Dennis Hollingsworth

2005, the first eight hours

Well, there it all is, in a picture.

That was a memorable night, new years eve 2005.


The major feature of new years here is the gobbling up of grapes, once for each of the twelve gongs of the bell that ring at the stroke of midnight.

Kiko invited us to dine that night with his family at a local restaurant, "Campini". We were delighted to go.

Baby cuttlefish, sauteed; sliced salmon cooked in lemon; lobster sliced in half; Rape chunks; everything in a brown suce; baby clams; lots of wine and champaign, chocolate icecream and pitted apricots. Conversation dived back and forth between English and Castellano. Teresa is from Andalusia and she is gracious and indulgent when she talks with us.

As the midnight hour approached, the toys come out of the party favor bags. We were advised to wait until four bells to pop the grapes. A simple and earthy ritual; practical and direct and pretty for it all. Cuban cigars and desert and toasts and many jokes. Handshakes and kisses between tables. We learn that we must rendevous at Bar San Antoni. So we go, fully expecting to see the dawn with this crew.

The bar has another level, something more than a mezzanine and less than a second floor. I sat at the bar while people wriggled around me to music spun by the owner, Joan. They love rock and roll here, people. Love it, and they identify it with Yankees. They joke about us as Yankees (Yanquis?), and are careful to defuse any negative connotation with the use of the label. I continue to downplay differences, to emphasise that we share more in common than otherwise. Everyone we've met here seem to agree by and large.

So the night was proceeding apace and sometime after three in the morning, I feel a thwap! on the top of my head. The force of the blow jerks my skull down as my gaze pivots involuntarily from the horizon line to the floor. My primitive Limbic brain understands that the threat was a falling glass or bottle from the floor above. I felt moisture trickling down my face. Thinking it was beer or something, I wipe it away and I see blood on my hands. Stephanie was in front of me, her eyes widening; "Are you alright?"

I reached for a cocktail napkin and press it to my head. It was soaked through in seconds. (The pic above is a later compress.) I felt ok otherwise, no bells ringing, no shards sticking out. But I wasn't sure. I headed outside, the doors were close by as I pressed napkins to my head. Kiko and Stephanie swarmed me, eyes agog: "Are you ok?" I had thought so, but who knows? "Should we call the police?" No. "Should we go to a doctor?" I didn't want to. I wanted to assess the damage first.

By then, I start to feel my body go into shock. I'm a wussie when it comes to the sight of my own blood. I wanted to lay down for a second and this wasn't the place. I stumble forward and make it halfway down the block and my Limbic brain persuades me to take a seat right there in the street. Down I go. Back and I assume the position flat on the ground. Only for a few seconds, I swear. It's like pressing restart on your computer. My body had to do a system test.

Stephanie was astraddle but I get up abruptly and with Kiko, the three of us head for his house nearby, one on each side of me. By this time, I'm joking: "What's my name?" We get to Kiko's couch and out comes the lamp as we assess the damage. Lite. A few cuts but really, it was small. Head wounds tend to bleed alot. No stiches necessary.

"Can you see my brains?" "Can you see how I feel about you?" "Take a picture, Stephanie! For blogging's sake, get a close up!"

Kiko resolves: "We must go back. You must be brave, Dennis!"

And yes, we went back.

And yes, I was brave.

We went back to San Antoni and joked about it all. I met my assailant. It was the boyfriend of Kiko's niece. He foolishly placed the glass atop the rail to dance. They were both mortified and they apologised profusely. I showed the bar owners the damage, their eyes wide. Drinks were free.

Interesting, that the fear of lawsuit is not to be found here.

I got to talk to Nacho, but I'm not always sure that we are communicating. Nacho is in the motorcycle business, racing and selling parts. He lives in terms of speed. He speaks in what seems like poetic terms, and I am always trying to figure out if he is indeed poetic or he is merely flamboyant in translation (transliteration) of Castellano into English:

"Emotion..." Yes, emotion. "...and sensation..." Yes, Nacho, sensation. "...must be one!"

Ah yes, but of course Nacho!

I like Nacho.

We avoid going to the disco, Tu Rai. And we succeed in the party-on-till-the-breaka-breaka-dawn challenge. Except that the sunrise wasn't until 8:30. Within an hour, that's close enough.

Happy New Years, Everybody!