Seville - Part 2 - Pomegranate Sour

My eyes were locked; I wanted to know her dance, her life, and her name. The power of Flamenco was infused in my mind, as the music played on I would toss my Boston shaker’s higher, flip my ‘waiter’s friend’ a little longer, serving up my cocktail’s, longing for her attention, yearning for her dark brown eyes to miraculously meet mine.

Fuelled with passion and driven by seduction, she moved slowly, allowing her audience to gaze in wonder at what was next. From the moment the guitarist began, the music was systematic, starting slow, the vocalist, concentration etched across his brow worked together in sync with the dancer. Without eye contact, the pair emotively cast their skill upon the audience not losing character as sweat coursed off their face and the beat picked up.

Riffs occurred, the guitarist began to thrash at his acoustic strings, the movement felt deep into the audience. The steady hands of the dancer would clap vociferously; in tandem her feet would pound the dance floor; her blood-red frock swivelled as the sounds of guitar and vocalist played on. Sending shivers throughout the crowd, the floor shook powerfully as her feet connected with it. Filled with emotions such as sadness and grief all through the power of dance, this was incomparable. This was beauty and romance, this was dance, and this was Seville.

By the time the next day rolled along I was more than your uneducated tourist by day and cocktail bartender by night, I searched for this place of belonging. Slaving away at nightclubs back in Melbourne, yearning for the end of my degree, hoping for that escape route, where I could simply draw my curtains and bask in the Spanish sunshine. The mundane repetition of Melbourne was nowhere to be seen here, I was hooked, and I was immersed in the culture and life of Seville.

Settling into a routine in Seville, I enjoyed the late starts to days, the afternoon siestas and the eclectic nightlife. After months of backpacking throughout Europe, my system was inundated with drugs and alcohol due to constant benders with my closest friends. However landing in Seville I was faced with a nighttime job and I suddenly didn’t feel like your typical tourist. I was lucky enough to live with a local family and meet some amazing people; home couldn’t be any further away.

Commencing my day much earlier than the locals, I found myself wandering the streets, familiarising myself with everything from their markets to high-end retail chains. I was facing a dilemma, I didn’t want to leave this life, and I knew reality would come calling or in my case, my father would.

“Come home now son, enough partying in Europe, you have had your fun.”

That notion of fun is a peculiar one; people always seem to think fun has to have an end. Why can’t people live their life full of fun, without the expiration date? Either way, the conservative boy of sub-continental parents would eventually kick in, but not today.

She was back; ready to face an enormous crowd, but more importantly I was ready to meet her. Nothing would stop me this time; I had it all planned out to a tee.

The entrance to Seville’s flamenco club was tainted with the drawbacks of Moorish history; two large bi-fold doors would retract allowing everyone inside. The first stop was young Celia Serrano, her morbid facial expression would greet you, mixed with looks of disdain and disappointment, she realises its just me, the foreign bartender, no longer flavour of the month. She yearned for those handsome tourists to come strolling through, countless numbers of them hitting on her whilst she soaked it up like a ‘Chux’ Handy-Wipe.

“You’re early man!” Says Celia.

With a huge smile stretching from ear to ear I quietly tell her about ‘extra work’ for ‘extra guests.’ She slips back into her depressed look, ignoring my comment, sifting through her ‘Vanity Fair’ magazine.

I was alone in the bar, my supervisor, David, was due in any moment, so I quickly pre-made her drink, I vividly remembered her choice, it was I who recommended it after all. Not wanting to over-do it, I kept it on ice. Two egg whites, three wedges of lemon, shot of vanilla vodka, pomegranate liquor and a dash of ‘molasses.’ Iced, shaken and mixed to perfection, awaiting the arrival of its consumer.

The night wore on, again the club was full, the bar lines seemingly endless and their she was, sitting in a deep corner enjoying the company of no one. Without wanting to seem overly creepy, I tried to distract myself with work, concocting anything to take my eyes away from her. The guitarist and vocalist had left, she was alone, basking in her brilliance and recovering after another arduous performance.

Everything felt like a Hollywood script, the world had slowed down, and all you needed was a fan blowing her long brown hair into the wind. She slowly removed her shoes, in excruciating pain after laying into the dance floor, I could see her pain and her relief was evident after completing another show.

“Just go talk to her man,” yells David from the other end of the bar, waking me out of the funk I was caught in.

“You only live once Chico.”

David was right, this was the chance I had been waiting for, and no better opportunity would have presented itself.
Nervously preparing her drink I almost fumbled the egg whites, nonchalantly trying not to embarrass myself in front of our customers. Carefully mixing her poison, I fix myself a shot of gin and tonic before I take the plunge; I figure there is no better friend in the possibility I fail miserably.

The Spanish tune continued and David smiled devilishly from the bar. What a life this was, the thought of home, my family and the other life was a mere blemish on my brown skin. All those thoughts of my Father and the conservative life back home could wilfully take a back-seat, because all my guilty pleasures and spontaneous thoughts would be indulged this evening, all without a care in the world.

Merely ten steps away from her booth my heart begins to race, what do I say? Do I practice it in Spanish beforehand? Flamenco music racing through my ears and fear elevating in my chest, apart of me wants to turn back.

“Oye, Camarero! Come over here quickly.”

A powerful voice with a sense of urgency demanded my attention, I looked up in the hope it was her, requesting my services.
She was talking to me; herein laid my passageway to heaven, my grace.

“Si, Senorita? I nervously ask.

“How can I help you?”

How could I help her? Me, a mere plebeian bartender, conversing with a goddess of dance, I was the one in need of help. Who knew where the rest of the night lay, I was in no mood to do any other work, unless it was at her bidding.

It is amazing how us men react when the concerns of a female are at hand. That longing for romance, the respect and adoration of a beautiful woman, the emotions I would feel at trying to achieve my goal fuelled my intentions and provided the impetus for a perfect night.

She again wore red, without her extravagant frock, she was as simple as she was beautiful. Dark blue denim so tight, they fit her body like a glove, contrasting elegantly with her red polka-dotted blouse.

“You dance Australia?”

Her English was broken, but I love her for trying, watching her lips move as she pieced words together was a priceless image, for some reason, the sound of European’s graciously trying to speak English was attractive. The feeling of the unknown, embracing the ability to experience something entirely different to what we know and hold dear to us, her accent and broken English reminded me of everything I was going through right now, that common feeling of mystery.

After twelve months of Latin dancing back home, my arrogance tells me I would be at one with her on the dance floor, I stupidly followed her trying to focus on what lay ahead, despite being mesmerised by her long brown hair and strut you would liken to a Milanese catwalk.

“Wait.” I said vehemently. “Your name. Como se llama?” Confused between the Spanish and English.

“Jordana,” she replied, smiling.

Wow I thought, talk about a cliché. “Wait, you don’t want mine?”

“Aaron, no?” Emphasising the ‘double-A’ in my name.

Immediately I thought wow, she knows me, how? Then she affectionately pulled at my shirt, flicking my name badge with her index finger, smiling.

“Now, dance Australia.” Her Andalucian accent careened wildly through each word she strung together.

Frantically trying to remember basic Latin steps, my head is filled with old dance lessons. Jordana’s soft fingertips run through my hair and across the collar of my shirt, forcing the hair on my forearms to stand up tall.

Repeating the steps in my head, every so often Jordana would nudge my forehead with the tip of her nose. I was torn between her beaming smile and stepping on her delicate feet all in an effort to avoid coming off as an imbecile with two ‘left feet.’

Jordana eased my fears however and we slowly connected naturally. The closer she was, and the more I felt her touch, I felt relaxed. The sound of the music faded in my head; I immersed myself in her touch and smell, feeling the contours of her body in my hands and the minty scent of her breath through my nose.

Taking control, Jordana spontaneously pulled me closer to her, the physicality on the dance floor allowed sweat to course off her nose. Her scent was provocative, evoking hints of jasmine and lavender, and keeping my body close to hers, she drew me into her web, entangling me in her world.

We danced deep into the night, she moved gracefully across the floor, taking me on a journey. She understood the beats and mood of music, forcing me to feel emotions unfelt, enticing me with her deep gaze, locking her brown eyes into mine.

I wanted to know everything from bone to sinew about Jordana; the night was what I wanted it to be. Conversation, cocktail and dance ran through the course of the evening and my deepest fear was approaching, the overdue feeling of guilty pleasures was coming to a halt.

My time with Jordana was concluding, all my preparation, all my thoughts or feelings could never ready myself for what lay ahead. Saying goodbye would prove difficult, but the old adage of good things coming to an end began to infiltrate my head, my time in Seville was up. Humphrey Bogart once said ‘we will always have Paris,’ but we had far more than Paris. Jordana and I have Seville.

Spanish Cocktail

From that night I had eyes for no one, I wanted to know her dance, her life, and her name. The power of Flamenco was infused in my mind, as the music played on I would toss my Boston Shaker’s higher, flip my ‘Waiter’s Friend’ a little longer, dishing out my cocktail’s, longing for her attention, yearning for her dark brown eyes to miraculously meet mine.
Fuelled with passion and love, she moved slowly, allowing her audience to gaze in wonder at what was next. From the moment the guitarist began, the music was systematic, starting slow, the vocalist, concentration etched across his brow worked together in sync with the dancer. Without eye contact, the pair emotively cast their skill upon the audience not losing character as sweat coursed off their face and the beat picked up.
Riffs occurred, the guitarist began to thrash at his acoustic strings, the movement felt deep into the audience. The steady hands of the dancer would clap vociferously; in tandem her feet would pound the dance floor; her blood-red frock swivelled as the sounds of guitar and vocalist played on. Sending shivers throughout the crowd, the floor shook powerfully as her feet connected with it. Filled with emotions such as sadness and grief all through the power of dance, this was incomparable. This was beauty and romance, this was dance, and this was Seville.
The old Moorish dwelling where the influences of Morocco, Palestine and Western Europe come together on their narrowed cobblestone avenues and ancient architecture. Local shopkeepers, thriving this time of year musically tell me “old Moroccan families still keep the keys to their long-lost houses here in Andalucía,” such is the influence and love these locals have of their heritage, their town and culture.
There I was, uneducated tourist by day and Cocktail Bartender by night, I searched for this place of belonging. Slaving away at nightclubs back in Melbourne, yearning for the end of my degree, hoping for that escape route, where I could simply draw my curtains and bask in the Spanish sunshine.
Commencing my day much earlier than the locals, I found myself wandering the streets, familiarising myself with everything from their markets to high-end retail chains. I was facing a dilemma, I didn’t want to leave this life, and I knew reality would come calling or in my case, my Father would. “Come home now son, enough partying in Europe, you have had your fun.” That notion of fun is a peculiar one; people always seem to think fun has to have an end. Why can’t people live their life full of fun, without the expiration date? Either way, the conservative boy of Sub-Continental parents would eventually kick in, but not today.
She was back; ready to face an enormous crowd, but more importantly I was ready to meet her. Nothing would stop me this time; I had it all planned out to a tee.
The entrance to Seville’s Flamenco club was tainted with the drawbacks of Moorish history; two large bi-fold doors would retract allowing everyone inside. The first stop was young Celia Serrano, her morbid facial expression would greet you, mixed with looks of disdain and disappointment, she realises its just me, the foreign bartender, no longer flavour of the month. She yearned for those handsome tourists to come strolling through, countless numbers of them hitting on her whilst she soaked it up like a ‘Chux’ Handy-Wipe. “You’re early man!” With a huge smile stretching from ear to ear I quietly tell her about ‘extra work’ for ‘extra guests.’ She slips back into her depressed look, ignoring my comment, sifting through her ‘Vanity Fair’ magazine.
I was alone in the bar, my supervisor, David, was due in any moment, so I quickly pre-made her drink, I vividly remembered her choice, it was I who recommended it after all. Not wanting to over-do it, I kept it on ice. Two egg whites, three wedges of Lemon, two shots of Vanilla Vodka, Pomegranate liquor and a dash of ‘Molasses.’ Iced, shaken and mixed to perfection, awaiting the arrival of its consumer.
The night wore on, again the club was full, the bar lines seemingly endless and their she was, sitting in a deep corner enjoying the company of no one. Without wanting to seem overly creepy, I tried abysmally to distract myself with work, anything to take my eyes away from her. The guitarist and vocalist had left, she was alone, basking in her brilliance and recovering after another arduous performance.
Everything felt like a Hollywood script, the world slowed down, all you needed was a fan blowing her long brown hair into the wind as she slowly removed her shoes, in excruciating pain after laying into the dance floor, I could feel her pain and her relief at completing another show.
“Just go talk to her man,” yells David from the other end of the bar, waking me out of the funk I was caught in.
“You only live once Chico.”
David was right, this was the chance I had been waiting for, and no better opportunity would have presented itself.
Nervously preparing her ‘Pomegranate Sour’ I almost fumbled the egg whites, nonchalantly trying not to embarrass myself in front of our customers. Carefully mixing her poison, I fix myself a shot of Gin and Tonic before I take the plunge; I figure there is no better friend in the possibility I fail miserably.
The Spanish tune continued and David smiled devilishly from the bar. What a life this was, the thought of home, my family and the other life was a mere blemish on my brown skin. All those thoughts of my Father and the conservative life back home could wilfully take a back-seat, because all my guilty pleasures and spontaneous thoughts would be indulged this evening, all without a care in the world.
Merely ten steps away from her booth my heart begins to race, what do I say? Do I practice it in Spanish beforehand? Flamenco music racing through my ears and fear elevating in my chest, apart of me wants to turn back.
“Oye, Camarero! Come over here quickly.” A powerful voice with a sense of urgency demanded my attention, I looked up in the hope it was her, requesting my services.
She was talking to me; herein laid my passageway to heaven, my grace.
“Si, Senorita? I nervously ask. “How can I help you?” How could I help her? Me, a mere plebeian bartender, conversing with a goddess of dance, I was the one in need of help. Who knew where the rest of the night lay, I was in no mood to do any other work, unless it was at her bidding.
It is amazing how us men react when the concerns of a female are at hand. That longing for romance, the respect and adoration of a beautiful woman, the emotions I would feel at trying to achieve my goal fuelled my intentions and provided the impetus for a perfect night.
She again wore red, without her extravagant frock, she was as simple as she was beautiful. Dark blue denim so tight, they fit her body like a glove, contrasting elegantly with her red polka-dotted blouse.
“You dance Australia?”
Her English was broken, but I loved her for trying, watching her lips move as she pieced words together was a priceless look, for some reason, the sound of European’s graciously trying to speak English was attractive. The feeling of the unknown, embracing the ability to experience something entirely different to what we know and hold dear to us back home, her accent exuded seduction.
After twelve months of Latin dancing back home, my arrogance told me I would be at one with her on the dance floor, I stupidly followed her trying to focus on what lay ahead, despite being mesmerised by her long brown hair and strut found on a Milanese catwalk.
“Wait.” I said vehemently. “Your name. Como se llama?” Confused between the Spanish and English.
“Jordana,” she replied, smiling.
Wow I thought, talk about a cliché. “Wait, you don’t want mine?”
“Aaron, no?” Emphasising the ‘double-A’ in my name.
Immediately I thought wow, she knows me, how? Then she affectionately pulled at my shirt, flicking my name badge with her index finger, smiling.
“Now, dance Australia.” Her romantic Andalucian accent was just the beginning as her voice careened wildly through each word she struggled to string together.
Frantically trying to remember basic Latin steps, my head is filled with old dance lessons, whilst Jordana’s soft fingertips run through my hair and across the collar of my shirt, sending the hair on my arms into an intense frenzy.
‘One, two, left, cha-cha-cha’, repeating in my head, every so often Jordana would nudge my forehead with the tip of her nose. I was torn between her beaming smile and stepping on her delicate feet all in an effort to avoid coming off as an imbecile with two ‘left feet.’
Jordana eased my fears, as we slowly connected naturally. The closer she was, and the more I felt her touch, I felt relaxed. Always falling back on her wide smile and beady brown eyes, Jordana had successfully begun to melt the heart.
Taking control, Jordana spontaneously pulled me closer to her so I could feel the warmth of her touch and the smell of her perfume. Her scent was sexually provocative, evoking hints of jasmine and lavender, keeping my body close to hers, drawing me into her web of beauty and seduction.
We danced deep into the night, she moved gracefully across the floor, leading me on a journey. She understood the beats and mood of music, forcing me to feel emotions unfelt, enticing me with her deep gaze, locking her brown eyes into mine.
I wanted to know everything from bone to sinew about Jordana; the night was what I wanted it to be. Conversation, cocktail and dance ran through the course of the evening and my deepest fear was approaching, the overdue feeling of guilty pleasures was coming to a halt.
My time with Jordana was concluding, all my preparation, all my thoughts or feelings could never ready myself for what lay ahead. Saying goodbye would prove difficult, but the old adage of good things coming to an end began to infiltrate my head, my time in Seville was up. People say one ‘will always have Paris,’ but we had far more than Paris. Jordana and I will always have Seville.

Bloody Sunday

The young man approaches the bar stool, looking exhausted. He slumps into it and smiles, a mixture of relief and apprehensive content smeared across his face.

Young Vasquez: I guess that’s why I am always at loggerheads with them. The black sheep they call me. “Where were you last week? Ramon showed up! My goodness, how have your parents raised you boy!?”

Forget the endless family functions organised, the countless errands run, it amounts to nothing unless I front up Sunday. Bloody Sunday!

These damn days where I want nothing more than appreciation, I never forget those months. Toiling in the sun, hoping we make it out alive.

“Just do it Chico. Get them off your back and conform, it makes life much easier!” Ramon Vasquez. Tall, dark and handsome, every Latino family loves him and every ‘Muchacha’ wants to know him. Back in school we would slug it out on the courts every lunch wondering how my cousin Ramon came locked and loaded. He schooled me on the basketball court then and as much as it pains me to admit, he schooled me throughout life.

I guess I’m relatively jealous. He is my flesh and blood; I know we would take bullets for each other. Growing up together, sharing bathtubs as babies all the way through our early twenties getting through the gruelling training.

He shifts in his seat. With a steady hand he leans over his seat and pours himself a small shot, courtesy of Martin Miller. After nonchalantly squeezing lime wedges inside the glass, he sips slowly, absorbing the aroma. Placing the glass down, he raises his head slowly. You see his eyes and furrowed brow.

Young Vasquez: “C’mon ‘Primito’,” I hated that. ‘Little Cousin’ in English, but with my head sweltering and Ramon soldiering ahead, I could sense it. Another beating. Why on earth have we signed up for this? Did I think I could get one up on him here?
Quite the opposite it seems. Hell, if it weren’t for him I would have bailed like Judas on Christ.

I recall the shells cracking, guns ablaze, and local kids screaming, locating in vain for their loved ones. “Get to the rendezvous” yells Ramon; I could sense his tone was mixed with frustration and authority. Poor guy. He found it hard to distance the emotional attachment with the locals. I would often question why we were there, lazily completing missions, relying on my stronger cousin at every stage. I knew he didn’t want to be there, but we knew what we signed up for; I guess Ramon being so diligent automatically applied work ethic, which was non-existent for me.

That final mission couldn’t come any sooner. Ramon and I could smell discharge in the air and the final flight home was soothing.

So here we are, you would think our lives have done a complete three-sixty. But some things never change, Ramon, forever loved, and I, forever scorned. They are probably still trying to figure how I can be fixed. Hurry up and end Sunday.

Love, relocation and all that jazz

Ok so I have been awfully quiet over the last few months. But contrary to popular belief my mind has been racing. Hard at work, and forever contemplating, my latest dilemma is yet to occur but with the impending move abroad, completion of my studies and the reason behind my impending move, well you can imagine it’s a fair bit to process. So here goes, I figure I have to announce it all sometime, so as they say “read all about it.”

I am nervous. Terrified. Who knows what one can expect. Many people say life is about taking the plunge into the unforeseeable. Nose-diving into that sea of surprise, hoping to whatever God you pray to that your prior excitement will provide enough fuel to spur you on your journey not just temporarily, but in its entirety. What if you fail? What if you come back to square one with your tail dangling between your legs? Do you really take that chance and hope that you prevail?
Looking at myself that morning in the mirror I was confident. I am confident. I may sit and dwell for hours on end, procrastinating longer than a broker tossing up between pork bellies or orange juice. Nothing in life can prepare me for what I am about to embark upon. Nothing can control what may happen. If I take the chance the tunnel’s end seems so far. But if I don’t take this chance, then will I regret it?

In life it seems the fuel that provides the most fire is love. Corny? Tacky? Cheesy? I know right, all the aforementioned are highly likely to run through your heads, but believe it or not, its fucking true. As human beings we are nothing without it and some may say that everything we do in our lives revolves around it. I don’t think nothing is scarier than the fear of losing love. The love of a best friend, family member or partner.

We make decisions in life and it is said, we are defined by our actions, providing the nucleus for whom we turn out to be. If this is who I am, then why the fuck am I so petrified? Is this natural?

All around me I see the negativity of love. The cons seemingly outweighing the pros, questioning every fabric of my being. Why am I going ahead with this? Why walk away from the comfort of home, family and friends? Am I that insane? Do I think I know why? Or am I that sure of this decision? I can always return home right? Surely it is this simple? All these questions and more constantly run through my head like a London tube service.

Plunging into that abyss may be exciting, sliding down the spiral almost like it is another time warp, whisking away everything that is so monotone in my life. Everything that has become predictable and downright boring. But beneath it all, I feel fear beyond anything I have ever experienced. I cling to the feelings I have to keep me moving forward. I yearn for her sweet smell, hearing her laugh everyday, even though it may be at my expense. It eases the fear, calms the nerves. It gives me a purpose in my sordid and uneventful life thus far. I look forward to those moments where I can share the successes of our lives together. One day, looking back on this decision and having no regrets, hoping that all this apprehension and fear was a mere afterthought, nothing more than commitment jitters.

I cling to all of this. I know my tiresome journey to find ones cataclysmic counterpoint ends here. The feelings are jubilant and euphoric, giving me all the pleasure I previously hid from and disobeyed like a serial felon. Doing whatever necessary to ensure we are successful, no more pain or suffering. Far too much tears have been shed thinking about this. I have made my decision. I wont give up. I won’t surrender to what is merely simple and convenient. This decision will shape not just my entire life, but also any thought of adding an ‘our’ to life rests purely on this decision. This is life and my journey, however uneven it may be, it will lead to light at the tunnels end.

I sit patiently at the airport. Back to present day, the realisation of my decision. I immediately think, “oh fuck me.” But this time, a smile begins to form; I privately extend my mouths end towards my ears and chuckle. Wondering about the complexities of life and what tomorrow will bring. Again I am scared. Fear starts to race through me once again, almost like it’s running the second heat for Olympic trials.

I think of nothing more than twirling her in my arms in the arrivals hall, depleting the fear I feel. Holding her so close that her lightly scented perfume rubs off on me. I take that plunge with gay abandon, oblivious to the weeks ahead and those strange faces beaming my way in the arrival hall. I contemplate everything from what I will do when I see her again to what will be when the time comes to take that plunge into the unknown.

Love. The most enigmatic of emotions, but the most satisfying one that can sear through the human heart and I love her. I will not let her go.