Chapter Six
In which the Spanish Villa speaks.
Chapter Six
Here's the thing about Spanish life, my friends. It has nothing to do with what Hemingway may have told you. In fact, there have never been any masked men, anonymous soldiers in these parts -- lovers and fools and pregnant women always, but the world lays claim to those in overabundance. But the black-and-white you may remember, and the little roughness you saw in the monochrome, the imagined muted reds over whites and the colors of earth and siestas translated into a shifting sea of gray -- that may or may not have to do with gray, depending on if you saw any of it at all.
I dislike Americans because they assume too much. Also, they emphasize the exotic more than the quality of the exotic. If it is different -- if it has eyes like almonds and skin that is warm and sweetened by the sun -- they are immediately in love. It is naïve and young. But I suppose America is naïve and young. It is, in its assumptions, endearing. Do you see, Señor, we are putting on a show for you: because we know you are rich, and because we know you are not staying. If only you would put your ear down to the ground and listen, or press your body against the wall, and close your eyes, and feel the colors. It is possible. It is not any romantic disposition. This is also not Spanish life, but if you wish to know a thing or two you must first bow down to it. Only then can it be a part of the dance.
You think I say this to trick you into buying more wine? I'm not a restaurant, for God's sake. I like to have someone sleeping in my beds just as much as the neighbors -- we don't gossip; our walls are thick for this reason -- and no home is a home for a profit. When the sun is too hot I am a roof. When the night is too dark I am four walls. When the women come home with you I am the quiet places in which you kiss. When you are married I am the first floor your four feet step on. When you are alone, when you take up a lonely drink, there is always a cupboard you turn to. When there are children, there are always enough rooms. No, no, I am not trying to cheat you -- I am not trying to con your American currency with my foreign words -- but stop for a moment and remember the hungers of your childhood.
Here's the thing about Spanish life. Come closer. There are corners you haven't yet seen, and the smell of rice, yellow, coming from -- somewhere. It is not to your taste, I know. You were looking for a little more. A masked man, perhaps, or a mask to untie. You were not expecting a tall villa on the edge of something too unexpected, with white walls, and the mud red, and a mutt sleeping in the front yard. We are not all eyes like almonds and skin that is warm and sweetened by the sun. We are not all rapier-fast and silk-tongued. A lot of us are like the houses here.
We go deep down.
Chapter Six
Here's the thing about Spanish life, my friends. It has nothing to do with what Hemingway may have told you. In fact, there have never been any masked men, anonymous soldiers in these parts -- lovers and fools and pregnant women always, but the world lays claim to those in overabundance. But the black-and-white you may remember, and the little roughness you saw in the monochrome, the imagined muted reds over whites and the colors of earth and siestas translated into a shifting sea of gray -- that may or may not have to do with gray, depending on if you saw any of it at all.
I dislike Americans because they assume too much. Also, they emphasize the exotic more than the quality of the exotic. If it is different -- if it has eyes like almonds and skin that is warm and sweetened by the sun -- they are immediately in love. It is naïve and young. But I suppose America is naïve and young. It is, in its assumptions, endearing. Do you see, Señor, we are putting on a show for you: because we know you are rich, and because we know you are not staying. If only you would put your ear down to the ground and listen, or press your body against the wall, and close your eyes, and feel the colors. It is possible. It is not any romantic disposition. This is also not Spanish life, but if you wish to know a thing or two you must first bow down to it. Only then can it be a part of the dance.
You think I say this to trick you into buying more wine? I'm not a restaurant, for God's sake. I like to have someone sleeping in my beds just as much as the neighbors -- we don't gossip; our walls are thick for this reason -- and no home is a home for a profit. When the sun is too hot I am a roof. When the night is too dark I am four walls. When the women come home with you I am the quiet places in which you kiss. When you are married I am the first floor your four feet step on. When you are alone, when you take up a lonely drink, there is always a cupboard you turn to. When there are children, there are always enough rooms. No, no, I am not trying to cheat you -- I am not trying to con your American currency with my foreign words -- but stop for a moment and remember the hungers of your childhood.
Here's the thing about Spanish life. Come closer. There are corners you haven't yet seen, and the smell of rice, yellow, coming from -- somewhere. It is not to your taste, I know. You were looking for a little more. A masked man, perhaps, or a mask to untie. You were not expecting a tall villa on the edge of something too unexpected, with white walls, and the mud red, and a mutt sleeping in the front yard. We are not all eyes like almonds and skin that is warm and sweetened by the sun. We are not all rapier-fast and silk-tongued. A lot of us are like the houses here.
We go deep down.