Chapter Seven
The walk to the place Amara leads me to is as short as promised. I wore plain white sneakers and made sure to put double bandages on yesterday’s blisters and scrapes from the walk from hell. The streets are busier than last night, bustling with lively excitement for a weekday. Amara stops in what seems to be the middle of a small road. If I were walking alone, I would miss the place. There’s no sign, just a hanging lantern burning with a real flame inside. I watch it dance in the slight breeze as a wooden door opens. A man the size of a bear steps out of it with his massive arms crossed in front of him. His burly appearance softens when he sees Amara. He smiles at her, greeting us in Spanish.
He doesn’t ask for an ID from either of us, but then again, the drinking age here is younger than in the States. The two of them talk for a bit and I smile, clueless about what they’re saying but excited to go inside. I’ve only seen European nightlife on television, and I can feel the subtle vibration of the music inside pouring out into the street.
I can’t hear any music blasting, but I can feel it, which is a relief. I’ve only dabbled in the nightclub life, going to a few with some friends during my freshman year of college. They were too loud, too many strobe lights, sticky floors that weren’t fun to dance on, and sweaty bodies bumping and shoving into one another. Overall, not for me and not nearly worth the battle with my mom every single time I was out past eight. At first I did like the validation I felt every time a man spoke to me, but I quickly shut them down, which in most instances caused them to immediately insult something about my appearance or declare they didn’t like me anyway. It’s the ultimate defensive mechanism of fragile men who can’t handle being rejected, no matter how politely.
Aside from nightclubs, I’m acutely aware that I’m nowhere near an expert on dating or meeting men, either, but I know that if I were to end up having a love story this summer, I would rather it not begin with a man whose eyes were bloodshot and whose breath reeked of whiskey.
As we enter, I’m shocked by how big the place is. The walls are thick pieces of stone, making it feel like a cave. Yellow lights dangle from the ceiling in the most random patterns and the music, like I gauged from outside, is loud enough to enjoy without being obnoxious or blowing an eardrum. Amara’s walk turns into a dance of its own; her curvy hips sway as she leads me to the bar, hand in hand.
The man behind the bar is as tall as the high shelf of liquor behind him. He’s free-pouring what seems to be vodka into a purple mixed drink, no measuring glass for the standard two-ounce shot in sight. As if he can feel my stare, he glances over at us, eyes full of life and excitement as he notices Amara and shouts her name. He slides the woman waiting for her purple drink her cocktail, and I hope she has a high tolerance for liquor.
“El meu nadó.” The bartender homes in on Amara, rushing to come greet us. He leans over the bar, kissing Amara on the cheeks, then me. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being kissed by strangers, and the warmth pooling in my cheeks makes it evident.
“Fabio! Amor meu,” Amara coos, hitting him with her bright, stunning smile.
His dark, long hair is tied away from his face in a low ponytail. The tip of his thick hair lands just above the belt around his waist. His white shirt is tight, unbuttoned at the top to show his build and a patch of dark chest hair. His eyes move to me, catching me taking him in.
“And who is this?” He changes to English, his sultry eyes making my stomach flip as he scans my body.
“Fabio, this is Oriah, my American friend. Oriah, my darling, this is the infamous Fabio. Best and most heavy-handed bartender you’ll ever meet.”
“I noticed the heavy-handedness. You can call me Ry.” I laugh, nodding toward the lady with the purple drink who’s sucking it down like it’s lemonade.
“Hi, Ry. When did you move here?” he asks me.
“Oh, I don’t live here. Just here for the summer.”
He grins. “Never say never. I came for a summer too. A decade ago.”
This place seems to have something magical in the water, in the limestone, something that makes people from all over the world feel at home enough for them to make it their home.
“Where are you from?” Curiosity drips from my voice.
“Milano, but Spain is my home. I hope you’ll feel at home too,” he says, accent thick and seductive.
I get the feeling he’s not hitting on me, even as he reaches for my hand and takes it in his, lifts it to his lips, and kisses the back of it. He doesn’t have an ounce of creepy oozing off him.
“Let’s have a drink to celebrate your welcome. I’ll show you what I’m famous for!” With a wink, he moves like a flash back to the center of the bar.
His hands move remarkably fast. Amara leans her shoulder into mine. “What’s your alcohol tolerance like?” she wonders.
“Like medium?” I shrug my shoulders.
I can handle liquor, but after seeing Fabio’s idea of a drink, I don’t dare to say I have a high tolerance.
“Medium is good. Medium means you’ll survive the night,” she says as Fabio pulls out a torch and lights our shots on fire.
“What on earth?” I ask myself as he slides a bright blue, literally glowing and burning shot into my hand.
“They taste like candy!” Amara promises, clinking her glass to mine. The fire dies down, leaving a tiny blue flame that I assume is edible? Amara dips her tongue into hers to put it out, so I do the same. It’s not hot at all. I don’t understand, but I don’t need to. Now isn’t the time for questioning; now is the time for fun .
“That sounds…” I almost say “dangerous,” but Oriah Pera in Mallorca wouldn’t be afraid of anything. “Yummy,” I say instead, pouring the drink down my throat in one solid swig.
It’s delicious and most definitely dangerous.
“So?” Fabio urges with wiggling eyebrows, knowing he’s good at what he does.
There’s no way anyone on earth wouldn’t love it. It tastes like a Starburst and Skittles without being overly sweet. Not a hint of the burn I’m used to when I take a shot, even as it settles in my stomach.
“Now I know why you’re famous.” I smile, licking the sugar-coated rim of the shot glass.
He claps his hands, his head falling back, hair swaying. “ Infamous , honey. Infamous.”
“Another round, please!” Amara requests, and Fabio ignores the growing line at the other end of the bar and makes us four more.
One for now, another for ten minutes later, he advises, as we carry them to a table in the corner. The table is made of old wood, not sanded and polished. It’s beautiful, and the moisture rings from drink after drink being left on it only make it more unique. The chairs are simple low, square-shaped stools. We sit and I look around the cave-like bar. I can almost feel all the memories that have been made here.
It’s not crowded but not empty. Small clusters of people are spread around the space, talking, laughing, a few of them dancing to the music. There are more women than men, that is, until a group of them walk in just as I have the thought. From what I’ve googled, nightlife here doesn’t truly start until much, much later, so this is the calm before the storm.
“By the way, would you mind if I have someone meet me here? I was going to wait to meet her until tomorrow, but she’s messaging me and she’s sooo gorgeous and seems sane enough, and since you’re here, it would be safer,” Amara explains. “I met her on Tinder and she’s only here for two weeks, but if you’re not comfortable, just let me know and I can meet her later.”
I shake my head. “No, of course she can come! I don’t mind at all.”
Amara’s face lights up and she pulls her phone out, tapping and swiping the screen. She holds it up to show me.
“Look at her, my god. And she’s a medical student. Hot and smart. Killll me.” She rolls her eyes back, looking down at the screen with a melty smile, the kind of smile I daydream about someone having for me.
“She’s stunning.” I swipe through a handful of photos of the woman. Deep brown skin; high cheekbones; thick, perfectly shaped brows. I can see why Amara is in a hurry to meet her.
“Her name’s Prisha. She’s from India but is living in Sweden right now while going to medical school. Okay,” she says, typing on her phone, dramatically breathing in and out. “I’m telling her to come.”
“As long as you don’t move to Sweden before I go back to Texas,” I tease her.
She cackles, a high-pitched lovely sound. “I can’t make any promises.”
We cheers to that, taking our now-flameless shots.