Euro Tripped

by Sally Bryan

  The man took one look at Arwen and ran faster, kicking up huge swathes of sand, eyes bulging. “Yes? Coca-Cola, beer, beer?”

  “A great question, Frey?” She held up a finger and looked from me to him with that familiar mischievous sparkle in the eye. “Ah, are you sure that’s legal here, drinking beer in public?”

  “Yes, beer legal.”

  “Beer legal?” She smirked.

  “Um, yes, beer legal.” He was a short man with a humorous face, probably North African and exceptionally trim, doubtless from spending his days trudging across the sand carrying that huge cooler. Credit to him though, he seized the chance to ogle her cleavage the second she looked back to me.

  “I don’t know, Frey? I’m not so sure it’s legal to sell beer on the beach.” She looked back at him and finally, because we women like to compare ourselves to each other, and for no other reason, I copped a squint myself and immediately felt the flooding of warmth through my body, the clearness of her skin and the way the perspiration shined, their plumpness and the deep, rich crevice of her cleavage. Not surprisingly, she was more womanly than myself and I swallowed as I turned away to face the man, only vaguely aware she was still speaking. “What do you think Frey? Is it legal to sell beer on the beach? Or to even drink it? Especially to drink it.”

  “Yes, beer legal.”

  She grinned and I thought the man was about to pass out from the view. “Oh well, if you insist it’s legal then I’ll have two beers but they’d better be really chilled or I’m heading straight to the cops.”

  “Yes, yes,” he beamed as she passed him the money and allowed him to keep the change. “You want open?” He asked, producing a grin and a bottle opener.

  “Of course.”

  The man’s hands were shaking and Arwen waited, amused, as the metallic utensil rattled against the bottle top. “I’m sorry, I try, one minute.”

  “It’s fine.”

  Finally, the man succeeded with the task and passed the bottles down to Arwen, “thank you, you very beautiful,” before nodding and backing away still gazing at her.

  I shook my head and tutted. “Arwen, that man would have left his wife and kids for you.” I’d seen some pretty obsessed guys in the past but that was bordering on the ridiculous. I knew blondes were rare in Africa but in Spain?

  She handed me a bottle and raised hers for cheers. “He was adorable.”

  I clinked mine against hers and we both took a sip.

  “How great does that taste on a day like this?” She grabbed a strawberry and sent it in after the beer.

  “All the better for being illegal, hah.”

  “And now you’ve tasted, you’ve broken your first ever law, Miss Vanilla.”

  I slapped her on the thigh. “Oh, shut up, you. I’m not that vanilla.”

  “Oh, really? Then what other laws have you ever broken?”

  Oh shit, she had me there. “Well, um…” I looked up to think but there was nothing.

  She giggled, “I knew it, you’re vanilla,” and she held the base of her chilled beer bottle against my thigh.

  I almost went into seizure. “Holy fuuuuuu … oh, don’t do that please.” And feeling the necessity to instigate some sort of revenge, I again twanged her braid, the blue one this time, which was pitiful but about all I had the power to do.

  The braid settled immediately under its own weight and then her mouth suddenly turned level as her eyes fixed on mine, pupils filling her irises, silence but for the distant waves and our breathing. She licked her lips and leaned an inch, two inches, forwards, tilting her head to the side as I felt a pulse in my head.

  “I really like your braids.” I tried to say but it came out more as a whisper.

  She straightened and the smile returned. “I can do you one.”

  I put up a hand. “Oh, no, what would Gabe…”

  But she was already on her feet and repositioning her towel to sit behind me. “It’s cool, you’ll look awesome. Gabe’ll really love it.”

  I closed my eyes and slowly blew out air as I felt her knees taking to the sand either side of my bum. “Well if you really think Gabe’ll really love it then really, I’ll have it.”

  Her hand was on my shoulder as she steadied herself and my mind flashed back to the night before. “They’re boho braids … that’s what they’re called, just so you know.”

  “I think I’ve, um, I’m fairly sure I’ve heard of them.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s what they’re called.”

  “Yes.

  “I like to do mine with fewer strands so they’re less thick.”

  “Yes, that’s what I love, um, like about yours.”

  “Then I’ll do you one like mine.”

  “Yes.”

  “Shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Good, I mean, oh.” I squeezed my eyes closed and concentrated all my efforts on shutting the fuck up. Where was Gabe? I’d not heard from him since the hostel. Out with Dan somewhere. Not far away a dog caught a frisbee and ran it back to his owner.

  Her fingers swept through my hair and I shivered. “You have such great hair, so long and shiny, an awesome colour too.”

  “I’m a product of the Scottish ginger factory,” I said monotone. Had she resorted to taking the piss again? Let’s face it, everybody usually did when it came to the hair colour of my countrymen.

  “Well, I know what you’re thinking and I’m not taking the piss and besides, it’s not ginger, it’s red, there’s a difference and what’s wrong with ginger anyway?” She blew at something and I could feel the long strands behind my head twisting and intertwining.

  “Nothing, I have many ginger friends back at the factory.”

  She slapped me playfully on the arm. “Sorry, you deserved that.”

  And I wondered for what offence precisely. I pulled the punnet of strawberries closer and began feasting in earnest. “Would you like one?”

  “Uh huh.”

  I held one up behind my head and then giggled as I felt her mouth close around it, taking the tip of my finger at the same time. “Oh, you are so gross.”

  “Careful, I have a freezing cold bottle right next to me. Unless you’d like it flat against your back then I suggest apologising at once.” And I felt her knees briefly squeeze either side of my hips in a playful threat, I have you and you can’t escape if I so choose.

  I was quick to apologise. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, please don’t.” There was literally nothing worse. “I think an electric shock would be preferential.”

  She blew again and I shivered, felt the gentle tension and tugs of her fingers sifting through my fine red strands. “About halfway there.” She stood and moved around to my front, coming to sit cross-legged on the space beside me atop my own towel.

  I looked down, if only to get away, and in so doing received a front row ticket to the Arwen cleavage show. Averting my eyes to the right, I was gently tugged back to the left.

  “Hold still.”

  Well, there was no escaping them now and she was definitely larger than myself, those two generous globes filling her red sequinned bikini top, a deep cleft separating the pair. What fascinated me though was the way her belly narrowed before broadening out at the hips. She was structured like a Renaissance sculpture, a mesomorphic somatotype, immaculately naturally proportioned, nature had played her a few favours for sure and let’s not forget the starfish belly button ring for good measure. I squeezed my eyes shut but the image was still there and for whatever reason, the word that came to mind was intermammary cleft, the anatomical name for cleavage. Maybe that cold bottle would be appropriate right about now.

  Her fingers came into view as she approached the tips of my hair, the backs of her wrists coming to rest on my knee as she continued to work.

  “How did you get into dancing?” I asked after a brief period of silence.

  She hummed and I wondered if I’d triggered some happy childhood memory. “It was Fred As
taire and Ginger Rogers, Gene Kelly, even Michael Jackson. I used to watch Singing in the Rain every morning before school. And Martha Graham, oh and Sylvie Guillem was an incredible ballerina. All I ever did was watch these people in videos and TV shows. We didn’t have much money but eventually, my mum took me to dance classes, which were a relatively inexpensive hobby compared to some.” She made a sweet noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “My friends were all playing video games and Mum thought I’d soon get bored of tap and ballet, just like the dolls and cricket but I didn’t. I won my first dance trophy aged ten as my parents watched from the balustrade at the Sydney Opera House. Years later, here I am, a pro dancer and the best money ever spent.”

  It was hard not to get lost in her passion and obvious love for dance, her mum, for life, all whilst I’d spent the entire duration of her story watching her fingers twisting and weaving, my braid almost finished. Only about two inches remained at the tips, the entire braid not even the width of my little finger, which must have taken some serious skill and I lamented that in a couple of months I’d have to unravel it.

  There’d been silence for a while and when I looked up from her fingers, she was already watching me, her bottom lip nipped between her teeth.

  “Arwen…”

  It took her more than a second to react, “oh,” and she clapped her thighs and sprang up from the towel, “one last thing,” and then she was bending over to rustle through her bag, returning to the same position a few seconds later, “it’s a bead to add the finishing touch.”

  I saw it was a wooden bead, the same as what she had. “Oh, well if we’re doing this, let’s do it right.”

  “Exactly.” She threaded the ends through the hole and slid it part way up the length of the braid.

  “Arwen,” I began, “is that why you like your own room? So you can practice your dancing in peace?”

  “Uh huh, that and for my mediation, which you can’t really do around a bunch of noisy, drunken Brits. No offence.” She was tying the loose ends of my braid into a knot to hold the bead in place.

  I shuffled, “can you show me how to meditate some time? I promise to be quiet.”

  “Of course,” she grinned, letting go and the braid flopped against my leg, “all done.”

  I don’t know, I couldn’t be certain and didn’t think it would last, whatever it was, but I was never the type to lie to myself. So I had to come clean, at least in my own head…

  I had a crush on Arwen.

  * * *

  ‘Where are you?’ I punched in the message and pressed send but that wasn’t enough so after a few seconds I sent another. ‘Not heard from you in hours. Are you both ok?’

  “They could be anywhere, that’s for sure, but if I know Dan then they’ll be fine. He’s surprisingly resourceful.” Arwen didn’t look worried at all, which was reassuring, but then she wasn’t dating one of them.

  I glanced around the heaving communal room of the hostel in a futile attempt at spotting them. Maybe they were here and hadn’t thought to charge their phones? Actually, that didn’t sound like Gabe, Dan maybe, but not Gabe.

  “It’s just that we were all meant to be hooking up to go to a club or something, Opium or whatever it’s called.” I sighed and felt the anxiety in my belly. “It’s not like him, he’s usually so conscientious.”

  A large group of lads strutted past, all dressed up with similar plans by the looks of it, white shirts definitely the common theme amongst them. The two at the back noticed Arwen and it was almost comical how their walks altered immediately, chests puffing out, chins up, crotches forward and almost bumping into the door as they crossed the threshold.

  She was lounging on one of the sofas, one arm propped over the backrest holding a bottle of water and wearing her casual yellow dress again. It registered how relaxed she appeared, not to mention attractive. “You worry too much. They’re in Barcelona. How about you do something else and before you know it, they’ll have replied to your message.”

  It wasn’t a ridiculous idea and I shrugged. “Like what?”

  She leaned forwards and spoke like it was obvious. “Mingle.”

  “Mingle?”

  “You’re here to make friends, aren’t you?”

  “Um, maybe, perhaps, in a way, why?”

  “So go make friends.”

  My head jerked forward. “What? I’m not so sure it works like that, it has to be natural.” I glanced toward the exit. “What is it you’re suggesting, that I go up to some stranger and ask them to be my friend?”

  To my horror, she absolutely nodded. “Why not?”

  I laughed, more from the lunacy of it, and stepped away, wondering if she was moon touched. “I’m sure if you went up to a group of people and asked to be their friend then the outcome would be somewhat positive but I’m not made from quite the same stuff.”

  “That’s crap.” She stood and seemed to hover in my direction, threading her hand through the crook of my elbow and pulling against me, it felt nice and horrible at the same time. “Aren’t you here to do new things?”

  “Well, yeah but…” she had me there and I wondered just how much she’d been reading my thoughts.

  “But…but…but,” she deliberately stuttered, taking the piss out of me again, “you never know, you may just be about to meet your best friend in the whole world.”

  “Yeah, right.” I laughed and felt my resolve wilting, indeed, we were already heading toward a group of four at the pool table, two girls and two guys, one of whom was the very stereotype of the smelly traveller, and what would you know, but he was the one who clocked us first.

  I received a shove on the lower back and jolted forwards, “hey, speak English?”

  It looked like they were playing a game of mixed doubles and all four cues levelled as we stopped, my face probably flushing with some dopey imploring expression, please don’t hurt me. An unfamiliar Spanish song blared from nearby speakers and people were either sitting or standing in the near vicinity, eating, talking or doing seemingly nothing.

  The stereotype nodded and removed his brown fishing hat to reveal the squashed hair beneath. “Yes,” he said cheerfully and gestured back to me, “you not so much.”

  I leaned back and smiled, “correct, I’m Scottish, my friend here’s Australian.” My heart was thudding and a drop of perspiration slid from my armpit down the side of my ribcage on the inside of my dress. “We just arrived and were wondering how you’re all finding Barca?”

  “I’m Samuel,” rather than touch skin he simply waved with his free hand, probably because he was dating one of the two girls, no biggie, “we’re Dutch, or rather I am, Luuk is, Floor too,” finally he gestured to a girl with short blonde hair and tattoos on her forearms, “Karla’s Canadian though.” She waved from her perching position in the corner.

  “Hi,” I said in a high pitched voice and making a wave to encompass them all.

  “Hi,” Arwen repeated and I felt her finger tickling the side of my belly.

  I tried to trap her hand with the underside of my arm as my body went rigid, Samuel’s gaze flicking between myself and the troublesome stunner whilst one of his female companions, Floor, I think, the one with black hair stacked in an elaborate bun with some sort of metallic leaf headband holding it all in place, wrinkled her nose and curled her top lip to expose teeth.

  Arwen spotted the threat at once and declared loudly enough for everyone to hear over the music, “I just love your tiara,” and she unthreaded her arm and bounced straight over to the girl, whose demeanour flipped in a second.

  In fact, I’d never before seen a human being completely switch manner so quick as Floor blushed, her hand moved to touch her heart and within a second they were animatedly engaged in a conversation I was not privy to, whilst all I could do was stand exposed and vulnerable, now without my wing, and wonder which version was the true Floor.

  But I was impressed with Arwen, had that been intentional, identifying a potential enemy and turning h
er to putty in seconds. What was it Dan had said? That this free spirit would fit in with any group.

  I rubbed my bottom lip, suddenly apprehensive for another reason, as my gaze ping-ponged from Arwen’s backside to Samuel’s face. She’d better not get too close.

  Samuel said something but I didn’t hear it.

  “Huh?”

  “You were asking about Barcelona?” He said again just as his friends, Luuk, and Karla ambled over from the other side of the pool table to lean back against it from my side, a sort of half-hearted attempt at appearing sociable.

  I nodded and my senses seemed to heighten whilst, medically speaking, my body prepared to engage its fight or flight response, stupid as it was in 2017 but hey, I was engaging three strangers in a distant place and it was both scary and thrilling together.

  “Yeah, Barcelona, what are the places you recommend?”

  But they were all cool. Samuel did most of the talking, generally telling me to have fun walking around and discovering the city’s masterpieces. They’d only been in Barcelona three days themselves but had already seen numerous buildings by legendary architect Antoni Gaudí, which included the famous Sagrada Família. There were awesome live music venues and if we liked football, or even if we didn’t, we should go see a game at the Camp Nou. There were so many art treasures, including a Picasso museum, that I’d never have chance to see them all. The old town and Gothic areas were substantial and I should get down there, lose myself amongst the cathedrals and enjoy the street performers and opera singers. He recommended the best tapas place in town, which he’d heard was where the locals went and didn’t tell the tourists about. The big Sónar music festival was only days away as well as the city’s major annual culture festival, the Festival del Grec. There were several fine parks they’d not yet had chance to see which, according to Luuk, was partially on account of spending the last few days intoxicated.

  My attention was constantly shifting between the three travellers and Arwen, who was too far away to hear as she leaned against the partition, the other girl standing uncomfortably close whilst showing an intense interest in her braids, holding one between her thumb and finger and giving it extra special close up scrutiny.