danceislove

So when Giovanni emailed to ask what would be a good place to go hear some live music I knew that no one else would be coming with us.

First, I met up with him at El Imperfecto, the bar I have been wanting to check out since Alexander and I passed by there weeks before.  We had been looking for dinner so kept on moving because the bar offered only drinks and dessert.  “Muy ricas,” the enthusiastic waitress had said of the bar’s mojitos.  Everything about its presentation had attracted me: from the dark front window bordered with sparkling lights to the leaves festooning the door above which “El Imperfecto” stood out in serif-heavy, unevenly spaced letters.

I loved that I could walk there in three minutes from my house, and that on November 18th it was still possible to sit on the terrazza.

Giovanni talked a lot at first.  I liked that too, especially because he was relating the interesting story of a blogger he had read about called Belle du Jour, biology Ph.D. candidate by day, call girl by night.  As I listened with amusement I noted his darting eyes, his shifting knees.  Previously I had seen him more at ease than this, a fact which may have added to my entertainment.

At length we entered the bar because no one had appeared to take our order.  The somewhat warmer indoor air felt welcome, and the deep mellow acid-jazzy neo-soul made me unable to resist dancing on my own for a minute before claiming my seat.  We sat on either side of a low table.  A diminutive leather-look cube flanked it on one side, opposite a banquette on which rested plastic-upholstered cushions in green and orange.  Strange things hung from the ceiling, like puppets on swings wreathed in winking lights.  All manner of photographs and posters graced the purple walls.  Behind the bar the commonly-seen white comic-book outline of a woman’s head floated above a coffee cup on a ground of red.  Along the bottom ran the words, “Drink coffee.  You can sleep when you’re dead.”

“I’m glad you suggested this place because I never would have come here on my own,” Giovanni said.

“Why not?”

“Well, I would think it kitchy.”

“The mojito’s good,” I pointed out.

“Really?  Don’t you think it tastes like Aquarius?” he asked, referring to a local brand of lemon-lime soft drink.

“Actually, you’re right. There is hardly any alcohol in it.  What’s the point of that?”

“Well, it’s nine-thirty.  Should we go?”

“Let’s,” I agreed.  “The band doesn’t start till ten but it might be hard to get a good seat.”

We reached Cafe Central, which hosts live music night of the week, after a short jaunt up the top of Calle Huertas.  Cafe Central faces the famous Hotel ME, that gleaming white cruise ship run aground at the juncture of plazas Santa Ana and Angel, where it throws its wash of purple light up to the sky.  Its beams staged a half-hearted invasion of the small art-deco jazz club but could not match Cafe Central’s dazzling gold rimmed bar, red leather banquettes, elaborately framed mirrors and marble floor.

Giovanni and I were shown to the last available table, adjacent to the stage.  OK, most of the tables were somehow or adjacent to the stage, but we got the last one and therefore did not have to sit in the rows of oval-backed chairs placed in front of the bar.

We ordered dinner and Giovanni chose a bottle of wine after I deferred to his better judgment.

The band, a bass-drums-piano outfit, launched their first set with “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.”  Thrilled to hear the familiar melody, I twisted my body in the red leather banquette, resting my arm on the dark wood at its top.  The pianist sat with his back to me, inches away.  His long brown braid swayed and bounced as he interpreted the old Ellington standard with plenty of eloquence but no unnecessary flash.  Some exceptional musicians give an unruffled appearance as they pull out unbelievable tricks of technique and expression, and others use a lot of physical movement.  I find both styles equally impressive and engaging.  Our pianist here, of course, belonged to the latter camp.

And I imagine he had the luxury to use his chops to their fullest extent, because the bass and drums were solid, alternately driving and laying back, filling and fluting the edges of that wonderful swervy gray space we call the beat, all the while holding it so tightly knit together that you could feel it, independent, in the air: a bird beating its wings in perfect time.

Oh, for someone to dance with.

I untwisted and cast a glance at the broad checkered floor in black and white marble.  Most of it held seats with people in them, but at its heart a small oval space remained.  If Kendall were here he would dance with me.  Hardly anyone else would, in an area so exposed.  Olivier might if I asked him.  I decided to send him a text.  Before I met up with Giovanni I had had dance practice, and the French boy might have stayed downtown for a while before going back to his apartment in the suburbs.  (It was a horribly boring area, but at least he didn’t live with his mom like most Spanish men under 40.)

Before twisting again to look at the band I caught Giovanni’s eye and leaned forward.  “What virtuosity,” I said.

“And style.”  He smiled.  OK, maybe I couldn’t dance right now, but at least I was on a date with someone who appreciated good music and good musicians.

I got up, scraped an empty chair from a nearby table, and sat down next to him.  “This is farther from the band but at least I can see them,” I explained.

“I love their music.  Thanks for suggesting this place,” he answered.  He refilled my wine glass.

I looked at my phone.  Olivier had already returned to Boringville.  Drat.

The Greeks came in during the break between sets.  There must have been a whole tour bus of them, pouring through the beveled glass front door and surrounding me and Giovanni.  About three plump ladies squeezed into the spot I had occupied at the beginning of the show.  “Hello, hello!” they shouted at us.  Their English was not great but their Spanish was worse, as I noticed when they leaned sideways toward the waiter, the better to watch one another for cues, emitting hesitant shouts to communicate their choices.  Strangely, I had never experienced such a profound language barrier at close range and it surprised me more than it should have that not only would they understand little of what I might tell them in English, I could not even fall back on the few Spanish words at my disposal.

When Giovanni emailed me I knew he was asking me on a date.

I met him on the evening Willow was getting drunk to celebrate her break-up with Joe.  Robert was along for moral support, as was his best friend Giovanni, who had literally just moved to Madrid.  Like Robert, Giovanni is a traveling academic, taking 2-year posts at universities all over Europe.  Willow had gotten him the studio apartment next to hers.

The boys watched the football game on the screen over our heads and Willow talked to me.  She kept murmuring over the bartender, who indeed was quite buff.  But I decided I liked Giovanni.  Maybe it was because we just happened to be sitting in the exact spot where I’d had a mojito with Alexander the previous New Year’s Eve, and it was a good idea to have a crush on someone else.

However, between Willow’s long speeches (at the moment when you are sitting beside your drunk, recently betrayed friend it’s very important to listen) and the street people coming in trying to sell us roses and cigarette lighters, I had no chance at talking with Robert or Giovanni, much less looking at the football game.  Somewhat like my attitude toward Giovanni, I had decided to have an interest in football (soccer, for you Americans like me) but on that night I had no chance to remedy my pitifully poor knowledge of the sport.

At a house party thrown by my roommates a couple of weeks later, I saw Giovanni sitting all by himself in the armchair.  “You’ve known Robert a long time, haven’t you?” I accused.

“Yes,” he laughed.

“It’s too bad, I suppose, that he has to move away.”

“We can have a party for him.”

“Oh, that’s true.  I think you and I should organize it together,” I smiled.  “I like parties, and you know what will make Robert happy.”

“That’s a good idea,” he smiled.  “Well, we shouldn’t have it at his place.  That would make him nervous and try to please everybody.”

“You’re right.  I’ll ask my roommates if we can have it here.  Anyway, kind of sucks that he’s leaving as you’re arriving.”

“That’s the way life is for us. We get to know a lot of places but we don’t have much security.  It’s very difficult to find a long-term position at a university.”

“Is that what you want, a long-term position?”

“Isn’t that what everyone wants?” He smiled again.

“Um, I wouldn’t know.”  I smiled too.  “To me it seems as if the traveling would be rad.”

“I’m getting a tired of it, though. I want to stay here for a while.”

“So you’re ready to settle into something long-term already?”

He laughed.  “I have been living this academic life a long time now.”

“Oh.”  I brushed my bangs off my face.

“How old do you you think I am?” he continued.

“I don’t know,” I said flatly.

“Well, how long are you going to stay here?”

My turn to laugh.  “I’m going with the flow.”

“So you like teaching English?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s a lot of fun and it’s easy, but what I’m really doing is writing my book.”

“A book?  What is it about?”

“It’s called Dance Is Love, so you figure it out.”

“Do you have a publisher?”

“I have some contacts.  I want to finish the book before I do anything else.”

“It’s very difficult, isn’t it, to find a publisher?”

I shrugged.  “That’s kind of beside the point.”

“No, I mean, there are a lot of people trying to publish books.  You have to really market yourself, persuade someone to buy your writing.”

“Thanks for the advice,”  I fluttered my eyelashes,  “but actually for me this will not be difficult.  I have already tried to live the kind of life I was ’supposed’ to live, you know, marriage, long-term job, condominium, all that stuff.”

He peered at me.  “How old are you?”

“I think it’s a little soon for that question, don’t you?”

“No, come on, how old are you?”

“Guess.”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Well, thank you.  You are very kind.”

Somehow I refused to let Giovanni’s ordinary questions and advice get in the way of my instant fondness for him.  Andrés had achieved similar dispensation, despite a drawn-out conversation over tea in a hippie bar in which he tried assiduously to convince me that actually, it was very difficult to have a book published.  At length I sighed, smiled, and said, “Pero vamos a hablar en español, no? Quieres caminar un poco?”  (Do you want to walk a little bit?)  For that was what we usually did when we got together:  walked around, a lot, got lost, giggled, bumped into each other whether drunk or not, talked and talked and talked.  Andrés was almost shorter than me, so if I wore any type of heel I had to scrunch my neck to try to understand his Spanish over traffic zooming on the road or children screaming in the gardens.

These days Andrés was traveling more and more for business, and we had not managed to reschedule his cooking dinner for me.

Maybe that was just as well, because liking Giovanni was starting to be fun despite his more or less ordinary reaction to me.  At least he didn’t gasp and holler when finding out that I haven’t traveled anywhere in Europe, not even Barcelona.  When people do that to me I simply ask them if they would like to fund my trip.

Giovanni seemed to get away with a lot of things, though.  For example, he had long hair, always in a pony tail, and still looked pretty good.  There was nothing ridiculous about it, just long and straight and smooth, in that sort of blond-brown color that is probably most common among white people.  He seemed at ease with himself.  It didn’t bother him to sit all alone on the armchair; in fact it made me want to go talk to him.  And for some reason I knew he’d be open to my flirtation, if only because who wouldn’t like a little extra attention while adjusting to a new city?

“hola,” Taj typed when I was on Facebook, Sunday afternoon.  Marie sat across from me at the long white table in the living room.  I had made a cup of coffee and was gearing up for CATS.

“so, my friend couldn’t get the tickets online.”

“Oh,” I typed.

“doors open at 9 so i’m gonna see if i can get tickets then,” he continued.

“I saw a flyer for the show.  I think it said it starts at 11.  Which probably means later than that because it’s Spain.”

“why don’t you come around 10,” he suggested

“OK. I think I can do that.”

“we could go get a mojito somewhere and you could show me some moves”

“Dance moves?” I typed, surprised.

“what other moves were you thinking?”

I looked up from my screen.  “Marie.  I think I’m being flirted with and I don’t know what to do.  I’m all nervous!”

Marie laughed through her nose.  I was probably being annoying.

“I mean, it’s been a long time for me.”

“Huh, really?” she said.

“OK, you’re right.  I don’t know what my problem is.  Maybe because this guy is so young.”

“Oh, it’s the young one,” she said.

“Yeah.  OK, well I’ll just say something.”

When I looked back at my screen there was more from Taj.  He had typed, “i have honey in my hips.”

I froze for about half a minute.  Then I finally managed, all lowercase, “really now.”

On Monday morning I was kicking myself for having given Taj my last 20-Euro note so he could buy my ticket for the Government Mule show.  Now I could not go in the little grocery near Garcia Noblejas and Alcala, where I usually buy myself a few apples for breakfast after my 8:30am class.  About 7 Euros remained to my name at the moment, and I needed those for the mojito I was supposed to have with Taj later.

I found 25 cents in the top pocket of my backpack, enough for a strawberry-and-cream Chupa Chups at the El Rincon.  Then I got on the metro, went home and ate some rice with soy milk.

Twelve hours later I arrived at the concert venue, in Claire’s leather jacket and my black miniskirt, licking the Chupa Chups.

“It’s sold out,” Taj said.

“No.”

“Yeah.”  Then he introduced me to his friend Eric, standing nearby.

“Nice to meet you.”  We kissed twice, formally.  When I stepped back, the prominent alligator on Eric’s blue-and-green striped shirt struck me as disproportionately amusing.

“Dude, I can’t believe it,” I said to them.  Turning to Taj, I added, “The guy you talked to said there was room for 800 people, right?  There are really that many people in there already?”

“I guess there are.  I wish I’d gotten the tickets earlier.”

“Well, you had no way of knowing.  I wouldn’t have thought they would sell out.”

Taj said, “Well, what do you guys wanna do?”

I waited a beat, appreciating that he’d chosen to wear a blue button-down and a corduroy jacket.  “Let’s get a drink somewhere.  We could go around here, or, I know some places in Sol.”

We took the Linea 3 to Sol and I led them to a bar near Opera that I had been wanting to check out.  The sign on it said “Blues Bar.”  However, since it was a Monday night there was only DJ’d blues.

Eric liked it right away.  “This place is tight,” he said, as we descended into it.  I got my drink before the boys, and chose a table near the entrance.  Brick walls curved toward a low ceiling.  There were no windows.  A small stage graced one end of the room, beneath blue and green graffiti art.

Only a few other tables were occupied, each one by a couple making out.  In Madrid, public displays of affection happen on a more intense and longer time-scale than anywhere else I have seen.  I have to confess that at times my New-England-steeped sensibilities are a bit disturbed by this.

At the moment, though, I had plenty to distract me: Belgian beer, the company of two handsome young men, really good blues music.

“This makes me want to dance,” I confessed.

“Really, you can dance to this?” asked Taj.  He was sitting next to me, Eric across.

“Yeah, blues dance.  I miss it a lot.  No one here does it.”  I felt a wave of nostalgia for Benedict Smith’s’ Dj-ing, for being able to dance with many capable guys.

“What’s it like?” Eric wanted to know.

“Usually it’s pretty slow, and the partners dance close, although they do a lot in open position too.  It’s very improvisational and rhythm-focused, and of course the best part is how the partners communicate together, the leading and following.  It’s sort of like tango, except it doesn’t have to move around the room, and it’s lower to the ground and less stylized.”

“Does it involve hip movement?” Taj asked.

“Yeah, usually,” I said.

“I can do that.”

“You wanna learn blues dancing sometime?”

“Yeah.  I really would.”

“I don’t know where we’d dance.  The floor here seems good enough, actually.  There are probably other places too.”

“Hey, remember I told you about a student of mine that told me about a really good band at Clamores this week?  They’re playing Wednesday and Sunday.”

“Well, now that I’ve saved 20 Euros I think I can hack it.”

“You guys want to get another drink?” Eric asked.

“Or we could go somewhere else,” I said.

“I know this place where apparently Hemingway used to go.  And there are all these cool quotes written on the walls.  You can get a pitcher of sangria for 10 Euros, and it’s really good.”

I leaned toward Eric.  “Are you a Hemingway fan?”

“I’ve been a writer for most of my life.”

“Me too.”

Eric led us to the Hemingway-wrote-here bar.  We sat in a corner and drank the brandy-laced sangria while the boys regaled me with stories from their wayward youth in the southeastern US.    We stayed till closing and then ambled out.  Still about 50% drunk, I bid them goodbye and began walking up the hill to my house.  They went toward Sol.

Sol, 3:30 a.m.  People milled about the vast plaza, those less drunk hauling their more drunk friends over fresh new flagstones.  At this hour, both fountains stood dark and dry.  The four metro entrances were useful now only for their railings, against which the laughing masses could lean.

Bars were letting out.  Some people searched for taxis while others lurched toward Calle de las Huertas, where the clubs stay open all night.

A number of narrow cobblestoned streets lead out of Sol, and I took the one I always do.  My evening spent dancing, making cookies for people, and now enjoying the warm vibrant night put me in a grand mood.  Outside one of the large Irish pubs, several boys stood in a line with their hands out, palms facing me, so I slapped them in turn, not breaking my stride.

“Wait, come back!” one of them called in English.

“Hello,” I smiled, re-approaching.

“I knew you were an American,” declared the ringleader.  He appeared young but sported a middle-aged hairstyle over his square face: parted on the side, smoothed across the top of his forehead.

“Guilty as charged.”

“We’re from Portugal.  These are my friends…” He introduced me to three young skinny stubbly men leaning against the pub’s outer wall.  “And over there is Patrick.”

“Hi Patrick.”  Off to my left a blond pointy-haired lad stood chatting with several flatironed blonde gals.  In his right hand he waved an orange white and green flag.  Was his name really Patrick or did it just suit the moment?

The lad brushed us off, calling, “I’m busy now.”

From the other boys, the usual questions at me ensued.  I brought them around to my book and blog.

“Dance Is Love Dot Com.  You’re a dancer?”  cried the stubbly guy nearest to me.

“Yes.”

“Oh.  I can’t dance at all!  What kind of dance do you do?”

“Well, you haven’t heard of it.  It’s this strange American dance called the lindy hop, very intense and physical.  There are pictures and video on my site in case you are curious.”

“Wow.  Dancing.  That’s something I could never do.”

“It’s true,” joined in Skinny-Stubbly #2.  “He’s totally not - how do you say?  When you can’t move your body well?”

“Clumsy?” I guessed.  “Uncoordinated?”

“Uncoordinated!”  Boy #2 rejoined.

“Dancing is not for everyone.”  I smiled.

“When can we see you dance?” asked Boy #3, leaning forward from the wall.

“Here, I’ll give you my mobile number.  If you want you can go salsa dancing with me tomorrow night.”

“I’m scared,” said Scruffy Stubble #3.

“Too bad for you, then.”  I sighed pityingly.

“What about now?” said the one with middle-aged hair, the ringleader.  “Can you dance for us now?”

“If you want your own show that’ll cost.  Anyway I have to go.”

“Why?” said Ringleader.

“I have practice tomorrow at noon.”

“Practice?” Ringleader asked again.

“Dance practice, silly.”

“Come on, we are going to a club, don’t you want to come?” asked one of the three stubbly boys, stepping away from the wall and swaying a bit.

“That’s so sweet of you and I’m very tempted.  Maybe next time.  Call me if you want to go dancing.”

No one called me, not the boys I met, or Jenny (the gal I met at Taj’s who had seemed so keen on salsa dancing couple of weeks earlier).

Also, my ostensible lindy hop team seemed to have plateaued.  Gone were the early days of air steps practice on the lush lawns of Retiro Park.  Although the boys, especially Roman, could throw me in a couple of tricks, we had reached a standstill in terms of dancing them.  I blamed Roman and Olivier’s rock-n-roll training: the maddening up-bounce and lack of lateral movement in their kick-ball-changes; the deadweighted, round-shouldered, tense-armed counterbalances; the tilt in their turns.  Despite months of training I still had not managed to break Olivier of pointing his tall, graceful head at the wall when swinging the girl out.  Couldn’t he pivot on the ball of his foot and transfer the momentum to me, instead of jerking his upper body to the side and back up again?  Couldn’t Roman push off the floor with his feet, rather than push off my back with his hand, as one might the side of a pool, rocketing away while I got nothing?  Apparently not.  Roman could throw beautiful pancakes but when we did a simple dance move beforehand, all the energy died.  In rock-n-roll, that’s what you do.  Essentially you communicate to the audience:  Look, we’re going to do an acrobatic step!  There, we did it!  Wasn’t that cool?

(If you imagine Mary Lou Retton stretching her arms up and behind her repeatedly, once in each cardinal direction, you get a just slightly exaggerated picture.)

I, on the other hand, wanted stretch, snap, jump, cruch, throw, fly, land, swing out.  It wasn’t happening in my current world.

Salsa helped.  I enjoyed the music.  Some of the boys danced with real power.  I tried to overlook the questions they asked me, the same ones, over and over.  At least they weren’t scared to dance like most of the sissies I seemed to be encountering.

Oh, listen to me complain!  What foolishness.  As Sebastian said to me a week before I left the States, “Dude.  You’re going to Spain.  it’s like walking into an ice cream store with a big spoon and everything is FREE.”

In Madrid, I had work, people who cared about me, sunny weather, and the opportunity to learn a new language.  Not to mention that in a couple of days I would go hear some really good live music with an intriguing young man and his entertaining friends.

Elizabeth Jean Miller 10 November 2009 at 18:23
Hey there, I made you some super-crunchy peanut butter, because I felt like it. If you want I can come by with it on Thursday between 10:15 and 10:45 (am), because I’ll be in the neighborhood anyway. Or we can figure out something else.

Oh, also I’ll be in the neighborhood Saturday because there’s a lindy hop dance in that same place again.

Liz

Taj St. James 11 November 2009 at 10:05
awesome. i have been waiting for a couple of months for this. im gone all day Thursday so this isn’t a good time for me. but sat sounds perfect. maybe when you get done dancing on Saturday you can swing by and then we can go get a drink somewhere. sound like a plan? let me know. also on friday i am not working so we could meet then

Elizabeth Jean Miller 11 November 2009 at 15:03
K - Friday I’m actually pretty busy, so it looks like it’s gonna be Saturday. Probably midnight or so - not sure. For now the pb’s chillin’ in the fridge. Hope you have a good trip or whatever you are doing tomorrow.

“So, you guys have an oven?” I asked Taj (many Spanish apartments lack one).

“Yeah.  I never use it, though.  Manny broils things sometimes.”

“I brought some leftover chocolate chip cookie dough too.  Honestly I was not going to eat it so it would make me happy to have it not go to waste.”

“I think Manny says you have to leave the oven open when you use it.”

“Open?  I have never heard of such a thing.”

“I don’t know.”  Taj laughed.

“Well, let’s try it the regular way first.  Something will happen.  Here, I’m going to put it on like 176, which I think is something like 350 Fahrenheit.  Do you have a baking sheet?”  As Taj opens some basket-like drawers I continue, “Wait, since you said the oven runs hot maybe I’ll set it lower…”

“I’m going to go on the balcony,” Taj said once he had helped me with the first tray of cookies.

“OK, well, we can leave them for a little bit.”

The fountain still glowed seven stories below, and cars still whipped frequently around the grand intersection at 1am on a Saturday night.  Taj had his camera and showed me photos of an outing he had done with Brad a couple of days ago.

“What’s this place?” I asked.

“Ciudad Encantada.  It’s near Cuenca.”

“Oh.  Enchanted City.”

The photos were of enormous stones sculpted by the weather into rounded shapes, like mushrooms and broccoli several stories high.  Some of the shots included Brad for perspective.

“I have never seen anything like this,” I marveled.

Taj had a lot of photos but I didn’t mind looking at all of them.  “My mom is a photographer,” he said.  “Sometimes I like taking pictures.”

The glass doors were open to the living room and I heard Brad call, “Smells amazing in here.”

“The cookies!” I cried.  “It hasn’t been that long, right?”

They were burned on the bottom, mushy on top.  Nevertheless the guys exclaimed over them and began to eat them.  Especially Brad.

“You have to leave the oven door open,” Manny confirmed.

“OK, ok.  Let’s try the next batch that way,” I capitulated.

“Where did you find chocolate chips?”   Brad asked.

“I made them in my roommate’s food processor,” I bragged.  “You can get a big chocolate bar from Dia for like 70 centimos but if you buy chocolate chips at El Corte Inglés, first of all, they’re milk chocolate, what’s the point of that, and second of all, they’re like five Euros per chocolate chip.”

I hung out with Brad and Taj till about three in the morning; Manny came in and out of the living room every once in a while.  We drank wine and the boys smoked a couple of cigarettes.  Sometimes I asked Taj what music was playing on his iTouch.  I liked a lot of it.

“Government Mule,” he answered, more often than not, the first time reminding me,  “We’re going to see them in concert on Monday.”

“Oh yeah.  That’s right.”

The next set of cookies cooked a little more evenly with the oven door open.  Nevertheless they all had a thin layer of charcoal on the bottom and a few raw spots in addition.  Brad and Manny blew into the kitchen and grabbed a few.  I ate a particularly sorry looking specimen, because I wanted to save the best ones for the boys.

“Maybe if we flip them halfway through -” Taj mused.  He brought out a black silicon spatula, extracted the last batch from the oven and began to treat the cookies like silver-dollar pancakes.

“That’s hilarious,” I giggled, “but it might just work.  Hey, you played this song earlier too, right?  What is it called again?”

“Babylon Highway.  I like it a lot but one of my favorites is called ‘Spanish Moon.’  It’s like 25 minutes long.  I don’t think it has anything to do with Spain, though.  It’s the name of a bar or something.”

“I didn’t realize just how good Government Mule is.  Maybe I will go see this show with you on Monday.”

“We have a friend that might be able to get tickets online, so we’ll get you one.”

“Should I give you the money ahead of time?”

“That’s probably better.” By now Taj was sitting at the round wooden table in the living room, smoking a cigarette and looking at his iTouch, probably deciding what to play next.

“Hola, Andres!”  I said when he picked up.  “I’m sorry - I’m going to speak in English because  I only have a moment.”

“Don’t worry,” he said.  Spanish people like to tell me not to worry, whether or not I am in fact worried.  I suppose it’s analogous to the American “No problem.”  Who said there was a problem in the first place?

“Well, I have a problem,” I began.  “I hate canceling things.  Absolutely hate it.  But I just wanted you to know… I am feeling pretty sick.”

“Oh, then don’t worry, about the dinner.  You should go home and rest.”

“Really, you don’t mind?  I feel bad because we have been planning this a while, and you have probably gone to some trouble already.”

“No, don’t worry, don’t worry.  What do you have - a cold?”

“Yeah, I don’t know, I just feel bad.  I don’t know how I am going to make it through this next class.”  I laughed a little.  “Well- thank you so much for understanding.  Maybe we can try for next weekend?  I will definitely email you.”

“OK, Liz, that’s fine.”

I pictured Andrés as he talked to me, his ever-present smile, adorable lift of the chin, turned up nose all topped by fluffy blond hair.  He was a little younger than me, but very successful, a computer guy in business for himself.  And Spanish.  Whenever we hung out he mandated that I speak Spanish, which must have tried even his apparently infinite patience.  He’d taken me on a couple of dates and from the very beginning offered to cook dinner for me.  Fortunately I had heard already from Willow that in Spain, preparing a meal for someone meant that they had a right to have sex with you, and I certainly was not ready for that in the beginning.  Even now, I knew I liked Andrés a lot and there probably were plenty of good reasons to have sex with him, but still I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

Anyway, I went straight to bed after class and fell asleep.  The next evening I texted Willow an apology that I would not be making her Halloween party.  I spent the whole weekend in bed with my laptop, writing.

Rivaling the beauty of the fountain below, possibly the most gorgeous couple I had ever seen sat directly across from me on the balcony.  Her name was Jenny; his, Roy.  She had sleepy eyes and thick blonde hair pulled into a ponytail.  His face exuded charm and joy, while the sharp alignment his bone structure hinted at certain mischief.  An overhang of dark brown fringe added to this impression.

Not only did both of them want to know about the dance I had been to, they expressed interest in coming to my favorite salsa club with me the following evening.  Only after we had covered those topics did they ask me how long I’d been in Madrid and whether I had done the same English-teaching certification program they had.  It seemed that particular program - TtMadrid -was the most common link among the mass assembled at the party.

The three of us became distracted by Manny’s voice in the sliding glass doorway: “Is that some sake you’ve got there, Taj?”

I hadn’t noticed that Taj was standing in front of me, on the other side of the small table, pouring generous shots.  He offered me one.  “We went to this huge Asian store and it was ridiculous,” he began.  “They had crazy things there:  25-kilo bags of rice, hot sauces, gunpowder tea, different kinds of sake.  They had one kind with a lizard at the bottom of the bottle.”

“Not this one?” I asked.

“No, a different one.  It was more expensive.  I’m gonna get it, though, and eat the lizard.  Well!”  Taj raised his chin a few degrees and held up his glass.  Everyone followed suit and we drank a toast.

The sake went down smooth.  Two drinks: I’d be drunk for sure.

“So, we were thinking about going to hear some live music a little later,” Taj continued, looking at me.

“That sounds great.  I’d be into that.”

“There’s a club near here called Clamores.”

“I’ve heard of it.”  From a guy I’d been on a couple of dates with, I didn’t say.  “When are we going?”

“I don’t know… some people want to go to a techno club.”

“I’d rather go to Clamores - it’s jazz, right?”

“Yeah, jazz, or blues.  Also, you know Government Mule?”

“I have an album of there’s.  My sister’s a big fan actually.”

“They’re playing in Madrid on November 16th and some of us are going.  It should be an awesome show.”

Just then a new arrival sat behind me on the balcony and introduced himself.  I talked with him at some length before realizing it was well after one and I hadn’t thought about how I would get home.  So I stood up and began to say my goodbyes.  Jenny and Roy told me they were also going.

“OK,” Taj said simply.

My brain fielded a moment of mild shock.  No one was going to whine and complain at me for leaving the party early?

I kissed Taj on the cheeks at the front door to the apartment.  Jenny and Roy said they would be another moment but I told Jenny I would Facebook her the address to the salsa club.

Neither she nor Roy made it there, though, not that this surprised me.

During the ensuing week, I spent a lot of time with Robert because he was about to move to another country.  On Wednesday evening we walked down to Paseo del Prado and up the Castellana, then over near Plaza de España and Templo de Devod.  The latter is a pyramid-like structure set in a reflecting pool, apparently a gift from Egypt.  It’s on a hill which affords a view of the city.  I walked there once during the day with Andrés, the guy who had first told me about Clamores, and he took this picture of me:

I guess I ran myself ragged that week because by Friday afternoon I was feeling like crap.  While walking to my last class I made a phone call.

Silently I followed him through the bright living room, crossing at its narrower dimension and stepping up through sliding glass doors that stood open.  When my eyes adjusted to the dim outdoors I perceived about 13 or so young Americans, or mostly Americans, ranged along the balcony’s cement perimeter.  They were sitting, standing, reclining, drinking.  Some had squeezed onto the couch along one low wall, and others had claimed plastic chairs.  An empty one stood next to a small matching table, so I had a place both to sit and put my dinner.

First I grinned and sort of tossed a wave around.  “Hi, everyone,” I said.

“This is Liz,” explained Taj.

I sat down; I was really very hungry by this point.

“Liz, do you want some cava?”  Manny had appeared at my elbow.

“Um, yes, thank you.”

He cava’d me.  The fizzy glass sat just farther from me than the chicken, which tasted amazing.

“It is so tender,” I complimented Manny, “and I love the spices you put in it.”

“Some lime juice in the marinade,” he elucidated.  “A little acid softens the chicken right up.”

As I ate, the relaxed atmosphere began to soften me right up.  I perceived none of the frenetic bustling that characterized my parties, or Alexander’s or Willow’s.  American-accented conversation and laughter surrounded me; I had not anticipated how relaxing that could be after months away from my home country.

Across from me, on the couch, a beautiful robust gal with a long blond ponytail was detailing how to make mole sauce.  “You have to use thirteen different kinds of peppers,” she explained.

“What kinds?” I asked, naturally fascinated.  Ever since I tasted Peruvian food I had an appreciation for the nuances of flavor provided by different fresh peppers.

The gal’s boyfriend, about one-third her size with chin-length curly black hair, hung on her every word, even though after a while it became apparent that he was not Anglophone.

The gal could not remember all the peppers so I made a mental note to check Google.  Past her head, down in the center of Glorieta de Quevedo, a large fountain glowed.  I watched the radial cascades of water arcing over shimmery lights.

Taj St. James 24 October 2009 11:25
Hey,
It has been another busy week for me. Sorry I haven’t been in touch, I ran out of minutes mid week and haven’t had a chance to get more. Anyways, we are having some people over for dinner tonight. I would really like you to come but I know that it is last minute. I’ll try to call you later to see if you already have plans or not. Hope to see you tonight.
Later    Taj

Elizabeth Jean Miller 24 October 2009 13:39
Hey Taj, I have a lot of dance stuff going on tonight but it happens to be in your area.  What’s your address again?  Maybe I can stop by.  Thanks!

Taj St. James 24 October 2009 14:42
Great.  So I’ll see you tonight.  We are cooking Asian.  We will have lots to drink, so I hope you’re thirsty.  Our address is

Apparently there is some bar near Bilbao metro that has a telephone-book-sized menu of different Belgian beers, and that was where Robert and Lionel and Raina ended up on Saturday night October 24.  I had been interested in going, but somehow when 12:30 came and I was still in the hot basement of La Industria off Fuencarral, dancing the lindy hop, I thought of going to Taj’s get-together. After all it seemed we had sort of tried to meet up all summer and kept missing each other.  La Industria was practically next door to his place.

The lindy hop dance was coming to a rapid denouement after Olivier’s birthday jam.  He’d thrown Caroline in a pancake, popped her right up and swung her out.  I was so proud of them.  It was all I could do not to run around the jam circle hollering, I taught them that!  I danced with Olivier next and while it wouldn’t have made sense for him to throw me in the same trick, and he still can’t do a lamppost, our swing-outs felt pretty strong.  Thank god “All The Cats Join In” is not a super-slow song.  After the jam a couple of the gals came to me and wanted to know about studying with me.  Most people never follow through on such inquiries but their attention pleased me greatly.

Then I realized I was hungry, and I didn’t feel like Belgian beer for dinner.

“I’m just gonna stop by VIPS to grab something quick to eat and then show up at your place,” I said to Taj after he answered his phone.  I stood in the dark hallway of La Industria, about to go up the stairs and out into the cool night.

“Actually, dinner is just now coming out,” he said.

“Really?”

“Yeah…. that’s kind of the way things work around here.”

I swung into VIPS anyway for some Pepperidge Farms White Chocolate Chip Macadamia Nut Cookies because I didn’t want to gobble dinner without having contributed something.  Taj greeted me at the door and led me down a long narrow hallway.

“Nice place,” I said, wondering why I did, in all honesty, like the turquoise door frames and light-orange walls.  Small track lights strung along the ceiling lent an aesthetic legitimacy to the improbable combination.

“Liz, these are my roommates, Brad and Manny.”

“Hi, I’m Brad,” clarified the blond one.

I edged into the tiny kitchen.  Spice jars, empty platters, wine bottles and baking sheets covered all available surfaces.  I wondered how they could still be cooking amid the disarray.

Despite the ridiculous - though uncontestedly fashionable - manner in which Brad’s hair pointed straight up in the middle, he appeared accessible and unforbidding. He met me halfway, grinning as he came forward for a double-kiss Spanish greeting.  “Hey, you’re the girl that makes the peanut butter, right?”

“That’s me.”

All of a sudden a white ceramic plate hovered at the level of my chin.  I peered over the edge and saw three golden-brown pieces of boneless chicken.

“Here you go, Liz,” Manny was saying.

“Thanks.” My startled eyes met his smiling brown ones.  “Nice to meet you,” I laughed nervously.

“You can come sit on the balcony,” Taj said.

Patricia came back to the living room and we both sat down with our drinks.  I complimented her on her narrow square-toed snake-skin boots.

“Fake,” she laughed warmly, flipping her long black hair over one shoulder.  She then launched into a description of where she’d bought them.  In turn, I described my low tolerance for shopping and complimented Willow (who was not present) for helping me to find the boots currently on my feet.

“You look very Spanish,” Alexander said to me, from where he had sat down, on Patricia’s right.

“Oh, really?” I sat up a little straighter.

“Yeah.  The high-heeled boots, the scarf, the stockings -”

“What’s funny is that everything is from American Apparel,” I said.

Before too long Alexander was back in the kitchen, trailing women.  I stayed in the living room and pretended to be very interested in Patricia’s carved wooden trunk, which sat on the stone terrace just beyond sliding glass doors.  On top of the trunk stood candles, blowing in the chilly breeze, or at least it seemed so.  I surveyed my immediate environs to be sure that I was not simply perceiving reflections in the glass.

Then, I heard a voice behind me.

“Liz!  I didn’t know you’d be here!”

There she was, pressed hair, freckled cheeks, doe eyes, perfect chest.

I let go her remark.  “Hi, Porter.  Nice to see you,” I said as we kissed hello.

But she said it again:  “I didn’t know you’d be here!”

She straightened to her full height, and I looked up at her.  “Should I go?”

“No, it’s just that you weren’t on the list.  Alexander sent around an email with the names of all the people who were coming and what they were bringing.  I didn’t see your name -”

“Maybe I should go, then, I mean, since I wasn’t on the list.”

She sighed.  I knew all she had wanted was an explanation.  I had forgotten to RSVP, I didn’t know I was coming till the last minute (neither were true), I tend not to open group emails and so didn’t see the error (this was probably what happened).

People just want explanations, even for the obvious or irrelevant, or the obviously irrelevant, and I am too stubborn and impatient to provide them.  I was being a bitch, but I felt too tired and ill to do anything about it.

What I really needed was a drink, but I always regret drinking on a compromised respiratory system.

Fortunately at about that time Cesar began talking to me and our literary conversation ensued.  That lifted my spirits and improved my interaction with Porter later, after the lights went out.  When she had finished helping Alexander distribute plates, she sat down next to me and put a hand on my knee.

“I love these,” she said.  “Are they tights or -”

I met her eyes and pressed my lips together ceremoniously before informing her, “Thigh-highs.  Wanna see?”  Slowly I peeled up the hem of my brief, stretch-cotton dress, showing the first of two white horizontal stripes on otherwise black stockings.  They’re made exactly like tube socks, except they are much longer.

“Mm, I like them,” Porter said, her hand spreading against the top of my thigh as I snuggled toward her.  “Where did you -”

“American Apparel.  They don’t exist here.  We have to go to American Apparel dot U.K.  The dress is from that company too, and the scarf.”  I tossed a generous length of turquoise cotton around my neck and briefly glanced down at my outfit.  The dress is the famous white-and-black block I first saw on the bar gal at Felt: jewel-necked, pure white till just under the breasts, then black tube ending somewhere above the knees, depending on whether I am standing or seated.

Porter declared, “I’ll walk you to the metro.”

“Wait.  I can’t go yet.  We only finished dessert.  That would be rude.”

I bantered with Ayala and we made a plan to get sushi together on Sunday.  Then I said my goodbyes and walked with Porter to the Avenida de la Paz metro.

“I can’t get involved,” she reassured me.  “This is way too heavy.”

“So you are not going to date Alexander?”

“No,” she answered.

“Don’t sleep with him either,” I blurted.

She hesitated.  “OK,” she said.  “Liz, I’m here for you.  Any time you want to talk.”

“Why are you so nice to me?” I sobbed as she hugged me.

Now I just wanted to go home, but I had responsibilities.  Robert’s guitar was on my back. I needed to bring it to his going-away party.

As hosts do, he greeted me and disappeared.  I didn’t care.  The place smelled like smoke despite the chilly air rushing in from the balcony.  Joe and Raina sat on the couch like posed action figures.

When she saw me, Raina came to life.  “Liz!  My god!  It’s one o’clock!”

“Yes?” I asked.

“Usually you are leaving now but you are just arriving!  It’s so late for you!  How come you are just getting here now?”

“I like to keep you guessing,” I said.  It’s one of my stock phrases for people with no imagination.  Joe was joining in her tirade but I couldn’t hear him over the loud twangy music.

I stepped out of the bright light onto the balcony, to say hello to Giovanni.

“Ho-la,” he replied, looking me up and down.  I kind of liked him, so I smiled.  He and Robert are best friends, having studied together in Marseilles during their early years in theoretical physics.  Giovanni is from Italy but has spent time in many places, including several years in the UK.

A couple of Spanish guys prevented me from talking with him, though.  “Where are you from?” they asked me.  “When did you arrive in Madrid?  Are you a tourist? Are you a student? How long will you stay here?”

I went back inside where the music was worse than before, louder and twangier.  I told this to Lionel, who began explaining to me where the song was from and why it was significant for Robert.  Lionel reeked of cigarettes, alcohol and body odor, and he was in my face.  As I tried to get away from him a Spaniard took his place, asking me the same questions as the other Spaniards.

So, after rapid-fire apologies to Raina, Joe and Robert, I fled.  When I got outside I fished my phone from my pocket.

“Hello?” said Alexander.  I could hear laughter in the background and imagined the merriment floating above the candlelight.

“I just wanted to tell you: I told Porter everything.”

“I figured you would.  Girls talk.”

“It’s not because of that!  I didn’t want to tell her about our past.  I want you to be happy.  I want her to be happy.”

“So why did you?”

“Because it was ruining my friendship with her.  That the two of you might be dating.  I just wanted to tell you now that she knows everything.”

“OK,” he said uncertainly.

“OK!  What do you mean, OK?”  I burst out.

“What am I supposed to say?”

“Something other than OK!”

“Are you OK?”

“No, I am not OK!  Look, I’m sorry I bothered you.  Just pretend I never called.”  I hit END.

My high heeled boots were making my tired feet hurt.  When at last I arrived at the Columbia metro and went to put my pass in the slot, a security guard began waving his arms at me.  “Adonde vas?” he demanded.

When I told him, he shook his head rapidly, speaking to me in even more rapid Spanish, to the effect that I would not be able to change trains.

It was 1:45.  Too late.

I made it back up the stairs and hailed a cab to Avenida de la Paz.  An infusion of energy cancelled the pain in the balls of my feet as I fairly ran across the parking lot.  Up ahead I could see a group of people.  I recognized Jonathan’s voice.  I ducked behind a column of cars and hunched my body as I kept walking so they would miss me in the low light.

“It’s Liz,” I announced when Patricia answered my buzz.

“Do you want to come up?”

“Please.”

The dog barked as I entered.  “It’s just me!” I sighed.

“Alexander is walking some people to the metro.  Do you want to wait?” Patricia said.

“If you don’t mind.”

“Shall I make you some tea?”

“That would be wonderful.”

When I heard the door open and Alexander begin softly talking to the dog, I called, “Hi-i,” from the kitchen.  Patricia made herself scarce.

“Oh,” Alexander said, coming in.  “Hi.”

“Look, I just wanted to tell you that I’m done with not standing up for myself.  It’s not your fault.  I let you treat me the way you do.”

“I don’t know what you want me to do.  It’s like you have all these expectations of me and I don’t know what they are.”

“Couldn’t you have just reassured me - after I told you I’d talked to Porter?  Instead of saying ‘Girls talk’ or ‘OK’ -”

“What was I supposed to say?”  His shoulders were coming up around his ears, arms pressing close to his body.  Whenever I felt bad he got defensive.  I knew why and I could feel his pain and it hurt me too.

“Don’t get that way.  That’s not my point.  I’m not trying to make you feel bad -”

“Well how am I supposed to feel?”

God, he’d gotten so thin.  Business school was trashing him.  I would have kept him in chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter, macaroni and cheese, squash soup, lasagna.  I would have made him shut off his computer and get on his bike

But he hadn’t wanted any of that from me.

“OK, here’s what’s really bothering me,” I began again.  “You never acknowledged my importance in your life.  I’m not good enough for your friends.  I was never good enough for your family.  The people who were here, none of them know -”

“Do you want them to know?”

“I don’t know,” I sighed.  “Maybe not.  I never should have put up with that from you.  In the past.  Like at your sister’s wedding.  We had two nights of passion but during the wedding you wouldn’t admit to anyone that we were dating.  I shouldn’t have let you do that.  I should have left you alone.”

He just looked at me.  Waiting for me to leave him alone now, no doubt.

“What was I to you?” I asked.

“Last year?  Ten years ago?”

I hesitated.  “Last year.”

“Someone I had a very close relationship with.  A girlfriend.”

At least he had said that word.  Notice, though: not my girlfriend.

“What was I to you?” he reciprocated.

I crossed my right ankle over my left, balanced momentarily on both boot heels.  Taking a sip of tea, I looked over the mug at him, at his hands braced against the countertop.  His hips were impossibly narrow in their faded blue jeans and black belt.  He’d tucked in his orange-red button-down and was wearing the black octagonal glasses, above which his hair swooped upward before flattening out indecisively.

“My muse,” I answered finally.  “The love of my life.”

“I can’t say that about you,” he said.  “It’s not that I don’t care about you.  There’s a compatibility issue.”

Spoken like a true business student.

“What are you looking for in a partner?” I said.

“Someone who has the same ideals as me,” he answered.  “Someone who challenges me.”  He looked past me, as if at a far horizon, not merely the cabinets over my head.  He sighed.  “There are so many things…”

I didn’t press him.  I didn’t want to hear more.  As it was, for weeks afterward I remembered that he thought me wayward, not up to his intellectual par.

He continued, “I feel like you are expecting me to treat you like a girlfriend.  And I can’t.  And I won’t.”

“You are right,” I admitted.  “I’m sorry.”  I glanced down at the counter and put the mug onto it.  “Well, I will let you be now.  Thanks for talking to me.”

“Are you gonna be OK?  Is there anything I can do?”

I shrugged.  “I’ll just get a cab.”

“Do you want me to go down with you?”

“No.”  I knew he didn’t want to.  “You know what?  Can I just sit here for a minute?”  I picked up my purse from the chair near the door and dropped my body into it.

“Sure,” he said.

I was crying.  I did that for a minute or two.  When I stood up he hugged me.  I let go only after he let go.

I looked past him and murmured a goodbye to the dog.  She regarded me from under her floppy ear, which hasn’t been the same since the surgery.

After standing for a long time on the corner of Jose Silva and Avenida de la Paz I finally found a cab.  It cost 20 to get home.  I wrote Alexander an email before I went to sleep and another after I woke up.

He responded promptly:  “It sounds like you could use some time away from me and to be honest I need some space from you too,” he began.  He wished me well in all my endeavors and concluded, “Hasta luego  -Alexander.”

I wrote back simply, “OK.  Hasta luego.”