Air-choppin' it like it's hot in Spain

Since there was much talk of a possible Spanish prince before I left, it only seems fitting to start off by telling you about Vladimir and Semo.

My first encounter occurred on my flight from Philadelphia to Madrid. A sufficiently tired, massive backpack-lugging version of me took my window-seat in row 8A (conveniently situated in the gap between windows, therefore more appropriately referred to as a wall seat) and anxiously awaited the arrival of seat-holder 8B, my soon-to-be companion for the duration of our 7-hour flight. In my mind, person 8B could have been many people—another student from my program, a bullfighter traveling the world and finally returning to his hometown in Madrid, or just maybe, my Prince Felipe.

I didn’t expect Vladimir, the mousy looking man with a scraggly beard and long matted hair that plopped down beside me. My first thought—who let a homeless man on this flight. Second thought—7 hours.

Despite the fact that Vladimir may have been living on the streets, he was a good conversationalist, although a bit hard of hearing. As our plan crossed oceans, Vladimir and I crossed the awkward boundary of strangers on a flight to friends on a plane. I discovered that Waldo (as his friends call him) was a Serbian man living in Santander, Spain. He speaks six languages and he still laments the death of the dog he had in Serbia—they were like brothers. He even told me about the frightening time that airport guards mistook him for a Spanish terrorist and detained him for 3 hours (poor Waldo has no idea how anyone could mistake him for a terrorist).

Apparently our young friendship was not as obvious to some. When the flight attendant handed me a Diet Coke, Waldo jokingly snatched it from my hand yelling “Mine!” and the attendant looked ready to call for back-up.

But alas, after asking Waldo 20 million questions about Spain, reading a few chapters of my book and attempting to ignore the shooting pains in my neck enough to get a few desperately-needed hours of sleep, the plane arrived in Madrid, and Waldo and I bid our farewells. As the first semi-Spaniard I met on my journey, he holds a special place in my heart.

Little did I know that only three days later, at a discoteca in Toledo, another Spaniard would hold my hand.

OK, let me explain.

First, a disclaimer for the padres: said discoteca was very safe. There were many Americans from my program and a few tough-looking Spanish bouncers surveying all activity. Also, being me, I was of course rocking the air-chop in a long sleeve top with jeans—not exactly screaming seductress…for those of you who are unfamiliar with the air-chop, you clearly have never seen me dance. And a final noteworthy factor, there was a miniature apartheid between Spaniards and Americans—possibly my air-chop had some influence on this.

Regardless, at one point the techno musica picked up and a local Spanish boy busted a few moves reminiscent of the contestants on So You Think You Can Dance. Instantly, a cheering circle formed around the break-dancer, and instantly I found myself alone on the far side of the circle and completely stuck. Little me with pony-tail and headband, clutching my bag with white knuckles; Ten or more Spanish boys shoulder to shoulder around me shouting Spanish cheers with their hands in the air pulsing to the music. Excelente. Needless to say, I immediately located my amigas through the haze of smoke in the club and began planning my escape.

The song changes, there’s a deluge of back-patting as the circle converges on the break-dancer and suddenly, a rather handsome Spanish boy is taking my hand and whisking me away from the wall and to the middle of the dance floor. In other words, my plan—not so successful.

The Spanish stranger looked into my eyes, probably about the size of quarters by now, and said, “Tu eres muy bonita” (You are very pretty). If only I knew the word for pickup line in Spanish.

Next thing I know he’s bending to kiss my cheek, and I’m about to do a back-bend in the middle of the floor to avoid it. Again, I’m unsuccessful. Again, Semo goes in for the kiss, this time the other cheek. I make it difficult.

Standing up straight again, he smiles and says, “Me llamo Semo” (My name is Semo), as if his greeting was completely normal.

That’s when I remembered that it is completely normal to kiss someone on the cheek as a greeting in Spain. Breathe out, breathe in…breathe out, breathe in…

Semo has both my hands in his at this point and is waving them up and down while I move awkwardly to my own beat. I’m decapitated without my hands and thus without the air-chop. I figure I may as well introduce myself since this is more of a greeting than I’ve shared with half of my friends in the US, so I mumble a feeble, “Me llamo Jessie.” By now, my friends are swooping in to rescue me and laughing hysterically that I, of all people, was the first to dance with a Spaniard.

Once the invisible line between Americans and Spaniards was so unintentionally yet unavoidably crossed, there was no going back. Language barriers were thrown aside, that fact that Americans have no rhythm, overlooked, and Americans and Spaniards meshed together on the dance floor.

For once, I abandoned my air-chop, and welcomed the Spanish form of dancing. Unlike in America, Spaniards actually dance. I was twirled and turned, spun and swung, and always danced hand to hand- conveniently giving me the ability to push away any personal-space invaders. You could say we danced the night away, and for that I have Semo and his insistent dance invitation to thank. Muchas Gracias!

Thus concludes my first encounters with Spanish men. No princes yet, but a few interesting amigos.