.
He pulled me into his arms, ignoring the various pieces of baggage crowding the bed. Our legs wound together. Our heartbeats slowed. We descended into a deep, silent well of comfort and intimacy and warmth.
The precariousness of that moment struck me. There, in Ramzi’s arms, wrapped around and in between his body, together for a whole week. If not for an undeniably ramshackle tower of serendipity, circumstance and goofiness, it would never have come into existence.
If Scruff’s algorithm hadn’t put my profile in front of him. If I had ignored the headless profile pic. If we hadn’t been able to disregard the 7,400 miles separating Washington state and Amman. If I had listened to Dante’s alarmist tendencies and decided NOT to fly to the UAE — a country in which homosexuality was still criminalized — to spend two weeks with someone I had never met before.
My eyes closed. His fingers stilled. After seven months apart, our orbits had finally found each other again. As naturally as if pulled by gravity, we fell into each other and into a deep and restful sleep.
Londonium
Much has been made of the fact that London is a thing unto itself, a vortex of space-time in which one feels both ancient and newborn; forever and instantaneous. Travelers have walked these streets for over a thousand years. This nexus of history, with varying degrees of violence, has shaped the way that we all think, the way we drink, the way we love.
Like prehistoric footsteps etched into bedrock, the power and influence of London is written onto each of us in one way or another.
And just as the children of London went out and colonized and claimed so much of this earth, so much of this sky; the children of that earth and that sky are returning to London to demand their place at the table.
Some people do not like this.
As if in acknowledgement of this endless oscillation — this rebounding wave of actions and consequences — Olympic medal counts were replaced by a different news story: race riots had erupted in Southport.
Immediately, every screen in the city seemed to be filled with images of angry men shouting at each other. Some of them were wearing jeans and trainers and setting fire to hotels suspected of hosting refugees. Some of them were wearing black hoodies and chanting “Allahu akbar.”
It was terrible and sad and predictable. I fielded a few text messages from people who were worried about me. I went onto FB and dutifully marked myself safe from the race war.
The rioting spread. Londinium, however, kept calm and carried on.
Tickets to The Book of Mormon and ABBA continued to sell. Outdoor cafes continued to serve Aperol Spritzes and black americanos. Citizens of the Gulf states continued to stitch their way from flagship store to flagship store. Indian laborers continued to build the skyline. And J.K. Rowling, unable to simply enjoy her riches in silence, continued being an absolute monster.
“What in the world is wrong with her?” I ranted, stomping my way up another escalator. “She writes a book about what, a snake-wizard-ghost-time-traveler-psychopath who runs around torturing children and that gives her the right to decide what a woman does and does not look like? Jesus Christ, I am so sick of these people.”
The ebb and flow of the human parade that wound its way through the West End forced us to separate for a few moments. We navigated through an archipelago of Chinese tourists gawking at a window filled with extravagant pastries.
When he caught up with me, I kept right on ranting: “For a bunch of people who can’t stop complaining about giving out participation trophies, they sure have a hard time letting someone else win. As soon as a woman wins … a brown Arab woman wins … they attack her, going so far as to question her actual womanhood. What kind of person thinks they can just demand to see your genitals?”
Ramzi grabbed my hand and pulled me off of my soapbox. Heedless of the crowd, he pulled me toward him and kissed me.
Heads swiveled.
Let them, I thought. Let them twist all the way off and fly out into space.
And then the sweetness of the kiss overcame me and — Depulso —JK was banished from my mind.
“I’m sorry,” I said, sheepish. “I know. I have a lot of opinions.”
“No, boy, I love it,” he said, just for me. “I love hearing you talk. I love the way you express your opinions.”
There is only one way to describe the way that his words hit me, there on the crowded streets of London’s West End. Righteous, freshly kissed, and far away from home, days of his company stretching out before me like a cat in sunshine.
I ended by sending a monkey emoji.
It is a truism that vacation time is different from regular time. It has the quality of dream, doubling back on itself, reliving itself from different angles and at different speeds. One day everything seems new and unfamiliar. The next day you are greeted by name at your regular breakfast spot and roll your eyes at the next wave of tourists clogging up the turnstiles at your Tube stop.
But Hyde Park is different. A marker of something real in the hallucination that is London. An anchor in the chaos; the breath of open sky and the weight of earth. Time slows down.
The two of us, Ramzi and I, wandered its sunlit dappled trails for hours, hand in sweaty hand. We talked about Arabic conjugations, his latest paintings. We talked about our families, his desire to move back to Dubai.
We stopped and got ice cream cones; strawberries and cream for me, pistachio for him. We strolled on, losing ourselves in easy conversation, hands sticky with sugar.
“I’m nervous about meeting Karim,” I admitted.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “Karim will love you.”
I had my doubts. Ramzi had shared a few stories about his ex-boyfriend, now best friend Karim, but in none of them did he appear as a cuddly lovable type. Driven and hilarious? Yes. But as we all know, more often than not, driven + hilarious + gay = big ‘ol bitch.
“And if he doesn’t, I’ll make him,” said Ramzi, grinning
We continued down one of the long, tree-lined avenues. In the middle-distance, a group of people resolved into an extended family: three fully veiled women, two bearded men who must have been my age but felt significantly older, and three young children.
The boy raced ahead, coming within ten feet of us, then turning in a wide circle and heading back to his clan.
Ramzi’s face remained unchanged. Unbothered.
We had walked past dozens of Arab families on this trip, but there was something about being in the city proper — the man-made environment — that had blunted the impact of those crossings. Here, in this sublime vault of green, things felt intimate and present. In the city we could ignore each other; here in the real world, we were challenged to be human.
I loosened my grip, anticipating that Ramzi might take this moment to disengage. We had let go of each other to navigate physical barriers; would it be that different if we did so to bypass cultural and emotional ones as well?
Ramzi shook his head, still smiling, and gripped my hand tighter.
The family walked towards us. I watched as pairs of eyes tracked from our hands, to our faces, to each other, back to our hands.
We walked past them, silent except for the sound of the young boy dopplering down the avenue. The frisson of tension dissipated.
We didn’t let go of each other for what felt like hours; our hands joined by salt and sugar and heat.
The Dinner Party
A cheer erupted at the table as we appeared.
“Rammooz!” cried a handsome man with salt and pepper hair. He leapt to his feet, arms outstretched. The two of them hugged, rocking back and forth, while the rest of us looked on. “It’s been too long, habibi! When are you moving back to Dubai?”
“Soon, Inshallah,” said Ramzi, smiling. He grabbed me by the hand and pulled me forward. “Karim, this is Sol. Sol, this is Karim.”
He abandoned us there, staring at each other, while he distributed hugs and kisses around the table.
“Hey Karim,” I said, offering a hand. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
I was trying my best to maintain a neutral presence. My intention for the evening was to make zero waves, rock zero boats. This wasn’t really about me, after all. All of these people were here for each other. They had all been friends in Dubai, but the vagaries of the Emirati economy had scattered them all over the hemisphere, and it had been years since they had all been together.
“I’ve heard about you too,” he said, winking. “Is Rammooz behaving himself?”
“Yes,” I said.
“That’s too bad,” Karim said, smiling. “He’s more fun when he’s not. Come. Let’s meet everybody.”
He stood tall and raised his voice. “Everybody, this is Sol. Give them a good look at you. They’re all going to judge, so you might as well get it over with.”
Everybody waved back, smiling. A chorus of hellos.
Emboldened by the general sense of good cheer and the spark in Ramzi’s eyes, I momentarily forgot my intentions. I performed a series of poses.
Karim looked on as I whipped an imaginary ponytail around. He couldn’t help but laugh.
I glanced at Ramzi and saw an unexpected frown. It caught me by surprise and I felt a chill of self-consciousness.
I realized that maybe Ramzi hadn’t seen my zestier side.
And just like that, the isolating bubble that we had inhabited for the past five days gave way. It wasn’t me and Ramzi anymore. It was Ramzi and his best-friend-slash-ex Karim, then a group of his oldest and dearest friends, and then me.
Had this been a test of some kind? Had I been found wanting? I felt a ping of resentment.
Karim grabbed me by the arm and led me to an empty chair beside him. Not so surreptitiously, he squeezed my bicep and regarded my sleeve of tattoos.
Would you like to check my teeth too?” I asked. The joke came out light and easy, as I had intended, but I knew its source was darker, with roots reaching back to a younger, angrier version of myself.
Hello defensiveness, my old friend.
“I like this one, Rammooz,” he said, as if there had been a long list of previous “ones” that had not passed muster. “He bites.”
In that moment, Karim accepted me and took me under his wing. It began with him giving me a more in-depth introduction to the assembled company:
Roberto, a Lebanese/Spanish cub that Karim had met at a circuit party in Barcelona, now working as an architect in London. Ali, a Jordanian writer with the sweetest smile and eyelashes that would have made Bambi jealous. Ahmed, born in Egypt but educated in the UK and now the head of merchandising for Chanel Vienna. My own Ramzi, eyes wrinkled from smiling so hard, his handsome profile lit perfectly. And Baahir, Turkish, the head of communications at CNN in Dubai, recently out of the closet and going through an onerous divorce.
The evening progressed, the food came and went, and I found myself in the strange solitude of being the random addition to an established circle of friends. Everyone else was speaking their mother tongue, only occasionally code switching into English. Freed from the pressure of paying attention, I lapsed into silence.
I looked out at this brotherhood of gay men. Another branch of my chosen family tree, the unexpected and often undesired lineage of homosexuality.
What had each of us done to endure, to abandon the self-hatred bred into us by our families, our histories? What had we sacrificed in the pursuit of our selves? And what convoluted and improbable paths had brought us all here, to a restaurant in Soho, where we could share stories of circuit parties, of our coming out or being outed, of our first visit to a bathhouse. By what miracles were we whole enough to still be able to laugh and tell jokes and dream of a happy ending?
The conversation became louder, the rhythm abrupt enough to bring me back into the present. I watched as Ali rolled his eyes and said something short and curt to Baahir. Were they arguing?
“I just think it’s too much,” Baahir said, the first English spoken in a while. “They’re too young. It’s just because it’s trendy. They’ll grow out of it.”
“They’ll grow out of it?” said Ali. “I’m sorry, but don’t you think your parents said the same thing about you being gay?”
“It’s not the same thing,” said Baahir.
“What difference does it make to you, anyway” said Karim. “They just want to be who they are. The same way we all do.”
“The same way everyone does,” said Ali.
The conversation stalled out. I looked down, trying to fade from view. The table had reached its quota of opinions and I had no desire to add mine to the fire.
Instead I just sat there and stewed.
I absolutely could not stand it when my own community used words and ideas that others had used to oppress us to then oppress other people. How could they be so hypocritical? Couldn’t they see that we were driven by the same urge; to be wholly and truly ourselves? They fought for their own human rights. Why wouldn’t they fight for others’?
And how, I thought with growing self-righteousness, had they managed to forget what it was like for all of us to come out. I was willing to bet that at one point in each of their lives, they would have given just about anything to wake up straight. And yet no matter how much we hoped and prayed for it to be different, here we all were, a week’s worth of faggots just gaying it up in Mary old England.
“I feel like all of this trans talk is peer pressure,” said Roberto. “They’re convincing kids to be trans.”
I took a deep breath and summoned the iron will to remain silent.
“What about you, Sol?” said Ramzi. “What do you think?”
I looked at him, caught unprepared. As the sole representative of a western country, I felt acutely aware of our penchant for telling people — especially brown people — how they ought to think and feel. Surely Ramzi didn’t want me to climb back up on my soapbox and have at it.
“Go ahead, boy,” he said with a grin. “Tell them.”
I felt all eyes turn to me.
“Well, Roberto,” I began. “If it was so easy to convince children to be what we think they should be, then why did you end up gay? Didn’t anybody in your family try to convince you to be straight?”
I felt Karim’s hand slap my shoulder. “I told you, he bites,” he said, laughing.
A Night Out
The seven of us filtered our way into the jam-packed, throbbing, dimly lit interior of the Kings Arms. Taking the lead, I grabbed Ramzi’s hand and began pushing our way through to the bar. Behind me, I could hear our crew hooting and hollering, adrenaline and hormones already running high.
“Keep going,” Roberto yelled into my ear, “There’s another room in the back.”
Eventually, and to my great relief, we found an empty table tucked into the corner.
Ramzi, Baahir and I sat down while the rest of the group went to get the first round of the evening.
“How are you doing?” I asked Baahir. His eyes were wide and he seemed visibly nervous.
“I’m okay,” he said. “I’ve never had an edible before.”
“Have you ever been to a gay bar?” asked Ramzi.
Baahir shook his head. “Not really,” he said.
I looked out at the crowd, trying to imagine what this scene must look like to someone who, as recently as a few months ago, was living life as a married father of three.
Men of every shape and size, age and race, joined together in the pursuit of a good time. A tiny Asian in an even tinier jockstrap was shuffling from side to side on a raised platform; a group of older bleary-eyed Brits stared at him and gulped their pints. A young Arab couple in complementary Louis Vuitton outfits, supped cocktails and silently judged passersby.
The pretty Indian man sitting at the table next to us leaned over and hollered something.
“Excuse me?” shouted Ramzi.
“I said where are you guys from?” he yelled back.
“Oh,” said Ramzi, “I’m from Jordan and he’s from Dubai and he’s from the US.”
I squeezed Ramzi’s hand and drew my mouth to his ear. “I’m going to go find the bathroom,” I said. “I’ll be back.”
I stood and followed the signs for the WC. As I waited in line, absently swaying to the music and browsing my phone, I felt a hand wrap around my waist.
I turned, expecting to see a familiar face. Instead, I was greeted by a handsome man with a thick mustache and a cleft chin.
“Hey gorgeous” he said, leaning close.
The American accent was a surprise. The sharp tang of alcohol on his breath was not.
“Hello,” I said, trying to create some distance between the two of us.
“Woof,” he said, grabbing my waist. Before I knew it, his mouth was on mine.
I pushed him away.
He was handsome enough, if a bit basic — just another white guy with facial hair and tattoos. In another life I might have given in. I might even have felt flattered; giddy, even. But those days, I suddenly realized, were gone. Something in me had changed and as much as I did not want to admit it, it had everything to do with Ramzi.
Somehow, despite my attempts to avoid it, I was getting attached. Against all expectation, my bruised heart was back at it again.
I could hear Dante’s cackle echoing in the back of my mind. “I knew it, bitch,” he would say. “You’re not fooling anybody except yourself.”
The realization gave me some grace. I hugged the Basic American and said, “You’re sweet. You have a good night.”
“What, are you leaving already?”
“Baby,” I said, “I’m already gone.”
I had no idea how accurate the statement was. By the time I finished using the bathroom, the BA was already making out with someone else.
Ramzi smiled broadly as I sat down next to him.
“That candy was strong, boy,” he said, a conspiratorial smile on his face.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
“It’s not me I’m worried about,” he said, leaning back to let me see past him.
Past him and on to the sight of Baahir. His new Indian friend sitting in his lap, the two of them chest to chest. We watched as they ended a long kiss and Baahir yelped. The Indian Reverse Cowboy had bitten his lip and was now giggling.
“Ohhhh wow,” I said, grimacing. “Do you think he’s okay?”
“He looks okay,” said Ramzi with a laugh. The two were back to kissing. “Sahha.”
Baahir resurfaced long enough to reply. “Ala albak,” he said, and then went back in for more.
The Beginning of the End
Although much was made of our early departure, I don’t think any of them really cared. After two long and lovely hugs, Karim and Roberto rabbited off to a group of muscled circuit boys. We said our goodbyes to Ahmed, interrupting the intense conversation he was having with Louis and Vuitton. Ali kissed us on both cheeks and the three of us jumped up and down on the dance floor for a few bars.
“What about Baahir?” I asked as we headed for the exit.
Ramzi looked over his shoulder and shook his head.
“I don’t think he’ll mind,” he said.
One final push, a few more apologies for nearly spilled drinks, and then we were back outside. The night air was cool and humid enough to carry the promise of rain. Hand in hand, we were carried through the waiting crowds, finding ourselves, eventually, beside an empty park tucked between buildings.
I checked my watch, caught the blue gleam of the kharazeh zarqa protecting me from evil. It was 11:59. In just one minute, our last full day together would begin.
“Are you sure you’re okay with leaving early?” asked Ramzi. “I know you wanted to dance.”
No longer surrounded by the press of the crowd, our pace slowed. We were at the end of our trip, but we had all the time in the world.
“I just wanted to be alone with you,” he said. The orange of the streetlight, the blue of the night sky, a faint, dappled shadow playing across his handsome face.
“That sounds perfect,” I said.
We stopped and shared a kiss.
“I’ve had another amazing time with you, boy,” said Ramzi, pressing his forehead to mine.
“Even though I yelled at your friends for like two hours?” I replied, still apologetic.
“Yes,” Ramzi replied. “That was my favorite part.”
He kissed me again.
We were interrupted by a sudden gust of wind, the hissing, mechanical whisper of a bicycle speeding past us.
We looked up, startled: a nearly silent platoon of cyclists streamed down the darkened streets of London, each of them trailing a Palestinian flag. Some of the bikes carried signs: Free Palestine. Ceasefire Now. Stop the Genocide.
Ramzi raised a hand in greeting and solidarity. His other hand tightened around mine.
In the long silence left by their passage, I pulled him into an embrace. I wanted to say something, but words failed me. We walked along the dark, silent streets of Londinium, arms linked and leaning into each other with every step.
*hbb: Habibi
