danceislove

Taj and his friends sat in a semicircle off the dancefloor, drinking cans of Mahou Classic.  It’s one of the standard Spanish beers, costs a euro, and apparently is pretty good.  I wouldn’t know since I only drink beer if it’s Belgian.

I should have made an exception that night because my frustration was only growing.  Despite La Industria’s large square dance space, wall of mirrors and lovely lighting, its dance events always depressed me.  There was no one good to dance with.  On this particular evening, Caroline’s partner was in another European city running an uphill marathon.  And since the day I read Roman the riot act, no one had seen or heard from him.

Caroline was a decent follow and so I danced the boy’s role with her.  There was no way, however, to fulfill the great desire in my heart to show Taj and his friends true lindy hop, fast and crisp and flowing, maybe with a few snap whoosh bang acrobatics.  What a wasted opportunity.

Melody approached me after I danced a second song with Caroline.  “I didn’t know you were so good!”  Melody cried.

“I’m a professional, darling.” My insides felt raw with emotion.  It hurt to breathe.  I regretted but had to accept the fact that for the moment I could not behave well or fairly.

“Oh, can’t you show me something, please!” Melody begged.

Unsmiling, I led her over to the mirrors.  Forgetting that she had been a ballerina for years, I began to slowly demonstrate the eight-count basic lindy hop rhythm.

Suddenly Brad was at my side, copying me.  I was astonished.  I am used to spending hours teaching this pattern and he got it right away.

Garamond too.  What was going on?

When I next looked in the mirror I saw four Americans and one Brit behind me:  Garamond, Brad, Jessica, Poppy, and Melody.  I also noticed that I was smiling.  Run run triple-step; run-run triple-step.  Dancing never fails.  The earth is always there for me.  I can push off of it and lindy hop.  And sometimes, sometimes, people do want to share in this inspiration with me.

When it was time to partner I chose Poppy to help me demonstrate.  She and Roy had already taken a few blues dance lessons from me, along with Taj, and she was an amazingly natural follower.  Later I found out that she has ridden horses for years.  To me it seems that that being able to attune to animals gives a person really good partner dance skills.

We rotated, and I danced with each of my new friends.  Jessica kept apologizing for missing the class I had set up, and thanking me for teaching them all now.  Whenever she did that, the others would chime in and agree.  It was incredibly sweet.

Brad and Garamond continued to impress me with their rhythm.  Garamond even began to lead.  This is really difficult when you first learn the basic 8-count rhythm.  Almost all guys need several hours of practice on the basic footwork before they can pay attention to the girl.  It’s normal.  Both Brad and Garamond were whooping it up, laughing if they made a mistake, asking me to show them the pattern again, saying they were gonna get really good and then start flipping me.  I glanced at their muscles and said I thought that sounded great.

Melody did fine, of course.  If she really wanted to lindy hop, though, I would have to Africanize her style, teach her to dance in the floor rather than sashaying out of it.

Jessica was a disaster.  She didn’t seem able to bend her knees.  If I tried to lead her one way she went the other, almost pulling me over in the process.  Fortunately she had a great attitude and just laughed the whole time.

Meanwhile, Taj talked with Cade and The Specialist, all of them still seated.  Later Taj alluded to the diplomacy required in persuading men from that part of the US known as The South that if you dance it does not mean you are gay.  People are irrational, and cultures of people even more so.  I have to accept that.  I especially have to accept that if I hope that a certain culture will begin to move in a more dance-friendly direction.

After I’d mentally exhausted my new students and Taj brought the philosophical talks to a close, he came over to the floor and took me for a couple of spins.  Literally.  He didn’t yet know any steps per se, but he could lead.  So while the Spaniards (and a few French) around us pumped their arms and stomped their feet through patterns they spent hours trying to learn, poor things, Taj led me smoothly and sweetly around the dance floor.  He could move me, create space for me and take care of me.  He knew what to do with a woman in his arms.

On the day he sat next to me in the computer room, and I caught his beautiful scent and then looked into his beautiful eyes, some part of me recognized the undeniable chemistry between us.  I sure did try to deny it, though, even in that moment.  He was so young.  He could not possibly be interested in me.  Eventually I learned there was nothing wrong with playing Demi Moore to his Ashton Kutcher.  Or Aphrodite the love goddess to his Adonis: the brave young hunter and most handsome man in the world.

It was time to go to the German beer bar and get a big table and drink some more drinks.  Since my stomach still hurt it would be Coca Cola Light for me.  We began to troop toward the door, across the front of the room, as the other people still at the event hugged the back.

Taj and Roy went on ahead, almost to the other side.  Then suddenly, Roy swung his foot into the air and Taj caught it underneath and pushed up, and Roy flipped backwards in the air, landing with a huge slam of feet against the floor.

The Spaniards stopped dancing and looked up, shocked.

Americans.  Fucking things up again.

I didn’t have a good feeling when I arrived at Taj’s place at 5:30 pm on Saturday afternoon.  The lindy hop class for which I had reserved studio space was due to start at 7.  I had a feeling it was not going to happen, despite Brad’s enthusiasm, Jessica’s and Poppy’s apparent enchantment, and everyone’s excited promises the day before.

Brad and Manny were in the kitchen.  I could hear them laughing and hollering as they prepared some kind of strawberry-goat-cheese red-white-and-blue filling for their French toast.  Melody and Jessica’s contest entry had already come out, a savory version with arugula, tomato and bacon.  Although it was quite delicious I couldn’t eat much.  My stomach hurt.  Too much wine at the wine-tasting.

I sat around in the livingroom.  I bantered with Jessica for a little while.  I managed half a plate of sherry-reduction-drizzled stuffed French toast courtesy of Brad and Manny.  They presented it carefully, with strawberry slices and mint leaves, sauce zigzagging around the edges of the plate.  I made myself try Rockwell and Garamond’s contribution, which included regular sliced bread, bananas, and whipped cream from a can.  Really?  Did they dare go up against the inspired chefs among us with such a weak-ass entry?

It was a little after 6:30, time for me to go.  Taj and I declared his roommates the winners, Melody and Jessica a close second.  All the contestants agreed with our choices.

Taj was in his room when I came in to get my backpack, which contained my speakers and iPod.  I’d brought them with me to save having to go back into my apartment before the class.

He said, “Are you ok?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you tell me if you weren’t?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You seem upset,” he said.

“Oh, well, I just have to understand that even when people say they want to learn to dance, they really don’t.”  I noticed that my voice sounded unsteady.  I breathed in sharply and focused on keeping my smile.  “I’ll just go to the studio and dance by myself.  It’s fine.  I think what I have to do in the future is, if someone tells me they want to dance, say, ok, give me five euros and we’ll set it up.”

I looked away for a moment to lift my coat from Taj’s desk chair.  When I returned my eyes to him, he was holding out a pink and silver 10-euro note.

“No.”  Suddenly I was shaking with passion, with love for him.  I pushed away his hand.  “I don’t care about the money for the studio, and anyway it’s not your fault.  It’s just that when people pay for something, they’re more likely to follow through.”

“That’s true,” he agreed.  “Look, Brad and all of them, they’re not so great at time management, they’re kind of drunk, they got involved in something…”

“Come on.  They all work, all over the city, every day.  They know how to show up on time for stuff.”  I made for Taj’s bedroom door.

He said, “Come here,” and pulled me into his embrace.  I was crying.  I gave up the battle.  He would see me in all my stupid feminine emotionality, and that was just the way it was going to be.

I relinquished my backpack and sat down on the bed.  He sat next to me.  I said, “I am so happy here, I really am.  Everything in my life is great.  And - you know - I gave up so much to come here.  I miss lindy hop.  I have no one to dance with.  I miss it a lot.”  I lifted my head.

“Baby.” Taj’s eyes were bottomless.  “I don’t like to see my girl cry.”

“It’s ok.  It’s good.  It’s because I trust you.  Do you understand?”

“I think so.”  He put his arms around me again, and let me cry.

_______________________________
My phone rang as I was hoofing it up Fuencarral.

“I’m almost there,” I said to Taj.  “Few more minutes.”

Graciously he had agreed to meet me at the lindy hop dance.  I’d only given him a couple of lessons and I knew that lindy hop wasn’t his thing.  Blues dancing suited him much more, and blues dance parties did not exist in Madrid.  I know what you’re thinking, but it is going to be at least 50 years before I even think about organizing another dance event.

I felt bad that Taj had shown up to the lindy hop party before me.  It was my fault.  After dancing by myself in the studio, I crashed on my bed for a while.  I was still sad.  Also hangovers suck.

To my utter shock when I opened the door to La Industria, they were all sitting on chairs around the reception area:  Taj, Brad, Jessica, Manny, Poppy, Roy, The Specialist, Melody, and even Garamond.

Poppy spoke first.  “We’re sorry, Liz,” she said.

“Yeah.  We fucked up,” Jessica added.

I was speechless.  I didn’t know what to do.  They didn’t know what to do either.

“Well, can you show us some moves, Liz?” Poppy asked.

Suddenly I felt defensive.  I’d had a minor breakdown, I was emotional and hungover and drained.  I didn’t feel prepared to teach eight people to lindy hop in the middle of a dance party, where I couldn’t control the music or the surroundings.

“Well… we might not be able to have a dance class since this is someone else’s dance, you know?  It’s not my gig.”  I looked at tall lanky Roy, folded into a chair with one ankle on the other knee.  He regarded me steadily.  I was falling short, disappointing my boyfriend’s friends.  Inside I was a boiling, roiling cauldron of anxiety and desperation.  I could feel it at the juncture of my belly and my chest, between my third and fourth chakras.  That place again.  Identity in the solar plexus, love in the fourth.  Dead asleep at the third chakra.  No sense of identity.  Too active in the heart.  Enough emotion for a small village.  Ay, madre mia.

Fortunately at that moment my brain began to function and I thought of something.  Beer.

“They sell drinks downstairs,” I said brightly.  We went.

I said it first.  I’d promised myself a long time ago I’d never do that again. But this is what happens to women sometimes.  The words seem to come out of our mouths against our will.  Men have the opposite situation.  You guys know you’re “supposed” to be better at talking about your feelings but sometimes there’s such a tangled, exhausting maze for them to travel before they surface.

He didn’t answer right away.  This didn’t bother me too much.  I was the wildly lucky woman he was always choosing. On any given day he might text me, “Baby, my morning class cancelled and I don’t have anything till 2:30 tomorrow.  There’s a place I want to take you tonight.”  Or  “Be at mine at 9.  I want to take you to a jazz concert.”  Or, “I can’t wait to see you.  I have a surprise for you.”

So when, a day or two later, he held me and said, “I love you, baby,” I was not astonished, not surprised.  Just deeply, deeply happy.

On a Thursday night in mid-January I sat at Taj and Manny and Brad’s livingroom table, talking with Brad, looking at the the little sailboat someone had painted in glitter and permanent marker on the sliding glass doors to the terrace.

“I want to learn to lindy hop,” Brad was telling me.

“Really? Are you sure?  I mean, it’s hard.  You have to work really hard before you get anywhere or it feels like anything.  Of course, the music is the best there is, and the feeling when you connect with a partner and the music is like nothing else in the world.  But maybe you want to do something that’s much more fun at first.  Salsa is way easier.”

“Nah, but if I learn to lindy hop first, then when I learn salsa it’ll be really easy.”

“That’s true,” I allowed.  “Well, if you really want to try it, I will totally teach you.  There’s a dance on Saturday, right by your house.  The place is called La Industria.  It’s a tango studio but a couple of lindy hop teachers put on a lindy hop dance there.”

“Saturday? Sure,” said Brad.

“Let’s see, the dance starts at 9:30 but we don’t want to get there before 10, so we should probably do the lesson at 7 so that afterwards we can have some drinks and some food and then hit the dance.”

“Yeah.  Sounds great,” said Brad.  “Taj will come.”

“I hope so.  I’ve been teaching him a little.”

“Melody will come, she totally wants to do this too.”

“Really? Oh yeah, she used to do ballet, she will be easy to teach.  Maybe Roy and Poppy too - they took a couple of blues lessons from me.”

“I’ll tell everyone.”

“Nice!  I am so excited,” I beamed.

The next night, Friday, I was running late to meet the boys and everyone, having had a long day of teaching.  I called Taj.

“OK,” he said.  “Well, when you get there call and we’ll all come down.  We don’t want to miss the wine tasting and it only goes till nine.”

“Yeah, I know.  Oh and Taj - can you do me a huge favor?  I am so hungry.  Can you bring me down a peanut butter sandwich?”

Roy and Poppy arrived at the same time I did.  Poppy looked amazing in a short gray wool coat, belted in the middle.  The hem of her skirt must have been higher than that of the coat because all you could see under it were a pair of really nice legs and adorable shoes.  I felt very dowdy in my work clothes and backpack.

Taj gave me my sandwich and I ate it with joy and gratitude, shivering on the sidewalk.

“Well,” he said, “you made me the peanut butter.”

“Still.”

We were waiting for Brad.  Finally he came down and led us all to a shi-shi liquor and gourmet food shop in Arguelles.  Apparently they had free wine tastings, all you can drink.

You had to go to the back of the shop for the tasting.  On the counter sat three large silver bowls, each holding a few bottles of wine.  The white ones were in the bowl with the ice.

We stood around at first.  The store was very quiet, no music, not many customers.  Jessica and Poppy were whispering to each other, trying to figure out how to procure the glasses we needed to start drinking.  None were in evidence.  I thought Brad would lead the way, as he had so far that evening.  When he didn’t I approached an employee that was unpacking a box of reds and asked where the glasses were.

She came around behind the counter and put a bunch of goblets on top.  Some other customers in the store, looking interested, also began to approach the counter.  I saw Brad out of the corner of my eye.  “Merriweather.”  I handed him a glass.  I hadn’t meant to call him by his last name; the boys do that.

“Oooh,” I said, “look at this.”

Poppy came up.  “Nice,” she said.  “It’s a sherry.”

“Nine euros, must be amazing,” I said.  “I’m gonna save that for after my first glass, though.  Let’s have some of this red, what do you think?”

We tasted the wine - well, we drank full glasses, having free rein of the bar - and wandered among the shelves.  Brad was particularly interested in the inventively-shaped pastas, the 24-euro packages of smoked salmon and the like.  Taj was at the back exclaiming over the really expensive red wines and rum.

When he paused to admire a bottle of Ribera - my favorite type of wine - that was only 11 euros, I half-joked, “Oh, were you going to buy that for me?”

“I don’t have 11 euros right now, baby,” he said, a little sadly.

“It’s OK.  Neither do I.  Really that’s way too much when we can get a good bottle of wine for 4.”

The sherry was the hit of the night.  It was Pedro Ximenez.  “Tastes like maple syrup!”  Brad kept shouting.  “Now I want to make some French toast.”

He and Melody and Jessica started to talk about having a French-toast-making contest the following day.  “Taj, you and Liz have to be judges,” Brad said.

“That’s fine with me,” I laughed.  I’d had three glasses of wine in about 45 minutes and so was quite drunk already.  The store was going to close soon but on my way to the front I encountered another open bottle of wine, at an intermediary bar with a sink.  I poured myself a glass and fairly chugged it.  Delicious.  Wheee!

At the cash register Taj asked Melody, “So, what kind are you gonna get?”  He held up a tiny bottle of Southern Comfort.

“What do you mean?” Melody asked.  (Imagine that posh British accent again, now a bit cross.)

“Well, everyone’s getting a nip.  You have to get one,” Taj said matter-of-factly.

“No.  Only bums drink those!”

“Nah, come on.  You have to.  Everyone’s getting them.  Look.”  Taj indicated the pair of Johnnie Walker Blacks in Poppy’s hands.

“Well, all right then, I don’t know.  A Godiva or something.”

I went to the other end of the register to wait.  “Look,” Taj said proudly after he went through the line.  “I made Melody buy a nip - I peer pressured her into it.  Here, I got you something.”  He handed me the plain brown paper bag with two little sturdy rope handles.  Inside was a small, 50-gram bar of gourmet single-origin chocolate.

“Oh, delicious.  Thank you darling.”

“I got one too.”

“I’m gonna eat mine NOW,” I giggled.

“This French-Toast-Off is gonna be ridiculous,” he said.  “Brad’s talking about making red, white and blue French toast.

“Are you gonna participate?”

“I don’t know.  I think they need me to judge.  You too.”

“Right.  I forgot.  I’m not drunk or anything.  Hold this?”  I handed him the empty paper bag and went to work on unwrapping the chocolate.  I took a bite and then gave him a kiss.

Blues-Lindy

Why choose lindy or blues?  Dance both at once, to faster blues music or slower lindy hop music.
Leader/ Follower Training

Here’s your chance to isolate and practice some very important body movement skills which will qualitatively improve your partnering ability.

Jumps, Dips, and Tricks

Learn some relatively easy but very impressive moves to do in jams, performance or just for fun.  It’s best if you take this class with one partner, but not required.
Turns and Spins

What’s the secret to really good turns and spins?  Find out finally, in this class!
Connection, Connection, Connection

Are you really following?  Really leading?  Or just thinking you know what your partner wants and doing that?  Now that you know how to move your own body, learn some fun exercises to practice with a partner. Then you will find out for sure, and have a chance to get much better. We want to be better leaders and followers because great connection feels great!

Cool Charleston Moves

Impress your friends by doing these awesome Charleston moves.
Jazz Moves- Fundamentally Crucial Body Movement for Lindy Hop

It’s the age-old question.  You watch a great dancer from across the room.  You think to yourself, “OK.  I know how to do a swing-out.  He knows how to do a swing-out.  But why does his swing-out look so much better?”  Learn the mysterious, fundamental moves-between-the-moves that make all the difference in our dancing.
Charleston Capers

End the day with some fun and happy Charleston moves and variations.

I finally met Adri in the travel agency next door, just before she flew to Greece.

“Here are the keys,” she said, giving them to Taj.  Then she was gone in a streak of bright yellow coat and green rolling suitcase.

“Guess you’re on the hook for Olive again?” I said.

“Whatever.  I’ll give it a lot of food and then I won’t have to go over there for a couple of days.  She told me how to clean out the litter but I am not doing that.  You know what she did on Christmas, right?”

“Remind me?”

“She was like, ‘Taj, what are you doing for Christmas?’  This was before I knew I was going to Amsterdam.  So I was like, ‘Nothing,’ and she was like, ‘Perfect, you can take care of Olive.  Oh, there’s no more cat food so here’s ten euros, you can buy it.’”

“Right, of course, now I remember.  Unbelievable.”

“You know sometimes she comes over to use our shower?  She’s like, ‘Oh, my roommate is taking too long!’  Man, people just come over to our place and use whatever they want.  Like Rockwell and Garamond, they are always ringing the doorbell to borrow stuff.  I’m always like, ‘You better bring it back’ and they never do. Then later I’m looking for the cheese grater and I realize, oh fuck, it’s upstairs, and I have to see if they’re home so I can get my own shit back.’”

I tend to forget which one is named Rockwell and which is Garamond.  They don’t look anything alike but they occupy the same good-time-party-boy role.  They are both perpetually looking for an audience but don’t usually notice individual people.  One of them, Garamond, is dating Jessica.  The other one I first met before Taj and I started dating.  Maybe it was the day I’d come over to give Taj the Blues Traveler CD.  Rockwell was standing in the middle of the livingroom hollering, “Can anyone tell me where the American Embrossy is?  I have to find the American Embrossy.”  No one was paying attention to him.  He looked at me and said, “Hey, you’re the girl who makes the peanut butter.”  I told him he was right.  “Do you know how I can find the American Embrossy?”

“Don’t bother me now.  I’m busy reading this story by Ambrose Bearce,” I said.

“Oh ho ho ho!” Rockwell bellowed appreciatively, looking around to see if anyone else would join him.

Rockwell looks like he stepped out of an Archie comic, all swoopy sandy hair and ridiculous grin.  Sometimes I don’t know if he’s really there or he’s just someone’s drawing.  At one of the many parties in Taj’s place I started to tell Rockwell that I was leaving early to go salsa dancing and he said, “Oh yeah, I know how to dance!  The fist pump!”  He began pushing his fist up into the air in time to the techno music playing.

I realized, far too late, that I had been supposed to laugh at that.

“Get this,” Taj continued.  “Yesterday a bunch of people were over.  Manny had a bottle of La Negrita.  Rockwell and Garamond drank all of it.  Then Manny was like, ‘Hey, don’t you guys have some of that rum you brought back from the Canaries?’ and they were like, ‘Nah, we don’t want to go up and get it.’  I mean, they live upstairs.”  Taj exhaled audibly.  “You were the only one that brought us something, that contributed something.  You are the only one that does that.”

“Oh,” I said, at first not knowing what else to say.  I thought about the peanut butter, the leftover cookie dough.  Then I added, “Remember how you were flipping the cookies with a spatula? That was hilarious.”

On January 5th, King’s Day Eve, I arrived at Taj’s place to a surprising scene.  He was holding Adri’s cat, Olive, on its back, feet splayed up and out.  A makeshift sweater of red felt covered the cat’s torso, and a hat topped by a jingle bell perched on its head, which swiveled from side to side in a state of energetic curiosity.  Apparently the all-black, short-haired cat was only six months old and could tolerate such treatment.

“You like the clothes I made for him?” Taj asked.

“Wow,” was all I could say.

“I guess I miss being around animals,” he explained.  “Even though he’s a cat, I kind of like him now.”

“I thought Olive was a she,” I said.

“Watch this.”  Taj led me into the livingroom.  Garamond and Rockwell were standing around.

“Make Olive turn off the fan again,” said Garamond, looking at Taj.

“Hey guys,” I said.

They each offered a “hey” in return, one slightly phase shifted from the other, in my general direction.

The small ceiling fan whirred slowly, its on-off cord looped around one of the variously-colored blades (red, blue, green, yellow).  Taj set Olive down on the arm of a large dilapidated chair.  Olive’s hat jingled off as it flicked its head side to side, eyes fixed on the revolving cord.  It shot out a paw and hooked a claw in the cord.  The fan clicked off.

“Ha ha!  Fantastic!”  I clapped my hands.

Garamond clicked the fan back on.  “Let’s see if he does it again.”

Manny strode into the living room.  “Hey, it’s Lizard.”  He gave me two kisses.  “How are you, Lizard?”

“Great,” I laughed.

“Look, it’s Christmas Cat!”  Manny scooped up Olive.

“Put him back!  He was going to turn the fan off again,” complained Rockwell.

“Christmas Cat,” Manny cooed, holding the poor thing toward me.

“Yes, I love the outfit,” I affirmed.  “By the way, the hat is on the floor over there.”

“Oh, Liz, did you see the decorations?” Taj asked.  “Melody and Fawn put up the lights decorated the Christmas tree.  They were at it all day.”

In all the excitement I hadn’t yet noticed a tiny fake green shrub in the corner but admired it dutifully.  The blue lights around the room caught my fancy more effectively.

Fawn and Melody joined the party a little later, as did Jessica and Brad and a few other people.  Fawn is one of those people that makes you do a double-take, even if it is not the first time you are looking at her.  You think to yourself, is it really possible for a person to be that beautiful?  Fawn has the dimensions of a barbie doll at a normal woman’s height.  She wears clothing that doesn’t leave much of this fact to the imagination.  Sometimes when she graces the room with her loud, merry, educated speech, or takes a call on her mobile in fluent Spanish, I can’t help but stare at her dark eyes, pointy chin and nose, perfect teeth.

Manny was working on her, rather obviously.  After most of the guests had left - Brad and Taj sitting at the table rolling their cigarettes, me drowsing nearby over a warm glass of cava - Manny picked up a blanket in one hand and Olive in the other.  He carefully arranged the blanket on Fawn’s lap and handed her the cat.

“And.  Mademoiselle.”  Manny stood before her holding out a bar of Lindt, 70% cocoa mass.  “A blanket, a cat, and chocolate.  Everything you wanted.”

Fawn laughed through her little nose and gave Manny a smile.  Then she dropped her gaze back to Olive.  Somehow it had wriggled out of its outfit.  Nevertheless she murmured, elongatedly, “Christmas Cat.”

On the morning of December 31, 2009,  I woke up ecstatic.

“I have to go for a run,” I told Taj.

“Do your thing, girl,” he said.

“You make me so happy - I have so much energy.”

When I returned he had just finished cooking breakfast.  In the kitchen he handed me a plate of eggs scrambled with peppers and onions, very well done, which is also how he likes them, and crispy homemade hashbrowns decorated with a ketchup smiley face.

We ate in the living room and then went online to book our trip to Granada.  No one else was in the house.  I was in my room putting some things away when I heard, “Liz.”

“Yes?”

“We’re kind of screwed.”

“Really?  What do you mean?”

“All the tickets to The Alhambra are sold out.”

“Oh.”

“And we already booked the hotel and the bus.”

“Did my bank card work for the bus?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, good.  Well, there’s more to Granada then just the castle, right?” I said.  “I’m sure we can manage to have a good time.”

We planned to leave the next day.  In the meantime we wandered my neighborhood, blithely undecided about how to ring in 2010.  All our friends were away, in other European cities or in the States.  About six o’clock we stopped in Cafe Eke, a little Belgian beer place set into one of the outer walls of Plaza Mayor.  Flamenco music played on the sound system.  Most of the people inside were wearing tinsel or wigs.  Some sported headbands with skinny antennae-like springs connected to large shiny stars or hearts that waved to and fro as they walked or danced.

Something else strange was happening.

Both Taj and I looked deeper into the bar - he had to turn around - at the commotion caused when two medium-sized children began clambering over and under the barstools.  Then they ran back and forth in the narrow passageway from the bar to the tables up front.

“It’s really weird to see kids in a bar,” Taj said, and I had to agree.

We lingered over our beers, hot dog and cheese fries.  I took so long to finish my Leffe Rubio that Taj had to order another Rochefort 8.  It was a good lunch, deserving of another walk before we returned to my house.

Finally we decided to celebrate the new year with a home-cooked meal, a bottle of wine, lots of cava, and whatever developed from there.

For the provisions we had to go to El Corte because everything else was closed.  It was about ten o’clock.  Taj’s mom called him as we were walking, again.  My boots hurt my feet but we were holding hands and I was happy.  It wasn’t that cold.

On Calle de Leon I led him into a liquor store.  I browsed the bottles as Taj chatted.  “Just send the whole bag, OK?” he said a couple of times.  Then there was a pause before he talked to one of his sisters, then the other. Taj is the big brother.

“Sorry I talked so long.”

“It’s fine.  There’s no rush,” I said.  We were back on the street, as everything in the store was too expensive for us, though worth admiring.  Taj continued,  “I haven’t talked to my sisters in a while and I needed to find out what was going on.  They’re not talking to each other.  I don’t know if they’re really not talking to each other or they’re just telling me that.”

“Does that happen with them a lot?”

“Not really - but I’m not there to help them calm down, or remind them of what’s up -”

I nodded, looking at the cobblestones.

“Also, my youngest sister hasn’t been the same since last year when - “  Taj then described to me a situation which sounded very difficult.

“And my mom!” He exhaled audibly.  “I want her to send this backpack I have.  It has my tobacco in it, a kind I can’t get here.  She doesn’t want me to have it, though, I know, so I know she’s going to take it out.  I’m like, mom, just send the whole bag.”

El Corte was a zoo, naturally.  We found some fish, some linguine, zucchini and carrots, a respectable red wine (4 euros) and a more-than-decent cava (2 bottles, 6 Euros each).  Then we began to wait in line.

Taj said, “I think when Spanish people go to the store they have to bring everybody.  You know?  Like they’re sitting around at someone’s house, and instead of saying, ‘Oh, I need to go out and get more beer, anyone want anything?’ they’re like, ‘I have to go get something,’ and everyone says, ‘OK, I’ll go with you!’  And then there are five people here for two things.  Like that.”  He nodded toward the group just in front of us in line, gathered around a little green basket containing a couple of two-liter bottles of soda and a package of toilet paper.  Two of the people were a couple, laughing and kissing each other.

It was quite a wait for the cash register.  All the lines extended into the aisles.  I noticed that Taj and I were standing right next to the condoms.

“Hey, we need some of these,” I said, picking up a package.  “They’re definitely more expensive here.  Oh well, we just need enough to get us through the night.” I glanced at him flirtatiously.  “Like twelve.  Or fifteen.” He laughed and squeezed me.  I bent my head slightly to breathe in his delicious scent.  When I wear my highest heels we are about the same height.

Although I directed dinner it was a team effort with beautiful results: roast fish and stir-fried vegetables over noodles in a peanut sauce.

“I was skeptical about the combination of lemon with the fish, and the peanut sauce, but it’s really good,” said Taj.

He had said something similar when we made empanadas, into whose ground-beef filling I wanted to add peanuts, raisins, and olives, along with some diced carrots and tomato sauce.  “Yeah, I didn’t know about the raisins and olives, but this is really good.”

At 11:50 Taj suddenly wanted to walk toward Sol - not into the crazy drunken crowd, just near enough to perhaps see some of the fireworks.  We reached the intersection of Espoz y Mina and Calle de La Cruz just as the stroke of midnight sounded.  He kissed me there on the street.  When we were about to turn back we noticed we could see some of the fireworks overhead so we stayed until the last purple-white glimmer faded.  Then we walked back to my place, opened the second bottle of cava, listened to Derek Trucks and Led Zeppelin and talked till about four or five.  I would call that a happy new year.

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!

Taj has an orange ski hat with a black-and-white pom pom on top and a wide white stripe near the bottom.  He’d taken it off but not before it had a chance to flatten his curls, which in their present state highlighted the beauty of his face.  His eyes gleamed.  His cheeks shone.  The Rioja had darkened his lips just slightly.

Maybe he was a little drunk.  Brad was hammered for sure.  I’d seen that immediately as the two of them trundled up the slope of Eloy Gonzalo, comfortably late, as I was stepping out of the pintxo bar to check the address.  I wanted Melody to come join us, so as soon as I greeted the boys and found a spot with them at the bar I texted her the location.  “Brad is here too!” I added.

To Taj I said, “You look really good.”

He put his arm around me and reeled me into him.  His hand was a welcome ember at my waist.  “You smell amazing,” he said.

“Oh,” I answered coyly, and told him the name of the perfume.

“Intoxicating.”  He kissed me and I melted into him.  I was glad that Brad didn’t seem to mind.

The bar guy came up and Taj ordered our usuals, Rioja for him and Ribera for me.  They’re both reds, they just come from different regions of Spain.  Our drinks came and I took my copa off the top of the glass case of pintxos and put it on the gray formica bar ledge in front of me.  I was standing in the middle between Taj on my left and Brad on my right.  We were near the door, and the cold wind brushed our backs when customers entered or left.

“Melody didn’t call me on my birthday,” Brad said. “I thought we had, you know, an understanding.  And we were supposed to go somewhere for New Year’s, like Cadíz or Granada, and she was going to ask her roommate if she could borrow his car.  She never did, though.”

“I’m really surprised to hear that she didn’t call you on your birthday.  I’m quite shocked actually,”  I said.  It was true.  I couldn’t imagine that girls were not regularly throwing themselves at Brad.  He’s a sweet guy, funny, fun to talk with, and the type that many women find attractive:  tall, blond, and probably he worked out.  Plus he could play guitar, and he was a fantastic cook.  What was Melody’s problem?

Obviously I would never think of Brad that way in the first place, but once a girl started dating him, any girl, what could possibly make her go cold?

“I mean, I guess we weren’t that serious,” Brad was scoffing.  “I mean, I don’t really care that much.  But that’s kind of fucked up, don’t you think? Not calling me on my birthday?”

I opened my mouth and hoped that something appropriately supportive would come out, but Brad kept talking.  “She’s a cool girl, a really cool girl.  I really like her.  I mean, liked her.  I guess we go back to being friends with benefits.  I don’t know -”

I realized that Brad had decided to confide me in me and that my role would be easy.  I would just have to pay attention.  It was clear he wasn’t looking for advice or even supportive words, which was a relief because I certainly had none of the former and it could be difficult finding the latter when you don’t know someone that well.

After we finished our drinks the three of us headed back to the boys’ place, Brad monopolizing me during the short walk.  “I don’t know, I don’t really feel like seeing Melody anymore, but I feel bad, it might be hard on her, but I guess I should tell her.  What do you think, Liz?”

Fortunately I now had something worthwhile contribute, or at least I thought so:  “Tell her.  Just be straight with her.  It’s better for both of you in the long run.  I moved here following the guy I was dating, and right after I got here he broke up with me.  But you know what?  I’m so glad he did.  He was really clear about it, and it broke my heart, but it would have been much worse otherwise.  And as you can see I’m very happy now.”

Later when I was alone with Taj in his room I said, “I was surprised when Brad started talking to me like that.  I guess he was pretty drunk.  Anyway I wanted you to know that I think he’s a nice guy and everything, but I only have eyes for you.  Only you.”

“Thanks,” said Taj, and he hugged me tight.  Then he said, “When I have a girlfriend Brad usually confides in her.”

“Oh, really?”  I thought this was very funny, though it also instantly made sense, somehow.  Brad and Taj have been friends since childhood, though apparently they had a few rough patches along the way, but that’s to be expected when people are friends for that long, I would think.

Brad is a writer.  On the evening I first encountered his work, I was sitting on one of the couches at their house.  I must have been a little drunk, because usually I avoid those filthy cushions.  The assembled were watching a download of It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia. Since this was around Christmas, the assembled probably included, besides Taj and Brad and Manny, the two good-time boys from upstairs, and by association Jessica, since she was dating one of them, plus possibly Fawn - more about Fawn later - and Adri’s cat Olive, although not Adri herself.  Olive had taken to climbing onto the terrace outside Manny’s bedroom, trotting through it and into the living room and the rest of the apartment.  This irked Taj, naturally, but the other boys didn’t seem to mind.  Fawn loved Olive, and this worked for Manny, who was trying to get on Fawn’s good side.

Anyway, I was trying to find a distraction from It’s Always Sunny, because generally I hate television.  Next to me on the couch lay one of the issues of Madrid’s premiere expatriate magazine, for which Brad has a regular gig.  I began reading a piece he had written about the interactions among him and his family members when he explained he was going to go run with the bulls in Pamplona.  It was funny, with a dash each of sarcasm and self-effacement, and a couple of very clever similes.  Best of all it hung together and was not too self-conscious or overworked.

“Hey Brad,” I said.  He was talking to someone but I didn’t really care.  “Hey Brad.  Brad.  Brad.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh, I was just reading this article you wrote?  You’re good.  No I mean, you’re good, really good.  I hate a lot of the crap that gets published in so many magazines.  This one is lucky to have you.”

“Hey thanks, Liz.”

“Just callin’ it like I see it,” I said, and dropped my eyes and kept reading, avoiding the TV, letting the assembled get back to whatever it is they were doing:  drinking, playing with the cat, or trying to be the loudest or funniest.

“You are too good to me,” Taj said.

“You inspire me,” I said truthfully.  I knew he liked ruby port, so when I saw that the bottle staring me in the face at El Corte could be mine for less than six Euros, it was a done deal.  The oranges and almonds and chocolate followed easily.  Together they had clearly made an impression on him.

“Qué?” he said, looking into my eyes.  “Di me, chica.”  Taj seemed to want to know every thought in my mind, and I liked that.

I leaned against him, playfully intercepting his investigation of the playlist on my laptop.  “I was just thinking that I love this song.  It’s so sad.”

“I think it’s my favorite one too,” he said, starting it over.

Baby, baby, baby I would rather go blind

sang Etta James

than to see you walking away

Later we talked a little about my writing.  He didn’t like that I wrote about Alexander.  I tried explaining:  “You know how you had all those adventures in the wilderness, tangling with alligators in the swamp, saving your friends’ lives?  I never had that.  I don’t have a habitat.  Relationships are my swamp.  They’re how I learn and grow and make sense out of my life.”

“Let’s not talk about it anymore right now,” he said, stroking my hair, which Ginger had cut that day.  He was still looking very intently at me.  “I want to talk about how awesome your hair looks, and what an amazing woman you are.”

I was not used to the kind of focus Taj had on me, the pure love he wanted from me.  More than once I had been broken up with because the guy didn’t want other people to think of us “that way.”  I don’t know if it was a Boston thing, or a Northern thing, or a Boston swing-dancer thing during a certain time period, but a guy could talk to you, take you to dinner, crash at your house, usually sleep with you, and do all those things predictably or repeatedly, but god forbid you should ever think of yourselves as dating.

As Rosalie once said - with her characteristic eyeroll and strenuous exhale - “God!  Just because we’re married that doesn’t mean we’re dating!”

I’ve been chastised many times for being emotional.  I tried to keep it under control.  Be reasonable.  Be a robot.  Be a zombie.  Nobody cares about your feelings.  God, they’re just feelings, what could be less important!  Get a hold of yourself!  Maybe that was one reason why I married someone before making sure that it was really me he wanted, that it was really him I wanted. I think both of us were running away from the pain of others’ rejection, of our own fear of failure.

But that’s all in the past.  Let’s not talk about it anymore.
__________________________
We’re at Roy and Poppy and The Specialist’s place.  They have another roommate, a happy gym rat who hates when people smoke in the apartment, but Taj and The Specialist are smoking because the gym rat has gone to bed.  Roy and Poppy, having drunk themselves into fatigue, turned in before that.  My iPod plays from a shelf over our heads.

The Specialist and Taj are talking about fishing, about their different experiences and styles.  The Specialist describes a method in which someone he knows caught a hundred pounds of mullet in a day.

“I wouldn’t want that much mullet,” Taj says.

“It’s a shit fish, but it tastes great if you smoke it,”  The Specialist rejoins, his Southern drawl complementing his enthusiastic smile quite handsomely.

Then they talk about mahi, and snapper, and then fly fishing, which Taj says he will teach The Specialist.  They have also been discussing bow hunting, specifically deer, followed by more mundane topics like money and scheduling.

“I wanna save up so I can travel,” The Specialist says.

Taj says, “All I want is for someone to let me live on a mountain, do some little job and snowboard.  I figure someone will let me borrow their gear.”  He’s leaning over the coffee table rolling a cigarette, but he turns his head slowly to look at me.  “Can you play that song again?”

“Yup.”  I stretch up, scoop my iPod toward me from the high shelf.  Taj has sat back in his chair again and so the front of my body brushes the side of his as I stand on tiptoe.  I press the back button and the song starts again:  deep slow bass, spare hard percussion, aching piano melody so behind the beat.  More than ten years later, “The Truth” by Handsome Boy Modeling School has lost none of its magic.

“Yeah, this is a good song,” The Specialist nods.  The harsh flourescent overhead light throws shadow around his deep-set blue eyes, illuminates the sharp lines of his face.  “What is it?”

I recite the title and artist’s name.

“You can’t hide from the truth, because the truth is all there is,” the female singer warns.

The chair I’m sitting on has a wicker seat connected by slats to a band of curved wood which stops my back at an uncomfortable angle.  I sit up and scoot closer to Taj, leaning my right upper arm into his left.  His watch says it’s a quarter to three and I realize I am tired.  Also it is so cold outside, and I am wearing high heeled boots.  I begin to think about getting a cab home.

We end up walking, though, to my place, and go to bed.  Among other things, we confess our feelings for each other until what is probably dawn, though I can’t tell because my window admits no outside light.