casi un bolero

When I was studying in Spain, the Festival of St. George, April 23, was a day when people exchanged books and flowers -- supposedly 'The Day of Lovers.' Somewhere along the way it also came to mark the deaths of both Cervantes and Shakespeare. Regardless, this was a day when everyone was either giving or receiving a red carnation or books on the breezy streets of Granada.

i've always been a sucker for both a good browse and a good book, so when we looked out to see the plazas covered in folding tables overflowing with heaps of books, it was enough to make me get out of the house at a decent time to peruse. i must have flipped through hundreds of books that day and purchased a fair amount of cookbooks, novels and the like. i got my share of flowers, too.

but there's one purchase from that day that particularly stands out. it's simply called "56 Boleros." i should have read the back more carefully, however, because where the enticing blurb that is supposed to lure the reader is usually located, it says:

BOLEROS
Si tienes un hondo penar
piensa en mi;
si tienes ganas de llorar
piensa en mi

(If you have a deep pain
think of me;
if you feel like crying
think of me)

after we shopped to exhaustion, a couple of my favorite people and i stopped off at our favorite cafe for some churros y chocolate. Now, this isn't your run-of-the-mill amusement park churro/choco combo: the pastry is crisp on the outside, soft and doughy in the middle, with crunchy sugar crystals that just melt into the chocolate on impact. and the drink is no watery Swiss Miss joke, either. we're talking liquid chocolate. god, i'm salivating just thinking about it. sigh.

anyway, we went out for a snack and shared our finds. somewhere along the way i got the idea that we should read from some of my new poetry books, and happened to choose good old 56. j cleared his throat, looked from s to me, and started reading in a cheesy operatic voice, but as he got farther along, the words sort of took over and we were all swept up in the drama of these poems that were famous for their lyrics and their melodies. maybe it was springtime. maybe it was spain. but all three of us were entranced.

not too long after that, things got very ugly. longterm friendships were severed. hearts were broken. bitter grudges were kept. i look back on that day, specifically on that book, and all i remember are the tears.

i hadn't thought about that stuff again for years, until we were talking about Boleros in the spanish class i'm now taking to brush up on my rusty skills. the senora is from Bolivia and was explaining that she doesn't think music today has the same feeling as those oldschool songs of love and loss that can make you cry just by reading the lyrics.

i went home and dug out old 56 for her. she looked through it, read a few phrases out loud, put her hand to her chest and shook her head. 'beautiful,' she said, her eyes welling up. and then launched into this terribly sad story about men, her divorce, her nogood ex-husband, and how she couldn't come up with anything consoling to say after her 20-year-old daughter had visited the father's office to find that the framed photos of herself and her brother on his desk had been replaced with ones of his new girlfriend's small children. soon we were both crying.

i don't know what it is about that book or its contents that taps into a person's emotions. but i'm pretty sure i'm not going to be flipping through it again anytime soon.

but just for old times' sake:

CENIZAS
Musica y letra: Wello Rivas

Despues de tanto
soportar la pena
de sentir tu olvido
despues que todo
te lo dio mi pobre
corazon herido
Has vuelto a verme
para que yo sepa
de tu desventura,
por la amargura
de un amor igual
al que me diste tu.
Ya no podre
ni perdonar ni darte
lo que tu me diste;
has de saber
que en un carino muerto
no existe el rencor.
Mas si pretendes
remover las ruina
que tu misma hiciste,
solo cenizas hallaras
de todo lo que fue
mi amor.