Scene: My 20 square foot kitchen tile space.
Me: swaying back and forth with a bottle of wine as my impromptu microphone,
“Paloma negra paloma negra dónde, dónde andarás?”
slightly buzzed, very happy, recently sexed (precisely 40 mintues earlier), intoxicated by the smell of roasted veal in white wine and my first foray into cooking with coriander.
Hugo- standing across from me (precisely 15 feet away) holding intense eye contact as I lip sink to the blaring Mexican folk music.
“Quiero ser libre vivir mi vida con quien yo quiera”
Yelling this and shaking my hair and face at him, trying to seduce him with my accented Spanish and off key singing voice.
“Dios dame fuerza que me estoy muriendo por irla a buscar”
“I paid 40 fucking pesos for this song in Oaxaca”
Me: (flying off into Mexican vacation dream land)
“well we certainly did, didn’t we!”
Remembering the Mexican family of four sitting beside us when we paid the mariachi to sing me Paloma Negra tableside. The father not so discreetly abhorred the quality with which the mariachi sang the song. He then described the importance and beauty of this song to his family and proceeded to re-sing the song in a manner that he deemed appropriate.
Me: drunk and nibbling on queso fundido, totally agreed with him and swayed my head to his poignant rendition.
“Y agarraste por tu cuenta las parrandas”
We all have our moments, as I am writing this Hugo is doing pirouettes across my living room, much to Shaka’s barking chagrin.