The Breakthrough

Biers still cost a single euro on the street, the metro is still a time warp, impromptu break-dancing circles still bust out in puerta del Sol, tapas still go well with biers, bullfights are still on Sundays, I still hit my head on the chandelier when I forget that it's there, Pao Gasol is still a god here, I still have the urge to perform on the street for $, my roommate still doesn't like the girls, and the Spanish sun still dries my clothes, but something is different.

I must warn you, the series of events I am about to unfold for you are filled with triumph, but to a large degree they are filled with defeat, and to a larger degree they are filled with bewilderment.

Something is different. A man approaches me on the street, with his fast spanish tongue he asks me a question...did I just understand everything he just asked me? Was I just able to decipher between his lispy Spanish c's and even lispier s's? I think I did. I knew it would eventually happen. I consciously knew that it would, I'd thunk that thought before. However, whenever a preordained thought reaches its potential and comes to life it happens so suddenly. Yesterday was different. Today is new. Today, I can speak Spanish.

It's 2:00 pm on Friday and i'm still in my bed. The shades are drawn and my room is dark. I'd have stayed in bed if I wasn't so hungry. I needed to eat. I met mi amigo, Alex, at the Lavapies metro station and hunted for an eatery. We found a spot with a great Menu del Dia....when in Spain it's wise and economical to order from the menu del dia. The place was called La Buca and for 11 euro I got a plate of spaghetti, patatas and fish, dos cervezas, and a banana strawberry smoothie for dessert.

After a meal like that one is very inclined to sleep - but in Spain you don't sleep, you siesta. I tried to take a siesta but ended up finishing this book by Ernest that i'm reading...The Sun Also Rises. He's got me hooked on bullfighting.

The pregames in Spain take place in the plazas...at 10 or 11 o'clock on a Friday or Saturday you will see groups of Spaniards at the plazas sitting in circles, drinking bier and calimocho...Calimocho: 1/3 Coca Cola, 2/3 wine. I know how it sounds, but it is actually very good. When you see Spaniards cruising around with plastic Coca-Cola bottles more likely than not it's filled with Calimocho. Calimocho has no frame of reference to this story, at all - so I think i'll declare Calimocho my tip of the day....or week.

Alex and I met up with our futbol playing friend, Carlos, and we headed toward the cobble stoned side streets of Lavapies and Embajadores. Spaniards were out in full force (I should think so...i'm in Spain) - more appropriately put, we had escaped tourism, and found a local spot. We went into a bar and promptly met two Spaniards who were really intrigued by America (hell ya!). I spoke to them in Spanish, rather well. They understood everything I said, and I understood most of what they said. Spanish women are very difficult to talk to because they'll turn their backs on you without thinking twice...if you stumble up on a spanish phrase, forget it, she's gone, she's not a babysitter. So I asked our new Spanish friends the best way to start a conversation with a Spanish girl...their advice was to compliment them. On their smile, on their lips, on their eyes, on their beauty - however, NOT on their hair. Don't compliment them on their hair. Or their feet...don't do that either.

"Respeto tu belleza" or "Me gusta tu sonrisa," they told me to say. Translated - I respect your beauty, and I like your smile. Sounds a hell of a lot more romantic in Spanish.

I decided to try my new lines out with some local girls. I saw this one girl, who was incredibly beautiful. I told her she was very beautiful and I liked her smi...tripped up on that word....and she's gone. Not a big deal - this bar is full of girls. I saw another Spanish chica with black wavy hair, friendly eyes, and a beautiful smile. I told her that i thought she had a beautiful smile, and, ironically enough, she smiled. We started talking (in Spanish), and it was a great conversation. I asked her if I could call her for some tapas sometime. She said that'd be great and she gave me her...let's stop right here and go back to Thursday night.

Thursday night. I went out to a discotecha, drank 1 euro biers on the street, had a great time, and took a taxi home at 4 am. On the way home, my small Spanish phone must have slipped out of my pocket...check that, not "must have" it did slip out of my pocket. That was the end of that phone...good thing phones here are not a big commitment - the phone, itself, only cost me 15 euros and you pay for minutes as you go. However, I admit DEFEAT.

Back to Friday night. The girl's name is Marina and she wants to give me her number, but I have no phone. Searching my pockets for something, anything, I found a pen. I handed it to her and she wrote out her name and number on my left forearm. TRIUMPH.

Ink from the night before still sprawled out on my arm, it was Saturday and that meant La Noche en Blanco...a cultural event for the ages. It was a great night - my spanish improved, the plazas were bustling, culture everywhere. I stayed up til 6 am to catch the metro home - I was travelling in the opposite direction of my friends, so I was by myself. This would have never happened had I been with my friends. Like I said, it was probably a quarter past 6 am, and I was dog-tired. The steady pace of the metro rocked me to sleep. I thought I would wake up when it stopped, so I let the sleep takeover. It turned out to be a deeper sleep than I had planned - I slept through five stops and missed my station by 4. Before I went to sleep I took off my glasses and hung them on my shirt - I clearly and vividly remember doing this. When I woke, my glasses were gone. There can only be one explanation for this....gypsies. The gypsies had stolen my glasses from right under my nose, literally. With their fast fingers, and quiet feet I had no chance - at least, while I was asleep. They might as well have stolen them straight off my face. One would think that my prescription glasses would be of no use to anyone else. Well, that is assuming that a gypsy thinks like everyone else - gypsies are not people. Give me your tears, gypsy. Very nice. I finally digress, BEWILDERMENT.

Blindly Yours,

C.M. Stassel