Independentisme català
I forget just how pretty Barcelona is. I’ve only been here once before, fifteen years ago, and then just for a day. That day, we wandered down La Rambla and up to the abandoned Olympic park on the hill. We took a night bus back to Zaragoza. I stared at Gaudí architecture and it stuck with me—the surrealism, these buildings that looked like fairy houses. I wanted to come back and see them again. I still want to come back and see them again.
After an early breakfast and early errands at the US Consulate, we return our little Fiat 500 Giuseppe and wander around to kill time before returning to the Consulate for my emergency passport. We do some wandering, shopping. I see a pilea, a plant I like a lot, outside a shop. ‘Let’s go in here,’ I say, turning back to pop in. The shop is my style. The proprietor is chatting with another client, and when she leaves, we’re the only ones in the shop.
I find a fabric I really like, and the proprietor comes over to show me how to wrap the Catalan scarves around my neck. ‘It’s my print,’ she says, explaining that she designed it. She makes most of the items in the shop. The rest are from local artisans, friends. I buy one of each of the scarves of her prints, for gifts. I add earrings that call to me, for me. We build off each other’s energy, she practicing her English and me my Spanish. We’re both excited, animated. I try on a dress in the print I like best. I pull it on right over my clothes. It’s my size, and fits perfectly.
‘¡Que guapa!’ she says, and I ask what guapa means. Beautiful. Hot. Sexy.
She tells me I have the perfect form, the perfect figure. If she keeps this up I’ll be asking for her number to buy her a glass of wine. She says how the trend these days is for women to tan, to try to look dark, their figures like this. ‘If they look like that at 20, what will they look like at 40?’
I add the dress to my order. A second date dress.
I ask her how to say ‘Cool.’ ‘Guay,’ she says. ‘Que guayyy,’ she repeats, drawing it out. How cool.
When I check out I ask her her name. She points to her cards. ‘It’s my name, Laia Papió. It’s a Catalan name.’ She tells us about her shop, what she sells, what she makes. How the earrings I like are by a couple, Marta and Juan. He works in laser manufacturing; she is an illustrator. They moved back from England to Spain, where Juan is from, and started their jewellery business together, laser cutting Marta’s designs. Laia asks us our names. ‘I don’t have a Meg in my life!’ she says to me. ‘Well now you do!’ I respond. She laughs and jokes at Ryan, ‘I already have Ryans in my life.’
We can find her online. ‘You will always be a small—pequeño—in my store,’ she tells me, as she checks me out. I do have an excellent outfit on, having chosen it specifically for my passport picture. I look fabulous. Laia appreciates this. I will for sure be ordering more from her, but right now is for gifts, mainly. It’s all we’ll be able to carry back. When we leave she hugs me goodbye, and I blow her kisses. Besos. I try to make a habit of not hitting on people in their workplace, but how should that rule extend to places where people own their own shop? Life can be so hard sometimes. (This is not one of those times.)
We leave Laia’s place bubbly, bouncing. Or at least I do. A zest for life. We return to our hotel to drop off our shopping. It’s still a little early to return to the Consulate for my emergency passport. It will take us half an hour by public transport, but shorter by car. I resolve to take a taxi. Ryan worries about the cost, but stops worrying when I ask him not to, and remind him that this passport problem is something that I can solve with money.
We have time for a glass of wine, surely. Ryan worries about the time, but stops worrying when I remind him they said to come back between 3 and 4. To Ryan, an early person, this means be early for 3; to me it means we have until 4. It’s my errand and my errant passport anyway, so I insist on wine. We ask our hotel concierge where to go for a glass of wine—just a glass of wine—and he recommends Pla B. It closes at 14:30 for siesta. Perfect. We’ll have to leave by then anyway. We stop for a glass of wine, just the one, and settle up.
‘I was thinking we can just hail a cab,’ I tell Ryan as we walk out of Pla B, not having confirmed hailing cabs is a thing here, but assuming confidently nonetheless. Assuming confidently nonetheless could be my life’s tagline. At the street I hail the very next car that drives by, which happens to be a taxi with a green light on, and provide our destination. I remind Ryan that he is supposed to be practicing entitlement, but he insists entitlement is a negative characteristic. We settle on compromising that he’ll practice confidence as a start.
Emergency passport in hand, we hail another taxi outside the Consulate and head back to our hotel. We tell our driver the Gothic Quarter, but he recommends Plaça de Catalunya because it’s better for passenger drop-off. You can’t really drive through the Gothic Quarter, or you wouldn’t want to. It’s a place for walking, not for cars.
We pop back to the hotel briefly, then back out again. We resolve to wander. Supposedly the best bar in the world is in Barcelona, Paradiso. It’s not far. As we walk in that direction, I realise where we are. ‘We’re going to make a pit stop,’ I say to Ryan. ‘We’re heading left,’ he says, but I turn right. ‘This is the pit stop. You don’t have to join if you don’t want to.’
I head up the steps of Santa Maria del Mar. Our concierge had mentioned this church, a labour of love by the locals. They were labourers, stonemasons, craftspeople. They built it stone by stone in their spare time, after finishing their daily duties. I like that it’s a labour of love, a group effort of charity and devotion, of beauty and exaltation. Nana would have liked it, too, despite it being named Santa Maria del Mar, of the sea. They made their livelihoods off the sea, after all, in this seaside city.
It’s 10€ for a guided tour, 5€ for self-guided, or free if you’re replete with Catholic confidence. I ask if it’s possible to light a candle and am admitted inside. The stoup is empty. Out of holy water again.
I walk to the right. I’m wearing sneakers, no heretical heels this time. The floor is carved stone, neatly fit together. This church is big, and beautiful. It’s so big there are candles all along, and different shrines and altars set into the sides. They each have tables in front of them, and on the tables burn small white or larger red votives. Real flames, this time. All of the candles are burning; the only unlit ones I find are burnt out.
I circle the church. At the opposite end there is construction, restoration or preservation occurring. I like this; it seems fitting that the church is still under construction, an ongoing labour of love. I realise as I pick my path carefully around the scaffolding that I’ve entered through the back, behind the pulpit, so what I think is the back is actually the front. As I turn around and face the pulpit, I notice a place to purchase votives to the left of where I entered and turned right. I walk towards it, choosing to take the red carpeted aisle. This church is beautiful. As I walk down the aisle, I stare up and realise why people would decide to get married in a church. This would be a beautiful building to throw a wedding ceremony in, truly a place of celebration.
As I walk and stare I also notice a shrine to my right, Mary with three children or cherubs under her, flanked by another on each side. I am reminded of the story of Saint Nicholas bringing the three children who had been murdered and pickled in brine back from the dead. This will be the shrine where I have my little chat with Nana.
At the votives I ball out and spend 2€ on a large red votive. In Catholicism, the richer you are, the holier you can be. The man selling the votives explains that I should take a thinner candle from a tray and use it to light my votive.
I turn back to the shrine I saw. La corte de María, the heavenly court of Mary. I light my votive from another on the table, taking pleasure in the fact that mine is the biggest. This will burn for a while. Nana can hang out with us this evening. Maybe she’ll even bring us more wine.
I have a little chat with her. I also thank Saint Anthony for returning at least some kind of passport to me, and Saint Nicholas for our safe passage Saturday. Patron saint of sailors, or travellers. Patron saint of brewers, too, as everyone got confused about why he was always depicted with a barrel. They had forgotten the story of the babies in the brine. Patron saint of zombies, too then, probably. I remember that Ryan and I have visited his birthplace, in Turkey. Saint Nicholas is also the patron saint of giving random gifts. He’s a pretty solid saint all around, a quality saint.
Ryan texts me just as I’m leaving the church. My initial right turn meant I missed the votives, and took a while. Nana and I also had a few things to catch up on. I find Ryan and we continue on our ways towards Paradiso. When we turn down its street, we notice a long line, even though it’s not even sunset yet. It’s still the afternoon in Spain.
Lines not really being our thing, we look around for someplace else to have a drink. There’s a cute coffee shop still open, with vegan options even, but we’re looking for wine. We turn back in the direction we came from.
As we walk back past Santa Maria del Mar, Ryan notices a little wine bar. ‘I think Nana is pointing us in this direction,’ I say, and stop to take some pictures.
When we enter, it’s not a wine bar, it’s a sherry bar. I exclaim in excitement when I notice. ‘¡Xeres!’ I fucking love sherry. An old lady drink, some would say, but I love old lady drinks. We ask to be seated outside, and are led into the square, with a menu called ‘Special sherry menu.’ I order an expensive glass, an aged sherry so old it has ‘old’ in its name.
‘Mind if I join you?’ Ryan asks. ‘Not at all,’ I tell him, liking the idea of being able to share this sherry together. ‘It’s something I learned with Graham,’ a friend of his, he continues. ‘When someone gets something fancy, go along with it.’
We enjoy this glass of sherry, staring at the church directly in front of us as we do. Here’s to you, Barbara.
We waive a waiter down and ask for the menu. We want to stay for another round. We order red wine and some tapas: Olives, tomato bread, and some cheese. Ryan gets some seared tuna belly for himself. The sun sets on the church as we eat and drink and enjoy the evening. This is a much better place than Paradiso.
I tell Ryan this one’s on me, thanking Nana for it and thinking that it’s really on her. I’m grateful to her for having led us here. We ask for la quenta and I pay. We get up, making space for the next patrons.
As we walk down the street alongside the other side of the church, Ryan says, ‘Nice of them to leave the sherry off.’
‘What?’ I ask, before it hits me. I didn’t check the bill, but the total came out to less than the cost of the two glasses of sherry we ordered initially.
Thanks, Barbara.
I can’t help it; I start tearing up in the street. I’m crying as I’m walking, and I start laughing at myself while I am crying, as I am wont to do. Grieving, but grateful to have had such a steadfast love in my life. Someone who still brings me wine.
People stare as they pass, and I wipe tears from my eyes as I laugh while I walk. I must be quite the sight, and I don’t care. I stop crying as we get to the end of the church.
Ryan wants to see if the shops at the market our concierge told us to go to instead of down La Rambla are open, so we head in that direction. When we had tried to come by earlier, it was siesta and things were closed. Supposedly they reopen at 19 h. When we get there, however, there aren’t shops or stalls open. It looks more like a museum. We walk inside, and check out the Roman ruins they uncovered while restoring part of the market.
We leave and head in the direction of a place Ryan has on his list from Ken Oringer, Bar Brutal. I ask if Ryan is comfortable navigating, as my family has insisted on not being left hanging on the sherry story, and I text as we walk.
Ryan gets a bit lost, which is fine. You’re both always sort of lost and never lost in the Gothic Quarter. Normally I navigate, having a good sense of spatial orientation, as a friend of mine, Melissa, put it recently. Ryan notices his mistake as we pass through a familiar square, familiar because it is close to our hotel. We have come too far. We pause in the square, where a Catalonian independence protest is happening, our second independence protest this trip. I’m so here for it. I’m glad we got a little lost so we could witness this.
We turn around again and head back towards Bar Brutal, in the correct direction this time. I’ve finished texting my story. My godmother corrects me about the sherry. ‘That’s Grampy’ What my born-again Protestant grandfather is doing hanging around a Catholic church I’ll never know. Probably just trying to be close to his wife. Who can blame him.
Ryan had pointed out Bar Brutal on our wandering and shopping earlier, pointing it out as somewhere he wanted to come. We arrive late, although it’s still early for Spain, being in the wrong time zone as Spain is.
We walk inside. This will be my favourite spot this trip.
There are tables on either side of us, and a bar at the back. We grab the last two seats at the bar, a good sign. They’re kitty-cornered, on the left-hand side. We look at they wine list and know that it’s going to be a good night. I eavesdrop on the party to our right. They are clearly not natural wine enthusiasts, but the bartender sure is. Ryan is trying to decide what to order. As he starts to ask me about it, the bartender turns to us.
Our eyes meet, and it’s meeting one of those people with whom you have vibes. Always fun. Yes, this is going to be a good night.
He leans forward, propping himself on the bar as he does, and stares at me. He stares a moment too long, and I don’t look away.
‘Do you have any questions?’ he asks. He has some kind of North American accent, but I can’t place it yet.
‘Yes—’ Ryan starts, but I interrupt.
‘No,’ I say, staring back at the bartender. ‘Only demands.’
‘I’m not sure what this vibe is,’ the bartender says, ‘But I’m here for it.’
‘I’ll have the orange wine you’re most excited about pouring,’ I say.
‘I’m not excited about an orange wine,’ he corrects me. It’s kind of hot. ‘I’m excited about Beaujolais nouveau.’
‘Which one are you most excited about?’ I ask him.
‘I’m not sure yet. They just arrived. I haven’t tried them yet.’
‘O shit,’ I say, turning to Ryan, ‘Did we come on Beaujolais Nouveau Day!?’
Every year on the third Thursday in November, Beaujolais Nouveau Day ushers in the next wine vintage. Beaujolais nouveau, new Beaujolais, is a fresh, young wine. It’s aged only a few weeks, so the grapes that were used to make the wine were about to drink were harvested in late September or early October, depending on when the harvest was this year. We used to celebrate Beaujolais Nouveau Day with The Wine Bottega. This is going to be a very good night.
‘Well, we’re going to drink them all,’ I say, and Ryan’s eyebrows raise in question. ‘There’s only three,’ I say to him as an aside, as he checks the menu to confirm, still not having learned to trust me. ‘Have some with us,’ I say back to the bartender.
‘All right,’ he consents. ‘If I have to work on Beaujolais Nouveau Day, it’s gonna get weird.’ I still can’t place his accent. His idioms are definitely North American, but he says certain words with a deep guttural Spanish accent.
‘I hope so!’ I tell him.
‘We already have a bottle of Chartreuse down,’ he smiles, saying of the staff, and he leaves to go get the first Beaujolais nouveau. I am amazed that Ryan has not yet picked up on the fact that I am flirting, which amuses me. I remember that I sort of just flirt with everyone, though, so it’s probably hard to tell from an outside perspective when there is something more there or not. Or whether anyone is really ever paying any attention to any world other than their own at all.
The bartender returns with our first glass, and we drink it together, talking about what we taste.
‘This second one isn’t even a fucking Beaujolais,’ he says, pouring us our second glasses, ‘But it’s the most Beaujolais of them all.’ He’s right. He has great wine taste.
It’s fresh, farmy, fruity. Such a light Gamay.
‘I am going to drink so fucking much of this tonight,’ he says. ‘This is so light, it’s like water.’
Before we have the chance to order the third and final Beaujolais, another waiter comes over to us. We try to explain what we’re drinking, but she seems confused. Her accent is French. She’s cute, too. Eventually she leaves and our bartender just returns with the third Beaujolais for us. We drink that together and confirm that he is correct: The second one, although not technically from Beaujolais, but from the next region over, is the most Beaujolais nouveau.
At this point we order food with our wine. We get one of everything that sounds good, to start. The bartender takes our menus and says he’ll give them back when we want them again. There is a certain If you need them implied and I know that we’re just going to ask for recommendations and trust him. He brings us tableware. The napkins are super sweet here, cloth and good cotton, with a nice design. We would buy some if we knew where to get them. The shirts the staff are all wearing, too. It’s touristy, sure, but this place is special.
We don’t need the menu anymore to order wine.
‘Make it weird,’ I tell the bartender. We still don’t know his name.
‘All right,’ he says, and returns with some options.
I took a picture of the receipt, and also saved the receipt, but I still can’t really tell you what we had. At a certain point it just turns into ‘Various copa.’ Who knows what we’re drinking; it’s all excellent.
‘This is bretty,’ the bartender says, pouring himself some, too. Brettanomyces, a yeast, creates a distinctive smell and taste in wine (and beer) that most would probably find off-putting. I think technically it’s considered a fault, but you can play with faults. It is sour without being acidic, but almost acrid. It’s like a sweaty smell, but the smell of light sweat on the clothes of someone you love, cast off, that you’re tidying later.
We swirl, and sip.
‘What’s your name?’ I ask him. But it’s loud in the bar and I’m not sure I hear correctly. ‘Guillaume?’ I try to confirm, leaning over the bar, thinking of our friend Guillaume who used to work at The Wine Bottega. A good wine name.
‘Guillermo,’ he corrects me. It’s still kind of hot.
While Ryan is in the restroom I tell him, ‘You said you weren’t sure what the vibes were.’ He listens, leaning over the bar again, propping his chin up on his fists. ‘We’re best friends,’ I say, ‘Who travel the world together eating good food and drinking natural wine.’ He nods, chin still resting on his fists. And it’s true, too. What a life. What a blessed life.
When Ryan returns he finally asks Guillermo where in North America he’s spent time. ‘Toronto,’ he tells us, so I am kind of correct. He spent a while there and has just recently returned to Spain.
We order more food, the rest of the vegetarian options. They have an extended menu tonight because they are collaborating with some kind of other local seafood restaurant. I am skeptical of the Portobello gigante because I think it will be just a giant portobello, and having been vegetarian for twenty-odd years I have had too much of my share of giant portobellos, but Guillermo says it’s the best dish on the menu. Really. I am skeptical, and trusting. He turns out to be correct, even though we want to like an eggplant-roasted red pepper panini-like grilled sandwich more.
Over Ryan’s head I notice a sticker on the doorway that says I hope you fall in love with being alive and I take a picture of it. At a coffee shop in Dover is some art that says Fall in love with yourself which I had tried to buy, but it wasn’t for sale. The artist added me to her mailing list for prints, whenever she makes them. I have spent all summer falling in love, with myself, with being alive.
We have another glass of weird wine. I notice the label. It’s cream, with just two letters on top of each other: S N. I know this wine. ‘I’ve had this wine before,’ I say. ‘No you haven’t,’ Guillermo corrects me. Still hot. ‘You’ve had something like it.’ And he’s right, of course. I recognise it from The Wine Bottega, but this is new. I have had wine from this producer before.
We finish that wine, and it’s almost time to go home. I want to stay, but intuit that will be a bad decision. Shit is definitely going to get weird. I am having so much fun though. Even though we have nothing to do tomorrow, and I have a passport again, it’s almost time to go home. I still have to have my celebratory tub, after all.
We’re properly in our cups now, mission accomplished. It’s still late, but still early for Spain. I ask if they have wine para llevar, to carry away, and they do. ‘Our hotel room has an outdoor tub,’ I tell Guillermo, ‘And I lost my passport on the plane here, but got an emergency one today. I’m going to take a tub with some bubbles in celebration. What’s a good sparkling wine for that?’ He thinks about it for a moment and comes back with a good option. Guili Guili Guili the label reads. I’ll take it.
‘Before we have to go,’ I ask, ‘Do you have any sherry?’
‘Do we have any sherry? We have the second best sherry you’ll ever put in your mouth,’ he tells us, and I am intrigued. ‘The best sherry is gone,’ he says rather sadly, and we understand. Sometimes the best things aren’t available anymore—discontinued, or dead.
He returns with two glasses of the second best sherry we’ll ever put in our mouths. And it is. Complex and woody, deep without being sharp or splintery. It lingers in your tongue, in your mouth. Some apricot, but peach Guillermo corrects us. We sip it slowly, savouring it.
We square up and ask if we should tip. ‘It’s a matter of personal preference,’ Guillermo tells us, and for some reason I decide not to. I also ask if I can leave Guillermo my numbers. Trying not to hit on people in their workplace and all. He brings me some blank receipt paper, and a pen. I am proud to say I write both my US and my Spanish numbers legibly, tidily even. It has been so long since I left my number on blank receipt paper.
I take my bubbly wine and we are on our way.
The sherry is not on the bill.
OK, OK. Thanks, Grampy. You get the credit, if you insist.
We walk home. Back in the square close to our hotel, the protest has finished, and some city workers are putting up a Christmas tree.
I take an outdoor tub, and we sleep well.
In the morning we sleep in, not having anything to do today except go to dinner for our reservation at Berbena for 20 h. We are really on vacation now.
In the square the Christmas trees are up, undecorated. I want to get pizza, but the best pizza place around isn’t open yet, their grate partially pulled up, even though online it says they should be open. ‘I need to stop trusting Google Maps,’ Ryan says and ‘Yes,’ I confirm.
So we walk to a cute wine shop I had noticed yesterday. We stop at a coffee shop across the way from the not-quite-open-yet pizza place first. We could use a little caffeine. I get an iced coffee here, an odd order for me. I am having an odd morning. I’m extremely excited. I know it’s going to be a great day. The iced coffee is huge, with just two large ice cubes in it. The lid is one of those domed ones that leaves room for whipped cream. It’s perfect. Ryan gets a cortado.
When we arrive at the cute wine shop, Ryan balks, thinking it is a wine shop only and doesn’t sell glasses for consumption on premise, but at this point in our trip I don’t even argue with him, I just wander confidently forward and start looking at the wine menu up on the wall at the back of the shop. If he asks me how I knew I’m just going to have to tell him how I know anything. I just know. And I notice things. We order two glasses of the Navarra from the sole other person on the premise, who looks a bit lost. It becomes clear as he searches through the wine cooler that I have once again managed to order something they are out of, a special skill of mine. Another man enters, chats with the first man, then comes to us to explain they’re out. He offers us something similar, and we consent. ‘That’s another reason why you should say yes to things,’ I tell Ryan. ‘People tend to ask questions that they expect to be answered in the affirmative, so it’s easier if you just say yes.’ I didn’t understand everything the man said to me, but I understood enough to know that I was agreeing to some good local white wine. He brings us wine, and olives, the first ones we’ve had stuffed with pimentos. And a bottle full of skewers, for the olives.
They don’t really have much in the way of food here, and Pla B sounds like a good plan B, so after this glass we walk there for some food. We had noticed yesterday when we had time for a glass of wine only that they had good vegetarian options. We order one of everything that sounds good, and some wine. And some agua con gas. We even stay for dessert. We leave just as a party of 20 tourists arrives.
Ryan wants to visit La Sagrada Familia. It’s a 40-ish minute walk, so we adventure in that direction. We arrive just as my step-brother is texting me happy Friday, morning East Coast time. I text him a silly selfie back. I had forgotten what a beautiful city this is. Sean is jealous. I’m looking forward to seeing him for Thanksgiving in just a few days.
‘Should we go in?’ Ryan asks, trying to gauge the wait. But there’s no line really, or what line there is moves quickly, because tickets are purchased online in advance. We order some and show our QR codes at the gates.
I don’t know what to say about La Sagrada Familia. It’s stunning. The crypt is closed; it doesn’t open again until 18 h, and we will not be staying that long. I know the crypt is closed because I looked down into it and saw the votives, and looked it up. There will be no lighting candles here. That’s OK, though; Nana doesn’t really care for this architecture anyway. It’s a bit of a shame, but it means I can enjoy it all the more for myself. I amuse myself by taking pictures of people taking pictures. I text Mark all the Mark sculptures, including one of two dudes making out, Mark kissing Jesus. Ryan does not think it is two dudes making out, but I don’t know how else to explain Mark 14:45:
And as soon as he was come, he goeth straightway to him, and saith, Master, master; and kissed him.
‘I want to get cash and go back to Bar Brutal and tip,’ I tell Ryan, and he agrees it’s a good plan. We should have plenty of time to walk back, stay for a glass of something (or two), and freshen up at our hotel before our dinner reservation. If it’s raining we’ll take a taxi, but if it’s not we’ll walk.
We enter, and I am in a happy place again. The cute waitress greets us and offers us a table, but says she’ll need it at 19h30. We don’t have enough time to stay that long anyway, so this is perfect. Guillermo turns around from a register and registers us, tilts his head in acknowledgement. He comes over to our table, stands across from me, leans over onto the table propped up on his fists in that way that he does.
‘And how was your night?’ I ask.
‘Shit got weird,’ he answers, because of course it did. ‘We drank a bunch of wine and were up late having a dance party, so now I’m fucking tired. It was all friends and fun. There’s a guy who DJs, and around 2:30 he started DJing, but eventually around 4:30 we had to be like, “OK, it’s time to go home.”’ I am a little sad to have missed an after-hours dance party on Beaujolais Nouveau Day; it is such a Wine Bottega thing. But still I have no regrets. ‘Did you get to drink your wine in the outdoor tub?’ he adds.
‘I did. And it was perfect. Thank you,’ I answer, along with, ‘We’ll have two vermouths, please.’
Bar Brutal smells like a natural wine shop crossed with a pub, because it kind of is. Red neon lights let you know you’ve come to the right place, and create a bit of a forbidden atmosphere inside. You cross a threshold when you enter. There is a swordfish behind the bar, which I had texted a picture of to my drinking buddy Ben last night because it made me think of him. He fishes tuna, and at first I thought it might be a tuna. There is a poster of the moon on the wall that I notice today because it makes me think of my favourite bartender at Idle Hands, Ryan, who loves the moon. He loves the moon so much he named his car after it. There are Idle Hands vibes in Bar Brutal. I feel at home.
We stay until we have to leave. I remember to ask the waitress whether they sell their t-shirts, and she returns with our sizes. It’s an excellent souvenir, for us.
Before we go, I find Guillermo. I rest my hand on his shoulder as I say his name. He turns around.
‘It’s good to see you again,’ he says, and gives me a hug.
‘Until next time,’ I tell him. And I turn and walk away.
I pass Ryan on my way out. Ryan wants to find Guillermo to thank him. I listen to their conversation out of one ear as I walk out of Bar Brutal this time around, chatting with the cute waitress who thanks me for the tip.
‘Still writing?’ Ryan asks me on the plane home, peering over at me. The last trip we took together, I finished six or seven books. This was always going to be a writing trip. (Hi Ryan! If you’re reading this! Although no one should ever read my blog. I write it mainly for Mary Beth, and for myself, a travel diary, linked stories.)
‘Yeah, I’m writing about the hot bartender at Bar Brutal. It’s nice.’
‘O, did you get her name?’ Ryan asks, still amusing me that he somehow failed to notice everything I’ve written about faithfully above.
‘It was Guillermo,’ I tell him.
‘O, were you into him?’ he asks.
‘Yeah.’
‘I had assumed he wouldn’t be your body type.’
‘I don’t have a physical type, remember?’ I had thought I didn’t have a type at all, and I told you that. And of course you perfectly pegged my type, that I have to be interested in someone intellectually first and foremost. I can’t remember what else you said, because to be quite honest I was a bit too distracted by both the shock of being called out on something like that as well as your display of intellectual acuity to be able to pay full attention, but I know that it was all true. It’s so hot to be corrected, when I’m wrong but trying to get away with it via sheer confidence. I was too distracted by how hot you were being—and completely unintentionally at that, which made it even hotter—to be able to remember what else you described, but I know that you were right. It wasn’t lost on me that you were describing yourself, though. You are my type.