"My name is Jessica, not Rubia" I tell my new friend Jose, who is the burly man sitting next to me on a wooden bar stool.
"But your hair is blonde. And where I'm from we like blondes, so I will call you Rubia."
This is not the first time I have heard this. Working alongside Mexican immigrants as a waitress means I've been dubbed the obvious nickname "Rubia", Spanish for "blondie", many times before. Jose is also from Mexico, and it's apparent to any onlooker. He wears a yellow tee-shirt embellished with his countries flag, accompanied by a carefully groomed mustache with ends twisted into perfect points.
A college football game blares on the overhead TV and clusters of Alumni fill the bar, cheering after each victorious play.
"El fútbol americano, en mi modesta opinión, es un deporte estúpido y complicado," says Jose, who is arguing with me about the validity of American Football, which he finds dull in comparison to soccer. Some sense of patriotism has been ignited in me, and I defend the sport passionately. I speak slowly, thinking hard as I counter-argue in spanish, conjegating verbs and searching my mind for dormant words.
"..pero todos los chicos fuertes, como tú, jugar al fútbol americano."
Translation: But all the tough guys, like yourself, play American Football."
Jose blurts out a loud gaffaw, then responds in English.
"Your espagnol is good, but your accento...why do you speak it like a gay man?"
His bluntness has me restraining an explosion of bud light in my mouth, and I do my best to swallow. "Blame it on the king of Spain" I tell him wiping my lips with a bar napkin.
I spent a semester abroad in Spain a few summers a go and returned to the states with a love for homemade sangria and afternoon siestas. I'd also brought back a slight Spanish accent, substituting my S's for a softer th sound. This spanish lisp, or castilian lisp is a distinct accent of the Andalusian region. Legend has it that a 13th century king named Peter of Castile spoke with a speech impediment, a lisp he could never overcome. His subjects, unwilling to embarrass him imitated him in his presence. After he died, his lisp did not. Subsequently Andaslusians all sound, as Jose puts it, "gay."
I tell him this story, to which he replies:
"All of those Spaniards, they are too proper, like Americans. In Mexico we re-laaaax.. you know, take it easy! My guess, rubia, is that you don't relax either."
Never considering myself to be high maintenance, I'm suddenly offended by Jose's allusion that I'm up tight."Sure I do! I'm relaxing as we speak!" I say argumentatively, showcasing my beer.
"I don't believe you." Jose retorts.
"To relax the right way," he says, "means you don't have to think about it. It takes no effort. Life should be like one long siiiigghh," he emphasizes the last word, then exhales loudly in example.
I think back to my last day off work, and how I nearly went crazy with discontent from boredom. The previous week had been hectic, and after the spreadsheets and writing assignments were over I'd lost the ability to entertain myself. Unable to fully embrace the freedom of my empty agenda over the entire weekend, I secretly praised the return of Monday. It seems as though I'd gained a tolerance for stress that was hindering my ability to enjoy the more quiet things in life. Jose was right.
"Do you know the spanish verb pasear," he asks.
"Yeah I do. It means to walk."
"No, no youre wrong," he says
I recall a memory of Ms. Ricardo, my intermediate spanish teacher, repeating a list of verbs on the chalkboard.
"I could have sworn..."
Jose Interrupts me, "Pasear is more than just to walk. It is like walking, but lazier. Pasear means to stroll. To walk with no sense of urgency, taking it all in. It is a way of life and it's not in the english dictionary. You, my rubia, need to learn how to "paseo" through life."
March 12th, 2011:
A middle aged couple clasp hands on a sidewalk bench. They look lovingly into eachother, as if they're trying to discover a freckle or dimple they'd never noticed before. My normal reaction of disgust has been replaced by appreciation. I am happy to witness this glimmer of affection, which chips at my cynicism. Love might still exist.
A brown dog that's too well groomed to be stray prances down the cobblestone road past them, his tail waving at passerbys. He seems to know where he's going as he rounds the corner of greeniche avenue down west 13th.
It's 65 degrees, which means I'm drinking iced coffee and wearing the summer dress that's been hibernating in my closet since last August.. I am renewed by the sun. Is it finally spring? I feel like a rosebud stirring in the first instance of warmth. In fact, I swear I can smell them blooming, the spring roses, but there is no vegetation nearby, only concrete. My senses have been tricked by my positive mood.
"Thanks Jose", I think, as I continue to paseo down the sidewalk.
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