Advertisement
Published: September 24th 2006
Edit Blog Post
I’ve been so overwhelmed by kindness in Salamanca that I want to do myself grievous harm, like some medieval flagellant. Patrick and Karla have made a point of shepherding me around town, plying me with drinks and objecting fiercely when I even start to reach for my wallet. The fact that Karla tends bar hardly helps matters. There’s a beer waiting for me before I’ve even had time to take a seat, while Patrick - one of Heineken’s leading sales reps in France, it must be said - helps me through some of his company’s more obscure offerings. You’d be surprised just how much of a stranglehold the major manufacturers have on the beer market. Patrick likes to point out that Desperados - a wildly popular beer that, at 6%!a(MISSING)lc./vol., is like a cross between a Corona and a kick in the head - is actually brewed in Strasbourg.
I’ve gotten adjusted to the rhythms of Spanish life in a way I couldn’t manage in San Sebastian. I suspect that’s because, in San Sebastian, I wasn’t hitting my first bar at two, crawling into bed at six, and cradling my head over a
café con leche for
much of the afternoon. The siesta is less a pleasure than a grim necessity, a white flag I wave to spare my internal organs - those battered, wounded soldiers - from meeting an ugly end in the trenches.
I’m not entirely sure how anyone can sustain this way of life. On most nights Karla works double-duty behind the bar: first, at a busy pub in the Renfe train station; then, after a 2am cat-nap, at an after-hours spot that doesn’t open till six. We go there on a wet, chilly Friday night. There are some guys leaning against the bar looking a bit worse for wear; in the corner, two older men are in a heated conversation, the color high in their faces. Though we practically have the place to ourselves at a quarter past six, there’s a line outside just after seven. The bars and
discotecas have closed around the city, and for the many young Salamancans who regard sleep the way the rest of us regard genocide, the party needs must go on. It’s after 10 when Karla finally makes it home; I can hear her tired, heavy steps in the hall, long after I’ve thrown
in the towel.
The remarkable thing is that this isn’t just a case of college kids run amok. What’s amazed me without fail for the past two weeks is how the tapas bars and restaurants and cafés of Spain are crowded deep into the night by people of all ages. In the Plaza Mayor, there’s the sort of congestion you wouldn’t expect to see in the States outside of a nursing home. Gray-haired men in cardigans and women in shapeless dresses sit on the benches, laughing heartily, rocking back and forth. Around them little kids screech and whirl; now and then, one buries himself in some
abuelo’s lap.
The Spanish have figured out a few things about aging, the most important of which seems to be that it counts for damn little. Hobbled old couples - holding each other for support as they cross a cobbled street - walk hand-in-hand like young lovers. At a popular
discoteca, where the crowd continues to file in at half-past five, men my father’s age are circling the dancefloor, making awkward little hip moves off-beat.
I want to grow old in Spain. I want to stay young in Spain.
I want to watch the birds that circle the Catedral Nueva every day, tucking themselves behind the elaborate friezes of the saints. I want to watch the light changing on the flagstones of the Plaza Mayor.
Most of all I want to stop waking up with a swollen head and a mouthful of cotton. But some things in Salamanca are easier pulled off than others.
One afternoon, as Karla sleeps off another double-shift, me and Patrick knock about the Plaza Mayor. As a Parisian, he’s having a hard time digesting the hair styles around us. Even with his rumpled, just-rolled-out-of-bed look, there’s a sense he gets some elaborate cut on the Rue de Bouffant at least four times a week.
When he gets animated, his face goes through a dozen expressive gestures in a flash. “They shave over here,” he says, pointing to the side of his head, “and maybe up here” - pointing to the top - “and then here, they grow it long.” He pantomimes a long mullet trailing between his shoulder blades. I ask if it’s not some sort of European style - if I wouldn’t see the same thing on the Champs
d’Elysees.
“Oh no,” he says, wagging his hands. “No no no no no no.”
A man of few words, that Patrick.
I’m disappointed that he doesn’t share my scientific interest in Spanish hair styles. In Salamanca, it’s almost unfair to use a word like mullet. These Spaniards have crafted so many elaborations on that humble theme that you suspect - much like the Inuit with their 42 words for “snow” - there are dozens of different
palabras to accommodate every last subtle style.
Mulletito: a little tuft at the base of the hairline, like a rabbit’s foot.
Muy-llet: a veritable cascade of hair that reaches between the shoulderblades.
Patrick has had enough: he’s beating it back to Paris in the morning. At Latino, where Karla has the early shift, he leans across the bar to plant one on her cheek. While we play pool, she wraps an arm around his waist. It hasn’t been easy for them, negotiating the distance between Paris and Salamanca. One weekend she surprised him with a phone call from Charles DeGaulle; in August, they rented a car and spent a few days driving around Portugal. Karla’s had to change her plan to meet him in Paris next week, and they make little faces of resignation at the thought of going a few more weeks apart.
He tells me to look him up when I’m in Paris. He wants to show me the city’s nightlife, offering to get me into the best bars and clubs. Though he’s griped about the hours his job demands, it’s not without its perks. But I’ll be damned if there’s anything in my backpack I can wear to a trendy Parisian nightclub.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.529s; Tpl: 0.011s; cc: 30; qc: 130; dbt: 0.3324s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.4mb
Patrick
non-member comment
No es un problema mi amigo
There s no problem bout your outfit mi amigo. You are welcome in Paris at any time and you dont need anything. Ciao