With Love from Spain, Melanie Martin

by Carol Weston

  In the middle of lunch, we heard an explosion. Matt got so scared, he dropped his pizza on his pants. Smooth move! It was 2:00 P.M., so I calmly informed him, “It's the Mascleta.”

  Dad said, “Mel's right.”

  “It's the last one until next year because today is the last day of Las Fattas,” I added.

  “Right again,” Mom said. “Spring is almost here.”

  Pizza-Pants Matt made a face at me, and Mom said, “At least you were wearing your jeans, not your good pants.” Then she added that “jeans” in Spanish is vaqueros (Ba Care Ohs), which literally means cowboys. Cowboys?!

  Antonio and Miguel are about to pick us up, so Dad told us to go to the bathroom. Actually, what Dad said was: “Pee now or forever hold your piss—I mean, peace.” That got Matt smiling again, but Mom and I thought Dad was not setting a good example.

  Secret: I hope Miguel double-kisses me today!

  P.S. Kiss in Spanish is beso (Bay So). Is double kiss beso beso.?

  back at Antonio's brother's

  Dear Diary,

  Two days ago, I wrote, I could not believe my ears. Tonight, I could not believe my eyes!

  It is ridiculously late, and Matt went straight to sleep, but Mom said I could write until she and Dad are done packing.

  First of all, (Two exclamation marks for two kisses.)

  By the way, in Spanish, exclamation marks go at the end and beginning of sentences.

  In English, you would read these sentences differently, right?

  I like Spain. I like Spain! I like Spain?

  Well, Spanish people do you a favor on the pronunciation (Pro Noon See Ahs Syown) because they warn you ahead whether to make your voice normal or excited or go up in a question. So it's:

  Me gusta Espana. /Me gusta Espana! /Me gusta Espana?

  Isn't that cool?

  Will I be a teacher like Mom?

  Anyway, Antonio picked us up and took us to his office. He probably just wanted Mom to see how big his office is. It is big, and from his window, you can see the pastry and popcorn stands that go up during Las Fattas.

  I don't get what Antonio does. I barely understand what Dad does. Miguel asked me, and instead of saying he's an abogado (Ah Bo Ga Doe), which means lawyer, I said he's an avocado (Ah Bo Ca Doe), which means avocado! I said my dad was an avocado! Miguel laughed but in a nice way.

  The bad thing about Antonio's office (and his brother's apartment building) is that when you turn on the hallway lights, they don't stay on long. After a few minutes, they go out to save energy. Mom and Dad think it's a smart sys-tem. Matt and I don't because sometimes you're left in the dark in the middle of the hallway. Fortunately, all the switches glow, so when it gets pitch-black, you can usually find one and press the lights back on again.

  Still, it can get spooky.

  One time I was in the dark right next to Miguel, and I dared myself to reach for his hand—but of course I didn't!!

  After we got back to the car, Miguel opened the door for me and said, “After you.” Wasn't that sweet?

  We drove to a nearby town where horchata (Or Chah Ta) was invented. Antonio said, “Me Ron Dah, I remember how much you love horchata.” It's so weird that Antonio knows stuff about Mom that we don't.

  Horchata is a sweet gray drink made from the chufa (Chew Fa) nut. It is not an alcoholic beverage so Matt and I got to taste some.

  We also ordered a Spanish pastry that was perfect for dunking in our horchatas. It's like a donut that is opened and flattened, and it's called farton (Fart Ton). Matt thought that was the greatest word he had ever ever ever heard. He was laughing so hard, I'm surprised the horchata didn't come out his nose. He was saying, “Pass the greasy /artdns,” and “If you eat too many fartons, you'll be fartin' a ton of farts.”

  Dad said, “That's enough!”

  Miguel asked, “What is funny?”

  I did not want to translate, and neither did Mom. She shrugged, then said, “Isn't the sunset beautiful?” to get us off the whole farton subject. “Look at those streaks of pink and purple!”

  She added that photographers call this “magic hour” because everybody looks beautiful in the fading light.

  “I think Me Ron Dah and May Lah Nee look beauty-full every hour of the day, don't you, Marc?” Antonio said. Miguel smiled, and I could feel myself blushing.

  Dad said, “I think you Spaniards could give us Americans lessons in gallantry.”

  I wasn't sure what Dad meant because I wasn't sure what “gallantry” means (I'm still not). It's confusing. I want Miguel to think I'm pretty, but I don't want Antonio to compliment Mom.

  And right in front of Dad!

  Then again, maybe it would be worse if he did it when Dad was not there!

  I checked under the table to make sure Mom and Antonio weren't playing footsie or anything. They weren't. Then I moved my toes two inches closer to Miguel's.

  I doubt he even noticed.

  We drove back to Valencia and took an evening walk. Mom and Antonio walked in front, then Miguel and me, then Dad and Matt. We all strolled under strings of little festival lights, and it reminded me of Christmas even though Christmas is still nine months (and six days) away. Vendors were selling treats, and Dad bought a slice of coconut rind for Mom, a fried pastry or bunuelo (Boon Nyoo L Oh) for Matt, and popcorn for me and Miguel.

  Sharing popcorn is my new favorite pastime.

  I told everyone to stop so I could take a picture. I took one of everybody, and then in the next one, I accidentally on purpose cut out Antonio—oops! These things happen!

  Antonio said, “My turn,” and took a picture of me next to Miguel. For about half a second, Miguel put his arm around me! If the photo comes out, I'll show it to Cecily. If it comes out well, I might even frame it!

  We looked at more fallas—those big wooden things that get planned, built, painted, photographed, and burned to a crisp. I said they were like floats from the Rose Bowl or Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade—but taller. Dad agreed, but added that some are “political.” Antonio said, “Yes. I like very much this one,” and pointed out a bullfighter folia that was anti-bullfighting. You could tell because the bullfighters looked really dopey. Dad pointed out another one that made fun of the leaders of Spain and of the United States. They all looked dopey too.

  Miguel said, “There are also children's fallas” and we looked at one with dwarves, dalmatian puppies, and a warty witch holding a poison apple or manzana (Mon Sahn Ah).

  “Do they get burned too?” I asked.

  “Si, senorita” (See Say Nyor E Ta), Antonio said. “At 10:00 P.M. It's a tradition.”

  “Tradition,” (Tra D C Own), Mom said so we'd learn a new word.

  We were eating dinner in a nearby restaurant when Matt asked, “Is it almost 10:00 P.M.?”

  Antonio checked his watch and said, “Casi casi” (Ca See Ca See) or “Almost almost.” (Mom translated.) Spaniards sometimes say “almost almost” instead of just “almost.” Isn't that strange strange?

  Well, about two minutes later, we heard a big whoosh and we could see flames through the window! Someone had lit the children's fatta right on schedule.

  Miguel said, “Let's go look,” and held the restaurant door open for me. First the dwarves caught fire! Then the puppies! Then the witch! I'd never seen such a tall bonfire! Lots of people crowded around to watch—couples and old people and kids on parents' shoulders, their eyes all big and round. Miguel and I got close enough to feel the heat. We were surrounded by people, but it also felt as if we were alone—just us.

  We were standing as close to each other as two people can without touching.

  It was incredible to watch the fattas burning, but I kept thinking of how much time and effort went into building them. All for nothing! All that work gone up in smoke!

  “Shouldn't there be firefighters-?G I asked.

  Miguel laughed and said, “Bomberos” (Bome Bear Ose). “Si, there are extra firefighters all over Valencia tonight.” Then he re
peated, “Firefighters-o,” and said, “May Lah Nee Mar Teen, you are very funny.”

  I smiled. Then I tried to stop smiling but couldn't, so I had to look down at the ground and wait for my face to relax.

  The streets stayed full! For the third night in a row!! All the people who had watched the procession on Saturday and the fireworks on Sunday were watching the bonfires tonight. There were also couples and families looking down from their apartment balconies and from behind the iron railings of their windows.

  It was fun to be out so late, but I started to worry because tomorrow we leave Valencia. Will I ever see Miguel again? Should I tell him I like him??

  No. I'm too chicken, and besides, I read in a magazine that you shouldn't TELL a boy what you feel, you should SHOW him. If you announce, “I like you,” you're forcing him to say something. And if he doesn't like you back, you might want to crawl under a rock and stay there for the whole rest of your life.

  Even if he does like you back, the magazine said, he may not automatically want to say so. Boys don't always want to go public with what's private, and some don't even know how they feel.

  So you're supposed to be patient (not my specialty). And you're supposed to just pay attention to the boy and try to notice if he pays attention to you back.

  The article was called “Don't Rush Your Crush.”

  The problem with good advice is that it's hard to follow.

  I think there are sparks between Miguel and me.

  But maybe this whole pyromaniac town is full of sparks because of the firecrackers, fireworks, and fires. Maybe it's nothing personal?

  And what about Mom and Antonio? Are sparks flying between Mom and her old flame??

  Speaking of sparks, at midnight the adult falias, got torched. There were giant bonfires on every corner! And at 1:00 A.M., the ENORMOUS final falla next to town hall went up in flames.

  I'd never seen anything like it—and for a kid, I get around.

  We were squooshed in the crowd again and I smelled the smoke and listened to the crackling fire and watched the red and yellow flames waving in the air like a Spanish flag. My eyes burned as white ashes came floating down from the sky. It felt as if I were inside a snow globe—but a hot snow globe.

  Suddenly a cameraman and a lady with a microphone rushed up to me. The lady started talking in Spanish. She was asking, “ fTe gusta?” which means “Do you like it?” So I said, “Si si si!” She looked surprised and asked if I was Spanish. I said, “No, americana (Ah Merry Con Ah). New York.” She said, “Muchas gracias” (Moo Choss Grah Sea Ahs), then went on to interview someone else.

  “She's getting reactions to this year's fallas for TV,” Antonio said. “I'll tape the program tomorrow and see if May Lah Nee is famosal I think you will be. If I worked for television, I would like a cute American child to say she liked our fiesta.”

  I wouldn't mind being famosa, but I really wish Antonio hadn't called me a child. And “beauty-full” is much better than “cute.”

  On the walk back, Miguel said, “See how messy Valencia is right now?” I looked at the littered candy wrappers, popcorn bags, and soda cups and said, “Si.” The crowds were heading home, and the bonfires were dying down. It was dark out, but besides litter, you could see glowing embers on street corners, like big nests of red rubies. They would have been perfect for roasting marshmallows (especially if you like them golden, not burned).

  “You see all those people wearing yellow?” Miguel asked.

  Matt said, “Si,” and I added, “Amarillo” (Ahm R E Yo), because I know how to say yellow.

  Miguel said, “Those are our sanitation workers. They work very hard tonight. Tomorrow morning— in just a few hours—this city will be so clean, it will be like all this never happened.”

  That got me worrying again. We leave Valencia tomor-row morning. Will it be like all this never happened?

  Antonio drove us back and dropped us off. Miguel double-kissed me in the dark—I seriously almost melted!

  I wanted to ask, “Will I see you again? When? Where?? And do you care???” but I didn't want to be obvious. Besides, shouldn't I be hoping for Dad's sake that Mom will not see Antonionionio again for another 17 years?

  Mom just came in and said, “Lights out, kiddo.” She and Dad are all packed up. They left Angel some CDs as a thank you along with a note that said to come visit someday.

  I better go to sleep before it's tomorrow morning, or as they say in Spanish, manana por la manana (Mon Yon Ah Pour Lah Mon Yon Ah). If the rest of our trip is like this, we're going to need a vacation at the end of our vacation!

  Dear Diary,

  I should probably feel happy. But it is hard to should your feelings.

  The reason I should feel happy (or at least happyish) is that I'm on a family vacation. Outside the window of our speeding train, I can see orange groves and sandy beaches and blue water.

  I don't feel happy, though.

  I don't feel anything.

  Except alone. And very still.

  We're sitting in our reserved seats. Matt and I are facing Mom and Dad, and we have a table and lamp between us. Dad said, “I can see why you fell for Antonio, Me Ron Dah. He's a real Don Juan. And very gallant. Spaniards put us Americans to shame.”

  Mom said, “I can't disagree,” and smiled.

  Matt said, “What do you mean, ‘a real Don Juan’?”

  Dad said, “A Don Juan is a ladies' man—a player. It comes from an old play by Tirso de Molina (Teer So Day Mo Lean Ah) about a man from Seville who gets women to fall for him but who doesn't know what love is. He's a heartbreaker. Other people wrote about Don Juan too. Mozart wrote an opera called Don Giovanni” (Don G O Von E).

  “Antonio may be gallant, but he's not a womanizer,” Mom said, defending him.

  “What's ‘gallant’?” I asked. I should have asked yesterday.

  “Caballero” (Cob Eye Yair Oh), Mom said.

  “I don't mean in Spanish! I mean what does it mean?”

  “Gallant? Gentlemanly, courtly, having good manners.” Mom asked if I'd learned how to say “polite” in Spanish and I shook my head. “Bien educado” (Byen Ed Oo Cod Oh). “Well-educated,” she said. “Courtesy is big over here. When Americans say someone is well educated, they're talking college. When Spaniards say someone is bien educado, they're talking manners.”

  Dad said, “Didn't you notice how Antonio pulled out the chair for Mom at the restaurant and Miguel lent you his sweater? And Antonio called you both ‘beauty-full’?” Dad was making fun of Antonio's accent, which was not bien educado of him. “And they were always holding doors open? And they were never just pleased to meet someone—no, no, they were ‘enchanted.’“ Dad had obviously given this some thought. “Smooth talk and gallantry are second nature to Spaniards. Same with all that air-kissing just to say hello and goodbye.”

  “Too much kissing!” Matt said. “I could barely breathe!”

  “I thought it was just enough,” Mom said, and leaned over to kiss Dad.

  “How about you, Melanie?” Dad said. “Did you feel smothered?”

  He and Mom exchanged a little look. Have they guessed I have a crush?!

  I shrugged because I was afraid that if I talked, I might cry. I thought all that kissing was special! That it meant something! Was everybody constantly kissing everybody else and I hadn't noticed?

  The train stopped and I looked out the window. People were met at the station by friends and families, and this is what I saw: double kisses and double kisses and more double kisses. It was Beso Beso City.

  I watched as gallant Spaniards lugged bags for their girlfriends and opened doors for their wives and double-kissed everybody in sight. I even saw one man use his lighter to light a woman's cigarette, which was disgusting but I guess caballero-y.

  I felt like puking.

  Miguel probably doesn't care at all about me.

  He was just being polite the whole time! Sharing popcorn and teaching me Spanish and lending me his nic
e warm sweater. A well-brought-up gentleman, brought up well by Mr. Gentleman himself, Antonionio, the Latin Lover Boy.

  How could I have turned it all into a big deal in my stupid head?

  Senora Ramon! The 5 M's! It's too humiliating to even think about!

  If I didn't have a rule about never ripping up diary entries, I'd tear out all the pages I've been writing.

  Right now, on this very train, a girl a few rows ahead just said hola to another girl and even they are kiss kiss kissing.

  Everyone double-kisses around here. It's how they say hi.

  It means nothing. Nada nada nada.

  I feel like an inchworm.

  Dad just said, “Who wants to play hearts?”

  I shrugged and said, “Whatever.”

  I may not know anything about real hearts but at least I can play the game.

  Dear Diary,

  Moron Matt stinks at hearts! He can't even remember which card is which! Half the time he mixes up the queen of clubs (a no-big-deal card) with the queen of spades (a terrible awful card).

  Playing with such a pathetic player is no fun, so we are taking a break. Dad is now working, and Mom and Loser Boy are playing war. Poor Mom!

  Okay, I admit it, I probably wrote the above mean stuff to try to make myself feel better. It didn't work.

  Even hearts did not take my mind off my own heart. I could handle it when Dad said, “Who has the two of clubs?” but when Mom asked, “Have hearts been broken?” I wanted to sob.

  I'm not sure if my heart has been broken or just bruised, but it's not hearty. It's hurt.

  I feel like the jacks look. Which is heavyhearted. The kings and queens look depressed too. I can't believe I never noticed that before.

  There are probably tons of things I've never noticed. I'm probably not even observant.

  Here is a haiku (five-seven-five syllables):

  Here is a mini poem (only six syllables):

  I am now out of words. So I will stare out the window and watch the indifferent world rush by.

  in our hotel (Oh Tell)