If Paris is the City for Lovers, is Barcelona the City of Sex?
…or does Athens have Spain beat 10 ways to Sunday?
Note: I have no idea what day it is, but I’m pretty sure I’m late with the Monday newsletter. This is the one for paid subscribers. I’ll be catching it up over the course of the next couple days, so not to worry. All the content I’ve planned will eventually make its way to you. Things are a little more challenging than anticipated with a little one on a European-style late-night schedule. I always overestimate my ability to get stuff done. But I will get it done. Mark my words! Thanks, as always, for your patience.
There is a version of myself that I like to call First-Date Karli. She’s bubbly and flirtatious and the right kind of game. She never swears. She can hold a conversation with anyone, even if they’re super boring, without zoning out.
She once concocted discussion after discussion with some dude who hugged her immediately, insisted on sitting on the same side of the picnic table with her during happy hour and told an insanely long story about getting his cat registered as an emotional support animal. She wanted to die, but instead, she persevered, smiling and laughing at all the right moments in perfect rhythmic time.
I’m not saying she’s a heroic figure. I used to think so, but now that I’m entering my villain era, I see her more as a foil. The angel to the devil on my shoulder. The one who says, “Oh, that’s so interesting. I never knew you could fake an emotional breakdown in a therapists’ office and convince her that only Mr. Mittens could hold you back from the brink of despair,” instead of “Eat shit, and also, get back to the other side of the table where you belong, asshat. I don’t fucking know you because I just fucking met you.”
The point is that First-Date Karli can flirt with anyone, anywhere, all the time, even if she really shouldn’t bother. This tends to be more of a thing abroad. I’m generally in an unshakably sunny mood when I travel away from my usual routine and responsibilities, even when abject chaos ensues. Maybe a little less when I’m tired from navigating a new city with a little one who tends to get extremely angry when she can’t walk wherever she wants, whenever she wants, however she wants. I’ve been using the phrase “Que drama!” more than I’d like.
It’s not totally bringing me down. I’m exhausted to be sure, such is traveling with small wayward children, but it’s hard not to feel excessively grateful to spend time in three of Spain’s amazing cities. So far, it’s just been Barcelona. The Valencia portion of the trip begins tomorrow, and Madrid will be about a week after that. At this point, I can only speak to the flirting in the Catalonia region’s cosmopolitan capital. It’s pretty good.
Since nearly everyone in Barcelona speaks English, I believe a little Spanish goes a long way. I’ve put a lot of Spanish-speaking places on my to-travel list because I want to practice the language. As anyone who has ever attempted to learn a new tongue will tell you, your abilities increase exponentially when you converse with native speakers in a place where the language is all around you. I’ve found that most people around these parts respect your attempts, even if they are a little more Spanglish that straight-up Español.
This is also true for flirting, even if you’re not trying. Take for instance the time a few days ago when my child took a massive, smelly shit in her diaper, and I was caught without a clean replacement or the wipes to handle the mess. I stopped in a convenient store to get some diapers, which took me a minute because they keep them stocked on the store’s second level, and an associate needs to get them for you.
“Necesito pañales, por favor.” I need diapers. “Cuatro.” Size four.
The gentleman behind the counter then asked me how many kilos my daughter weighs, to which I laughed because I have no idea. I don’t even know how much she weighs in pounds, a system of measurement I’m much more intimately familiar with. He wanted to make sure I was getting the right size, which was nice, particularly because when I said four, he potentially thought I was referring to my daughter’s age, since I forgot the word “talla,” which is size.
Although let it be known that I will not be getting diapers for a four-year-old child. My life will have gone completely off the rails if my daughter is still in diapers at that age. I simply cannot. Back to the story: I laughed when the guy asked about kilos. “No sé. Debo ser, pero no sé.” I don’t know. I should know, but I don’t know. The associate asked about brand, which I said did not matter, and afterward, he was kind enough to bring down the size four package, assuming I knew what was what.
He then asked if I needed a bag because I’d also bought wipes and a bunch of squeeze snacks my daughter downs like water. I told him I didn’t. Now, he laughed. I was going to carry all these things without a bag? How? Why? I had the stroller outside, so I wasn’t going very far. At the end of the transaction, the gentleman gave me a wonderful compliment in English, so I could understand: “It’s rare to see such a big, beautiful smile around here. Thank you for that.” Damn, the men of Barcelona know how to make a girl feel special!
Now, none of this has much to do with Barcelona’s attempt to position itself as the City of Sex. But I find that where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Where there’s flirting, there’s fucking. In the case of Barcelona, there’s also a lot of t-shirts for sale that give the impression that there’s fucking. And not in a sexy way.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Yes, Misstrix to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.