Although we are way into our thirties, a couple of us, former college buddies still get

together once a year to tell each other how things are going. The same five, six,
sometimes seven guys show up in the private banquet room of a downtown pub. There
are pictures of new babies, a new car or a boat or a home; sometimes there is talk about
jobs, on occasion there is report of illness or death in the family, but we all make an effort
to keep the occasion as cheerful as possible.

Only one of us has remained a bachelor. His name is Oscar, a newspaper editor by
profession. In a way he carries the torch of carefree frolicking (endless parties, dating,
and rock concerts); the way we all used to be during our college years. By smuggling a
little dream of romance and adventure back into the lives of serious family men, his story
of the year represents the highpoint of the reunion.

With dinner over and small talk died down, this is what Oscar told us this year:

“I spent two weeks in Spain during the summer. I flew to Barcelona, rented a car and
drove down the Mediterranean freeway to the long stretch they call Costa del Sol. I
reserved a room for a week in a villa-like, small hotel called ‘Paraiso’ that had been
recommended by one of our reporters. He said the place was very clean and the service
perfect. Across the street there is the ‘Jolly Pirate,’ a combination restaurant-pub
frequented by English and American tourists -- so ‘you have instant companionship,’ he
assured me.”

“Since Paraiso is behind the row of traditional hotels with a shore view, it takes 20
minutes to walk to the beach, but the walk is very pleasant. The winding street skirts a
beautiful golf course and is dotted with neat shops.”

“The villa has an elegant terrace with a small swimming pool. It is run by Pablo and Juan,
both of whom are about our age. The recommendation included the promise of some
unintended entertainment provided by the never-ending, sometimes viscerally hostile
arguments between the Dons. Angry oaths in Spanish can be heard in every room, on the
terrace, even on the street near the building. I guess two-person business partnerships are
plagued with the same problems on both sides of the Atlantic.”

“Golden clouds drifted over the sky when I woke up the first morning. I stepped out into
a tiny balcony overlooking the terrace and saw a young woman sitting on a beach chair,
working away on her laptop.”

“She had Creole skin, strong, well-shaped legs and a solid upper body. She wore an
unbuttoned white blouse over the upper part of a red, two-piece bathing suit. There was a
small table next to her, covered with sheets of paper, books placed over them so that they
would not fly away in the soft, warm breeze.”

“I was curious, I must admit. Stepped back, drew the curtain, leaving only a crack
through which I could observe her with my binoculars. I noticed a hooked nose and a
large birthmark on her left cheek. But she still looked very attractive. The more I stared at

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her -- and she attracted my attention like a magnet -- the more she appeared to me as a
delicate, exotic flower of sunny Andalusia, haloed by the innocence of youth. What a
break from the usual mascara-laden, super-glossed, competitive butterflies our global
civilization has produced.”

“I went downstairs and walked by her. She returned my smile and I think she appreciated
that I didn’t interrupt her with some stupid pretext. I was wondering what she was
laboring over with such dedication. Was it a master’s thesis, a novel? She looked a bit
like a writer.”

“I plunged into the pool, careful not to splash water on her. She noticed that too and
smiled at me again as if we had known each other for some time and lived by a secret
pact.”

“I vowed not to fall in love with this anonymous goddess.”

“On the morning of the third day while watching her from my room through the
binoculars, Juan walked up to her. She told him something and he suddenly looked up at
my window, catching me in the act of being a peeping Tom. I was embarrassed and
quickly got my stuff together to walk to the beach. I wanted to sneak by the front desk,
but Juan was there.”

“He addressed me in a low, confidential tone:”

“So you like Inez, the senorita who sits on the terrace with her laptop? She likes you too.
You can have her for 200 euros.”

“’What?’ I asked, totally taken aback.”

“’Yes,’ he said nodding knowingly, talk to Pablo this afternoon but please don’t tell him
that I informed you. The thing is very discreet -- hush-hush. Understood? OK?”

“Indeed, I did talk to Pablo in the afternoon.”

A current of cold reservation pulsed through our small audience as if questioning the
need either to pay an iota more attention to an undercover prostitute or bother us with the
sordidness of a meaningless encounter. But disapproval quickly vanished. This was, after
all, Oscar’s story, not ours. Let him go with it wherever he wants!

“I waited until mid-afternoon when Pablo was usually alone at the front desk,” Oscar
continued. “He knew I wanted to tell him something; he seemed almost waiting for me.”

“’Do you know the young lady with the laptop on the terrace?’ I opened up.”
“You mean Inez?”
“Yes.”
“What about her?”

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“Do you think that she is the type of woman with whom one can have a date?”
“’ I hope not,’ said Pablo indignantly, his cheek bones moving in an apparent effort to
control his anger.”
“’How come?’ I asked suspecting the worst.”
“Because we are engaged to be married. She is my fiancée.”

“I couldn’t hide my embarrassment. Mumbling apologies in Spanish and English, I went

back to my room and looked out of the window. The thick, steam-like vapor that had
suddenly descended on the world told me that this place wanted me to be somewhere
else, even if early departure meant losing two days in the villa, paid in advance -- no
refunds.”

“I took a deep breath and began to pack.”

“The next morning as I rolled my suitcase and carried my garment bag through the lobby,
I ran into Inez. ‘Leaving already?’ she said in English with a childish disappointment on
her face.”

“I explained to her that I had to catch a flight from Barcelona to New York. My vacation
was over. Her eyes said more eloquently than words possibly could that she was neither
the woman Juan described nor anyone’s fiancée.”

“Whoever said that only men can actively initiate deeper relationships? A woman, and
this is particularly true of Latin women, can look at you in a way that is beyond flirtation;
in a way that expresses a just demand on you in return for total trust and confidence in
your honesty and good judgment, a trust not just tentatively offered but already delivered.
This kind of libido, combined with an already established attraction, is especially lethal
for us, Saxon men, blessed or cursed with a Nordic longing for sun-filled lust while never
losing our susceptibility to duty-awakening reverie and empathy.”

“She looked at me in that certain Mediterranean femino-imperialist fashion for only three
seconds, and then pouted; her long eyelashes trembled like an over-sensitive flower
wishing to fold up as punishment for lack of proper appreciation. She went toward the
terrace door and, without looking back, disappeared – ‘good-bye, forever, you fool!’ Did
I hurt her feelings?”

“As I drove by the familiar stores, the sight of a flower shop gave me the idea. I parked,
went inside and asked for a dozen red roses to be delivered immediately to one senorita
Inez on the terrace of Paraiso. I enclosed my name card.”

“And . . .,” the audience roared, “Did she respond?”

“Yes,” said Oscar, “we have developed quite a correspondence. She was a journalism
major studying in Madrid and spent two weeks in the villa that was half-owned by her
cousin, Pablo.”

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At this point, Oscar pulled out a piece of paper from his jacket’s inner pocket and
unfolded it.

“This is from her first email,” he said and read:

“Thanks for the lovely roses. It was good that you sent them in a vase, so I could take
them with me next day when I moved out. I had to when Pablo told me the vicious
rumors Juan perpetrated about me. Juan was angry that I occupied a room that Paraiso
could have let out to paying guests for 150 euros per day.”

“Are you going to see her again?” we all asked with unabashed curiosity.

“I don’t know,” answered Oscar, sadness and hope mingling in his voice.

“I keep asking myself the same question. True, I’m captivated and cannot get her out of
my mind but it all hangs from such a tiny thread. As we all know by now, time’s jaws are
red with the blood of romantic surges. But let me tell you also that, in the meantime, Inez
became employed by ABC, which is the largest daily newspaper in Spain. My boss wants
to expand business and professional relations with its staff.”

“I guess we’ll have to wait until next year to find out if I have a chance to embrace my
elusive Del Sole sunshine.”

“That’s all.”