With Love from Spain, Melanie Martin

by Carol Weston

  I like ham, especially jamon iberico (Hhham Own E Bear E Co), but it's hard to get used to looking at a pig leg with its black hoof still attached. In New York, you'd never see a shopper hurry home with a pig foot sticking out of a grocery bag.

  The grown-ups were talking and Miguel turned to me and asked, “You have been here long?”

  “Just a few minutes,” I said.

  Matt added, “She was counting every one, trust me.”

  I wanted to punch his little guts out, but Miguel gallantly acted like he hadn't heard Matt.

  Miguel said, “Your shirt is pretty—bonita.”

  I was considering saying, “Yours too,” when Matt said, “We met a cat named Bonita!” and started talking about cats and dogs. Matt told Miguel that he and I want a dog, but since we live in a city, it would have to be walked all the time instead of just let out the back door. “And the person walking it would have to carry a baggie for the poop because it's against the law to leave it in the street, and Mom says that she doesn't want to have to deal with mushy warm dog poop. We said we'd do it, but—”

  “Mushy?” Miguel asked.

  “Soft and gooshy,” Matt explained.

  Dog poop?! This was even worse than talking about disease and death!

  “We have two new mice and a fish called Wanda,” I said. Suddenly I panicked and asked Matt, “Who's taking care of them?”

  “Lily, remember?”

  “I hope she doesn't overfeed Wanda.”

  “She won't,” he said.

  At dinner Dolores tried to overfeed usl Mom said, “This is a feast! So many good things!” She thanked Dolores for going to such trouble and explained to us that after heavy two-course lunches, Spaniards usually have light and simple dinners. (It's the opposite of in America, where lunch is usually lighter.) Dolores said it was nada, nothing, and kept encouraging us to eat eat eat. I stirred everything around on my plate, and hid some gross stuff under a lettuce leaf and other gross stuff under a piece of bread. I hoped no one noticed.

  Dolores called Mom and me both hija (E Hhha). It means daughter, but Mom said it's just a nice thing to say, like honey or sweetie.

  The asparagus, by the way, was not skinny and green. It was fat and white. Mom said it's a delicacy. Matt said, “Ever notice that asparagus makes your pee smell funny?” No one translated, and I pretended I didn't speak English. And, no, I'd never noticed because I've never eaten asparagus!

  Dad said, “Matt, there will be consequences if you keep behaving like a nincompoop.” Bad word choice. I could tell Matt was dying to make nincompoop poop poop jokes but didn't dare.

  Instead, he told his hamster joke, which Mom did translate. It is just as funny (or lame, depending on your opinion) in Spanish as in English because hamster is pro-nounced Ahm Stair and Amsterdam is Ahm Stair Dom.

  After a while, I asked, “May I be excused?”

  “Si,” Dad said.

  Miguel asked to be excused too!

  So did Matt the Brat.

  “May Lah Nee,” Miguel said, “have you met Blan-quito?”

  “BlonKeyToe?”

  “Come. I show you.”

  I followed him into Dolores's den, and Shadow Boy trotted right along after us. Miguel said, “This is Blanquito,” and showed us a white bird or pajaro (Pa Hhha Row).

  Miguel shut the door and opened its cage. Blanquito flew out, flapped around, and landed on my head!

  At first I was scared, but Miguel's eyes told me not to be. “Tranquila (Tron Key La). It's okay.”

  The bird's tiny talons scratched my scalp. They tickled more than hurt, but I was still a little worried. Miguel said, “Don't worry. No te preocupes” (No Tay Pray Oh Coop Ace). Even though I don't usually like when people tell me not to worry, I didn't mind when Miguel said it.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “She should worry,” Matt said. “A bird once pooped on me.”

  I wished I could give Matt a time-out! I can't wait for him to grow out of the stupid stage he's stuck in!

  Miguel put his finger by my ear and Blanquito hopped on. “He's a good bird,” he said. “Aren't you, Blanquito?”

  Blanquito squeaked.

  Matt looked at us and said, “Should I leave? I mean, if you want to be alone? Alone but together? Just you two? I could go watch TV. I like cartoons and bullfights in Spanish. The only thing I don't like is that in some American shows, Spanish comes out of American mouths, but the mouths don't always match up with the words.”

  If Matt was trying to be nice, why couldn't he have just said, “Where's the televisión?.” Why did he have to be so obvious—and practically ruin everything?

  Miguel said, “Stay with us, Matt. It is no problem.” But would Miguel have liked to be alone with me? I was still feeling sparks even though we weren't in Pyrotown Valencia anymore.

  “Give me your hand, May Lah Nee,” Miguel said, and I handed him my hand. (Can you hand someone your hand?) His hand felt warm and I thought of our Row-boat Moment. He said, “Open your fingers,” and I did, and he gently tucked in three of my fingers so only my pointer finger was sticking out. “Ready?”

  “Ready,” I said, a little nervously. Blanquito hopped uno-dos-tres from Miguel's hand onto mine, as though my finger were a twig. He ruffled his wings.

  Miguel smiled and I smiled back. It was almost ah most as if Matt weren't there. But then Matt took a turn with Blanquito and started yammering about how people say that someone who doesn't eat a lot eats like a bird when in fact, many birds eat half their own weight every day.

  When did he become Mr. Know-it-all Science Boy anyway?

  Miguel put his finger near Matt's, and Blanquito hopped back on. Then Miguel lifted his hand, bird and all, to his face and made kissy noises. Blanquito started pecking him gently right above his chin—little bird kisses!

  Just then Mom popped her head in and said, “Time to go.” Get this: She also asked Miguel if he'd like to go with us to Segovia (Say Go V Ah) tomorrow since Antonio would be busy helping his mother with medical forms. Miguel said, “Sure,” so we're picking him up at nine. Yay!!!

  Right before we left, Matt said, “What about the present?”

  “I almost forgot!” Mom said.

  Matt and I handed Dolores a coffee-table book of photographs of New York. She said something in Spanish that probably meant “You shouldn't have, but I'm glad you did!” Mom said she hoped Dolores and her family would visit us someday—they were always welcome.

  When we all said goodbye, Dolores had tears in her eyes. Mom's eyes were shiny too.

  In the taxi to our hotel I asked Mom why she seemed sad. She said, “Dolores was like a mother to me when I lived in Spain. It's hard to see her looking older, and it's hard not knowing when or if I'll see her again.”

  “She seemed sad to say adios too,” I said.

  Mom nodded. “There are many different kinds of love.”

  Dear Diary,

  I'm writing this with the flashlight pen Cecily gave me last Christmas. I don't want to turn on the light because Matt is asleep.

  I should be too.

  But I woke up thinking about the many-different-kinds-of-love thing. And I was thinking that maybe it's just as well that Matt stayed with Miguel and me.

  What if Miguel had closed the door and I'd been inside with just him (and Blanquito)?

  Would he have tried to kiss me? I don't know if he's ever kissed anyone, but I haven't—unless you count family members. Or Cecily's cat!

  I don't know if I even know how to kiss.

  For instance, do you tilt your head a little so your noses don't bump? And if so, do you tilt left or tilt right? Maybe you tilt right if you're right-handed??

  And do couples who wear glasses take them off when they kiss? (I wear mine mostly for reading and writing.)

  Cecily and I once talked about kissing and she said I shouldn't worry because she was sure there's not just one right way. She also said that people don't worry about how to hold someone's hand and
where to put their fingers, so she figures some things must come naturally.

  Maybe. But what if I mess up?

  An Eskimo kiss seems pretty basic: You rub noses.

  A French kiss seems complicated and has something to do with tongues. Eww! (Mom once said that Paris is full of couples kissing.)

  Now I'm wondering: Is there such a thing as a Spanish kiss?

  Do I want to find out??

  I don't know!!!

  I've also been thinking about the phrase “falling in love.” Falling is always a little scary, isn't it? I mean, when you fall, you can get hurt or bruised. So is it possible, instead of falling in love, to step in? Or would it then not be love?

  Maybe for some people, falling in love is a perfect swan dive.

  Maybe for others, it's a painful belly flop.

  I used to imagine I “loved” Christopher, but now I realize that half the girls in my grade say they love him. And Christopher and I have barely even had a private conversation, just us, that wasn't about homework!

  At least now I know what love isn't, even if I'm not sure what love is.

  It's confusing, but I feel un poco better writing all this down.

  Your not-all-that-tired friend—

  P.S.

  March 25

  Dear Diary,

  A fly got into Matt's and my room and started buzzing near my head. I said, “I remember being scared of flies when I was a kid.”

  “Hate to break it to you,” he said, “but you're still a kid.”

  “I mean a little kid—like you.”

  He ignored me. He was busy driving his favorite red car around the bedspread.

  “Did you bring that from home ?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “That's pathetic,” I informed him, but he kept driving the car around.

  He looked up. “Mel, do you think DogDog misses me?”

  I was going to say, “Are you kidding? He probably loves having the whole bed to himself.” Instead, I said, “Maybe a little, but I bet he's just sleeping extra. When you get back, I'm sure he'll wag his tail like crazy.”

  Matt's eyes got bright. “Think so?”

  “I'm positive.”

  “Should I send him a postcard?”

  “No, Matt. That would be pushing it.”

  “If you'd left Hedgehog behind,” he offered, “she'd just hibernate.”

  “Hedgehogs hibernate?”

  “You didn't know that?”

  “I wasn't sure.”

  “They hibernate in winter. And they have thousands of sharp spines on their backs—but none on their bellies.”

  “My hedgehog's spines are all soft. Which is good since otherwise I couldn't cuddle her. And Hedgie doesn't hibernate. She sleeps when I sleep and is awake when I'm awake.”

  Matt shrugged.

  “You know who might be missing you a little?” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Lily.”

  Matt smiled a dopey smile and parked his car under his pillow. Then he started flapping his blanket like crazy and said, “Look inside.”

  I looked inside his covers, and every time he flapped the blanket, he created tiny sparks. It was like his own private fireworks. Or like a baby firefly party.

  He said, “That's static electricity.”

  “Cool,” I had to admit. And now I'm going under my covers to see if I can give myself a light show.

  Dear Diary,

  Today was jam-packed. It was also happy and sad.

  I will start with the happy part.

  We rented a car and picked up Miguel, and he sat next to me as we drove north to Segovia.

  When Miguel got in, Matt said, “Bueno dios.”

  Miguel laughed. “That means ‘Good God.’“ Then he said, “I will help you pronunciate Buenos dias”— which he did after we helped him “pronunciate” pronounce!

  Miguel's and my favorite site in Segovia is its Roman aqueduct. It has tall double arches that are more than 2,000 years old and almost half a mile long! The Romans carefully stacked all the stones right on top of each other without even using cement. Now cars whiz past the aqueduct like it's no big deal. Drivers barely look up.

  In New York, people rush by the Empire State Building without stopping to think, Wow! Architects built this! I guess even extraordinary things can seem ordinary if you forget to appreciate them.

  Anyway, we went in Segovia's cathedral and Dad pointed out tapestries, stained-glass windows, and gravestones on the floor.

  “Ever heard the expression ‘stinking rich’?” Dad asked. “Long ago, poor people got buried in graveyards, but rich people sometimes paid to get buried inside churches and cathedrals. Unfortunately, on really hot days, their newly buried, freshly rotting bodies started to smell—to stink.”

  “Disgusting!” Matt said, gleefully.

  “I thought you'd like that,” Dad said.

  “I have learned something new.” Miguel laughed.

  Mom led us along a windy path to a medieval castle perched high up on the side of a cliff. Matt asked, “Does medieval mean evil?”

  Dad said, “It means from the Middle Ages.” He added that Isabella became a queen in that castle in 1474 and that she did both good and evil things.

  “What did she do that was evil?” Matt asked.

  “They say she didn't bathe,” Dad began. “But the really evil thing is that if you weren't Catholic, she kicked you out of Spain—or had you killed. Zero tolerance. Hundreds of thousands of Jews had to leave Spain in 1492. Muslims too.”

  “The Spanish Inquisition,” Mom added.

  “What did she do that was good?” Matt asked.

  “That same year, she sponsored Columbus, remember?” Dad said.

  “1492 was a big year in history,” I said.

  “I wish I could live in the Middle Ages,” Matt said. “I love castles!”

  “You're way too late,” I said. “And besides, they tortured people and they did not have toilets that flushed.”

  Matt shrugged. “Doesn't the castle look like it's from a Disney movie?”

  “Where do you think Walt got his inspiration?” Mom said, pointing out its cool turrets and towers.

  Inside, a guide told a sad story about a king and queen who were visiting. Their little son was running around like a wild child and he fell out a window! And died! His baby-sitter was so upset—and worried about what the king and queen would do to her—that she jumped out the same window right after the little prince. She died too!

  Matt looked out the window as though trying to picture that terrible day.

  Miguel said, “Let's climb to the top of the castle,” so we walked up the dark and narrow winding steps. Matt was supposed to count them, but he lost track after 140. The stone steps themselves have gotten worn down from hundreds of years of climbing. Some actually sag in the middle.

  When we got to the tippy-top—and daylight—we looked out at the golden cathedral, green countryside, snow-capped mountains, and big fluffy clouds. Miguel asked Mom if he could use her camera to take a picture of all of us. She said that would be nice, so he took three. It was really windy and my hair was blowing all over the place.

  After a while, Matt said he was ready to go, and Mom and Dad led the way back down the sagging steps.

  I was about to follow when Miguel whispered, “Espera (S Pear Ah). Wait.”

  I hesitated for a second, then stood still with him on the top of the castle. The wind picked up. He said, “I take another picture.” I leaned against the sand-colored wall and smiled (which was easy) and he snapped a photo of me and my windblown hair. Then he leaned against the wall right next to me— we were shoulder to shoulder—and he stretched out his right arm in front of him and snapped a close-up of the two of us together. My whole face was smiling —not just my boca. Half of me wanted to say, “We better not take too many photos,” but the other half wanted to stay up there forever and blast through rolls and rolls of film as though this were a photo shoot and
we were Penelope Cruz and Antonio Banderas, only young.

  “Will you send me copies when they get revealed?” Miguel asked.

  “Revealed?” I said. “Oh, developed.”

  As soon as I said “developed,” I wished I hadn't because it reminded me of our unit on puberty in school. I started blushing again. Besides, I like “revealed” more. I thought:

  Miguel and I headed down the stairs and we all five reached the bottom at around the same time. Now that I think of it, I can't remember walking down. But obvi' ously I must have—I couldn't have floated down!

  At the bottom, we piled into our rented car and drove northeast to a tiny walled hilltop town. Pedraza (Pay Droth Ah, as Miguel says it) has no billboards or fast'food stores or anything modern.

  We went to a restaurant that used to be the home of a painter named Zuloaga (Thoo Low Ah Ga). Mom had reserved a table on the upstairs glassed-in porch so that we could have a view of the countryside.

  Matt said, “Where should I sit?”

  Mom said, “Anywhere.” I glanced at Miguel. He was looking at me, and without saying a word, he tilted his head toward one end of the table, and we took seats right next to each other. We did it quickly and quietly—as if we were playing musical chairs.

  Outside the picture window was a tall old chimney covered with vines. On top of that was a nest or nido (Knee Dough), and on top of that was a duck. So I said, “Pato.”

  Miguel laughed. “Ducks do not build nests on chimneys, May Lah Nee. That is a stork.”

  “A stork?” Matt stood up.

  “Are you sure?” It looked like a duck, sitting there all covered in white feathers.

  “I assure you it is a stork,” Miguel said. “That is true. But here is something that is not true: Storks bring babies— from Paris.”

  Paris! Home of French kissers!

  “Storks bring babies in America too,” Dad said. “But I have no idea where they get them.”

  “From a giant cabbage patch in the sky.” Mom winked at me. She knows I know babies come from moms and dads, not storks and cabbages!