“Tell me when will you be mine? Tell me cuando, cuando, cuando! We can share our love divine; please don’t make me wait again! A’hWhen will you say yes to me?”
I am wandering round our piso warbling tunelessly in the style of Engelbert Humperdinck. Yes I could act my age and stick on some Bruno Mars and Taylor Swift or whatever the young ‘uns have on them there eyepods. But when it comes to love songs I prefer the old smoothies like Sinatra and Tony Bennett who always manage to hide away a note of sadness in their songs, even the ones where a dame hasn’t just broken their hearts.
Yes of course it’s Valentine’s Day! In an unusual and uncharacteristic turn of events the author hopes that if you have someone they’re a good someone, if you want someone God willing you find someone and if you don’t want someone then get here with cocktails and a disco ball because (even though I hide the fact I’m a hopelessly sentimental old romantic of the second category) you’ll be the most especial fun to get drunk and play Twister with!
The readership might muse why I have chosen to dedicate a blog to a holiday despite notable lack of consistent practice of the like beforehand which would indicate custom (sorry, International Law slipped in there) and alleviate the strangeness. But put down that copy of Freud, you’ll go blind, and dejame explicarlo.
Before I left for Madrid, after exclamations of how warm it would be (minus 3 wind-chill atm given the north easterly wind which has just come from frolicking about in frozen Ukraine) how laid back life would be (to the point of never ever getting anything sorted because “No pasa nada, why are you so stressed? Has the electric done anything more than spark? No? You see! It’ll be fine; I’ll just keep coming and going because I forget bits of my equipment!”) and how cheap the alcohol would be (actually no complaint there, we drink a €4 bottle on very special occasions, and splash out on €5 rum) the most common exclamation any Iberian bound Erasmus hears is “Oh you’ll have to watch out for those gorgeous Spanish men/ladies.”
Now, I’m no gonnae lie hens, the vast majority of the population is easy on the eye. Typical dark skin, doe eyes, the whole shebang. I must note there are an alarming number of ginger-haired persons who I run to embrace as brothers before they speak and come out with Spanish so accented and fluent and an address in Madrid that am forced to muse on exactly how many Irish stag parties and lads holidays make their way to Shagaluf, the number who get lucky with the ladies of Spain and the statistical likelihood of offspring resulting from such a drunken encounter. If this keeps up the whole Spanish genetic code could drastically change, populating the country with pale, freckly children who begin to trace family trees in confusion! But I digress.
You’ve already read what the Spanish think of us...cast your mind back to previous mentionings of Blanquita, Blanquita and the occasional Guapa. It is however how the Spanish see themselves which is much more interesting.
Up and down this entire country people are not backward about coming forward. PDA’s are everywhere; a couple of Spaniards, hands lost in the back pocket of one another’s jeans, whispering sweet nothings between pecks on cheeks and lips. This is so common that on one of my own forays into the mysterious world of Latino romance I found out they had never heard of a term for public displays of affection nor did they associate any neither shame nor self consciousness with the notion. I realise this is an issue on which we are all divided and I myself vacillate between smiling at a young couple holding hands and biting my tongue on the Metro to prevent informing an older couple that I may not object to seeing it, but I do object to hearing it and most especially to tightening my death grip on the rails least the carriage should sway and I inadvertently join in on it.
The problem with the Latin attitude to sex and romance is that as well as this public side there is an undercurrent which tells them it is fun because it is in some way (for such a Catholic country) naughty and wrong. There can be a prevailing immaturity to sex which prevents a couple being partners. Me Tarzan, you Jane. I Man, you Woman. Daddy like, etc, etc. You find the gender difference in strange ways like when the ladies get into clubs for free, holding open doors is a sacred duty and there is the ever present tendency for the Spanish man to place a guiding hand on the small of “his” woman’s back and usher her all the time. This annoyed the holy hell out of me...
The confidence so many Spaniards exude is amazing and at times absolutely hilarious. A favourite move on the dance flo’ is for the young gentleman to sort of go down slightly on his haunches dancing in front of the senorita and then wiggle his shoulders with arms outspread. It sort of looks like he’s worshipping her bellybutton. As well as being at times confused with why this attention is directed at me, I must struggle to keep a straight face for to laugh at this ridiculous peacock display from above would be akin to wounding the young man. A Spaniards pride is his castle.
Therein lies the rub Hamlet, because all this unnecessary focus on “sexing yo’ right up mama” is actually mind numbingly boring after a while. You can see the look in the Erasmus ladies eyes, “This is all very lovely Pedro but I’ve just realised I have not had a laugh all evening. I’ve had to content myself with a polite smile while you try to look down my top and rain dance my navel.” In the slightly skewed words of the Black Eyed Peas “Where is the fun?”
Sin embargo and however I am now absolutely sure that there are other sorts of “here for one night only” fun, not necessarily related to the often wild criminal behaviour justified as the Craic, which the Spaniards with their “more is more” attitude would be perfectly placed to indulge in and would certainly prove my theories on Benidorm and its environs. At least for the gentlemen. Ladies you will have to first get over Pedro’s disbelieving indignation that you have not swooned in a state of overwhelmed stimulation the second he takes his top off.
There is however some genuine romance hidden amid the snake hips and smoky Spanish eyes. Whilst wandering the streets you often come across an elderly couple, hands held tightly against the cold or a world that has become strange. Spanish mamas and papas are jointly devoted to their families and share smiles over the cuteness/cheekiness of their children, something I noticed while picking up friends at the airport. A tall Spanish lady winked at a newly arrived businessman as his twins raced up to say hello in clearly new dresses and black patterned shoes. Suitably warned by his mujer to take notice of these facts he swung his arms wide and cried;
“Ay, mira las guapas que sois!” My God, look at how beautiful you are!
This paternal conspiracy and complete sharing of lives must be romance, or what else be?
But enough of all that, it is a beautiful sunny Spanish morning, the flatties of Santa Engracia art decided to go to a gorgeous Moroccan restaurant which looks as authentic as lamb tagine and ever hopeful sap that I am I am conjuring visions of meeting my future husband on our Truth-or-Dare pub crawl. That’s a lie; I’ve gone way past meeting the poor guy and am now giving him a lovable friend to do the sentimental speech at our wedding. You’ve all been invited and in my munificence I have arranged a free bar. Daydreams, y u no reality?
xo
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