Saturday, Sep 6, 2008
A romantic traveler meets his destiny -- and a beautiful Romanian named Anika -- for one brief night in Barcelona.
Jul 2, 1999 | Las Ramblas, the main ambulatory artery of Barcelona, was still lined with the umbrella tables once crowded by the deluge of summer tourists. Locals had now reclaimed these seats, with their perfect views of the city's wandering souls. Spicy scents of dinner and trills of laughter filled the cool night air. I had just finished eating at the champaigneria and was headed to the Kabul to throw back a few and shoot a little Spanish stick. I was completely unprepared for the bolt of destiny that was about to strike.
In front of me, in the busy boulevard, stood an angelic vision the likes of which I had never previously witnessed. My breath quickened. My blood raced. I could sense my pupils challenging the threshold of their natural aperture.
"Who is this girl?" I wondered. She had Spanish features -- long, mellifluous chestnut hair, skin beautifully bronzed from the summer sun. She was slight with ample, impressive breasts. My pursuit became involuntary, almost magnetic, and though I was keenly cognizant of her stunning presence, she was oblivious of her curious and determined admirer.
Without thinking, without regard to my appointments, I followed her down the street, through the narrowest crevices between preoccupied pedestrians. She went into a currency-exchange shop, one of a thousand such stores that take advantage of inexperienced tourists by offering insulting rates. I deduced then that she was a foreigner, but from where I could not say. The chase was on and I was compelled to wander the full course destiny had laid before me.
A bit of human reasoning tried to intervene. "What on God's good earth are you doing, you damn fool?" pled my alter ego. My conscience joined the fight, briefly. "Todd, you should be ashamed of yourself! She can't be a day older than 16." The risk of moral turpitude was a feeble deterrent at best, for I was motivated by more than hormonal forces. Somehow I knew that our comets were destined to collide.
She continued across Las Ramblas to the Plaza Real, a public square teeming with petty thieves and unconvincing transvestites. Her beauty stood in striking contrast to the cheap, decaying brick square and its surrounding dilapidation. Certainly a woman of such naiveti would need a seasoned guide to protect her from the leering vultures of the Plaza. After she briefly inspected a youth hostel, I was propelled by a further and inexplicable magnetism. As I approached, my deliberate and purposeful movements suddenly went into slow motion.
"Do you need some help?" I inquired in Castellano.
"I'm sorry, I do not understand," she responded in English heavily laden with a throaty, sexy Eastern European accent.
"I saw you wandering about. I thought you might be lost."
As she explained that she was just exploring the city, I became conscious of my accelerated pulse and wondered if she could either see or hear my massive heartbeat. Within our close proximity I studied her daunting features: dark cafe eyes, sleek and perceptive; full, moist lips; olive skin, smooth and scented. All my senses were aroused. It was implausible beauty.
We carried on a rather basic conversation. She told me her name was Anika and that she was from Romania. I exchanged my info with her as well. Once the obligatory protocol was covered, I asked if she cared to join me for a drink.
"I was just on my way to this hostel to have a beer and shoot some pool. I was wondering if you'd like to come.
"I know it's a little strange that someone from the street you've never met before asks you to join him for a drink," I added, "so if you're uncomfortable I certainly understand."
A shy, slow smile cleared her face, exposing porcelain-white teeth. "Well, OK. I'll go with you."
I escorted her up the marble stairs of the Kabul, soiled with age and neglect, and we continued our vanilla exchange of civilities. Once inside the social room, crowded with assorted travelers taking advantage of Spain's relaxed hashish policy, I became aware of the glances from its occupants. Every person in that room seemed to share an unspoken but unmistakable admiration for this majestic woman.
We found a place slightly tucked away. I got us a couple Estrella Dams, and our conversation moved to a more personable level. I asked Anika what she was doing in Barcelona.
"I am studying and working at the hospital. I am a medical student."
Beauty and brains? Come on. I looked into her eyes. Well, I figured, unless she was extremely precocious, she had to be older than 16.
"What year are you in your studies?" I asked, half holding my breath.
"I am in my fourth year," and she went on to explain how medical education differed in Europe and the United States.
Anika and I gradually grew more comfortable with one another. I explained to her that this was my second trip to Barcelona; that seven months prior, I had settled here after months of exhilarating travel through Europe. I told her that I loved this city so much that I was destined to return to what seemed to me my native soil. She lingered on my every word, and her soft gaze left me defenseless to her preemptive strike on my soul.
It turned out that Anika was so busy with her studies that she never had time to enjoy all that Barcelona had to offer. I was shocked, almost appalled by what she had not experienced. The Segrada Familia? Park Guell? Tibidabo? Anika had seen nothing.
"And it's such a shame," she continued, "that tonight, my final night in Barcelona, I should meet someone like you who could make my experience more memorable."
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