by Holly Hart
I was just weighing up whether to take a cautious hop backwards when the old car chugged to a stumbling, choking halt in front of me.
"On vas?" The cab driver, a man in his fifties with hair that had long ago turned grey asked me in his native Catalan, the local dialect. It was close enough to the Latin American Spanish that I'd been brought up with that it didn't pose a problem. I climbed into the back of the cab.
"I need a drink," I said in Spanish, knowing he'd speak it. The Catalans were a proud race of people, and every single person in the city would rather speak their native tongue than the language of the hated Madrid, who they saw as having pillaged the hard-working city for years, increasing taxes and taking as much money out of the region as possible, only for it to be spent in the capital.
"You want to go to a bar, my friend?" my driver asked, switching to Spanish. He could probably tell I wasn't a Madridista from my accent and didn't seem to harbor any resentment.
"You bet," I agreed. "Tough day."
"My friend, you must be new here; there are no tough days when Barcelona wins!" He smiled, laughing gruffly.
"Did you watch the game?" I inquired curiously. There was absolutely no chance he'd recognized me – I'd taken enough precautions, and I was hardly a household name in the city, even if I hoped that would change soon enough.
"No, no, my friend – but I listened on the radio," he said, indicating the old radio set in the dashboard of his taxi. Rapid, quiet Spanish was still emanating from the speakers, and at a speed that even I – almost a native speaker – had to pay attention to in order to understand.
"But you enjoyed it?" I asked. I’d been so wrapped up in my head before the coach sent me on that I'd barely paid attention to the game – only glancing up from time to time to observe where the defender stood, on the off chance that I'd be needed.
"I enjoy every game," he said, "because Barcelona wins every game."
I laughed.
"This game," he turned to face me, swerving through the traffic without paying attention, "it was not so good. My friend, you didn't tell me – where do you want to drink?"
"What's your name, my friend?" I asked.
"Adria," he said, luckily turning back to face the road. "It's Catalan, you like it?"
"Very much." I chuckled. "Tell me, Adria, where do you drink?" I wanted somewhere dirty, somewhere seedy – and somewhere authentic. I didn't want to spend the evening cavorting in some international hotel drinking overpriced cocktails and mingling with the rich and famous. I'd done enough of that since coming to Barcelona. No, I wanted to live the life the locals lived and rub elbows with normal people. Hell, I felt out of place mixing with anyone else.
"You want to drink where I do?" The old man sitting in front of me chuckled. "Are you sure you can handle it, boy?"
I lifted my chin and looked at him in the mirror. "Trust me," I said, "I can".
"It will be a loud night," he said, switching lanes, "after a last-minute winner like today. Nothing gets people worked up here like a tense game."
"Perfect, that's just what I'm hoping for," I said. I had every intention of getting absolutely wasted – no matter the fact that it was strongly discouraged in my contract. I didn't drink often, preferring to sip water instead of a beer most evenings in order to stay at peak fitness, but when I did, I went out to have fun.
"What's your name, kid?" Adria asked, thankfully paying full attention to the busy road in front of us.
"Alex," I replied. At least this guy would call me by my real name, I thought.
"You speak Spanish well," he said. "Where are you from my friend? I can't work it out."
"Not many can." I laughed. "I'm a bit of a mix – half Colombian and half American, but raised by Mexican foster parents in California. Who knows where my accent's from?"
Adria didn't reply; instead, he slammed his foot on the brake so hard that if it wasn't for the seatbelt I'd luckily clipped into, I'd have been catapulted through the windshield. He swerved into a parking space to the side of the road and sat – quite literally shivering – with his hands gripped to the steering wheel so hard his knuckles began to turn white.
"Are…" I said hesitantly, "you okay?" I tentatively leaned forward, hoping that he wasn't having a medical episode – because it certainly seemed like it. It would be a shame, too, because he'd been a fun driver.
"És el nom d’ Alejandro?" he asked, his voice quivering like he was talking to God himself.
Rumbled.
"You've got me," I said, hoping that the nice old man didn't have a heart attack in response to the confirmation of my real identity.
"It cannot be," he whispered, turning his head to stare at me. I began to feel quite uncomfortable – I was no stranger to adoration, plenty of women had chased after me in college, and every guy I ever met wanted to be my friend, but this seemed different. Adria was looking at me with messianic zeal shining from his eyes.
"Stay there," he said gruffly. I was beyond confused by the turn this evening had taken, but I did as he asked. He seemed entirely unthreatening – in fact, the only danger I sensed was the danger of being suffocated by his adoration.
He climbed out of the passenger door, apologizing to me for the scene – "It's broken, it's broken, don't worry – I'm not crazy." I wasn't worrying – if anything, I was biting my lip to avoid bursting out in laughter. He finally freed himself from the clutches of the front seat and sprinted to my side of the car, opened the door and enveloped me in a big bear hug.
"My friend, what are you doing in my taxi?" he asked, his head buried in my shoulder. Apparently, I'd made a friend.
"What do you mean?" I asked, confused.
"Didn't you drive?" he asked, pulling away from the hug and placing his hands on my face before planting two big, traditional European kisses on my face – one on either cheek. "All of the players drive – those big sports cars you see driving around the streets."
"Oh, yeah." I laughed as Adria regretfully returned to his seat, this time doing the sideways shuffle feet first. "I left my car at the ground – you reckon it'll be safe?"
He turned to look at me, his face comically sideways and red with exertion as he forced his ageing, bulging frame back into the seat. "Of course," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "it'll be safe – everyone knows it's a player's car. In this city, no one will touch it."
"Good to know," I said easily. "I didn't want to drink and drive – you know?"
"Good," Adria said. He rejoined the traffic, but this time took a hard right – heading for the center of town.
"Whoa," I protested, "where are we going? I thought we were heading to your bar?"
"Alejandro," Adria replied, turning to face me once more. I really wished he wouldn't do that – the idea that the guy driving didn't have his eyes on the road kind of bothered the regimented, American side of me. "How can I take you to my bar? The people there – they are not good enough for you. I would be ashamed."
"Adria," I reassured him, "it's what I want. The last place I want to go to is some downtown bar."
He glanced back at the road briefly before looking at me doubtfully. "Are you sure? It's where the rest of the team celebrate."
"I couldn't be more certain," I said. "Who wants to drink with rich people?" I asked.
Adria guffawed, hitting the steering wheel with two big, heavy paws. "My friend – you are why Barcelona is més qué un club!"
"What do you mean by," I asked, as my delirious taxi driver pulled a fast turn back across to the other side of town, "més qué un club? I've seen that before…"
"You'll learn, my boy," he said. "It means more than a club – it is Barcelona's motto. You know we're the richest sports club in the world?"
I nodded. Apparently, in Spain, you could talk to your driver without speaking, because they spent most of their time staring at you anyway.
"But did you know that we aren't owned by a company – we aren't a company. The only people who own
this club, my club," he said, jabbing his finger into his chest proudly, "are the people themselves – the members: the sócios."
I had to admit, I didn't. Adria was still smiling proudly as he brought the taxi screeching to a halt next to a seedy-looking apartment block.
"You said you wanted to drink with the locals," he said with the avuncular smile of a proud uncle, "so here we are."
I stepped out of the black and yellow cab and pulled my baseball cap off my head and stuck it in my back pocket. I guessed I'd have less than ten seconds inside Adria's bar before he introduced me to every single one of his friends.
I looked around at the slightly run-down residential street in confusion. I hadn't expected that we'd head towards downtown Barcelona, but as I looked around, I couldn't see anything that even resembled a drinking hole. "I thought you said we were going for a drink?" I asked.
"Oh, but we are." He smiled mysteriously. "Follow me."
I did as he asked, but couldn't help but notice that he hadn't remembered to lock his taxi up. "Hey, Adria, slow down – you forgot to lock up!"
He turned back to me with a furrowed brow. "Huh?"
"Your car – don't you want to lock it?"
He chuckled. "In this neighborhood? There's no point – there's no crime around here."
I took a couple of quick strides to catch up with him, still eyeing his car doubtfully. Where I was brought up, in the projects of South LA, people didn't bother locking up their cars because there was no point – better to leave the car unlocked and empty so some crack addict would just rifle through it and go on their way empty-handed than have the windows smashed in. As I looked around at this neighborhood, though, I saw none of the signs of the poverty that had been an ever-present companion growing up.
Back home, windows were often covered with iron bars, or in the most desperate cases, with two by fours. Here, they had shutters as well, but they were pulled back against the walls of the beautiful yellow sandstone buildings, only used for protection against storms and shielding the intense afternoon sun.
And while the area was certainly faded, with none of the cars that were sitting by the sides of the potholed cobbled roads any younger than a decade old, the residents clearly had pride in their surroundings. The tell-tale whiteness of new wood gave away where fencing had been neatly mended, and walls were freshly painted. It felt warm and inviting, rather than oppressive – a place that he'd happily come to visit, rather than drive through at speed.
"Hector!" My grey-haired taxi driver hailed an equally aged man further down the street. "How do you do?"
I grinned at his archaic word choice. I had a feeling that this was going to turn out to be a night unlike any I'd ever experienced. At twenty-one, I could now legally drink back home – though, of course, the law had rarely prevented me from partying in the past, other than on the occasions where I'd needed to outpace chasing cops after a bust. Here in Europe, though, teenagers customarily drank with their parents from an early age. I'd even seen kids as young as thirteen or fourteen sharing a watered-down glass of red wine at dinner! I might legally be an adult, but compared to Adria and his friends, I was still a boy!
Over here, alcohol was a way of life, rather than an escape from it. Wine and beer were enjoyed because the locals liked the taste, rather than the way I'd always experienced them in the past – just to get blind drunk as quickly as possible. Still, I grinned, I had every expectation that nobody would be holding back tonight…
"Hold up," Hector puffed, pumping his short arms against his fat belly to catch up, "are you heading to the pub?" He held up one hand to shield his eyes from the sun, but kept the other pumping away to his side in a quite comical fashion. "Who's the boy – your nephew?"
Adria grinned broadly. "You'll never guess."
"Who is it then?"
"Alejandro Rodriguez," Adria grinned, "come for a drink."
"Don't be ridiculous," Hector puffed as he neared us. "What are you thinking, getting an old man's hopes up like that – you know how my heart is…"
He paused, stopped and blinked.
"He…does look like the kid."
I sure as hell wasn't a doctor, but to my untrained eyes, it kind of looked like Hector was about to have an aneurysm. I stepped forward and put out my hand. "Nice to meet you, sir," I said respectfully.
He shook it with his mouth open wide enough to catch flies. "Dios mío," he whispered, "it really is you." He dropped my hand like he'd entirely forgotten it was there, leaned forward and planted a wet kiss on my forehead. I steeled myself not to recoil from the unexpected, and intimate, contact.
"Shall we…go for a drink?" I suggested.
"Of course, of course, my boy," Adria agreed. I bit back a smile – I knew that I was making his day, maybe even his year, by doing this for him. "Follow me."
He turned down a shaded but neatly swept alleyway and pushed open a non-descript doorway. The only sign that this was a drinking establishment was a small red plastic sign with Estella written on it – the name of Barcelona's local beer.
A gentle buzz of sound escaped as the door swung open, along with a faint smell of cigarette smoke. The bar was dark and had space for maybe thirty – perhaps forty, but only if the customers were packed in like sardines. It was a local drinking haunt – unlike anywhere I’d ever been before. It felt real, visceral – like I'd been catapulted back to the seventies.
"Adria!" the bartender exclaimed from behind the heavy oak wood bar, stained almost black by years of spilled beer, cigarette smoke and oils rubbed over many years from the palms of thousands of drinkers. "We haven't seen you all week."
"I…" Adria began, but before he had even the slightest of chances to say a word, Hector recovered his ability to talk.
"Boys," he blustered, "you'll never believe who Adria has brought to us."
There was a faint murmur from the crowd, but it was so obscured by the dim light I could barely make out.
"Tell us," someone shouted from inside. "And for God’s sake, close the door!" This was greeted by cheers and the thundering sound of tankards of beer thudding against the tables.
I walked inside, bending to accommodate the low doorway, and the heavy black wooden door swung shut behind me.
"Who's the boyfriend, then?" some wit shouted from the crowd.
Adria chuckled. "I've brought today's scorer for a drink."
"Yeah right," came the cry. "Why would a Barcelona player come to drink with us rogues?"
"Because," I said, tired of hearing Hector and Adria talk for me, "who else would I want to drink with after a victory than with the fans?"
The crowd fell quiet and left the bar silent, other than the sound of a couple of wooden stools scraping against the floor. "Surely not?" someone exclaimed.
"No, it is – it's him!" another excited voice shouted.
"Well, if it's not him, it's close enough that I don't care. Someone get this man a beer!"
Half a dozen hands reached out of the dim light and pulled me towards the nearest stool. "What the hell are you doing here?" an excited face asked.
I accepted the proffered beer gratefully. "I was thirsty." I smiled, greedily sipping the beer. It was half finished by the time I stopped. "Damn, I needed that."
"Another," came the cry.
"Who do I pay?" I asked. "Drinks are on me tonight, okay?"
"Nonsense," Adria bellowed, "what kind of hosts would we be if we made you pay? You've paid us a hundred times by scoring this afternoon. You'll drink here for free whenever you want."
"Cheers to that," I said, raising my glass. A dozen more, in varying states of emptiness, raised to greet it. "Salut!" they echoed.
I leaned back, an excited fan's arm draped around my shoulder, and drained my glass, feeling the first hints of the alcohol's warmth beginning to caress my stomach. This felt like a place I'd always been meant to visit. It felt like home.
7
Diana
"You coming?" Tim asked, poking his h
ead out of the truck window.
"Don't worry, I'll get a taxi," I said. "I need to call my mom before she goes to sleep."
"You sure?" he asked, shooting me a surprised look. "You can do it in the truck if you want – I promise I won't listen. It'll be murder getting back into the city if you wait much longer…"
"I'm sure." I beamed, making sure that Tim knew it wasn't personal. I did need to call my mom, that much was true, but that wasn't the reason I was hanging around the training ground.
"Have it your way." He smirked, putting the truck into gear and reversing out of the parking space. "See you tomorrow?"
"Sure thing." I smiled.
I sat down on the curb and watched as he drove away, the black WBC Sports truck paling in significance compared to the rows of supercars that arrayed the training ground's parking lot. The sun glinted off them, testifying to the amount of hard work that went into keeping them looking as though they'd just rolled off the lot.
Some of them, I thought, probably had. It seemed like every time I came up here to film a segment, there was a new car. After all, if I were an athlete being paid twenty million bucks a year, without even throwing endorsements into the mix, I'd probably want to find something to spend my money on as well.
I shuffled over and rested my back against a lamppost, its metal heated to an almost uncomfortable temperature by the mid-afternoon sun with my cellphone held to my ear. The beeps and squawks that signified I was making an international call seemed to carry on for ages before I finally heard the familiar, comforting ringing sound of my mom's telephone.
"Di," she exclaimed happily, "I wasn't expecting your call! How are you?"
"I'm doing okay, Mom," I said, faking a smile in the hope that the warmth would somehow be heard in my voice.
"How's Barcelona?" she gushed. "We’re all so proud of you, Di."
"Oh," I squirmed awkwardly, "don't say that, Mom."
"Why not?" She giggled. "How can you tell me not to be proud of my only daughter? I'm just sorry there wasn't time to give you a going away party!"
