by Carol Weston
I took a photo of the stork just as it was standing up to stretch one of its long, skinny, unduck-like legs.
Outside, the clouds were growing grayer and grayer. Lines of lightning suddenly flashed and divided up the sky! It started to pour! But it wasn't rain—it was hail! Hailstones hurled themselves against the window.
Ten minutes later, the sky turned blue again. We even saw a rainbow in the distance.
I told Miguel that in New York, rainbows are unusual, and when you see one, you see just the top because skyscrapers get in the way. Here, the land stretches for miles (or kilometers!), and we could see the whole rainbow, from one end to the other.
“Rainbow” in Spanish is arco iris (R Co E Reese) or purple arch.
It was cool to watch the weather change. Now I'm wondering whether there's weather between people, and whether that weather changes. Usually between people, it's just regular air molecules. But between me and Miguel, before the storm, the air felt electric: charged up and changeable. And sometimes when he's close, it feels warm: pure sunshine. Other times, it's foggy—I can't tell what he's thinking. Other times, it's windy—as though I'm being pushed into him! After lunch today, it was all rainbows.
(I know that sounds dorky, but that's why I'm telling just you, my diary. Diaries never laugh or spread secrets!)
Well, while I was paying attention to all the indoor and outdoor weather, waiters brought out platters of roast lamb (cordero or Core Dare Oh) and suckling pig (cochinillo or Coach E Knee Yo). The suckling pig was an entire piglet on a plate, snout and all. I felt bad for it, but it was yummy and so tender that you didn't even need a knife to cut it. The lamb was deli-cioso too.
It was the best lunch I ever had. But maybe that's because Miguel was next to me, and I think he does like me—at least a little.
It feels pretty nice to feel pretty and nice!
After lunch, we walked around the narrow streets of Pedraza, and it started to rain again. Dad, Mom, and Matt started singing a song from IsAy Fair Lady: “The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain.” That was embarrassing!
Miguel held his umbrella right over my head. That was romantic! I almost stepped in a puddle, and he sort of held my elbow and said, “Cuidado” (Quee Dodd Oh) or “Careful.”
Wasn't that sweet?
Speaking of sweet, we went to another pastry shop and bought a ton of cookies for dessert. Matt went overboard, so I said, “He has a sweet tooth.”
“A sweet tooth?” Miguel asked.
“It's an expression.”
“Oh. Matt is like Cookie Monster on Sesame Neighborhood.”
Matt beamed and said, “Cooooooookie,” then said, “It's Sesame Street, not Sesame Neighborhood.”
“Yes? We say Sesame Neighborhood—Barrio Sesamo” (Bah Rrree Oh Say Sah Mo).
“Sesame Street helped me learn the alphabet,” I said.
“And how many letters are in the alphabet, Melanie?” Mom chimed in.
I thought, Weird question. But I said, “Twenty-six.”
“You agree, Miguel?”
Miguel clicked his tongue, which is a Spanish way of saying no, and he and Mom explained that the Spanish alphabet has extra letters: rr (as in barrio), il (as in Uama), ? (as in manana), and ch (as in chocolate).
Here's another thing: Instead of calling w “double u,” the Spanish call it “double v,” which also makes sense, I guess.
Matt sneezed and Miguel said, “Hey Seuss,” as though Dr. Seuss were his best buddy and he was calling him. But what he was actually saying was “Jesus,” which is one Spanish way of saying “bless you.”
To really learn a language, you have to learn so much more than vocabulary lists!
If you're wondering why I started out by saying that today was happy and sad, I will now get to the sad part.
We drove back to Madrid. Julio and Enrique Iglesias were singing mushy songs on the radio (Rah D O), and Miguel was sitting next to me. We were very close to each other, but we were about to drop him off, and I realized that I will see him only once more before we go. And not for a whole day, just for a few minutos (Me New Toes).
Tomorrow my family is going to Seville, and in two days, we fly home from Madrid.
The good thing is: Miguel and his dad plan to say goodbye at the airport. They are flying to Valencia the same day we're flying to New York.
The bad thing is: Who wants to say goodbye?
P.S. Matt just said, “Knock, knock,” so I said, “Who's there?”
He said, “Boo.”
I said, “Boo who?”
He said, “Don't cry, Mellie, it's just a joke.”
I said ha-ha-ha sarcastically, but all Matt did was smile.
March 26, llish
Dear Diary,
The train we are on does not wait for anybody. It is called AVE (Ah Vay). That means bird, and it is f-l-y-i-n-g. AVE actually stands for Aim Velocidad (Ahl Ta Vay Low C Dodd), which means High Velocity, which means f-a-s-t. Dad said that if it arrives more than five minutes later than it's supposed to, you get your money back.
When Mom used to live here, it took forever to get from Madrid to southern Spain. We're doing it in under two and a half hours! Mom said it's a shame we won't get to see Granada and Cordoba, but Dad thinks it's great that we can whip down south and see Seville. (Dad probably also thinks it's great that it will finally be Justus, the 4 M's.)
Matt talked me into playing Mad Libs.
I wonder what Miguel would think if he'd heard us.
When I asked Matt to give me verbs ending with ing, he offered “farting” and “burping.” When I asked for nouns, he supplied “pee” and “boogie.” When I needed adjectives, he came up with “blubbery” and “hairy.” When I wanted a part of the body, he said “armpit” and “culo” (Coo Low).
“That's Spanish for ‘butt,’“ Matt explained. “Miguel taught me.”
“Why'd he teach you that?”
“Because I asked.”
Do all boys (even Miguel) have sick sides? I cannot picture Miguel putting his right hand under his left armpit and flapping to make farty noises.
But maybe Miguel can't picture me playing Bad Word Mad Libs!
“You know what else he taught me?”
“Who?” I inquired innocently.
“Miguel, duh!” Matt gave me a look as though he were the older sibling and I was the little idiot. “Remember when I sneezed yesterday and Miguel said, ‘Hey Seuss’? Well, he asked me, ‘Are you constipated?’ and I said, ‘Huh?!’ and we realized that constipado (Cone Stee Pa Doe) means having a stuffy nose even though ‘constipated’ means—”
“I know what it means, Matt.”
He took the Mad Libs and started asking me for parts of speech. I provided interesting vocabulary words, such as “fretting,” “excursion,” and “windblown.” When Matt asked for a place, instead of saying “bathroom,” as he would have, I said “dark side of the moon,” which I thought showed imagination. But at the end, Matt read the paragraph out loud, and it wasn't even half as funny as when he picks inappropriate words.
Which seemed unfair, really. I even mentioned this to Matt, and he said that if I'm too proper to use bad words, I could say “banana,” “melons,” or “lemons” because fruits are funny. I said I'd think about it.
Dear Diary,
Seville is cool—but also hot! We are staying at the Hotel Murillo.
Mom wanted us to visit Murillo's house and go to a museum to see paintings by him and Zurbaran (Zoor Bah Ron). We said forget it. “What if I get you audio-guides?” Mom asked, but even she knew it was a lost cause.
“You go, Miranda,” Dad said. “The kids and I will meet you at Columbus's tomb at four o'clock.”
“Cool!” Matt said.
“Nothing's cool about today, Matt,” said Dad. “It's hot as Ml.”
“Sure you don't want to come with me?” Mom said. “The museum will be air-conditioned. And nobody paints children as tenderly as Murillo—”
�
�I'm sick of art,” Matt said. “I've seen enough tender babies and ugly ancestors.”
“Matt, don't break your mother's heart,” Dad said.
“Because then she'd be broken-arted?” He struck a stupid pose and said, “I could pose for Moo Ree Yo.”
“No, you couldn't,” Mom said. “He died in 1682.”
“On Christmas?” Matt asked.
Mom looked exasperated. “I'll see you in a few hours.”
“Buy a postcard of your favorite painting,” I called after her. I was trying to be sensitive.
As soon as it was the three of us, Dad said, “Okay kids, what'll we do? It's so hot, you could fry an egg on the street.”
“That's why some Spanish people take siestas” I said.
“Let's do it!” Matt said.
“Take a nap?” I said.
“Fry an egg!” Matt said.
“We don't have an egg,” I said.
“We could buy an egg,” Matt said.
“Huevo” (Way Vo), I said.
“I suppose we could,” Dad said, which came as a shock.
Next thing you know, we were in a tiny grocery store buying one huevo, some sandwich stuff, and a kind of sliced Wonder bread called Bimbo (Matt said it must make you stupid instead of strong). The cashier barely noticed that we bought just one egg because it wasn't like in a supermarket where you have to buy an even number.
Matt said, “Now we have to find a place with no people around.”
“Lead the way, champ,” Dad said. You could tell Dad thought we were on quite the adventure. He's also much more relaxed now that he's on pure vacation.
Matt led us down twisting alleyways, and each one led to one more. It was like a giant maze. We passed whitewashed houses decorated with hanging flowerpots and peeked inside doorways to inner courtyards with pretty plants and trickling fountains.
“My turn to carry the egg,” I said.
“Okay,” Matt said. “But don't drop it. I get to drop it because it was my idea.”
We walked some more until Matt found a sunny spot. I touched the pavement with my finger. It was as hot as beach sand in August.
“Perfecto” (Pair Fee Toe), I said. “Perfect.”
“Perfecto,” Dad repeated.
“Ready?” I handed Matt the egg.
“Think it will sizzle and fry?” he asked.
“Only one way to find out,” Dad said.
Matt tossed the egg into the air. It went up, then down, then splatted into a nasty puddle.
We all watched. But nothing happened.
“Should I stir it?” Matt said.
“Be patient,” I advised. “It might cook.” The yolk oozed around. The egg insides mostly sat there, a gloppy Humpty Dumpty mess.
We kept watching and waiting, but the egg white didn't even turn white.
“I don't think it's going to fry,” Dad said. “Shall we go?”
“We're just going to leave it?” Matt asked.
“You want to take it with you?” I asked. “Or eat it?”
“Let's wait a few more minutes,” Matt pleaded, so we did.
The egg kind of disappeared into the street, leaving a see-through filmy surface with a pale white outline. The yolk part dried, thickened, and turned brownish-orange. Overall, though, it must not have been as hot as Dad had thought because what we were staring at was not a fried egg.
“I guess we can leave,” Matt said.
“That was highly educational,” I said, because I didn't want Dad to regret letting us crack an egg in a foreign country. What I was thinking, though, was that yesterday at the castle was a lot more sizzling than our experimento (S Pair E Men Toe) in the alley.
We picnicked in a shaded area of a park called Maria Luisa (Ma Ree Ah Loo E Sa). Horse-drawn carriages clippity-clopped past, and black-and-white birds chirped and swooped, and cicadas hummed in the tall trees, announcing that it was hot hot hot— which we all knew anyway.
A brown-eyed girl approached us and held out her palm, asking for money. Dad said she was a Gypsy. She was around eight or nine, but her face seemed older and she wasn't playing, she was working. I felt bad for her because it's not her fault that her parents don't have any money, just as it's not thanks to me that my parents do have some. I reached into my pocket and gave her a euro, which is around a dollar. She said gracias and skipped away. next to Columbus's tomb in the third-biggest cathedral in Europe (after Rome's and London's)
Dear Diary,
The Phza de Espana is full of colorful tiles of Spanish scenes. It is muy pretty. (Mooey means very.) It is also full of white doves. Matt chased them into the air even though it was too hot to run.
It was almost too hot to walk, but Dad made us walk to the cathedral. We didn't stop until we reached its courtyard of orange trees. I wish we had orange trees in New York. They smell so good—like springtime!
Matt wanted to climb the Girdda (Hhhee Rahl Da), so we did. It started out as a prayer tower with stone carved like lace and later became a bell tower with little balconies.
On top, there was an American girl with even more freckles than Matt. Matt and Freckle Girl started smiling at each other. A lot. They were looking down over Seville's orange trees and white houses and old bullring, and Matt told her all about Buddy and Ferdinand. She was hanging on his every word!
Is my brother a flirt? Should he be acting all smiley when he already has a girlfriend?
Then again, Lily must have friends who are boys, so maybe it's okay.
Since Matt was distracted, I asked Dad, “Were you worried about this trip?”
“Worried? Why?”
“About Mom.”
“No. Think I should have been?”
“Well, you always say I worry too much, but—”
“Who? You? Meho-drama Mel?”
I made a face at him. “If I were you, I'd have worried.” Dad smiled, so I added, “I'm serious.”
“Okay, cupcake, I'll be serious too.” He ruffled my hair. “Mom and I are well suited. We love each other and we love our 4-M Club. Was I as happy as she was about visiting Antonionio? No. But I didn't want to forbid it. Your mother likes to do things her way. And last year, she didn't mind when we had lunch with Sophia, remember?”
“She minded a little,” I corrected him.
“Well, there you are. We don't always like it, but we try to respect each other, even when it's difficult.”
“And that's when you have fights?”
Dad looked amused. “We do okay. And you know what, Melleroonie?”
“What?”
“Mom and Antonio broke up long ago. I wooed and won.”
“Wooed?”
“Courted, dated, went out with.”
I triiiiied to picture them wooing. I guess Dad is okay-looking (when he's not asleep). And he has a fun side (when he's not a grump). And he's smart and thoughtful (most of the time).
“Dad,” I said, “no one says ‘wooed’ anymore. ‘Wooed’ is a weird word.”
“Not weally,” he replied, so I poked him. He poked me back. Then he called over to Matt. “Let's go. Let's rock ‘n’ roll.”
“No one says that anymore either,” I pointed out.
Dad laughed. “I do.”
We are now inside the big cathedral, waiting for Mom. It's dark and cool—naturally cool, not air-conditioned cool. We got here early, but I didn't mind because I wanted to write.
Right next to me are statues of four Spanish kings with crowns. They are carrying Columbus's coffin!
I can't believe I am two yards away from whatever is left of Columbus! “Columbus is in there—but dead?” Matt asked.
“According to this guidebook,” Dad said.
“It must be mostly Columbus dust,” I said.
“And bone bits,” Matt added.
Matt and I walked around the coffin twice.
“I wish we could tell him the good news—that he found a whole new continent,” I said.
“I'm going to!” Matt said. He
faced the coffin and whispered, “Hey, Columbus! Way to go! You didn't find Asia, but you did discover America. And you're still famous!”
Dad said, “Want to give Chris some bad news too?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“His discoveries were great for Spain but not so great for the people on the islands where he landed because he brought germs and diseases with him.”
“On purpose?” Matt asked.
“No, not on purpose!” Dad said.
“What diseases?” I asked.
“Smallpox and measles, for starters. It wiped out a lot of the native population.”
“Like a plague?” I asked.
“I'm afraid so,” Dad said.
When Dad wasn't looking, I whispered to the coffin, “That wasn't really your fault.”
Dad said that Columbus kept a diary—like me. But guess what? He kept two ship logs. In the public one his sailors saw, he wrote things like We've sailed a short way and we're getting there. In the private one he kept just for himself, he wrote things like We've been at sea a long long long time—I'm worried. Where the heck is landV. Nobody had thought it would take over a month to get from one shore to the next, and Columbus didn't want to stress anyone out.
Too late! His crew was already going crazy!
“After thirty days at sea,” Dad said, “some sailors begged Columbus to turn around and go home. Some even plotted to throw him overboard and sail back! But he convinced them to hang in there a little longer. And then, just in time—”
“Land ho!!!” Matt cried out.
“Exactly,” Dad said, “but shhh, we're in a cathedral.”
Actually, in Spanish, “Landho!” is “¡Tierra!” (Tyair Ah). And Christopher Columbus is Cristobal Colon (Cree Sto Ball Co Loan). Sounds like Crystal Ball Cologne.
If I had a crystal ball, I would look into it and see what Miguel is doing, then look further to see us saying goodbye, then peer way into the future to find out if we'll ever see each other again.
I hope Mom gets here soon because even though I usually like thinking about Miguel, I also like living in the present and knowing that I can still think about everything else in the world.
