Spanish men are a lot like Spanish reds: deep, dark, and slow-moving. Pour yourself a glass and admire the way the wine clings to the sides of the glass like a thick syrup, something akin to blood, which would be just a few shades lighter than the Spanish wines I've got on my mind...
During the siesta, while Madrileños were home enjoying long, languid lunches, we scurried from shaded bench to shaded bench throughout Retiro Park to escape the near-100 degree afternoon heat. We'd finished our spinach empanadas and were trying not to expend our energy with too much talk when a tall 30-something Spanish man approached us and asked in English for a pen.
As Zoe fished in her purse for the pen that was most certainly waiting to be found, the other three of us went into paranoid tourist mode, keeping one eye on the zipper of our bags and the other on the surrounding bushes and pathways where a quick-fingered accomplice may be lurking. But no one else was around, and I had a small combination lock on my purse zipper, so my eyes inevitably drifted in the direction of the tall Spaniard who was writing something on a pad of paper: a poem? a delirious insight? a grocery list?
The overgrown curls on his head hung around his head like vines the color of coffee grounds, complementing the caramel of his skin. Both his cream colored button-up shirt and his khaki pants were linen and seemed to exist in orbit around his limbs, not clinging to his skin nor swallowing them whole, rather, just, being there. His leather sandals had seen Madrid many times over and cradled the his strong feet in their bed.
I think he probably stood there for little more than three minutes, but I can see him so vividly in my memory. Madrid was my first taste of Spain, and although the pick-pocketing on the metro had prejudiced me slightly against the Spanish, I was quickly realizing that Spanish men were more to my taste than the Italians. In Italy--at least, in my experience as a short-term Perugina--the young adult men were fussy and conceited, like something straight out of a Gucci ad, complete with lavender colored button-ups, pointed leather shoes, and feminine sunglasses. They complimented me in Italian then playfully demanded I show some gratitude. That's not to say I didn't see my fair share of bearded Italian granolas, especially in the college town of Perugia, but when I saw this Spanish man standing mere feet away from me, all Italian men paled.
I knew nothing about this Spaniard, but the caramel of his skin called to mind the dirt of the field and the toiling of a farmer. I pictured him tending grape vines in the heat of the day and sipping coffee in cafés at night with other intellectuals. Was he a Socialist? His skin looked warm and sweet. An Italian's olive skin would be pale and sickly in comparison, suggesting dubious occupations in back alleyways, away from the sun.
But don't get me wrong! I saw many genial Italian men with whom I could have a friendly conversation, but maybe that was part of the reason I was so intrigued by this Spaniard. Whereas I could communicate with any mammismo over the advantages of tiramisù gelato over zuppa inglese, conversing with this man might have proved a bit prickly. Sure, we could have made it work, between my Italian and first grader's Spanish and his Spanish and (I'm assuming) English, but some things would have gotten lost in translation, and then words must become obsolete.
He finished his note-writing and gave Zoe her pen back. Would you believe I was surprised to see him go? But he did, and I was... The four of us double-checked with each other to make sure nothing had gone missing during the interaction and then moved on to the next bench where I practiced the flick of my fanning wrist and my best come hither look, hoping it might fool someone into believing I was a Spanish señorita.
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