Amy Mullen

Besos

The waves crashed against the shore as I walked along the paseo marítimo, the five kilometer path stretching around the peninsula that is La Coruña, Spain. At the tip of the peninsula the Torre de Hércules, the world's oldest functioning Roman-style lighthouse, proudly guards over the Atlantic. Legend has it that it was built by Hercules himself. It stands 180 feet tall and serves as a source of pride for the coruñeses that live by its side. One end of the paseo gives home to the port that protects rows of well-kept fishing boats. When it's not raining, the boats' paint shimmers in the bright Spanish sun. Throughout my year abroad I'd take Sunday walks along the paseo, usually ending on the port side, enjoying the view of the barcos bobbing along to the slow cadence of the dark blue waters. I'd read the names of the boats, all carefully stenciled onto their surfaces, one referring to La Coruña with the tagline "la ciudad en la que nadie es forastero." The city in which no one is a stranger.

It was the end of my first week in La Coruña and the homesickness was starting to sink in. Annoyed by the strength of the mid-September sun upon my face, I crinkled my nose and directed my view toward the busy city street. This street ran along the other side of the peninsula, the side with the two main beaches, Orzán and Riazor. The beaches, side-by-side, were just minutes away from my host family's apartment on Calle Nicaragua. Our dark, crowded street contrasted greatly with the rolling waves situated just a few city blocks away. The whole city was a contradiction unto itself. One of my favorite pictures of La Coruña was taken from the paseo. It shows hundreds of wild yellow and pink flowers jutting up from the typical Galician grass in the foreground, the ocean just behind it, and the conglomeration of gray, white and orange city buildings standing stolidly in the background. As a twenty-year old American college student on her own for the first time, I was not comfortable with these contradictions.

Out of place in worn jeans and a light blue T-shirt, I looked past the fashionable Spanish women tottering along in their high heels. I gazed into the distance, past the stone barrier that separated street from sand, in the direction I imagined my beloved United States to be. The small European cars whipped past me as the harsh wind blew my ponytail into the corner of my frown. Descending toward the ocean, I found a stable rock and settled down to have a good, long cry. I didn't know what I was doing here and I still had three hundred days to go. I imagined my friends back home starting a new semester of classes, my parents watching a baseball game on the couch, my dogs leaping through our backyard without a care in the world. I wanted to be back there. I didn't want to spend ten months in this coastal Spanish town. Pushing myself up from the rock, I sighed and started back to continue my walk along the paseo.

Just a few kilometers down the street from that rock lay the heart of La Coruña, its ciudad vieja, the old part of town. While the rest of the peninsula has become a modern, urban metropolis, this collection of narrow streets, stone churches and widespread plazas suggests an earlier, simpler time. The bronze heroine María Pita, famous for fighting off Sir Francis Drake and the English Armada in 1589, overlooks the resplendent city hall building in the middle of the square that bears her name. The main street that opens into the Plaza de María Pita is Calle Real. It was on this street that I met up with Juan for a quasi-date one evening in late January.

Calle Real was buzzing with activity. Toddlers were bouncing along with their parents, completely normal in Spain, even at midnight. My American friends Mo and Maggie had come with me; still not entirely fluent in Spanish, I wasn't sure whether this was a real date. We walked along briskly, passing dawdling elderly couples with their wooden canes, first-year university students with their skinny jeans and bright plastic jewelry. We breathed in cigarette smoke, an annoyance we'd sadly gotten used to during our time abroad. I was excited, but nervous, to be seeing Juan again. Maggie spotted our ridiculous psychology professor strolling down the walk with a woman a few too many years his junior. Laughing about the situation, I didn't notice that Juan had arrived at the corner ahead of us. That sweet grin already planted, he called out, "Hola, Amy."

I had joined the orchestra in an attempt to do something with my year abroad, hoping to meet people other than the eight Holy Cross girls I'd come with. When the director had told me that there would be another flute player, a man named Juan, I had pictured a jovial, graying fellow with something of a gut. Imagine my delight when the tall, slender guy with the twinkling eyes cocked his head at me at rehearsal and introduced himself: "Hola, soy Juan." We flirted through the rehearsals. I told him about the Nutella, cereal and bread concoctions I designed with my host mom's sandwich press; he grossed me out with stories of a ham he'd had for over a year, on which he still dined. Basically, we were in love.

But then a suspicious looking girl came to see him in the orchestra's winter concert. I figured she was his girlfriend and walked home afterward, upset. It was dark by this point. I left through the main door of the stone church and headed down the hill to walk along the water where the boats seemed to sleep, calm in their port. Hands in my pockets, I sighed my disappointment. As I let myself into the apartment my host mom, Susana, ran to the door and asked whether the cute flutist I'd told her about had asked me out. She groaned in sympathy when I told her about the girlfriend, then left me alone to eat a late dinner.

A few bites into my squid and rice, I heard my cell phone ring. I jumped up from the table and ran to my bedroom to answer it. Seeing Juan's name blinking on the screen, I slammed the door behind me. "Diga," I said into the phone, hoping to God that all my Spanish would come out okay. Juan explained that he hadn't gotten a chance to say goodbye after the concert and that he wanted to wish me a merry Christmas. I asked what he was doing for the holiday and he confirmed that he'd be spending it with his girlfriend. Well, there it was. Girlfriend. This was evidently a lost cause. Time to get over Juan.

Except then he complicated the situation a little by informing me that his girlfriend was married to his brother, who was expecting a baby. Obviously I'd heard something wrong. I probably should have sought clarification at this point but I was far too flustered, so instead, I promptly hung up the phone and then reviewed the facts. He had definitely mentioned a girlfriend, but maybe it wasn't his. Maybe he'd said he was spending Christmas with his brother's girlfriend, who was pregnant with his brother's child. But then why wouldn't he have just mentioned his brother in the first place? Originally so excited to hear about this handsome flute boy, Susana merely shook her head after I told her all the conflicting information I'd gathered.

               ¤ ¤ ¤

After Christmas break, after weeks of wondering who had a girlfriend, who was pregnant, and who that girl at the concert was, I worked up the nerve to call Juan. We were going to be paid for having played at the concert, but since I wasn't a Spanish citizen and didn't have a Spanish bank account, or something, the director decided that the best way to pay me would be to give Juan my money. Partly wanting to talk to Juan again and partly just wanting my cash, I took a deep breath, scrolled down to his name in my small European cell phone, pressed the big green "llamar" button and winced. He answered and we proceeded to have a horribly awkward conversation, translated and summarized here:

     Amy: Uh, hi, Juan. It's Amy.
     Juan: I know, Amy.
     Amy: Oh. Ha. Uh, anyway, do you have the money?
     Juan: No, not yet. I'll call you when I do. Is that the only reason you called?
     Amy: Yes. How was your Christmas?
     Juan: It was good. How was yours?
     Amy: Good.
     Juan: Are you sure that's the only reason you called, Amy?
     Amy: Yes.
     Juan: Really?
     Amy: Yes.
     Juan: Really?
     Amy: Yes.
     Juan: Are you sure you didn't want to ask me to go out sometime?
     Amy: Oh, right, right, I did. Do you?
     Juan: Yes. I'll call you Friday.

He did call on Friday, although not until late. Susana knew that I had made plans with him so she understood when I told her I was too nervous to eat any dinner. I locked myself in the bathroom I shared with my host sister, Paula, to wrestle with a borrowed hair straightener, hoping Juan hadn't forgotten about our plans. As I put on makeup, my phone sat next to the porcelain sink, awaiting Juan's call. With half of my hair straightened and the rest hanging limply to the side, my default ring tone finally sounded. Juan explained that he had to meet his sister for dinner, but could meet me just outside the Plaza de María Pita at eleven if I wanted. He mentioned something about his friends so I quickly called around to find friends of my own, not wanting to show up alone in some kind of group outing. For all I knew, his pregnant girlfriend was coming too. Maggie and Mo agreed to chaperone. As I reapplied lip gloss for the thousandth time just before leaving, Paula stood with her arms crossed in her doorway. She looked me over with the ever-critical eye of a fourteen-year old Spanish girl, then finally declared that I looked very pretty, giving me her permission to begin my evening. I ran out the door in a hurry, wondering what kind of night I had in store.

And that's how we ended up meeting on Calle Real. I greeted Juan with the traditional cheek kisses, left first, and introduced him to my friends. He couldn't believe that we hadn't been to what's considered La Coruña's most famous bar, La Bombilla, so that was our first stop. We ordered beers and tapas, the smell of freshly caught seafood lingering in the air. I wasn't too hungry, since my nervousness had prohibited me from eating for three days prior. In spite of my resistance to the tapas, Juan managed to feed me-yes, from his own hand-a bite of croqueta. We laughed and joked some more about his year-old ham, and by the time we moved on to the next bar, I was starting to relax. I was being funny in Spanish! He seemed to like me! His maybe-existing-girlfriend hadn't yet arrived! What more could I ask for? We joked around, my two American sidekicks still with us, occasionally shooting me glances that seemed to say, "this is so awkward." Then Juan pointed out a man across the bar and told us to guess his name. After a few missed shots, I asked him to reveal the first letter. "B," he said, the corners of his mouth pulling upward. I clarified: "¿B?" He confirmed: "Sí, B, como la b de beso." Then he leaned in and gave me the sweetest beso of my life.

               ¤ ¤ ¤

Spain is PDA central. "Jóvenes," people aged around fourteen to thirty, will make out anywhere they can. Most Spaniards live at home until their late twenties to early thirties. Consequently, any and all semi-sexual activity takes place in public venues-better to bare all in front of an entire community than be walked in on by your parents. You can see a fair amount of kissing by the beach, on the bus, in the university cafeteria, wherever. For the first five months of my year abroad I had gawked at this practice, absolutely disgusted by the lack of reserve these immature jóvenes possessed. Now I was part of the problem.

Standing there kissing in the center of the crowded bar, rum and cokes in hand, we were having a good time. My free hand was pressed against the small of his strong back, the bright red purse I'd borrowed from Maggie slowly sliding out from under my arm. We took a breathing break as I tried to regain composure, and Mo tapped me on the arm: "We're leaving. Have fun."

Soon after, we too left that bar, passed the plump octopus sitting on display in the window and faced the salty night air. The stone-paved streets were still full of carefree people sauntering along. It was probably only one or two in the morning. These folks would be out for hours still. My host mom frequently came home later than I did on the weekends, in the morning telling me that she'd only slept two or three hours, but what a night! She and her friends sometimes went straight out to breakfast after a night dancing in the beachside clubs. This woman was forty-four. Spain knows how to party.

We might have been walking hand in hand, arm in arm, I don't remember. I just remember that he turned to me, the wind from the sea brushing his dark brown hair against his long, elegant neck, and asked if I wanted to go back to his apartment. Four hours earlier I'd thought I was in for an awkward night of tapas with his pregnant girlfriend and now he was inviting me home. I told him no and we moved on to Retro, a mix between a bar and a dance club. Juan's bartender friend gave us free drinks and I sat on a red stool like a little princess as he stood in front of me and we kissed some more. He occasionally interrupted our make-out session with what he probably thought were romantic quips. I may have been drunk and he may have seduced me, but I do remember thinking that they were horrible lines. At one point he told me he hadn't experienced a kiss this good in ten years, then marveled that my flute sure was lucky to be graced by lips like mine.

               ¤ ¤ ¤

Okay, he said strange things, but at least he was charming. Still, I lacked clarification on some important issues. First, did he have a girlfriend, and second, how old was he? I've always been bad at guessing ages, and I could only peg him somewhere between 25 and 40, obviously hoping for the former. Walking to work on our tuning before the second orchestra rehearsal, he'd asked me directly how old I was. I'd replied that I was twenty. In retrospect, I realize that this would have been a good chance to return the question, but I get kind of intimidated when I like a guy. So I asked him, instead, how old his younger sister was. Smooth.

Now that we had our faces pressed against each other, though, four or five drinks in, I could totally work up the courage to get this pertinent information. I took care of the girlfriend part first. "Una pregunta," I said slyly, narrowing my eyes. "¿Tienes novia?" He looked at me as if I had three heads. Of course he didn't have a girlfriend, he exclaimed. Why would I think that? I mentioned the girl who'd been at our concert. He laughed and told me that the girl had asked the same thing about me.

So far, so good. But there was still the age question. "Eh, mira," I giggled. "Otra pregunta. ¿Cuántos años tienes?" Casually, not thinking this strange at all, he responded, "Treinta."

Oh.

Let's get this straight. Thirty. Ten years older than me. Later, lying drunk in my own bed, unable to sleep, I'd work through the mathematics of this difference. He was one hundred fifty percent of my age. When I was entering fourth grade, he was starting university. As Googling his name later taught me, he had already won some prestigious musical prize while I was still learning the names of the key signatures.

Then he made it worse. He told me he'd be turning thirty-one in February.

               ¤ ¤ ¤

The next morning, still not fully believing what had happened, I walked down to the beach to meet the other Holy Cross girls for Frisbee. I was the first one there, so I sat on a stone bench and gazed out at the bright blue water, praying that Juan wouldn't saunter by. I still wasn't sure how I felt about hooking up with a thirty year old and didn't want to see him this morning. The sun reflecting off the sea's surface looked almost celestial on that crisp January day.

Soon the other girls arrived, Maggie with her eyes opened wide. "Tell us everything!" she shouted, running toward me. I shared my story, which got mixed reviews. Kait was fine with it, pointing out that Spanish boys our age seem so immature that our age equivalent would really be somewhere around 26. So, she reasoned, he was only four modified years older than me. That wasn't bad. Jen, on the other hand, wasn't feeling it. Thirty was thirty, she said, and she wouldn't feel comfortable with that difference.

I tried to tell myself that age didn't matter. He didn't seem thirty, and he sure didn't act thirty. I tried to convince myself that this would be okay-carpe diem, after all-but I couldn't keep my frantic mind from judging the situation. I started wondering what it would be like to have a thirty year old boyfriend. I didn't want to be his girlfriend; not yet, anyway. He hadn't actually given me any indication that he wanted me to be his girlfriend, either, but as far as I was concerned, that conversation couldn't be far behind. I started worrying about what I'd tell my family, what I'd say when I ran into him at the bus stop on my way to class, what I'd do with myself and the kids after he died. Before I even talked to him again, I had myself totally worried about our future. He was thirty. I couldn't do this.

Still, I couldn't just leave it at that, so we got together the next week for tea. The tea was my idea. He didn't tell me until we got there that people in Spain don't go out for tea unless they're at least sixty years old. You're halfway there, Juan, so I wouldn't be talking.

Cafés in La Coruña are pretty standard. They've got a few tables and seats outdoors on the sidewalk, so that when it's nice out, you can sit and enjoy a café con leche as you people-watch. Indoors are more tables, seating two or three people, very intimate. People sit around, relaxing during the afternoon, chatting casually with friends or family and enjoying the sea breeze as it flitters by. These places usually have pretty bright lights, and always several clouds of smoke. There's an ashtray on each table and a cigarette vending machine in the corner, with a little nondescript sign stuck on its surface: FUMAR MATA. Smoking kills.

The first thing I noticed when we walked into this café, however, was that all the waiters and waitresses were dressed as flight attendants. Granted, it was Carnaval, a week-long costume festival, but the aircraft theme was so prevalent across the café that the holiday may have been coincidence. On large screens dangling precariously from the walls, happy stewardesses demonstrated the proper use of the oxygen mask. Every now and then the typical pop music soundtrack stopped, allowing a deafening crash to sound throughout the room. Even our menus displayed the little seat-back cartoons. Not your typical café.

Appropriate, because this was not your typical date. A few minutes into conversation, Juan wrinkled his forehead and mused that I'd spoken Spanish better after a few drinks. Funny, Juan, you were nicer after a few drinks. We chatted about God knows what; I was too nervous to pay attention. Every now and then I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the shiny panel conveniently placed to my left. I hadn't exactly "put myself pretty," as the Spanish say, this afternoon. I was wearing a red sweater, which Juan said complimented my skin nicely, but my hair probably could have used a washing. Like a typical Spanish mother, Susana was always scolding Paula for taking too many showers (the girl was pushing three a week-unacceptable, clearly) so I tried to limit my water use as well. As a result, my face was kind of oily, too. I'd learned during a rousing game of Worst-Case Scenario Survival Trivia Challenge back in high school that if you're ever stuck in the wild without Chapstick and your lips really need it, nose grease is a convenient substitute. I must admit that I had used that very tip while descending the stairs of my apartment to meet Juan on the corner. As he kissed me goodbye at the end of our tea date, I decided not to share with him my ingenuity.

The whole thing was really uncomfortable. He babbled on about things I wasn't listening to. I didn't look him straight on; I only had eyes for the mole growing on his right cheekbone. And his mullet. Yes, he had a mullet. My friends back home had gawked when I'd told them this originally, and as I'd tried to justify myself I'd realized that I had internalized, to some extent, the European way. I now saw a difference in mullets-some were bad, but some were good. Juan's, I had thought a week before, was a good mullet. Now I wasn't so sure. He confirmed my uncertainty when he mentioned that his hair was getting too long even for his liking.

During a lull in conversation, Juan smiled with a little glimmer in his eye and said, in a super-sultry voice, "Me encantaban los besos que te di el otro día." I loved the kisses I gave you the other day. Who says that? Spanish men, I guess. That was a problem with Spanish. I never knew whether the ridiculous things I heard were actually ridiculous; maybe this was just another difference between our two cultures. Unsure of how to respond, I fell back on a tried and true conversation tactic: completely ignore whatever's been said and change the topic. The new topic I chose was Hilary Duff. That didn't go over very well.

Why was I so bad at this? I lied that I had to be home for dinner and halfheartedly agreed to let him kiss me. Charging up Calle Nicaragua at an accelerated pace I wondered why, all of a sudden, I didn't want to be around him. Just a week ago I'd been careening through the ciudad vieja by his side, elated that he liked me too. Now I didn't even want to think about him. The chase had been so exciting-hoping to see him at orchestra practice, calling him on the phone, wondering about this mysterious Spanish guy. He was no longer a mystery. It had been fun, but the excitement was over. Over the next week I ignored a few texts, told him I couldn't see him the next weekend, and he eventually stopped calling. I spent the rest of the year half hoping to run into him on the street, half hoping never to see him again.

We did see each other again, once. I still hadn't been paid for the concert, and the more time went by, the more certain I became that the exchange would only be more uncomfortable. I'd almost resigned myself to never seeing the money, but one April day as I finished a long walk along the paseo, I checked my phone and saw I had a new text message. It was from Juan and he had my money. I texted him back, of course making a grammatical mistake in the process, and we agreed to meet that night after dinner.

Since we lived so close to one another, he probably figured that I would understand his directions, but I didn't. While I waited patiently by the opera house behind Calle Nicaragua, he was apparently pacing a nearby traffic circle. He found me ten minutes later, foolishly climbing a set of stairs leading into a dark, scary park. I tried to laugh as I climbed down; he didn't laugh with me. He asked, "So, it was a hundred euros, right?" and I joked back that, no, I thought it was three hundred. Still no laugh. He politely asked me about my travels and my schoolwork, but once we reached the corner he said goodbye and darted across the street, not even looking back. I don't know if I expected him to still be into me, but I was hoping he'd still find me attractive, at the very least. I'd spent the three months since our last exchange thinking about him, dreading an encounter but still kind of hoping to run into him. I saw now that he'd essentially forgotten about me, didn't expect anything more. I felt silly for thinking that he'd see me and try to seduce me again. It was now clear that he was totally over me, didn't give me a second thought.

My last night in La Coruña, June 23, was San Juan. San Juan is the city's biggest festival and every Spanish person I met that year wanted to be sure that I wouldn't be leaving Spain before it occurred. Late that afternoon, while determined citizens set out to build the traditional beach bonfires, Maggie and I darted through the crowd with my host family in search of yet another tradition: sardines grilled fresh on the streets. I never ate fish before Spain, but after a year of picking bones out of nearly every main course, I had become a pro. During San Juan, standing up and biting into a freshly cooked sardine-eyes and all, its grease dripping down my hand-was no problem at all.

               ¤ ¤ ¤

We laughed with my host siblings and drank beer in the crowded, narrow streets. The beach was just a few blocks away and as the sky darkened I could see the bonfires lighting up with the dark water behind them. We made our way toward the coast and walked along the same stone wall at which I'd cried ten months before. The sidewalks were full and people spilled into the street. At Susana's gleeful cue, we descended the sandy stairs to the grand expanse of bonfires awaiting us below.

Maggie and I met up with some girls from the university who mixed us concoctions in their bright blue plastic cups. While the girls joked around on the sand, I rolled up my jeans and stood at the water's edge. Once again I stared out in the imagined direction of the United States, this time reveling in the proximity of my return. I was going home, but leaving home at the same time. The cool Atlantic waves rolled up around my ankles and receded, gently informing me that my time here had ended.

After following the superstition and jumping three times over a bonfire, I sat back in the heat and gazed across the hundreds of fires covering the beach. Each fire was surrounded by elated people, young and old, all basking together in this beautiful Spanish tradition. Ten months earlier I wouldn't have imagined my most peaceful moment this way, but peace was all I felt. It was around me, it was in me. I was a part of La Coruña. I was a part of Spain.

               ¤ ¤ ¤

Then, all of a sudden, I thought I saw Juan. A strange mix of fear and excitement washed over me. Although the whole situation had been, ultimately, a royal disaster, I guess I still had a little crush on him. It was my last night here, and the holiday was his namesake, for crying out loud. Wouldn't it be appropriate that I'd see him one last time on the beach that night?

As the tall, confident shoulders faded into the fiery distance, I couldn't be sure they were his. I sighed with both disappointment and relief. So I didn't know how I felt. So what? Heading home, I didn't have everything wrapped up in a nice, neat package. My emotions didn't fit into the ten-month time frame Study Abroad had allotted me and they didn't need to. My experience was more.

Snapping out of my reverie, I turned back to our little circle and lay face-up on the beach, grains of sand working their way into my ponytail and up the legs of my jeans. Feeling the warmth from the flames on my face, my arms, my feet, I closed my eyes and let the San Juan peace settle around me.