Ole!

 

 

The last thing I wanted to do this weekend was think about Spain, the Spanish language or anything that was remotely Spanish. My roommate asked me if I wanted to get Mexican food this weekend and I was forced to threaten him a pair of pliers, some expired milk and a leftover saltine cracker.

 

Such is my rancor.

 

So naturally, I was immersed in it all weekend. You think by now I would be speaking in Spanish while flamenco dancing to the tune of “Los Frijoles Magicale.”

 

It started Thursday.

 

I saw Paco de Lucia in concert at the Orpheum. It was supposed to be a surprise date for a certain lady. I bought the tickets about two months ago and told her to keep the date open. So naturally, she decided to book a flight to Barcelona, Spain that left the night before the concert. Oh yeah, and she decided to stop seeing me, too.

 

I thought about selling the tickets and just forgetting about the show but Dave was going and so was Julia. I decided to offer the extra ticket to a friend, who graciously accepted, and went anyway.

 

I’m still riding the high that show gave me.

 

It was my first time at the Orpheum and my seats were orchestra left. Not bad seats, all things considered. I was about 20 or so rows from the stage with a full view of all the fingers-of-fury action.

 

At least, where I was sitting was all right. The seats themselves had about three inches of room between the edge of the seat and the seat back in front of me. I ended up with one leg touching Tessa and the other in the lap of the guy sitting next to me. I was splayed open for all to see. It felt like there was an electronic sign with an arrow point at my onion sack saying, “Eat…At… Brian’s.” “Eat at Brian’s.”

 

What a terrible night to wear my kilt.

 

The venue itself was all right. The acoustics were good and it reminded me a lot of the Vic in Chicago – except it was a little more upscale — maybe a cross between the Vic and the Lyric Opera House. Gold gilding, white walls and a huge mezzanine level.

 

But for Paco, it was perfect. The stage was mostly empty with seven chairs set up in a half moon around the stage. Paco came on at ten to eight, sat in the center of the half moon and got to work. Eventually the rest of the seats were filled with two singers (who also did some flamenco dancing), rhythm guitarist, a keyboard/harmonica player, electric bass and percussionist rounded out the line up. The sound was full and as sensual as anything Al Green, Barry White and Marvin Gaye could muster.

 

Paco played nine songs in two hours and ten minutes, and the time melted away like cold whipped cream on hot skin.

 

Friday I went to watch a cover band play at one of my favorite watering holes. Normally, this is a pretty good way to blow off steam, see some friends and have a little bit of fun. Unfortunately, the night ended with an ill advised phone call to a local Chinese restaurant at 2:30 in the morning for delivery.

 

Saturday was rough. In more ways than one.

 

I help a friend move from Dorchester to Southboro, while still feeling the harsh after affects of the Chinese food. I hadn’t seen Hannah in a while so we caught up on what was going on with each other. I was driving a 22-foot Penske van through Dorchester (Which I recommend you try if you get the chance. I’ve never seen so many Cabbies get the hell out of my way before) to Southboro. That was a solid hour of talking about Spain and the Spanish Inquisition that I was trying to avoid – with follow ups through the whole day.

 

Sunday I saw Pan’s Labyrinth. And it was my idea. Maybe not the smartest move, but what an amazing movie. I loved everything about it. The escapist themes, cinematography and the shockingly violent moments all came together to create something close to the perfect fairy tale.

 

Of course, the whole thing was in Spanish with English subtitles.

I must be a masochist.