Spain or Shine (4 page)

“Those are the rules,” he asserted, without even cracking a smile. Was this guy for real?

“Holloway,” she said, “Elena Holloway.”

He scanned his list. “Elena Holloway.” He drew a check mark next to her name. “Elena, I'd like to introduce you to Señora Cruz and her daughter, Alita.” Then he turned to Señora Cruz and said in elegantly accented Spanish,
“Es
un placer
presentarle la Señorita Holloway.”
Show off.

The woman stepped closer and offered a slender hand decorated with silver rings.
“Es un placer conocerle,”
she said, shaking Elena's hand gently.
“Bienvenido.”

“Gracias, ”Elena
returned in a voice that seemed to evaporate into the air around her. She was aware that the accent she'd learned in school was different from the one spoken in Spain. Señora Cruz pronounced her s sounds lightly, with the hint of a lisp. It sounded soft and graceful.

The young girl marched forward, jutting her hand out and grinning.

“Hi, my name is Alita.” Her English was clear and molded only by a faint accent. She smiled proudly, seeming to know how good she sounded. “Pleased to meet you.” As Elena shook her hand, she wondered how old the girl was. She looked about eight, but she seemed too sure of herself. Elena guessed her small stature made her appear younger than she actually was.

“Alita is excited to practice her English,” Señora Cruz explained, wrapping an arm around Alita's shoulders. Elena was relieved they were all speaking English now.

Pierce said good-bye and walked over to Brenda, leaving Elena alone with her pretend family. She followed them out to their Fiat and watched as bird-thin Señora Cruz somehow managed to heave Elena's luggage into a trunk the size of a pocket and squeeze the lid shut.

“Now we go home,” Señora Cruz said, smoothing down the front of her black top and pants. It looked as though Claire's theory about Europeans wearing a lot of black wasn't far off the mark.

Elena squished herself into the backseat and zoned out as the car bumped down the road headed for town. Alita turned around in front, kneeling in the scoop of her seat, and began firing questions at Elena.

“Where do you live?” she quizzed, her chin propped on the headrest of her seat. She wasn't wearing a seat belt.

“California.”

“In Hollywood?” Her face lit up.

“No,” Elena said, choking on a giggle that came out as a broken cough. “Closer to San Francisco, actually.”

Alita nodded eagerly. “San Francisco has the Golden Gate Bridge, yes?”

“Yes,” Elena answered, stifling a yawn.

“I know everything about America.”

Señora Cruz said something in Spanish Elena didn't understand, which caused Alita to turn forward and sit down in her seat.

“Alita is excited to have you living with us for the semester,” Señora Cruz offered seemingly as an apology for her daughter's persistent chatter. “Alita is very good with language. Her teacher says she knows more English words than any other ten-year-old at school.”

“Oh. That's impressive.” Elena really didn't mind Alita's questions. If only she could get some sleep first.

They drove along a road cut into the hills. On one side of the car stood a wall of land, but on the other side Elena could see the ocean. The town shimmered in the distance, nestled in the crook of two green mountains that rose up on either side. It looked like a fairy-tale city from afar.

Finally Señora Cruz pulled the car over to the curb in front of an apartment building. Elena helped Señora Cruz get her bags out of the trunk, then stood for a moment inhaling air so salty she could taste it on her tongue. She gazed down the long, crooked road that slanted toward the ocean. Elena was sure the sunlight fell differently here, washing everything in a warm golden light. She traced the tops of the tall buildings made of stone and stucco that had been baked into shades of brown, gold, and peach after centuries under the sun's rays. These buildings were older than any she'd seen at home. In California, a building was considered historic if it had been built before the 1950s. The buildings here were so timeless they didn't seem like man-made structures at all. It was as if they'd grown gradually up from the earth like trees.

Señor Cruz greeted them at the curb in fine wool pants and a neatly pressed cotton shirt.
“Hola,”
he said, dipping into a neat little bow. Although he was a small man, his trimmed hair and tailored clothing made his presence much larger. “Spanish men take pride in their appearance,” she remembered her mother saying several times as she was growing up, usually when Elena's dad or brothers were looking particularly sloppy.

Señor Cruz stepped in to help Elena carry her bags up the two flights of stairs to their apartment.

The front of their apartment building was surrounded by an ancient stone wall crawling with moss and vines, but the inside of their apartment was spare and clean. The furniture was modern and the walls bright white. The smiling faces that beamed out at her from framed photos and the sun-colored curtains made Elena feel as if this was a happy place to live. Señora Cruz led her through a narrow hallway to the bedroom at the end of the apartment.

“This will be your room,” she said. “Make yourself comfortable.” Then she left the room and closed the door behind her to give Elena some privacy.

The room wasn't much bigger than a walk-in closet, and it was nearly empty, but it was all hers. She did a little twirl and plopped down on the twin bed that was pushed up against the wall under a window. The only other furniture was a bureau that stood next to the closet. Elena considered hanging her nicer shirts and skirts, but weariness had taken hold. Her whole body felt as if it were made of stone. It was now noon on Sunday in San Sebastián. Elena did some calculating and realized that it was three in the morning back home, so she decided to call her mom a little later. Without even turning down the covers, she flopped onto the pillow, closed her eyes, and slipped into a dreamless sleep.

 

When Elena awoke, the afternoon sun dangled low in the sky. For a moment she thought she was back in her room at home. She half expected Gwen to come bursting through the door. But when she rolled over and looked through the open window, she could see the red-tiled rooftops of apartment buildings glowing in the orangey-pink sunlight. She remembered she was multiple time zones away from home.

Elena walked out into the main room and found Señora Cruz in the kitchen chopping vegetables and bouncing along with the flamenco guitar that pumped through an old radio on the counter.

“Hola,
”Elena said, rubbing her eyes.

“Hola,
Elena. Please sit, you must be hungry,” Señora Cruz said, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table and offering Elena a plate of fruit and cheese.

“Gracias.”
Elena nibbled on a piece of Swiss cheese. Even though it had been hours since she'd eaten, she really didn't feel hungry. Her stomach was still on California time.

“Alita and Señor Cruz are at the beach. They didn't want to wake you. You should go into town,” Señora Cruz urged. “Or go to the beach. It is easy to find.”

Elena hesitated. She'd never explored a foreign city alone before. But the alternative was to stay here and hang out with Señora Cruz. Plus, she was eager to get a glimpse of some of the boutiques she'd read about. So she went back into the bedroom to get her guidebook on Spain, which had a little black-and-white map of San Sebastián in the middle. Señora Cruz showed her how to get to town. Just a couple turns and she would be on the beachfront promenade.

“It will be crowded,” Señora Cruz said. “On the weekends, everyone goes to the beach. Only three things people take very seriously here: the ocean, food, and wine.” Señora Cruz gave her a playful pat on the shoulder, as if to assure her this would be the extent of her worries during her time in Spain.

Elena made a quick phone call to her mom using her calling card, then stepped through the front door as Señora Cruz called after her to be back in a couple of hours. Elena made her way toward the center of town. The streets were lined with shops and outdoor cafés topped by colorful signs in two or three languages. She recognized some of the Spanish words, and the familiar American brands, like Coca-Cola, were written in English. But each sign also bore a translation in northern Spain's native Basque language, which looked impossible to pronounce with so many Xs and strings of consonants lined up next to one another—words like
pinxto
and
etxe.

Elena had been looking forward to popping into a few shops and doing some browsing, if not actual shopping. But it wasn't as easy as she had imagined it would be. Although the streets were littered with people, most shops and restaurants were dim, their doors shut and locked. She'd heard of the siesta custom, but somehow she had imagined it to be a myth, not something people actually did. She couldn't fathom a national movement in the United States where everyone shut down their businesses in the middle of the day to eat a leisurely lunch and take a nap. It would never happen.

Her confused stomach—which was silent when she actually had food—now growled at her. She'd thought for sure there would be a twenty-four hour McDonald's somewhere, but after ducking down several side streets she found nothing. She decided to stray toward the beach, hoping the sight of the ocean would distract her.

She followed Señora Cruz's directions until she came upon the promenade that overlooked Playa de la Concha. She walked over to the curvy white railing and looked down at the beach below. The tide was rising, but people still lounged on the warm sand, stretched out on beach blankets and huddled under striped canopies. Little kids were splashing, happy and naked, in the gentle waves at the edge of the water. She found a stairway and headed down. At the last stair she leaped onto the beach, sending sprays of sand up into the air. It hit her—she was in Spain.

Elena looked up at the cool green mountains flanking the bay and decided it would be hard to feel stressed or unhappy here. In fact, not a single person seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere. At home she was constantly surrounded by people rushing from one place to another. Time seemed to unfurl more gently here.

She wondered what Claire was doing now. If she were here, she would probably be splashing in the waves with the kids, daring Elena to loosen up and get her feet wet. In honor of Claire she walked out toward the ocean and dipped her feet in, letting the water climb up to her shins.

 

After sitting on the beach for a few more minutes while her feet dried, Elena stood up, brushed the sand off her pants, and headed toward the road. On her way back up the Paseo, she passed a small shop that was opening. Elena hustled through, looking for a food aisle. She finally found the snack section, grabbed a cylindrical red paper-wrapped package that appeared to be chocolate-filled cookies, and headed toward the register at the front. On the way, she passed a display of postcards and grabbed three cards with photos of the beach at sunset and placed them on the counter.

“¿Cuánto cuesta?”
she asked. A little chill shimmied up her spine; she was using Spanish
in Spain.
But when the woman behind the counter answered her question, the words jumbled together in midair. By the time they reached Elena's ears they were just a tangle of syllables.

“Uh, sorry. How much?” she stammered, a flush of pink spreading up her neck and into her cheeks.

The woman repeated her answer in Spanish, but Elena still didn't understand. Her palms broke out in a sweat.

“Um, do you speak English?” she stammered.
“¿Usted habla inglés?”

The woman shook her head. A line was beginning to form behind her. Finally, a Spanish teenager stepped forward and acted as a translator.

“Those cost three euro, fifty.”

Elena dug through her pink corduroy shoulder bag and fumbled with the money she'd exchanged at the airport. When the woman handed her the postcards and cookies tucked in a thin plastic bag, Elena nodded quickly as a thank-you and jetted out the door. She was so embarrassed that she just wanted to evaporate into the air.

She decided to cut her solo tour short and head back up the promenade to the apartment. After shuffling up the stairs, she paused at the second-floor landing and swore she heard English being spoken on the other side of the door, followed by ripples of laughter. It seemed odd that the Cruzes would be speaking English among themselves.

When she opened the door, she found four sets of eyes directed at her. Only three of them were familiar.

“Elena, how was your walk?” Señora Cruz asked, standing up to greet her.

“It was nice. You were right about the beach being packed, but it was so beautiful,” Elena answered, without taking her eyes off the girl sitting on the couch next to Señor Cruz. She had pale blond hair and golden skin, and she peered up at Elena with wide brown eyes. She might not have been quite as beautiful as Elena's sister, but she probably turned more than a few heads.

“We have a surprise visitor,” Señora Cruz said, nodding in the direction of the unfamiliar girl. “This is Jenna.”

Jenna stood up and teetered across the room on wedge sandals, hand extended.

“Hi,” she said, pumping Elena's hand. “Nice to meet you. Señora Cruz said you're from California. That's awesome. I'm from Phoenix.”

“Oh. Cool.” Elena had the feeling she was missing something. “Are you staying with the Cruzes, too?” she ventured.

Jenna laughed. “Well, sort of.”

“Jenna is in the S.A.S.S. program, just like you, Elena,” Señora Cruz explained. “She is supposed to stay in the dorms, but there was a problem.”