in the meantime

I was in bed with a lover some months ago. As we was listening to one of my more exhausting stories about my "friends" he told me that I was a bad judge of character, and that I use the word "friend" too easily. Upon much introspection, and as recent events unfold in my life, I realize he was right.

A while ago, another man whom I loved dearly told me once that you cannot change people, you can only change yourself, and the people you choose to keep around you. Upon much introspection, and as recent events unfold in my life, I realize he was right.

The thing is.....I'm in Spain. I am here to learn another language, languish on a beautiful beach, clear my head, and live my life.

I am trying to gain perspective and break the negative boundaries that jealous and incomplete people tried to temper upon me because they are uncomfortable with the freedom I have to live my life. And, in my poor judgement, I called you "friend".

I am not here for you. I am here for me. I am not here to deal with your drama that you try to pass on to me from across an ocean. I am here for me. And it feels good to write that, as I have lived too much of my life clamoring for the approval of others and vying for the love of others, being respectful of the emotions and feelings of others only to have my efforts not only NOT reciprocated, but shit on.

I am in Spain for me. I am not here to entertain your bullshit because you feel a way because your homosexual-in-the-closet boyfriend wanted my phone number so now you want to judge me, who I fuck and what I smoke.

I am not here to indulge your passive aggressive crap because you don't think I am good friend for not writing the papers you didn't know how to write.

I AM HERE FOR ME. I am here to grow, to understand, to live and to love, free, with no boundaries, judgements, jealous prying eyes or limitations.

I am here, and apparently I have come here, flown thousands of miles away from my home, to find out who my real friends are.

That being said.....

Andalucia is the province to which Malaga belongs. It is absolutely beautiful and very tropical, even though apparently all of Spain is not like this. Seville, which is famous for bullfighting and great food, is pretty landlocked and extremely cold.

Barcelona, up close to the north coast, looks like 5th ave at noon and is somewhat temperate when it comes to weather. Also, they speak a dialect called Catalin, which is a mixture of French and Spanish.

Valencia, famous for being the world's originator of sherry (I had no idea either!!) and great tasting olives, is very warm but also has really brutal winters, and is landlocked.

I am considering renting a car and driving up the coast of Spain to see these cities.

Maria, the teacher from Chicago who is new to flat, told me about a great tour in Valencia, where some of the (I guess they would be the equivalent of the department of parks and recreation) people in the city take you around and show you these exquisite caves (I know, more caves). The interesting thing about these caves is that people live in them. People actually, find a place they like in this certain part of Valencia, and dig out a house in the caves. They furnish them, they buy generators and they live in caves. They toss caution and all other excessive ammenities to the wind and live in a flippin cave.

Maria said there was one man, Michael, who had lived in the cave for years. He took some day work around Valencia and had given up all the trappings of the 1st world to live in this cave. And, he seemed very happy. Just one thing-he owned a porche. Yes. He kept it in a tarp by the cave. When the tour group came to his cave, he was very cordial, he spoke many languages, and was very smart. Maria surmised he must have been an important man in his former life.

Then, out of generosity. He took some of the members of the tour around in his porche. He was particular about people putting their feet all over his car, even though he smelled like he hadnt washed since he finished digging out his cave. Wow.

i was laying on the beach today when I saw a man who kind of matched Michael's description selling beaded necklaces on the beach. I imagine that was his life, as I had seen him quite a number of times before (I contemplated asking him about where the weed man was). I thought about vagabonds, layarounds, hobos(which actually stands for people who are homeward bound) and the stories they carry within them. All of us have a story, waiting to be written, some of us have stories that are incomplete without each other. I wanted to know this man's story all of a sudden, but I was apprehensive to speak to him as my Spanish is still somewhat poor.

I walked up to him anyway, smiling my most non negro non threatening smile.

"Ola,"

"Ola, tu quires una cosa aqui?"

"No, gracias, Yo quiero hablah contigo,".

I tried in my most heartfelt Spanish to tell him how much I admired him and wanted to know more about his life, and would love to sit with him and talk to him about this beautiful beach and what he has seen.

He responded, "English. You buy something now?"

"Well, no, I wanted-"

"Que puta".

And he walked away.

Romantically, I surmised that some people, just don't want to tell their stories.

Vale.

domingo

Sunday morning I woke to the church bell outside my flat calling all Catholics within earshot to Mass. Although I am not Catholic, I am a believer, so church was the obvious choice this morning. I thought church in a foreign country would be a great topic to write about, and, frankly speaking, Jesus is Jesus wherever you are.

I dressed and took out my bible and walked over to the beautiful church and sat in a pew, waiting for Mass to begin.

I had no illusions about understanding the ceremony. I knew I would be shaky. In all actuality, I was completely retarded. After a while, I just started listening for the word, “Christo”. The people next to me thought I was possessed by a demon, as every time I heard the word, I would respond, “okay!” or “yes!!” I knew I had a problem when the dona next to me started to ease out of the pew slowly.
Next Sunday I’m just going to sit and be quiet. I think that needs to be the mantra for my life. Just go sit down somewhere and be quiet.

The afternoon was quite eventful, 4 other women moved into the flat. We have a full house now, which is definitely a change from the large lonely flat I became used to. Monica is a pretty Polish girl who is fluent in Spanish spending vacation. Betina is an Austrian who had to move out of her other flat because of an immense shipment of French people being parceled in from somewhere in Europe. Maria is an animated and sweet smiling teacher from Chicago and Narsica is the newest addition from the Netherlands.

Maria, Monica, and I decided to go out and watch the match tonight, as Spanish CNN simply refused to discuss anything else. I did discover, however, that some of the boys on the Spanish team are quite nice looking.

The match was between the Netherland and Spain. Naturally, Spain won. The city erupted in celebration complete with fireworks and drunken people in the street. Maria, Monica and I stood on the street and watched cars being mobbed by enthused flag baring scantily clad natives who were united in jubilation and pride. Children with painted faces danced in the intersection. Cars drove by with people on top of the hoods. It literally seemed as if after Spain won the match, people got into their cars to drive around town with their compadres on the hoods.

I think Maria and Monica are still outside. I came in early because I am responsible, and besides, I have school in the morning.

sabado

I awoke this morning after being made love to sweetly, all night long by about 13 mosquitoes. They left me a note in the morning about how much they enjoyed me, and thanked me for feeding their families. One of the more considerate ones asked me to where the little grey number again, as it leaves my back meat exposed. I thought that was nice of him. I hope he comes tonight, I’m going to write my number in blood on my back. Hopefully that doesn’t make me look too desperate.

It occurred to me on Saturday that I am in love with the beach a little. It makes sense, I suppose. I am a romantic person, and feel the need to fall in love a lot. The problem is, when I put my faith in men, my need for love almost never satisfied, and I am left thoroughly disappointed. The beach never leaves me longing for more. The uniform disquiet of the Mediterranean waves reminds me of my own mind. The rocky warm sand that is at times unfit to tread upon is remnant of my own heart. Sitting on the shore, inhaling and exhaling in precarious harmony with the ebb and flow of the blue green tide is purity to me. I feel at times I need the ocean, like a lover needs the touch of a hand, a kiss of the mouth. I need the water to wash over me, simultaneous baptism and consummation. I need the ocean to envelop me, as both paramour and womb, both drowning and replenishing a body that so easily could be swept away or torn to bits at the whim of its captor.

Love.

There is an ephemeral quickening that one gets upon that first crashing wave, that first sound that makes you heed your immense counterpart that deluges all senses humanity has chronicled. Indeed. The ocean is a lot like love. That quickening that turns to an all consuming force that drags you in and pulls you under, leaves you wet, sometimes irritated, spits you back out on the shore, enervated, sun-dried. Your heavy breathing and bare-flesh a dead giveaway for you present condition. You turn and walk up the sand, shaking off the remnants, rubbing your eyes as so they don’t burn anymore, and you sit and stare at it. The waves crash again, louder this time, and you wonder why anyone would be so crazy as to want to feel this feeling. The waves calm, and pull back, exposing the brazen, moistened sand. You take a breath. And you cannot wait to do it again. And you will. You pledge to dive in every opportunity afforded to you. Even if it drowns you.

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.

footprints

One day, a man had a dream. He was on the beach with God and they walked in unison, next to each other. He looked back and saw that there were times in his life where he could see two sets of footprints, and other moments when he only saw one. He spoke to God.

“Lord”, the man beckoned. “I look back on this beach and I see footprints in the sand. Sometimes, I see two sets of footprints, but there are other times, difficult times in my life, where I only see one set of footprints. Why is that so, Father?”

God looked at him patiently and with love, as a parent does to a young, precocious child.

He says, “You stupid mutha fucka, you’ve never heard of high tide?”

When I went to the beach today, there were many footprints. I also saw prints of chickens and puppies.

I asked God, “Lord, I look at the sand on this beach, and I see footprints of people and traces of their lives, but I also see prints of chickens and puppies. What does that mean, Father?”

God looked down upon me and answered back, “It means that there were chickens and puppies on the beach recently, and when they stepped they made prints in the sand, you dumb bitch.”

It occurred to me today while I was sun bathing that I have yet to find the weed man here. I have smelled evidence of his presence, I have seen satisfied customers reveling in complete blurriness but I have yet to make his acquaintance myself. I know the time will come when I will recognize his footprints in the sand, and I will walk beside him.

I have my first Spanish examination Friday morning, which apparently is the routine on Fridays, which is fine, as it gives the course some structure and uniformity. To help me become more familiar with the usage of the language, I have started to listen to Spanish CNN on the TV. Apparently, there is nothing going on in the world except the fact that the finals of the World Cup are Domingo (Sunday).

I want to do well on this test, perhaps it’s because I am teacher, and tests are important to us teachers. Perhaps because when I was in school, I liked being a good student, when I wasn’t high. I figure I should try to score well on this test before I find the weed man and my grades slip all to shit.

I notice Spaniards staring at me when I sunbathe. Perhaps they think there shouldn’t be any reason for someone as dark as I am to be sunbathing. Perhaps they think I am there to offer hair-braiding services to tourists.

There are Africans here. They comb the beach trying to sell their wares to beachgoers. A Black man came up to me today with sunglasses and DVD’s. It made me laugh and instantly I was reminded of home. Africans-we are everywhere!

I have seen more Black people today than I have since I have been here. I guess they were just waiting for the end of the week to come out. Spain will probably make them go back inside for the weekend, and then during the end of the week, when company comes, they’ll be let out of the trophy case to roam the beach and sell DVD’s again (I too, sing Espagne, I am the darker hermano).

Diaspora.

I am nervous about the test, because I want to be promoted out of Spanish kindergarten soon. The young people in my class are cute, but class serves more as foreplay than education for them, and they spend most times talking and giggling much to the distraction of the teachers.

My teacher, Teresa, touched my hair today. I suppose it was inevitable. I smiled, as I know she didn’t mean anything bad by it. But I could see on her face and the faces of the other Nordics in the class that it was a moment that we were supposed to share. I guess the students thought that after she did it, they were going to get up and form a line behind her, and one after another, start feeling on my head as she oohs, ahhs, and explains in Spanish the difference of Black hair, much like the lecture that pours out of headsets disseminated at museums during the African art exhibits. Sufficed to say, that didn’t happen.

The beach is literally across the street from my flat. My school is about 1 kilometer from my flat. I think the weed man is probably closer to me than that, as I am surmising now from my exploration excursions that I live on the “seedier” side of the city. As daunting as this sounds, it actually means that I really never need to leave a ½ mile area, and I would be perfectly happy.

Paradise, for me, would be waking up in my flat in the morning, dropping by the weed man before school, and having class on the beach. This would be euphoria. I imagine my classmates would agree, the tough part would be convincing the teacher. I imagine, since she is devoutly Catholic, I may be able to appeal to her sense of spiritually by recounting for her the lovely footprint story. This time, I will leave out the part about high tide.

TU NO SABES FOOTBALL

There was quiet surrounding the city this morning. There was a blanket of sun that engulfed my balcony that stretched it glowing arms into my bed and woke me from a peaceful sleep. Even the wind was calm, which is uncommon for the beach side.

The mornings in Spain serve as reflection, which is evident in the corner cafes filled with somber gentlemen smoking fragrant tobacco and donyas perusing newspapers over desayunos.

The walk to school was even more quiet this time, the only difference today is the number of flags hanging from windows, the young natives wearing red, the cars painted with bulls.

Football is serious here.

The country is in preparation. The country takes a collective gasp and prepares for the great match this evening. The gasp is not tense, it is pregnant, quite deliberate and self possessed. The beach sways with bodies dressed in red, silent and harmonious, and full, as if the whole city took the day off in composition for tonight….

The German students in class commiserate at the end of the table. This is uncommon. But I know they feel something coming. They whisper to one another, much like immigrants who talk of sudden flight, before the country becomes too volatile. The teacher comes in donned in a red Spanish jersey. Class begins and group of wayward native youths traverse the street singing, “Yo so Espanol, Espanol, Espanol”.

I am afraid for the German students. I wonder if they have their passports on them.

Yan, the more distinguished, advanced German student lets out a nervous laugh. Martin, the young vigorous German student who smokes like a chimney and drinks like a fish laughs and jokes with the teacher.

“Allemande is bueno, verdad?”

“Mentiroso!!”

The class laughs. Tension is broken.

After a small repast and review of vocabulary some of the students get on the 11 bus and go to town, la plaza de la marina, a l’avenida de Cervantes, to see the sights and to sit in bodegilla to drink café.

The main streets of the town resemble little Africa more than a sleepy fisherman’s town on the south coast of Spain. The impact of the dark ages is resplendent in the architecture. There are women completely covered pushing carriages speaking Spanish, who stop what they are doing 5 times a day to pray.

It’s 2 pm. I am lost on calle de San Juan and the street is completely desolate. Siesta has begun. But today is exemplified, exacerbated. The streets are bare, save dust that dances in the calm winds, kicked up from unpaved streets and dirt walkways that separate villas from cafes. Flags hang in almost every window, waving to the pressure of the fans behind them. No one is Spain has air conditioning. Or at this moment, anything to do.

It’s 3pm. I sit in bodegilla and order a café con leche. A beautiful skinny Dominican girl smiles at me and asks me for my order. I am no longer the only Black person in Malaga. She gives me my order and a small vanilla ice cream, which apparently very commonly paired with café at this time of day.

It’s 4pm. I get on a bus going back to my flat. I watch the town from the window in the back of the bus and try to decipher with my remedial American ears what is going on with the young couple sitting in front of me, holding hands. They are in love. I don’t need to know their language to know that. I remember.

No one speaks of this evening, even though, the closer I get to the beach, the more flags wave from windows. There are bulls on the flags on the building where my flat is. I am a Taurus, so this makes me smile.

It’s 6 pm. I wake up and shower and ready myself to meet my classmates at La Pedraga, the bar for students on the north side of the beach. I leave the flat with nothing but my camera and notebook. As soon as my feet hit the dirt road, the vibration is palpable. People line the calle and speak quickly; young natives take shirts off and paint each other’s bodies in the open. Girls smile at boys driving by in cars adorned with bull flags. Donyas sitting at tables in corner cafes watch small babies running in the street holding banderitas. Men smoke cigarettes and talk jovially in corners.

It’s as if siesta has rebooted the city, or perhaps it was just a patience; waiting the Spaniards are capable of that I have never seen in the states. This morning this same town was all about business, almost in morbid fashion, but now, now the calle is so alive you can taste it, as if the moment you touch someone, your body becomes an electric mascot, a pulsating bandera, dancing to the rhythm like the banderas in the windows in town. I walk by a young couple who smile at me and call me morena. I smile back. The boy paints the colors of Spain on my face twice, one flag on each cheek. No one asked whom I was pushing for, as one might, seeing as how I definitely don’t look Spanish. It hasn’t even been established that I was going to watch the match. But everywhere it is assumed. And now, it is arrayed on my face. The girl kisses me on the lips. I smile sheepishly and walk towards the bar.

The sun doesn’t set until about 10:30. It’s almost 7 and the sky is like fire, casting a sensual dazzle on the dark sand around the bar. People drink beer with no shoes on. Children are naked wading in the water. Dogs run and fetch on the sand. Everywhere smells of beer and sticky sweet honeysuckle. A woman comes up to me and touches my hair.

“Morena.” She says.

She wants me to buy her flowers.

“Yes.” Yan from class comes up behind me and purchases the flower for me. He smiles. He is very tall with a deep voice, but his smile gives his gentle nature away immediately.

He takes my free hand and leads me into the bar. I am sitting with the Germans. I am painted with the colors of Spain. The German flag looks almost the same, save that German flags have a black stripe.

Yan looks at me. The woman sitting next to us paints his face in Spanish colors.

“Tu eres Allemande?”

“Si”.

She paints his face anyway. Her husband smiles.

I spot the others from class in some seats ahead of us, the young people, smiling, attractive, a little drunk. I see Kelly, a pretty American girl from Chicago with a wide smile and warm eyes. She smiles at me like the girl from the welcoming committee during everyone’s 1^st week of college. I realize, looking at her, that she has always been my favorite.

Now the bar is packed. There is a man dressed like a clown who is entirely too drunk. He starts the songs before the match begins. Yan buys me a glass of red wine. I drink it and start to feel it immediately.

There is a beautiful Spanish girl with thick brown curly hair who is wearing a flag and not much else. She sits on the lap of her muscular boyfriend and screams Spanish curses at the TV. She reminds me of me. It occurs to me that no one here would make that connection. Immediately I think of my friends back home. I smile. Yan asks me what’s wrong. I coyly respond that I am fine.

The 1^st period ends and no one has scored. Almost in unison, the bar exits and perambulates to the beach. It’s 9pm, and the sun is half hanging lazily in the sky. The beach is still illuminated. The air is still warm and sweet smelling. I wade my bare feet in the water and watch the young people from my class smoke cigarettes and flirt with natives, fall in love for just a night, make memories they will take back with them at the end of the summer. Martin is on the beach in a German jersey, smoking a cigarette, laughing with another boy from the school. His laugh is macho and boisterous, but sincere all the same. He is an alpha male, a man’s boy, but against the backdrop of young beautiful drunk women he is reduced to an awkward teenager, laughing nervously with his male friends.

The 2^nd period has begun. I go back into the bar almost last, as I was caught up in my own reverie on the beach. It happens to me a lot when I am on the beach, when I can stare out into the water and feel sand caress my feet and remind myself that the same God who made that beautiful scene, made me. I have always felt that when you are in a moment as such, homage should always be paid, no matter where you are.

I return to my seat and am offered another glass of wine, which I decline. Yan is speaking Spanish to some of the natives sitting behind us. I envy him, as I am not brave enough yet to try my Spanish on a native speaker. I turn around and smile. The native asks me a question in brisk Castilian. I respond, “Viva Espagne!!”

Everyone laughs. My secret is still safe.

Now the match is tense. People get up from their seat more and yell at the TV more. A strikingly attractive native gets mad at the ref’s call and jumps up and punches the wall. I am excited by the show of unbridled testosterone and take out my camera and try to get a picture. Just as I turn it on the bar explodes.

“Goal!!!!!!!”

“Yo soy Espanol, Espanol, Espanol!!!!!”

The bar croons in celebratory unison. I watch the pretty Spanish girl and her muscular boyfriend exchange a deep celebratory kiss. His hand is on her bare thigh. She digs her nails into his strong bicep. I like where I am, not visible, but still in the middle of this feeling.

I start to sing as well. The couple behind me smiles and pats me on the back.

3 minutes left. Germany has the ball. It occurs to be that there is a Black man on the team. The 3^rd one I have seen in as many days. He is tall and sweaty and attractive, and visibly frustrated, his gait is still proud, but a bit defeated, and instantly I am reminded of the colored boys back home, and how much I miss one in particular….

The match ends. Again, we depart for the beach. Now, it’s 11pm, sunset, and time for dinner. The young people adorn themselves with flags, the native take off shirts and jump into the water. Dogs run up and down the beach and bark at the noise from horns and cars and screaming girls and cursing men. Grown men kiss. Some women scream. Pictures are taken. I stand on a wall separating the main calle from the beach and take pictures. I see the pretty Spanish girl with her boyfriend. She puts on another flag and walks away from him, towards a group of girls who greet her with kisses and hugs. I watch her intently as she receives love from her companieras and observe them sit close to me on the wall. They converse casually and half drunk about the match, and about their day and about their approval of her new boyfriend, and wish her luck, as I can gather, as she is going to court tomorrow to fight the father of her child (I cant tell if it’s a girl or a boy) for child support. She kisses the tiniest one on the lips and they walk back to her boyfriend, locked with their arms around one another’s hips.

I begin the walk back to my flat, wave to the young people from school who are still on the beach and who still want to drink. As I walk away, I see Martin talking up close to a slight, Castilian girl who finds his jokes hilarious and his German blond hair irresistible. I say a silent prayer of encouragement for him.

Calle Juan de Sebastian is calm again. It occurred to me as I approached my flat that it always was, it was always serene, it was always orderly, It was I who was not used to it, It was me who had to become acclimated to such deliberate and ordered frenzy, culminating in abounding joy and fiesta.

“Viva Espagne!!!” a half naked native on a bike yells at the top of his lungs as he rides by me.

“Viva Espagne!” I yell back. He looks at me and smiles.

He has a beautiful smile.

traveler's lament

When you love someone and they’re far away from you, it’s hard to be in a new place and not think about them. It’s difficult to walk a street at night and see two people holding hands and not miss them. It’s challenging to hear a song emanating up from a bar, nestled between sweet smelling lilac trees and not want to dance with them. It’s a bit arduous to stand by the ocean, feel the miasmic sea spray engulf your form, close your eyes and listen to the roar of the waves crashing against the rocks and not remember their smell, imagine their laugh, miss the weight of their body against yours. It’s more than daunting. It’s downright painful.

Spain is a place of smells and sounds, much like New York City, but it’s ensconced in religion and surrounded by beach. Palm trees line the streets. Bunches of cacti serve as small gardens that separate left side from right side of the street. Young people sit at cafes and drink wine, and I mean young people. The bell tower of the church facing my balcony and chimes at every hour, sometimes incessantly, as if calling all Catholics in the surrounding vicinity to prayer. Every time it chimes, you are reminded…

The one you love is gone.

This country smells of sticky sweet honeysuckle and salt air. The night sounds of fiesta, clanking classes and wine being poured. It’s a soundtrack, a gyrating rhythm that your heart wants to dance to, but cant, because you are a stranger here. And you are alone.

Even the garbage smells clean. There are no rats surrounding dumpsters waiting for the next meal, because stray cats linger on the coastline, keen to their prey, standing guard by the garbage. Spain is a place of smells and sounds.

The tobacco here is so strong you can actually hear it being smoked. The smoke wafts up into the atmosphere, and dances flamenco around inhabitants of bars and beachgoers. The smell is invasive, but redolent, like a perfume that is overpowering but still smells good.

People in Spain laugh differently from New Yorkers. There is no pretense. There is no urgency. It’s not a laugh that might signify the last time you ever laugh in your life, like New Yorkers. Their smiles seem genuine, if not curious. Perhaps this is because I am the only Black person in Spain. People look at me and I smile and then they smile back. This is a good thing. I would hate to piss anybody off, as I don’t particularly care to know what jail in Spain is like. The sound of their laughter makes you want to laugh, too. But here, I am not privy to the joke. I don’t get it yet, so, I remain on the outside, and smile, and listen to the sounds, and take in the smells.

I am alone in my flat right now, which is very beautiful and spacious (even though there is no AC) and large and lonely when no one is in it. I guess that is the case for all things.

There are bats in the bell tower next to my balcony. I can go out and hear them singing. I hear them squawking, antagonizing, building their cacophony up to the moment when their numbers in chorus can match the sound of that omniscient bell, but at each hour the bell always gets the better of them, and of me.

Spain is a place of smell and sounds.