i get lots of questions about life in barcelona. people want to know about finding work, finding apartments, visas, food, dating, language, and various cultural differences. but black women, in particular, always want to know 'how hard it is' to be a black woman here. you know, because they equate 'black woman' with wild, savage, hottentot venus, deviant sexuality and of course, prostitution. a reader wrote to me awhile back to discuss this very concern--
i hear how wonderful barcelona is but for a black woman things can be a lot different. i lived in dubai for a year and though it was fun and i met some great people, many locals assumed that i was a prostitute because the majority of africans over there were doing just that. let me know how you find it . . .
this seems to be such cause for concern for black women coming to spain, that i decided to address the issue publicly. i've put together a few thoughts on what i've learned so far about not being mistaken for a prostitute. at least in barcelona, because i hear it's soooo much worse in other parts of spain.
1. don't hang out where the prostitutes do.
good luck with that. the ramblas are a treelined two way, located right in the heart of the city. the dirtiest, most crowded and commercial spot, las ramblas stretch from plaza catalunya, the city's most central point, straight to the water. this is also where various strange performers hustle tourists for change, like the guy who blacks up and rocks a dread wig for photo ops as brazilian soccer star, ronaldhiño. i've written about this hot mess before. this is also where most of the prostitutes work. here, and the nearby rambla raval. for the most part, no one will think you're a prostitute unless you're walking aimlessly along the ramblas in the dead of night. like when i left dostrece at 2am once, and the ramblas were the only thing that stood between me and a good night's sleep.
2. say, 'i'm not a prostitute'.
this very night, some drunk brit approached me at the top of the ramblas and was like 'pssssst'. i told him, sweetie i'm not a prostitute and pointed him towards the action. he mumbled, 'thanks', and kept it moving. so boring.
3. stop thinking everyone thinks you're a prostitute.
the only reason i knew this man thought i might be a prostitute was because he said, 'thanks' when i said the prostitutes are over yonder. otherwise, how can you tell the difference between men who want to fuck you and men who want to fuck you for money? you can't. the approach seems to be the same. it's YOU who takes the leap. some guy yells out, guapa, morena or negrita de mi vida (my personal favorite). you automatically think, 'he's referring to me by my color! therefore he MUST think i'm a prostitute [shift into anger mode]!! we are officially the only race of women taught to be mad when someone points out the obvious--you're black and you're beautiful. like your color is a problem. whereas guys yell, 'oye rubia!', or 'hey blondie' all day long, and blonde girls are not required to be angry. until someone actually disrespects you (which can happen in any context) kick up your heels and enjoy the male attention.
4. wear heels.
let's debunk the two biggest myths about prostitutes in spain. the first would be that they're all african or black. another time i was standing on the ramblas talking to amelie. it was a sunday, the lord's day, after dark. the streets were still full, and full of working girls. to our left stood about 5 really light-skinned women. and i use that term loosely, because i'm sure one was a man. to my ear, they spoke a 'caribbean' spanish, like dominicans. there was one really short, overweight one, wearing an oversized baseball jacket and munching on a samosa. (or was it an empanada?) she was quick. she spotted two red-faced, striped-shirt clad guiris and pounced. she hung onto her customer's buttoned down shirt sleeve, and spoke to him in really good english, where are you from? you're really handsome, you know? i was impressed.
i was impressed by her command of the english language. i was impressed with how she chose just the right target, as he got even redder, and started flirting back. but also i was impressed with her presentation. sneakers. oversized clothing. smoking and munching on takeaway snacks. clearly not a gym rat. i looked at the others. they had the same look. the second myth debunked: as if you didn't know, real prostitution is not like 'pretty woman' prostitution. barcelona prostitutes are way more casual. they rely much more on instinct and lyrics.
5. so do the opposite. show your tits.
scene from the night referenced in #2, just before being hissed at by the british guy.
me: i should start walking. in flats, someone will definitely mistake me for a prostitute.
mymixed(blackdadwhitemom)friend: not me! because i'm light-skinned, no one ever mistakes me for a prostitute. i know it's a huge double standard and i'm sorry, but . . .
this from a girl who just five minutes before this exchange went all girls gone wild, lifting her shirt in exchange for free tequila shots from the bartenders. but then, the working girls i've observed never show much of anything pre-trick. showing your tits for drinks? well, only drunk americans do that. seriously, hearing black women talk about this 'issue' is much more annoying than the actual 'issue' itself.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
lost in translation 10
dinner last night with 6 frenchies and a spanish-speaking russian. i tuned out for just a minute to check out the boys at the next table. listen to the sounds of the nearby zen waterfall in our cute japanese buffet. savor the grilled salmon. when i came to, i heard--
sid: il est an-sue-por -tah-bleh!!
(he is insufferable!!)
me: ¿quien es een-sue-por-tah-blay?
(who is insufferable?)
amelie: how would you say in english?
sid: je sais pas, uuuuh . . . unsupportable?
(i don't know . . .)
me: non. 'unsupportable' en anglais c'est pas le meme chose--
(no. unsupportable is not the same thing in english--)
amelie: it's like unbearable!
me: je sais le mot 'an-sue-por-tah-bleh', je veux dire quí, who or what is--
(i know the word, but i'm asking who or what--)
sid: insufferable!!
amelie: yes, it's like when you can't--
me: what the hell . . . te pregunto, DE QUIÉN HABLAIS?? QUIÉN ES EEN-SUE-POR-TAH-BLAY??
(no, i'm asking WHO ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?? WHO'S INSUFFERABLE?)
amelie and sid: oh!!
sid: you mean, who are we talking about?
me: sí, pero olvídalo.
(yeah, but forget it.)
sid: il est an-sue-por -tah-bleh!!
(he is insufferable!!)
me: ¿quien es een-sue-por-tah-blay?
(who is insufferable?)
amelie: how would you say in english?
sid: je sais pas, uuuuh . . . unsupportable?
(i don't know . . .)
me: non. 'unsupportable' en anglais c'est pas le meme chose--
(no. unsupportable is not the same thing in english--)
amelie: it's like unbearable!
me: je sais le mot 'an-sue-por-tah-bleh', je veux dire quí, who or what is--
(i know the word, but i'm asking who or what--)
sid: insufferable!!
amelie: yes, it's like when you can't--
me: what the hell . . . te pregunto, DE QUIÉN HABLAIS?? QUIÉN ES EEN-SUE-POR-TAH-BLAY??
(no, i'm asking WHO ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?? WHO'S INSUFFERABLE?)
amelie and sid: oh!!
sid: you mean, who are we talking about?
me: sí, pero olvídalo.
(yeah, but forget it.)
Thursday, October 23, 2008
the key
i found salsa while living in costa rica, as a volunteer english teacher at escuela san marcos in limón. for each measure of music, two wooden sticks pulse on beats 2, 3, 5, 6 1/2 and 8. it's the clave, the key around which traditional latin music is built. i fell in love with it. it became the rhythm of my very life. i don't remember if i've ever loved a man so much. i lived for that '3 minute affair', just me, a partner and the music. the outside world did not exist.
when i moved back to new york, i found eddie and maria torres. if you've ever seen old videos of legendary latin musician and master timbalero, tito puente, eddie and his wife and partner, maria torres, are the dancers in ruffly, sparkly costumes. they became my teachers. i became completely obsessed. always practicing. always dancing.
when i moved to england, i found a dance partner we'll call noel, won a european salsa championship, and spent the next two years traveling, teaching and performing.
when noel started a dance group, he invited a young south african recently transplanted from capetown to dance with us. he'd been a dancer in capetown, performing and teaching 'cape jazz', which i believe is closer to swing in its partner dancing aspect than classical jazz dancing. he was warm and familiar. he was colored, openly identified himself as such even though to me he looked mixed. but like americans, south africans are not afraid to talk about race. we bonded immediately, and became great friends. we'd stay awake early into the morning, before dvd's, watching the great salsa dancers on vhs. breaking down their moves, their rhythms, their styles. he loved the dance and was hungry for information. i told him everything i knew. we shared one of the purest friendships i think i've ever had.
the confusion between my dance partner, noel and i, overshadowed it. of course, there were feelings between noel and i. neither of us could admit it. but then, i didn't need a pledge of undying love and affection. i needed his respect. i needed him to acknowledge all of those hours i spent also teaching him what i knew about spinning, about the basics of footwork, and body movement--all of the things i'd spent years learning from the 'greats' .
it was the lack of respect from someone i cared about (and the drama that ensued at salsa conventions across europe, from scandinavia to the mediterranean and back) that sent me running from london. to paris. then on to new york. to a whole different life. the partnership dissolved. the dance group disbanded. i moved on, and left pieces, huge pieces, of myself behind. including the south african, who i saw last week for the first time in 6 years.
'remember you gave me a copy of the dilated peoples album for my birthday, and wrote inside, this is the soundtrack of your life. i still have it', he told me.
i didn't remember this.
'or remember when you moved back to new york, and i called and told you that [another amazing salsa dancer and teacher] frankie martinez wouldn't answer my emails. you said, i'm going to the club tonight and i'll talk to him. don't worry. the next day frankie wrote me back and said, ieishah told me that she'd kick my ass if i didn't. when frankie came to the uk, he was supposed to give me an hour-long private lesson. he stayed with me for 5 hours.'
i didn't remember this either. and i've always considered myself someone with a memory like an elephant.
and so when the south african, now a UK Dance Award winner and co-owner of a dance school in bournemouth with his beautiful partner, held my face last week and said you changed the course of my life, i didn't believe it. i barely remembered it. but still it felt like he brought a piece of me back.
when i moved back to new york, i found eddie and maria torres. if you've ever seen old videos of legendary latin musician and master timbalero, tito puente, eddie and his wife and partner, maria torres, are the dancers in ruffly, sparkly costumes. they became my teachers. i became completely obsessed. always practicing. always dancing.
when i moved to england, i found a dance partner we'll call noel, won a european salsa championship, and spent the next two years traveling, teaching and performing.
when noel started a dance group, he invited a young south african recently transplanted from capetown to dance with us. he'd been a dancer in capetown, performing and teaching 'cape jazz', which i believe is closer to swing in its partner dancing aspect than classical jazz dancing. he was warm and familiar. he was colored, openly identified himself as such even though to me he looked mixed. but like americans, south africans are not afraid to talk about race. we bonded immediately, and became great friends. we'd stay awake early into the morning, before dvd's, watching the great salsa dancers on vhs. breaking down their moves, their rhythms, their styles. he loved the dance and was hungry for information. i told him everything i knew. we shared one of the purest friendships i think i've ever had.
the confusion between my dance partner, noel and i, overshadowed it. of course, there were feelings between noel and i. neither of us could admit it. but then, i didn't need a pledge of undying love and affection. i needed his respect. i needed him to acknowledge all of those hours i spent also teaching him what i knew about spinning, about the basics of footwork, and body movement--all of the things i'd spent years learning from the 'greats' .
it was the lack of respect from someone i cared about (and the drama that ensued at salsa conventions across europe, from scandinavia to the mediterranean and back) that sent me running from london. to paris. then on to new york. to a whole different life. the partnership dissolved. the dance group disbanded. i moved on, and left pieces, huge pieces, of myself behind. including the south african, who i saw last week for the first time in 6 years.
'remember you gave me a copy of the dilated peoples album for my birthday, and wrote inside, this is the soundtrack of your life. i still have it', he told me.
i didn't remember this.
'or remember when you moved back to new york, and i called and told you that [another amazing salsa dancer and teacher] frankie martinez wouldn't answer my emails. you said, i'm going to the club tonight and i'll talk to him. don't worry. the next day frankie wrote me back and said, ieishah told me that she'd kick my ass if i didn't. when frankie came to the uk, he was supposed to give me an hour-long private lesson. he stayed with me for 5 hours.'
i didn't remember this either. and i've always considered myself someone with a memory like an elephant.
and so when the south african, now a UK Dance Award winner and co-owner of a dance school in bournemouth with his beautiful partner, held my face last week and said you changed the course of my life, i didn't believe it. i barely remembered it. but still it felt like he brought a piece of me back.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
on accomplishment
the sagrada familia, the temple of the sacred family, is one of the biggest landmarks in barcelona. they started building it in 1882, and appointed (ubiquitous catalan architect) antoni gaudi, project director in 1883. he used different types of specially treated stone found deep in the forests of montjuic, and did a lot of cool things with virtually life-sized, geometric-yet-life-like sculptures of jesus and mary and them. the effect is light and sparkly and not traditional at all. i almost missed the pews, only about 20 rows of them. not many for the most extravagant, famous church in spain. and i didn't see even one pulpit. what i did see was loads of construction work. not reconstruction or repairs. construction. in almost every corner of the church, there's tarp and tools. sawdust and scaffolding. hammers, nails, and men at work. the original blueprints, from about 125 years ago have not been completed. there's a 125-meter tower of the virgin mary, a 170-meter central dome for jesus christ, four belfries, all waiting to be built. like the avant guard nature of the design could only have been meant for the future.
imagine being so prolific that 82 years after your death, they still haven't been able to complete your work. imagine being one of the construction workers, part of a team charged with the task of making reality of a more than century-old vision; with carrying on the work of a genius.
the problem is that i've been stuck. i've totally hit a wall. it's not like i'm not trying to keep a nation employed for the next 200 years. or build a fucking landmark with my bare hands. i just want to finish a book. keep up a blog. crank out a screenplay or two. create 28 hours of fun and organized language lessons a week. and i wonder if gaudi had ever hit walls?
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
flamenco soul, an update
i've decided to stalk pitingo. try to make sense of this flamenco soul thing. his new album has reached #5 on the spanish charts, there must be something to it. i found this news clip from 2006, to promote the release of pitingo's very first disc, pitingo con habichuelas. this clip answers a lot of questions, not in the interview, but in the performance. unlike this year's release, soulería, 'pitingo con habichuelas' is not an album of remakes. it's pure, traditional flamenco mixed with elements of gospel and soul. so much more interesting. so much more a matter of expression over interpretation. when he says 'soul' here, i feel like he's referencing the being inhabiting his kind of hot self, not just a vocal style or tonal quality. at 1 minute 30, pitingo breaks down flamenco soul thus: i think any black singer can learn to sing flamenco, and any flamenco singer can--very quickly--learn to sing gospel and soul.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
democrats abroad, part 2: talkin' bout energy
yaknowcomeonnowwegottaheatthiseconomyupcauseGOSHdarnitdoggoneitjoei'mtalkinstraighttalkstraighttotheamericanpeopleandgivinabigshoutouttomainstreetwasiliaimeanthereyagoagainsenatorO'BIDEN--
--{{{{{screeeeeeech}}}}}}}}} who the fuck is senator o'biden? is it me, or did she totally lift her whole style from tommy lee jones in the fugitive?
democrats abroad took over the sala de actas, a stately little mini-theater at the ateneau barcelonés, to host a big screen showing of the vice presidential debate on friday night. it beat the hell out of watching it alone on my mac. i met up with rich kurtzman again, the vice president of the bcn chapter of dems abroad, who shared some 'fun' stats: guess who's up in the florida polls??. president of dems abroad spain, alana moceri, made a leather jacket-clad appearance to spread even more joy: democrats abroad has 2500 voters in spain. republicans abroad has about 100. dems abroad is so big it enjoys state party status and sends voting delegates. repubs abroad does not. this one had us grinning the smug grins of uppity liberals.
morceri also assured us that you should register to vote even if you're illegal, evading student loans, or otherwise running from the law, because dems abroad is not connected to the federal government. as rich said, every time you meet an american ask, 'have you voted yet?' . . . wait . . . 'are you a democrat?', then, 'have you voted'? all expats (or tell your expat friends), register online at www.democratsabroad.org. each state has a different deadline, for some, that deadline was yesterday (the 4th).
i'mnotheretoanswerquestionsnotyoursorthemoderator'si'mtalkinstraighttalkstraighttotheamericanpeoplelikemelikemelikemeAMAVERICK!!darnitcanicallyajoecauseifnoti'mjustgon'makeupadamnnameferyahowboutO'BIDENgoshdarnitsenatorcanwetalkaboutenergy???
i love my fellow democrats abroad. they were young old, vets, newbies, black, white. but what we had in common was that we all thought joe biden was a star and sarah palin was a hot mess. we laughed when joe exhaled a loud al gore-esque sigh at one of palin's numerous non-answers. we cried when joe said, 'i have to challenge the idea that because i'm a man, i don't know what it's like to be a single parent', with a teardrop in the vocal chord. and the line i repeat each night before drifting off to sleep: 'if you don't understand the cause, it's virtually impossible to come up with a solution'. yes, can we freaking talk about energy?
in the wake of the debate, a crowd of happy, satisfied dems lingered outside the theater. happy and satisfied, like they'd all just been fed a plate of hot food and were ready for a nap. mark from chicago said, simply, 'joe cleaned up'. his cute girlfriend from chicago, as well, was like, 'palin was a train wreck!!' judy from california, who's been in spain for 20 years, said, 'i didn't know much about biden, but after this debate i really like him. palin's just creepy'. they all had the appropriate responses. which is so much more than we can say for mrs. palin.
--{{{{{screeeeeeech}}}}}}}}} who the fuck is senator o'biden? is it me, or did she totally lift her whole style from tommy lee jones in the fugitive?
democrats abroad took over the sala de actas, a stately little mini-theater at the ateneau barcelonés, to host a big screen showing of the vice presidential debate on friday night. it beat the hell out of watching it alone on my mac. i met up with rich kurtzman again, the vice president of the bcn chapter of dems abroad, who shared some 'fun' stats: guess who's up in the florida polls??. president of dems abroad spain, alana moceri, made a leather jacket-clad appearance to spread even more joy: democrats abroad has 2500 voters in spain. republicans abroad has about 100. dems abroad is so big it enjoys state party status and sends voting delegates. repubs abroad does not. this one had us grinning the smug grins of uppity liberals.
morceri also assured us that you should register to vote even if you're illegal, evading student loans, or otherwise running from the law, because dems abroad is not connected to the federal government. as rich said, every time you meet an american ask, 'have you voted yet?' . . . wait . . . 'are you a democrat?', then, 'have you voted'? all expats (or tell your expat friends), register online at www.democratsabroad.org. each state has a different deadline, for some, that deadline was yesterday (the 4th).
i'mnotheretoanswerquestionsnotyoursorthemoderator'si'mtalkinstraighttalkstraighttotheamericanpeoplelikemelikemelikemeAMAVERICK!!darnitcanicallyajoecauseifnoti'mjustgon'makeupadamnnameferyahowboutO'BIDENgoshdarnitsenatorcanwetalkaboutenergy???
i love my fellow democrats abroad. they were young old, vets, newbies, black, white. but what we had in common was that we all thought joe biden was a star and sarah palin was a hot mess. we laughed when joe exhaled a loud al gore-esque sigh at one of palin's numerous non-answers. we cried when joe said, 'i have to challenge the idea that because i'm a man, i don't know what it's like to be a single parent', with a teardrop in the vocal chord. and the line i repeat each night before drifting off to sleep: 'if you don't understand the cause, it's virtually impossible to come up with a solution'. yes, can we freaking talk about energy?
in the wake of the debate, a crowd of happy, satisfied dems lingered outside the theater. happy and satisfied, like they'd all just been fed a plate of hot food and were ready for a nap. mark from chicago said, simply, 'joe cleaned up'. his cute girlfriend from chicago, as well, was like, 'palin was a train wreck!!' judy from california, who's been in spain for 20 years, said, 'i didn't know much about biden, but after this debate i really like him. palin's just creepy'. they all had the appropriate responses. which is so much more than we can say for mrs. palin.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
a wtf moment in world music
not long ago, antonio álvarez vélez from andalucia was a baggage handler at barajas airport in madrid and a flamenco singer between flights. then he changed his name to pitingo, coined the term 'flamenco soul' and here i am at a little ice cream shop in arenys del mar, deep in the heart of catalunya, watching him clap and riff his way through roberta flack's classic killing me softly, featuring the black heritage singers of new orleans, on a teeny tiny tv screen. (yeah, i went on another hike up the coast.) the line-up for his album soulería, released in april of this year, includes flamenco soul interpretations of 'no woman no cry', 'let it be', 'georgia on my mind', and 'smells like teen spirit'. gitano guitars, castanets, the passionate flamenco vibrato, the soulful r&b riff . . .
this may just be too much fusion. even for me. but i'll let you decide for yourself. so here's the clip. i do have a few questions, though. actually, this video begs many questions, (not the least of which is, why does pitingo pack up and leave the set before the show is over??) but i'll only ask a few:
1) what is the sister in the close-up at 2:10 thinking?
2) does she know there's a camera on her?
3) is that fine ass flamenco legend and former naomi cambell jump off, joaquín cortés, at 3:27?
4) why the choir robes? aren't they in a club?
5) why don't i hate this?
this may just be too much fusion. even for me. but i'll let you decide for yourself. so here's the clip. i do have a few questions, though. actually, this video begs many questions, (not the least of which is, why does pitingo pack up and leave the set before the show is over??) but i'll only ask a few:
1) what is the sister in the close-up at 2:10 thinking?
2) does she know there's a camera on her?
3) is that fine ass flamenco legend and former naomi cambell jump off, joaquín cortés, at 3:27?
4) why the choir robes? aren't they in a club?
5) why don't i hate this?
Thursday, October 2, 2008
"all you skirts know what's up with 2-1-3", or, the one where obama and i cuddle, or, democrats abroad part 1
i'd heard about bar/restaurant dostrece from an LA friend who spent a year of debauchery in barcelona, traveling around, making loads of friends and nailing every single one of them. (except me.) of course, you can do bcn like that, or you can do meaningful shit, like attend campaign countdown cocktail parties at bars owned by mexican american expats. i arrived a full 2 1/2 hours after the start of my first ever democrats abroad event at dostrece last night. and though mostly everyone had gone, i managed to meet the people who actually matter. like rich kurtzman, vice president of the barcelona chapter of democrats abroad.
in spain for 7 years, rich has worked with democrats abroad for about 3, first as a member of the national chapter in madrid, now in a more 'hands on' position as bcn vp. what does a dems abroad vp do? register voters. organize shit. boost patriotic sentiment amongst people who, by definition, are not patriotic. he reminds us erstwhile expats that out of sight is not out of mind. he connects the mothafuckin' dots. 'a vote for obama is a vote for the world'. words which did not come from rich, but rather one of dostrece's cute tatted up bartenders, but whatever. i did ask rich what he'd do if we (as in dems) lost this november: 'i don't think i'd be able to talk about politics for about a year.'
i managed to snag a barack obama poster off the wall, courtesy of my, um, tipsy friend, raquel, and abraham
one of the two mexican american transplants who share both a bloodline and ownership of dostrece. named for their cali zip code, dos trece started as a distant dream of abe's little brother's, after a particularly stimulating study abroad experience here. ten years later, they've owned dostrece at the mouth of the trendy raval barrio for 7, and stay on the grind around the clock to keep it cali. somehow, abe found the time to crack open a bottle of cuervo and entertain nosy, chatty american girls well after the lights came on and the gates went down. i've heard great things about the food, the brunches especially. the soundtrack, all hip hop all the time, is compiled meticulously. he even played talib kweli at raquel's request. but before i could picture myself there tasting thai curry with nachos to the sounds of d-o-double g, i had to know--is abe actually an obama supporter, or will dostrece be hosting republicans abroad next week? you know, balance and all that? he points to the obama/biden button hanging from some buddhist prayer beads around his neck: 'my brother just came back from the states and he's all excited, saying how you can really feel change coming over there. he got us involved.'
then obama and i cuddled.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
winding roads
i left my house for a coffee with crazy beautiful french girl amelie at 4pm on a sunday, intending to go straight home after an hour of catching up. i was wearing a vintage 'easy rider' t-shirt about 5 sizes too big. i hadn't even showered.
at 6, we were crossing the ramblas on our way home when a brass band in yellow t-shirts appeared, stopped in the middle of the streets and danced their way through a rollicking version of 'soul man' to a crowd of dozens.
the crowd was at least 200 by the time it followed the band across the street and into plaza real, everyone dancing like in a musical. amelie and i joined the cast.
'just a few minutes, then i have to go home', i warn amelie.
a man appears on the stage and says something in catalan. a new band appears in the square where the band in yellow had been playing. this band is all in white and clearly french. the swagger gave them away. amelie hates french people, so she suggests we go to find the other band, to ask where they play in barcelona. we find the one with the baritone sax, smoking by the stage.
'we're italian', he says. 'this is a-a-a-a concurso'.
'oh, a contest', amelie provides the english word.
'yes, it's a contest between jazz bands from all over europe', he says.
we decide we'll stay until 8:30 when the winner's announced.
at 9, a portuguese 'gypsy-style' band descended from the stage as champions, and took their place in the middle of the square for one last song. i suggested we take just one more walk through the crowd to look for cute boys.
the band was long finished when we made our way to one of the square's four exits. a really tall guy walked by.
'you're tall.'
i say it under my breath. he turns immediately and looks in my eyes, as if he'd heard. we follow his really tall self down calle ferran into plaza sant jaume, where amelie decides to find a bathroom. i'm waiting outside the café where amelie's draining, when a 50-ish spanish man approaches. he puts his hand on the centuries-old stone wall behind my head and leans in. in color and construction, his bottom row of teeth resembles stonehedge. he commences to mack.
'oh, you're from new york. bodyallain was here this weekend.'
'who?'
'bodyallain.'
'who??'
'bodyallain, el director de vicky christina barcelona.'
'ooookay! woody allen--'
his spanish is del pueblo. but his entourage and his cojones give me the feeling he does something in life that allows him to believe he has the right to corner pyt's in public squares. he's so entertaining.
amelie comes out of the bathroom. i introduce them.
'this is my friend--'
he points at me and informs amelie,
'this is my girlfriend!'
mistake.
'really?', she says, 'because she's actually my girlfriend!!'
she takes me by the arm and marches away. we end up just a few feet from tall guy. she stops. hands on hips. springer in the damn square.
'i didn't like how he was looking at you, like you're an object. just like you were a little doll or something!!'
she's steaming. now i'm REALLY fucking entertained. my mouth cannot close for a good 2 minutes.
tall guy would later tell me he thought we were lovers. still he took a chance.
'would you two like to get a drink?'
'um, hi! and you are?'
he tells us he's the serb. everyone's sitting on the floor, eyes focused on the constitution building. music floods the square. a light show begins. two projectors and a sound system create a series of images in celebration of the cultures of the world. the serb is as inspired as we are.
'i have a theater company for teenagers at home. i wonder if we could do something like this.'
amelie and i are hungry. we like his energy. at 11, we head to dinner at the organic food spot, juicy jones, and invite him along. we find out that he used to play basketball for the serbian national team and is now a theater actor. he's a bull in a china shop. he quotes ibsen and shakespeare. he's an anachronism.
after dinner, amelie heads home. the serb offers to walk with me. we stumble on a concert in parc ciutadella.
'is that merengue?!!?'
'you want to check it out?'.
'just a few minutes. then i have to go home.'
he laughs. takes my hand. when i get home it's 2am.
at 6, we were crossing the ramblas on our way home when a brass band in yellow t-shirts appeared, stopped in the middle of the streets and danced their way through a rollicking version of 'soul man' to a crowd of dozens.
the crowd was at least 200 by the time it followed the band across the street and into plaza real, everyone dancing like in a musical. amelie and i joined the cast.
'just a few minutes, then i have to go home', i warn amelie.
a man appears on the stage and says something in catalan. a new band appears in the square where the band in yellow had been playing. this band is all in white and clearly french. the swagger gave them away. amelie hates french people, so she suggests we go to find the other band, to ask where they play in barcelona. we find the one with the baritone sax, smoking by the stage.
'we're italian', he says. 'this is a-a-a-a concurso'.
'oh, a contest', amelie provides the english word.
'yes, it's a contest between jazz bands from all over europe', he says.
we decide we'll stay until 8:30 when the winner's announced.
at 9, a portuguese 'gypsy-style' band descended from the stage as champions, and took their place in the middle of the square for one last song. i suggested we take just one more walk through the crowd to look for cute boys.
the band was long finished when we made our way to one of the square's four exits. a really tall guy walked by.
'you're tall.'
i say it under my breath. he turns immediately and looks in my eyes, as if he'd heard. we follow his really tall self down calle ferran into plaza sant jaume, where amelie decides to find a bathroom. i'm waiting outside the café where amelie's draining, when a 50-ish spanish man approaches. he puts his hand on the centuries-old stone wall behind my head and leans in. in color and construction, his bottom row of teeth resembles stonehedge. he commences to mack.
'oh, you're from new york. bodyallain was here this weekend.'
'who?'
'bodyallain.'
'who??'
'bodyallain, el director de vicky christina barcelona.'
'ooookay! woody allen--'
his spanish is del pueblo. but his entourage and his cojones give me the feeling he does something in life that allows him to believe he has the right to corner pyt's in public squares. he's so entertaining.
amelie comes out of the bathroom. i introduce them.
'this is my friend--'
he points at me and informs amelie,
'this is my girlfriend!'
mistake.
'really?', she says, 'because she's actually my girlfriend!!'
she takes me by the arm and marches away. we end up just a few feet from tall guy. she stops. hands on hips. springer in the damn square.
'i didn't like how he was looking at you, like you're an object. just like you were a little doll or something!!'
she's steaming. now i'm REALLY fucking entertained. my mouth cannot close for a good 2 minutes.
tall guy would later tell me he thought we were lovers. still he took a chance.
'would you two like to get a drink?'
'um, hi! and you are?'
he tells us he's the serb. everyone's sitting on the floor, eyes focused on the constitution building. music floods the square. a light show begins. two projectors and a sound system create a series of images in celebration of the cultures of the world. the serb is as inspired as we are.
'i have a theater company for teenagers at home. i wonder if we could do something like this.'
amelie and i are hungry. we like his energy. at 11, we head to dinner at the organic food spot, juicy jones, and invite him along. we find out that he used to play basketball for the serbian national team and is now a theater actor. he's a bull in a china shop. he quotes ibsen and shakespeare. he's an anachronism.
after dinner, amelie heads home. the serb offers to walk with me. we stumble on a concert in parc ciutadella.
'is that merengue?!!?'
'you want to check it out?'.
'just a few minutes. then i have to go home.'
he laughs. takes my hand. when i get home it's 2am.
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