I collect textiles, not just anything because it is is pretty, because I am interested in how it is made. Most people don't know how many different ways a pattern can be woven into a textile. That is what intrigues me, also quite a few other people, quite a few other men too, the technical aspect. if you were think textiles are a woman's thing. It is; more women collect them, maybe for different reasons.
A few years ago on an internet textile forum, Bobby and I discovered that we had very similar interests and began to email each other, exchanging information and images from our collections, sometimes admitting that the other had shown something we wished we had found. Bobby knew more about the techniques than I, recommending books that were almost too technical to understand. We didn't exchange much personal information. We both knew about other, related websites. When on one, a textile conference was announce, we were both interested in attending.
I should mention that my name is Helge, a not too common German first name for a man. Bobby lives in England. The conference was going to be in Italy, and the program promised to be very interesting. Collectors can be stingy about spending money, if it is not for their collection. Bobby and I agreed to share a hotel room for the conference and following tour to Venice, twin beds, of course. I made the reservation, since I live in a Euro country, and we looked forward to finally meeting each other after so long.
Our flights to Milan landed near enough together, that the organization had one bus to take us to the hotel. Others arrived at different times or by train. As the group collected around the person with a sign for the conference, I scolded myself for not having suggested that we exchange photos of each other on email. I looked around, wondering which man could be Bobby, thinking that one of them should also be trying to find me. Not that old bearded guy, I hoped; he didn't fit my preconception of Bobby.
The man with the sign had been counting us. When the last person joined the group, he started to call roll. I was watching the men. My name was called, and I raised my hand, but I didn't see anyone look at me with a smile or wave. Hadn't Bobby come, missed the plane? I listened to the rest of the roll call. We were all there! Nothing to do but grab the handle of my bag and follow the group to find our bus.
As our luggage was being stowed in the bus, a woman my age was standing next to me. I was still wondering where Bobby was, why he hadn't found me with my uncommon name. Then the woman turned to me with funny expression and said:
This is crazy, a great mistake. You're Helge? All along, I've been thinking you're a woman. Bobbie, Roberta," she introduced herself.
"Helge, it's also a man's name, and I've been assuming ... Well, if you'd spelled Bobby differently, maybe I would have known. Uh, I can ask for a single room. This is too crazy."
"It is!"
We both chuckled so that people near us looked around. We got on the bus. When it started, the man began to tell us something with his microphone. We looked at each other with funny expressions. She remarked:
"I guess we could have clarified that. I stopped spelling my nickname that way after getting suggestive replies."
Hmm! And now you've got yourself into sharing a room with a male Helge. I will ask for a single room. Yours; ours is paid for."
She looked away for a few moments, and we heard what the man was saying about Milan. He was obviously a tour guide, accustomed to introducing tourists to the city. Bobby, now Bobbie, glanced over at me, then away, and we heard more about Milan. Then she murmured:
"More my mistake."
"I don't think so."
"You shouldn't have to pay for a single room ... for my mistake."
"Still don't think it was just yours. I will."
There was another pause, more talking from the tour guide. Without looking at me, she said:
"Still don't want you to. ... At our age, just twin beds ..., a couple of times in China, Tibet, we all had to share a room."
"You've been to Tibet?"
"Quite a few years ago."
"But all of you wasn't like ...," I replied, not finishing the comparison with just the two of us sharing a room.
Had she nodded? "At our age" - fifty, mine; hers? I didn't want to steal a glance, thinking that when I first looked at her, that she was younger, that much younger not to have suggested that our ages were close enough for her to have said that. The guide was still talking, but the bus was turning a corner in the city. She looked over at me in the dim light in the bus, and I looked at her. She did look younger, like my first impression of her. She smiled wryly and said:
"Better than letting everyone else know that we made a mistake. I can, if you can."
If she thought I could? At least, it had been a question. How old did she think I was with my first gray hairs? She didn't have any, but women usually don't let them show. If she thought we could, and it saved me to price of single rooms? I shrugged, nodding, wondering, hoping that she couldn't see in the dim light that my cheeks had flushed a little. She wasn't looking at me and murmured:
"It will be all right. I know a couple of people here, but I didn't tell them I would be meeting anyone. Nice people, they will maybe just smile, when our names are called to get our room key.
So was it. I tried to look nonchalant, when our names were called together, and we followed the others to the elevator with our bags. Then a man looked at us, apparently someone who knew her, and smiled again. Bobbie smiled and introduced me: "Helge, an old friend. We collect the same things."
I was getting better about not blushing and responded:
"Her collection is better than mine."
"You're being polite. I wish I had a couple of pieces in yours that I have seen, that you have shown me," she replied with nice smile.
I understood that her last words wanted to imply that she hadn't just seen email images of them, and replied: "Yes, that was nice, also what you showed me."
The elevator came, and the person who had smiled at her disappeared. She was standing close enough to me that it was unobtrusive when she held my hand, just long enough for me to return her clasp. Apparently, I had said the right thing to confirm that we were old friends. We got on the next elevator with other people, then got off on our floor. Rolling our bags to our room, she gave me a smile and said:
"I do think we are 'old friends', but not like what he might have thought."
"Me too," I agreed with a slight smirk, adding: "but now he does."
"Afraid so," she agreed, while I unlocked the door to our room.
I was relieved to see that there were two separate single beds in the not so large room. A double bed and single bed would have made us have to discuss who slept in which one. We still could have, but Bobbie immediately put her suitcase on the one nearest the bathroom and wardrobe. We were going to be there three nights, two more in Venice. She began to hang up clothes, and I did, having to walk from my suitcase around the end of her bed, having time to look at her better. Maybe she looked my age, but nicely so.
We had to change for dinner and following reception, hosted in the gallery of rug and textile dealer. Bobbie took her toilet things and clothes and excused herself to go in the bathroom, after asking if I had to use it. I could have, but said that I didn't. She disappeared, and I changed into my suit, leaving off my tie and jacket to wash my face, when she returned. I had heard the toilet flush. Then she returned with fresh lipstick and wearing a nice dress that looked practical for packing and traveling.
I grabbed my toilet kit and disappeared in the bathroom, returning as soon as I could. She was sitting on the chair, studying the conference program. While I was tying my necktie, she commented that it was a nice paisley pattern, much more similar to the Kashmir textiles we knew than most paisley ties - why I had bought it and was wearing it for the conference. Pleased with her comment, I grabbed my jacket and we went down to dinner.
We introduced ourselves to a couple we didn't know and sat with them, all serving ourselves at the buffet and sharing a bottle of wine, which I insisted on paying for, agreeing that the other man could treat us the next time. Then the group trooped off to a nearby carpet gallery.
The dealer had, of course, decorated it with textiles for us to see and maybe buy. A couple of girls with trays of filled wine glasses offered us something to drink, and not just once. In the crowd, we saw the man who had smiled at the elevator, who smiled again. Bobbie had to introduce me to a couple of other acquaintances. When we were inspecting a textile in a corner, she murmured:
"I don't know if you are being good or bad for my reputation."
"Good, I hope. If anyone here knew me, you would be good for mine."
"Hmmm?" she responded, but with a smile, and when I raised my glass, she did, and we drank together.
Maybe she only had two glasses of wine, I had three, while we looked at and discussed all the textiles, also with other people who were more familiar with pieces we didn't know much about. After an hour or so, the party was over, and we all returned to the hotel, now in a much looser groups, since we knew the way. We heard someone remark that the night was still young in Italy, and it was, from the younger people we saw still drinking at outside tables. We continued towards the hotel, however.
