viernes

Kelly, the other American girl, had her last day on Friday. She is on her way to Seville to the school there. Her goal is the opposite of mine. She plans on studying Spanish in every location the school has in Spain, whereas I just want to stay here and sit on the beach and speak to the half naked natives.

As farewell, she and I took a bus ride to Nerja, a smaller town outside Malaga deeper into the hills to explore the caves there. Nerja also has a beach, but it’s not a sprawling as Malaga’s. The caves we saw were discovered by accident in the 1950’s and are still being studied by archeologists. The vast expanse runs through a mountain that leads directly into the sea, but because of the precarious conditions under there, there are only certain places that tourists are allowed to walk through. The town has erected an amphitheater in the caves and, during the summer, plays concerts underground. This Tuesday they are having Flamenco. Kelly and I stood in the cave and spelunked for a while. The air was cool and damp. The walls of the cave were smooth cold, and slight drops of water came down around us as we tried to take pictures with our flash cameras, much to the chagrin of the employees of the Nerja caves.

After cocktails, we got back on a bus, for a 90-minute ride back to our flats. The bus driver, who looked like the Spanish version of Phil Collins, was lively and funny. He, as well, I believe, was a wee intoxicated. He laughed at our American accents and our labored Spanish. He then yelled at the young man who got on after us and laughed loudly at the man’s embarrassment. Even though I didn’t laugh. I’m glad it wasn’t me. Kelly settled in to nap, as I tried to take pictures of the exquisite vast expanse of countryside we almost crashed into time and time again as the bus driver sat behind the wheel and took turns as if he simultaneously pondered if life was really worth living.

I am not sure if my Spanish is improving and the bus driver was a pervert or I am just a lost cause and don’t get the language at all. As he drove he spoke on the phone (no headset) quite loud. As I was sitting up front it was easy for me to hear him (deciphering was something else). I think I heard him say hello to a young child, and then tell the child to tell her mother to wash because he was coming home soon. Then he laughed and murmured something about hot meat. For that child’s sake, I hope I’m mistaken. Either that or Roman Polanski is apparently moonlighting as a drunk Spanish bus driver.

When we got back to our respective flats, we washed and met for dinner (11pm here).

Kelly and I met the other students from class at a bar called La Tortuga (the turtle). Sennia, an absolutely stunning 18-year old Russian girl who chain-smokes like a character in a Chekov play showed up with Paul, a brilliant 17 year old Frenchman who can charm a British Palace guard but hasn’t quite mastered English. Robert, a German and product of American schooling, too tall for his own good and smiles with an innocence that makes my ovaries twitch showed up with Christina (Germany) and Stephanie (Dutch). Martin came sauntering up the boardwalk with shorts on, shirt akimbo, blond hair spiked. He looked like an extra from Miami Vice, circa 1987. He sat next to me, and regaled us of his day’s events, and of a girl he met. He smiled nefariously to himself as he told the story, as young boys do when they recount a satisfying moment. As we talked more, I realized young Martin was not German at all, but Danish. Strange about the Danes-as clearly they are some of the most Nordic people on this planet; they have blond hair ALL OVER their bodies, yet they tan with effortless proficiency. Martin sat back and smiled, his fit torso exposed through his open shirt. His body looked like it had been glazed in honey, as if God had done a once over with a turkey-baster all over his beautiful physique. I realized I was staring, as he glanced up at me, somewhat embarrassed and smiled to himself again, looking down, his age given away by his sheepishness. He reminded me of my cousin Tevin, the same beautiful form that sheathed a modest, unassuming heart.

As dinner went on into the night, I sat back quietly, listening to the conversations taking place. Kelly spoke to Paul about our shared love for cheese. Sennia spoke to the good-looking waiter who served us in Spanish. Christine and Robert conversed about last weeks disappointing showing of their home team, in German. Stephanie and Martin ripped each other in Dutch about their tan lines. Sennia greeted some of her Russian countrymen as they walked by in the native tongue. All this happened at the same table, within inches of each other. I must have looked like a stupefied tourist, as I was amazed at what was around me, and privileged at the chance of observing it. Kelly and I laughed to ourselves, as when we glanced at each other, we knew what the other was thinking. Only in Europe.

The music on the strip got louder. A man with not shirt on came to the table and tried to convince us to buy Spanish flags for the football match on Sunday.

The wee hours came upon us. I didn’t want to break night, so I excused myself and kissed Kelly goodbye as the young people made plans to visit a disco near the city center.