On a roll
Spain travel diary, part 4
August 15, 2003
The Iranian
Day 2
By 5:30am we had left the hotel room, and once again headed
for the Barcelona Train station (aka the smoking room). On
the way we ate some almonds and sultanas that Safa found
in one of the many random and totally unnecessary side pockets
of her backpack. This was pretty much all we had eaten in
days. The weight of the backpacks was not pleasant on our
already bruised shoulders, but we got a good night's
sleep so we weren't complaining (yet).
Safa and I took a deep breath and asked for two tickets to
Madrid. The woman behind the counter obviously recognized
us since we'd spent the whole day at the train station
the day before and was pleased to inform us that the train
was practically empty and handed us our long awaited for
tickets to Madrid.
We arrived in Madrid some hours later, rested and ready to
finally start our holiday.
It took a little while to find our hostel because every turn
we'd make would be a shoe store that got us overly
excited and distracted. And for some reason, Safa's
freaky 'random Italian tourist' radar was fully
active... everyone she picked out to ask directions from
turned out to be an Italian on holiday. However, once we
put our minds to it, we had no problems finding the quaint
little hostel run by a sweet old lady.
To our amazement, the hostel was nicely furnished
with double and single beds, shower and toilet, large cupboard
and a
TV.
Unpacking didn't take a very long time, and
neither did showering. Before you could say Suavemente, we
were
in the main square in Madrid. Finally, we were out and
about
like normal holidaymakers should be. We felt good, we
looked good and we were ready for some fun!
I had made an
online contact with a salsa crazed guy in Spain whom I
was sure would know which clubs we should
go
to. We
called him as soon as we got back to the hostel early
that evening. He said that he'd meet up with us somewhere
and take us to the good clubs. WOO HOO!
It was approaching sunset when we sat at a
restaurant to have Paella and eat our first proper meal in
days.
As we
waited for our meal to arrive we chatted excitedly
and planned out the rest of our time in Madrid.
An hour or so later, we left most of the shell-infested
seafood graveyard they call Paella on the table
and started to stroll
back to our hostel. Rounding the corner of the
street our hostel was on, we heard a faint yet familiar
sound. Salsa
music! Little did we know that the ground floor
of this otherwise normal looking hostel was none other
than a
full blown Salsa
club.
At the door were three extremely large Black
men, all in suits. I untied my hair and pushed my breasts
up
to a new
level. Applied a little lip-gloss and started
to
walk past the men. Like I said earlier, don't
be fooled
by the
fact that we don't eshveh, we are both familiar
with it and are not afraid of using it. Within
seconds,
we were all friends!
Our new friends, informed us that the nightclub
doesn't really get started until midnight and
that we'd be
wasting our time going in now. So we took their
advice, went upstairs, slept, showered and
got ready for
our first night
of Salsa.
It was close to 12 when we came down the stairs
to find people lined up across our door way.
We looked
right
and there was
a huge line of dressed up people. We looked
to the left and the line curved into the
door way
of the
club.
So as Safa turned to the left to go line
up, I said 'You must be kidding,' grabbed
her arm
and
went straight
to the front where we were let in immediately
and without any charge. I mean, we're friends
after
all :o)
They were right. Although the club was
not large, the dance floor was and since
it was
a Friday
night, it
was jam-packed
full of people.
A few hours after arriving, Safa gestured
to me that she was hot and was going
outside for
some
air. The
song I
was dancing to finished, I thanked
my partner, peeled his grasping-for-dear-life
hold off my ass, and followed Safa
outside.
She was standing talking to a guy in
an orange satin-esque shirt (which
is really
not her
style) with a little
grin on her face. I walked closer
and found that there was
no mistaking the fact that he was
Iranian.
Let me interrupt here just to say something
about
Safa: she's the type
that will sit silently and never
say that she's Iranian,
just to see what these people say.
So this is what she was doing.
This poor
guy was
trying so hard
to speak
to
her in
English, and in between, he'd turn
to his friend in Farsi and ask
how to say
something
in English,
hence
explaining the grin on Safa's face.
(to
be continued)
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