In the past two years, I've lost my two closest friends to the
grim reaper and my husband to a divorce. These are the sort of things that can
wear girl down, and if I were the independently wealthy heroine of a turn of
the century English novel, I doubtless would have instructed my ladies' maid
to pack the steamer trunk and book passage for an indefinite stay on the Continent
months ago.
Unfortunately, I have to work for a living like every other dogface, so it
took me months of scrimping and saving to amass the cash (minus $200 I lent
to the editor of this very magazine, which sum I doubt I'll ever see again)
that would enable me to do the next best thing: I took an unpaid, six-week leave
of absence from work and went to Spain, ostensibly to write. Sounds romantic,
doesn't it? The perfect way to mend an injured soul. I visualized myself sipping
Campari in sidewalk cafes, scribbling in a fin-de-siècle leather-bound notebook
as the warm Catalonian breezes gently ruffled my ruffly poet shirt.
Yet here it is, a scant week after my dewy-eyed arrival upon the Iberian Peninsula,
and I have already fled Spain, never to return. I'm writing this from a hotel
room in Paris-- which I realize still sounds pretty glamorous to all you poor
schlubs still punching the clock in Akron, but it definitely was not in my original
plan. See, I thought the Spanish Inquisition ended sometime in the late 18th
Century. Apparently, however, the books on that charming chapter of history
could not be considered completely closed until one last Armenian was beaten
and robbed there. Three guesses who got the gig.
I had approached my journey armed with enthusiasm, rafts of black ink and legal
pads, and enough body glitter to supply a rave. When I hit the streets of Seville,
I was a smiling nymph, brimful of bonhomie and awash with goodwill toward all.
Why, the very night of my arrival, there was a parade in honor of Saint Valentine
outside of my hotel. I took this as a good omen, and went outside to pray for
a safe journey.
The Catholics obviously had other things in mind. A little-known fact, one
not openly advertised by the Seville Bureau of Tourism, is that the Welcoming
Committee For Non-Native Guests is made up largely of savages, rapists and thieves.
(Possibly there are a few beaming Andalusian matrons bearing steaming earthenware
pots of paella involved as well, but if so, they had the day off when I showed
up.) Briefly, it is safer to be a naked 11 year-old boy at a N.A.M.B.L.A. convention
than it is to be a tourist in Seville. I never should have left the warmth and
comfort of the bidet.
My second night in town I was molested by a man in a bar. It
took me a couple of days to recover, but it didn't kill my spirits. I spent
an afternoon wandering the crooked streets for twelve miles before I finally
realized that a shopping mall had been built atop the Castle of the Inquisition.
Nevertheless, I erected a shrine in honor of my ancestors murdered there. It
did seem a little odd to be chanting and praying while U2's "With or Without
You" blared out of the sound system, but I ate of the holy dirt and bathed
myself in ash right there in the mall, despite the taunts of the onlookers whispering,
"Bruja loca."
Oddly enough, though it had taken me over three hours and ten miles to walk
there, the walk back to my hotel only took ten minutes. Things were looking
up for The Bopper. I was happy and getting my writing done. I was comfortable
in the knowledge that a person can actually live off of absinthe, ham sandwiches,
and squids served in their own ink. It was all good.
Then came my faithful agent and traveling companion's last night in town. Dr.
Brazzi and I went out to celebrate the inevitability of our success. We hit
the town and hit it hard. We consumed food and booze to stimulate our joy and
courage, to the point where we actually entered a discotheque. It was empty,
on a Friday night, at eleven, so we left. The park on the Alameda de Hercules,
on the other hand, was crowded with people drinking and laughing and flirting.
It all seemed very pleasant.
Little did we know we had entered a den of thieves. Who in the hell attacks
a hundred-pound blond in a three piece suit in a crowded park? As it turns out,
three Catholics. In a matter of seconds, Dr. Brazzi was being dragged off into
the bushes and I was face down in the dirt being kicked in the ribs. Suddenly,
the kind doctor appeared and picked me up off the ground. "No one fucking
touch her!" he was screaming, while circling around taking mad swings at
the air.
Our attackers dispersed-- probably, in retrospect, for reasons of their own
rather than any heroics on our part-- and Dr. Brazzi carried me off to what
we both momentarily believed to be safety. However, as we huddled, panting,
we were almost immediately surrounded by pickpockets.
This really was getting to be a bit much. While we swatted and screamed at
these new assailants, they calmly and professionally cleaned our pockets. Then
I saw him again: I saw the little bastard that had beat me senseless.
"It was at this point," Dr. Brazzi later said, "that I was more
scared of you than I was of them." I lunged at my attacker like a fucking
tiger and grabbed him by the throat. "Look me in the eyes, you little fucker!"
I was shrieking at him at the top of my lungs. I took him by the collar of his
shirt and started shaking him like a maraca, screaming, "Look me in the
eyes! Look me in the eyes!"
Anyone who has ever had their ass kicked by a 15-year-old can tell you that
the physical wounds suffered during the beating are nothing compared to the
humiliation suffered by the fact that you were beaten up by a child. I don't
know how long I stood there shaking him, but I know he's never going to forget
the look on my face as I threatened to rip his throat out.
Suddenly, the doctor and I were being escorted back to our hotel. When the
car rolled to a stop, three blocks away from the park, I insisted Dr. Brazzi
pay the kind man who had driven us. The doctor looked at me and shook his head
"no." He looked at me and whispered, "This isn't a cab,
Alena; we're in the back seat of a cop car." I asked what seemed to be
the obvious question, "Are we under arrest?" Upon alighting from the
back seat onto the sidewalk in front of our hotel, I threw my arms around one
of the cops and kissed his cheeks repeatedly, much to his surprise.
Needless to say, as soon as we could walk again, we fled the country. And so
I write this from a hotel in Paris with a sprained right ankle, a sprained middle
finger on my writing hand, a bite of flesh removed from the same hand, a bruise
the size of a ham on my left hip, skinned knees and a few other minor injuries.
Not that I'm complaining. I am, after all, in Paris-- as opposed to a city containing
nothing more than thieves, Catholic churches, dirt and constipated dogs.
Alena Nahabedian resides, for the moment, somewhere
in Europe. She is a Contributing Editor to Lime Tea. I don't know anything
about her $200.
