Six Weeks in Spain
When I arrive, I think Spain is beautiful. Charming. The balconies are small and pretty. Ornamental. Spain feels like the type of place where people still meet accidentally and grow into love in person. It’s what I’ve come to expect from the movies. Except for Lavapies. I haven’t seen that in any Spanish movie.
*
When people call me American, I correct them. I know they do not mean, “from the Americas,” they mean “estadounidense” and those are not the same thing. A Spanish man agrees with me.
“Canadians are more European. They have a more European sensibility.” He means it as a compliment, obviously.
*
We are tourists in Spain, so we go see a Flamenco show while in Barcelona. When the musicians walk on stage I can feel that my friend is having the same reaction I am: they’re all brown, and we’re surprised. She turns to me and asks where they hide this family. It’s a joke, kind of. After the dancing starts I glance at her again and see that she’s crying. She doesn’t understand what they’re singing about, but, still. I don’t mention it.
*
“Where are you ladies heading tonight?”
We know what he’s trying to do, but he’s Black, so we stop. He asks where we’re from. When we ask him the same, he just says, “Africa.” We laugh and probe.
West Africa. Cameroon.
“My name is Moreno,” he tells us.
“Your name is NOT Moreno,” I say, and I’m right.
We engage in small talk, take a peek into his bar, and decide to leave. As we walk away, my friend laughs, “He treated us like we were white.”
*
“Hola,” the White men whisper if I pass them too closely. Some make a show of looking at me. I remember a friend’s warning: The men will treat you like a prostitute because you’re Black.
Sometimes the brothers on the block will call out “rasta” and “africana,” but I’m told they’re not really looking for me.
“It’s not that they don’t like us,” an African-American woman tells me. “It’s that the white women can get them what they need — papers.”
*
I look up at the door to my Airbnb and see the gum. Off-white, chewed, and stuck to the plaque that says “Vivienda uso turistico.” I take a photo and send it to the owner with the message, “mira que tanto nos quieren.” He’s surprised; he doesn’t see why there’d be any issue since most of the building is now tourist lodging anyway. Maybe that’s the problem, I think. Wherever we go in droves, we change. I tell him it’s fine.
*
The woman tells me she’s 40, but she looks older. Her boyfriend is 30, although, he’s not really her boyfriend at the moment. She’s mad at him.
“He is in jail right now. He is into bad things, drugs.” I nod to show understanding. I know she isn’t finished; this isn’t why she’s mad. She sighs.
“He is so beautiful, so girls like him. He is very promiscuous, so it is a problem. But I just love his skin,” she runs her hands down her own face. “He’s from Senegal.” I nod.
*
I feel underdressed and out of place. Gregory Porter is playing at the Teatro Real in Madrid and everyone in attendance is White, except me. I climb the stairs for a better vantage point. This is wild, I think, and I take video because it’s amusing, but also because I need to occupy myself. I feel self-conscious; I’m in jeans and Keds, they’re in dress pants and heels. Eventually I see more of us, and I relax. I message a friend back home: The Whites love Gregory Porter.
*
“You were driving those guys crazy. They asked, ‘de donde sacaste esa negra?!” My new friend laughs and I smile like I do when I’m uncomfortable. We head down the street to find a taxi to another bar and I wonder if I should have dressed differently. I feel conspicuous.
She stops to check her phone and I see an older man walking towards us from across the street. He stops before he reaches us, and places the brown leather bag he was carrying into the garbage bin between us. He smiles at me as he closes the lid, and walks away.
*
I keep checking the map on my phone, trying to find my way back to the apartment. These streets change names and direction at any point. A man catches up and walks alongside me.
“Hello,” he says.
“Hi, how are you?” There’s more small talk before he asks the question.
“Where are you from?” I decide to give him the short version.
“Canada,” I say. He laughs.
“What?” I ask with a straight face. He tells me he didn’t hear me properly. I ask him where he’s from and he says Ethiopia, and that he’s here in Spain to work. We trade unimportant questions before he tries again.
“So,” he says. “You didn’t tell me. Where are you from?”
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