Upon my arrival in Madrid, my hosts, friends Josie and Emma, informed me of two sad facts: few speak English there, and clubbing until 5am the next day was a requirement. I am not so much a fan of socializing in that format (admittedly I can do it, and do it sometimes; it just wasn’t my headspace after reflections akin to tickling trees), but it was Halloween, and I was in Spain.
That night/morning, I walked a bit slanted around The Host, incessantly saying “lo siento” to myself and confusing everyone around me. (I was practicing!) I snuck onto the stage of a private party, where absolutely no one spoke English, and for something like an hour, we all jumped around, sharing mere motion and yells, dancing and screaming and enjoying the scene.
Inevitably I was spotted. One of the private partygoers said something to the guard, and then looked at me with an encouraging nod and a handful of quick words. He wanted me to say something: maybe that I was with them, maybe he offered some plan of action, I’m not so sure––and it was beautifully devastating that our connection (and mine broadly with the community) had temporarily reached its peak; had lasted so far without words.