Hola Putas

A quick note on Italy: The food was delicious. I've waited too long to write about Italy, and now, I'm afraid, have become bored with the idea of writing about it. Instead, i'll let the pictures do the talking - or writing.

I am injured at the moment. I hurt my back playing fútbol, and then I tried to play baloncesto too soon, and reinjured it - so i've been bedridden for the past few days. I can't even put on my socks, let alone write - but with a sudden urge i've gained the strength to string together a few sentences. I wish i was stronger...

"Where are they?"

"They're everywhere."

"I don't see them. You should walk ahead of us like bait..." an eager mother says to her first born son.

The son laughs and begins to walk ahead of his parents down Gran Via - the famed Spanish street, known for its tall buildings, bustling foot traffic, and hookers. The prostitutes or as they are called in Spain, Putas, line the footpath that connects Sol and Gran Via. With all the people walking on a Friday night it's hard to spot them with an untrained eye, but once you spot one, it's easy.

The son struts down the pathway, passing one hooker negotiating with a man - he nonchalantly points her out to his parents. The negotiation didn't go so well - the man laughed, and the puta slapped him in the balls. The boy can hear the laughter of his mother.

A small, little hooker quickly approaches the boy, and says something vulgar in Spanish. She tries to hold his hand, but he laughs and scurries away like it's some kind of game. In a way, it is. The boy has walked down this pathway many times before - it's the superbowl of people watching. Any time you want to go people watching, and you throw hookers and booze into the mix, it elevates the experience tenfold.

The hookers lean on the trees that run down the center of the pathway. They curse and yell, and talk on their mobiles, and they all have their different styles. On Halloween I walked with a basketball in my hand - i was Pau Gasol. Hookers from every direction tried to steal the basketball - they think if they can steal something from you, and get you to follow them for even minute, their chances of making some $ increase. Little did they know that I had a mean cross-over and handles for days. I ball faked every hooker on that street that night - zero turnovers. The captain that i was traveling with didn't fair so well. One pudgy puta with an attitude and a devilish laugh stole his captain's hat from behind. She alluded him for a good 5 minutes before throwing the hat into a parked Ambulance. Quite the strategy.

The boy and his parents make it to the end, but now they have to turn around and head straight back to where they came from...the second time you pass the hookers always gets a little dicey - despite all their ill qualities, hookers have great memories - they don't forget. The same little, feisty puta approaches the boy again. He's too experienced with alluding putas like her. It's really not that hard...you just run.

The boy's father falls behind him and his mother as points his camera every which way. His mother calls for him to wait as his father catches up...remember how i told you most of the hookers lean against trees? Well, the boy's mother slowly starts to lean against the nearest tree, when suddenly the boy screams out, "Mom, no! Not the tree....do not lean against that tree!" They both begin to laugh hysterically surrounded by drunken Spaniards and hookers on the clock.

Snap a photo.

Evasively,

C.M. Stassel