Papá Hemingway

Since I stumbled upon Hemingway in my blog the other night, and feeling the pasión of España myself, I thought maybe I’d try some bad rip-off of Papá …

It was a cold Saturday night, colder than most.  I had had too much rioja, so I wasn’t as coherent as I might have been, but it didn’t really matter.   A buxom young Madrileña wearing too much make-up and hot pants that made her look like an extra on Laugh In asked, “Señor, can you give me a light?”, as she shook her booty in our direction.   Cristóbol rolled his eyes, and I wondered if we hadn’t met the dumbest bitch in Madrid.  “You must have us confused without someone else” I said, as we continued our way along Gran Via.  But she followed us, throwing back her black hair and flashing a Jordache smile like a long-ago episode of Charlie's Angles, and said, “No Señor.  It is you to whom I am speaking”.  But we walked on, we in our thoughts and she in hers. 

I wondered why the buxom señorita with her plunging bust line had stopped to talk to us.  I wondered why her legs had been bare on such a cold winter night.  I wondered why the traffic lights were on the side of the street rather than above the lanes.  But it didn’t matter.  Not tonight.  Tonight we would forget all that.  Tonight we would eat and drink and try to forget the economic reality that surrounded us. 

But the memory of the Gran Via hooker lingered with me like a garlic sandwich on rye.  Her penetrating coal-black eyes haunted me with their wanting, provocative gaze.  I fell asleep wondering how different her life would be, had circumstances been different.  Some might have thought her immoral, but what is moral is what you feel good after and what is immoral is what you feel bad after.  I wondered how many times she felt good after.  

I thought about her saunter up and down Gran Via, and I thought about her pimp.  I thought about who he might be and thought about what she might earn.  I wondered for whom the belle strolled and hoped that she didn't stroll for free.  I had an eerie feeling that I had known her before, but downed another cup of java and turned my thoughts to other things. 

 Spain has had so many new experiences, but none more august than its wine and cheese ...