Day 34
I can only scratch my head wondering how Transylvania became infamous for vampire lore when Spain’s youth are modern day vampires. Perhaps the reason they are unreasonably grouchy with me at all hours of the day is because they can’t wait till the sunsets and they can eat their dinner in the moonlight and inebriate themselves in public parks, relishing the permissive nature of darkness’s oblivion. I am a mere mortal, and they must smell my blood, fresh and pulsing. Swarming me in ankle boots with heels that raises them inches over my head, the women flock the streets when it is no longer night, but early morning. Like birds competing for the females’ attention, mohawked boys step out in fresh jackets and shoes that one wouldn’t dare call loafers because they’re much cooler. Making sure they are seen and heard, the youth begin their nightly parade. I slip between them, staring up into eyes hidden behind layers of glitter and mascara and into crowds of boys splitting a bag of sunflower seeds. Even though it’s public debauchery, with only the most selfish intentions at heart, there’s an intimacy in the streets that I can’t put my finger on. Groups of friends see each other across the plaza and they race to one another in small celebrity steps, eyes darting at those who might be watching while they prepare to celebrate their discovery. Everyone has walked the streets many times over and so they know where they stand, where the crowd will file through, when the taxi will butt its nose in and query rides, and when to head to the clubs. I love the fluidity of bodies moving in the streets. For a newbie who isn’t quite always sure which direction to move in, the way the locals navigate their city is enthralling. It must be exhilarating to know where you want to go and to have people to meet, to have friends to look out for and to hope for the real possibility of the name being shouted across the plaza being yours. But as the invisible foreigner, I love sliding through the networks, soaking in the drama of the world’s most dramatic people.
Frustratingly though, long late nights engender later mornings and shorter days. I felt like I was back in elementary school, sleeping in till noon to get a solid 7 hours of sleep so I might function at some human level for the next 12 hours I might be awake for. It’s no wonder Spain needs a 3 hour lunch break during the week. They mess up their sleep schedule terribly on the weekends, there is no way their body is able to hold onto any sort of circadian rhythm. But it’s okay that I sleep the day away because I’ve already graduated. No big deadlines pulling me out of bed anymore. So in my wanderings around the city like a zombie from a long night I went to check to see if juggler man was being more productive than I and working the crosswalk. And he certainly was. Today was apparently supposed to garner laughs, he was dressed as a clown, with the hat, the creepy makeup, the big baggy pants and the outlandish shoes that covered more of the cross walk that should be allowed. And no, he really hadn’t improved at juggling. Still kept dropping them, posing more danger to the crossing pedestrians than the cars might if they were to run a red light. I waited long enough to watch a few rounds of red light shows and then he sauntered over to where I was by the magazine stand and I thought for sure he was going to charge me for peeking from afar. But as I stared at him through a twirling rack of Malaga postcards he started to chat with the stand owner asking for a bottle of water. It was the strangest thing to hear a voice attached to the clown, to hear him say how hot he was and how it was already a long day. I know he’s human, obviously, but it’s so strange to catch a performer performing them self. It reminded me of when I walk home from work and go down the main street just to get in some better quality people watching, the street performers who dress up and hold a pose, like a Viking or a person made of gold or a man in a newspaper world (Spain as usual makes odd choices that don’t seem at all relevant) frequently go on smoke breaks, stepping off their pedestal, grabbing their money cap, reach into their back pack, pull out a pack of cigs and then lean against the wall of the building taking long draws, acting as if they were nothing out of the ordinary, just any other man made of gold on his smoke break.
And it’s a silly full circle. The night time masquerade and the day time show. And I’m a window shopper, only passing by, not really buying into it. Only glad for my place in the shadows, moving around the spotlighted lives of the glamorous or those desperate to be glamour itself. Lord only knows what they’d have to say about me. Silly American tomboy. Go put on some makeup, put on your high heels and minifalda (mini skirt) and let’s go. Enough of the morning meditation. Enough of your reading. Enough of your writing. Stop thinking and BE. Maybe they’ve got a point….
Or bah-humbug. I miss you and love you for loving me, simply.
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