The Last Real Summer

Summer hasn’t meant much to me in a while. Yeah, it's hotter. The days are longer. I like that. But a beach trip once meant just that, a trip to the beach. Now it means four separate trips to the rental car. Umbrellas, chairs, towels, a volleyball net, no volleyball and the cooler we overpacked and can’t lift. Half of it exists only to collect sand. Enough to create our own private beach in the back of the rental while packing up. I didn’t realize there would be a last real summer. But if I’d known, I’d be alright with it being this one.

I was off to the homeland. Well, in a sense, the country had at least claimed the homeland, so I guess it was more homeland adjacent. Madrid would be my home for the next six weeks. It was my first time outside the States. I didn’t know a single person on the trip. I’d never been without a touchpoint. I wanted that. I wasn’t defined.

I scoped out the passengers before boarding. I picked out the likely classmates by the shorts. I’d worn pants. I’d heard Europeans liked sweaty legs. It looked like a few of my potential classmates already knew each other. I was happy to wait to introduce myself. The flight gave me ample time to stew over my entrance. Nothing like being in between four strangers in the back row inhaling the blue-scented bathroom fumes to get the creative juices flowing.

I got the game plan together after a calming Ratatouille watch. Once we landed, we would all hop on a bus to the colegio together. I just needed to get one good joke in. Maybe something about the guy nodding off on my shoulder all flight. His smooth bald head was a lucky rock of sorts. Maybe a few people would like it enough to grab a beer. All I needed was the initial beer.

By the time we got to the bus, the joke was long gone. I spent the whole bus ride glued to the window. The highways weren’t spectacular in any way. But the concrete was darker. The off-ramp’s lines were painted in an unfamiliar way. I’m not even much of an infrastructure guy. By the time I’d mulled over why a Spanish traffic cone would have one thick line at the top instead of the two thinner ones, the bus had arrived at the colegio.

After a quick orientation and some frantic unpacking, I ventured to the lobby in hopes of finding a thirsty adventurer. Preferably one with deep, mysterious but understanding eyes. Maybe some long-flowing curls I would dream of shrinking down to surf on. A nice pair of boobs wouldn’t hurt.

Instead, I found a thirsty dude. Diego would do. He was a shorter guy. You could tell by his louder voice. He was wearing an untouched pair of Yeezys, a gold-plated watch with a brand too expensive for me to recognize and— shorts.

We walked out into the unknown streets without a plan. Only a hope to find a beer that would have dragged us miles away. Luckily, it would only bring us a few blocks. We stopped at the first sign with a beer mug. My Spanish was terrible. I was hopeful that Diego, unlike me, lived up to his name. Turns out I picked one of the only other no sabo kids on the trip.

After some menu pointing and head shaking the waitress brought out our beers and a bowl of olives. Diego picked up the bowl and brought it closer to inspect it. He raised his hand to the waitress. She had turned away.

“Hey— uh- Hola—”

She looked back. I waved his hand down. I gave the waitress a big smile and two thumbs up. She shrugged and continued on. Diego looked at me, a bit annoyed.

“Did you order these? We got beers.”

I was surprised he didn’t know about tapas. I chose Spain for the free snack when you ordered a drink.

“No, they just bring it with whatever drink you order.”

Diego sat with this for a second. More annoyed.

“I don’t want to pay for this shit. I don’t even like olives.”

He reached out to call the waitress over again. I pulled his arm down.

“No, no– They’re free. They bring over a different small plate every drink.”

Relief filled Diego’s face. Then something new, excitement.

“What other small plates could they bring??”

“Uh- I don’t know, I think like cheese, fried potatoes– Sometimes they bring wings.”

“Wings??”

Diego snatched his beer off the table. He downed it at an impressive rate. He nodded over to mine.

“Drink up. We're getting our wings.”

I was a little surprised. I’d do a lot for a chicken wing but I was also pretty jet lagged. I shrugged and obliged. Diego called out to the waitress. I didn’t stop him.

The fifth beer brought the wings. Diego had lost his vigor for them. We’d already been stuffed with Manchego, jamón ibérico, patatas bravas and the olives. Diego started liking the olives after the third beer. Each course brought up some new insights into Diego.

Manchego Diego was an architecture student at Kennesaw State. His dad had worked in construction. He worked his way up from tiling roofs to owning his own company just outside Marietta. Diego wasn’t interested in simply taking over, he wanted to collaborate.

Jamón ibérico Diego was also in Madrid without a touchpoint. He’d been on other study abroad trips with friends in the past. They were supposed to be on this one but couldn’t find any relevant classes. He was already signed up and didn’t want to eat the deposit.

Patatas bravas Diego was more tapped into Madrid than the tapas signaled. He had done his research elsewhere. He told me about every club in the city. What DJs they had. What type of girl was at each one. Which ones to avoid bringing what drugs to. The conversation led to a declaration. We needed to go to Teatro Kapital tonight. It had seven floors. Different DJs at each one. Every kind of girl you could find in Madrid. Bodyguards unable to find your smuggled drugs.

The fifth beer and jet lag made the idea sound better. We decided we’d just leave from here. Find the nearest metro and navigate it with drunken confidence. It was surprisingly successful. About as efficient as a Hummer, but successful.

Teatro Kapital was not impressive from the outside. It looked like we were walking up to an office building. The velvet rope and the bodyguards dressed in full suits seemed to be a little out of place. Then the door cracked. A deep bass rumbled down the cobblestone street. Neon streaks snuck through reflecting off the sweaty bodyguard’s neck like a prism. We found the end of the rainbow.

We stood at the back of the line. Diego tried striking up a conversation with a group of girls in front of us. It didn’t seem to be working. He was persistent. It gave me time to venture back in my head. I saw the scene play out so clearly. As soon as we would be let inside, we’d be greeted with crystal glasses of champagne. Escorted to the dance floor by hostesses in white flapper dresses. The music would drop, a single spotlight would shine down revealing the thirsty traveler with dark mysterious eyes. She’d single me out, point over—

“Yo”

I looked up to see Diego snatching his passport from the sweaty bodyguard.

“Let’s go, apparently these dumbass guards have a problem with shorts.”

That first night in Madrid, I didn’t find the thirsty traveler with dark mysterious eyes. We didn’t even make it back to the colegio in particularly good spirits. Diego was really pissed about the shorts. But that first night, if I’d had a rental car with a private beach in the back, I would’ve laid out with a sangria or dug for buried treasure. The first day of my last real summer.