How Not to Get Laid

It was Sunday in Madrid, and I was on a 24-hour layover. It had taken two hours from the airport to the bus to the train to my hostel, which had a McDonald’s on one side, porn shops on the other, and a shower that fell off the wall. I needed a night out.

Manuel, my only friend in Madrid, was away for the weekend, “would be back to hang out, but probably late”, and wasn’t answering his cellphone. I didn’t have a phone of my own, but figured I could call him from anywhere. So I set out, armed with Manuel’s number, my Rough Guide, and enough Spanish to get myself in trouble.

I stopped at a corner to look at a map when a guy in his 30s asked if I had a light. I said “no, lo siento,”, and he switched from Spanish to perfect Queen’s English.

“Ah, you’re American! Can I help you? I know it’s hard to be alone in a new city.” I told of my search for a café, he said, “Follow me,” and offered his arm. I must have flinched, because he said, “Oh, I’m sorry, being European, we just are chivalrous.”

To which I replied, “Oh, I’m sorry, being from New York, we just don’t take the arms of strangers.” But we chatted, in a mix of Spanish and English, peppered with me emphasizing that I was meeting someone later, when HE got back into town. Manuel was just a friend, but I figured I’d let this guy draw his own conclusions.

Then he asked me, “Leo o Scorpio?” (Did he really just ask my sign?) I replied, “Sagittarius”. Undeterred, he continued, “Can I read your palm?” (WHAT???) I played along, since by then we were in a lovely neighborhood, and hey, what else did I have going on? He looked at my palm. “WOW,” he said. “You are a very complicated lady. Can I buy you a drink?” (Well, I did have time to kill, and he knew it…). I said, “Sure; let me call my friend first.”

Calling “from anywhere” was harder than anticipated, since there was not a payphone in sight, and the guy’s prepaid mobile lacked enough credits to call out. (This would seem SKETCHY in the US, but what do I know about Spanish cell service?) We went into a jazz bar, where I figured I could at least ask the bartender, but the bartender didn’t have a cell. I was out of luck.

My new friend went immediately for the empty section in the back, as I asked, “Um… why don’t we sit up front?” (You know, where the OTHER people are and would see if you try to grope or drug me?) Luckily the back started to fill up as well. I borrowed the cellphone of the couple next to us, and sent Manuel a quick message. “Hey Manu! I’m at a bar on calle huerta, borrowing a phone. Text me here, and I’ll come meet you.” (Manuel, where ARE you??? Save me…)

I returned the phone, turned back to my table, and worried to myself that maybe Manuel wasn’t going to make it back that night. The palm reading continued, until we were interrupted by a man selling roses for €2 each. “No, gracias ,” I said, but he insisted. Now, my friends and I have discussed those bar-to-bar-rose-guys in New York, and we always wonder: “Who BUYS those things???” An ocean away, it became clear: Guys trying to get laid by strangers! Of course! If you buy a rose for your date at a bar, you’re too lame to think of it on your own… but if you buy one for a stranger, you’re spontaneous! Romantic! Are there REALLY enough of these guys out there to sustain the industry???

“Do you usually buy roses for strangers you meet on the street?” I ask him. “Not for strangers,” he tells me, “For new friends.”

I continue drinking and wondering where Manuel is, while my “new friend” tells me things I’ve never known about myself, but he’s apparently deduced in the past hour:

“You are very serious, but you have a wild side. Lots of men want you, but they can’t keep up…You’re very sensual, very sexual…” (He hasn’t exactly said the words, “You’re TOTALLY the kind of girl who’ll go home with a stranger you meet on the street…” but he may yet…) He continued to tell me about myself, and was just starting to read my Chakra (which mostly consisted of him putting his hands all over my back, and asking “what color are you seeing right now?”), when the man at the next table hands me his phone, and asks, “Is this your friend?”

Manuel!

“Driving back to the city,” he wrote. “Still a while away. Is your friend joining us?”

I replied, “Sounds good, CU soon. He’s not my friend, and will NOT be joining us.”

Manuel and I continued to text as he neared the city, as I grew impatient with the Chakra readings, and as my new palm-reading friend realized that I was not going to sleep with him. He eventually excused himself to make a call, returned, and said, “I need to go meet my friend.” He looked directly at me and added, “It’s REALLY a pity you have other plans for the night.”

I said goodbye (as he lingered a bit too long on what should have been a polite Euro-kiss), he left, and for the first time since leaving Barcelona , I relaxed. I drank my wine, alone, and became the best “American in Europe” cliché I could.

Manuel eventually rolled in around midnight, and said, “HOW did you wind up here???” “Don’t ask,” I replied, “I’ll tell you in the car.”

Leaving the bar, he added, “Nice rose.” I flipped him off and gave him a hug.

Submitted by American Girl, Age 28, New York

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