Romantic Cynicism

There's a time in life when we stop believing in grand beginnings. The innocent excitement of thinking everything can be new is gone; only a sense of déjà vu remains, as if each story comes with captions we already know by heart. Perhaps the city of Lisbon should be renamed "Lis More-of-the-Same," because it's no longer boa at all.

It's always the same script: two people meet, exchange glances, promises, playlists. In the beginning it's poetry, in the end it's administrative prose. The messages change from "I can't wait to see you" to "we'll talk later." And love, that rare creature, transforms into a succession of increasingly timid attempts; as if we were all tired of starting from scratch, but incapable of being alone.

Lately, I confess I've become skeptical. Not the kind of skeptical person who makes jokes about broken hearts; but the other kind, the one who doesn't even bother trying anymore. He observes the love of others with a mixture of distrust and suspicion. He sees couples holding hands and thinks that one of them, in silence, is already planning their departure.

And, of course, Lisbon doesn't help. It's a city that seems made for romance, but lives on repetitions. The streets, the faces, even the emotional disasters; everything seems to have happened before, on another corner, with another name. With each new encounter, the same promise disguised as chance. And then, when someone talks to me about love, I feel nothing but a slight urge to laugh.

But it seems the only exception to this rule is Maria. Maria is one of those people who still believes. Who thinks love is a daily choice, not a biological accident. And recently, she started dating. When she told me, I did what any disillusioned friend would do: I let out an automatic "that's good," followed by a sip of wine and a not-so-generous thought: "does she know..."

But it lasted. And worse! It seemed sincere!

We went to a party together, and she brought her boyfriend. And there it was, between glasses and glasses of beer and music that nobody wanted to hear, that I realized something incredible and very strange to me: they worked. There was no drama, no forced attempts to be the "perfect couple." There was only a disconcerting lightness; that rare tranquility of someone who is happy in the present, without needing to promise about the future.

And suddenly I felt as if I had got my breath knocked out of me.

Not out of malice, but because seeing someone believe in what we no longer believe in is like witnessing a miracle and realizing that we are no longer capable of feeling faith. And, in the blink of an eye, I realized that my skepticism might not have been lucidity; but rather just fear disguised as wisdom.

The next day, I went to a baptism. Hungover, like someone atoning for their own sins with free beer. And, amidst the smell of incense, my own dried vomit smell, and the baby's cries, I couldn't help but wonder: am I just a skeptic, or simply someone who gave up too soon?

And in that church, completely hungover, holding that baby in my arms, I couldn't help but wish that the baptismal water would wash away not only his original sin, but also a bit of my own original cynicism. Perhaps love is like that baptismal water; a symbolic attempt to start over. And I, who already considered myself immune to these purifications, felt a strange urge to believe again.