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.