This is our big night out

That's the title of an old Kacy Crowley song that is my proof that not everything is on the interwebs. It was a hit in Austin in 1999 and I can't find it to save my life. I'd email her website, but y'all mostly know how I feel about folk singers - the more space between them and me, the better for everyone concerned. It's personal. But what made me think of that song, and songwriters, and how irritating they are, is my wonderful night out on the pueblito with my friend, T. The self-same T. who stubbed his toe last week on the pew in church, leading to our encounter and ensuing friendship with the woman-in-the-purple-bathrobe-with-stars-on-it, aka "looky looky." More on her another day.

T. has been working hard all week, and thought he'd like to go up to the village and check out the little bars. And as I've said before, without a sidekick, I'm just a weirdo, so I was thrilled. So that's how, after a hard day of blogging, instead of going to bed, we put on our jackets, grabbed a couple of flashlights, and set off into the full moon night. Walking here is always an experience (the views just knock you flat), and at night, under the full moon, it was even more spectacular. The moon was so bright we really didn't need the flashlights, but hey, I've taken a couple of nasty falls here due to the pitch darkness, and my assorted bruises now remind me, in chorus, "better safe than sorry, Pancake." It doesn't help that when you fall here, you fall on sharp rocks. I nearly took off the top of one thumb two weeks ago on a rock. But I've already whined about that, I'm sure. Onward! Into the night!!

It's so quiet on the way up I have this fear that my voice can be heard loud and clear in every room of every house in the comarca. The quiet American, I am not. T. is soft spoken, so as we approach the village I stop talking and let him take over. As we scale the final steep incline up to the main plaza (writing "main plaza" makes it sound much bigger than it is) you coulda heard a pin drop. The mayor's restaurant is closed. We'
re getting worried. But the other 3 little bars are open, so, like Goldilocks, we have to figure out which one is just right for tonight. The first bar is too subdued - tables of old men deep in conversations we will never be joining. The second bar is boisterous, and I can see a couple of English beards and bowl cuts laughing away with bright eyes and smiles. The third bar... is sad. A few old men in a darkened room watching something on TV that is definitely not animating anyone. They look down in the dumps. This being an exceedingly small town, we have to make it look like we're just out walking and not peering into bars passing judgement on their potential for the night. So we take a little stroll up and down a few steep, tiled streets of ancient whitewashed buildings and circle back around to bar #2.

It's crowded in the small space, which is a welcome feeling. When you're alone most of the time, being crowded together with happy people is pretty awesome. Shocking news (not) - I'm the only woman in the bar besides the cook. So naturally there is a big deal made of the fact that I must have a place to sit, and of course my friend must also have a stool because, well, he's with a lady. Oh, if they only knew the lady I'm not. But long hair camouflages a world of social deviations, and I perform as if I truly expect to be treated with such cortesía. The old man on my right tells T. (you address the man, not the lady) if anyone says anything about his giving away their barstools they'll have to deal with him. Of course I am allowed to laugh, but only looking at T. A lady doesn't laugh with strangers, she needs an intermediary. She may respond to what is said in conversation through her companion, which I do, because I'm not sure he's understood the old man's generous show of caballería and I cue him to laugh.

What happens next is just too perfect. Sure enough we have occupied someone's place, because their beers are in front of us. When they return from the wc or maybe smoking outside (Spain just passed a no smoking law for bars and restaurants), they find us sitting there and they look at T. with a sort of challenging look. That is, until they take note of the fact that he's accompanying a lady. As they take this is in they smile and slide their beers over in front of their new, reduced space at the bar, making eye contact with the first older man who gave their seats away. Their looks say quite clearly, "We're glad you were here to take the situation in hand and show these folks we know how to treat a lady in this town. Right on, brother!" I just look at the floor, like you do, until this exchange is finished.

The rest of the evening was spent chatting, sipping wine, snacking on delicious green olives, followed by a huge plate of calamari. When we stopped ordering things the owner poured us each a glass of local wine. "It's on me," he says, giving me the coy smile of a teenage boy offering to carry my books home from school. He tells me my Spanish is lovely and drifts back to the other end of the bar to attend to his friends. P.s. I'm relating these stories not to impress you with the fact that blue eyes still carry a lot of weight in the world, but I cannot get over the incredible formality used around strange women. I know, I know, I'm strange, but I mean strange as in new to the group. After suffering the attitudes of American men, who seem to have decided women are barnacles, it's wonderful to be treated as if you're the best potential interaction they'll have all day. It's deference with a healthy dose of fascination, and everyone seems to enjoy the play acting. You couldn't pay me enough to live that way, but passing through alternate realities is some good mental floss.

The evening ended strolling (a lost art!) down the mountain the long way, talking about the moon and stars.