Thatta Girl! Lets go to Germany!

 

“How many pesetas?”
“They don’t use pesetas anymore. Euros only.” The future lawyer rolled her eyes and placed coins in the machine. It spat out a ticket.
“Oh.” I didn’t realize I’d said it out loud.
I picked through the money I’d recently exchanged. How much?
My friend Jessie snatched my change purse and plucked 10.3 Euros.
A convex mirror was hoisted in the corner of the subway station. Shaking heads, impatient arm gestures, and shifting feet accelerated my pulse. I overheard “American” plus an expletive or two in Spanish.
I jammed my ticket in the turnstile the wrong way, then the right way, and ran to catch up with the 3 girls who were already standing on the platform.
Primavera Sound Festival, Barcelona’s annual gathering of alternative, indie, electronic, pop and more already started. We missed the opening acts. If we hustled we would get there in time to see Arcade Fire.
The subway car was full. We stood and rubbed shoulders with aloof and bearded 20-something hipsters, middle aged parents clinging to college cool in Converse and Malcolm X glasses, and kissing teens dressed in black and neon from their souls up to their hair ribbons.
Jessie, Chandra and Elin laughed so hard at their inside jokes they snorted. They did everything together, even laughter.
The military sculpted their minds and bodies. Living in Europe exposed a loophole. Music, fashion, language, and culture seeped through. It left an imprint.
“The first round’s on us. It’s your birthday.” They paused in the middle of a rant about men.
Ah yes. I’d almost forgotten. Today was my birthday.
The things you do on your birthday set the tone for the rest of the year. That’s what the blurb said, when I read it ages ago.
The suggestion took root but didn’t manifest until Al died.
Al, the elderly man that I cared for, died in December. The pain cut deep. So deep it opened my veins to his guidance.
92 years of living had convinced him that it was better to do than to dream of what could have been. He reminded me of this often, during our walks at the park, our snack with the sisters at the Abbey, or watching The Lawrence Welk Show.
“Do it, Mari.” He wouldn’t entertain my excuses. The truth was that I was scared. It had nothing to do with an unreliable car or the recession. “Afraid. You have no reason to be afraid.” He shook his finger at the lie. “Don’t waste time.”
I booked my ticket a few weeks after his ashes were interred. In my dreams he held my hand, and said it was time.
“Parc Forum,” The conductor said. The doors opened and we shuffled up the escalator past the ETA graffiti.
Flower vendors, ticket scalpers, and beer peddlers jockeyed to interrupt our progress.
The “PRIMAVERA SOUND” sign was lit up Las Vegas style. Each letter lit up in florescent yellow, one after the other. It looked like a wave or an undulating snake.
Our bracelets were color blocked and dotted with green, pink and white thread. When the dreadlocked security guard fastened it on my wrist, I knew I’d wear it until it unraveled.
The Iberian coastline and its tiny pebbles also hosted t-shirt stands, vinyl racks, and organic food wagons. Falafel and first press Mudhoney records reminded me to come back later.
The main stage was in sight. A thick crowd clustered the stage. Each age bracket managed its anticipation differently. The younger channelled it into Facebook statuses on iphones. The older punched beach balls into the sky and reminisced about the first time they saw the Pixies perform.
“Drinks first.” Bar stop. As promised, a birthday beer was forthcoming.
“Ugh,” I grimaced.
‘Drink up,” Jessie said. “And loosen up!”
They chugged and wove towards the front. Arcade Fire was on. Kaleidoscopic lights and multicolored props matched wits with paint splotched white suits. I could hardly see them, and split my time between standing on tiptoe and looking at close-ups on huge screens.
Not that it mattered. They ripped into songs. The production leaked oil into my creaky joints. Like the Tin Man, my jaw unlocked. I could sing.
It was like riding a bicycle. Once you learn, you never forget.
I danced in emancipation. Sweat pulled up from my pores. This time, joy was to blame.
Confetti blasted into the sky like a geyser. It landed on me like New Year’s Eve: a herald of new beginnings.
We raised our arms high. Reached for the invisible space where art is born. We brushed it with our fingertips.
Al was right. There is no other time. “Thatta Girl,” I felt him say, in the frisson of the encore.

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