Barcelona: Razz MaTazz, Spanish Girls, Catalyan Girls

We're going out tonight, no stopping us.  To Razz MaTazz on free Wednesdays.  It can't go wrong save for having to find our way off the metro.  Past tall, gated parks, up narrow Catalyan streets to a warehouse-looking place near the light-rail.  We didn't take it there, but we'd take it back most definitely.  There's a line behind red velvet rope.  It moves fast though, as the bouncers shoo us in.  And no wonder because when we get inside, the place is huge, and still not full, but far from empty.  Give that two hours.  The bar's packed so that one can't take another step without scooting by someone.  There was more air in the middle on the dancefloor because there the ceiling's vaulted up past a second-story ringed balcony, and the spirit can dance wild because friends are around.  The floor stays cool as the heat rises.  Maybe I think the girls dancing on the backings of couches are hotter than we may be, and no matter what we say, the ones on the floor stop dancing with us when it's in English, not Spanish.  Even the pair of young drunk vixens who dance with us only for a little, but stuck around to grind hard on each other and make out and kiss Spanish boys that grabbed them.  It was okay though.  


We were drunk and they were playing the Strokes, which dances well on a beer drunk such as this one.  Four boys in a Spanish night club dancing west-coast American, with goofy moves and laughing faces.  And before we leave we're all sweating and empty handed and the sun squints our eyes on the outside and I secretly wish Irene had come to dance with us,  even if for no other reason than to have her there.  But also, of course, there was that Catalyan beauty whose fire was very much alive in her brown eyes and her young body of a woman.  And every time she talked and asked a question with that accent and the tilt of her brown curls and high soft cheekbones, at those times I wanted to step closer and closer to her to hear it clearly as she decides to talk quieter.  Maybe to lure me in.  I wish.  I love that Catalyan girl.  I love her because she's pretty and she likes to watch old movies more than I do.  And she's casually European.  Reluctantly Spanish.  But it's all relative, she wasn't there.