Beautiful children; and parasites
Outside at a café, waiting for a table next door at my favorite tapas restaurant: an utterly drunk and obnoxious South African is railing at two people about beauty. First struck by his appalling behavior, I glance up at the objects of his ineptly seductive harangue and, oh my God. You can suddenly see why he's being so inappropriate (aside from his own obvious problems) – two startlingly exquisite teenagers, obviously brother and sister; not only beautiful, with smooth tans and glimmering blond hair, but both of them also have amazing faces – slightly foxlike, slightly elven, ultimately almost ab-human. Light turns of the eyebrows at the corners, small mouths, shining lines of shoulders falling away from those faces – really they're almost too pretty for film, or even modeling – they would distract from the clothes, or from the plot. He is such a Tadzio, there is a slight pout and a grin as he fences with the obnoxious drunk; the girl, just as amazing, is of course shyer, rarely meeting anyone's eyes. It is almost a disappointment when their heavy, rather everyday, even slightly blowzy mother comes back and sits with them: and you think, from what strange, exquisite race was their father?
Later, when they all are sitting around the same table talking over a pitcher of sangría (and if you think the mother is perhaps not guarded enough of these beautiful children in letting them talk to this slimy drunk, your thoughts and mine are in line with each other), the South African has a vindictive exchange with a pleasant-looking young Spaniard who has announced of himself, evidently justifying having no job: I need to spend time to discover myself... and I think: although most of Sitges is made up of different species of tourists (gay, family, Spanish, chic, and some hybrids of all of those), there are certainly a few elaborate frauds and manipulators among the crowds – the ones that contrive their hallucinatory, unreal existences by posturing for visitors who don't already know how ludicrous they are... like parasites at a European spa full of aristocrats.
•••
The waiter
In the Wonderful Seaside Tapas Bar (I won't tell you its real name, it will get even more crowded than it is – suffice to say: although the place was full, and I was tired, and it was my first night, I insisted on waiting for a table), the adorable waiter recognizes me. A year, and tens of thousands of customers, apart – he's always so charming, dark and serous eyes, and he has a shy and gentle, but very skillful, way with the patrons; he is, in fact, excellent boyfriend material...
As the restaurant empties out and we near midnight closing, he talks to me: his name is Sebastian, he came from Argentina, he has been here three years – in fact he landed here almost by accident, he came to meet a friend (whatever that means, and yes I am curious about that), and that friend is now no longer in Sitges. I ask him where he wants to live, he shrugs and says: I don't know.
... But he recognized me!... and gave me more sangría than I ordered....
•••
Full moon
The moon, coming in the open French doors, competes with the computer screen: a scene whose delicate shades of light is practically Japanese….
It turns out, thinking along more Western lines, that research tells me the full moon was at 2:48 this afternoon. No wonder Sebastian (the charming waiter) remembered who I was, no wonder John (the lone guy at the next table) was interested in striking up a conversation. It all makes sense now....
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