by Carol Weston
It is a big world! And a round one!
P.S. “World” in Spanish is mundo (Moon Dough).
Dear Diary,
King Peter the Cruel (who must not have been very nice) built palaces called the Reales Alcazares (Ray Ahl S Ahl Ca Sar S). They are part Muslim, part Christian, and very old.
We visited them, and in the Garden of the Poets, it was quiet, so I closed my eyes and tried to think poetic thoughts. But Matt bounded over, blocked my sun, and said, “Doesn't this remind you of Aladdin? You be Jasmine and I'll be Aladdin!”
His voice sounded like the stop-start whine of a mosquito (Mo Ski Toe).
“I have a better idea,” I said. “You be Aladdin. Now go take a flying carpet ride!”
“You're no fun.”
“Yes, I am. But I want to be alone for two seconds. Is that too much to ask?” It's not easy to get any privacy on a family vacation.
“Well, I'm bored.”
“And that's my problem?”
“C'mon, Mellie. I helped you have a private rowboat ride.”
He was right. He did. And so for the next hour, he was Aladdin and I was Jasmine, and we ran around the palace and through a maze of tall hedges.
Mom overheard us playing and I could tell she appreciated my being a RB.S.—Perfect Big Sister. “Having fun?” she asked.
“Not really. I'm caliente” (Ca Lee N Tay).
“Careful, pumpkin. ‘I'm hot,' in Spanish has a different meaning than in English. It means ‘I'm a hottie' or ‘I'm sexy' or—”
“I get it!” I shouted so she wouldn't keep explaining. I was about to stick my fingers in my ears and go be-be-be-be-be but she stopped. I'm just relieved that I didn't tell Miguel I was a hottie!!
“Instead of ? am hot,'“ Mom said, “Spaniards say, ? have heat'—‘Tengo calor’“ (Tang O Ca Lore).
Dad came over and Mom asked, “Ready to go to the Museum of Archaeology?”
Matt objected. “You said no more museums!”
Mom said, “I said, ‘No more art museums.' That's not an art museum.”
“What?” Matt said.
“That's so not fair!” I said.
“We'll go for just half an hour and then we'll get ice cream—helado,” Mom said, bribing us. Ay Lah Doe actually means “frozen.”
“There better be benches!” Matt grumbled.
There were. There was also something shocking. Matt and I were playing our favorite museum game when we came across a statue of a naked person. We're totally used to that, but this naked person had developed in a boy way and a girl way! The statue was sort of a man with bosoms—or a lady with a you-know-what.
We showed Mom. “Fascinating,” she said, and read the label underneath. “A hermaphrodite.” Mom was acting as if this were just another statue, no big deal, but Aladdin Boy couldn't get over its being right there in public. (I couldn't either.)
Mom and Dad were holding hands, and Dad was saying that Spain was ruled by Romans for hundreds of years, and by Moors for hundreds of years. I could feel a history lecture coming on, and the thirty minutes were definitely up, so I said, “Who wants helado?”
I ate my ice cream cone the normal way, Matt ate his from the bottom up, and we walked though the alleyways to our hotel. In our room, Matt and I played Towel Bullfight. I have improved my technique and am a better matador than before. Bull Boy, however, still just snorts and charges around, as demented as ever.
I hope we have dinner soon because that cone did not hold me. Spaniards eat late but my stomach is from New York!
back at the Oh Tell
Dear Diary,
Dinner was embarrassing and I will tell you why. Seville is full of restaurants with outside tables, so we ate outside. Mom and Dad had fried fish, Matt and I had paella, and we all tried gazpacho (Gahs Pa Cho), which is a cold bumpy soup. You make it by putting bread, tomatoes, peppers, and other veggies in a blender with spices. On top, you can sprinkle chopped-up cucumber and onion. It's like liquid salad and it's good for you. Problem is, it tastes gross. (Dad disagreed. He lapped mine up.)
But that was not what was embarrassing. What was embarrassing was that Mom and Dad also had a wine punch called sangria (Sahn Gree Ah). The ingredients are wine, seltzer, sugar, cinnamon, sliced oranges, lemons, and apples. (Mostly wine.) I said, “Sangria is not for parents on vacation with kids.” Dad laughed. “Mellie, that's precisely who it is for!” They split an entire jug! Mom could tell I was looking at her funny, so she said, “Honey, tomorrow is our anniversary.” (As though that is an excuse to drink in front of your children!) Instead of talking about Columbus or whatever, Dad was telling Mom about, as he put it, our eggcellent egg eggsperiment. He must have been telling it eggstra funny because Mom was laughing until she had tears in her eyes.
And then she started singing!!
In Spanish!!!
She also started clapping her hands in the air like a Spanish dancer. She was acting like a teenager! Dad didn't mind—maybe he even enjoyed imagining Mom as a student in Spain. I told her to keep it down, and I told myself that at least no one I knew was going to walk by.
I have to admit, the song was pretty. Also bittersweet (one of my favorite compound words).
The first line sounds like this: No Tay Vy Oss Toe Da V Ah, but I'm about to ask Mom to write it down in Spanish. Here comes Mom's handwriting:
The translation is sad sad sad. It's
I am going to say goodbye to you now, goodbye to Seville tomorrow, and goodbye to Spain—and Miguel—the day after that.
March 27, not quite 10 A.M.
Dear Diary,
Guess what we did this morning?
Slept in! Last night Mom and Dad had said they wanted to take it easy and not to come to their room before 10:30.
Our room has a tiny terrace and if you step out, you can see the Giralda. You can hear its bells too! I wrote a poem:
I don't know whether to show it to Mom or not. Probably not.
Matt and I are about to make an anniversary card for Mom and Dad. Fourteen years is a lot!
in a bar (even though that sounds strange)
Dear Diary,
Mom and Dad loved our homemade card.
It said, “We are glad you got married and had us. You are the best parents ever! Love, Melanie and Matt.” It took us over an hour to make. On it we doodled a map of Spain, a bull, a paella, fireworks, an iguana, a half fish, a Picasso-y painting, that blond Velazquez girl, the five-legged horse, the aqueduct, a castle, orange trees, and bunches of hearts. (Matt wanted to draw the shocking statue but I said no.)
Breakfast was churros (Chew Rrrose), which are strips of fried dough. Matt and I ate ours with yummy hot chocolate that was so thick, it looked like dark brown Elmer's glue.
Then Dad got a haircut. Why? Well, The Barber of Seville is the opera with the famous “Figaro Figaro Figaro” song, and Mom thought it would be funny if Dad went to “see” a barber in Seville. Get it? Matt went too. Not me—I like my hair long! And not Mom—she'd just gotten her hair cut (so she could look nice for Antonionio).
Speaking of opera, Dad once took me to an opera called Carmen. It's also set in Seville. It's about a beautiful Gypsy lady who works in a cigarette factory— yuck! She sings her lungs out about how “love is like a wild bird” and throws a red flower at a man, Jose, who falls right in love with her. But Carmen is not a one-man woman and she starts liking a bullfighter too. Jose gets jealous, Carmen dumps him, and he stabs her to death outside a bullring.
The story is violent. But the music is catchy.
Last month, Mom was reading the section in her college magazine where everyone brags about what they've been up to since graduation. Well, Mom read about a classmate who lives in Seville whose daughter takes flamenco dance lessons. Mom e-mailed the guy, and he arranged for us to go to a class. All we had to do was promise to be quiet.
So today we went to a Flamenco Foundation and got to see a real flamenco dance class! Even Matt liked it. I wish Cecily could have s
een it because she takes ballet in New York.
The teacher's name was Maria Jose (Ma Ree Ah Hhho Say), which would sound strange in English. After all, it combines a lady's name (Mary) with a man's name (Joseph), and it seems religious.
She did a lot of clapping. Not like “Good job, children” clapping, more like clapping to help the kids keep time and pay attention to when to stomp their feet and twirl their hands and swish their skirts.
Most of the students were my age or younger. They wore crisp white shirts and long flowy skirts and black high heels. Mom's classmate's daughter was soooo cute. She kept stomping her foot as loudly as she could, but it was never that loud because she is not that big.
If I took flamenco and practiced stomping at home, my feet would get sore and my downstairs neighbor would have a cow or vaca (Ba Ca).
A different girl, Matt's age, was looking at Matt and smiling just like the American girl he met yesterday with the connect-the-dots face. Matt smiled back!
Is he Mr. Friendly? Or a Junior Don Juan??
The Gypsy music played, and Maria Jose corrected the girls on how to stand proud and click their wooden castanets—the small round instruments they held in each hand. She taught them fancy footwork or zap-ateado (Sop Ah Tay Ah Dough), arm movements or braseo (Bra Say Oh), and hand motions or flore (Floor Ay). The girl Matt's age was practicing eye movements too—she kept looking at Matt!
By the end of the class, the girls were sweating.
We thanked them, and Matt looked at the girl and pointed at himself and said Ma Tay Oh. She pointed to herself and said Tay Race Ah. Then he said, “Adios, Teresa.” After that, I doubt Matt even thought about her, but for all I know, she ran home to write all about Ma Tay Oh the Brat Ay Oh in her diary.
Right now, we 4-M's are having a stand-up lunch. Dad said he wanted to go to a tapas (Top Ahs) bar. I said, “A topless bar?” but Mom reminded me that tapas are appetizers or little bites to eat. You'd think Mom and Dad would have wanted a fancy sit-down anniversary lunch, but they love tapas.
They ordered mushrooms, mussels, minnows, and meatballs. (Thank heavens for meatballs.) Mom usually asks for things in Spanish, but Dad checks out the food on the counter and points to whatever looks good. They wanted me to try mussels, and I said, “I will when I'm older.” (I wonder how long I'll be able to get away with saying that.)
Matt kept asking for more meatballs. He says food tastes better on toothpicks, same as drinks taste better through straws. He even told Mom and Dad, “If you ever want us to eat leftovers, serve them on toothpicks.”
Dad said they have a surprise lined up for us.
“A present?” Matt said.
“An experience,” Mom said, and she and Dad looked at each other all mysteriously.
I hope it's fun!
P.S. I wrote my last name first because my gersfin were crossed!
Dear Diary,
“The kids will never forget this,” Dad said, and he may be right.
We just came back from a flamenco show. Not a class. A showl
It's now midnight and Mom told us to get in our pajamas or pijamas (Pea Hhhom Ahs). So I did.
Right now, even as I write, Matt is clapping and stomping around our hotel room, pretending to be a Gypsy or gitano (Hhhe Tahn Oh). He looks half cute, half dorky. He's singing too, but he sounds like a wolf howling. Or ululating (is that how you spell it??).
I took two photos and was tempted to tell Matt that I was going to send them to Freckle Girl and Fla-menco Girl. (Hee, hee.) But he knew I didn't have their addresses.
I think Matt and I appreciated tonight's show extra because we'd seen how hard flamenco dancing is to learn. I wonder if kids who take music lessons appreciate concerts extra.
While we were waiting for the show to begin, Dad had said, “Flamenco is as Spanish as bullfighting.”
“Without the death part,” I pointed out.
“It's about life,” Mom agreed. “Living it and feeling it. That's very Spanish.” She told us about another experience that is very espanol: the running of the bulls. Every year on July 7, Spaniards and tourists go running through the streets of Pamplona with real bulls chasing after them. Every year people get hurt, but they keep doing it.
“That's bco” I said.
“Not on my to-do list,” Mom agreed.
Dad said, “Shhh,” because four men came out wearing black shirts and black pants. One was playing a guitar and the other three were kind of clapping. “They're not exactly clapping,” Dad explained. “They're playing their hands the way other people play an instrument.” It's called tocar palmas (Toe Car Palm Ahs) or playing palms.
“Where are the ladies in the polka-dotted dresses?” Matt asked.
Right on cue, out came four women in bright floor-length puffed-out dresses with layers of ruffles. One dress was flamingo pink with black polka dots. Another was blood red with no dots. A third was sky blue with white dots. A fourth was lemon yellow with green dots.
Spotlights followed them around.
The women wore red lipstick, thick eye makeup, and hoop earrings. Their black hair was clipped back in buns and stuck with flowers.
You know how ballet dancers are usually skinny? Well, these dancers weren't. Mom called them “full-figured—more hourglass than toothpick.” Dad said they were “sexy”! (Mom jabbed him—after all, it is their anniversary.)
You know how ballet dancers dance delicately on tiptoe? Well, these dancers do the opposite. They land hard on their heels. Sometimes they bang their feet down, step around softly, then bang them down again.
Flamenco dancing is not like tap dancing either. Tap dancers smile. Flamenco dancers are serious.
Loud too! The dancers' hands and feet filled the room with sound. And sometimes they clicked their castanets furiously. It made me think of drumming. Or of the Mascleta of firecrackers.
Spaniards in the audience were saying ole just like at the bullfight. So we did too!
The eight Gypsies took turns dancing and clapping. Dad said one man had “lightning legs.”
While one of the men was pounding the floor, one of the women lifted her dress a little so we could see her stomp-stomp-stomping back. It was like an intense movie that you couldn't turn away from even if you wanted to. The woman was looking into the man's eyes and snapping her fan open and shut. It was like flirting, but it wasn't sweet or shy. It was fierce and powerful, as though she and he were having a stare-down and daring each other about something.
The Gypsies were taking turns singing too. The songs were low and sad and you didn't have to understand the words to tell that they were about love and longing and that someone's feelings had gotten hurt. Maybe even stomped on!
One Gypsy sounded as if he wasn't singing, he was moaning. It was beautiful but sorrowful or, as Mom said, “soulful.”
She translated what he sang:
I listened to the singing and guitar playing, and I watched the Gypsies and their dancing shadows on the wall. It was pretty sizzling!
A man and a woman got so so so close to each other that I wanted them to go ahead and kiss behind her opening and closing fan. And that made me think about getting a little closer to Miguel. But then a dif ferent man and woman danced so gloomily and tragi-cally that I started worrying that I might already be in over my head. And that made me think that I should run for cover before I end up learning about the crushing part of having a crush.
The pain and jealousy and heartache and heartbreak.
Here in the hotel, Matt is being funny/gross. He is clapping and stomping, and in a low trembly flamenco-y voice, he's been singing, “I am brokenhearted.” Well, he just blew into his arm and made a disgusting sound, and added, “I'm also broken-farted.”
Mom and Dad have now come back into our room.
“Matt!” Mom scolded. “What did I ask you to do?”
“Get in my pajamas,” Matt replied. “My Peeeeee Hhhom Ahs.”
“And what have you been doing all this time?” Mom said.
“Singing and dancing,” Matt said.
Did Mom yell at him? No. She gave him a hug and said, “Oh, Matt, you are hard to get mad at.”
“I know,” he said, and smiled. (He gets away with everything!)
Mom and Dad kissed us good night, and Mom even tucked in Hedgehog, Flappy Happy, and the Iggies.
After Mom and Dad left, Matt asked, “Can I write in your diary?”
“Of course not,” I said.
“Pleeeeease.”
“No way!”
“Just one word.”
I figured it would be faster to let him write one word than to keep arguing so I said, “Fine, but just one and nothing gross.”
He said it wouldn't be but I'd have to help him spell it.
I said okay and I am now handing Matt my diary. Here comes Matt's handwriting:
“Polka dot”? I don't know what I was expecting. “Boob”? “Butt”? “Boogie”?
I told Matt that “polka dot” is two words, not one, but he said he hadn't known. “So you can't get mad at me.”
I said, “I could if I felt like it!”
Well, tomorrow is a travel day: first train, then plane. It's also when I'll see Miguel Miguel Miguel!
P.S. Last-minute inspiration:
March 28
Dear Diary,
This morning Mom and Dad said we could pick out a Spanish souvenir. Mom offered me a polka-dotted ruffly dress, but I couldn't picture myself wearing it. She also offered castanets or a ceramic plate or blue-and-white tile, but I said no thanks. That's when Matt spotted a store that makes posters. He chose a bullfight poster, and a man wrote Matt's name in block letters on it as though he were an ear-winning matador. I chose a poster with a beautiful flamenco dancer on it, but Dad said I had to pick the bullfight one too.
I started getting mad, but Dad said, “Relax, I'm pulling your leg.”