There are dozens of photographs of us from that summer — looking like giddy lovers in a rowboat in Sevilla, fighting over a drippy candle on a night tour of Salamanca, prancing like fools in a fountain at the palace in Córdoba.
We argued playfully in that spicy foreign tongue – flirtation’s flimsy guise.
“¡Que no!”
“¡Que si, mujer!”
“Cuídate, guapeton. ¡Te doy!”
He left gifts for me in my shoulder bag, wrapped in sheets of Madrid’s daily newspaper – a local artist’s CD, pressed poppies, a lizard. The lizard turned out to be a stowaway from Altamira, but I gave Sean credit. And he gave me a piggy back ride when my sandals hurt. Who climbs a mountain in heels, mujer?
In a packed bull arena one scalding night in late June, Ricky Martin stopped mid-song and called out to us from the stage. In a sea of pulsing bodies, tall, conspicuously-American Sean wouldn’t dance.
“Why aren’t you dancing? Everyone else is Dancing.”
“Me falta el ritmo.” I lack rhythm.
“I feel sorry for your compañera. But we’ll give you another chance. I’m going to try this again, and perhaps she can help you find your rhythm?”
The crowd cheered and the song (and Ricky’s gyrating hips) began again. I moved up closer, and from behind, placed one hand on his left hip, the other on his chest. “Así, cuñado.”
Cuñado. Translated literally, it means brother-in-law, but it functions as a term of endearment — a fond, yet sterile one. But to no one’s surprise that night, the electricity between my hand and his chest contradicted my language as well as our chummy kinship.
The following afternoon, we moved quietly through our weekly art seminar in the Prado, the two of us eventually ducking out of another long lecture on Velázquez to one of the cooler, less crowded exhibits on the floor below. We stood shoulder to shoulder in front of Goya’s Black Paintings making small talk.
“You’re invited to cena on Saturday.” My host mother was in love with Sean and he was a regular dinner guest.
He turned, touched my elbow and I remember electric shocks ran down my fingers.
“Mandona,” he said (mandona, the bossy one) “Me encantas.”
You enchant me.
“Igual.”
Ditto. I answered without looking at him.
He shouldered my bag as he always did, and we left through the museum’s rear entrance, disappearing into the botanical gardens. We stayed for the better part of the afternoon.
There are no pictures of what happened next.
damn…why am I so turned on all of a sudden???
You and me both, Bri. I had to go take a walk.
I live in Madrid and it’s a nice city, but reading that made me fall in love with it. Why don’t I have experiences like that?
Oh, I forgot the p.s. so here it is:
My sister climbs mountains in heels. Usually to get a good picture. And she said her little red kitten heels are just as good as a pair of hiking boots.
Oh, god! Madrid. My first European city. I was 19. I lived with a host family on the calle de Serrano for eight months while studying language and literatue at the University. What a delightful city. I fell in love with the Prado. And I feel in love. And there are no pictures of that, either.
I have never been back. But one day, querida, one day …
Well, fell in love, actually.
“He shouldered my bad as he always did…”
This is my favorite Freudian typo ever. At least for today.
oh god. fixed! fixed!
Stunning. Simply stunning.
How do you come back to real life after a time like that??
wonderful.
now, tell us about nudity and getting arrested. please!!!!!
NICE circular structure you’ve got there. Great post.
And yes, flirting in foreign languages goes so much further than in plain English, hence my desire to learn as many as possible.
Ai ya yi!
Mi hermana, que rico!
Mmmm…
Now I’m hungry for paella. When we getting those girl drinks? Some sangria might be in order.
sounds great. just what I thought I might find in a glorious weekend in Italy.
Well, the shopping kicked butt. The romance of an italian private investigator, left a little to be desired.
I suppose it might have gone better if I spoke Italian. The only language we both vaguely had in common was Spanish so there we were, horribly using Spanish to communicate something that just didn’t seem to be there.
Long story short: spent from 3:30-4:30 am convincing him that I don’t bring men I just met back to my hotel room. [Well at least not last weekend]
Oooh, so juicy! Yes, when will the girl blogger party be, so we can drink beautiful things and hear more spicy foreign fish tales!
After this, I want a margarita. And am more excited than ever about meeting Fish and my fellow NYC girl bloggers. Why doesn’t my life have stories like this? I’ll have to live vicariously through others. All I have are stories about working at a college and in the theatre…