danceislove

This is a story that I worked on with my favorite student this summer.   She’s 13.  You know who you are, student and friend of mine!  I hope you have a great school year filled with everything you want and more!  Love, Liz

Didgeridoo

“Gerald, we have to leave this town,” said his wife Alana.

“Nah.  The strike will be over in a few days,” said Gerald.  He was busy scrubbing the counter, which he had already scrubbed earlier that day.

“I don’t think so.  Didn’t you hear that Whitman has disappeared also?”

Gerald stopped scrubbing for a moment and blinked at Alana.  “So now the governor of New Jersey is gone?”

“Yup.  First the mayor of our town.  Then the count lawmakers.  Now the governor.”  Alana sat down heavily on one of the blond wood kitchen chairs and brushed some short strands of dark hair off her forehead.  She stared at the table.  “Who’s next - the president?”

Gerald laughed.  “Maybe.”  He resumed scrubbing.  “That would be good.  Then maybe we can get somebody better in there, and fix this country -”

“Gerald!  it’s not funny!”  Alana looked up from the table and twisted halfway around to stare at her husband.  “Do you know what’s going on over there in the city?  You’re doing your computer programming in the suburbs all day, and then you come back here and watch basketball and clean the hourse.”

“So?”  Gerald laughed again.  “And by the way, Alana, when are we having dinner?”

“I can’t believe you are acting like nothing is happening.  People in the city are running out of their offices because no one is paying them.  They’ve started robbing the stores.  The trains have stopped running.  I don’t know who is going to disappear next.  I’m scard, Gerald.  We have to leave while we still can.  I’m going to get some of my things.”

“You aren’t going to make me dinner?”

Alana jumped up from their table, lunged past the broad counter and over to the stainless steel refrigerator.  She and Gerald had finally been able to buy this big house, after twenty years of saving money.  She understood that Gerald was laughing because he was scared, too.  he didn’t want to leave what they had worked so hard to get.

“Here.”  Alana opened the refrigerator, pulled out a package of hot dogs and tossed them on the counter.  “Put them in the microwave for two minutes.  there’s bread in the breadbox and ketchup in the cabinet over the stove.  I’m getting my suitcase.”

“Alana -”  Gerald froze, staring at his wife as she hurried out of the kitchen, through their grand marble-floored foyer and up the long, open flight of stairs to their bedroom.

________________________

Ms. Flowers, a gentle and smart woman, called her best friend, Mme Carna, to meet for lunch.  While she was waiting for Mme Carna to answer the phone she found on the internet a big problem that was happening on an island called Didgeridoo.  When she finished reading the article, her best friend answered.

“Hi, Ms. Flowers!”

Ms. Flowers smiled, she was happy to hear her best friend, Mme Carna, and she said, “I have news to tell you.  Do you want to have lunch with me at 3:00 at my house?”

Mme Carna thought a moment and she answered, “Let’s say at 2:30.  Is it ok?”

“Yes.”

Mme Carna chose her most beautiful dress while Ms. Flowers chose a pink T-shirt and white trousers.  At 2:30 they were talking about the terrible news Ms. Flowers had heard about.

“In Didgeridoo there is a terrible problem.  The people who live there don’t have houses, they don’t have food, beds, money… And most of the children are sick.  We must go there and help them.”

Mme Carna was sad and she answered, “You are right!  But doesn’t the government give them beds, houses….”

Ms. Flowers was surprised by this answer.  “You haven’t heard about the disappearance of all the members of the government?”

“What…?” Mme Carna shouted.  “We must go to Didgeridoo right away.  I am going to pack my suitcase and I’m going to buy my plane ticket.  Do you want one?”

The two friends started packing their suitcases.  The plane would leave at 9:00 that night.

_______________________

Mr. Donatello, a funny, kind man, was with his best friend Mr. Ernesto, who was also Ms. Flowers’s brother, when Ms. Flowers called Ernesto.

“Yes,” Mr. Ernesto answered.

Ms. Flowers started explaining to her brother what she and Mme Carna were going to do.

She heard Mr. Ernesto shout, “Are you crazy?”

Ms. Flowers answered, “Please, I have to go.”

Mr. Ernesto answered, “I will go with you.  Please buy me a ticket.”  He hung up the phone and explained all the events to Mr. Donatello.

Mr. Donatello was surprised, but finally he screamed, “Do you think that you are going to leave me here alone?  I will go with you.”

Mr. Ernesto thought that it was a great idea so he called his sister, Ms. Flowers.

“Ms. Flowers, can you buy a plane ticket for Mr. Donatello?”

“Of course,” she answered.  “We will meet at the airport at 8:00.  Bye!”

Chapter 2
Mr. Ernesto, Mr. Donatello, Ms. Flowers and mme Carna met at the airport at 8:00.  They checked their suitcases into the baggage compartment and they went inside the plane.

After a long trip, they arrived in a small airport.  They got their suitcases back and they went outside the airport.

They were east, so they decided to ask someone where they were, and where they could sleep.  The first person they saw was a college girl named Zippy.

Quickly Ms. Flowers asked, “Excuse me, can you help us?”

Zippy answered, “Yes!”

Mme Carna asked her, “Where are we?”

Zippy laughed, “You are in Didgeridoo.”

Mme Carna shouted, “We know that, but we want to know in what part.”

“You are in the north of the island.”

“Do you know a place where we can sleep?” asked Ms. Flowers.

“I don’t know if you realized that you are in a poor island, so there are no hotels.

Mme Carna shouted, “What are you talking about?”

Mr. Ernesto asked Zippy, “And where do you sleep?”

Zippy explained to him, “I live with some poor children that don’t have houses because of the disappearance of the government.  We live in tents, near the sea.  The only thing I can do to help you is to give you two tents and some food.”

Ms. Flowers interrupted Zippy, “We came here to help some poor children.  I have read that they have a lot of infections so we are going to build a hospital.”

Zippy looked at them seriously.  “I think you are a little bit confused.  You will need a lot of money.  Well, come with me.  I will give you your tents.”

____________________

Alana and Gerald sat silently in the taxi all the way to the airport.  This was not a good situation.  Even when things were not going their way, Gerald had a tendency to joke or to find some little thing to argue about.  When he was silent, Alana realized, it made the atmosphere grim indeed.

They arrived at John F. Kennedy International.  Each had one purple-and-beige striped suitcase, which they wheeled through the automatic glass doors.  alana also carried a large black handbag.

Gerald installed Alana on a bench near the United Airlines ticket counter, to wait with their baggage while he paid for their flights.  “Don’t move,” Gerald told Alana sternly.

“Where would I go?” said Alana.

“To the moon?” suggested Gerald.

“Yeah.  I’m gonna fly to the moon,” Alana said sarcastically.

She waited nervously for her husband, reverting to a childhood habit of biting her nails.

Only fifteen minutes later he came back.  “We’re stuck here, Alana.  Ha ha.  Let’s go back home.”

Alana stood up.  “We can’t go back home.  i don’t believe you.  There has to be someplace for us to go.”

“We can’t get a ticket anywhere.  All the planes are full,” explained Gerald.

“All right.  I’m going to go ask.  You stay here with the bags.”  Alana began to storm off.

“Alana, wait.  There is one place we can go.”

She stopped and turned around.  “What’s that?”

Gerald looked at her, defeated.  Everything was lost.  The house, the life they had worked so hard to build.  “The island of Didgeridoo,” he said.

_____________________
Gerald and Alana descended from the plane via a flight of metal stairs.  Local workers were unloading the passengers’ bags onto the tarmac.  Fortunately the couples’ luggage was easy to spot and they quickly claimed it.

“It’s so hot,” Alana complained, watching the steam rise up from the hot black tar, making the wings of nearby airplanes shimmer in the air.

“Ma’am, would you like to buy a straw hat?”  An old man with a white beard and brown skin approached.

“Yes, please.  How much?”

“Five American dollars.”

Alana rummaged in her black bag for a moment and pulled forth a five-dollar bill.

Gerald said, “You have to stop spending money like that or we are going to end up in the poorhouse.”

Alana replied, “In this heat I am not going to make it to any house at all unless I have some relief from the sun.  Now I need a bottle of water.”

“Oh God,” sighed Gerald strenuously.

“Hey, why do the people here speak English?  And why do they take American money?”

“Don’t you know this is United States Territory?” Gerald laughed at his wife.

“No, I didn’t know,” she said pensively.

“You didn’t know!  This whole island is run by the US government,” cried Gerald.

“What US government?” Alana said fearfully.

“Huh,” Gerald said, acknowledging her point.

“Listen, Gerald.  One of the attendants on the plane told me about a place we can stay. There is one private hotel left on the island.  Of course it is full, but next to it there is a little campground.  They have some trailers there, and nice tents.

By now they had reached an area in front of the airport, where they waited in line for a taxi.  Every few minutes, Gerald repeated the phrase “nice tents.  How can you have nice tents?  Ha ha.  Nice tents,” he said again.

“This place is not so bad.  Look at the beach.  It’s beautiful,” said Alana, as she and Gerald rode in the back of the Didgeridoo taxi.

Suddenly the cab stopped.

“Oh, is this the place?” cried Alana.  “I’ve always wanted to stay on the beach!  Gerald, this will be like the honeymoon we never had!”

“I don’t see any trailers or tents,” Gerald said.  “No nice tents.”

They looked out the window on Alana’s side of the cab, and saw their cab driver talking to a girl with long blond dreadlocks and wearing a colorful dress that was blowing in the sea breeze.  Near her were two men and two women, who looked as though they had also just come from the airport.

“Alana, let’s get out and see what’s going on,” said Gerald.

Alana opened the door and the couple go tout.  “Hey, keep an eye on the trunk,” Gerald said.  I don’t want these people to steal our luggage!”

Gerald and Alana approached the group standing near the beach on the side of the road.

The girl with the dreadlocks was talking to the cab driver.  “Steve,” she said, “I flagged you down because I thought you could help me and my friends find a place to stay for the night.”

Gerald and Alana were listening and Alana added, “We are going to a place where there are tents.”

“Yeah,” Gerald said.  “Nice tents.”

The hippie girl said, “Can we come with you?”

Alana said, “Sure, but there is no room in the cab for all of you.”

Just then, Steve pulled out his cell phone.  “Jack!” he yelled into it, over the noise of the traffic and the ocean.  “Yeah, I’m on the highway, near the airport, on my way to Pleasant Gables.  Got some people here for you to pick up!”

Zippy said, “Well, I will walk.  I’ll see you at the tents!”

Mme Carna said, “Would you like me to go with you?”

Zippy laughed.  “I will be OK!”

When the second taxicab arrived it was clear that it was too small for the rest of the hippie girl’s group and their luggage.

“I will go in your taxi with you,” Mrs. Flowers said, smiling at Alana.

“OK!” said Alana brightly.

“I’m Mrs. Flowers.”

“Alana.  And this is my husband Gerald.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Flowers,” said Gerald.  “OK, Steve, you ready?”

“Wait a moment, please,” said Mrs. Flowers.  “I want to say goodbye to my friends, Madame Carna, and Mr. Donatello, and my brother Ernesto.”

“It’s so nice to meet you all,” said Alana, going over to them and shaking hands.  “Where are you from?”

“Spain,” said Mr. Donatello.

“Do you think you will ever go back there?”  Alana said, with a troubled expression on her face.

“Alana!  Let’s go!”  Gerald hollered, walking back toward Steve’s cab.  “You can talk later!”

Mrs. Flowers and Alana followed Gerald while Madame Carna, Ernesto and Mr. Donatello got in Jack’s taxi, and they all drove to Pleasant Gables.

Chapter 3

In the morning in the west of the island there was a man who lives in a big house who woke up and screamed:

“Breakfast!”

Immediately a young girl, the maid, have him his breakfast.  When he finished he went to his balcony and screamed:

Immediately another maid appeared and she gave him the newspaper.

He started reading and he stopped on an article that was called “The Disappearance of All the Members of the Government.”  When he finished reading the article he screamed:

“What?  This must be a joke!  Give me a phone!  I should call the government!”

A maid gave him the phone and she told him, “If you phone them there won’t be any answer.”

The man, who was named Chuck, took the phone and he started dialing the phone number, but there was no answer, only the voice of a machine:

“Sorry.  We have disappeared.”

Chuck became angry so he went to his bedroom and stayed there all day.  At night he went for a walk.  He was angry so he was thinking while he was walking.

Zippy was walking when she saw in the distance a man.  She was surprised to see someone at that time, but since she didn’t know who the man was she called, “Hello!  It’s a beautiful night.

Chuck stopped and said, “I don’t really think so.  It is a horrible day.”

“Why?”  Zippy asked.

“Because the government has disappeared,” answered Chuck.

“Yesh, it is terrible news,” said Zippy.  “I am Zippy.  And you?”

“I am Chuck,” said Chuck.  “You should have heard about me.”

Zippy said, “OK!  Goodbye!”  She continued walking until she got into the tents.  In that moment she saw six people laughing and talking.  She knew they were the people from the airport.
_____________________

When she saw Zippy, Mrs. Flowers cried, “Zippy!  Come join us for dinner!  There is a stand over here that sells mangoes and rice and beans.”

“OK!  Thanks!  and who are these lovely people?” Zippy asked, walking over to Gerald and Alana.

“These are our new friends from the US,” said Mrs. Flowers, and introduced them to each other.

They all sat on the ground.  during the meal, they exchanged stories about their homes and their lives.  Alana said, “Once I was crossing the street in Manhattan and right next to me was Michael Jackson!”

Zippy said, “Ah!  I have something to tell you.  “Tonight I met the famous Chuck Johnson.”

All of the others cried, “Who?”

“Chuck Johnson.  I just met him tonight, but everyone on the island always talks about him.  he’s a rich man who started Sterling Enterprises in the US.”

“Oh, Sterling Enterprises,” said Gerald.  “Their stock has been going up a lot.”

“Mrs. Flowers said, “Did you say that he is rich?”

“Yes,” said Zippy.

Mrs. Flowers and Madame Carna smiled.  They were thinking the same thing.  “We can ask him to give us money to build the hospital,” said Madame Carna.

“What hospital?” said Alana.

Mr. Ernesto explained.  “We want to build a hospital for the poor people on Didgeridoo.  Do you want to help?”

“Of course!” said Alana.  She looked at Gerald.

“Why should Chuck Johnson, the owner of Sterling enterprises, give you people any money?” asked Gerald.

“He will be famous for giving us the money to build the first hospital in Didgeridoo!” said Zippy.

“I think it’s an excellent idea,” said Madame Carna.  “But all of us have had a very long day.  Let’s find our tents, go to sleep, and proceed with our plan in the morning.”

___________________

“Time to wake up!  Rise and shine!”

“What time is it?” Alana muttered sleepily to her husband.

“It’s six o’clock already!” sang Gerald.  “We have to go talk to the famous Chuck Johnson!”

After Alana and Gerald had breakfast with Mrs. Flowers, Mme. Carna, Mr. Donatello and Mr. Ernesto, and of course Zippy, all seven of them walked to Chuck Johnson’s house.

“Door!” Chuck screamed when the doorbell rang.  He didn’t look up from his newspaper.

After a few moments one of the maids went to Chuck and said, “There are some people here to see you.”

Chuck almost told the maid to make the people go away, but he was curious so he went to the door to see them.

“What do you want?” he said crossly at the group of seven at his door.

“We want to give you a great opportunity to help us build a hospital,” Zippy spoke up.

“Wait, who are you?” asked Chuck, recognizing her.

“I’m Zippy.  We met last night on the beach.  May we come in?”

“All of you?” said Chuck.

“Yes, of course,” piped up Alana.  “We are all working together.”

“All right,” grumbled Chuck.  He led them into his house.  It looked like a palace with chandeliers and huge rooms with no one in them.  His office had a dark leather floor and green leather chairs.  He sat in his desk chair while the rest stood.

“There are poor sick children on Didgeridoo and they need a hospital,” said Zippy.  “If you give us the money to build it we will call it the Chuck Johnson Hospital and you will be even more famous than you are now.”

“I need some time to think about this,” said Chuck.  “Come back tomorrow.”

After the Spanish and Americans left Chuck called, “Maid!”

One of the maids immediately came to his office.

“I have a problem that is very strange,” Chuck said.  “Ever since I met that girl Zippy last night I have not been able to stop thinking about her.  It is very inconvenient.  I need you to help me solve this problem.”

“Well, it means you are in love with her,” explained the maid.  “The only thing you can do is to go tell her.  I will get you some flowers to bring her.”

It took most of the day for the maid to go out and find the flowers.  Didgeridoo is not a rich island and it took time for her to find a place to buy them.

Zippy and her friends were having dinner on the ground when Chuck found them at the tents.  They were all very surprised to see them.  “I am here to give you my decision on the hospital,” Chuck explained.  “I am going to help you.”

Madame Carna and Mrs. Flowers stood up and began to jump up and down with happiness.  Alana clapped her hands.  Gerald shook his head but couldn’t stop smiling.

“Gerald,” said Alana, “I have a good feeling about this.  If we do good things, everything will return to normal and we will be able to go back to our home.”

“I hope so,” said Gerald, with a faraway look in his eyes.

Now Chuck looked at Zippy.  “May I see you alone for a moment?”

Zippy stood up and the two of them walked toward the beach, where he presented her with a dozen roses.  “I have decided to help you with this project because you are an amazing woman and I think I am in love with you.”

“That’s strange,”  Zippy said, “because the first time I saw you that night, I thought I fell in love with you too.”

“Let’s spend a lot of time together, building this hospital,” said chuck.

Zippy smiled.  “I’m ready!” she cried.

10-July-2010
So there’s this octopus named Paul, and a couple of days ago he was put in a special tank with a box labeled “Netherlands” on one side and a box labeled “Spain” on the other.  Each box contained a clam.  Apparently Paul was hungry because he ate the clams.  The important piece of information here:  first he ate the clam from the box marked “Spain.”

Clearly, dear reader, you must surmise from this illustrious event that the Spanish futbol team is going to win the World Cup!

This is what Spanish people have concluded.  The TV newspeople can talk of nothing else.  There’s enormous buzz on Facebook.  Everyone, as one of my students put it, is “delirious.”

The closest thing I could think of to this octopus tradition was our Groundhog Day.  But we don’t get hysterical over the groundhog.  To be fair, though, the US has never made a World Cup final.  (Am I wrong here?  Someone correct me if so!)  Maybe we will construct our own sea-creature ritual when we do someday.  The possibilities for this are endless!

OK, naturally I am also very excited that Spain has a chance to win the World Cup.  It’s pretty cool being in Madrid while this is all happening.

In fact I was going to start this post talking about how much I enjoy living here.  Some days I am really jazzed about being able to speak Spanish.  I’m not fluent but I’m able to teach lindy hop in Spanish, and I can have a friendly conversation, as long as my interlocutor does not speak rapidly.  I’ve gone from cultural isolation to human connection, and I’m learning a different way of thinking.  After I communicate in Spanish for a while, my brain feels great.  It’s kind of like how your body feels after a good workout.

It might surprise you to know that when you are learning a new language, one of the most difficult things to understand are the roll-off-your-tongue questions native speakers reflexively ask when starting a conversation.  “So, how’s it going?  Really nice out today, huh?”  As a green English teacher I witnessed my most advanced English students looking at me wonderingly not 30 seconds after I walked in to start their class.

Also difficult are the quick logistical things people say.  For example, I was SO happy when today a cashier told me - very quickly - that he did not have my 1 centimo change.   I was like, “No te preocupes.” (”Don’t worry.”  Spanish people say it all the time.  I like that.  It makes them similar to Australians and Jamaicans that way, possibly.  What do you think?)  I know there have been thousands of occasions on which I left the supermarket, my cashier saying something after me and I had no idea what it meant.

When people know more languages they can talk to more people.  It’s the most obvious thing in the world but it is remarkably fulfilling to experience and admirable to watch.  In Madrid there are tons of people - young people - who speak three and four languages.  It’s amazing being at a party where they switch easily from English to German to Spanish to French and think nothing of it.

A couple of days ago I got on the metro to go teach class.  Across from me sat a teenaged girl with long dark hair and huge eyes. She was with two similarly-aged blond girls, one on either side of her.  The three of them were all speaking carefully in English.

From the way the young brunette spoke I could tell she was Spanish.  The two blondes occasionally leaned over the girl in the middle to speak a few words in German.  For the most part, though, they discussed life together in a language not their own.

The Spanish girl radiated happiness.  I couldn’t help looking at her and smiling.  She smiled back at me.  Then she went back to talking to her friends.  They were discussing the fact that none of them like tattoos or piercings on boys.  Subsequently the young Spanish girl began talking about a particular boy.

“I’m going to tell him that you like him,” said one of the German girls.

“No!  Please don’t!”  cried the Spanish girl.  “I’m shy about it.”

The German girl insisted and so her Spanish friend extracted a promise to not divulge the news in her presence.  It was decided!

My stop was next so I stood up.  The Spanish girl caught my eye again and said, “Adios!”  I was charmed.

Yesterday I ran into a friend of my roommates’ in the super-cheap supermarket down the street from my house.  “Lucie!”  I said.  She was in front of me in line.

“Hola! Qué tal!”  We kissed hello and began a mundane but happy conversation about summer plans.  I like Lucie a lot.  She comes around the apartment regularly.  From the day she first met me she always spoke to me in Spanish, even when I could barely speak that language at all.  She didn’t use English like all the other French folks.  To be sure they made my life easier but there’s something to be said for what Lucie was doing.  She was establishing our relationship in Spanish.  Once you speak a certain language with someone it’s almost impossible to change.

After we said goodbye I thought, that was pretty cool.  A French girl and an American girl speaking to each other in a language not their own.

There is one downside to breaking the barrier to Spanish.  I understand the conversations around me, without trying.  I’ve crossed into spontaneous understanding.  I have to listen to what parents say to their kids, how people on phones try to explain to someone exactly where they are, and specifically which metro and bus lines the two people walking down the street behind me generally take to work.  I have no defense against information on everything that is “superbarato,” “superfacil” and “superguay.”

A couple of months back, Taj and Brad and I were watching a futbol game in the bar next to their house.  Far across the room, from another table, we heard a girl shouting to her two friends:  “So like, last year?  I was bigger than I am now but not, like, you know, really big?  But like, I was wearing this dress, and -”

I slumped over the table as Brad held his head in agony.  Taj laughed.  Brad said, “I thought I had escaped from that!  Oh man!  American girls!”

It’s not just Americans - plenty of people say annoying loud things now and then.  It’s part of life.  Walking around the packed city of Madrid, I’m going to encounter a lot of people whose turn it is to be loud and annoying that day.

All things considered, I’ll take Spanish.  I’ll take Madrid.  I’ll even take the hysteria over an octopus.  Well, maybe.

Vamos España!

p.s. You can watch Paul the Octopus here.

p.p.s. Paul was right! VIVA LA ROJA!

OK OK, so the book is not QUITE finished.

I did nothing last weekend except work on it.  Well, that and three hours in the park on Saturday afternoon playing an awesome Swedish game called KUBB (the explanation I got was “horseshoes for stupid people” so I’m passing it on to you), then a couple hours having drinks and tapas.  Come on, it’s Madrid.  But seriously, 3:11 AM came on Sunday night/ Monday morning, and I had typed the last word of my novel.  All but THE END.

For the next 24 hours, I told everyone, “It’s done!”

Sometime during that period a friend started chatting with me Gmail.  She’s also a writer; she lives here in Madrid.  I told her I was worried about my book still being too long (123,680 words, or 450-500 pages depending on number of words per page).  She said she’d email me an article that offered some good advice about how to take out unnecessary words.

I didn’t have a chance to read it until late Monday night, but I discovered that it had a lot of good advice in general.  It was the type of advice one already knows but sort of conveniently forgets because putting it into practice means one has to work harder.

When I saw the article, though, it made me excited and motivated.  I began to get some really good ideas for how to tighten up my novel.  That’s what I’ve been working on this week.

I’ll give you an update as soon as I can about the next estimated finish time.

In other news, I’m still really enjoying myself here in Madrid.  I think my Spanish is coming along.  I’ve begun to write stories in Spanish.  Tomorrow I’m proctoring the Cambridge exam for a little bit of extra money, then dance practice.  Saturday there will be practice again, and probably writing on Sunday.  Sometime during the weekend there’s bound to be some crazy adventure or at least one night I wind up staying out till 6 and don’t really know how that happened.

Someday if you have a chance to play KUBB, don’t pass it up.  You get to throw big wooden sticks (underhand only, unless you want to be disqualified) at little wooden blocks, but whatever you do, don’t knock over the king!  I played totally sober but I think the idea is to drink beers all the while; you’ll have fun either way.

April 26, 2010

I can’t believe it’s been almost one year since I moved to Spain.

Today after work I had to find a terraza somewhere; fortunately Madrid probably has more terrazas per square meter than any other city.

The sky glowed like a deep blue jewel.  Splashes of gold from the externally lit-up architecture added their splendor, as did the watery light gushing in great plumes from the fountain at the center of Glorieta Bilbao.  My boyfriend was nice enough to come meet me outside Café Comerciál.  We toasted our glasses of vino tinto as the sky shaded to black.

“You’ll never guess who I ran into as I crossed the street to come here from the metro.”

Taj must have sensed my note of irony because he immediately named the compatriot we meet by chance more often than any other.

“He said to tell you ‘what’s up.’”

“What was he doing?”

“Said he only had to work two hours today,” I reported.  “Was in the park all day.  Was on his way home to go to sleep.”

“Nice,” Taj approved.

“Hey, I got to go to that bar I love today, the one in Gregorio Marañón.  Krefy.  But I didn’t have a glass of wine with my pincho, because it seemed too early.  It was three o’clock.”

“It was five o’clock somewhere,” Taj pointed out.

“Very true.  I think someone very wise once said that.”  I gazed out over the generous fountain, high bubbling pillars, seven or eight of them in a row.

“You should read this,” Taj said, pointing to the back of the laminated menu.
It was a brief history of the cafe, in English first and below in German, but no Spanish.  Clearly a place for expatriates.  But if I were to believe the blurb, Café Comerciál has hosted all kinds of famous Spanish playwrights, bullfighters, and modern film directors - Amenabar for example.  It compared Bilbao to Sol as the two places in Madrid with the most character, and that is saying quite a lot.

“Charming,” I remarked, turning the menu over again.  “I really wish they listed the prices on this, though.”

“I think it’s really expensive here.”

“I suppose if you have to ask you can’t afford it.”

Nevertheless I did ask, and the waiter said he’d bring us the menu that included the prices.  Taj and I both thought it was pretty funny that two versions of the menu existed.

“Look,” I said, “you can get a mixto for three-fifty; that’s normal.”

Well, we dined mightily on chorizo, bocarones, a vegetable sandwich (all for me because Taj hates hard-boiled egg), chips and olives and bread.  All of that plus the wine came to less than 25 Euros.

I’m now signing off for a full week.  I’m finishing the book.  For real this time.  Next week, Dance Is Love will be officially finished.  Stay tuned for what happens next.
I’ve decided to list nine sort of random/ sort of favorite posts for you to catch up on, in the meantime.  I hope you enjoy them.

Laws of Attraction

Stay or Go

Canned Tuna

Mystery Meat

Alhambra, With Photos

Arriba, Al Bajo… (strangely prophetic)

BEST thing EVER

Key Cascade

Chord Caller*

It’s March 12th and Madrid feels like Montreal.  The leather jacket Claire let me have last October is now threadbare around the cuffs, and I’m through wearing the long waterproof I bought last Christmas because its zipper broke followed by one of the snaps, so that a hole gapes over my crotch area as I slalom among the slow-walking Spaniards on the sidewalk.

It’s been a busy and crazy but triumphant week, and I apologize for the decrease in my rate of posting.  I am eager to finish the current story. “How Liz Falls In Love,” and then resume Dance Is Love. Today I don’t have class till four so I am going back to sleep and will probably cook some falafel for dinner.  Tonight my boyfriend Taj and I will either watch a movie or go salsa dancing.  That’s how tired we both are.  Neither of us likes movies.  We may in that case end up at La Republica again for some busy footwork, arm-tossing figures and cranberry vodkas.

Tomorrow: French girl party at my house: my roommate Mathilde is having a birthday.  I need to find a costume as it’s a masquerade.  By that time none other than Andrew Sutton will be here, en route from the Canary Islands to Germany, where he will teach lindy hop next.  Taj and I will take him around Madrid this week.  No rest for the revelers.

This week I have solidified a work schedule which ensures no morning classes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays so if you want to find me on Tuesday or Thursday nights you might look in El Son, the salsa club that packs ‘em in till 5:30am every day of the week, or the live blues club La Coquette, both a stone’s throw from my house.  Sunday nights I’ll be at CATS or at somewhere I just heard about called El Bembe: one room each for salsa, bachata, merengue, regueton.  I ran into a friend of mine on Calle Huertas last Wednesday night and he said this place el Bembe is “la puta madre.”  It’s far, though: I’d have to take Cercanias (train to the near suburbs).

Semana Santa (Easter Week) is coming up and I think I want to be out of the city, maybe south, Valencia or Málaga.  Any suggestions for me?  (Think cheap, in Spain, beach, nature.)

Time for my siesta.  Sincere thanks to you for reading.  Your comments, suggestions, corrections, criticisms, shout-outs, etc. are always welcome.

Sunday began cloudy and cooler.  After a breakfast in bed of orange slices, almonds, whole wheat bread and a little chorizo, then coffee downstairs, we went for a run.  Far uphill we found grove of small, squat olive trees over rambling roots and grass.  Breathtaking views of the castle on the next hilltop, the city below and the snowy Sierra Nevada in the distance rewarded us.

That day we ate both lunch (2:30pm) and dinner (12:30am) at a fabulous noodle place called Feng Shui.  They gave us free egg fried rice and fried calamari with our drinks.  We watched the football highlights from the night before.  It just so happened that while we were inside eating warm greasy noodles, the weather decided to pour down rain, but when we walked up the hill again to drink wine and take in some more views, the clouds held off.

For the evening we decided to give Granada a break from our raucous American influence and hid out in our upgraded room.  Anyway, we were running low on money.

Early the next day, at 1pm, it was warm enough to sit on the terrazza of a charming cafe and have our coffee, toast, and olive oil.  Taj got a bocadillo (sandwich) of ham, cheese, and tomato, and wrapped half of it for the bus ride home.  Then we pooled our Euro coins and centimos on the table.  “What is this?” I cried, suddenly noticing that the backs of the Euros had different engravings on them, each intricate and beautiful.  I had never paid attention to that before.

“I think each country has its own Euro,” Taj said.

“That makes sense,” I answered, admiring an olive tree engraving on the back of one of them.

“That one might be from Greece,” he said.

On our way to the grocery store to buy me a couple of oranges we saw the silver guy again.  He was perched in a cornice on the outside of a large sand-colored church, wearing tight silver metallic gear, his face painted silver, sunglasses on his eyes.  He was blowing a really annoying whistle, trying to scare and jump out at tourists so they would give him money.  I wondered how that was going for him.
In the rain, with our luggage, we got on the bus to the bus station.  We’d already paid our fare for the bus back to Madrid, but the journey to the station cost a Euro 20 each, which we managed, to my relief.  The more immediate problem seemed to be actually getting on the bus, which was packed, but we made it.  At subsequent stops, the Spaniards had no qualms about physically - albeit lightly - pushing us closer to other passengers to make more room.

I found myself face to face with a smiling, darkly stubbled young man who immediately began speaking to me in English.  “I’m from Cyprus,” he announced.  “Do you know where that is?”

“Yes, of course,” I said.

“It’s an island near Greece!” he continued to announce, anyway.  He reported that he and his Italian friend, perched nearby on a bar meant for handicapped people to hold onto, were touring Spain.  Their bus to Malagá left in ten minutes and they were hoping to make it to the station in time.  After they detailed their trip thus far, I gave them the short version of my and Taj’s Granada experience.

“You should come visit Cyprus!  You are invited anytime.”

“OK.  We will.  Thanks.”

They guy smiled a little more broadly.  “It’s better if you come alone,” he said.  “You know Aphrodite?”

I laughed, appreciating his relative originality.  “I do, but I’d prefer to visit with my guy.”

“It’s good to have new experiences.”

“I’ve got new,” I persisted, looking around toward Taj.  The crowd’s collective insistence had required that he stand facing away from us, his large desert-camouflage backpack positioned between us.

After we’d parted from our interlocutors and run through the rain to the main bus station, I filled in Taj on the amusing conversation.

“He’s one of those guys that just has to try all the time.  They cast a wide net.  It’s probably effective, works at least some of the time.”

Since Taj was getting up and we had an hour and a half till the bus, I asked him to get me a diet coke.  He returned and reported that we were fifty centimos short.  Then I went to check my bank balance and came back.  “I have eight Euros to my name, in my bank account,” I sighed, sitting down.  Then I giggled.  “It’s so romantic, don’t you think?”

Across from us on the bus was a mom with her college-aged daughter.  They were returning to LA via Barajas, the airport in Madrid.

They asked us the usual questions.

I answered, “We’ve been on vacation in Granada but we live in Madrid,” I said.  Then, “New England.”

“North Central Florida,” Taj added dutifully; and then, “A year and a half.”

“Seven months,” I said after that.

We assured both of them that we loved Madrid.

Essential questions answered, we settled in for the rest of the ride.  The ride was remarkably quiet and comfortable; that is, after the sorority gal finished yapping on her phone with her American friends (“we’re going to yell at the Bay Bridge!  Yeah!  I can’t wait!  I’m gonna be in America tomorrow!).  A couple of movies, the sound off, played on a screen at the front of the bus.  I read as many of the subtitles as I could, to practice my Spanish.  Also Taj and I slept.

During the last minutes of the trip, dark and rainy on the populated highway, he talked on the phone with one of his roommates.  “They’re cooking a lot of food for dinner,” he reported.  “Want to come over?”

“Yes,” I said right away.  “By the way I found two Euros in my bag, so we can get on the metro.  But in my house I have some peanuts and maybe an egg, that’s about it, so lucky for me….”

As soon as the bus stopped, Taj headed off to grab our luggage from underneath while I gathered my valuables.  To the mom and sorority girl across the aisle I called, “Hey, have a good trip.”

“You too,” the mom said.

I smiled.  “My trip is done.  I’m home.”

After returning to the main town, we walked through the open marketplaces in the narrow streets, and among the closed shops in the broader streets and plazas, in search of a fruteria.  For me it’s not an afternoon without some fruit, and in Spain I’ve grown used to eating one or more big fat yellow apples per day.  It took an hour of walking, wandering, and asking before we found the one open food store.  Apparently on the Saturday of a fiesta weekend, one can easily buy as much jewelry, little boxes and harem pants as one wants, but groceries are a tough commodity to find.  Fortunately we didn’t mind the walking or the chance to practice our Spanish with the friendly townspeople.

Well, most of them were friendly.  As Taj and I progressed innocently through one of the many stone-paved plazas, past a large church, a striking dark-ponytailed woman stood in my path and offered me the freshest, most delicious sprig of rosemary I had yet encountered.

“Espera! Espera!” she cried, as I thanked her and tried to keep walking.  Her fingers closed around my wrist and she put her face next to mine, deep brown pools for eyes hypnotizing me.  She upturned my hand, which embarrassed me because my winter skin is flaking off between my fingers.  She began tapping the fleshy parts of my palm, side to side across its main wrinkles.  Her partner had captured Taj and was treating him similarly.

“You are going to travel,” my gypsy predicted.  “You will have a long life.  Now you are falling in love.”

She was kind of right.  I know I’m going to live a long time, because of my genes, and it’s true I plan to travel soon, and…. OK, those were pretty general pronouncements.  She probably told that to everyone.

“Paga me,” she demanded next.  I dug out a few coins, about 15 or 20 centimos, put them in her hand and finally got away.

“How much did you give her?” Taj asked, catching up with me.  I told him.

“Huh, I gave the other one a Euro.  I started to give it to her and she was like ‘no’ - she wanted paper!  I was not gonna give her five Euros….”

“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling very sheepish.  “I promise I won’t let the gypsies get us again.”

It was dusk.  We sat on a park bench eating our snacks.  I was so happy to eat two yellow apples in a row.  Then we went into a place called Bohemian Jazz Bar.

A benevolent bar guy looked out for us and made sure we sat at a table after waiting for a little while in the crowded place.  Dim lantern glow glinted off the dark polished wood surfaces, including an upright piano near the narrow entrance and a baby grand in the middle room.  The front part of the bar also featured homey, tall bookshelves full of classic Spanish novels.  Black and white photos of Billie Holiday, Miles Davis and Cab Calloway - the latter with his face upturned and arms stretched far out to either side of him - made me feel at home.
I had two cortados while Taj drank an alcohol-laced coffee drink with whipped cream.  OK, I had some of that too.  I took out my notebook and we wrote down some questions we had about Granada, and about musicians, that we were wondering and wanted to remember to look up later.

We spent Saturday night on the town.  Barcelona was playing Valladolid so we watched the game in the same restaurant where we’d had lunch.  Since the prices on the dinner menu were twice those of the lunch offerings, we split a pizza - topped with delicious crispy-style ham, maybe it was bacon - and drank two glasses of wine each.  Then we headed up the hill and had some more drinks at a quiet, Arabian-style tea-house.  I took issue with the music, which was French; I thought it should be Arabic or Spanish.  On the way back I was quite drunk, and a couple of times almost stumbled in my high-heeled boots on the uneven paving stones.  When one is in such a state it’s particularly nice to have a strong boyfriend to hold onto.

I don’t know what time it was when we started back to the hotel.  Over the narrow streets, gold and blue lights scrolled around half-circle clusters of red.  They looked like brightly glowing candied fruit slices in a black night.  Around us everything was quiet except for the heels of my boots sounding against the stones.  I had a feeling that it was still quite early by Madrid standards, but Granada is a much smaller town.

Through the glass storefront of our hotel, pink flashes twinkled among the dense, pure-white needles of a fake tree about my height.  I let it pleasantly mesmerize me as Taj reached up to ring the buzzer.

We saw Mr. Heart Attack heave himself from the vinyl-cube couch along the right wall of the lobby.  He waddled toward us, broad and tense, like a grim-faced South Park character.

“Gracias,” I said, when he opened the door.

“Buenas noches,” Taj added.

________________________________________________
The weather on the following day was great.  Taj went running with me in shorts and a T-shirt; I wore my BIX jacket from American Apparel but I was too warm in it.  We ran uphill and wound around the cobblestones and staircases and rough-hewn plazas.  The architecture was old and square and imposing and sand-colored.  I kept saying, “My mom would love this.  She would flip!”  Taj ran a lot faster than I did but he didn’t seem to mind that I couldn’t keep up and occasionally he had to wait for me.  He was listening to techno on his iTouch.

Before our run we’d had coffee in the place next to the hotel.  I’d been hungry and ordered a barra de pan integral.

Taj had asked, “When you were in the States, would you ever have thought of having toast with olive oil for breakfast?”

“Nope,” I’d said.  “But it’s such a good idea.”

Later we ate lunch in a nice little restaurant.  I had a smoked salmon sandwich and Taj got something really good with ham, but I forgot what.  The sandwiches were only about 5 Euros each.  The sun threw broad spotlights over the dark, arched woodwork.

We spent the afternoon walking around the Alhambra, checking out the grounds, gardens, museum, and most of all the breath-taking views.  You can see the photos below.  As we persevered up the very steep hills toward the palace, we remarked upon the frequency with which we heard a bell ring.

“Well, you know those Catholics,” I quipped.  “It’s always time for church.”

“I’ll bet it’s some tourists ringing the bell,” Taj said.

Sure enough, on top of the tallest tower of the palace ranged a long line of children, all at elbow-height or below, waiting for their turn to harass the townspeople by pulling on the rope of the endlessly-reverberating bell.  Taj and I agreed that it must kind of suck to live nearby.  “Probably worse than living next to an airport,” I postulated.

Taj and I emerged from the hotel’s side street onto a plaza of polished stone, halfway encircled by a Burger King and several banks occupying the bottom floors of tall, ornate buildings.  We chose a direction downhill, across a wide, clean street and past a statue of a guy on a horse in the middle of a large fountain.

The passages narrowed and slanted, side to side and downward.  “I think we are in the shopping district,” Taj remarked.

“Yeah; maybe eventually we’ll find some bars and restaurants,” I replied, as we continued past the shuttered stores:  Zara, Blanco, Pull and Bear, Lefties, Zara, some jewelry stores, Zara, souvenir shops, Zara.

Finally as we rounded a corner we were rewarded: merry, festive light spilling from broad windows bordered with filigreed patterns in delicate white paint.

The place was packed.  “Everyone here is kind of dressed up,” Taj observed.

I looked around at the Spanish women in their tights, high Mary Janes, thick expertly styled hair and thick expertly applied make-up.  Then I said, “Not 2050 over there,” and nodded toward a guy sitting in a group of 4.  His sweatshirt bore the number I mentioned.

“That’s true,” Taj laughed.

We were both in jeans, nothing fancy, but I didn’t think we looked particularly out of place.  I suppose the staff could have afforded to kick us out, since so many people crowded around the bar.  A couple of tables at the far side of the place were empty, but as they were laid with pure white table cloths and gleaming silverware, I knew that to sit at one of them would necessitate buying menu items out of our price range.

It didn’t matter.  The Ribera Taj got me tasted the better than any I’d had yet, which is saying a lot: balance of sweet and tart, the familiar heavy depth of red wine, and so smooth.  Taj was drinking Rioja, which I like also, but not as much as Ribera.  The bartender had passed them to us in the type of huge goblets that make a normal amount of wine look like a small dark pool in a clear cave of crystal.

The only problem was that we had nowhere to put our free tapas: two thin crisps of bread, each topped with a real piece of tuna and some vegetable garnishes.  On one edge of the square white plate stood a rectangular dish of olives and pickled pearl onions.

“You’re hungry,” said Taj, holding both the plate and his glass of wine so I could have one hand free to eat the tapas.  After I’d eaten some of it, he asked me to feed him an olive.

We had to finish quickly and leave, because people kept coming in and out, knocking against my slouchy purse, and I kept feeling like I was in the way of the waitstaff.

The next place we found had more space and looked much more typical of the places we are used to in Madrid: yellow bright light, barrels for tables, trash on the floor.  The wine, however, tasted just as good as it had in the fancy place.

I asked the bar gal for some bread.  Then I looked at our cold cuts tapas, which we had been able to place on the bar.  We even had seats.
“You don’t like the mystery meat?” Taj smiled.

“No,” I admitted.  I put down my wineglass and smiled at him.  “Did you have any dreams while we were on the bus?”

“I don’t think so.  Did you?”

“Yeah.  I want to tell you about them.”

“I want to hear all about them.”

This was our introduction to Granada, Spain.

“Tenemos una reserva? reservación?”  I said to the man at the hotel desk on Friday night, January 1st.  I wasn’t sure of the word but I think either one would have been correct.

He acknowledged that there was a reservation but then nervously said something about “una persona.”

I smiled and apprised him of the fact that we were two people, but there was no problem, as we only needed one bed.

Unfortunately for us, though, he wanted a lot more money for this - well, what to me is a lot of money.  75 more Euros for three nights.  He glared at me as sweat started to stand out on his broad forehead.  He had a curious body type, come to think of it.  There was hardly a neck to speak of, but shoulders that lifted wide and high enough to give his whole upper body the look of a solid block of tension.  It looked painful.  No wonder he was breathing hard.  As the seconds ticked by his eyes continued to narrow, and drops of moisture increased their population on his mostly bald head.

My guy and I conferenced briefly.  I said, “I suppose we could try to find another place but then we’d have to get a cab there, and I don’t really know where.”  It was past ten and I needed dinner.  I wanted to start going to the fabled bars of Granada where free food is served with each drink you order.

“Let’s just take it,” said my guy, whom we will call Taj, for our collective purposes.
I was relieved when Taj said that.  When I’m hungry I want things to be easier, even though I might regret my decision later.

“Paga me!” the hotel staffperson exploded.  I looked up calmly at him.  He was staring at the two 50-Euro notes I had saved up for this long weekend. I was clutching them in one hand and leaning against the white counter, reluctant to let them go.

“Vale,” I sighed, and turned them over.  He gave me back 25.  Then he started hollering about the  other person again.  I’d assumed Taj had paid for that online when he’d made the reservation, but apparently he hadn’t.

However, the sight of a credit card was too much for our anxious attendant.  He announced that Taj and I would pay the balance tomorrow, and finally gave us a room key which, I was amazed to discover, he demanded we leave at the front desk a few moments later as we were going out in search of wine and food.  From that moment I began referring to him as “Mr. Heart Attack.”