You Are My Favourite Place
I wasn’t sure how you were going to react when I gently tickled your back, trying to tease you out of a deep slumber. Whispering, it’s time baby, we need to get ready to go to the airport. You smiled, eyes still shut, your long lashes separating the waking world from whatever it was you were dreaming that night, and drifted back to sleep. I tried again, a little louder this time, using the breakfast muffins I’d made for you as bait, and your eyes flickered open. We’re going to see Lucy Dacus, you cheered, and I didn’t have the heart to tell you that would be another day’s wait. I had already stretched your concept of time to the max in the long-term planning of this special, “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” Trip, as you had come to name it.
Not everyone will agree with me that the hours between 3 and 4am are magic, but to me, they bring serenity, a matter-of-factness, an acceptance of things and movement and sentiments as they are, how they may be and might have been. Since you’ve weaned from my chest and into the nook of my arm, I have come to rely on and enjoy these moments as ones of solitude – walking through the darkened, hushed neighbourhood or training burning eyes and a restless soul onto empty pages. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to sustain this calm in the presence of your excitement, but we made perfect time. We’d gone through and wrapped our usual morning ritual with ten minutes to spare before the taxi arrived.
We kissed our dog goodbye, shut the door behind us and quietly walked towards the road – not without stopping before our neighbour’s house, our chosen family, to wish them a good morning – the way you insist on doing every day – only this time, barely audible, for fear of waking them. We walked, hand in hand, down the same ramps we walk each morning, but it felt far from ordinary. The world silent, but ours full of anticipation. We climbed into the waiting cab and, as soon as it drove off, I felt a slight sting of nausea and breathlessness. I wasn’t sure I would be able to self-regulate whilst simultaneously encouraging your chatter about the curiosities you encountered outside your window. Didn’t feel I could focus on the purple lights you were pointing out in the distance, until I did.
The vastness of Malaga airport, the labyrinthian security lines, the seriousness with which we were beckoned through the metal detectors, the tedious wait for the gate to be displayed – typically unnerving to me, now lived, vicariously through you and accepted, simply, as part of the journey. When boredom hit, I presented you with a sparkly folder full of craft and puzzle supplies I’d been curating ahead of the trip. You began experimenting with the spirographs, creating patterns and shapes not unlike those that used to reside in my brain and my stomach in situations like these. Joyous ones I knew could be so, but never believed they would, one day, be for me. And, between reading Beautiful World, Where Are You, I answered Schiller’s question, watching you, feeling my whole body smiling, relaxing into its residual tension.
Dividing the flight duration between sleep and play and another hearty breakfast for you, mainly to keep your ears from popping, we landed in Brussels. Our first stop. My first encounter with a feeling of elation – we were doing this, and I wasn’t sure whether my legs would, at some stage, buckle beneath me, figuratively speaking; but if they did, I knew you would just grab my hand and ask, Mama bist du gut?[1] and I would say yes and knew I would be. So, we stepped out into the crisp Western European morning air, greeted by the type of summer’s day I had long forgotten – grey and windy, tiny specks of rain – “it’s not rain Mama, they’re just chispas[2]” – inaudibly speckling the car window as the driver, impatient and frustrated, raced along the highway, through tunnels and bobbing up and down cobbled streets, then finally halting before gigantean, heavy wooden doors. Nous voilá.
Our room was not ready to receive us and all the dreams we were about to leave within its four unique walls, but the lovely personnel was. Ushering us into a warm and welcoming kitchen, serving us croissants and tea and chocolate milk, repeatedly checking in on us, to ensure we were comfortable during the short wait. Then entering this space – not really a room but an invitation, a realm of many imaginations, not just the artist’s – our mouths a-gasp, our hearts alight, your eyes bright and in disbelief, until they settled, determinedly, on a sculpture holding a drawing board and a plethora of pens in a multitude of colours. Leave Your Dreams, it prompted and I gave you the freedom to rearrange the concept, to play at the game of our own invention, in which you detail all you’d like the Sandman to deliver, and I install these ideas by softly brushing them into your eyelids with steady fingertips. Mesmerized by this idea, this mission, the yellows and the rainbow-coloured shadows emanating through the windows and into the room, you stood, absorbed, at work.
Would some of the darker features of this bright room permeate your dreams? If they did, you mastered them like your current idol, Poppy, braving the forest that leads to Bergen Town – Hey! I’m not giving up today/Nothing’s getting in my way/and if you knock knock me over, I will get back up again. You woke the next morning, rested and ready to venture out of the Coin du Diable and into a new day in this unknown city, now counting mere hours until the main event, the long-awaited concert. After another Hagelslag breakfast served by a highly energetic cook with a passion for Motown music – whose loveable but loud and boundary blurring energy was, understandably, too much for you – you positioned yourself on my back, I strapped you into the “monkey bag” and we headed off to the Comic Art Museum.
We didn’t return to the empire of dreams until late in the afternoon and I wasn’t sure how either of us would fare without a little siesta before our big night out. You busied yourself, back at the drawing board, while I panicked over my choice of a pink slacks for the concert and the arrival of an expectedly early period – always, always (and ultra) perfectly timed for special occasions and family gatherings. I opted for, literally, going with the flow – at this point light – and wear them, leaks be damned[3], then rose from the pillowy bed to seat myself on the room’s church pew, inspired by your artistic drive. I sat quietly, to reflect on the previous Sunday and what I had experienced as an uncomfortable but mind-expanding afternoon prayer; on the room and what it signified, and jotted it all down in the carefully selected notebook I had taken along for the journey.
With just a little over an hour left before go-time, we headed into the shower with the glittery Golden Egg shampoo we had picked out on our cheeky visit to Lush earlier in the day. Within minutes, the black tiles sparkled, as did our skin and we exited giggling, now barely able to contain ourselves, singing along to I Don’t Want to be Funny Anymore and dissecting the lyrics in the process. And finally, the crowning moment – off came the dress from the hanger it had been waiting on, bright red and the closest I could get to replicating the one Lucy wears in her video for Ankles, the one you fell in love with. You stepped into it, I zipped you up and soaked up seeing you twirl with pride – a dream you had written for yourself, come true. I pinned daffodils into my hair, feeling suddenly juvenile, then watched the doubts disappear into the multi-coloured light chain twinkling above us when you told me how pretty they looked. We used the Architecture’s Digest worthy staircase as a backdrop for our own prom type pictures on the way down and headed out.
When we arrived at the venue, fans surrounded almost the entirety of the building, as if – in a preemptive gesture of gratitude – hugging the diverse space that was about to bring them a night of queer joy. Most of them were seated, playing cards or – to my absolute delight – reading. With an hour left to wait for the doors to open, I suggested we walk around to make time, but you insisted on joining the calm and friendly crowd and all it contextualized. I wasn’t sure you’d last, imagined the wiggles eventually winning out but that didn’t happen until later. Instead, you took it all in, the vibe, the people, the quiet before this perfect storm of music and emotions, with no interest in sharing your impressions and eventual impatience with curious, fellow concert-goers. You relished this time as your own and, occasionally, included me in it. And oh, how I love you for your unique, observant ways and your ability to communicate your needs so clearly at such a young age.
Finally, the line started moving swiftly, past the ticketing post and into the building where all eyes were on you – the youngest in the house, so confident in your dress. We headed straight into the arena where the first die-hards were securing their spots right in front of the stage – the way you’ve always insisted on doing since we took you to your first concert aged just a little over one year old (Patti Smith in Madrid, 2022). The way we did at the Belle and Sebastian gig (and, consequently, The Jesus and Mary Chain) last year. But then you clocked the balcony and the row of empty seats and felt, more than anything, attracted to the idea of overlooking the spectacle, that small body of yours intrigued by what you perceived to be the possibility of more independence. I didn’t think you’d be contented with that kind of distance between yourself and the vibrations of your beloved music, and I was right.
I put it down to your instinctually knowing you’d need a breather, that the weeks of waiting would catch up with you. You were full on clapping and wooing along to Jasmine 4t opening with Guy Fawkes Tesco Disassociation, the singer, the song and the hair you’d grown fond of over the last few days. Half way into the second song, you fell into a deep sleep, your chin repeatedly dropping into your chest until I pulled you over onto my lap and for the rest of their incredible set, I watched, cocooning – you, myself, the moment. I doubted whether you’d wake again in time for Lucy, but as soon as you sensed the change in lighting and atmosphere you were back – bursting with your infectious joie de vivre, clutching your old friend Pat the Bunny tightly. We watched in awe, as a curly-haired, young adult hung a large LGBTQ flag from the banister, a gesture of love – LOVE, LOVE – respect and unity for everyone in the room, a nod to pride month in full, beautiful swing. A demonstration of how it should be – everyone free to be and to love freely.
When flashlights appeared through the doorway of the museum backdrop to the sound of the strings that have become synonymous with Forever is a Feeling, I was hit with a fake sense of déjà vu. I couldn’t remember the dream Bade’s room had planted in me the previous night, but surely, this – sitting in these velvety red theatre seats, holding your hand and watching one of our favourite artists take to the stage – was it. As she dropped into Hot and Heavy under the blue stage lights, using the interludes to turn to the left, then the right to acknowledge the full spectrum of her audience, I thought of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. With that same dreamy, cerebral – forgive me – spirit and a penetrating gaze she, like Alice, has built her own world here, on stage, and on her albums. One through which she navigates similar themes of identity and the coming of ages. It is a personal process she shares openly, and a global happening she challenges head on, using her platform the best way she can. And this, is the kind of example I want for you, baby.
I knew you wouldn’t last ten minutes without wanting to be front stage, to absorb every note, every strum, every beat into your open heart and wonderful mind, and to stare her down with that focused look that does not miss a single detail. Sure enough, half way into I Don’t Want to be Funny Anymore, you told me, “Mama, I want to go down there,” pointing at the crowd below. I laughed and rolled my eyes, asking you to let us just finish the song at least, before interrupting the people beside me. As soon as the song ended, we shimmied our way along the seats and onto the stairway leading to the balcony, when the security guard who had fitted you with your ear muffs upon entering the venue, waved us over. He opened a taped off area for us and led us all the way to the very front until we were stood looking straight down at Lucy, almost able to count each strand of grey shimmering through her dark mane.
This is where we remained for the duration of the concert, our own secret space from whence we felt immersed in the cosy stage set and part of a welcoming community, yet still entirely engulfed in our own bubble. Like the multitude of Cinderellas singing their Sweet Nightingales from the dirty waters, I felt myself holding all these versions of myself peacefully, in the present, in much the same way I held you. Resting cheek to cheek in a sweet embrace, every beat of my heart euphoric, proud, relieved. In the morning, we would move on, with two other countries to explore, various beds to sleep in, parks to visit, people to meet and trains to hop. Still – absorbed, entirely, by the song and by you, I knew, for certain that, you, my girl, are without a doubt, my favourite place. Always.
[1] Mama, you good?
[2] drizzle
[3] And damned I was.