I like to write.
I
carry a notebook with me at all times as a place where my thoughts go
uncensored. When I travel I tend to utilize my notebooks more often than when I
am home, but my home is a collection of notebooks in every corner of my
apartment, some half written in, others maybe a page with a scribbled thought,
others still, a mixer where my thoughts and notes mingle on a paper dance
floor.
I start out with the intent to dedicate an individual notebook for my
sketches, another for notes from reading, and yet another for lines for writing
that come to me while I go about my day, but in the end I grab the one closest
to me to let my thoughts escape and become concrete on a page. I’ve even tried
to organize my various outlets into a divider filled binder, but the mind knows
what the mind likes and more often than not my hand passes over that binder and
grabs my notebook a la mode.
The notebook of the moment is one I
guard with as much safety as I do my other sacred possession, my passport. No
two things explain me, or where I’ve been, better than these two items and
because of that they sit together in a space guarded closely in my handbag. I
know others believe in using travel pouches strapped closely to their bodies,
but travel isn’t about standing out and nothing says tourist quicker than the over
reliance on precautions that the traveler perceives as safety. Life is all
about perception, the traveler’s perception of their environment and the
local’s perception of the traveler.
As I enjoyed my late afternoon lunch sheltered
from the famous Tarifa winds, I pull out my notebook, and out of habit, pull
out my passport as well. Sometimes I feel like the things I’ve seen or
done in my life were nothing but a dream and when that thought crosses my mind
I sometimes panic and I find myself struggling with reconciling whether or not
what I remember is reality.
After running my hands across the familiar stamps that make real my memories, I quickly returned my passport to its place and start to write in my notebook to avoid the awkwardness that comes with dining alone. As with every writing opportunity, regardless of whether or not I am aware of having anything to write, I soon find my hand scribbling thoughts I wasn't sure I had prior to pen touching down on paper.
My waiter arrives with my first course, a delightful garlic spiced Andalusian soup resembling gazpacho with bits of fried jamon. I make a note to remember this soup for the bistro I’ve spent my whole life knowing that I would one day open. When the main course arrives, an unremarkable fish dish, I notice a pair of men walk in and take the table next to me. For now, that’s the only thought I give them as I continue to scribble words onto page. In Spanish my server asks me if I would like coffee after my meal, at least that’s what I think he asks me as I listen intently for words I understand while mirroring the actions of diners I observed who finished their meals and went through the familiar rituals before me. As a traveler, I’ve learned to be observant, to notice tiny details, to mimic familiarity. I’ve learned how to ask for coffee with milk in every country I’ve traveled to, a useful trick to hide the fact that I don’t speak the language. I order a café con leche and end my short moment of speaking with the lispy “gracias” native to Spanish in Spain.
My server comes back with my small glass of coffee and with it he brings a shot of purple liquid. He says something unfamiliar and points in the direction of the men sitting near me. Even without words to understand, I’m familiar with the universal opening lines of buying a girl a drink. I turn in the direction of the pair and raise my glass to both the men, the curly haired older one points to the younger one and says in English that it’s from him.
“Thank you,” I say to the younger one. We banter back and forth for a moment. I learn that they are Greek sailors working for Hellenic Seaways ferrying tourist across the Strait of Gibraltar. The older one lets me know the young one is the ship’s captain and as it becomes apparent that the conversation between myself and the Greek ship captain have more depth than the usual, “where are you from,” the curly haired one excuses himself saying he needs rest after their day of work. Taking the absence of his friend as a cue, the ship captain asks to join me at my table.
As he sits down I take that moment to carefully study the appearance of the latest man to add himself to my menagerie of traveling strangers. Dark wavy hair cut short and carefully spiked back topped the intense beauty of eyes that studied me in return. A square face ended in a cleft chin, setting off classically Greek features, fitting for a man named Spyros.
“What’s in this shot?” I ask him.
“I don’t know,” he admits to me, “when I asked the server about you he said you ordered a coffee and I told him to put it on my tab, then he said something about bringing you something else, I didn’t know what he said, so I just said yes.” I warmed to his honesty, and as he shrugged his shoulders, an impish grin appeared. I questioned how old he was. “How old do you think I am,” was his reply. I made him guess my age first and when he guessed the correct age of 26 I silently cursed the fact that even though I am Asian, rather than looking like a teenage like most women of my background, I’ve started to look my actual age. “Now it’s your turn, how old do you think I am?”
“24,” I answered without hesitation, I don’t know what made me think he was younger than me, but the fact that he is the captain of a ship should have clued me into guessing higher.
“29, but most people think I am younger because I look young. It’s worked against me in my profession though. When I first started working as a captain, an apprentice started at the same time. When I went to the bridge the other captain yelled at me for being on the bridge thinking I was the apprentice. Even now when we have new crew they never believe that I am the captain.”
I wondered to myself if I would sleep with this man and decided that I was attracted to his handsome face and ability to talk about a variety of topics with passion, but I was put off by the machismo inherent in his movements and his sharp laugh that sounded like a scornful bully. I’m a joyful laugher and I pay attention to how others laugh. Nothing beats musical laughter contagious in a way that sends an invitation to all those who listen to join in the joi de vie, and nothing turns me off faster than a bad laugh. When I walk on the street the worst cackle will stop me cold.
We talked about politics and I let him in on my deep interest in Greece. He taught me a few simple phrases, delighting the language geek in me. He went on to describe the conspiracy theories that surround the sordid history of the Mediterranean and told me to look up “secret Athens” online. I opened up to him my idea that everyone in life should believe in a conspiracy theory, no matter how silly and outrageous the idea is. Life is more fun when you believe in something almost impossible.
After running my hands across the familiar stamps that make real my memories, I quickly returned my passport to its place and start to write in my notebook to avoid the awkwardness that comes with dining alone. As with every writing opportunity, regardless of whether or not I am aware of having anything to write, I soon find my hand scribbling thoughts I wasn't sure I had prior to pen touching down on paper.
My waiter arrives with my first course, a delightful garlic spiced Andalusian soup resembling gazpacho with bits of fried jamon. I make a note to remember this soup for the bistro I’ve spent my whole life knowing that I would one day open. When the main course arrives, an unremarkable fish dish, I notice a pair of men walk in and take the table next to me. For now, that’s the only thought I give them as I continue to scribble words onto page. In Spanish my server asks me if I would like coffee after my meal, at least that’s what I think he asks me as I listen intently for words I understand while mirroring the actions of diners I observed who finished their meals and went through the familiar rituals before me. As a traveler, I’ve learned to be observant, to notice tiny details, to mimic familiarity. I’ve learned how to ask for coffee with milk in every country I’ve traveled to, a useful trick to hide the fact that I don’t speak the language. I order a café con leche and end my short moment of speaking with the lispy “gracias” native to Spanish in Spain.
My server comes back with my small glass of coffee and with it he brings a shot of purple liquid. He says something unfamiliar and points in the direction of the men sitting near me. Even without words to understand, I’m familiar with the universal opening lines of buying a girl a drink. I turn in the direction of the pair and raise my glass to both the men, the curly haired older one points to the younger one and says in English that it’s from him.
“Thank you,” I say to the younger one. We banter back and forth for a moment. I learn that they are Greek sailors working for Hellenic Seaways ferrying tourist across the Strait of Gibraltar. The older one lets me know the young one is the ship’s captain and as it becomes apparent that the conversation between myself and the Greek ship captain have more depth than the usual, “where are you from,” the curly haired one excuses himself saying he needs rest after their day of work. Taking the absence of his friend as a cue, the ship captain asks to join me at my table.
As he sits down I take that moment to carefully study the appearance of the latest man to add himself to my menagerie of traveling strangers. Dark wavy hair cut short and carefully spiked back topped the intense beauty of eyes that studied me in return. A square face ended in a cleft chin, setting off classically Greek features, fitting for a man named Spyros.
“What’s in this shot?” I ask him.
“I don’t know,” he admits to me, “when I asked the server about you he said you ordered a coffee and I told him to put it on my tab, then he said something about bringing you something else, I didn’t know what he said, so I just said yes.” I warmed to his honesty, and as he shrugged his shoulders, an impish grin appeared. I questioned how old he was. “How old do you think I am,” was his reply. I made him guess my age first and when he guessed the correct age of 26 I silently cursed the fact that even though I am Asian, rather than looking like a teenage like most women of my background, I’ve started to look my actual age. “Now it’s your turn, how old do you think I am?”
“24,” I answered without hesitation, I don’t know what made me think he was younger than me, but the fact that he is the captain of a ship should have clued me into guessing higher.
“29, but most people think I am younger because I look young. It’s worked against me in my profession though. When I first started working as a captain, an apprentice started at the same time. When I went to the bridge the other captain yelled at me for being on the bridge thinking I was the apprentice. Even now when we have new crew they never believe that I am the captain.”
I wondered to myself if I would sleep with this man and decided that I was attracted to his handsome face and ability to talk about a variety of topics with passion, but I was put off by the machismo inherent in his movements and his sharp laugh that sounded like a scornful bully. I’m a joyful laugher and I pay attention to how others laugh. Nothing beats musical laughter contagious in a way that sends an invitation to all those who listen to join in the joi de vie, and nothing turns me off faster than a bad laugh. When I walk on the street the worst cackle will stop me cold.
We talked about politics and I let him in on my deep interest in Greece. He taught me a few simple phrases, delighting the language geek in me. He went on to describe the conspiracy theories that surround the sordid history of the Mediterranean and told me to look up “secret Athens” online. I opened up to him my idea that everyone in life should believe in a conspiracy theory, no matter how silly and outrageous the idea is. Life is more fun when you believe in something almost impossible.
As we continued to talk I found myself more
interested in this man, but then he would laugh or say something that betrayed
my interests. As I continued to weigh what I liked about this man against what
I disliked, he offered to pay for my lunch, but the independent American woman
in me refused, instead I did agree to meet him later that night.
Tarifa is not a very big city. With the majority of touristic activity concentrated along its coastal beaches and the historic city center, all sights can be seen in an hour. Disappointed by Malaga’s sprawling resort filled sunshine, I longed for a small beach town reminiscent of Dahab on the Sinai Peninsula, the highlight of my trip. My aim was Essaouria in Morocco, a beach town in Africa’s western coast. Famed for their love of a Bob Marley lifestyle as much as for their strong trade winds, the town has inspired the likes of Jimi Hendrix and Orson Wells, and I was looking for inspiration.
Prior to the arrival of the Greek men, I had been charting whether or not I would be able to make it to Essaouria, but with only six days left before flying to Milan from Tangier, I realized a trip to Essaouria would at best be one day of relaxation after days of rushed train and bus travel, that is if every connecting mode of transportation, every ticket I needed to purchase, and every driver I needed to haggle with went according to my estimated calculations.
I thought about spending a few days in Tarifa, but an attempt to go whale watching was thwarted by a storm that passed prior to my arrival, and I had read that the visibility for diving suffered greatly from the strong currents. Always wanting to be on the move, the thought of just lazily relaxing in Tarifa never crossed my mind. I headed back to my hostel to search for other options. I thought about Fez and was determined to head in that direction when I stopped to have a conversation with Jean Fabris, the attractive Frenchman manning reception. He had a nervousness about him which I found endearing, but I repressed my tendencies to flirt and decided to be the gender neutral charmer that was more natural to me.
The entry way into the little house opened directly to the receptionist table, to the right was the social room and bar where amateur storytellers traded tales of their adventures. I wondered how many repeated stories these walls have heard from the high turnover of similar travelers experiencing the same adventures. To the right were dorms and directly behind the reception table were stairs that lead up to the free public computers, showers, balcony, and more rooms. I walked up the stairs past Maximilliana, a Napoli’s man with eyes that did nothing but stare. Once the object of his stares looked back at him, his left eye compulsively winked, as if being Italian made one eye instantly close for half an instant anytime a girl passed by. Like an automaton, as I smiled “hello” to him, he nodded and winked, right on cue.
Past Maximilliana, I sat down to the computer on the left of the pair that were open for public use. As common with right handed people, my natural inclination would have been to choose the right computer but the space was occupied with a loud American dressed in a fitted overcoat that still seemed too big for his slight frame.
“Babe, wait until you see what I have planned for the van,” I overheard him say into his headphone as I typed in my email address and password. As I went through my list of jotted down notes, I couldn’t help but overhear the man next to me mention that he just came from Morocco, my intended destination.
After a few frustrated searches for reasonable last minute hotels in Morocco, the man next to me disconnected his conversation with the girl I could only assume was his girlfriend.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard you just came from Morocco. I’m heading there myself and was wondering if I could ask you a few questions,” I started the conversation. After getting the affirmative I asked him everything on my mind, from questions about the ferry to my frustrations with finding a reasonably priced hotel.
He mentioned taking the Greek operated ferry from Tangier to Tarifa and I delighted at the coincidence. I told him that I just met the captain of that ferry, but I neglected to mention his amorous intentions. We chatted for a little while longer, trading stories from our travels. He mentioned, like me, he was from San Francisco, and on a travel adventure after taking a voluntary layoff from his company. Unlike me, he was traveling for a year and already halfway through. I went through my usual elevator pitch and told him I was only traveling for the month and after having the Ethiopian portion of my trip canceled, I somehow found my way in Tarifa instead. We smiled at our coincidences, surprised that we were both in Dahab at the same time, even remembering the unusual tidal storm that washed away business from most of the boardwalk lounges. I complained about the advances I had to thwart while in Egypt and he said he would have done the same if he was talking to a girl like me. I didn’t let myself blush at that comment as I put more focus on figuring out my next step than the attractiveness of the man next to me. After getting what information I wanted from my fellow San Franciscan we traded names, but in my usual fashion, the moment his name reached my ears it was already forgotten. A moment longer and I excused myself, I still needed to take a shower and attempt a moment’s rest before meeting Spyros.
I walked to the old town gate with deliberate slowness. Arriving almost on time, I walked right by Spyros not recognizing him. A little more gel sat on his hair and a warm blue windbreaker sheltered him from the wind. If it were not for those same eyes that sparkled in the dusk of the evening, I wouldn't have slowed my unsure gait to an even more unsure stop. We started to walk together and as he put on his charm I called upon my acting skills and opted to play dumb. We went through the tiny streets of Tarifa’s old town, up a flight of stairs, into a church, and past a library where I slowed my pace. Even as we continued past the library, my eyes stayed transfixed on the symbol of my education. From the moment I learned to read rudimentary sentences, libraries have been my great educator. It wasn't until travel entered my life did I think there was anything on this earth that could teach me more than the volumes of thoughts and observations that lined the libraries of my lifetime.
“Do you recognize where we are?” Spyros asked. My head moved in a slow deliberate horizontal line back and forth signaling my unfamiliarity. “We’re back at the gate we started at,” his eyes still grinned with that mischievous glint that I had become accustomed to. “We can either walk towards the beach or we can get a coffee, what do you think?” I said yes to the coffee, not so much because my lips thirsted for nourishment, but more because I hold beaches sacred, especially at night when the world keeps all its surprises for lone strangers such as myself. There are many things that I count beautiful in life and among the top of that list is an empty beach, add the ability to look across the water and see the lights of a Africa and I was ready to worship false idols in the form of salted winds, crashing waves, and cold sand between my toes.
We entered a cafe full of locals and Greeks. He said hello to the men, his crew.
“Would you like wine or a coffee?” I opted for the coffee, after fifteen dry days in a Muslim country and one day of excessive drinking in England, I was still a little gun-shy when it came to drinking again.
“I love how you laugh so much. I bet you can’t last one minute without laughing.” The competitor in me came out and I playfully said I could be serious. At that moment I closed my lips tight and suppressed a smirk that tried to make its way past my failed mask of solemnity. Spyros held his watch up, exaggerating his role as time keeper as he tried to suppress his own need to laugh, but he kept glancing up at me with a look that said, “I know you want to laugh,” until finally I gave in and let out one of my signatures.
“Okay, how long was that, it had to be at least a minute!” Learning I only lasted twenty seconds, I realized how essential to my personality it is to laugh.
Tarifa is not a very big city. With the majority of touristic activity concentrated along its coastal beaches and the historic city center, all sights can be seen in an hour. Disappointed by Malaga’s sprawling resort filled sunshine, I longed for a small beach town reminiscent of Dahab on the Sinai Peninsula, the highlight of my trip. My aim was Essaouria in Morocco, a beach town in Africa’s western coast. Famed for their love of a Bob Marley lifestyle as much as for their strong trade winds, the town has inspired the likes of Jimi Hendrix and Orson Wells, and I was looking for inspiration.
Prior to the arrival of the Greek men, I had been charting whether or not I would be able to make it to Essaouria, but with only six days left before flying to Milan from Tangier, I realized a trip to Essaouria would at best be one day of relaxation after days of rushed train and bus travel, that is if every connecting mode of transportation, every ticket I needed to purchase, and every driver I needed to haggle with went according to my estimated calculations.
I thought about spending a few days in Tarifa, but an attempt to go whale watching was thwarted by a storm that passed prior to my arrival, and I had read that the visibility for diving suffered greatly from the strong currents. Always wanting to be on the move, the thought of just lazily relaxing in Tarifa never crossed my mind. I headed back to my hostel to search for other options. I thought about Fez and was determined to head in that direction when I stopped to have a conversation with Jean Fabris, the attractive Frenchman manning reception. He had a nervousness about him which I found endearing, but I repressed my tendencies to flirt and decided to be the gender neutral charmer that was more natural to me.
The entry way into the little house opened directly to the receptionist table, to the right was the social room and bar where amateur storytellers traded tales of their adventures. I wondered how many repeated stories these walls have heard from the high turnover of similar travelers experiencing the same adventures. To the right were dorms and directly behind the reception table were stairs that lead up to the free public computers, showers, balcony, and more rooms. I walked up the stairs past Maximilliana, a Napoli’s man with eyes that did nothing but stare. Once the object of his stares looked back at him, his left eye compulsively winked, as if being Italian made one eye instantly close for half an instant anytime a girl passed by. Like an automaton, as I smiled “hello” to him, he nodded and winked, right on cue.
Past Maximilliana, I sat down to the computer on the left of the pair that were open for public use. As common with right handed people, my natural inclination would have been to choose the right computer but the space was occupied with a loud American dressed in a fitted overcoat that still seemed too big for his slight frame.
“Babe, wait until you see what I have planned for the van,” I overheard him say into his headphone as I typed in my email address and password. As I went through my list of jotted down notes, I couldn’t help but overhear the man next to me mention that he just came from Morocco, my intended destination.
After a few frustrated searches for reasonable last minute hotels in Morocco, the man next to me disconnected his conversation with the girl I could only assume was his girlfriend.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard you just came from Morocco. I’m heading there myself and was wondering if I could ask you a few questions,” I started the conversation. After getting the affirmative I asked him everything on my mind, from questions about the ferry to my frustrations with finding a reasonably priced hotel.
He mentioned taking the Greek operated ferry from Tangier to Tarifa and I delighted at the coincidence. I told him that I just met the captain of that ferry, but I neglected to mention his amorous intentions. We chatted for a little while longer, trading stories from our travels. He mentioned, like me, he was from San Francisco, and on a travel adventure after taking a voluntary layoff from his company. Unlike me, he was traveling for a year and already halfway through. I went through my usual elevator pitch and told him I was only traveling for the month and after having the Ethiopian portion of my trip canceled, I somehow found my way in Tarifa instead. We smiled at our coincidences, surprised that we were both in Dahab at the same time, even remembering the unusual tidal storm that washed away business from most of the boardwalk lounges. I complained about the advances I had to thwart while in Egypt and he said he would have done the same if he was talking to a girl like me. I didn’t let myself blush at that comment as I put more focus on figuring out my next step than the attractiveness of the man next to me. After getting what information I wanted from my fellow San Franciscan we traded names, but in my usual fashion, the moment his name reached my ears it was already forgotten. A moment longer and I excused myself, I still needed to take a shower and attempt a moment’s rest before meeting Spyros.
I walked to the old town gate with deliberate slowness. Arriving almost on time, I walked right by Spyros not recognizing him. A little more gel sat on his hair and a warm blue windbreaker sheltered him from the wind. If it were not for those same eyes that sparkled in the dusk of the evening, I wouldn't have slowed my unsure gait to an even more unsure stop. We started to walk together and as he put on his charm I called upon my acting skills and opted to play dumb. We went through the tiny streets of Tarifa’s old town, up a flight of stairs, into a church, and past a library where I slowed my pace. Even as we continued past the library, my eyes stayed transfixed on the symbol of my education. From the moment I learned to read rudimentary sentences, libraries have been my great educator. It wasn't until travel entered my life did I think there was anything on this earth that could teach me more than the volumes of thoughts and observations that lined the libraries of my lifetime.
“Do you recognize where we are?” Spyros asked. My head moved in a slow deliberate horizontal line back and forth signaling my unfamiliarity. “We’re back at the gate we started at,” his eyes still grinned with that mischievous glint that I had become accustomed to. “We can either walk towards the beach or we can get a coffee, what do you think?” I said yes to the coffee, not so much because my lips thirsted for nourishment, but more because I hold beaches sacred, especially at night when the world keeps all its surprises for lone strangers such as myself. There are many things that I count beautiful in life and among the top of that list is an empty beach, add the ability to look across the water and see the lights of a Africa and I was ready to worship false idols in the form of salted winds, crashing waves, and cold sand between my toes.
We entered a cafe full of locals and Greeks. He said hello to the men, his crew.
“Would you like wine or a coffee?” I opted for the coffee, after fifteen dry days in a Muslim country and one day of excessive drinking in England, I was still a little gun-shy when it came to drinking again.
“I love how you laugh so much. I bet you can’t last one minute without laughing.” The competitor in me came out and I playfully said I could be serious. At that moment I closed my lips tight and suppressed a smirk that tried to make its way past my failed mask of solemnity. Spyros held his watch up, exaggerating his role as time keeper as he tried to suppress his own need to laugh, but he kept glancing up at me with a look that said, “I know you want to laugh,” until finally I gave in and let out one of my signatures.
“Okay, how long was that, it had to be at least a minute!” Learning I only lasted twenty seconds, I realized how essential to my personality it is to laugh.
We flirted.
The room started to fill with more of his crew, an older man sat down next to us and as Spyros became distracted with the commotion of his crew, he walked away to talk to his fellow captain and I to the older man who just joined us.
“Where are you from?” He asked me in perfect English. When I told him I was from San Francisco his eyes lit up and he started to tell me the story of his time there, but at that moment Spyros returned with his roguish sharp laugh that froze a tight lipped half smile to my face. The café was soon nothing more than a crowd of Greek ship men, a few solitary Monday night visitors and a small handful of Spanish women. I watched as the men ogled the women wolfishly and realized that there must be truth to the stereotype that Greek men adore blondes. Out of the three Spanish women who just joined us the two blonde women received the lion share of the men’s attention while the brunette friend sat sipping her red wine mostly ignored. As I watched the women, I felt increasing uncomfortable in my awareness of the situation. It dawned on me that each of the younger men were competing to see who could bring to the group the most attractive local female while the older men rolled their eyes at the antics of the younger generation and kept mostly to nursing a hard day’s work with a tumbler of whiskey.
Catching my boredom, Spyros suggested we move on to another place. Always terrible at lying, I couldn't come up with an excuse to leave.
We walked the narrow streets of old town and as we passed by his living quarters, I said a short thank you to no one in particular that he didn't insist on showing me his apartment. After a few failed attempts to find an open bar, we finally walked into a tiny one as narrow as a hallway. The bartender only barely acknowledged our entrance.
I told Spyros I wanted a beer and he ordered for us. Not quite knowing what to say anymore, I started to intently study the alcohol lining the walls as he studied me. I played dumb and asked about the different alcohols that lined the walls and as I made a comment about an unfamiliar name the bartender surprised me with accented English.
The room started to fill with more of his crew, an older man sat down next to us and as Spyros became distracted with the commotion of his crew, he walked away to talk to his fellow captain and I to the older man who just joined us.
“Where are you from?” He asked me in perfect English. When I told him I was from San Francisco his eyes lit up and he started to tell me the story of his time there, but at that moment Spyros returned with his roguish sharp laugh that froze a tight lipped half smile to my face. The café was soon nothing more than a crowd of Greek ship men, a few solitary Monday night visitors and a small handful of Spanish women. I watched as the men ogled the women wolfishly and realized that there must be truth to the stereotype that Greek men adore blondes. Out of the three Spanish women who just joined us the two blonde women received the lion share of the men’s attention while the brunette friend sat sipping her red wine mostly ignored. As I watched the women, I felt increasing uncomfortable in my awareness of the situation. It dawned on me that each of the younger men were competing to see who could bring to the group the most attractive local female while the older men rolled their eyes at the antics of the younger generation and kept mostly to nursing a hard day’s work with a tumbler of whiskey.
Catching my boredom, Spyros suggested we move on to another place. Always terrible at lying, I couldn't come up with an excuse to leave.
We walked the narrow streets of old town and as we passed by his living quarters, I said a short thank you to no one in particular that he didn't insist on showing me his apartment. After a few failed attempts to find an open bar, we finally walked into a tiny one as narrow as a hallway. The bartender only barely acknowledged our entrance.
I told Spyros I wanted a beer and he ordered for us. Not quite knowing what to say anymore, I started to intently study the alcohol lining the walls as he studied me. I played dumb and asked about the different alcohols that lined the walls and as I made a comment about an unfamiliar name the bartender surprised me with accented English.
“Where are you from?” Germany I found out. She came to Spain to study Spanish and ended up in Tarifa, and as with everyone else I spoke to in this city, she moved there after falling in love with its magic. Glad to have an English conversation with a woman who could understand my fast California English, I continued my conversation with our German bartender until a group of German men walked in and stole her attention away with her native language.
“Tell me a story,” I asked Spyros after putting off conversation almost long enough for it to be uncomfortable.
“What sort of story?” He predictably asked me.
“Anything.”
He chose my favorite Greek topic, mythology. Ever since our conversation on conspiracy theories, history, and politics, I had not been excited about our conversation since. For most of the night he spent his time watching me, making me feel self-conscious.
“There are twelve original Gods. Zeus, the King of all gods. Hera…”
“His wife,” I interjected.
“Very good. Then there is Demeter.”
“Goddess of harvest and home. Her daughter is Persephone.”
“That’s right, how do you know so much about Greek mythology?”
“I loved reading Greek mythology when I was growing up.”
“You’re a very special girl, you know that. Always smiling and laughing and you know a lot more than most Americans, plus you have these things, what do you call them,” he made little dotting motion along his cheeks.
“Freckles.”
He chose my favorite Greek topic, mythology. Ever since our conversation on conspiracy theories, history, and politics, I had not been excited about our conversation since. For most of the night he spent his time watching me, making me feel self-conscious.
“There are twelve original Gods. Zeus, the King of all gods. Hera…”
“His wife,” I interjected.
“Very good. Then there is Demeter.”
“Goddess of harvest and home. Her daughter is Persephone.”
“That’s right, how do you know so much about Greek mythology?”
“I loved reading Greek mythology when I was growing up.”
“You’re a very special girl, you know that. Always smiling and laughing and you know a lot more than most Americans, plus you have these things, what do you call them,” he made little dotting motion along his cheeks.
“Freckles.”
“Ah, freckles, you have beautiful freckles,” he smiled and gave me a look I was all too familiar with. It was the look of a man realizing how much more interesting the woman across from him really was. It was the visible sign a man gives off when his interest is peaked beyond a physical attraction. Like Milan Kundera’s Tereza, I foolishly hoped for interest in mind to overrun interest in body.
“Where was I, we have three of the gods so far.
There is also Athena, goddess of wisdom, and Poseidon, god of the sea.
Aphrodite is goddess of love and beauty, and her husband Hesphaetus, blacksmith
to the gods. Ares is the god of war and Hermes is the messenger god.”
“And the god of travelers,” before I left for this trip, out of curiosity I looked up who were the patron saints and gods of travel. It is said that the universe protects drunks and travelers, and I wanted to know who to thank. “There’s Apollo and his twin sister, Artemis, god of the sun and goddess of the hunt.
“How many do we have now,” Spyros counted in in his head, “that’s eleven, there is one more. “ He thought for a moment and so did I.
“There’s Hades, god of the underworld.” He looked at me with confusion. As we played our game of Greek Gods, I noticed his pronunciation was different from my own, so I thought I must have said the name incorrectly, but when I explained he was the god of the underworld, his stare remained blank.
“Ah, there’s Cronus, he is the twelfth!” Spryos declared triumphantly, I sat back tight lipped accepting his incorrect answer knowing full well that Cronus was not an Olympian, rather he was the defeated Titan father to the majority of the Olympians.
A few drinks more and Spyros suggested we take
a walk. As our conversation slowed, we let the noise of the breezy night keep
us from hearing our silence.
When we reached the town beach of the Mediterranean side of Tarifa, Spyros bent down to scoop a handful of sand and brought it to his nose. “Incredible, there is something about this sand that is magical, you can smell the sea, Africa, and Europe all at once. Feel how fine the grains are.” I bent over as well and was surprised to feel the smoothness of the sand.
We gazed across the Straights of Gibraltar toward Tangier in silent meditation.
"There’s nothing I love to do more than stare into the ocean, desert, or sky. I know it sounds silly, but to me the three couldn't be more similar. The vastness of the each makes me feel small, and I take comfort in that.”
“Sometimes when I am sailing, I tell my crew to leave me alone on the bridge of the ship and I lay down to stare at the stars. When I am alone in the middle of the ocean there is something special about the way the sky looks,” Spyros paused for a second, “and there is something special about you.” I remain silent. “When you want to take the ferry to Morocco let me know. I’ll take you for free and I’ll show you the bridge.”
We stopped in silence again. He looked at me and I looked at him. Forgotten were all the thoughts I had against his sharp unnerving laugh. The only sounds were the night waves crashes gently fifty yards ahead. If there ever was a more romantic moment written for my life I have yet to see it.
It’s not the way a man dances that shows how sex with him would be like. Rather, it’s in his kiss. The way a man dances shows his nature and comfort with himself. The way he kisses shows a women exactly the kind of effort he will treat her with in bed. The way Spyros grabbed me close, even as I used one hand to act as a barrier, the way he stuck his tongue down my throat and ignored my cues to come up for breath, I knew that sex with Spyros would be short and spastic. There would be thrust after thrust and then he would be done. I would lay there under his weight unsatisfied and naively wondering what happened to the man who knew how to stare at me with such admirable intensity.
He kissed me again. I suggested we walk, anything to cut short his advances. We approached an old wooden pier in the middle of the beach, ending abruptly where the sea used to meet it. Without a word Spyros lifted me up like men on white horses do, and planted me gently on top of the pier. We walked further, back the way we came.
As we reached my corner, he grinded up against me and breathlessly asked me to go back to his place. I told him no. He asked when he would see me again. I told him I was going to Gibraltar tomorrow, the truth, and that I wouldn't have time until the day after, a lie. He said he would go crazy waiting to see me again, a lie, but it could have been a truth. He made me promise that I would see him the day after the next and I nodded yes to a promise I knew I would break.
When we reached the town beach of the Mediterranean side of Tarifa, Spyros bent down to scoop a handful of sand and brought it to his nose. “Incredible, there is something about this sand that is magical, you can smell the sea, Africa, and Europe all at once. Feel how fine the grains are.” I bent over as well and was surprised to feel the smoothness of the sand.
We gazed across the Straights of Gibraltar toward Tangier in silent meditation.
"There’s nothing I love to do more than stare into the ocean, desert, or sky. I know it sounds silly, but to me the three couldn't be more similar. The vastness of the each makes me feel small, and I take comfort in that.”
“Sometimes when I am sailing, I tell my crew to leave me alone on the bridge of the ship and I lay down to stare at the stars. When I am alone in the middle of the ocean there is something special about the way the sky looks,” Spyros paused for a second, “and there is something special about you.” I remain silent. “When you want to take the ferry to Morocco let me know. I’ll take you for free and I’ll show you the bridge.”
We stopped in silence again. He looked at me and I looked at him. Forgotten were all the thoughts I had against his sharp unnerving laugh. The only sounds were the night waves crashes gently fifty yards ahead. If there ever was a more romantic moment written for my life I have yet to see it.
It’s not the way a man dances that shows how sex with him would be like. Rather, it’s in his kiss. The way a man dances shows his nature and comfort with himself. The way he kisses shows a women exactly the kind of effort he will treat her with in bed. The way Spyros grabbed me close, even as I used one hand to act as a barrier, the way he stuck his tongue down my throat and ignored my cues to come up for breath, I knew that sex with Spyros would be short and spastic. There would be thrust after thrust and then he would be done. I would lay there under his weight unsatisfied and naively wondering what happened to the man who knew how to stare at me with such admirable intensity.
He kissed me again. I suggested we walk, anything to cut short his advances. We approached an old wooden pier in the middle of the beach, ending abruptly where the sea used to meet it. Without a word Spyros lifted me up like men on white horses do, and planted me gently on top of the pier. We walked further, back the way we came.
As we reached my corner, he grinded up against me and breathlessly asked me to go back to his place. I told him no. He asked when he would see me again. I told him I was going to Gibraltar tomorrow, the truth, and that I wouldn't have time until the day after, a lie. He said he would go crazy waiting to see me again, a lie, but it could have been a truth. He made me promise that I would see him the day after the next and I nodded yes to a promise I knew I would break.
0 comments