ANDALUCíA: Part 2- "¡No Me Tocas, Por Favor!"

After I, along with all the other hundreds of tourists, had been ushered out quite inexplicably from the Mezquita, I sought shelter from the blazing sun under an orange tree in the charming courtyard.  As I began to write my rather unlucky and awkward old man encounter from the day before, at the same moment another old man approached me.  It seems as if existing, simply being, sitting alone and minding one's own business is code in Córdoba for "People! Come harass and molest me please!!"

As I was scribbling away, this old fart greeted me with a standard "Hola guapa" and then, sat beside me.  You know, because I clearly was not busy and involved with anything. Oh, no, no! Nose poked in a book, furrowed brow of concentration, pen moving wildly across the page are a clear "come hither" signal.  At first, it seemed like a harmless situation, sitting in the large terrace outside the Mezquita with fellow tourists buzzing about.  He asked me where I was from, what I was doing in Spain, and if I liked Spain.  He went on to tell me how pretty I was, how soft and pale my skin was, and how I was "gordita".... **tires screeching** Translation: "gorda" means fat, and adding -ita to a word in Spanish is just to make it cuter.  I don't think fat can really have a cute spin.

Now, perhaps back in this old fellow's courting days (circa- turn of the century), being "gordita" was some sort of compliment.   As if being fat and pasty white meant I was an upper-class, refined, and rich lady.  Clearly, fortunate enough to be spared a life of staring down the back side of a donkey with callused fingers gripped around a plow, whilst the sun beat down and toasted my skin. Not to mention how fertile I must be with them birthin' hips! I suppose I see how hundreds of years ago, that might be flattering.

Hi, Hello, sir. Bienvenido. Welcome to 2009, where fat= bad, skeletal= good. Chubby cheeks=detrimental, sunken-in cheeks= fabulous. Understand? No, he did not. 

He simply smiled his deceptive, grandfatherly-looking smile, and then asked if I was married.  Why I didn't say "yes" is really beyond me.  I have this unfortunate and natural response to tell the truth. I often regret that I am not more capable of lying willy-nilly.  After "no" blurted out of my mouth, I had to think quick.  Yes, in that exact moment, I began a relationship with a very intelligent, tall, funny, handsome, and very fictitious man.  Intrigued, he grilled me about his whereabouts? How could I travel alone? Who was tending to my horse and carriage? 

When I couldn't produce my "boyfriend" and said he was back in Madrid, he more or less proposed to me on the spot, saying I could just stay in Córdoba and be his wife.  He then chuckled a deep old-man chuckle, the type where it sounds like a lung is being detached, and claimed with a slightly heavy heart and hand resting on my knee, 

" I'm very old." 

 

Mind you, he was nearly as old as the Mezquita itself.  With a slight grin, I said "Yes, yes," feeling absolutely no need to sugarcoat it after the fat comment.  At some point in the conversation, his hands began to go on a little sight-seeing tour of my body, and apparently, no tour guide needed.  His old, rough, pedophiliac hands roamed over my arm and on my knee, then up to my cheek, back to my leg.  I politely said, "Hombre! No tocar!" (Man, don't touch!) Then, explained this was very strange for me and I that I didn't like it. 

The problem with these ancient scoundrels is that their true pervy, lecherous intentions  are cleverly concealed behind wrinkly, weathered skin, grandfatherly- like mannerisms, a smile that suggests they have a butterscotch hard candy resting in their chest pocket just waiting for you, all of this deception is compounded by a feeble gait that requires a walking cane.  All of a sudden, they become these slightly pitiful, completely innocent creatures in my mind, barely capable of gumming down some applesauce.  I guess I just assume that since by all outward appearances they have reverted back to a childlike state that their libido would have disappeared around the time I Love Lucy went off the air. 

 

My rebuffs and chastising did not seem to affect him. What I initially mistook to be a pleasant, old man smile, had suddenly turned into cheeky and impertinent smirk with all of his creepy thoughts pouring out the corners of his mouth.  He continued stroking my leg and this gave way into rather aggressive attempts to get a kiss from me... on the mouth.  He tried to grab my face and I wiggled free of his arthritic grasp. "Un beso, Un beso!" he pleaded. (one kiss)  Again, this time more sternly I bellowed, "Señor!! No me tocas! No me gusta. Este es muy extraño para mí!" (Mister! Don't touch me! I don't like it.  This is very weird for me.) He tried all attempts to convince me it was normal in Spain, and I immediately reminded him that I was NOT Spanish. 

I didn't feel any major sense of threat or danger, but just extreme annoyance that after a few minutes in the hot Andalucian sun, fermented into 100% proof anger.  Not only was I plain pissed off that he ruined a perfectly pleasant moment for me, but that I seem to lack the boldness to be rude to people, especially if they, not to sound like a 2nd grader, started it!  I mean, why the hell did I tolerate that as long as I did?  Has my polite, southern, ladylike upbringing made me incapable of defending myself in some ways?  

What's worse, was that the previous day's experience hadn't been enough to teach me! I suppose I should back up, and explain that this was not my first creepy man clash in Spain.    

The first, was when I met a Dominican guy on the metro and agreed to have an intercambio, a language exchange, at the library.  We met and he acted like we were long lost lovers.  He was thrilled when they told us we had to whisper, and he looked at me and said "Good, it's more romantic this way."

 Then, before I knew what was happening, he was holding my hand, looking deeply into my eyes, lacking an ounce of sincerity of course, he told me he wanted to take me to the beaches of the Dominican Republic.  I was still trying to figure out how meeting at the library for an intercambio had turned into what seemed like a guy trying to seduce his way into a Green card.

I can't forget my old bus driver fiasco, where I accidently agreed to private Spanish, night lessons at the old man's house, before my friend translated.  Subsequently, I learned when I don't understand, it's not a brilliant plan to smile, nod my head, while saying "Sí sí" just to be polite.  Still to this day, he happily swings open the bus doors and greets me with a "Bonita!" The other day, I was walking home from my class and he shouted out his window, "Buenos días Guapa!!" and honked the horn.

But back to the Córdoba incident... I was only in Córdoba for two days.  The second was when I visited the stunning Mezquita and was harassed by the elderly weasel.  The day before when I arrived, I had hopped off the bus in Córdoba and headed straight for my hostel.  Since, I was alone, and the five hour bus ride hadn't exhausted me, I decided to not waste time, and venture into the city and see the sights. 

With a tourist map from the hostel folded and tucked into my bag, I set out for the Roman Bridge, where at one end housed a museum about the city.  The hostel people had told me it hadn't gotten rave reviews, but I didn't have too much else to do.  

In the middle of the bridge stood a lovely statue.  I stopped and took some photos and noticed an older man seemingly staring at me.  He asked me, oddly, if the statue was by Raphael, as if I would know?!?  I was suspicious instantly, but answered him politely, and continued taking photos.  He walked slowly on and eventually I did too.  I am not sure it is possible to be followed by someone who is technically in front of you, but that's what it felt like.  It felt as if he was waiting for me, hovering about, and I wasn't sure what to do, or if maybe I was just being paranoid.

I headed towards the museum, and it appeared he was as well.  It's the same story throughout the museum.  Although, he was in front of me, he seemed to be following me, waiting for me. When I reached the roof, where you could overlook the river and a bit of the city, he took the opportunity to strike.  Asking me the typical, where you from, why are you here, are you married... yep.  It should be noted that if matrimony is a person's third or fourth question, just walk away... simply, walk away.  Now, I know. 

In short, this resorted in a very awkward, one-hour walk around Córdoba not knowing how to ditch him and not understanding a WORD he said with his thick Andalucian accent.  There were a few moments of sick pleasure for me.  I asked him to repeat everything, and he was getting so frustrated that I couldn't understand, and I enjoyed it.  Again, I didn't feel threatened, but it ruined my entire day.  I had to meander around the city not able to really see what I wanted, and again, I had no clue how to get ride of him without seeming "rude".  He destroyed any hopes of a schedule I had for myself. 

Later that night in the hostel, I did meet a super sweet Brazilian guy named Leonardo.  He helped me open an extremely stubborn bottle of wine and we chatted.  After a disappointing first day and a bottle of wine, I decided I must go to bed, so I could start a new day as soon as possible.  

As I headed for the stairs, a guy from Niger, who had been staring and smiling at me all evening from his seat in front of the computer, stopped me.  He asked me to stay and talk with him and that he had been wanting to talk to me all night.  He seemed like a genuinely kind-hearted individual, but I wasn't about to risk losing precious sleep over another man, who could very well turn out to be a creep.  

I left Córdoba the next day feeling completely deflated, exhausted from fending off all those unwanted advances, and lonelier than I could remember feeling in a long time.  I was regretting my decision to go alone and irritated that I don't know how to deal with those situations. Beyond all of those things, I felt exceedingly insulted.  How dare those old bastards?  Did they honestly think they stood a chance with me?!  Would they have pulled a move like that on some skinny, 5'8 blonde? I took it as a real insult!

On the train to Sevilla, I couldn't shake my bad experience in Córdoba. Truly, I don't often say, "I want a boyfriend!" That exact statement doesn't often escape my lips, at least not since high school.  Although I am interested in a few guys, I always enjoy the challenge of it, wanting what I can't have (which would explain my affinity for guys with girlfriends). Yet that was all I wanted after Córdoba.  A boyfriend.  A man who would keep me company, travel with me, protect me from sleazy old men, make me laugh, help me open stubborn bottles of wine, let me sleep on his shoulder during five-hour bus rides, and be mine.  Tears welled up in my eyes, and I was so supremely unhappy in those moments.

I wrote in my journal,

 "For the love of God, why do these things always happen to me?  Why can't a normal guy, who is my type harass and molest me? Why can't a 26-year-old German,  Nordic God type, who's tall, has nice hair and a good smile, intelligent- maybe even an engineer, but one who still knows how to have fun, with a great sense of humor approach me and follow me around for hours and try to force me to kiss him? Really!! I plead to the Higher Beings that I have better luck in Sevilla!!! sigh..."