What is wrong?
“Expectations were like fine pottery. The harder you held them, the more likely they were to crack.” - The Way of Kings, Brandon Sanderson
I am more often wrong than right and so is everyone. It is inevitable that your beliefs might be proven wrong and you might change your mind about everything . At the end of the day, there are very few truly and objective correct answers and most of human decision making is merely guesswork.
Then, why are we so afraid of being wrong? Why are we so pissed when things don’t go according to plan? Why do we hold on to beliefs that have clearly been proven detrimental? Why do we stay in toxic relationships? That is at the end of the day really the most important question. If everyone is wrong all the time, why does it frighten us?
The funny thing about my birthday weekend which I didn’t extensively plan but did get annoyed when it didn’t go according to plan. You know when you go to a restaurant, and you walk in and realise this is not really the place you want to be at; but then you don’t leave. This restaurant staff will never see you again and yet you feel too proud to leave. You know that you have to stay. That is idiotic. The embarrassment that we avoid so desperately is simply an admission of wrongness.
I had a pretty boring birthday and by the next day I was annoyed. I was wrong to not plan it, to not do things and to not even admit that I fucked up. This resulted in long hours in bed; and eventually forcing myself to leave. Admitting that I messed up, that I couldn’t change my birthday but I can do things differently today was the best thing that happened in this entire trip. There is one big flaw (and gift) in my life: I hate acting like a tourist which means I really hate doing things that one might do as a tourist. Whether it is to go to the Gaudi buildings around town or walk through the gothic parts of the city: I was too full of myself to do it. Though, I do like the idea of stumbling myself into unexpected situations.
My hatred of crowds added with childhood memories of sticking to a pre-planned itinerary makes me a terrible tourist. After Barcelona though, I now know: we tend to regret more things we don’t do than the ones we do do. So, what did I do or didn’t do last Saturday night? There’s a tapas bar called Vinitus and on first sight I knew it was a place I wanted to go. So, after accepting defeat that this trip was ruined because I had been wrong to not plan it: I waited in line to get to a bar seat in Vinitus.
Vinitus is a brilliant and lively spot. The staff speaks English but so do most people in Barcelona and it is a very hip place. Most people who are there are in their 30s I would say. People who can appreciate good food and have enough income to pay for it. Now, I am projecting my opinions and maybe college students love Vinitus; I do not know. At the bar, I started drinking white wine and ordered tapas. I had my book with me, so I read and ate and drank for two hours straight. After being properly buzzed I ordered some good old carrot cake and left.
The night could’ve ended there. But it didn’t.
Who else goes to a Chupitos bar and orders a drink with absinthe? The answer is nobody
Enter: Espit Chupitos.
After ordering two of the strongest drinks the bartender was willing to make for me, I progressed onto feeling sick halfway through my first drink. This gave me the brilliant idea of carrying my drinks. Now, this is fine in Hong Kong because you can drink outside but not in Spain. Uh oh. In any case, now that my memory is foggy, I don’t know what I did with the drinks. I know I had them in both my hands.
After this point, I do not have a straight line memory. I have flashes: a bar, a bartender helping me. Me giving my phone to charge. Me smoking up (possibly) rolled by the said bartender. Talking to random strangers about love and loss. Buying snacks. Falling. Getting back to my room. Passing out. All is in flashes.
Next day, I was glad to be alive. Even though I could barely straighten my leg because I had scraped my knee so badly, even though somehow I was missing 50€ that I had on my person, even though my phone screen was cracked and my head was throbbing like I was dead. I was alive and nothing else mattered.
At such occasions, you first go back to sleep but when you wake up you start thinking: why is it so hard to accept when you are wrong. Also, what even is objectively wrong? Some might call my irresponsible drinking wrong; and I would defend it as one of the most fun experiences of my life. Isn’t all life just chance?
Only after that night I realised that I already knew the things that brought me joy. But, I had convinced myself that those things were the “wrong” means of happiness. Could my initial assumption be wrong? This is defined as wrong, because I think there is a right way but what if that assumption is flawed in itself.
What is most important: the intent, the action or the result?