No. 43: Roll like Catherine of Aragon
...Leaving the square we return to the hostel to get our bags, saying goodbye to the quiet guy running the front desk who Becky and Sarah have dubbed Hot Jesus.
The sun has finally set and there won’t be much to do until the clock gets closer to midnight, so we look for a restaurant where we can sit until the streets get crowded again. Walking down Las Ramblas, the main promenade where most of Barcelona’s traffic pools through, we see a small café with doors wide open, a youngish looking man in a gray suit motioning for us to come in.
“Buenos noches senoritas. Are you American?”
We sit down as the friendly assumer passes out menus and glasses of water. I’m using my small red suitcase as a footstool as Becky orders bread and tomatoes for the table, and a shot glass appears in front of me.
“This is very special,” the restaurant man tells us, revealing a glass bottle containing a bright yellow liquid that looks like Mountain Dew. He introduces himself as Alonso, the manager of the restaurant, and he pours us each a thimbleful of the drink. It tastes like Windex.
“Where are you beautiful ladies from?” Alfonso asks as he pours more window cleaner into our glasses.
“From Florida,” Sarah tells him as she bobs her head to a song playing on the radio. It’s Hungry Eyes, and I find myself humming along as well.
“Florida is very beautiful,” he replies. “Miami is a wonderful place.”
“You’ve been?” Becky asks.
“No, but I have many friends who have told me.”
Sarah starts to sing along to the music in the background, doing her best Jenifer Grey impression. As she finishes the middle chorus I pick up the lyrics.
I’ve got hungry eyes/I feel the magic between you and I/I’ve got hungry eyes
Sarah takes hold of my hand and we’re in a duet. Someone turns up the radio and we stand to finish the performance, drawing out the last note and gazing lovingly at each other as if Sarah’s father has just told me nobody puts Baby in the corner.
We finish to mild applause and more yellow alcohol.
“You do know I just filmed that, right?” Becky asks me.
“Oh leave me alone,” I say. “Sarah makes everyone bisexual.”
“Where are you girls going later?” asks Alfonso, delighted with our display. “I would love to show you a club my friend owns.”
Becky and I look at one another to silently debate the issue with our eyes, while Sarah replies “Sounds like fun.”
“Yeah, that would be good,” I hear myself say, wondering if I’ve had too much Windex cocktail.
We gather our things and head back out to Las Ramblas, which is beginning to wake up. Marquees are lit up on top of bar fronts and a group of girls in short skirts and cheap high heels are waving to convertibles that pass by.
“This is my car,” Alfonso says, pointing to a small blue compact. I’m sure I’ve seen a Lifetime made-for-TV movie cautioning against this, 'Mother May I Leave Without My Daughter,' but I climb in the backseat behind my friends. As we race down the street I try not to think about how my father would react to my current situation, which isn’t difficult given the warm hum in my blood following three straight hours of drinking.
Sarah is chatting with our new guide in surprisingly good Spanish, and we pull in to a small parking lot positioned next to a beach...
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