el mundo es un pañuelo

It's Friday night. I go to a really great Indian restaurant in the Born District with a girlfriend. We are having a glass of wine before dinner, when 3 men sit at table next to us. We notice that they are all very tall and good looking. But there is something familiar about one in particular. It feels like I have seen him before. In fact, he looks just like the famous French soccer player who just moved to Barcelona. The cute one. I mention this to my friend. "No!!", she says, "it couldn´t be him". Minutes later, the familiar man makes a joke that we can hear, and we all laugh. I ain't no groupie, and plus, I'm American. I don't watch soccer so I don't know that it's him; so I turn my attention back to my homegirl. Until I hear one guy offer another 50 euro if he can name the tune playing. The offer-ee is squinting and screwing up his face as he struggles to remember the title of the early 90's semi-hit. At 50 euros, I'm jumping out of my skin to answer. But I'm not so sure I'm eligible. Hot soccer player sees me bursting at the seams. 'Um, I think she knows,' he says, smiling at me. I almost forget what I'm going to say. We talk about music for a while, everything old school from stevie wonder to shabba ranks to human league. We are an international, musical bunch. We are also, (well, most of us, anyway) exceedingly fine. Then the man and his friends prepare to leave. As they bid us goodbye, I ask the man if he is a soccer player. "Yes, I am, " he replies. "Well," I say, smiling, "it was very nice to meet you". He smiles back, turns around, and follows his friends out the door. 

Here's hoping that it is, indeed, a small world. I never did collect that 50 euro.

American History EX

Believe it or not, Europeans have a very strange idea of what it means to be black and American. Some people only consider very, very dark people, black. The rest of us with even the slightest hint of milk chocolate or caramel tones are considered 'mixed'. Some think they know too much, and try to tell me that I shouldn't be ashamed of my African roots which always gets me salty. Then it dawns on me that they think I'm talking about Ghana, when I say I'm from Guyana. We get a map, clear up the confusion and all is well. And then there are the really daft ones. Like the Italian, Robert, for whom no geographical (or logical) intervention is enough.

I should have known from the minute his bright orange trousers woke me from my sleepy Sunday routine in my favorite café that he would be an ass. But no, my faith in humanity took over and I let him in. I let him talk me into having dinner with him that night. I mean, this is Barçelona and all men are on that fuck-first-eat-on-your-own-time schedule. I was beginning to think chivalry was the dead horse everyone continued to kick mercilessly. Then he came along, in his really Italian pants with his really Italian talk. I accepted his dinner invitation. In spite of the fact that he kept popping his collar like someone was questioning his authority. It was like some unconscious need to physically reassert his dopeness, again and again.

Despite this, I wasn't hating our Greek meal. After our very tasty vegetarian entreé, the conversation turned to America. Now all Europeans think they know American history. So none of our heated discussion was new to me. Until he started telling me about the pinnacle of American history. The 1920's to be exact. When Italians ruled America, like Frank Sinatra and Al Capone. When black people did not have the cultural or political power to have any influence. Besides, black people were only freed from slavery in 1965. By Martin Luther King. I swear. This is what he said. He also said he was a novelist.

This man still expected me to lick the very cojones he had to say all this to my face.