Summer 2008
It was a day in July, possibly the hottest one in the year, with temperatures more fitting to Spain than Vienna, in the far end of the 30-40º range. With the grade 10 exams far behind me, I was truly relaxed after a month of holidays and the prospect of one more month of what I knew was the last proper break I would have before embarking with the IB. My mum had been pestering me for weeks to go to the Spanish embassy to return a couple of books that were long overdue and use the trip to get some more reading material for the holidays. I was more than happy to go, because I was on my way to finishing the Harry Potter series for the 8th time, and I was going to be in dire need of a good book once I finished. However, laziness and reluctance towards walking through half of the city in the heat meant that it was well into the fourth week of the summer break when I decided to finally go to the embassy.
After getting off the u-bahn and start walking towards the Spanish embassy, I noticed a guy walking in front of me with a fast pace, making the same turns as I was, seemingly heading in the same direction. I remembered him from before, I had been sitting next to him in the u-bahn. I couldn’t quite remember his face, but I clearly remembered the Spain t-shirt he was wearing; I had noticed it as I sat next to him, and it had made me think of my own Spain t-shirt, memories still fresh from the Eurocup victory. As it happens every time I see a spanish-speaking person, now that it was clear that he was headed for the Spanish embassy (as if his t-shirt hadn’t been enough of a clue), I had the strange impulse of waving my hands around and pointing out that I am Spanish as well. Luckily for us both, I suppressed this urge and, with nothing better to do, I analyzed the way he walked: I couldn’t explain it, but I instantly labelled him as over-confident, even reaching arrogant. Maybe he was just in a hurry, but he walked as if he owned the street. I walked quietly behind him until we reached the gate. The first time I ever saw his smile was as we went through the main door, when one of the guards gave him the thumbs up for his t-shirt. Quickly waving the thought of his dimples away from my mind, I headed for the library and assumed that that would be the last I would see of him. Oh, how wrong I was.
I’m not entirely sure of how it is in other embassies, but in the Spanish embassy there is a section where they advertise and sell Spanish products that you wouldn’t normally find in Austria, or they are simply at a very reduced price. Always willing to get a good deal, I entered. As I browsed through the last CD releases of pop bands, I noticed him in a corner. He was talking on the phone, pacing up and down, gesturing with his hands. On the floor, next to what I assumed was his bag, there was a soccer ball that I had not seen before, and I had no idea how he had come to have it. I looked at him as he walked and spoke in what I could hear to be flawless German. Now that I was paying attention to something other than his t-shirt, I noticed that he was actually good-looking. Very good-looking. He was tall; taller than I would have said if I had had to describe him from memory. He had soft-looking hair, a shade of brown lighter than mine, and his eyes were a dark green. He was well-built, apparently athletic, but not excessively muscular. As I was carrying out my assessment, he looked in my direction and caught me staring. Feeling myself blushing, I looked down and acted immensely interested in the nearest CD until I felt him look away and continue his conversation on the phone. Whoever he was talking to had made him angry, he had now raised his voice and though I couldn’t make out what he was saying, he seemed to be saying some harsh things over the phone. Frowning at his bad mood, I moved on to the next stand.
If there’s one food item I miss from Spain it’s its cheese. It’s a special type of cheese only made in the region where I lived for 7 years, unlike any other cheese in both terms of texture and taste. Therefore, quite obviously, when I saw a stand where they were giving away free portions of my beloved cheese, i joined the queue that had slowly formed as I browsed through the CDs. Not ten seconds after, I heard his voice behind me, and knew he was standing behind me in line. Not paying any attention to him, and slightly offended by the loud volume of his conversation, I looked through the books I had borrowed from the library. I was completely shocked, however, when he ended his conversation with what I was pretty sure were the words “Thank you” in Japanese. Confused, I told myself I’d imagined it and went back to reading the back of the books. Soon, I was getting rather irritated with his constant weight shift from leg to leg and his sighs about how slow the line was advancing. Perhaps more shy (and better-mannered) than I am today, I stopped myself from telling him to leave if he didn’t like waiting. Good looks didn’t give him the right to annoy everyone else with his impatience. I then heard him speak Spanish for the first time:
“That book is pretty bad, you know.”
After getting over the shock that he was in fact talking to me, I looked down and looked at the book he was referring to, the one at the top of the pile. It was the only book I was actually looking forward to reading, the only title I hadn’t read from one of my favorite Spanish authors. Annoyed, I mumbled a half-hearted response that implied I would only know once I read it. He smiled back, seemingly amused (or unaware) of my irritation. Uncomfortable because he was obviously expecting me to say something else, I mentioned that I had seen him quite a few times that day. He replied,
“Oh, I definitely remember you”
Shit, shit, shit. He remembered me? I quickly looked down at my blue dress, half expecting to see a huge stain or a rip. I checked the long braid down my back in the windows beside him, checking for random loose strands that would make me look insane. Once I had established there were not any major flaws in my appearance that would make him remember me, I tried to think back and see if I had done something weird in the course of the day. I didn’t particularly remember singing in public, pulling strange faces or doing anything not respectable. But then again, it was me we were talking about, so I couldn’t be sure. He saved me from my quick internal debate by pointing towards my finger and whispering “Pokemon”. I looked down and laughed with relief: I saw the Pokemon-themed band-aid I had round my pinkie due to a paper cut I had clumsily given myself in the morning. My smile, however, quickly faded as I prepared an answer to what I expected to be a witty remark from him, something along the lines of “Aren’t you a bit too old for Pokemon?” or a reference to how uncool I was. Either way, what I did not expect was,
“So you’re a Squirtle girl, huh?”
…which led to a pretty satisfactory discussion about pokemon and their importance in our respective childhoods. Wrong once again, I had assumed that because he spoke some decent German, his Spanish would be kind of weak and would sound awkward; his grammar and accent were perfect. Everything was going quite well until he received another phone call, and rudely picked up, shouted something into it, and then hung up again. I remembered my grandma’s advice “Go with your gut!” and focused on the negative rude first impression I had from him, rather than on his dimples and green eyes. I was saved from having to find an appropriate response because we finally got to the cheese place and I got my highly desired piece of Spanish cheese. Assuming the conversation was over, I said good bye and left towards the door. Already outside, I heard him shout “Hey, you!” and turned around to see him running towards me, four pieces of cheese in one hand and his soccer ball in the other. Surprised he had called me, I waited until he reached the place where I was and politely acted concerned when he chocked on a piece of cheese he swallowed way too fast. Like in the movies, he took a pen out his pocket, grabbed my arm and wrote his email on my palm. With a smile that he surely thought was charming, he told me to email him when I got home, and then disappeared around the corner. Speechless for a moment, I stared at my hand before considering what to do. While I was really flattered that he had given me his email, and impressed by his looks, I got such a bad impression of him. Plus, who did he think he was? Writing on my palm? C’mon, this is not Hollywood, and you’re not that good-looking. And telling me a book by my favorite author is bad? I bet you haven’t even read it. And stop being so cocky, you don’t even know my name and you already assume I’d want to email you at all costs.
By the time I got home, I had decided not to send him an email after all.
Little did I know, than less than a week after, I’d see him again at a friend’s party..….
PS. I only wrote this because I lost a bet. It’s kind of personal, and I had never recounted it in such detail and depth. Any feedback?
And please remind me not to make bets anymore? Lately, I seem to be losing them all.
