Gloria al Niño Chema

Day 32 of quarantine. Day 27 of lockdown. It’s been a beautiful, warm, sunny Easter Sunday.

A good friend of mine passed away today. My good friend, Chema.

Living through a pandemic is a surreal experience. Period.

When you’re living in a city that’s the epicenter of the country’s virus, and all of the morgues and funeral homes are overloaded, and you can’t say your good-byes, be there to hug his family members, be there to be hugged, or even just be there at all because there is no there….

That’s when living through this pandemic goes from surreal to numbing.

Priests are doing express funeral services at maybe 5 minutes for each of the deceased. Only 3 family members are able to attend the burial, quickly. There is no ceremony for the rest of the family and friends to attend, to pay their respects and say their good-byes.

The thing is, Chema was very stubborn. If there’s one person who decides the day he’s going to die, it’s Chema. Is this how he wanted it to be? No funeral? To just slip out of this life, while we’re all forced to stay at home? I guess so. I suppose he didn’t want us to remember him this way.

Chema had a young, vibrant spirit.

He was a captain. He spent a lot of time at sea, alone on his sailboat. He also spent a lot of time on that sailboat full of beautiful women, good friends and lots of gin and tonics while sailing around Ibiza. I got to sail with him several times, on more peaceful sailing trips, except for the two where it felt like the boat was going to tip over into stormy waters.

He was a pilot. I got to fly with him a few times in his small, 4-passenger plane around Spain. The last time I did, it took us 5 times to land safely in Valencia, due to rain and wind.

Sometimes I wondered if he was my bad luck charm or if I was his.

Chema was wise. A very intelligent man who knew a lot about math, science and doing business. But what was most fascinating to me was his wisdom. Over the years he had expressed a few simple, yet enlightening concepts about life which I will carry with me for the rest of mine.

One of the things he used to always say to me is that I had bright eyes. And if I ever lost that sparkle, he wouldn’t hang out with me any more.

Chema was blunt :)

He had a few good friends. And he had a lot of people who weren’t his biggest fan.

But Chema was always good to me.

The first time I got an apartment on my own in Madrid, it took me about 25 visits before I found my home. Apartment hunting is a nightmare in this city, requiring a lot of paperwork. And I knew the moment I entered I needed to live there. I was so happy! And it seemed like it was a done deal. Until it wasn’t because I needed some papers that I didn’t have. I was crushed.

I called Chema. He knew business. Maybe there was a way he could get me those papers.

He instead arranged a meeting with me, the property owners, and himself. And he spent 30 minutes telling the owners what a wonderful, hard-working and honest woman I was with a lot of integrity…some other things I didn’t understand…and that they would be lucky to have me as a tenant.

I got the apartment.

Apparently Chema had a way with words, although I didn’t understand a freaking word he said half the time. He was my first friend in Madrid. We met 9 years and one month ago. I didn’t speak any Spanish. His English was terrible, even though he claimed he spoke Spanglish perfectly. I wouldn’t even give him that, quite frankly.

On top of the language barrier, he had had a ski accident many years ago which permanently injured his throat. He needed to get injections every several months to maintain his voice. In between injections his voice would become super raspy, so it made it extra challenging to understand him.

But we made our friendship work. This is when you realize how much non-verbal communication is involved in any relationship.

I believe Chema was a victim to society’s pressures of wealth, power and prestige. Since I don’t give a shit about that stuff, I was a kind of novelty to him. And he was like a little boy to me, even though he was also full of shit sometimes. But we had profound conversations that we somehow understood. We laughed a lot together. We shared a lot of cheese and red wine together. He loved me. And I loved him.

He let me into his family, where I met most of his children, one who I especially love. She’s become a friend I deeply care about.

And I can’t be there for her. And I can’t say my good-byes.

The last time I saw you, Chema, I was shocked at how thin you were. Clearly they weren’t giving you enough manchego cheese in the hospital.

And I was in shock of your gorgeous eyes. They were bright green and emanating your purity. I won’t ever forget those eyes.

I left you a voice note on March 14th. I asked how you were doing and that we needed to get together once things returned back to normal.

I noticed you hadn’t opened up my message. I’m sorry you didn’t get it.

I’m sorry I can’t give you a proper good-bye. I’m sorry you can’t have a proper funeral.

I’ll see what I can do about having a big bash in your honor, once we’re able to do that. Even though you’re making my solitary confinement so much heavier, grieving you in the process. Autumn would’ve been a more convenient time, you know.

May you be at peace now, my friend.

I love you.