My eyes glaze over, transfixed and focused on the two white cubes melting and deteriorating beneath the orange flame. The clear green liquid becomes cloudier with each drip coming from the spoon strainer sitting atop the reservoir glass. A wafting smell of what I recognized as being black licorice creepily met my nostrils. A sinking feeling welled up inside me – a reminder of the last time this bittersweet liquid met my tongue. I remember sitting in Venice, under the twilight, along a historic stone path carved alongside an ancient canal.
Looking to my left, my eyes scan over a wall of ancient bottles. Some were labeled and some were not. Water stained, rigid and peeling were words reading absinthe, gin and vodka. Most of the bottles were brown and some were stained that way. They sat across four shelves, backed by an aging mirror, and hidden translucent behind a glass front. To my right, haphazard rickety chairs and small round tables littered the bar floor. The bar was empty, but of two groups who sat on either side of the table. In front of me, a plump, grey haired barman stood with both hands upon the bar, where he leaned, glaring unfocused at the lot in front of him. He had dark shadows under his eyes and matted black hair, which gave him a surly expression and a permanently grim look about him.
Looking to my left, my eyes scan over a wall of ancient bottles. Some were labeled and some were not. Water stained, rigid and peeling were words reading absinthe, gin and vodka. Most of the bottles were brown and some were stained that way. They sat across four shelves, backed by an aging mirror, and hidden translucent behind a glass front. To my right, haphazard rickety chairs and small round tables littered the bar floor. The bar was empty, but of two groups who sat on either side of the table. In front of me, a plump, grey haired barman stood with both hands upon the bar, where he leaned, glaring unfocused at the lot in front of him. He had dark shadows under his eyes and matted black hair, which gave him a surly expression and a permanently grim look about him.
Idle chatter met my ears from a group of French peers who were enjoying their second round of the emerald elixir. A man and three women sat, scattered around the table. A few stolen glances by my newly met confidant Émile was met with like-interest by the curly-haired brunette. Émile was tall and skinny with short brown hair and a thin chinstrap beard. She offered a smile to him, encouraging the colloquy. He leaned in and apparently said something quite humorous, as the group attentively listened before bursting into laughter. Introductions then ensued and the group graciously spoke English so that I could be included. Their English was bad, but we managed to inquire about out each other’s homelands and why we were traveling, as well as our careers. The man was named Rémy, he was a year older and worked as a computer tech in Normandy.
Émile and the brunette moved closer to each other, speaking to one another, of what I could not hear. But he must have been quite the charmer. She wore a starstruck smile that flirted the lines between giddy and eccentric. They huddled together, separating themselves from the others. To my left sat Rémy, and two other girls sat on his other side. He bore long curly hair that reached past his chin, which gave him a surfer-dude like appearance. Sophie was closest to him, wearing her hair half up, with her bangs draping down over her face – she had a knowing look about her. She was slender with an adorable essence of beauty that immediately caught my eye. She sat far back in her chair, relaxed, as if without a care in the world. I didn’t know what is was, but there was just something about her. Perhaps the slight smirk on the left side of her mouth gave away more if a hint than she meant to, but I saw pure mischief swirling around her frontal lobe. She wore an off-white, off-the-shoulder top with black print, a pair of dark jeans and black leather jacket, and completing the ensemble she had draped a multi-colored orange scarf around her neck.
Émile and the brunette moved closer to each other, speaking to one another, of what I could not hear. But he must have been quite the charmer. She wore a starstruck smile that flirted the lines between giddy and eccentric. They huddled together, separating themselves from the others. To my left sat Rémy, and two other girls sat on his other side. He bore long curly hair that reached past his chin, which gave him a surfer-dude like appearance. Sophie was closest to him, wearing her hair half up, with her bangs draping down over her face – she had a knowing look about her. She was slender with an adorable essence of beauty that immediately caught my eye. She sat far back in her chair, relaxed, as if without a care in the world. I didn’t know what is was, but there was just something about her. Perhaps the slight smirk on the left side of her mouth gave away more if a hint than she meant to, but I saw pure mischief swirling around her frontal lobe. She wore an off-white, off-the-shoulder top with black print, a pair of dark jeans and black leather jacket, and completing the ensemble she had draped a multi-colored orange scarf around her neck.
The other girl in the group introduced herself as Amélie. She sat upright, with an uptight air about her. She also wore a leather jacket, but her clothes were only shades of grey with much less expression than that of Sophie’s. She made up for her dull dressing with her naturally charming smile. She spoke no English, but had Rémy translate our brief interaction. Amélie asked of my travel plans and my family at home. She explained that she was a teacher of young children. I saw the love she had for her job, it was apparent in the emotion of her storytelling.
Our conversation broke when a dark skinned waiter appeared. He butted in between Sophie and Amélie nearly knocking Sophie off her seat. She wobbled a bit, but in the end she steadied herself by landing one foot to her side. Rémy pointed his index finger upward and waved his hand in a circular motion, ordering another round. The interruption brought Émile back from the void. He blinked a few times and seemed to awake from his trance. His newfound interest came to as well and grabbed the hand of Amélie and swept off around the bar corner and into the bathroom. He sheepishly looked to me and smiled with bedazzled eyes. I nodded and returned his smile with a smirk.
“That’s Olivie,” he explained, before running off to the bathroom as well. “I be back, toilet,” he pointed.
Rémy and I turned to each other at the same time, and we shook our heads, chuckling. He then leaned over to Sophie, whispering something nondescript. She shrugged and nodded, and then locked eyes with me. Her mischievous smirk turned from barely noticeable to potentially alarming. A clear thought seemed to have formed, and I knew she was thinking of engaging me. She began to lean in toward me, across the table. I watched her lips slowly part and eyes narrow. Her mouth opened and her tongue curled, as to ready herself to say something. But again the dark skinned man returned. The other 3 returned from the bathroom, as the man turned away after leaving us with 6 drinks, 6 spoons, 12 sugar cubes, and 3 bottles of cold water.
Robotically, each of us sat our sugar cubes on top of the spoon that sat on the lip of the glass. We took turns lighting each set on fire. We sat quietly, admiring the sticky, caramelized solution fog our drinks. A few moments passed and each of us stirred the sugar into our drinks, topped them off with the chilled water and likewise raised them up. Clinging and clanging broke the silence and the difficult exchange of bad English and little French began again.
Sophie leaned in again, licking her lips clean of the green liquor and pulled my arm toward her. My tattoo-laden arm drew her attention no doubt. “Tell me ‘bout these,” she spoke softly. Her eyes aligned with mine and I could feel her soft breath near my neck.
I shivered slightly. My heart began to speed up. Then clearing my throat and pointing to the two sparrows on my forearm, I explained, “The triumphant looking bird, surrounded by roses reminds me that I can choose to be great.” I then pointed to the other bird which is covered in bloody bandages and said, “and this bird reminds me that sometimes life brings you down, but no matter how difficult the challenge I face, I can be triumphant like the other.”
She nodded her approval, moving her soft fingers slowly up my arm. I felt my heart double back and speedup faster. She took a few moments to study each piece. She pulled my sleeve up to my shoulder, where a blue angel with wings is visible, and asked “This says ‘forgive,’ yes?” I nodded and she continued by asking, “Why?”
“This is another reminder. Sometimes it’s easy to be caught up in emotions and forget what’s truly important. So the angel with her scripted banner reminds me that it’s important to stop and think, and perhaps forgive – even if it’s tough to do sometimes.” I explained.
She took a moment, furling her brow. And as if she were deciding something, she unfolded her arms and shook her head. She struggled with the words she wished to say in English. After two failed attempts, she turned to Rémy and spoke quickly in French. She flailed her arms, trying to make him understand how to correctly say what she had in mind.
“She say she disagrees. She don’t like to think on problems for long,” he said, trying to appear nonchalant, as to not anger me. I felt no anger, only inquisition. “Sophie believes she can choose to errr, move on, umm, then no reason,” he waves his arms in a forward motion, “to think on forgive.” She watched me, curiously, reading my expression and studying my reaction.
I shrugged and nodded slowly. Locking eyes with her, I began to study her as well. I watched her lips twitch into that now-familiar smirk, and I understood her intent. “I understand and agree that sometimes it’s better to simply move past difficult situations.”
Silence returned. Rémy shifted nervously, while Sophie and I remained watching one another. We were linked in a tunnel of vision, full of emotion and appraisal. Never had I experienced such fury and blaze of a woman’s fiery gaze. She looked not at me, but into my soul. Only one thing was clear to me – I wanted to get to know her more.
The sound of long drawn out inebriated kissing crept near and our wonderful tunnel faded away and the bar returned. The sound of a now full room of people and the banging of glass from behind the bar accompanied the sloppy slurping of Émile and Olivie. She was sitting on his lap, within his arm’s embrace. They moved together, in motion. She tilted her head forward, turning away, while he moved his lips from the nape of her neck down to her shoulder.
Rémy and Amélie jumped up from their seats, as to say, ‘Okay, enough of that.’ He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his blue flannel shirt pocket, of which he tore off the plastic. Stepping between the chairs and tables, full of people, he repeatedly smacked the short end of the pack against the palm of his hand. Several gracefully off balance steps and a few moments later, he surpassed the crowd and turned on his heel. Amélie decided not to accompany him. She skipped off to the bar, where a group of dark skinned men stood, howling with the laughter of their conversation. He looked at me and waved, miming the smoking of a cigarette, by putting two fingers together and moving to and from his mouth. I glanced back to Sophie and she was reaching forward, toward me. She grabbed my hand and lead me to follow her through the bustling crowd.
I stutter stepped around a group of Brazilian tourists, following Sophie outside onto the street. The faint words above the grungy garage doors of the bar read ‘Marsella’s’ – the rumor that Hemingway and Picasso, among others had drank at the bar was what brought me and Émile here, from our hostel in Plaza Real. The bar was located down a few back alleyways from the famous street of La Rambla in Barcelona. Most of the back alleys around the area were quite nice, with quaint shops and tapas restaurants, and interesting architecture. However, the area around the bar showed signs of decay, with a beaucoup of graffiti, closed and boarded up shop windows and sketchy-looking locals who loitered around suspiciously.
Rémy offered up an obscure brand menthol cigarette and I accepted it, which I lit off of his own. I typically don’t like to smoke, but the goal of this trip is to be a ‘yes man,’ and go with the flow, as best I can. Sure, I could have said no and stood there awkwardly, with my hands in my pockets, but I thoroughly enjoyed the company, and I liked where I was at this point in my life – it all felt right. We leaned up against a wall, looking out at the crowds of passersby. Rémy on my left and Sophie on his.
We were talking loudly enough that one of the loitering locals felt as though they should join in. She was a middle-aged woman with bright maroon hair, dressed in a skintight black leotard, complete with a leather jacket and 5-inch heels. She walked nearest me and immediately dropped the speaking point that she used to enter our conversation, and whispered in my ear, “Do you want to fuck?” I replied with a snort and a startled cough. It dawned on me of how foolish I had been not to realize what she was sooner. Not many woman walk around Barcelona in skintight leotards, atop 5 inch heels. I replied with wide-eyes, “Huh?” She repeated, rubbing her chest along my arm, “Do you want to fuck me?” I felt myself smile awkwardly and blush, and then shake my head. She frowned, and I turned back toward Sophie. I heard the prostitute make a dissatisfied grunt, followed by a ‘tisk, tisk’ sound before moving away.
She dawned an amused smile and shrugged off the prostitute’s advance. We spoke of life at home, past travels and dreams. She told me about her life back home, where she is a hospice nurse. We shared in related stories, as my mother was a nurse as well. She was intrigued when I told her my mother worked in a penitentiary for sometime. She showed her interest by lightly bumping into me from time to time, nudging my hand with hers. I look up at Rémy and notice that the absinthe had begun its process with him. His eyes began to droop in a sort of tired loll. He looked back at Sophie and me, smiling in a drunken garish manner. After a moment, he guided for us to follow him in retreat back inside.
We returned to our seats, where Amélie had returned. She had loosened up her stance and was talking quickly in French to Olivie. Our waiter approached abruptly, and everyone ordered another absinthe, but I decided to order a whiskey and ale. I’m not much of a fan of black licorice and I’d had my fill after two. Émile and Olivie unlocked from their embrace and rejoined the converstaion. Her eyes had drooped much lower than Rémy’s, and she sat blurry-eyed and grinning goofily. We continued to speak upon lighter subjects than before, yet Sophie and I continued to steal glances and playful inklings.
Rémy pulled out his phone and checked the time and grimaced. I was watching him as he did so, and he looked up and recognized my query. “We must take train, uhh 45 kilometers north, back to where we stay,” he explained. He looked over everyone else in his party and they nodded, agreeing that it was time to leave. “We have plans tomorrow morning. Must rest well.” I nodded and gave a last opposing look to Sophie, which she returned with a firm-lipped grimace.
We walked back to La Rambla and shook hands, exchanged contact information and said our farewells. I bumped fists with Rémy and waved goodbye to Amélie and Olivie. Sophie gripped my arms, gently pulling me toward her, she kissed me on either side of my cheeks and whispered in my ear, “You Brandon, are a nice boy.” I said nothing, as I felt my face turn red.
Émile smiled brightly, finishing from one last kiss. He turned to me and nodded his approval that the night was good, and we walked away in an opposite direction of the rest of the group. I looked behind me to catch a final fleeting glimpse of Sophie. Perhaps to catch her gaze a last time to put a positive seal on the night, or perhaps more like a promise that this will not be our last meeting. I looked for several seconds and as I began to turn away and resume walking, she looked over her shoulder and her beautiful smile was burned into my memories forever.
Our conversation broke when a dark skinned waiter appeared. He butted in between Sophie and Amélie nearly knocking Sophie off her seat. She wobbled a bit, but in the end she steadied herself by landing one foot to her side. Rémy pointed his index finger upward and waved his hand in a circular motion, ordering another round. The interruption brought Émile back from the void. He blinked a few times and seemed to awake from his trance. His newfound interest came to as well and grabbed the hand of Amélie and swept off around the bar corner and into the bathroom. He sheepishly looked to me and smiled with bedazzled eyes. I nodded and returned his smile with a smirk.
“That’s Olivie,” he explained, before running off to the bathroom as well. “I be back, toilet,” he pointed.
Rémy and I turned to each other at the same time, and we shook our heads, chuckling. He then leaned over to Sophie, whispering something nondescript. She shrugged and nodded, and then locked eyes with me. Her mischievous smirk turned from barely noticeable to potentially alarming. A clear thought seemed to have formed, and I knew she was thinking of engaging me. She began to lean in toward me, across the table. I watched her lips slowly part and eyes narrow. Her mouth opened and her tongue curled, as to ready herself to say something. But again the dark skinned man returned. The other 3 returned from the bathroom, as the man turned away after leaving us with 6 drinks, 6 spoons, 12 sugar cubes, and 3 bottles of cold water.
Robotically, each of us sat our sugar cubes on top of the spoon that sat on the lip of the glass. We took turns lighting each set on fire. We sat quietly, admiring the sticky, caramelized solution fog our drinks. A few moments passed and each of us stirred the sugar into our drinks, topped them off with the chilled water and likewise raised them up. Clinging and clanging broke the silence and the difficult exchange of bad English and little French began again.
Sophie leaned in again, licking her lips clean of the green liquor and pulled my arm toward her. My tattoo-laden arm drew her attention no doubt. “Tell me ‘bout these,” she spoke softly. Her eyes aligned with mine and I could feel her soft breath near my neck.
I shivered slightly. My heart began to speed up. Then clearing my throat and pointing to the two sparrows on my forearm, I explained, “The triumphant looking bird, surrounded by roses reminds me that I can choose to be great.” I then pointed to the other bird which is covered in bloody bandages and said, “and this bird reminds me that sometimes life brings you down, but no matter how difficult the challenge I face, I can be triumphant like the other.”
She nodded her approval, moving her soft fingers slowly up my arm. I felt my heart double back and speedup faster. She took a few moments to study each piece. She pulled my sleeve up to my shoulder, where a blue angel with wings is visible, and asked “This says ‘forgive,’ yes?” I nodded and she continued by asking, “Why?”
“This is another reminder. Sometimes it’s easy to be caught up in emotions and forget what’s truly important. So the angel with her scripted banner reminds me that it’s important to stop and think, and perhaps forgive – even if it’s tough to do sometimes.” I explained.
She took a moment, furling her brow. And as if she were deciding something, she unfolded her arms and shook her head. She struggled with the words she wished to say in English. After two failed attempts, she turned to Rémy and spoke quickly in French. She flailed her arms, trying to make him understand how to correctly say what she had in mind.
“She say she disagrees. She don’t like to think on problems for long,” he said, trying to appear nonchalant, as to not anger me. I felt no anger, only inquisition. “Sophie believes she can choose to errr, move on, umm, then no reason,” he waves his arms in a forward motion, “to think on forgive.” She watched me, curiously, reading my expression and studying my reaction.
I shrugged and nodded slowly. Locking eyes with her, I began to study her as well. I watched her lips twitch into that now-familiar smirk, and I understood her intent. “I understand and agree that sometimes it’s better to simply move past difficult situations.”
Silence returned. Rémy shifted nervously, while Sophie and I remained watching one another. We were linked in a tunnel of vision, full of emotion and appraisal. Never had I experienced such fury and blaze of a woman’s fiery gaze. She looked not at me, but into my soul. Only one thing was clear to me – I wanted to get to know her more.
The sound of long drawn out inebriated kissing crept near and our wonderful tunnel faded away and the bar returned. The sound of a now full room of people and the banging of glass from behind the bar accompanied the sloppy slurping of Émile and Olivie. She was sitting on his lap, within his arm’s embrace. They moved together, in motion. She tilted her head forward, turning away, while he moved his lips from the nape of her neck down to her shoulder.
Rémy and Amélie jumped up from their seats, as to say, ‘Okay, enough of that.’ He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his blue flannel shirt pocket, of which he tore off the plastic. Stepping between the chairs and tables, full of people, he repeatedly smacked the short end of the pack against the palm of his hand. Several gracefully off balance steps and a few moments later, he surpassed the crowd and turned on his heel. Amélie decided not to accompany him. She skipped off to the bar, where a group of dark skinned men stood, howling with the laughter of their conversation. He looked at me and waved, miming the smoking of a cigarette, by putting two fingers together and moving to and from his mouth. I glanced back to Sophie and she was reaching forward, toward me. She grabbed my hand and lead me to follow her through the bustling crowd.
I stutter stepped around a group of Brazilian tourists, following Sophie outside onto the street. The faint words above the grungy garage doors of the bar read ‘Marsella’s’ – the rumor that Hemingway and Picasso, among others had drank at the bar was what brought me and Émile here, from our hostel in Plaza Real. The bar was located down a few back alleyways from the famous street of La Rambla in Barcelona. Most of the back alleys around the area were quite nice, with quaint shops and tapas restaurants, and interesting architecture. However, the area around the bar showed signs of decay, with a beaucoup of graffiti, closed and boarded up shop windows and sketchy-looking locals who loitered around suspiciously.
Rémy offered up an obscure brand menthol cigarette and I accepted it, which I lit off of his own. I typically don’t like to smoke, but the goal of this trip is to be a ‘yes man,’ and go with the flow, as best I can. Sure, I could have said no and stood there awkwardly, with my hands in my pockets, but I thoroughly enjoyed the company, and I liked where I was at this point in my life – it all felt right. We leaned up against a wall, looking out at the crowds of passersby. Rémy on my left and Sophie on his.
We were talking loudly enough that one of the loitering locals felt as though they should join in. She was a middle-aged woman with bright maroon hair, dressed in a skintight black leotard, complete with a leather jacket and 5-inch heels. She walked nearest me and immediately dropped the speaking point that she used to enter our conversation, and whispered in my ear, “Do you want to fuck?” I replied with a snort and a startled cough. It dawned on me of how foolish I had been not to realize what she was sooner. Not many woman walk around Barcelona in skintight leotards, atop 5 inch heels. I replied with wide-eyes, “Huh?” She repeated, rubbing her chest along my arm, “Do you want to fuck me?” I felt myself smile awkwardly and blush, and then shake my head. She frowned, and I turned back toward Sophie. I heard the prostitute make a dissatisfied grunt, followed by a ‘tisk, tisk’ sound before moving away.
She dawned an amused smile and shrugged off the prostitute’s advance. We spoke of life at home, past travels and dreams. She told me about her life back home, where she is a hospice nurse. We shared in related stories, as my mother was a nurse as well. She was intrigued when I told her my mother worked in a penitentiary for sometime. She showed her interest by lightly bumping into me from time to time, nudging my hand with hers. I look up at Rémy and notice that the absinthe had begun its process with him. His eyes began to droop in a sort of tired loll. He looked back at Sophie and me, smiling in a drunken garish manner. After a moment, he guided for us to follow him in retreat back inside.
We returned to our seats, where Amélie had returned. She had loosened up her stance and was talking quickly in French to Olivie. Our waiter approached abruptly, and everyone ordered another absinthe, but I decided to order a whiskey and ale. I’m not much of a fan of black licorice and I’d had my fill after two. Émile and Olivie unlocked from their embrace and rejoined the converstaion. Her eyes had drooped much lower than Rémy’s, and she sat blurry-eyed and grinning goofily. We continued to speak upon lighter subjects than before, yet Sophie and I continued to steal glances and playful inklings.
Rémy pulled out his phone and checked the time and grimaced. I was watching him as he did so, and he looked up and recognized my query. “We must take train, uhh 45 kilometers north, back to where we stay,” he explained. He looked over everyone else in his party and they nodded, agreeing that it was time to leave. “We have plans tomorrow morning. Must rest well.” I nodded and gave a last opposing look to Sophie, which she returned with a firm-lipped grimace.
We walked back to La Rambla and shook hands, exchanged contact information and said our farewells. I bumped fists with Rémy and waved goodbye to Amélie and Olivie. Sophie gripped my arms, gently pulling me toward her, she kissed me on either side of my cheeks and whispered in my ear, “You Brandon, are a nice boy.” I said nothing, as I felt my face turn red.
Émile smiled brightly, finishing from one last kiss. He turned to me and nodded his approval that the night was good, and we walked away in an opposite direction of the rest of the group. I looked behind me to catch a final fleeting glimpse of Sophie. Perhaps to catch her gaze a last time to put a positive seal on the night, or perhaps more like a promise that this will not be our last meeting. I looked for several seconds and as I began to turn away and resume walking, she looked over her shoulder and her beautiful smile was burned into my memories forever.
 This photo of Sophie and I was given to me by Émile, some weeks after this night. He received it from Olivie. *All of the names in this story have been changed to protect each individual. And to be honest, I've yet cross paths with Sophie since, and I doubt she knows this story exists. | Rémy pulled out his phone and checked the time and grimaced. I was watching him as he did so, and he looked up and recognized my query. “We must take train, uhh 45 kilometers north, back to where we stay,” he explained. He looked over everyone else in his party and they nodded, agreeing that it was time to leave. “We have plans tomorrow morning. Must rest well.” I nodded and gave a last opposing look to Sophie, which she returned with a firm-lipped grimace. We walked back to La Rambla and shook hands, exchanged contact information and said our farewells. I bumped fists with Rémy and waved goodbye to Amélie and Olivie. Sophie gripped my arms, gently pulling me toward her, she kissed me on either side of my cheeks and whispered in my ear, “You Brandon, are a nice boy.” I said nothing, as I felt my face turn red. Émile smiled brightly, finishing from one last kiss. He turned to me and nodded his approval that the night was good, and we walked away in an opposite direction of the rest of the group. I looked behind me to catch a final fleeting glimpse of Sophie. Perhaps to catch her gaze a last time to put a positive seal on the night, or perhaps more like a promise that this will not be our last meeting. I looked for several seconds and as I began to turn away and resume walking, she looked over her shoulder and her beautiful smile was burned into my memories forever. |
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