Spain or Shine (16 page)

A woman in four-inch Jimmy Choos hustled past them, a sprinter on stilts, hurrying to meet a train.

“No need for her to hurry,” Miguel assured as they turned to watch her skittering across the marble floor. “Her train will probably be late.”

“How do you know?”

“The Germans,” he said, “their trains are on time. The Spanish don't stress so much. Five minutes here, ten minutes there. What does it matter over a lifetime?”

Their groggy group followed the signs marked SALIDA that led them to the main corridor.

“Okay,” Elena said as they huddled under one of the palm fronds that stretched out over the walkway. “Where do we go now?”

Her friends were yapping over one another, and drifting out across the walkway into the foot traffic. She decided it was going to be nearly impossible to keep a group of eight people together for an entire weekend.

Miguel moved toward Elena and held his Madrid pocket map out in front of them. She liked having him so close, though it made her stomach knot up. She tried to relax.
He's just my friend,
she told herself. She tried to think of him the way she thought of Alex, which worked only as long as she didn't look at Miguel and he didn't talk.

“We are here now.” He pointed to a dot in the right corner of the map, then traced toward the center with his finger. “And our hostel is here, near the Puerta del Sol. I think we will need to take the metro.”

“Metro?” Jenna craned her neck over Elena's shoulder to peer at the map.

“Um, underground train. How do you say it in English?”

“Subway,” Elena said. “So, how do we do that?”

“I think we ask someone,” he responded.

“Good idea. Why don't you and Borja go ask and I'll watch your bags,” Elena suggested.

His face crinkled into a sly smile and he glanced over his shoulder at the desk labeled INFORMACIÓN.

“Why don't you ask over there and I will watch
your
bag?”

“What? You're Spanish; you should go ask.” Elena crossed her arms defensively over her chest.

“Yes, but you are a visitor in Spain who would like to speak the language with more than just your Spanish family. It will be good practice.”

“Well, what do I say?” she asked.

“All you have to do is ask how to get from here to the Puerta del Sol,” he murmured, handing her the map. “You know the language. Just try it.” His eyes were soft. He seemed to be trying to apologize for the spontaneous dare. Elena hated dares. She tried to hate Miguel, too.

“Fine.” She snatched the little map from his outstretched hand. “I'll go ask,
in Spanish,
how to get to the hostel.” What was she really afraid of? She'd tripped up on her first day in Spain. Wasn't it about time to try speaking Spanish with a stranger again?

“Hola,”
“she mumbled as she approached a woman with a pixie haircut and a small pointed nose, whose head and shoulders barely hovered above the information countertop.

“¿Cómo puedo ayudarle?”
she asked with a welcoming smile. Okay, Elena thought,
she just asked how she can help me. I got that.

“¿Cómo puedo Ilegar allí
desde aqui?” Elena pointed to a dot on the map near the hostel location.

The woman nodded and began rattling off directions. Elena's mind froze, as it always did when people spoke Spanish rapidly. Her brain couldn't translate all the words fast enough, so they just ended up jumbled together inside her head. It would be so embarrassing if she couldn't pull this off. All she had to do was ask directions. Why did she get so nervous making conversation that wasn't outlined in a textbook? She peered back over her shoulder where Jenna and Miguel smiled at her, urging her on.

“Perdón,”
Elena interrupted.
“¿Habla despacio,por favor?”
The woman smiled again.

“Porsupuesto,”
she said, then began to speak much more slowly, just as Elena had asked. She rounded out each word and kept her eyes trained on Elena's face to make sure she was comprehending. Then something miraculous happened; Elena began to understand.

After the tiny woman had described how to find the metro, which line to take, and where to get off, Elena thanked her effusively. She was so grateful for the woman's kindness and patience that she felt like reaching across the counter, picking her up, and swinging her around the train station. Instead she thanked her and walked back to the group, where she reported what she'd learned then led the way toward the metro.

As they bumped and jostled their way onto the metro car, Miguel leaned in toward Elena's ear. “I knew you could speak Spanish,” Miguel said as he found a place to stand. “Pretty soon you will be speaking better Spanish than me.” Miguel smiled.

“I don't think so.” She laughed. “Thank you, though.” She forced herself to meet his eyes for once. “I mean, thanks for pushing me to try my Spanish.” She knew it was Miguel's belief in her ability to speak Spanish that made her try again, however reluctantly. For that, she was grateful.

The metro spit the group out into the buzzing center of Puerta del Sol, Madrid's central plaza. In the center of the plaza sat a large saucer-shaped fountain and a tall statue of a man on horseback. The square was hedged in on all sides by wide buildings painted the pale yellow color of lemon chiffon cake with vanilla frosting trim.

The Puerta del Sol was believed by many to be the heart of the city because it was situated in the city's physical center. In fact, it was the geographical center of the entire country. Elena felt that heart was an appropriate word for the plaza since it virtually pulsed, pumping people and cars through the streets that radiated out from its center like arteries. As the masses of people coursed past her, Elena pulled her backpack to the front of her body. She was in a big city now; she had to be more mindful of herself and her things. She'd been warned by the Cruzes about pickpockets who lingered near the fountain.

After several trips around the block, they managed to hunt down their tiny hostel. Jenna checked them in.

“We're going to do all the big-city stuff while we're here—go to the cool clubs, eat at great restaurants, hear awesome music,” Jenna reminded them as they trudged up the stairs to their rooms to get ready for their first night in Madrid. “We're going big, you guys.”

 

Later that evening they met in front of the hostel and walked several blocks to their dinner destination. The flamenco restaurant Borja selected was small, dark, and smelled of stale smoke. It was also packed from the front rim of the stage to the back wall. As it turned out Borja had stumbled on one of the hottest flamenco restaurants in town. They had to wait for an hour, smooshed next to a tiny bar. By the time the hostess had cleared two tables to push together for their large group, Elena's stomach was gurgling at her. But the table, only one row back from the stage, was worth the wait. Elena chose a seat at the far corner, so close to the front of the stage she could see the black scuffs left from dancers' heels on the wood.

Miguel slipped into a seat beside Elena. Jenna gave her a raised-eyebrow look as if to say,
Isn't it interesting that he chose
that
seat, right next to you.
Elena bowed her head and smiled shyly. She had noticed that Miguel stayed near her lately, but in a friendly way. Elena was starting to pick up on the fact that he might not be head over heels for Jenna, but she still wasn't convinced that he was interested in her.

Miguel and Borja, their resident food experts, ordered an assortment of tapas and entrées for the table to share. Miguel chose several plates of white asparagus, a fish dish—Mediterranean bream char-grilled over hot coals—sirloin steak with red peppers, and stuffed mushrooms. When the waitress delivered the first round of food and two pitchers of sangria, a cloud of spicy, woody scents mingled together over the table. Moments later the house lights dimmed so that the only light in the restaurant came from the white tea lights winking in the center of each table. A flutter of plucked guitar strings unfolded in the darkened room. A clack of castanets bounced off the walls. The guitarist was illuminated first, sitting on a wooden stool off to the side of the stage, his fingers galloping across the strings. A voice tinged with sadness lifted up into the air in a haunting lilt.

A woman's form broke into the light, slinking and twisting. Her tiered dress, in shots of claret and black, swirled around her as though it were dancing independent of her, yet at her will. She rattled the castanets in time to the music and knocked her heels against the hollow stage.

“This music is sexy.” Jenna leaned across the table to whisper, then winked at Elena. Elena noticed her lean a little in Alex's direction.

Elena smiled softly then reached across the table toward the water pitcher and filled her glass. Suddenly the room took a collective breath.

Elena looked up at the stage just in time to see the dancer scampering offstage like a wounded deer. The guitarist kept singing and playing.

“What happened?” she whispered to Miguel.

“It looked like she must have tripped on a groove in the stage and twisted her ankle.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I have never seen this happen before.”

There was a crackling tension in the air as they waited to see what came next.

“I wonder if this is the end,” Elena whispered to Miguel.

As soon as the words left her mouth, a different woman slithered out of the darkness. She felt Miguel shift in his chair, moving closer to her. He leaned in and lingered near her ear for a moment.

“Or it could be just the beginning,” he whispered. A ripple of shivers crawled across Elena's skin.

The new dancer was dressed in a brilliant pink dress. Her light brown hair looked hastily slicked into a chignon and pierced with a floppy purple flower. The rushed hairstyle and a brief flush in her cheeks were the only clues that betrayed how quickly she'd had to scramble onstage to cover the mishap. She flipped open a lace fan and twirled it, her wrist flicking and spinning, her legs moving beneath her like liquid. Her motions were so fluid and feminine, yet so sure.

“She is wonderful,” Miguel whispered in Elena's ear.

“How is she able to do that, to just step in like that without missing a beat?” Elena asked.

“It is the nature of flamenco,” he explained. “It is an art of improvisation. They may practice their performances for this restaurant, but true flamenco musicians are masters at making it up onstage. It is like your American jazz in that way.”

“So she's a true flamenco performer?”

He nodded, shifting his eyes back to the dancer as she floated across the stage. Elena wondered if she'd ever possess that kind of confidence.

Two more flamenco dancers gave solo performances. To end the show, all the dancers, except for the one who twisted her ankle, came out and performed together, their bright colored dresses twirling past one another across the stage.

 

The next morning they had a group discussion about how to spend their day. The original plan had been to see a museum and a bullfight, but they had trouble getting started in the morning. Jenna and Alex both overslept, and it had taken longer than expected for everyone to shower and get dressed. When they had finally assembled in the hostel's dining room for a late breakfast, it had become clear that they were not going to be able to do everything they had planned.

“We could split up,” Jenna suggested, grabbing a croissant from a basket. “I mean, I don't really want to, but at least that way everyone could see what they want to see before we leave.”

“Well, I'd prefer to go to the museums,” Elena said. Caitlin and Marci agreed.

“My vote is for the bullfight, man,” Alex chimed in.

“Me, too,” Jenna seconded.

Chris and Borja agreed that they wanted to see the bullfight, but Miguel was the only boy who hedged.

“I've seen plenty of bullfights,” he explained.

“Cool. You can come to the museum with us,” Elena said casually, though inside she was elated.

The two groups headed their separate ways and planned to meet up at the train station later in the evening.

Elena and her group took the metro and exited the station at the park-lined Paseo del Prado, one of the widest and busiest streets in Madrid. Elena was surprised by how green it was. Trees lined the wide promenade leading toward the three world-famous art museums. Elena breathed in the fresh air. She could feel autumn in this inland city more so than in San Sebastián, where the air was heavy with salt water.

They approached the Prado Museum, arguably the most famous in Madrid. It reminded Elena of a slicker version of an ancient Greek temple with smooth stone columns, topped by an intricately carved mural. She felt this was a good indication of the grandeur and history that lay inside.

Only minutes after entering the museum, Elena was struck by how many different types of paintings from all over Europe were housed under one roof. There was a blurb at the bottom of a brochure stating that the Prado owned over nine thousand works of art in total. Not all of them were on display, of course, but it certainly seemed that way to Elena.

“Oh my God,” she murmured. “I don't think we could see everything even if we had the whole week.”

“I know.” Marci groaned.

“We don't have to see it all,” Miguel pointed out. “Perhaps we should just focus on the Spanish art. That alone may take all afternoon.” He pointed out an entire floor on the map reserved for the Spanish masters.

They meandered past centuries of Dutch and German art, through corridors of Italy's finest, and finally found their way to the floor reserved for the Spanish masters.