A Spanish “Barbacoa”

Location: Madrid, Spain

Friday June 25, 2010

Traveling is all about trust and finding the right people to trust. Being in a strange new place makes it easy to stick with what you know (only hanging out with American friends) instead of venturing out and meeting new people. We went out on a limb by accepting Alejandro’s invite to his pool party/barbeque for the Spanish vs. Chile fútbol game, even though we had talked to him for, like, only two hours at Bo Finn on Wednesday. Valentina was a bit sketched out by the chain-Marlboro-smoking half-German/half-Spaniard, probably because at one point, after Jade and I left, it was revealed that he had been kicked out of six different boarding schools with reasons unexplained that night. So I understand how sketch it was for us girls (Jade, Nikita, Valentina, Jackie [a current Spanish teacher in the States with brown curly hair and a past IES semester student three years ago, who also lived with Nikita and Valentina’s señora], and me) to jump into Alejandro’s red Mini Cooper and his friend Fefe’s (short for Sefan, but physically tall, bigger-built, light eyes, very German-looking) black Mercedes sedan to be driven to Alejandro’s mom’s house (his parents are divorced since he was little) that’s about 5 km from the center of Madrid.

As Jade and I waited at Parque de Avenidas to be picked up, it started to rain and thunder, so the idea of a pool party went out the door. But that was fine, because the main focus of the party was fútbol anyhow, as we came to realize when went through the gated driveway and around the (nice and big) house to the back to find Alejandro and Ramiro’s friends sitting on patio furniture and intently watching the game that had already begun with the television set up outside. It was quite the sausage fest + two male dogs: a large drooly grey mastiff (think worthy to compete with Hagrid’s Fang in any slobber contest) and an adorable attention-whoring mixed bulldog. Good thing we were there to provide gender (and racial, I guess, but that’s always the case here) diversity. We were met by Alejandro’s mother, who conveniently disappeared for the remainder of the night, while the other guys didn’t bother to get up to give us the double kisses but opted for the American wave instead, since the game was on. As we watched the game, we made ourselves kalimotxos (wine + coke) and vino y limón (wine + lemonade), which were surprisingly thirst-quenching. And we thought we, Americans, were into our football… Spanish people really get into their fútbol. When David Villa, MVP, continued his lucky streak by scoring the first goal against Chile, everyone flipped shit (in a good way) and started jumping around, so that Ramiro spilled brown kalimotxos on the cream-coloured couch, but the game was back on, so no biggie.

When the game finished, we went over to the pool house for dinner. When Alejandro said barbeque on Wednesday night, I imagined a good ole American barbeque with franks and kebobs, but it turned out differently with catered platters of delicious food that magically arrived as we hung out at the table. I guess smoked salmon, potatoes, tomato salad, and BBQ chicken works too. The extent of barbequing that I witnessed was Alejandro throwing in the already-cooked chicken into his built-in brick ovens. Hard work, I know.

I sat across from Felix, an eye-glasses-wearing, dark complexion Spaniard in a full-leg cast and crutches (because he fell down a flight of stairs whilst drunk a few weeks ago). He was quite the ladies man, because he just gave off a nice-guy air so all the girls felt comfortable talking to him, as he was good at explaining things when we didn’t understand something he said in Spanish. He told us that the boys all knew each other from going to the same German international boarding school, but I don’t know if it was for elementary, middle, or high school. So they speak Spanish, German, English, if not more. But now each person, out of high school, is doing something different and summer vacaying in their home base. I gathered that Felix studies in Glasgow, Ramiro studies law in Madrid, and Alejandro works for his parents’ interior design company in Madrid. As we ate our dindin, the guys broke out the hard a and joints. I was wondering when Alejandro was going to make us the mojitos he promised us on Wednesday night. Most of the guys were drinking cacique (oh, Andre!) with coke. According to Felix, Spaniards keep it classy by not doing shots. Hmm… I wonder if there are more drunkorexics here in Spain if girls/gay boys don’t take shots… I could barely down the large mojito (that I requested not too strong… thought I doubt my wish was honored) made with Venezuelan Cacique with all the wine I had drunk. To make up for the fact that they weren’t doing shots, the guys filled the majority of the large glasses with liquor and ice before pouring in just a wee bit of mixer. Our friend, Tito at one end of the table, smoked a shitload of weed during the course of our three/four-hour dinner/pregame. At one point, it was hilarious to see him sit across from Valentin, who had gotten completely shit-faced and was hanging off of anyone who was next to him. Drunk Ramiro had to put on a serious face to cut his friend off, which didn’t work that well, seeing that I saw Valentin helping himself to something else just a few minutes after.

We gradually got closer and closer to leaving as more and more people disappeared to change into clubbing clothes. All the guys wore basically the same thing, light-coloured or white button-up shirts with khakis or trousers. Such a easy dress-code to follow. The girls’ part was trickier, a couple of the girls didn’t expect to go out, so they didn’t bring anything to change into. Ramiro assured us that they would get in anyways, being female. We finally got everyone outside the gates around 3 am, and boy did that take organizing. Thank god not everyone was in Valentin’s state of mind. I chose Jorge to be my designated driver, seeing him as the lesser evil, even though Ramiro claimed that the designated drivers didn’t drink (false. Oh, I saw Fefe downing them like a pro), because Jorge was quiet, reserved, and Mr. S-the-music-teacher-emo/Chris-the-Orgo-TA-grumpy the whole night in his full-beard and grey sweater. The boys decided it would be fun to drag race through the streets of Madrid, speeding from one stop light to the next, taking up multiple lanes, and making obscene gestures at one another (and what do you know? The bird is quite cross-cultural. Oh the things, I am learning in Spain!). It was very reminiscent of those good ole dance team days and the wars between the juniors and seniors with our car chases in suburban Clackamas. But yeah… it was a good thing we didn’t die that night...

When we arrived at some club named Art Deco near Avenidas de América, in the Northeastern part of Madrid, I exchanged numbers with Jorge, in case he were to leave early with my bag in his trunk. Art Deco was full of Spaniards, which was such a change from the American club the night before. They played Spanish music and American songs, but remixed. Getting our free drink (Bacardi and Sprite) that came with our entrance fee (€11, stab me in the chest now… -.-“), Jade was stoked to hear reggaeton boom through the speakers. All the Spanish guys wore the same uniform as our guys, but there was more mixing with the girls, with some glammed up and other more glam-punk. I fell in love with one hipster-than-thou girl with a dark pixie cut, black heavy-framed glasses, and a short long-sleeve black lace dress. Absolutely adorbs.

While I danced with Alejandro (terrible dancer, btdubs, *sigh* 20 pts. off. Is it really that hard to keep a beat? Honestly, try. I think I’m too used to going out w/ my RB/Groove kids and getting it at parties… ><”), Valentin drunk-crept on the other girls, stumbling around and spilling his drink on people. I think my arm got completely soaked at one point. Valentin wouldn’t get out of the girls’ faces—a drunk boy just can’t take no, can he?—until some rando Spanish girl came by and gave him the dance and make-out session he was asking for. So dance floor hookups, although often reserved for freshmen year and Safety Dance back in the States, are quite common here. If couples don’t mind making out on the street and being on top of one another in the parks, then Spaniards definitely do not have qualms about a little fun on the dance floor. Knowing that rum and coke was my simple mixed drink of choice, Alejandro kept one in my hand for the rest of the night. As I finished a cup, another would magically appear. It’s funny how things work that way. And oh, Felix! ¡Pobrecito! Uncontented with being the crippled wallflower, Felix stood on his working foot and danced with his upper body. I felt bad that his crutches, which were leaning against the wall, kept falling down, because people bumped into them as they walked by, but most often because drunk people thought it would be entertaining to knock the poor boy’s crutches over so he would have to struggle to pick them up.

The club closed at 6:00 am and as we were heading out, Nikita and Jackie found that Fefe had left with their shit in his car, even though they had exchanged numbers, as per my suggestion in the beginning of the night. And I swear, I saw him most of the night at the bar by where we were dancing. Was it so hard for him to come up to us to tell the girls that he was leaving? And he wouldn’t pick up his phone when the girls rang or text back. Alejandro would later tell me that Fefe is the biggest flake in the group; he does what he wants and then considers how it affects people later. I’m so glad I chose my emo Jorge!

Alejandro said that we would move on to another club or to Alvaro’s (light-brown-haired, Spanish boy with a strong opinion about everything) apartment that was near the club. When the girls heard of this plan, they immediately said no, because they were way too tired for more partying. I would’ve been up for anything since I didn’t feel tired at that point. I was only concerned about getting back to my house before Carmen woke up, since I didn’t think about texting her to let her know I was going out until 1:00 am, and I didn’t want to wake her up with my message. An über light sleeper, Carmen calls her ability to wake up to any noise a maternal preoccupation over the safety of her kids (Celia and me). I imagined that Carmen would freak the fuck out, thinking that I was dead under bags of trash in some cobbled-stoned alley somewhere or sold in an underground prostitution ring the likes of which could be seen in the kickass movie, Taken with our favourite Jedi master/scarily protective father, if I were to be still missing in the morning. Alejandro said it would be fine if I were to hang out for a couple of hours and return, since Carmen probably wasn’t going to wake up that early anyways, since many Madrilenos sleep in a bit on the weekends. But in the end, I chose to be safe by leaving with the girls instead of hanging out by myself with the guys. Although all the boys seemed decent, I didn’t want to risk it, seeing that we had met them just half a day ago. We assured them we would have a chance to play tomorrow night, but Alejandro still got pissed off, saying that you never know if something unexpected were to come up. Jackie led the way to Avenida de América metro stop, knowing the way because Jorge had told her. Alejandro cursed him out for giving us encouragement to leave. Wow, such strong feelings. Someone had to calm down.

It turned out ultimately to be a fail, and that I should/could have hung out with the guys instead. Catching that early train and bus back to my house didn’t matter that much, because as I quietly snuck through the door at 7:00 am, I heard the clinking of Carmen’s spoon in her coffee cup. Ay, Dios. I apologized profusely for not giving her a ring before, but she wasn’t altogether that angry. She told me she assumed that I was sleeping over at Jade’s apartment or something, because it was probably too late to come home. So I didn’t actually have to get back early. Damn.