danceislove

Baby.

If only you could have come back to Madrid.  I don’t want to leave but I cannot live without you.  It’s crazy:  I’m sitting here in the Museo de Jamon on Calle Atocha next to the Anton Martin metro, drinking Ribera out of a squat wide glass and waiting for my mixto and feeling like crying, a lump in my throat and water in my eyes.  Why are you not here, standing next to me as I sit at the last remaining bar stool?  Why are you not ordering your second jarra - “Otra más” - pointing to your empty glass?  I always liked how you said that.  “And Liz.  What do you want?”  “Jack Daniels, straight up.”  “Wow.”  “Well, my baby’s leaving.  How do you think I feel?”

I know you didn’t want to leave me here, baby.  I know it broke your heart.  Not mine, because I knew you weren’t leaving me, just Madrid.  I wouldn’t change it.  The things that seemed so unclear before you left have sharpened into brilliant certitude.  I wrote you letters.  You called me.  You Skyped me.  You told me that you love me.  And you sent for me.  I had waited and I got what I wanted.  I wanted you.  Now all that remains is to close the gap.  That gap being the Atlantic Ocean.

I’m on my second Ribera.  I hadn’t meant to get drunk today, my last day in Madrid.  But what could be more fitting?  I have been telling my students and friends here:  “When I get to the States, I’m gonna be like, RELAX, people.  Have a beer.”  Hardly anyone gets combative here.  When people drink they just sing and dance in the streets.

In the States life is so different.  There are… jobs.  Job descriptions.  Health insurance.  Madre mia.  So many things hemmed in, boxed up.  Here, it’s like, “Oye hombre, quieres clases de inglés?”  And you meet in a bar, and he buys your coffee and pays you 15 or 20 Euros to correct his grammar.  It’s not a lot of money.  And by the time you do this several times a day, going here and there on the metro, you don’t end up with much.  But it’s enough.  Rent is cheap and foreigner private insurance, the most expensive kind there is, is 60 Euros per month - which is between $70 and $80 depending on the current exchange rate.  That includes dental.  Life is good, simple.  Time to dance and write and be with my baby.  Where do we go next?  Well I know this bar, pitcher of sangria 10 Euros…

“I found a Spanish place near here,” you told me on Skype the other day.  “They have Ribera AND Rueda.”

“Really?” I said, happy at the prospect of continuing to drink my favorite Spanish wines once I get to the D.C. area.  “How much are they?”

“Fourteen dollars, I think,” you said.

“A GLASS?” I cried, whipping my forehead down into my hands and back up, hair cascading over my shoulders.  I could see myself in the little video box.  “I don’t think I can do it.  I can’t bring myself to pay that much.”

Here at Museo de Jamon it costs about half that for two glasses, a sandwich, plus some toasted bread with tomato sauce and extra ham.  I’m hungry.  I’ve been packing.  I’m coming home to you, baby.  This is love of a grand order.  We must be together, for the good of the world.  And more urgent than that, I need you.

Maybe someday we can come back.  An argument could be made for Madrid being the best ciry in the world.  It has everything you want: six million people, tons of nightlife, dozens of party districts, breathtaking architecture, - fountains! - and is chockabloc with culture, art and music, friendly warm relaxed people everywhere.  Not to mention amazing public transport.  It has nothing you don’t want.  No stress.  Hardly any violence.

The only thing is, there’s no beach.  But when I saw my roommate off at the Atocha train station today (did you know there’s a mini tropical rainforest in there, with a turtle pond, full of mom & dad turtles with their tiny little babies on their backs?) she said the high-speed train (the AVE) would get her to Malaga, the beach, in two and a half hours.

But leave Spain I must.  Once again, love has claimed me, inspired me, changed me.  This time for good.  I open my heart, I give myself to you, darling.  I am yours.  And here’s to our beautiful city, the place where we began. Madrid.

all my love,

Liz

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

Didgeridoo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You aren’t going to make me dinner?”

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

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

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

________________________

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

“Hi, Ms. Flowers!”

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

_______________________

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

“Yes,” Mr. Ernesto answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zippy answered, “Yes!”

Mme Carna asked her, “Where are we?”

Zippy laughed, “You are in Didgeridoo.”

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

“You are in the north of the island.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

____________________

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

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

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

“Where would I go?” said Alana.

“To the moon?” suggested Gerald.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, please.  How much?”

“Five American dollars.”

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

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

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

“Oh God,” sighed Gerald strenuously.

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

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

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

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

“What US government?” Alana said fearfully.

“Huh,” Gerald said, acknowledging her point.

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

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

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

Suddenly the cab stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” Gerald said.  “Nice tents.”

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

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

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

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

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

Zippy laughed.  “I will be OK!”

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

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

“OK!” said Alana brightly.

“I’m Mrs. Flowers.”

“Alana.  And this is my husband Gerald.”

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

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

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

“Spain,” said Mr. Donatello.

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

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

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

Chapter 3

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

“Breakfast!”

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

Immediately another maid appeared and she gave him the newspaper.

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

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

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

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

“Sorry.  We have disappeared.”

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

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

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

“Why?”  Zippy asked.

“Because the government has disappeared,” answered Chuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All of the others cried, “Who?”

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

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

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

“Yes,” said Zippy.

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

“What hospital?” said Alana.

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

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

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

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

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

___________________

“Time to wake up!  Rise and shine!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All of you?” said Chuck.

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

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

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

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

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

One of the maids immediately came to his office.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The joke about the bar called Madrid Madriz is that when madrileños refer to it they sound like they are saying the same word twice.  Each finishes with a long open “ee” sound followed by that famous lispy consonant.

Embarrassingly, many of us Americans say “MadriD Madreezz” when we suggest it as a meeting place.  It’s right outside the Tribunal metro on Fuencarral.  The biggest difficulty in getting there when starting an evening is crossing the narrow, pedestrian-filled street.

I saw Taj immediately as I came through the door one chilly Friday night and without slowing my pace walked directly into his arms.

“Hey, beautiful.”  He kissed me, lips smooth and minty, freshly-showered skin subtly devastating with cologne, the top of his button-down a little open.  I had a scarf and coat.  Cold does not seem to get through to Taj.

“Hey.” I stepped back a little.  “I like you in black.”

“Yeah, I hardly ever wear black.  Look, it matches my shoes.”

My eyes tracked down his jeans to the shiny black dress shoes and I said, “Nice.”

“Now I’m like you, all mysterious.”

That is the last word I would use to describe myself, but I was tickled that Taj associated it with my penchant for wearing black.  We were kissing again.  Looking at each other.  Kissing again.

I heard Manny’s voice say mildly, “You guys are being very Spanish.”

“Hi Manny.”  I turned slightly from Taj and stepped forward to give Manny two kisses - the hello kind, mind you.

“So, what are we doing, are we having a drink here?” Taj asked Manny.

“Um, I don’t know, it depends on - hold on I have a text -”

My eyes flicked to the right, toward the arresting presence of a girl on a bar stool near enough to implicate her having arrived with Manny.  She was a big black girl, huge eyes, gorgeous face, long smooth hair.

Taj introduced himself to her and I followed suit.  She slid off the stool to make our acquaintance but after that, awkwardly, none of us spoke as Manny studied his phone.  The girl, Jaden, wore a blank and slightly forbidding expression.  My eyes wandered over the small space.  Elbows crowded the bar.  Loud Spanish exclamations, filled with swears and laughter, joined the copious cigarette smoke on its float upward toward the bright lights.  Waitresses darted here and there behind the bar, filling glasses from the beer taps and shoving saucers of nuts and toasted corn at patrons.

“Yeah, I guess we should go,” said Manny.

“What does Jackie say,” Jaden said, without inflection.

“Uhhh… she says she’s down in Sol, she’ll join us in a little bit.”

“So Manny likes this girl,” Taj said in a low voice to me as we hit the street and turned onto Calle de la Palma, a downhill stretch of road which seemed suddenly dark compared to the neon and streetlights of Fuencarral.  “But he always invites her roommate too when he’s doing something.  And usually just the roommate shows up without the girl that Manny likes.”

“Jaden’s the roommate.”

“Yeah,” Taj answered.

“Oh.  So where are we going exactly?”

“I don’t know, some house party.”

At the next street light a man carrying a big bag made of sturdy nylon cloth stepped toward our path, almost into it.  “Cerveza? Cerveza?” he chanted in his Chinese accent.

“Sí,” said Taj.  “Liz, do you have a euro?”

“I got it,” said Manny.  “You ladies want one?”

Jaden and I declined, so he brought a 2-euro coin out of his pocket and gave it to the man.  Manny passed one can of Mahou Classic to Taj as we all resumed walking.  I could hear the boys crack open their beers over the fading singsong of “Cerveza? Cerveza?” as the Chinese man plied the next passersby.  When I glanced at Taj he had already put his can inside a blue foam-rubber holder, probably more to protect the beer from the warmth of his hand than his hand from the chill of the aluminum.

“What is up with Jackie?” Taj asked Manny.  I could hear a hint of goading in his voice.

“I don’t know! Uh, she said she was coming.”

“What if she doesn’t?”

“Uh, whatever.”  Manny turned slightly toward me and Taj, walking behind him and Jaden.  He shrugged briskly, almost imperceptibly.  “I’ll give her a milk.”

“A milk?” I said.

“Yeah, you know in Spanish, if you say you’re gonna give someone ‘una leche,’ it means you’re gonna slap them.”

“Really?  That’s hilarious,” I said.

“Te doy una leche!” Manny mustered a bit of gravel in his voice.  “My students always talk about giving each other milks, because they’re not allowed to speak Spanish in my class.”

“Really?”  I said again.  It sounded so bizarre to me.

“Yeah, I’m like, ‘No more milks!’  And if you say, ‘Soy la leche,’ it means you’re the top, you’re number one.  Spanish people are into milk.”

“I guess so.”  I had fallen into step beside Manny.  “Oh wait!  I’ve been looking for a translation for ‘you’re the best!’  I asked a Spanish person and he said there was no way to say it without swearing.  But if I say, ‘Eres la leche,’ -”

“There’s your translation,” Manny said.

“Nice,” I said.

“You’re the milk!”

“No, Manny, you’re the milk!”

“Man, my students kept saying they were gonna beat each other up this week.”

“That’s why the milks,” I said.  I didn’t envy Manny his job.  He worked with big classes of kids.

“Yeah, but I was like, ‘fuera!  outside now! and I’m telling your parents!’  And they were like, ‘no, no, Manny!’  Then they got all aggressive on me, but with pencils.”

“They were attacking you with pencils?”

“No.  This one kid stood a pencil up on its eraser and then he knocked if off his desk saying, ‘Agggghhhh, Manny!’”

“Like you were the pencil.”

“Yeah.”

“Somehow the way you say that is so funny.  ‘Agggghhh, Manny!’”  The “agghh” started very high and squeaky, sliding gradually down as it decreased in volume, before it gave way to the sudden sharpness of ‘Manny,’ beginning on the same high pitch as before and dropping lower in the next syllable.  We performed it again a couple of times.

“What are you guys doing,” said Jaden behind us.  If she had said it with a touch more force it would have come out annoyed, but as it was she still sounded expressionless.

“We’re talking about my kids,” said Manny, and began the explanation again for her.

After a couple more rounds of “Aaggh, MANny!” - which, each time, made me picture a kid knocking a pencil onto the floor, which somehow also made me laugh - Taj asked, “Where is this place?”

“Uhh -” Manny suddenly stopped.  We were in a valley intersection, a small plaza off to our left and three cobblestone streets leading diagonally up in different directions.  “We’re supposed to go to -”  He wandered away from us and the plaza, looking at street signs set into the buildings.

“Let’s ask someone,” I encouraged.

Ten minutes and two more euro-beers later (one for Manny and one for Taj), we arrived at the party.  It was two floors up.  The door was ajar so we pushed it open and walked in.  I didn’t see anyone in the big main room except for two girls sitting on one of those small squishy foam couches that you could pick up and throw with one hand.  I didn’t know either of them.  Manny started to speak to them in Spanish.  Unlike him I was only fluent in one language so I said to Taj, “I’m gonna find the bathroom, be right back.”

I also put my coat on a bed where the coats were piled, and walked back through the apartment to find everyone in a narrow back room with a window at the other end and a long table full of bottles of liquor and wine.  There was also a big plastic punch bowl with a puddle of liquid in the bottom harboring a mass of sodden mint leaves.

“Liz,” said Poppy.  Such a big warm voice for such a little blonde.  She always makes me feel as if she’s so happy I’ve shown up.  Poppy is definitely the milk.

“Hey, girl.”  I gave her two kisses.  “What’s up.”

“Nothin’, just chillin.’”

“What’s over here, mojitos?”

“Yeah, it kind of all got drunk up.”

“I think I’ll go for something else.”  I found a bottle almost empty of standard-issue rum and mixed it with warm diet Coke.  I stayed near the window chatting with Poppy for a while.  Taj, Roy, and The Specialist were having their own conversation.

A pretty girl with red lipstick and chin-length brown hair was suddenly barreling down the length of the room.  “Is there anything left to drink?” she asked.

“I think so,” said Poppy.  “Taylor, do you know Liz?  This is Liz.  Taj’s girl.”  Poppy suddenly turned to me.  “I can say that, right?”

“Yeah, we just put in on Facebook a couple of days ago,” I said, embarrassed at my excitement.

“Wow, that’s big.  Congratulations,” Poppy said sincerely.  “Liz is a dancer,” Poppy continued, addressing Taylor.

Taylor’s eyes lit up.  “Ballet?” she asked, looking me up and down in my black dress with the open V neck.  I had stuffed my scarf in my coat when leaving it in the bedroom but was still wearing a little sweater to cover my arms, plus thick thigh-highs and tall boots.  Taylor, on the other hand, had on a black tank top and jeans, and her skin glistened slightly.  I envy people who seem able to create their own heat so readily.

“You are too kind,” I answered.  “No, lindy hop.  It’s like swing but more intense.”

“Oh, I would love to learn that!  But I really want to get back into ballet first.”

“I’m not a ballerina but I love the training,” I said.  “If you want, we could train sometime.  I know a place to get cheap studio space really near my house.  It’s in the center.”

Taylor opened her eyes wide and formed her red lipsticked mouth in to an “O” before saying, “Yeah, I’m into it!”

“We could just give each other class, or something.”

“I’m so out of shape,” she said.

“So we’ll whip you back into shape.  Hey and you know what else?  Do you like blues music?”

“I love blues music.  I totally want to learn to dance to it.”

“Oh my god, I’m going to teach you solo blues.  What do you think of that?  It’s really sexy.”

“Sweet.  Yeah, I wanna do it.”

“We can put on a show for the boys,” I added.

Taylor laughed delightedly.  “Awesome.  I wanna do the other dance though, too.  Lindy hop.”

“We can do all of it.  You have to help me with ballet, though.  I want to get better at learning steps, you know, the mental part.”

“Yeah, that’s easy for me.”

“Great, so we’ll trade.  Listen, give me your cell number before I forget, to make sure we set it up.”

We exchanged numbers and then I went to the bathroom again.  On my way through the big empty room I noticed Manny.  He was still talking with the two girls who had been there when we’d come in.  They were not talking at all.  His voice and gestures had the expansiveness of a drunk person’s.  His audience, on the other hand, looked halfway between blank and stunned.  I felt a little bad but I didn’t know what to do so I just kept on my way.

When I came back I resumed talking with Poppy and Taylor.  The boys were on their umpteenth beers, leaning against the window or the wall nearby, laughing.

“Hey baby.”  Taj came away from the group a little and walked over to me.  He slipped an arm around my waist.  In his other hand he had a beer.  “How are you?  What’s up?”

“I’m great.  Look, I found someone to dance with.”  I nodded and smiled at Taylor.

“Yeah?”  Taj’s eyes lit up.  I think he honestly was always interested in what I had to say when I was excited about something.

“I think we’ve met,” said Taylor as they kissed each other’s cheeks.  “You know, the whole English teacher thing.”

“Taylor and I are gonna dance together at Nacho’s.”

“Awesome,” Taj said.

“What’s going on over there with you guys?”

“Nothin’, just having fun.”

I was beginning to feel tired.  Something was wrong with me.  I didn’t know how to party.  I never did in high school.  In college I danced to my favorite bands and DJ’s on the broad hardwood floors of the eating clubs, in the company of my squash-player friend.  He couldn’t really dance, just ran back and forth shouting all the words.  He loved music and could really feel it. That was why he liked to go out with me.  He also loved me but I wasn’t really sure about him even though he was a loyal confidante and I thought he was beautiful.  It didn’t work out between us but we stayed friends.  In the meantime most everyone else who went out on Thursdays or Saturdays headed straight downstairs to the keg rooms, which I studiously avoided.  They were hot and smelled like bad beer and puke.

Then after college I worked on a farm and moved to Upstate New York and found lindy hop, and that was my party for all time.

Till now.  “OK, what’s left here?” I said to Poppy, going over to the long table.

“Lot of stuff,” she said approvingly.  “Except no more mojitos.”

“What’s this?”  I picked up a bottle of something with “rum” and “honey” in the name.  “Mmmm.  Let’s crack this open.”

Pretty soon I was feeling fine.  Jaden came over and I told her she should have some honey rum.  I might have detected a hint of a smile on her face but I couldn’t be sure.  Taylor was back and joined in the conversation with me and Poppy.  I was laughing.  I was warm!

The party ended suddenly, at around 5, everyone shuffling out at once.

“Look, no one even opened this wine,” Taj said, grabbing up a bottle of red.

“It might be a good wine, too,” I said, peering at the label.

“Take it,” said The Specialist.

“Somebody brought it here, expecting people to drink it, so,” I legitimized.

“Take the bottle opener too,” said The Specialist.

“That’s a nice one,” Poppy said dubiously.

“Yeah, it probably belongs to someone who lives here,” I added.

We got our coats and went back through the big room.  Manny was still there, talking with the girls.  Maybe they were different girls.

“We’re out,” Taj said, putting a somewhat forceful hand on Manny’s shoulder. “You comin’?”

“Oh, in a little bit,” Manny said, turning to smile at the girls again.

“Later,” Taj said.

“Bye, Manny.”  I just waved to him.

Once we were out on the street The Specialist said, “You guys wanna botellon?”  That meant hang out outside and drink.  The Chinese beer sellers were still everywhere on the street, plus we had that bottle of wine.

“I should have taken that bottle opener,” Taj said.

“Oh, whoops,” I said, feeling a little bad.  Then I put my hand on his arm and got closer to him as we walked with everyone else.  “I have a bottle opener at my place.”

“You do?”  His eyes lit up in the streetlights, just like they had before at the party.  “Perfect.”  He squeezed me to him.  I let my head rest on his shoulder just for a moment.  We were still walking.

Relationships fascinate me.  Each one grows and develops in a unique way and has its own distinct life, like an organism.  Generally I feel I have no knowledge when it comes to relationships, because each time I am in one it is completely different.  When I do the accounting at the end, I realize that the things I thought were important were not, and the things that I tried so hard to achieve were not a good focus for my efforts.  I like the song that goes, “I’m just a baby in this business of love,” because that’s how I always feel.

Yet I must keep trying!  In love I have been downright reckless.  I’ve experienced a lot of pain and gained a world of education.  Because I am naturally oriented to love, I use my mistakes and lessons in that realm to inform parts of my life in which I need more courage or training. I believe that practice and training are essential regardless of whence fulfillment finally arrives.  I keep this in mind when searching for agents to represent me in my literary work.  I know deep in my heart that my agent will find me, very possibly through some completely unexpected event or referral, yet I don’t passively wait to be found.  I do up my queries and send them out, carefully, one after another.

Hindsight gives events a different cast, as we all know.  All the same it can be fun to look back and relive, for example, the moment you thought you might love someone.

Taj took me hiking early in December.  I arrived at his house at the appointed time, 8:30 on a Saturday morning.  We made sandwiches in the kitchen while listening to Lightning Hopkins.  Then we got a coffee at Oro down the street and hopped on the metro to get the bus.

We had a longer wait than we’d thought, and so we sat on a metal bench inside the relatively clean, wide, sparsely populated corridor of the bus station.  In Madrid, hardly anyone is about before 5pm on a weekend day.

Taj leaned his head on my shoulder, his head with all the curliness.  His hair is medium brown, not dark or light.  There is also a soft light to his eyes, his nose is not pointy, and he is lucky enough to possess an unbelievable mouth, gorgeous and curvy.

Almost six months before I when writing exactly what I wanted in a relationship and in a boyfriend, I had trouble when it came to physical appearance.  I asked my friend, a self-proclaimed expert in dream fulfillment, what I should do about this problem since I could potentially be attracted to all sorts of different types - yet at the same time physical attraction has been very elusive for me and seems to depend completely on the particulars of the interpersonal interaction.  In other words, if I sleep with a guy I have to be in love with him first.  However my expert friend said I had to be specific about appearance because one must visualize what one wants and feel what it’s like to have it.  Apparently, that’s how the universe knows exactly what to deliver.

Well, alright, I’ll just have fun with it, I thought.  Hey, what about all those boys walking around with their hair gelled stiff, a lot of them with faux-hawks.  Yes, it is very attractive and fashionable but I am over it.  My bf will not have pointy hair.  Everything soft.

I chose an actor, too, at my friend’s encouragement.  More accurately, I chose a character:  Chuck Bass on Gossip Girl, a brilliant guy, great at leveraging his connections, yet doesn’t worry about what anyone else thinks about him.  He gets things done and people get out of his way.  On the show this character is also manipulative, so I specifically wrote in my request to the universe that I did not want a manipulative boyfriend; I was just using this particular character as a model.

And here was the one I asked for, in my arms.  For after he had lain his head on my shoulder I put my arms around him.  He’d closed his eyes and so I looked down at our backpacks on the floor every now and then; in Madrid there is hardly any street violence but pickpocketing is rampant.

Taj was my Chuck Bass: intelligent, relaxed, sought-after but never beholden, confrontational when necessary in order to get something done, like making his roommates clean the house with him.  Sounds like a silly thing but you should see him in action.  If Taj wants something he is going to get it.  Like me.

Months later I happened to remark, “Isn’t it lucky you happened to walk into the computer room that day I was skipping class and you sat down next to me?”

He said, “I noticed you before that, a couple of times.  I was like, that girl is hot, I have to find out who she is.”

“So you sat next to me that day on purpose?  I had no idea.”  Somehow the fact that he had not even mentioned this until we were already dating for quite some time made it even more romantic.

But how had he “gotten” me?  It didn’t have anything to do with the outward characteristics I happened to ask for in my letter to the universe.  For four months after that day we met I barely even saw Taj.  I had no idea we would start dating.

First he sat next to me and asked me, not how long had I been living in Spain, but whether I liked blues music.  Later, he gave me what I wanted, and he knew what this was simply by paying attention.  He listened to me and was infinitely curious about me and never tried to change me.  He was comfortable with all my illogical contradictions.  He was patient.  He was good to me.  Guys, do you know how great it makes a woman feel when you say you are going to take her somewhere?  Or even better when you say there’s a place you are going to take her that she will love and it is a surprise?  Try it if you haven’t in a while.  Then let me know how it goes.  I want to know.  And by the way you don’t have to have a lot of money to do this, or even any money.  One of the best surprises was a walk to Templo de Devod, the Egyptian temple in Madrid, which is high on a hill and from which you can see an amazing sunset over the city.  Free show.

Hiking was not free, but it cost maybe 10 Euros all told.  And today I am remembering that Saturday morning in the bus station, my about-to-be boyfriend resting quietly in my arms.  I remember knowing that something very strong and sweet was beginning, developing.

To be continued.

Thank you! Many of you were so kind to me with your comments here and on Facebook concerning the last post, “Officially in Love.”  I decided to re-post Taj’s and my first date, which occurred on my birthday last year.  It’s especially timely since the band described is currently back in town and playing at Clamores all weekend.

Bass drum and rim shots alone chanted the opening to a sultry blues.  Think Ray Charles or B.B. King at their slowest and heaviest, the kind of stuff that pins you hard into your chair and makes you close your eyes as you lean back and go, “Mm.”  Then your bones start to become liquid, and you want to dance with someone if you know how to dance a slow blues, or you pretend you are the singer if you don’t know how to sing, for the vocals are beginning in a deceptively quiet tone over a single rhythm chord, a lazy bent-note guitar melody.  The bassist caresses those thick strings at just the right time, and deep vibrations undergird a sudden saxophone flourish, rhythm chord, and gilded electric motif.  Nothing is extra.  Minimalist sound conjures a whole heavy emotion - the blues - and all the while the drums tick quietly under everything.

But then Taj was leaning toward me:  “I really like this.  I can feel it.”

I asked Taj if he could hear the meter.  He nodded slightly.

The frontman was singing about dirty dishes, how there were too many of them in the sink for just one girl.

Neither the drummer nor the bassist soloed on this tune - their spare solidity necessary throughout - but the instruments up front went to town.  Lou Marini slowly spun a glorious solo, plaintive notes building to impassioned wails.

The notes tripped along almost unpredictably, sometimes stretching out and other times cutting off, weaving in and out of the rhythm section’s structure to create that energized, relaxed feeling we call in the pocket.

Then it was the electric guitarist’s turn.  He began by hitting pedals with his feet and working the whammy bar to create sounds that alternately whooshed and screamed.  Cheap tricks, I thought.  This tall, shaggy-bald demon-eyed dude was a nut case.  His tricky guitar work greatly embellished the simple blues structure.  But phrase after phrase his solo became louder, faster, more and more ridiculously complicated.  Now when he threw in distortion it only heightened the powerful effect.  Another phrase began.  I stared momentarily at Taj, open-mouthed: was this guy really still soloing, at such an intense pitch?  Was he on coke?

Now he regaled us one-handed, using the neck of the guitar only.  The other hand was free to play with the whammy bar.  Clear, crisp, obnoxious melodies sounded, followed by loud bar chords.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” remarked Taj.

“Me neither,” I shouted back.

The nutty guitarist’s antics were far from finished.  Before our eyes, he jumped off the stage and began to slowly move among the tables, dragging wire, playing all the while.  He opened his eyes wide at a female audience member and made that Eddie Van Halen sound on the guitar that’s like whistling at a pretty girl.  Then as he waded farther into the audience, we saw Lou follow suit, coming down from the stage, playing sensible saxophone fills to complement the whacky guitar.  By now, though, our friendly neighborhood crazy musician had calmed his playing to a few well-placed notes per measure because he had sat down with a group of six just beyond Taj’s and my table.  After scraping and fidgeting his chair to free the cord to which his guitar was attached, the dude began talking and joking with his newfound tablemates.

The entire audience was eating this up.  Lou sat down too, with some other people across the club, and the two players traded measures as people screamed and cheered.

At length the errant instrumentalists regained the stage, traveling slowly back, smiling and flirting and responding to the mad adulation provided by the spectators, never stopping the music.  The frontman of course asked us to applaud for their special guest Lou Marini, and for the one and only, the unequalled in all of Spain, “Franciso Simon!”

After the show ended Taj said, “Do you want to go get a beer?”

“Sure,” I answered.  I have always loved going out after going out.  Anyway, we had been discussing beer earlier, the Belgian variety, and Taj had said he knew a good place nearby.  In fact it was on the corner, a stone’s throw from the club.

I pulled on the dull bronze knob set in a wooden door frame of peeling black paint.  Inside, strings of soft red lights lent a pleasing visual counterpoint to the hushed old-school piano blues on the speakers.  “I like this place; it’s so different from the typical Spanish bars,” Taj said as we claimed our stools.  The bar was pretty much empty.  Candlelight glowed on nearby little round black tables stuck in the corners.  “It’s not all metal and brightly lit,” he continued.

“No noisy flashing lottery machines either,” I added.  “I hate those.”

Taj’s favorite beer was the Rochefort 8 (not 6 or 10, and I have no idea why there are no odd numbers).  I tried to remember what I’d had with Alexander and Robert recently; I’d liked Leffe Rouge best but this place didn’t have it so I chose Chimay Azul.  The usual dish of peanuts, cornnuts and pork rinds appeared with our drinks.

“I kind of can’t believe that show,” I said.  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a better blues show and that’s saying a lot.”

“It was pretty amazing,” Taj agreed.  “My student who told me about it, he’s pretty cool.  He’s the only student I have that likes good music, not Iron Maiden.”

“Isn’t that hilarious how there’s a cult of Iron Maiden here in Spain?”

“I figured the show would be good but it went way beyond my expectations.  What were you telling me before, about the meter?”

“Oh,” I said, “the six-eight.  It’s a common meter in blues, especially slow blues.  Some of my favorite songs have it, like Ray Charles’s ‘Drown in My Own Tears’ and Aretha Franklin’s ‘Dr. Feelgood.’ Every measure has six beats.  The first and fourth are emphasized, so it goes one two three four five six.”

“You know a lot about music.  I wish I did.”

“Well, stick with me and I’ll tell you lots of stuff about music.”  I took a sip of my Chimay and put it down.

“OK.”

I would be friends with Taj.  By now it was clear I liked hanging out with him.  Also I was reasonably confident he felt the same, hence the “Stick with me” comment.  Before he’d made me kind of nervous with his intense yet nonchalant charm but now things were relaxed.  We both appreciated blues and other kinds of good music.  He never once interrupted me, always seemed to listen to what I had to say.  I also had the feeling that if I felt like sitting quietly for a while he wouldn’t mind.  A good quality in a friend.  Probably he would never give me a hard time if I did something he hadn’t expected. I seem constantly to be surprising people.  They want to know why I am leaving a party so early, or on a different occasion why I am showing up so late, or how I could possibly be so crazy to go running every day, what I am eating, what type of food is that exactly, am I vegetarian, why do I live in Madrid, doesn’t Paris have a better lindy hop scene, why haven’t I started one here yet, why do I like to hear people talk about math if I’m a dancer, that’s really weird, and why I don’t like musical theater, but musical theater has dancing in it!

“Want to try it?” Taj asked me, about his beer.

“It’s better than mine,” I pronounced, after a sip.  “Here, tell me what you think.”

“Yup.  Mine’s better.  That’s still good though.”

“I love the music they play in here.  I think this is Oscar Peterson.”

“Yeah?”

“You can tell by the ripply chords.  When I lived in Boston, sometimes I used to go to this fancy restaurant on Sunday nights just to hear this guy.  His name is Paul Broadnax. He’s 80 years old and awesome.  Plays piano like Oscar Peterson, sings like Joe Williams.  Joe Williams is my favorite male singer of all time.”

“I don’t think I know him.”

“I’ll have to give you some of the more old-school blues music.  You’d like it.  I have to admit, I don’t miss too much about the US but one thing I do miss is being able to dance to music like this.”

“I still want to learn how to dance to blues.  I think it would be awesome.”

That was the second time he’d said it unprompted so I took a leap and believed him.  “OK, I’ll teach you.  Tomorrow, if you want.”

“OK.”

“Is there anything you miss about the US?”

“I miss going fishing.”

“Really.”

“It’s the one thing I could do, all day, every day, and never get tired of it.  I could fish in Spain, but -” he sighed.  “Well, not in Madrid.  And it’s not the same as it is in Florida.”

“What do you like so much about it?”

“Being outside, in nature.  Seeing what nature is doing, how it affects everything.  A lot of things affect fishing:  the weather, the wind, the phase of the moon -”

“I never thought of that; none of that ever occurred to me.”

“Well, I think most people don’t think about it.  When you’re just out there, on the boat, some beers….” he smiled.  “I’ve had to learn how to think like a fish.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Where they’re going to be, what’s going to make them bite.  You can’t rush them. Sometimes,” he shrugged, “you just don’t get anything, but sometimes it’s like they’re biting every second.  I don’t always keep them.  Usually I throw them back.”

“Oh,” I said.  “You mean you don’t eat them?”

“Sometimes.  It depends.”

The bar gal caught my attention.  “Chicos,” she was saying, as she wiped down the bar.  “Estamos cerrados.”

“What time is it?” I said.

“Two,” said Taj.

“Oh yeah, it’s Sunday, so they are closing early.”

The gal brought our check and Taj said to me, “I’ll buy your beer.  It’s your birthday.”

I slid off my stool and Taj stood aside to let me get to the door first.  It took me a long moment to figure out which way the knob turned and whether to pull or push the door.  Charitably, and to my great relief,  Taj said nothing at all.

We got out onto the main road, having resumed chatting.  It was dark and misty and quiet, even the cinema neon shut off. I hadn’t been paying attention to where we were exactly. “Um, I think my place is over there.”  I pointed down the hill.

“Mine’s that way.”  He indicated the opposite direction, coming to a dead stop.  “Well.  I had a really good time tonight.”

“Me too.  It was awesome.  Thanks.”

When he kissed me on the cheeks I noticed how warm he was.  Not fair, why are boys always so warm?

OK, where was I exactly?  I wobbled toward San Bernardo Glorieta.  A glorieta is like a rotary, except usually much more beautiful, with a fountain and plants.  I had to cross it and to make sure I didn’t get run over.  Not getting run over would be a plus.  Apparently I was still drunk.  So, let’s see, San Bernardo all the way to where it ends at Callao metro, then cross Gran Via and put El Corte Inglés on my left, that department store to end all department stores.  Then Sol and then.  Easy.

It’s Thursday, January 28th, 5:20 in the afternoon.  I’m having a ribera and a pintxo at the bar across the Castellana from the Gregorio Marañon metro stop.  I still have two classes today, one with the four-year-old and one with the friendly Spanglish translation-addicted IBM suit, but the party has already started.  I’m meeting Taj at my house at 9:30.  We will have leftovers and go hear blues.  God I can’t wait to see him.  I can’t wait to watch him put his hand-rolled cigarette to his lips and then tip his head back to exhale the smoke.  I can’t wait to see the light in his eyes, gray green brown, looking at me and not leaving my face.  He inspires me to clean the slate, make myself new again.

The past is for education and entertainment.  Chronological age is next to meaningless.

Last night his forehead touched mine as I stood between his knees; he was seated on a bar stool, his back to a corner in the wall.  We have all the time in the world.  I stop my thought chatter.  I let him kiss me.  The time passes, and we have nothing but time.  He asks me questions.  He asks me why he has won the competition to be my guy.  I try to explain it but I don’t try too hard.  Some of it is because of what he didn’t do, doesn’t do.  He doesn’t classify me.  He doesn’t reduce me to facts and figures: how long? where exactly? when? how much? None of that.  He doesn’t offer help with problems, real or perceived, unless I want help.  If I am distressed he looks at me with bottomless eyes and says, “Baby.”  He expresses his ideas and knows the limits of mere words.  His integrity is apparent in his every statement, every movement. He gives me time, space, love, and attention all in great abundance.  He wants me.  He wants me to love him.  He wants to buy my drinks.  He loves my presents.  He takes me places.  He’s quiet and listens to me.  He tells me about his most fantastic dreams.  He tells me the truth.  He sits on the bar stool with his forehead to mine and then he kisses me, and kisses me and kisses me.

I’m at a student’s apartment right now and he has put on a Spotify playlist which exemplifies exactly what I need to avoid.  The songs speak of thwarted dreams, helplessness.  Escape velocity!  Run fast enough to get away from Pearl Jam’s “Daughter.”  I need This Is Boombox instead.  Maybe Parov Stelar.

My student tells me that the music we are listening to is Cat Power.  Before that, M-83.  Daughters of Pearl Jam’s “Daughter.”  The grunge generation grown up and still defeated, goldfish swimming in endless, beautifully hypnotic circles.  It’s delicious, seductive; offers relaxation and anesthesia.  Opium!  Musical opium!  I’m in a den of musical opium and I need escape velocity.  Get me out of here.

The internet connection just flaked and since Spotify is internet-streaming, I am instantly freed from the musical miasma!  Hallelujah.

Taj and I went to going-away drinks for Raina at Lamiak a couple of weeks ago.  A stringy Spanish guy sidled up to me while Taj was talking with Joe.  The Spanish guy said he was from Granada.

“We just got back from a vacation there,” I said, pointing to Taj and back at me.

“That’s your boyfriend?” asked the Spaniard.

“Yes,” I smiled.

“Uh-oh.”

“Do you like Jeff Buckley?” the Spaniard asked.

“Yes.  I mean, I used to.  I mean, his songs are so beautiful and sad.”

“How about Fiona Apple?” he asked next.

I didn’t say anything but looked at him in astonishment.  Somehow he had named my two favorite singers.  Now former favorite singers.

“I’d better go,” he said.  He removed himself, thankfully, from my space.

A few minutes later I was leaning on Taj while chatting with a gorgeous gay Italian physicist who is a good friend of Willow’s.  Raina started talking to the physicist.  I whispered to Taj, “Let’s go get another drink after this,” and he suggested Jazz Bar, where I would wind up kissing him and tracing my fingers down his neck.  I love the way he tips back his curly head and shudders slightly when I do that.

For the moment, though, the physicist was trying to take a picture of Raina.  Taj and I got on either side of her.  “Sensual! Sensual!” cried the physicist, taking his cue from me as I inched my left knee across my right and closer to Raina.

So somewhere, probably on Facebook, there is a photo of me and Taj on either side of Raina, our tongues out, as if about to lick her ears, while she makes a wide-eyed, teeth-bearing expression as if receiving electric shock.

I am changing.  I want to purge my whole iPod of Radiohead, Fiona Apple, Jeff Buckley, Toad The Wet Sprocket, Amy Winehouse, Hot Hot Heat, anything plaintive, whether hard or soft.  I’ll listen instead to Ozomatli, Jay Z, Mark Ronson.  I’ll add other musicians that sing about doing stuff, rather than commenting, complaining, and exposing their inner churning.  I am molting. Hear me roar.

In dreams the body can communicate with the mind.  Every once in a while, I hear a loud voice as I am waking up.  “You need to stay here,” it said, almost deafeningly, as I woke up in the middle of the night on July 8, 2009.  I had been thinking of leaving.  More money teaching English in Hong Kong.  The voice startled me.  I thought, well, it’s true, the dancers need me.

That wasn’t the reason.

Late January
“Oh, Liz,” Taj said.

“Darling,” I said, melting into him.

“You just fit perfectly in my arms,” he said.

“It’s where I belong.”

I do not take for granted that he wants no other girl but me.  He could have a lot of other girls.

“I listened to this song like five times today,” I said, of Derek Trucks’ version of “Soul Shine.”

“Yeah?”

“While I was walking to and from my gig at Banco de España.  I figured out the best way to walk there.  Only takes 15 minutes.”

“Now you know what moonshine tastes like.  I still have that little bit for you, that Eric’s dad brought.”

“You do?”  I had been wondering about it.  “I want to go over and get it.  I want some right now.”

“Me too.”

Then for some reason I was talking about how I disliked it when people in Boston asked me the exact differences between different types of swing dances.  At the height of my excitement Taj grabbed me and kissed me, and then the last thing I cared about was my past.

I woke up laughing in the pitch dark, Taj’s arms around me.  He said, “I’m gonna have to restrain you, woman,” which I thought was hilarious.

“I am having the funniest dreams,” I giggled.

“You’re dreaming? Me too.  I just had the strangest dream.  I wrote it down.  I’ll read it to you tomorrow.”

“In my dream it was four o’clock.”

“It is four o’clock,” Taj said.

“In my dream -” I paused, laughter bubbling up - “someone was saying, ‘Good luck bleaching the dog!’  And before that it was, ‘How can you convert amperes to ohms with just a ham sandwich?’”

“What?” Taj laughed too.

“I think ohms have to do with how much energy it takes for a current to go through something - and amperes measures how much energy is in a current - no, that doesn’t sound right.  Anyway it has to do with electricity.”

“Then what happened?”

“Then I woke up and started laughing.  But you know the other night there was a voice in my head.”  I giggled again.

“Yeah?  What did it say?”

“‘Of all the places there are to be in the world, the place I most want to be is in your arms.’  In your arms, Taj.  It’s true.”