“Welcome to Barcelona,” Enrique says.
“Is that really how it’s pronounced?” I ask. “With that ‘th’ sound in place of the ‘c’?”
“It is if you’re a Spaniard,” he says with a smirk. “Speaking of names, I’ve been meaning to ask about yours. How in the world did your parents come up with Leira? And what’s with all your sisters’ names starting with L?”
I laugh and take another sip of cerveza before answering. “My mother’s name starts with an L. She chose Lorraine for her first because she liked it. It kind of started a trend, and when each baby popped out as a girl, they went with it.
“As for my name, my dad says it came to my mother in a dream while she was pregnant with me. They had been debating names. All my other sisters were a varying mix of Spanish and…not so Spanish. Then came me. He said that she was just so certain of it; that I couldn’t have any other name. So I was Leira.”
“It’s pretty,” Enrique admits.
“Not when you have to go to school with it. Being mixed, I was already an oddity. Having such a weird name didn’t help.”
“I thought America was the melting pot?”
I laugh. “A pot set to boiling temperature, especially in Los Angeles. My parents are an extremely rare pairing there.”
He nods with understanding and takes a sip of his beer.
“What about here in Spain?” I ask, the idle tone in my voice masking my wary curiosity.
He sets his bottle down. “To put it bluntly, Spain is not a melting pot. All you have to do is attend a football game, soccer to Americans, to see that much. You probably shouldn’t google it.”
“Is it bad?” I ask, feeling my body go tense.
“Sports are the worst of it, really. But Europeans, in general, are very…emotional about their football. And Spaniards are a passionate people.”
I match the smirk on Enrique’s face with one of my own. So far, I haven’t experienced anything negative while here in Barcelona. In fact, I’m slowly falling in love with the place.
“So, what is the plan for our last week of freedom?” I ask, realizing only after the fact how morbid that sounds.
“I suppose we should be free, verdad?” he replies, lifting his bottle of beer in the air.
I laugh and lift my own. “And what is your interpretation of free?”
“We could explore the city. There is a nude beach here,” he says, wriggling his eyebrows.
I roll my eyes. “I think I’ve scandalized enough of Spain for a while. But I do want to see the city,” I add eagerly.
“Está bien,” he says, finishing off his beer. “But first, we need clothes for the week. These are getting a bit ripe.”
“Very,” I say. This dress is lovely, but at this rate, it won’t stay white for long.
The symbolism of that idea is not even remotely lost on me.
* * *
“It’s odd how certain things about this city remind me so much of Los Angeles,” I say, running my fingers along the mosaic tile wall of the Parc Güell.
We’ve spent the morning shopping for new clothes, and hopping from one attraction to another. Now we’re in the sprawling, seemingly endless maze of mosaic-covered surfaces of Gaudí’s surrealist park.
“In one of my art classes at college, we took a trip to see the Watts Towers,” I say. “Parts of it are like this, colorful broken tile decorating surfaces. The towers themselves remind me of the Basilica we saw earlier. I suppose art is universal.”
“That’s awfully profound,” Enrique teases.
I elbow him in the side. “Just because I’m only twenty doesn’t mean I don’t have some smarts.”
“Twenty?” he repeats, with one eyebrow raised. “Well, that’s a relief. I realized I never even asked your age before now.”
I laugh and shoot him a wicked grin. “All this time, you could have been robbing the cradle.”
“And a nun to boot,” he says, shooting me an even more devilish grin.
We both laugh.
A part of me knows I shouldn’t but that age-old conundrum that haunts many a faithful soul eats at me. How could something that feels so good be wrong?
“This is so amazing,” I sigh, looking out at the city below us. The park is elevated above most of Barcelona so I can see all the way to the azure waters of the Mediterranean. “I don’t want it to end.”
Enrique comes in closer, putting his arm around my waist. “And you haven’t even had the best of what the city has to offer.”
I laugh softly. “What is that?”
“Paella.”
* * *
“Ohh,” I moan, feeling positively orgasmic. “Ohhh…that is too good.”
Enrique stops chewing, eyeing me as I continue to groan with pleasure. “It’s the best paella in Barcelona, but it’s not that good, Leira.”
I smirk and use my fork to twist another mussel from its shell to pair with a spoonful of flavorful rice. “That’s only because you haven’t had it for the first time.”
“This is your first paella?” he asks in surprise.
“This is my first of a lot of things,” I reply before filling my mouth.
Enrique smirks and breathes a silent laugh through his nose.
I narrow my eyes at the low hanging fruit he’s so easily snatched.
“Consider yourself lucky that you get to lounge around Barcelona, doing whatever you please. Cervezas in the morning? Heading down to the beach to swim naked in the Mediterranean? Exploring the fascinating Gaudí architecture? Eating paella and tapas, while drinking sangria? How is that not the life?”
“There’s more to life than simple pleasures,” he says with a surprisingly thoughtful expression on his face.
“Are you thinking about your mother?”
“In part.”
A thought occurs to me. “Was she from Spain?”
“Good guess.”
“How else would she know about the Santa María convent? It’s a great place to hide but coming all the way from New York to that specific location? I can
