The first a Spaniard. Madrid based. An encounter forged out of sheer chance.
I’m led to her by a newfound Brazilian companion, that itself a chance encounter. He’d mistaken me for a friend earlier in the evening. Soon we’d exchanged basic info over a whiskey-red bull (his choice) and we began the trek of scouting about together.
At one point we are lost to each other. Several dozen songs blur into one another before we meet again. We exchange score cards. Nothing on either end. He scans the room for less than 10 seconds. “There lets go talk to them.
Introductions are slurred out, smiles formed and somewhere in there the ice shattered. I manage to impress her by dragging her to the a halfway conclusion I’m not just a dullard gringo with an above B level knowledge of Spanish.
Talk of the indignados. Their ever looming shadow in the undercurrent of all things political in Spain. She shares a few snippets of friends who’ve tasted tear gas and blood. I sympathize mentioning my own anecdotes of such events on my side of the universe. Again an impression elevated that casts me ahead of the pack of American gringos sniffing after her on a weekly basis.
Red dress. That much remains clear. A constant shifting between Spanish and English. “We can each practice with each other” I say (in which language I say that in is still not clear to me). Almodovar comes up…as does the Guernica experience that I’d been fortunate enough to have earlier in the day. Careers are shuffled about and nodded to. My sense is that this is a rare outing for her. The cover charge alone guarantees that.
We shuffle from the security of the lounge at the top of this seven story palace to the bowels where the unspoken commitment will be met (i.e. the dancefloor). Another drink en route for each of us. She stumbles, I prop her up.
At the pit, she grabs my hands and places them above her. Sliding them over her waist. Eyes locked on each other. As we move in closer to each other, I feel her heart beating almost as quickly as my own. I pull in close to her face. Danza Kuduro by Don Omar…images from that oh so naughty guilty pleasure of mine, Fast Five from whence I first heard this song blare into view…I shift her about, dancing wildly, confidently as if to indicate that this is normal for me. Our lips drain the awkwardness from each other until the sun comes up and three hours later I’m en route to Barcelona.