instances

I was studying on the beach after school today. It was a beautiful calm, serene type of day where the sun sits directly on your shoulders and the waves whisper a swan song beckoning you closer. European women were sunning themselves, with and without tops. Children were chasing dogs in the sand, laughing in the high pitch squeal that is so telling of youthful innocence. The beach looked perfect.

I watched a young man, chiseled and almost hairless walk up to a young girl and smile and say something that she found to be irresistible. She threw her arms around him and laughed with the abandon only afforded to the young and beautiful. I would like to think that they had never met before because that makes the moment all that more special.

When siesta ended I walked on along the calle to El Palo where my flat is, slowly, absorbing the fresh smell of sea air and the young embers of wood fire that are starting for dinner time dishes cooked directly from fresh catch on the beach. The red bricks on the ground were dusty and warm and my feet felt like abrasive giving ground a once over.

3 children played what resembled a European game of ringolivio around me, traveling with me as I walked along the bricks. The little boy who ran by me the most was a cherub looking child, fat and with round green eyes. His curls fell in his face as he bounced from on side of the street to the other, leaning on gates that protect small yards and the tiny villas they are connected to. He wore a David Villa shirt that was entirely too big for him. His counterpart ran up to him, through his arms around him from behind and spun him around with the force of a child size centrifuge. The little girl who played with them appeared from behind a locked gate of a villa, ice cream in hand, and seemed to calm their rambunxious action. They drew to her, slowly as she smiled, licking ice cream, as she centered the whole scene.

As I walked by the trio, they sat in front of the open gate, sitting in a circle, sharing ice cream as if it were the Holy Grail.

I returned to my flat to wash beach dust from my body and left quickly, school bound, for a flamenco lesson. I had heard the voice of Estrella Morente earlier that day, la cantante de Espagne- a flamenco singer who performs with a fan and an adorned shawl, that makes her resemble the beautiful Mexican actress who was nominated for the Oscar for her performance in High Noon. Her voice is piercing, visceral, like a Moorish/European Alice Smith. I found out later in school that she was the voice of Penelope Cruz’s singing in “Volver”.

Flamenco is a Spanish tradition that dates back to the dark ages, a mixture of Sephardic, Arabic, and Indian culture, resplendent in the sensual moves, the exotic dancers, the haunting music. The woman are covered like Arabs, they gyrate like Hindu statues, they croon as if they call to Diaspora.

I showed up to the garden at school and walked onto the veranda where a petit Espana wearing a long maroon dress and serious black dancing shoes was demonstrating the moves to the students who were on time. The Polish boys, blonde, tall and lanky with immense smiles and clumsy feet capered around as they attempted the sensual dance. The French girls sat, smoking, sheepish, watching the tall German boys who teased each other and exploited the free beer that was incentive for participation in the class. Beer is everywhere here.

The women lined up. I was one of them. Our leader showed us the moves, twice, without the music. We laughed and practiced, moving slowly as not invade one another’s personal space.

Then the music began. The howling. Lamented over an up guitar and drums that pounded out the European version of clave. The women got in line in front of the men. This was not a duo dance, it was a solo dance. Enrique Morente began screaming words of lost love and beautiful women. The Polish boys tripped over their large feet. They were sweet, awkward teenagers, sophisticated enough to try and laugh at themselves. Not at all like American teenagers.

The dance stopped. We all applauded. I laughed with exhilaration, and hugged the Polish boy who was staring at me. His friend came over, laughing as well, asking me in Spanish if I dance a lot in New York. We engaged in light conversation, and the more I smiled the more his face lit up. His friends surrounded us and the taller one touched my hair. The French girl who had joined our joviality watched in awe, leaning closer to me, sighing intently. We talked more about New York as I noticed the once over the other Polish boy was giving me. He bought me a beer and we toasted, and he took the label off, and fixed it to my arm, caressing my skin. I smiled, realizing how different I was from them, and how much they liked it. The music started again, and Raul, the school reporter came outside and took pictures of us. I don’t know if it was intentional, but I ended up in the middle.

Evening broke, which is always an event in Malaga, as the sun does not go down until 10:30. The young people gathered at the pool on the far side of the veranda and joked about young people things. I gravitated towards them. Their energy makes me feel both old and young simultaneously.

Robert and Martin joked about jumping into the pool, whose water was still warm to the touch in the dead of night. One of the German boys came bounding up the garden and spoke of a party in El Palo. The prospect of young native girls in fiesta mood was naturally irresistible to them so off they went, and I followed.

My flat is in El Palo, so I was close to home, and close to the calle where the children were playing.

As we got close to the boardwalk, I realized it wasn’t a party, but a festival. The small stretch of beach was transformed into Coney Island. Immediately I thought this, but said nothing, as I knew my reference would be lost on the young Europeans. Here I am slowly but surely learning to keep my thoughts to myself. The beach gleamed in neon that emanated from the amusement rides that zipped around carrying screaming natives and children filled with cotton candy.

Pictures of the Virgin Carmen lined the beach. This was a celebration for her, and, her virginity. I laughed to myself how much virginity is celebrated all over the world, although the men I have talked to about it as of late find the capacity of virgins somewhat frustrating, although that is a different story.

Amusement games were carried on around us, as strapping boyfriends tried with all their machismo to win their doting loves a stuffed animal.

The boys began to tease Sennia, a new Russian girl, about not drinking that night. Apparently the bet was that if she didn’t, the boys would jump into the ocean fully clothed. They poked at her and teased her sober state, she rolled her eyes in feigned exasperation, but sheer enjoyment was evident in her smile and flushed cheeks that piqued like apples. Robert and Martin had that effect on the young girls in the school. I laughed and realized how much they reminded me of some of my students, and for a milli second, missed my job, and then, for a second longer, my youth.

The waves competed with the noise of the fair, the cotton candy with the feel of the sand. Sennia competed with the pretty natives for the attention of Robert, who I could tell almost immediately she had a crush on. As midnight approached, it was obvious that the bet would be won, so the boys ambled to the shore, ready to jump in the warm water.

I commented that the water was warm, just like the water at the pool at school.

Sennia commented that all the water in Spain was warm except for the water that came out of the shower in her flat.

Martin and Robert looked at her, as if commanding her to run with them. The three took off, leaving the number of us on the sand, watching, cheering, laughing, and celebrating the fiesta of the Virgin Carmen. I watched their small pale frames bound into the ocean, and almost disappear into the night, their pale bodies swallowed up by the abundant sea. It seemed as if the waves laughed with us. A chuckle, like that of a loving grandfather, who bounces his grandchildren playfully on his knee.

Sennia came running out first. Clothes still on, soaking wet, exhilarated. The boys followed, topless, soaking, skin and bones. The kind of emaciation that is unavoidable for teenage boys at certain times in their lives, no matter how much they eat, or, in these case, the copious amounts they drink.

I was beside myself with laughter as the motley crew stood shivering and giggling in the sand, in their own private celebration. Shirts were rung out. Shoes were collected.

We walked back up the boardwalk in a whole group; we looked like a European version of the Goonies, only with a Black girl. As we approached Calle de Juan Sebastain, it was time for all to part. There was sadness in Christina’s eyes as she bid us all adieu in German, and as her eyes lingered a bit too long on Martin. I realized what a great couple they would make, even thought they claim to be just friends. I imagine both of them are too timid to risk embarrassment and tell the other how they feel. Youth is wasted on the young.

I walked up my street, sand in my chanclas, a song in my heart, thanking God for special, disconnected, obscure instances that people share, which connects them to one another.

The air was still warm, and the remnants of Dona Carmen’s virginity could still be felt all about the calle. I looked up the street, watching the young people, wet and cold; make their way home into the night. I prayed their journey would be safe, but I knew my prayer was not necessary, for they would be perfectly fine. They had each other, and they had an instant they shared, still and perfect forever frozen in time.