Madrid, again.
The morning we moved into a hotel in the suburbs, some well-tended neighborhood known as Arturo Soria on the 15-line, I had rolled out of bed and dressed by groping in the dark at the first things on top of my suitcase, trying to not wake the two ridiculously rich Mexican guys in the beds below mine, because they had the habit of hitting on me whenever I moved, regardless of whether my comrade was around or not or if I even understood what the fuck they were saying, which I didn't half of the time. I calmed myself frequently in those situations by swearing frequently in Portuguese at them, half-hoping they understood, while wearing my best white-girl yo no comprendo look. I stuffed my unwashed hair underneath a big silk scarf which I tied around back, letting the diagonal point drape, and only letting some of my bangs stick out in the front.
As I walked down the street, I noticed that people reacted to me completely differently for some reason. People moved out of my way, looked at me with benevolent instead of hostile curiosity in this neighborhood filled with hookers. I was mostly too tired to think very hard about it until I finally caught on that the men who would normally give the lascivious eye were instead inclining their heads, almost reverently, as I passed.
For someone with a hangover in unwashed dumpy clothing, this was a real mindfuck. I said as much to my comrade over coffee and cigarettes at breakfast.
"They probably think you're a nun. Look at your clothes."
"What about my clothes?"
"Long black skirt, plain white blouse, long sleeves, that scarf, sensible shoes. Compared to everyone else in the neighborhood, of course they think you're a nun. Probably doing relief work with the prostitutes. But it's really the shoes that do it."
"My shoes are nun shoes?"
"Yeah. Nobody in Europe wears keds unless they're nuns working."
"Oh. Interesting."
Now that he mentioned it, I did kinda look like a nun. I usually don't let the headscarves trail down my back. All I needed was a crucifix.
I got the opportunity to test this theory when checking into the next place of lodging, which was actually a proper hotel with a well-dressed woman behind the desk. No bunk beds here. There is, however, the awesome question that comes with every hotel: how many beds do you want?
English makes it pretty easy in our own secular way. Single, double, queen! Not so the Latin countries. "Cama matrimónio" is if you're sharing a bed with the person with you. That makes things unambiguous, at best. And so the desk clerk thought.
"Bueno, bueno, quarto fumando, y claro camas solitarias..."
"No, matrimónio, por favor."
Her eyebrow quirks and she steals a glance at my scarf, then at my comrade. He may as well have been casually reading a copy of the gay-scene-zine from Malasaña, where the font is indeed rainbow colored, and there are dudes with leather on the cover.
"Matrimónio?"
"Si."
Her hands hesitated over my credit card and she stared hard at me. Her demeanor was cold for the next three days. I had fun that night, stumbling in blindingly drunk in the same outfit as earlier. The maids never came near our room, not once in three days. I hope someone called the local ecclesiastical authorities to report an errant sister loose in the suburbs.
As I walked down the street, I noticed that people reacted to me completely differently for some reason. People moved out of my way, looked at me with benevolent instead of hostile curiosity in this neighborhood filled with hookers. I was mostly too tired to think very hard about it until I finally caught on that the men who would normally give the lascivious eye were instead inclining their heads, almost reverently, as I passed.
For someone with a hangover in unwashed dumpy clothing, this was a real mindfuck. I said as much to my comrade over coffee and cigarettes at breakfast.
"They probably think you're a nun. Look at your clothes."
"What about my clothes?"
"Long black skirt, plain white blouse, long sleeves, that scarf, sensible shoes. Compared to everyone else in the neighborhood, of course they think you're a nun. Probably doing relief work with the prostitutes. But it's really the shoes that do it."
"My shoes are nun shoes?"
"Yeah. Nobody in Europe wears keds unless they're nuns working."
"Oh. Interesting."
Now that he mentioned it, I did kinda look like a nun. I usually don't let the headscarves trail down my back. All I needed was a crucifix.
I got the opportunity to test this theory when checking into the next place of lodging, which was actually a proper hotel with a well-dressed woman behind the desk. No bunk beds here. There is, however, the awesome question that comes with every hotel: how many beds do you want?
English makes it pretty easy in our own secular way. Single, double, queen! Not so the Latin countries. "Cama matrimónio" is if you're sharing a bed with the person with you. That makes things unambiguous, at best. And so the desk clerk thought.
"Bueno, bueno, quarto fumando, y claro camas solitarias..."
"No, matrimónio, por favor."
Her eyebrow quirks and she steals a glance at my scarf, then at my comrade. He may as well have been casually reading a copy of the gay-scene-zine from Malasaña, where the font is indeed rainbow colored, and there are dudes with leather on the cover.
"Matrimónio?"
"Si."
Her hands hesitated over my credit card and she stared hard at me. Her demeanor was cold for the next three days. I had fun that night, stumbling in blindingly drunk in the same outfit as earlier. The maids never came near our room, not once in three days. I hope someone called the local ecclesiastical authorities to report an errant sister loose in the suburbs.