Published in BCNWEEK
Issue # 10
July 21 - 27, 2006
Squinting into the sun, I catch a glimpse of a familiar swimsuit walking by. It’s a one-piece, leopard print little number. And then . . . wait . . .Yes! The same woven beach bag swinging alongside the suit. That means she’s been at this beach every day this weekend. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Of course, that means I’ve been at this beach every day this weekend but, hey, I’m an out-of-work English teacher slash writer. There are a million of me in Barcelona. But there are very few of her.
I have no actual proof that she was also here Thursday, Wednesday, etc. moving backwards in time, but if you judge by her skin you can tell there have been a couple hundred more weekends like this one in her life. It’s a dark, dark brown and seems thicker than most. It isn’t dry, but it obviously hasn’t been lathered with sunscreen but perhaps the polar opposite, super absorbent sunbeam attractor creme. Her hide is exactly that, a hide, like a pelt. The skin is wrinkly as can be but at the same time tight and hard, like leather. She’d make a great shoe.
This whole curing process makes her age difficult to tell, and you can be damned sure that I’m not about to ask her. If she pulled that flirtatious thing and said, “guess,” I’d be as good as hung. You try and guess the age of the jamon on top of your local bar counter, or how many leap years your auntie’s christmas pudding has seen. Besides, this is not a flirting matter. This woman is here strictly on business. “No interviews. I’m here to broncearme,” I imagine her saying.
I climb slowly out of my imagination and stand up to walk the 20 odd steps that separate us. But my legs are stunned into stillness by what my eyes doth see. The Beach Queen has removed the top half of her bathing suit to reveal (yes, I am from the United States and am still, normally, as excited as a school boy to see) a fresh pair of long, leathery breasts. Oh lord!
“Uh . . . perdon, do you come to this playa often?” “Si claro! It’s what I most like to do. I don’t work. My husband esta en el bar.” “What bar?” “Lo Extremeno.” “You’re from Extremadura?” “Claro! You don’t hear my accent?” “What’s your name?” “Senora Silvia Ruiz.” “Senora Ruiz, I think you are expecting demasiado from a guiri. Understanding is prioridad numero uno, I usually don’t get as far as distinguishing accents.” “Pue . . tu ere muy majete pase guiri.”
So it went like that, small talk between me and the Beach Queen Senora Silvia Ruiz. Small talk until she sat up a little more and I sensed a sexy pose taking shape. Oh lord. Free advice to all those save the Beach King who’s out there somewhere: It’s ok to love the Beach Queen for being herself, just don’t love the Beach Queen. . And for the rest of us, so we might understand her the next time, pue is pues, ere is eres, pase is para ser, and majete is nice. It appears not to many guiris are cuddling up with the reina.
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