Balconies
Jen and I walked home from the bar with our arms linked, a little drunk, giggling. The streets were quiet tonight. Sometimes we heard groups of young men singing Flamenco Pop or soccer team chants. On weekends when we returned at dawn from the discotheque, the bakery next to our apartment tempted us with the sweet sour smell of dough baking. We would buy a fresh loaf when they opened — the workers addressing us with a mix of curtness and affection. !Dime cariño! Tell me, Honey!
After a night of trying to keep up with our friends’ Andalusian Spanish, the English tumbled out even faster than usual. Best friends for twenty years, we still never ran out of things to say. Jen was fun, fearless, and made me feel like the most important person in the world. We were like sisters: incomplete without the other, loyal, sometimes jealous. As teens we were convinced we could communicate telepathically.
Moving to Seville together in our mid-twenties for a year of unofficial language and culture study —a little bit of work and a lot of play —brought us even closer. Through a mutual friend back in D.C., we were embraced by a group of locals, who treated us like long lost family.
As we settled in for bed, I realized I never told Jen about my Spanish dream the night before. Dreaming in another language is a milestone of sorts when living abroad.
“How exciting! About a sultry Spaniard?” She asked.
“Nope,” I replied. I was at a juice bar in New York with my brother, ordering in Spanish, rattling off words I didn’t realize I knew like ginger, el jengibre.
“Maybe you’re homesick.” Jen suggested.
“Yes, and craving something healthy to balance all the whiskey!” I joked.
Our friends drank a lot of whiskey and soda. When we took photos, instead of cheese everyone said whiskey.
I fell asleep as the new Spanish phrases I learned that day bounced around in my head. In the middle of the night Jen woke me, whispering in a panicked voice, “Someone was in my room.” Knowing her tendency toward an over-active imagination, I was slow to react. As my body and brain woke up, I sensed something too — a shift in the air, a disruption, an intruder.
Holding hands, we peered into the living room. The window was opened, the thin white linen curtain blowing in the breeze. Our portable cd player and cheap speakers were gone. Cash had been taken from both our wallets. Discarded items from my purse scattered the room: a pen, a torn open bag of almonds, a pack of tissues, my favorite papaya Agatha Luis de la Prada lip balm in the tin with bright bold flowers.
We called our friend, Jesús, who lived across the street with his parents. In our group, he took on the role of protector. He also loved to explain things to us — from lessons about Franco’s dictatorship, to simple vocabulary words we already knew — always with his impressive eyebrows furrowing in deep concentration.
Jesús came over, quickly looked around the small apartment, and determined the robbers were no longer there. He advised us the police would not be helpful, and suggested we just go back to sleep. He gave us a hug and went home. Full of adrenaline and fearful the robbers would return to do more harm than just stealing; we left as fast as we could.
Jen and I wandered the streets until we found a bar serving breakfast at four a.m. It wasn’t one of our usual spots, and felt rougher — men with yellow tobacco teeth and dirty finger nails returning from a night shift, or on their way to an early morning job. Despite the atmosphere, the cafe con leche and buttery toast gave us the boost and comfort we craved.
Later, over more espresso, we recounted our tale to Las Chicas. They were the girlfriends, sisters, and oldest friends of the guys in our social circle. We met every day at the coffee shop to gossip, solve the problems of the world, and learn about each other over strong little cups of caffeine.
Concha was the mother hen; sensible, organized, witty. Like me, she had yet to have a long-term romantic relationship. Barbara was an artist; curious, creative, passionate. Pilar could be distant and when she gave a compliment it felt like a great gift. Rosario was smart and stunning, with long bouncy hair, and a figure made for Flamenco dresses. Tere looked like Olive Oyl, Popeye’s girlfriend. She took us to buy groceries and a moka coffee pot the day we arrived.
Everyone shared our concern and shock over the robbery. After an acceptable amount of serious talk, Rosario joked “It must have been Miguel. He finally decided to climb the balcony.”
Miguel was a childhood friend of our friends. He mostly stuck with the guys, while Jen and I spent our time chatting with the girls, often with lots of hand gesturing to understand each other. Our “relationship” began one quiet weeknight at Bar Sancho.
Bar Sancho Panza, named after the character from Don Quixote was our neighborhood hang-out. We met here in the afternoons and evenings for refreshingly cool small glasses of Cruz Campo beer, and tinto verano (chilled red wine served over ice with Fanta Limón). The waiters kept track of our drinks and tapas with chalk tally marks on the silver bar top. We were given small plates on the house of plump olives, salty chips, and if we were lucky, manchego cheese, or tortilla española.
I walked into the bar feeling at home, greeting each friend with two kisses. Miguel asked, “¿Estas solita?” Are you alone?
Since elementary school, Jen and I were viewed as a pair. Here, as both the only Americans in the group, and roommates — it was as if we were one person. Even the bartenders at Bar Sancho noticed if we weren’t together, asking about La Rubia or La Otra. (I was The Other; Jen, The Blond.)
“Si, estoy sola.” Yes, I’m alone. I explained that Jen was out of town, traveling with another friend. Miguel contemplated my reply. Seville was not a town where young single women lived alone, or apparently even stayed alone. He smiled reassuringly, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
Then, he announced with the bravado of an actor on stage, “Subiré a tu balcón esta noche.”
I will climb your balcony tonight. “No tienes que estar solita.” You don’t have to be lonely.
I could feel the heat on my cheeks, the healthy rosy hue from the second glass of Tinto turning a deeper red, betraying my desire to be the sort of girl who doesn’t blush so easily. I was a late bloomer, and sometimes still unsure of how to handle being noticed and admired. Spanish me was also shy, at a loss for how to express intellect and humor, insecure about mixing up vocabulary words and verb tenses.
Once I confused to feel, sentir, with to sit, sentar; suggesting at a party, “Let’s all go feel ourselves over there.” Another time, I announced my cocktail had a lot of witches, instead of fizz. Jen and I both had an irrational fear of confusing comb and penis; peine and pene.
Mistakes were not politely ignored nor quietly corrected. They were highlighted and retold. The Sevillanas like to tease. “¡Es broma!” It’s a joke! They say often. Miguel, encouraged by the group, was consistent and persistent with his. Concha teased me too (in private) calling Miguel Novio Amy, Amy’s boyfriend.
Though it made me uncomfortable at times, our little joke seemed to further endear me to the group. Every time he saw me, instead of “How are you?” Miguel asked, “¿Estas solita?”
Sometimes he broadcasted the question across the room, putting me in the center of attention I dreaded. Other nights, he whispered as he leaned in to give me a pair of kisses, lingering a little longer on my cheek; making me wonder if he did want to climb my balcony at night. Then I learned he apparently had a fiancé, who rarely came to Bar Sancho.
Miguel’s flirting did not seem to bother anyone. I went down a spiral of over-analyzing. Was I part of the joke? Or was I the joke? I liked how he made me feel special and noticed. I did not appreciate him taking advantage of my lack of understanding, saying things in Spanish that made the other guys smirk. Maybe I should have told him how I felt; broken the surface of our friendship to create something more meaningful.
In Spain, things felt surreal and magical, yet predictable, which I appreciated. Each day was organized around socializing (and beverages). For the most part, we saw the same friends, at the same times, at the same places. We felt safe and protected, like nothing bad would happen —except the robbery. It was like living on the pages of the culture and traditions section of a high school Spanish book. Everything so auténtico and intense. But you can’t live an authentic life only going to parties, you have to go to the funerals too.
Six months after the night he offered to climb the balcony and save me from being alone, Miguel died in a car accident. His death sent a bolt of sadness and disbelief through the community. Qué cabrón. What a bastard, everyone said, using the curse to express dismay, frustration, and affection for the friend they grew up with.
Though I could not define our relationship, Miguel was a big part of my life in Spain. Turning the pages of my photo album: there we were at Bar Sancho, the beach, the Christmas party, New Year’s Eve in El Rocio, the famous spring festival. He was at one of my favorite trips to Concha’s family olive orchard in the countryside. We cooked paella over an outdoor fire, drank, talked, and laughed all day. At night, we all slept in bunk beds in the old workers quarters. That weekend, Miguel gave our joke a rest. He just smiled when he saw me.
In the days after the funeral, we were all in a fog. I picked my cuticles, and got stomach aches. I spent my twenty minute walk to work (as a nanny for an eccentric wealthy French family) trying to ground myself. I walked across the little bridge over the River Guadalquivir, which might be among the hardest Spanish words I learned to pronounce (gwuh-thaal-kee-veer). It smelled like muck from the river, and fried fish from the restaurants in Triana.
I reminded myself : three things you see, three things your hear, move three body parts.
I see vibrant purple flowers of the Jacaranda trees. I see the Torre del Oro, one of the most photographic spots in Seville. The Tower of Gold was built by the Almohads in the 12th century, and once used to store gold plundered during Columbus’s journeys to the Americas. I see the Catedral de Sevilla, the largest gothic cathedral in the world. It is all at once immense, delicate, intimidating, and inspiring.
I hear the clomp clomp of the horse carriages parked outside the Cathedral. They looked like a fairy tale but make the city reek of piss. I hear sun-tanned Romany women in long skirts shouting, “¡Oye guapa!” — trying to persuade tourists to buy good luck charms. I hear the engines of Vespas roaring to a start. I am jealous of the shoes, purses, and confidence of the women riding them.
I wiggle my fingers. I move my shoulders up and down. I rub the little pink gem on the necklace the girls gave me for Three Kings Day. It has become a symbol of friendship and inclusion. Jen got one too, and it reminds me of the broken heart best friend necklaces we had as children.
Absorbing my surroundings helps me feel less anxious, yet very lonely. Lonely in the way of living between two homes, always missing one. This is not the same type of solita Miguel was concerned about. His was a lighter version, easily solved over a cool beer with a friend — better yet, the type of friend who would climb a balcony for you.
Amy Issadore Bloom is an ESL teacher, freelance writer, and special education equity advocate. She spends a lot of time reading, and nerding out to podcasts. Amy enjoys hiking, and watching movies with her family. She’s mostly useless without the local coffee shop.
Find her at https://www.amyibloom.com/