Catalonia

One thing I've noticed is that people in Barcelona say "hola" differently: they put the emphasis on the last syllable, making the word less of a jaunty greeting and more of a somber verbal nudge. Perhaps it is because of the people's seriousness. Adults rarely smile and they speak in hushed tones, but children shout and giggle. They haven't learned the code of Barcelona yet. Holding hands, couples stroll down the broad neutral ground path on la Via Diagonal or on la Rambla. Every woman wears a scarf. Every man wears a natty jacket and deep grooves in their faces, lines that say that they have lived, sunned, driven motos, drank wine, loved women, smoked cigarettes. An old woman turns to me and starts speaking Catalan. The language is filled with fricatives and consonant combinations that confound my tongue. I repeat back the only word I understand.

My man and I hold hands and stroll along the avenues. We stop for cafe amb llet and croissant, bocadillos with soft cheeses, Fanta naranja (which taste better than American orange soda). He turns to me and says, "I am so glad I found you." I touch his face and tuck this moment inside my memory to replay later over and over, like a tape. I tell him, "I love you." He touches the back of my neck the way I like. It's been five months of love. We're in Spain together. It's my first time in Europe and I'm glad I'm sharing it with him. I want to share so many things with him.

I speak schoolgirl Spanish for the two of us. All of my language is food words and we get everything we want. I forget the conditional and all of the special tenses when I am on the spot, so I sound like a demanding, abrupt toddler when I speak. "Quiero un bocadillo de jamon espanol y queso, por favor, y el quiere un hamburguesa sin tomate." (I do not know how to type accents on a mobile device; forgive me.)

I am already sad that we will only be here for a short time. I stare out at the sea and feel the mist sting my eyes as the waves crash against the rocks. He tightens his arms around me and whispers a joke in my ear. I pick up a dry rock from the sand and turn it in my hands. The rock has been smoothed by the sea. I put it in my purse to remind myself of a time when someone was crazy enough about me to buy a ticket to go across an ocean with me after only knowing me for a few months.

It's Raining; It's Pouring; The Young Man Is Snoring

Picture this: New Orleans, 2013. A couple settles down to go to sleep. The woman is wrapped in the man's arms as they spoon. She can feel his head getting heavier and heavier, weighing down both the pillow and her hair, which has gotten tucked under his cheek. She takes a deep breath and lets it out, willing her tension to dissipate into the mattress.

A few minutes later, he rolls over onto his back and lets out the loudest, rawest, snorting-est snore ever, followed by two staccato bursts of snorts, ten seconds of silence, and another snore, this one with more bass than the last. The woman opens her eyes, then closes them, fearful of the streetlamp light waking her. Another snore cuts through the drone of the air conditioning on medium-high.

She props herself up on her shoulder and shoves him, a man with a good 30 pounds on her, onto his side. The air conditioning, faint police sirens, and gentle breathing are the only noises in the room for ten minutes until he flops back onto his back and commences the rock show. She sighs and shoves the sticky-tacky earplugs further into her ears, some hair getting caught in the process. The rasp of his snores, the soundtrack to her dreams, rips through the clear wax.

Cut to today's giant latte.

I Love Nerdy Funny Men

It's true. Neal Brennan, comedian and TV/movie writer best known for co-writing Chapelle's Show, recently had a free show and Comedy Central special taping in my city. The gentleman and I went to that and laughed so, so hard. I think I entered the "black woman laughing hard and exclaiming at something on camera"level of laughing. (You know what I'm talking about!) At one point late in the show, Brennan was fake hitting on an audience member in the cheesiest way possible and--let me tell you--it was (absurdly) hot. 

I gushed over this hot thing to my nerdy white boyfriend who laughed at my ridiculousness. The next day, he texted me a photo of his cat with a caption with the cat, lounging with its head on its paws, saying, "What's your name, sugar?" or some nonsensical-fake-sexy stuff like that. I laughed.

So many men think it's their abs, their bank accounts, or their positions of power that attract women to them. It's not. I'll take a broke funny dude over a well-off bore any day, and I'm sure most women feel the same way. That being said, I bet Neal Brennan got plenty ass after the show.