Day 20
A lesson for future home buyers: Location location location. Living in the middle of downtown makes for an easy commute to fun local hangouts, but it’s a grizzly commute to the Land of Zzzzzs. And so if you’re not part of the local gang that roams the streets at 3am causing havoc, you’re an idiot to buy a place that lies along their prowl. I am the village idiot.
It’s at least 4am and the screams of an angry Spanish woman are treading upon what dreams I might have been having. Momentarily disoriented I remember I’m in Malaga, living above the downtown square, and it’s the early hours of Saturday, so it’s probably some drunken mayhem that’s ringing in my head, invading my dark room, shaking my blankets, causing my eyelids to quake in resistance of opening to investigate. Sleep pulls me back into its dark arms, but still the angry woman’s rants sound as background noise. My unconscious mind fed up with this woman making noise at a sacred hour of the day, my dreaming body yells to my roommate, “What is she screaming about?” as if I could address her issue. “Books!” he yells! And the conversation ends. Clearly my pre-occupation with finding a library is seeping into my dreams in an odd way.
Whatever annoyance I carry over into my waking hours is dissipated by the drizzling rain hushing the streets, drawing the hours of sleeping in on to early afternoon napping. Unable to sit on my terrace I peer out from my doorway, watching the rooftops lounge in their morning bath. A frigid wash I’m glad to escape. I stick my toes out and they catch drops that slide along the chipped ridges of toe nail polish that’s fallen away on the many days spent trekking through the city.
My roommate, the epitome of a European metrosexual, is busy scrubbing our piso down, not letting the inside of our piso escape the washing the rest of the city is begrudgingly receiving. He follows me from the bathroom to the kitchen, asking if I’m done using the space, chasing my footsteps with our yellow mop. I’m eventually cordoned off in my room, the rest of the place drying from his meticulous scrubbing. No, this isn’t his normal Saturday morning routine. (Wouldn’t it be nice if it was?? Ha-ha.) He’s decided we should throw a “house”-warming party tonight. He asked me a few days ago if I would mind and I laughed and said of course not, but as he was my only friend I joked that I hope he wouldn’t stand me up. So it was decided he’d deal with the guest list, as well with the issue of decorating the piso. Given our tight budgets and tiny space, he did better than Martha Stewart at Thanksgiving sprucing up our place drawing together feature IKEA pieces and the occasional dumpster dive find. If you come to visit I openly take no credit for how our piso looks, my only input was “yes, that painting looks straight.” It’s been delightful to live with someone who is so concerned with making our living space look like real people actually live there. But to be honest, I have to work rather hard at genuinely caring about our piso. I have my terrace. And the piso isn’t really home, so I’m not concerned if the cups have stripes or spots, or it the blanket is hung with horizontal or vertical stripes. So I jump through the hoops, reveling in his passion, sweeping my apathy under the rug, because he has so much fun fixing our piso up. Needless to say, when people arrived, they thought our piso was pretty sweet.
But he had to wait for the compliments. The shindig was scheduled to start at 9pm, but we didn’t expect anyone until at least 9:30pm. It’s Europe; it’s rude to come early. Pacing the piso, changing the playlist and taking long sips of his beer he asks where everyone is…the clock tower has rung to let us know its 10pm and we’re still home alone. It’s 10:30pm and he goes hunting down our friend that lives down the street. He says he’s “on his way.” As Chris comes back up he looks at me and says, “God, we’re so lame. No one is coming.” And I whip, “No, you’re the lame one. You invited everyone.” It takes a second, but then he laughs, picking up on my sarcastic nudge to get him to relax.
Minutes later his friend from Malaga drops by, but he detains her in the hall, she’s smoking. The ONLY rule we have in our apartment is NO SMOKING. (Take note potential visitors!) He makes her wait in the hall as she finishes her cigarette. At this point I’m cracking up inside because the ONLY guest we have we aren’t letting in because she’s breaking the ONLY rule we have. I wonder if we should even bother with a Christmas Party in our piso with our luck so far.
She has to head to work (because it’s normal to work after 10pm here) and like clockwork other friends come. 3 leggy Spaniards trot in, courting mini-faldas (mini-skirts) and movie worthy makeup. I already feel like the black sheep in Spain, so it doesn’t help when the cream of the Spanish crop pop in batting their long lashes exuding sex appeal. Strike the score to “Katie feels like the frumpy American with her tongue tied” and put it on repeat. Beauty is intimidating in any form, be it in a mountain, or women with legs as long as the Eiffel Tower. When other Americans come invisible language lines are drawn in the air, the kitchen fostering Sangria and Spanish while the living room is saturated with beer and English. I’m awkwardly in the hall between the two, not sure which group to join, so I’m like the fish that sucks the wall of the fish tank, totally aware of what’s going on in the tank, in their own world, but also intent on understanding another world, sucking hard on the glass to try and break through the interference impeding comprehension.
Eventually there is a feeling in the air that all has been said. None it is time to go out. “No’ vamo’!” the Spanish girls yell. Everyone is on board and they look at me and question in a declarative manner, “You are coming with us. Yes.” I stammer something like sure sure, the fish letting go of the wall, hoping to breathe in the water. They tell the others that I’m just going to change out of my sweater and THEN “no’ vamo’!” Right I thought, change out of my sweater I thought was “chullo” (cool). They tell me something sleeveless because it is hot hot hot in the clubs, lots of people. Nodding sure, I retreat to my room and stare down my closet as I know so many other women have done, thinking, “I have nothing to wear.” All the potential options hide their heads, shirking shyly, not sure about going out. I find something, dragging a black tank top out of the closet. If black isn’t a safe bet then I’m a goner. It’s almost 1am, and the rest of the city is dressed and ready, already out.
In Spain you don’t go into a club, you make.an.entrance. The darkness of the night floods the club, but hypnotizing lights fly across the room, searching out the beautiful bodies, and when it chooses you to illuminate, don’t miss the moment, before the night blinks you back into oblivion catch every eye, and draw their breaths short with each step. Of course the Spanish girls know the club and they wave us in. Faking my best look of confidence, I tag along, they’ve grabbed my hand to make sure I’m not lost in the crowd and its Legs Legs Legs Legs, hair swishing, lashes blinking, high heels clicking. I can only gaze in wonder at the beauties that pull me along like their bashful little sister. My eyes follow them as the rest of the club is caught in their allure, their perfume turning heads. They have made their entrance. And the little ugly duckling that I feel like, shuffles a foot shorter, lacking a sexy hair swing, and 3 less layers of makeup behind in their trail of wonder. Like the sun clearing the sky of clouds, they make room in a corner by tables to dance. I sigh, finally, we can dance. My favorite part. But then I see eyes watching our group. And I remember that I’m the kid that spent more time on the volleyball court staring down an opponent and in the library staring down a book than I did staring down myself in the mirror mastering the art of looking sexy. My limbs lock up and I forget how to dance. By some stoke of luck a reggaeton song that I play exhaustively on my ipod reverberates in the club and I fight the urge to clam up. And then the girls make me drop my jaw. They start doing the chicken dance. I being to nervously giggle, asking “what are you doing?” and they say “baile del pollo!..how you say…dance of chicken?”” and I nod in laughter. The Beyonce personalities are dropped and they are goofing around on the dance floor, doing the chicken dance or spoofs of other moves, making my nerves melt away. They ask if I’m having fun and I grin like a fool and say, “finally, finally, yes.” Beauty that can laugh at itself, what a relief. And against all odds, I feel like part of the gang.
When everyone is exhausted enough that we’re all sinking into the plushy seats and cigarettes are lit, making smoke signals of retreat from the dance floor we decide to call it a night. As we walk out into the street I feel rain falling. And I think of T.S. Eliot who said, “We shall not cease from our exploration And at the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time.” In my exhausted revelry I’m no longer walking the cold street of the screaming woman of my dreams, but floating up and up and up, sent home by besos of good bye from my … friends.
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