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At 7 a.m., the hour that typically closes a night out in Spain, we were hungrily scraping the last of the melted chocolate out of our cups with fresh .
Our conversation had barely suffered a pause since Estebán appeared by my side earlier that evening.
I found myself at a New Year’s Eve party and spotted an attractive young man named Estebán.
Taking to heart Laura’s advice, I decided to let him be the one to pursue me.
Every few minutes, he threw me a sly smirk to let me know that he had noted my entrance. ”) The man’s once-flirtatious eyes opened wide as if he were shocked that I could speak. “Don’t you know that if you approach a man, you are seen as easy game? ” Laura, I believe, most closely represents the prototype of a “traditional” Spanish woman: She prepares herself for an evening stroll as if getting ready for prom night, she never allows her “availability status” to last longer than her previous relationship, and she profusely fans herself to prevent the sweat marks that are the inevitable result of Málaga’s 90-degree afternoons.
I shot my Spanish girlfriends a look that said, “Watch this,” and before they had a chance to stop me, I marched right up to Señor Guapo and his buddies. The fluid chatter of his friends was swallowed by an uncomfortable silence, and Señor Guapo responded with little more than a nod. I was raised by two human rights advocates in a household of five women (and one very patient, gray-haired father).
No, perhaps “disgusted” is a more apt description of the look on the face of the billboard-ad-attractive, Spanish man I will name Señor Guapo (Mr. I had just arrived in Málaga, Spain, two years after my first visit to the country, and when it came to meeting men, I did not intend to waste any time.
While out with my new Spanish girlfriends at a local bar, it didn’t take long for me to notice Señor Guapo perched front and center with his friends. ” My friend Laura grasped my shoulder with as much force as her tiny frame would permit.
Faking interest in a nearby jukebox, I remained glued to the floor, my pride scattered in pieces around my feet. The idea that approaching a man should be equated to sexual promiscuity makes my gag reflex quiver.
Señor Guapo and his friends soon migrated to another area of the bar, and my perfectly primped, high-heeled Spanish girlfriends quickly descended upon me. But, I had just learned the first rule of dating in Spain, and I’d learned it the hard way: If you are a woman and you are interested in a man, never ever show it.