virgins

word....so apparently, dona carmen the blessed virgin gets more than just a celebratory carnival on the beach....she gets a whole night of catholics holding candles and singing under the balcony of my flat. then she gets a marching band, which starts at the church next to the flat, at 7 in the morning. i looked out and i thought i was back in time when they were filming the godfather. it was quite noisy, as apparently spanish teenagers only know one drumbeat and 3 notes on the trumpet-and there are way too many trumpets.
this post is gonna be short, as i am at school right now waiting for the bus to take me to port to go to morocco.....yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
tell you all about it monday.......with much love, adoration, and friendship...i bid you adios, passes un muy buenas fin de semana.....

spanish men

There has been no sex. This is good; as of late I have been striving for vaginal, as well as emotional clarity. I want to be clear in my decisions about men. I am not locking myself up in a bell tower, or pledging to put on a chastity belt until I get married. I am more realistic than that. I just was to make better choices. I just want my heart to be the one driving the bus from now on, not my cooch.

That being said, it’s a hard thing (no pun intended) to go without. It’s been March since I have had an episode that’s even worth mentioning. And it’s true what they say about women, because now, at this point in my life, there are moments where I feel like I could take on the starting lineup of the Cleveland Cavaliers (before the unpleasantness with Miami….), or David Villa and his champion friends (except the one who scored the goal against Germany. He’s just downright creepy). Sitting on this beach, the brazen sun, the lurid sand, the half naked men, the good food, it all contributes to making me feel a way.

I have been relegated to watching Spanish novellas on Spanish TV- besos y lagrimas, amor sin palabras, mi alma y my boca…. stupid programs where the man and the women both have long curly hair that shines under scene lighting and where both actors stand in front of fans too long, where both actors stand way too long and stare into space over the camera at the end of the scene to convey consternation. The nice thing is almost everyone is half naked.

I have thought about having a fling while I was here, just thoughts, even though I am not sure how to go about it. It’s been so long since I have seduced someone I believe I am completely out of the loop. Maybe I will just go to the beach, lay in wait, throw some shrubbery over my vagina and hope someone trips and falls in.

I found the weed man. His name is Luis. He’s typically Spanish; dark eyes, bearded skin, browned flesh that works in the sun. He speaks very fast and calls me morena. He asks me if I do other drugs and I tell him now. He asks me if I want to smoke with him. He’s attractive enough, though short (most men in Andalucía aren’t over 5’8. The common height is 5’5) and my Spanish isn’t good enough yet to try to make polite conversation over a shared joint, for the sake of my own self-preservation.

I thank him for his business, patronize his wares and toddle off to school. Not too bad. I figure if I can put Luis in the maybe box, if I get really desperate in the next 5 weeks. Probably not.

There is Jose, the very handsome periodista who works for the school and takes candid pictures of classes and activities. He’s very tall and dark, I don’t think he’s Spanish, he is possibly Latin American. He is very pleasant and kind, and laughs like someone who knows how to have a good time-never nervous or strained, and he has huge beautiful brown eyes, and large hands. He possesses a head full of thick black curls, the kind women want to use to pull a man up, and push a man down-directional hair that helps with the whole command process of making love. At the flamenco activity I found myself staring at his chest, wondering what it tasted like. Instead of inquiring, I just opted for asking for another beer.

There’s another Jose, my teacher, who is absolutely adorable and has a great laugh. He’s sweet, the kind of man you can take home to your parents (normal parents, not my parents) and they would love him right away. He’s smart, and loves to travel, and would probably make a good father because of his patient and gentle nature, even though, when it comes to straight fornication, I think I would scare him. He looks like the kind of guy that if you bone hard enough HE would get pregnant. And he’s about 5’4.

I lay in my bed this evening and thought that maybe I was going about this all wrong. As I sat watching the Spanish Disney Channel (it’s the same as the American Disney Channel except the mousketeers dance half naked on the beach) it occurred to me that I was missing something-foreplay. I don’t mean strawberries and whipped cream foreplay, or subtle seduction foreplay, or even oral sex foreplay. I mean real foreplay; I mean the significance of the encounter foreplay.

I miss seducing a man’s mind. I miss sitting in a moment with a man, perhaps even in silence, and having the two of acknowledge that there is something, unsaid, between us, that transcends the space we share and makes the air we breathe that much more necessary to sustain us. Those semi erotic moments that imprints a man to you, to your mind before your heart, to your heart, before the other parts.

I haven’t felt that in a long time. And the last man I felt that with will probably never speak to me again. When I think about it, really ruminate on it, all those parts of my body and mind and soul that I really want to be involved with such an encounter, all those parts of me that remember what real passion was like with him, die a little bit more each time.

And so…

There I was, thinking about encounters more that physical engagements, moments rather than “episodes”, connections rather that ejaculates, when I was struck with the worst coughing fit of my life. I had been feeling a little under the weather what with going to the beach everyday and falling asleep soaking wet in a 95-degree room. Now, I felt like I had AIDS of the lungs. I really couldn’t breathe. There was no one else in the flat, so (since Spain has like the best healthcare in the world) I went to the ER.

I took a cab to the Centro de Avenida Alameda, where the public hospital was and entered, trying to tell the EMT in the worst Spanish in the world what was wrong with me.

“Tango dwele en my garganta. No puedo respira buena. Ayudame, por for favor.”

Good enough. I was lead to a waiting room after my passport was photocopied, and, well, waited. I was hacking up half my lungs and part of my spleen when a doctor came to see about me. He told me in his most mutilated English that I would be seen soon.

Just then, a nice couple walked in, a blond woman and a dark haired man. They both spoke English, even though the man had a thick accent. He began to translate for the woman with the nurse who came to see about her. He was tall for a Spaniard (about 5’8) and dressed well (Cole Haan loafers, button down shirt). He was attractive enough without looking too metro sexual, the kind of masculinity that educated men exude.

The doctor called me into the private room. I worked up enough moxy (out of sheer desperation) and walked up to him before going in the room, and asking him if he would mind translating for me with the good doctor.

He smiled and agreed. His blond friend smiled at me and told me by all means….

We entered the room and I told him my symptoms, and he told the doctor. The doctor told him what was wrong with me after the examination (a lung infection) and he told me. He even turned his back like a gentlemen when the doctor did my chest exam.

She gave me some instructions and said she would be right back with my antibiotics.

He and I went back to the waiting room to check on his friend, who was in the bathroom. We sat and talked.

He was an engineer who lived in El Palo, right around the corner from where I was staying. He was currently working in Malaysia, and came home for holiday. He meant his friend at a party and she wasn’t feeling well. When she started throwing up he brought her here. He asked me about my time in Spain, and what I did back home. When I told him, he shared that he used to be a teacher and he loved it, but he couldn’t survive on the pay. We laughed about that. He touched my book (I had a book) and asked me if it was good. I replied yes, he commented about how much he loved to read and he was reading this great Arabic author, whose name escapes me, as I was too busy staring into his bright brown eyes. He smiled at me and we were quiet for a moment.

His friend came back (bitch) and sat down next to him on the other side. The doctor came out and gave me all the medicine I needed (that’s right-no need for a pharmacy) and wished me luck.

I got up to leave, and he got up as well.

“What is your name?”

“Breeanne”

“Breeanne, I am Manolo. It was very nice to meet you. I hope you feel better.”

Thank you.”

We kissed on the cheeks. Twice.

I love that name, Manolo. I always have.

I left the hospital holding two Dixie cups full of medicine and a Toni Morrison book with a doctor’s note folded between its pages. It was an extremely warm night. Downright hot. The air was stagnant, stubborn. The kind of heat that follows you like a cruel school mob at recess that screams dirty epithets and wont let up until the teacher sounds the whistle to come back in. Oppressive, like New Orleans in August. Mint Julep heat, but here in Spain, Mojito heat.

I wanted a drink, but I knew it probably wouldn’t be a good idea what with all this new free medicine coursing through my veins.

I decided to walk back to El Palo, since I hadn’t enough Euros for another cab anyway.

I was sure I knew where I was going, kind of. I passed the 24-hour helado store that I remember in the cab (Spanish people LOVE helado. They sit at the ice cream shops around town and eat ice cream at 1am in the morning). I think I took a wrong turn after the helado shop, as the calle started to look a little foreign. This thought made me laugh, as the whole county was foreign to me.

I walked down a side street, holding my Dixie cups, book tucked under my infirmed lung.

“Tu te vas lejos?”

I kept walking after I smiled.

The man on the motorbike who spoke to me in slow deep tones pulled up beside me and tried again.

“Morena, te vas lejos?”

“No tango ni idea que tu dice.”

He laughed. He had manly laugh for someone obviously so young. He sounded like Anthony Hopkins.

He was a little taller than me, and dark, almost indigenous looking. He couldn’t have been from the country, perhaps somewhere in Peru, or Central America, where the skin and the hair are thick and unbending. His crew cut was covered by the helmet until he took it off and stood up to flirt with me.

“Y tu te llama?”

“Breeanne”

“Que?”

I laughed. “Breeanne”

“Soy Anton.”

“Mucho gusto, Anton”.

“De donde eres?”

“Jamaica. Yo vivo en Nueva York”

“Ay, si, lu ciudad que nunca dormir”

“Vale! Si”

We stood laughing for quite some time, and I realized, even though we could barely communicate with each other, and didn’t know the other from Adam, we were flirting. It was a moment, and it was nice.

He convinced me a little later, to get on his bike, sin helmet so he could take me home. He put my medication and my book in the bike’s “trunk” and I climbed on. Later, he commented that I looked a little crazy walking the street at 1 in the morning holding 2 Dixie cups and book.

I have heard that before, from many men, and surmise that I must be really pretty, because they always stop anyway.

I was scared of the bike. Especially since I had no helmet, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I climbed on and held on to Anton tight.

I put my head on his shoulders and felt at ease. I reached my hands around his torso. He was chubby but not fat. He was the kind of guy who believed going to the gym was for soft men, and preferred a hard day’s work outside to a spinning class. His body wasn’t perfect, but it was still warm, and I imagine, could still make a woman feel protected.

I held on tighter as he turned down Calle de Juan Sebastian.

He drove with one hand, and put his other hand on mine that were around his body. Our thumbs chased each other, and our hands touched and pinched. I nudged his neck with my nose and he smiled.

The air was nice and comforting on the back of that motorcycle. The beach looked even more beautiful as we raced beside it towards my flat. The sea smelled more delicious as we rode together in the night.

We stopped in front of my flat and he popped the “trunk” and gave me my crazy pills and my book.

“Anton, tu eres muy simpatico.”

He smiled. He kissed me once on each cheek. I gave him a hug, putting my arms around him one last time, and whispered a grateful “gracias” into his ear.

I crossed the street and watched him ride down towards the beach before I went inside.

I sat in the dark of my room for a while before the medicine made me drift off to sleep, staring at the bell tower, thanking God a little for my brief remnant encounters. It’s nice to know, after heartbreak and self-doubt, that there are still instances you can have with men that make you believe….

Believe that connection is possible.

Maybe this will tide me over for a couple more months.

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.

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.