Maybe it's her brown curly locks or her brown piercing eyes or her sharp chin or her slender neck. Or maybe it's her magnificent breasts. Maybe, because my word they're a alluring pair, they are. And she held them with such a back arch that implied the acutest back dimples just above her tailbone. Maybe that's it, but that's nothing new. It's the way she speaks to us that's entirely foreign, but strangely familiar and intriguing. The way she chooses her words and the inflections she puts on them. It's the way she lisps her tongue between her teeth ever so lightly on the s's. Like flint-rock falling by dry summer brush, it is. It lights a fire inside me. Never have I heard a Spanish accent so sensual and appealing. It's not like a Mexican accent or anything Latin. To me, it's much more beautiful, and it's not just the vessel. Not the ship, but the wind in the sails that stokes the flames. Flames that are somewhat extinguished when she brings us in to meet her parents and tells us she's seventeen.
"Seventeen?!" exclaims Max. "I was thinking my age; twenty-two or twenty-three by the look of you. You European girls, you get me every time!"
"Maybe I'm just so much more mature," Irene says with a pursed smile. Maybe. And in a lot of ways, maybe so. She is exquisite. And her parent's are the loveliest things. "My mother wants to improve her English," she says as she introduces us. "So don't feel obliged to speak Spanish. Just speak English, she loves it." Whew. That's dandy because I don't know a lick of Spanish. And Mike, Max, and Grant's Spanish is just a little bit better than my French,. which still isn't very good at all.
Irene's mother greets us as just the happiest mother would, full of bubbly enthusiasm and smiles and rather well-spoken English. Here and there she finds pause on something she can't translate and the game turns to word-guessing Yahtzee. She's instantly lovable and when she ask, we tell her our stories, of what we've done and where we've been and the precious diamonds in between, and she hangs to every word, only breaking to make some night-time tea for us all. So animated she is at our every tremendous fall and triumph, face alight or filled with ghastly awe and she already never wants us to leave. We tell her we never want to leave either, and as Irene shows us to the two spare rooms and introduces us to the kitty named Baby and the gecko and the one month old puppy, I know a part of me feels this legitimate because that part is that part we know of ourselves the least. The restless soul, not always restless though because as my eyes close in yet another bed that is not my own, a filling warmth soothes comfort to the core, and I can't help by wonder how we're managing so swell-ly and with such championing hospitality.
[time to sell shit]
We wake up late the next morning and Irene 's already gone off to work. She's a camp counselor of sorts and she works at the beach and she works a lot. It's a lazy day (I think we're afforded one) and by the time we're out of the house it's way past noon. Irene's mother takes us for a leisurely stroll through San Cugat, past the old stone monastery and down the skinny stone shop streets. She points out her favorite sandwich place and her favorite sausage place and her favorite bakery. She tells us a lot of the shops are closed right now for siesta and she goes no, stretching the bounds of her English and she's having a ball. She loves us like a mother would and looks upon us with warm eyes squinted from always smiling. When we tell her our plans for making dinner, she's overjoyed. The look on her face says she's bouncing up and down and clapping her hands, but she isn't. She's too composed for that as she says she'll show us how to make some authentic Catalan food tonight and we can make dinner tomorrow. Why that sounds just grand. We can hold off the inevitable chicken pasta dinner for another night.
[time to bike]
Irene's back from the beach before dinner and joins in on the preparation festivities. Her mother's got us working like line cooks at the table and we love it. Grant slices tomatoes in half. Max and I squeeze and rub the tomato halves over slices of toasted bread, and Mike adds olive oil and salt and pepper as a final touch, just like she showed us. In the meantime the two girls, Irene's mother and her offspring are in the kitchen cooking up other Catalan entrees.
"It's not ready yet!" Irene would shout at us, smiling, when we'd sneak in for a peak, and she'd shoo us out to the living room to watch Spanish action movies with her father. The production value is reminiscent of old 90's action flicks back in the States staring Chuck Norris or Sylvester Stallone or some other middle-aged meat-head. The dialogue's lost on us though, which isn't necessarily a bad thing and only adds to the intrigue of a plot-line impossible to fathom. A stand-off on a bridge in the jungle. Serious faces. Guns. Betrayal. Explosions. A prisoner exchange gone horribly wrong. It's all fascinating. Like when we're high back home and accidentally flip to Telemundo or Univision. Usually I flip right by. Unless I'm high, in which case, it's not necessarily easy to be hasty on the channel changer. I get sucked in every now and again, especially when I'm not trying to watch anything in particular, and it's always fascinating.
More fascinating still is the meal prepared by the mother daughter duo and set before us presently at the table. Irene's mother goes on explaining the two dishes, the spicy tomato soup and the queer pan-sized potato omelet-looking thing. "This is a traditional Catalan dinner," she says to us excitedly. "Oh! And look at all the, em, the tomato bread you made!"
The plate of bread slices is double stacked about a foot high. We laugh, "maybe we overdid it a little with the tomatoes."
"Nonsense!" she says. "Let's eat!" And we all take our seats and dig in.
"Oh my goodness," says I. "Whatever this egg and potato thing is, it's delicious. What's it called again?"
"Tortilla de patatas" says Irene.
"And the bread, what's that called? I love it."
"Pa amb tomà quet," she says, and we all take turns trying to say it with the right accent.
"Well, it's amazing, all of it," chimes Grant. "Thank you." Max and Mike nod, chewing feverishly in agreement.
The talk turns from food to culture, and Irene's father joins in, asking us questions about our lives in California, and what we do and how we go about doing it. He's enraptured by our lifestyle. He scoffs at the amount of money we shell out for public school. They all do. "But this is crazy," says Irene. "School should be available to everyone, I think, not just those who can afford it. I only have to pay for books really when I go to university next year. And with tuition it's only maybe two thousand euros a year. How much do you pay?"
"Ugh. Like twelve grand," I tell her.
"What is this grand?"
"Thousand. Twelve thousand a year just about."
"Crazy! But that is so much for education!" Irene's whole family is in disbelief.
"You're telling me," says Mike, "I still have a couple more classes next semester before I finish."
"Ouch."
"And you like Obama? You voted for him?" pries Irene's father.
"I did," I say.
"So did I. I think we all did."
Papa looks at us wisely. "He seems to be a good man, Obama. Much better than Bush, whew! What an idiot!" That taboo about no politics at the dinner table is maybe just an American thing, I suppose, because we talk at length. About everything from politics to economy, especially after they learn Mike and I were Business Economics majors back at Santa Cruz. So refreshing it is to have an articulate discussion that doesn't degrade into anger and ruffled feathers. Maybe it's a Spanish thing to keep one's composure through intelligent talk. So we tell them everything we can about life in the States, about the great differences between regions, the reason we tell everyone we're from California, not the US. "Europeans don't like Americans," I say. "But everyone likes you if you're from California."
"That's because California is cooler," says Irene.
"True. And most Americans kind of suck, generally anyways. It's not particularly hard to figure why our moniker's so negative. As a nation we're proud, stupid, greedy, and mostly close-minded. If someone doesn't agree with our ideas, we think they're stupid. We only speak English, and we think your stupid if you're English isn't as good as ours, even in foreign countries where we don't know the language. "
"Yes, but you guys are not like this."
"I certainly hope not," Grant slides in between spoonfuls of tomato soup.
"Dude, dip the bread in there. It's epic." And he does.
Mama and Papa take turns telling us about life in Catalonia. Papa works at a prison and Mama keeps the house. When we ask them if they were excited about Spain's World Cup win, they tell us of the deep hatred between Spain and Catalonia. It's mixed feelings because many of the players for the national team play for FC Barca. Most people living in Barcelona are Catalan they say, and long ago there was a war and Spain conquered Catalonia, and Barcelona has despised it's Spanish rule ever since. The language is even different, and that's why many signs in the city have Catalan translations, along with the English ones. It's a culture that may be slipping, but refuses to be forgotten. Irene's family is one that keeps it alive, and through their hospitality and warmth they pass it on to us. We feel like family now. And yeah, the awesome food helps. After dinner we play with the gecko as Baby looks on silently from the corner, and Irene tells us all her favorite movies, new and old. She's made a list and the titles slip out in seducing Spanish. "The Dreamers," she asks us, "have you seen it? It is by my favorite director, Bernardo Bertolucci. You must see it, it's so good and beautiful." No, you are. I've never seen it, but I will now. I want to watch it immediately.
