Once upon a time in Madrid, I dated a guy named Diego for about two or three weeks. The what, when, and why are really of no importance, as you can see I wrote datED as we are no longer together. (As I tell my kids at school, past tense ends in -ed.) Mom, your heart rate can start returning to normal--I am not in love with a Spaniard, yet.
While I will write future entries of funny things that happened while Diego and I were dating, this entry is focused on the build up of our "relationship" if you can call it that, our abrupt ending, and why we are no longer "en pareja" if you will.
But first, a bit about our dynamic: Diego and I were a funny duo. He was attractive (like most Spanish men) and tall (unlike most Spanish men) and most importantly adored every aspect of my being which was obviously my favorite thing about him. Diego spoke next to no English, which was terrible because he couldn't fully conceptualize how truly amazing I can be when I'm witty or sarcastic but also amazing for him because I talk significantly less in Spanish. During our dates together, I would teach him very important phrases like "butterface" and "turnt up," and in turn, he would teach me phrases like "no tienes un abuela" ( an expression basically meaning "you are full of yourself") and gently tell me I shouldn't be so loud in public: clearly a perfect match. He would tell me I was "pija" (posh) because I wore Michael Kors watches and I would freak him out over the amount of times I would abruptly stop our conversations in order to point to a cute dog walking down the street. He amused me by getting Mexican with me one night even though Spanish people don't like spicy foods* and even learned to play flip cup with my friends one night pre-gaming.
On our first date, I assumed that I would probably only be able to talk to him for about fifteen minutes total due to my completely insufficient Spanish speaking abilities. However, as our boy Jason reminds us, "been around the world don't speak the language, but that booty don't need explainin'." Diego and I were able to fake it til we made it and surprisingly found out a lot about each other amidst numerous que?'s and charades that night. We started out sharing sangria in a cave bar with a piano player, and next thing I know ten minutes turned into four hours. We went to two different bars and he took me on a tour of various important sites throughout the city. Sidenote: I felt I really killed it, as I was able to make a few jokes in Spanish. For example, when he took me to the ruins of the Egyptian temple I asked him if he was going to swim for me in the moat.
When we walked over to the The Palacio Real (the royal palace) I asked him if he lived there. Listen, you may not think those things are funny, but trying to be quick witted like that in a different language, I thought I did alright. Finally after about four hours, Diego and I shared a "traditional Spanish goodbye" inside the metro in front of various on lookers. Try as hard as you may, but MAC Lady Danger does not always stay in tact even if you wear lip liner, as was obvious to multiple passerby's. (I see you cringing, mom and Adam, and I apologize. However, for the sake of the story...)
At the culmination of that date, Diego and I talked a lot. He would always whatsapp me throughout my day, calling me guapa (beautiful) and asking about my day or telling me to tranquila whenever I overreacted--aka always. He knew my roommate was creepy, (more on that in future entries,) and said he would come over sometime to assess him which I found chivalrous. Diego said he would help me get my internet set up and ordered. Being a computer engineer, I figured he could set up my password for my internet too, along with dealing with the internet company. Fun and also functional. I learned that he was from the North of Spain from a cold city just like me, and I found it adorable that he looked up where Rochester was on a map and told me later what he learned. He had two younger siblings that lived near home and his birthday was April 14, meaning that he would have to get me a birthday present first. As you can see, I was obviously focusing on the right things.
One night before my first day of school he insisted we did something special to kick off my new job. I just went to a dance studio that night and when I got out I was sweaty and gross. I told him fine, but I would need to go home and shower first. I agreed to meet him and that we would walk to where we were going together. I finally showed up about 45 minutes late--whoops--and he just laughed at me. I assumed we were just going to a typical bar wherever to tomar algo (have a drink or something small to eat) but instead he actually had a particular place in mind. A Spaniard with a plan? I still don't believe it.
We got to Circulo de Bellas Artes probably around 11 or 11:30 pm which was still enough time for a drink or so before the 1 pm close of that night. We walked into the marble entrance, and Diego paid our admission to get inside. Marble everywhere. Void. A lone elevator to the top. HOW. FANCE. Then we got into the elevator which took us to the roof from which you could see the whole city. There were photos of modern art all around the perimeter of the building. Covering the roof there were high-top tables for having drinks with friends and large beds with canopies that overlooked the city for couples to be couples. Now, although I have never been to Vegas, I have seen enough movies to know that this was the Spanish version of a rooftop pool bar, and I was most certainly deserving of this life.
Diego and I picked a canopy bed to hang out in so he could dame mimos, claro (cuddle with me, obviously) and we ordered drinks. I attempted to be independent and order a vodka limon which due to my accent was a complete fail, so Diego saw my panic and stepped in to order my €9 drink for me. We had great conversations that eventually lead to American football--why wouldn't they?--and I told him my team was the Buffalo Bills. I told him that if he was going to want to continue seeing me, he would have to pick an American football team to follow as I could only talk about Real Madrid for so many hours of the day. Diego obliged and picked the Pats which I promptly and vehemently opposed. No prospective future boyfriend of mine would ever agree to liking the Pats. (My ex had and it was a battle that was perpetually fought.) I pulled up an NFL division listing on my phone and pointed out the teams that were miserable and told him he could only choose those select few. Without hesitation, he arbitrarily chose the Oakland Raiders. PERFECT. I would have no competition and this pleased me. The following photo is an actual screen shot of a conversation we had the next day or so during which he trash talks me on pretty much no statistical grounds (but so proud of his English!!)
A day or so later would be the last time I ever saw Diego. It started usual, going out for tapas and getting a few drinks. We met up with my friends, and he sat there attentively while we spoke in American slang and abbreviations like basic American girls, making it nearly impossible for him to understand anything that was happening. When it was getting late, my friends and I decided it was time to go home. I asked Diego if he wanted to get one more drink somewhere or do something else, but he explained that the bars were now closing and that the clubs were starting to open. I didn't really feel like going to a club, so I politely declined and told him I'd probably see him tomorrow anyway. We walked into the metro and were about to branch off and say goodbye before we each took our separate trains home to perspective places. It was then that Diego was able to do what few people in the history of the world have been able to do: render me speechless.
Diego asked me if we could sit down. As in, right there, in the middle of the metro station on the steps. I figured this couldn't be good, but in no way did I anticipate what was about to unfold. He sat there nervous for a second, and I took his hand and told him it was okay, and encouraged him to speak. I thought maybe he was going to tell me that he didn't really want to see me anymore or basically anything other than what actually came out of his mouth. The following phrase will be burned into my mind forever:
"YO SOY UN PAPA." "I am a dad."
Ummmmmmmmmmmm, whattttttttt, Diego?!?!? I'm sorry I hallucinated for a second and thought you told me that you were a father. Maybe you mean to tell me you are gay? Surely you mean you are gay, as it is a repeating pattern in my life where men of whom I'm interested in will come out to me.
This is the part of the movie where colors fade and the person talking starts to sound like Charlie Brown's teacher. I was so completely caught off guard and clearly confused. He continued to tell me about how he wished he could tell me earlier but the timing didn't feel right. I agreed: the steps of the metro just before it closed was certainly the best time and the place for this. I asked him about the babymamma, and he said they were never truly together, but just liked to enjoy eachother's company from time to time, if you will. Fantastic. She was now with someone new so it was completely 'ok' if he was dating someone else. I asked if we could please switch to speaking English. My brain was blowing up and Spanish words were not computing. He said no, but he would speak in Spanish slower instead. I was not comprehending anything. At a loss for words, I asked how old the kid was--8 months old.
WHAT?!?! I couldn't even do the math in my head but what I did know was that wasn't a lot of time and the baby was in diapers.
TOO. MANY. SHOCKS. TO. THE. SYSTEM. I sat there in stunned silence. He looked at me genuinely concerned, as he had never seen me pause more than three seconds between words before. I didn't know what else to say. Hating awkward silences myself, I staggered to the next logical, yet not helpful question: "What is his name?"
"NO, Kristen. Hay dos! SON GEMELOS!!"
And that, ladies and gentleman, is how I learned the Spanish word for twins.
Diego asked me, "Estoy enfadada conmigo?" ("Are you mad at me?")
"No"-- I wasn't just shocked -- and "Estas flipando?" ("Are you flipping out?") "No"-- A total lie because I was. He said he was so relieved and that he swore he had no more secrets. Well, I sure as hell hope not, Diego. He went on to tell me that one of the
The next day, I ate a chocolate bar the size of my face (ok, bigger,) and a bag of Cheetos. I felt bamboozled, and utterly confused. Diego was fun and I enjoyed spending time with him. However, I couldn't shake the thought that I didn't want to love spending time with him because at age 25 I was not ready to be a step-mom. Of infants. Twin infants. In a foreign country.
I went out with some girlfriends for Sangria the next day or so later. When I told the girls that Diego had to tell me something, and he sat me down on the steps, I asked them to guess what they thought he said. Some of the guesses included "he's gay" or "he has herpes or AIDS." Everyone agreed that the reality was worse.
Throughout the day he kept texting me, wanting to get together to talk it out. I told him I needed more time, and that I could maybe meet him in a few days. I didn't know what my game plan was. "YOU AREN'T SEEING HIM AGAIN" chorused my friends. Apparently that was the game plan. Of course they were right. Over a string of probably six full paragraphs back and forth to each other, he would beg to see me again "at the very least to say goodbye." I got frustrated, stressed, and sweaty, and passed the phone to my darling friend Allyson to handle the text exchange. I had tagged out, and now this was her personal telanovela, and man did she love the drama.
He told me (but really Allyson) that it wasn't really a big deal that he has twin babys because he only sees them a few times a month and that I won't even realize he has kids. They live in a different city, after all. Gentlemen, if ever you are trying to win over a girl, make sure that you tell her you would like to see your kids as little as possible, and would definitely put her over your children. Watch the ladies come running. Finally, after a few more glasses of Sangria and a few more sappy exchanges, Allyson past the phone back to me and pretty much was all, "Consider it handled," Olivia Pope style. At some point throughout the course of this mellow drama, and my various "I can't EVEN with Diego right now" my friend Brittany exclaimed what we were all thinking: "LEGGO MY DIEGO."
Diego and I share one picture together, and it is the only picture that will ever be had of us. It was at a pregame at his place, and it is just the two of us. Contrary to his wishes, there will be no picture of him, me, Edgar, and the other child's whose name I had promptly forgotten. Although I know many of you would like to see an image of the guy who would be so intelligent as to date a foreigner while having infant twins, I am not Taylor Swift and therefore do not feel comfortable providing the internet population with his stereotypical Spanish last name nor his image.
EPILOGUE: A few weeks later, after all communication with Diego and I had come to a full stop, I was out shoe shopping with my friend, Megan.** I was at the register when I read a text from Diego that read something to the effect that he still wanted to be friends. Um, okay, yeahhhhh, Diego. As I got my bag and Megan and I walked out the door, repeating phrases such as "whatttttt" and "like really?!" to each other we stepped into the sunshine. Walking out of the boutique, the first store we saw across from us was called HOUSE OF DIEGO. Well played, universe, well played.
*when will you all learn that Spain is not Mexico?!
**Yes I bought them, they are brown cognac leather booties, and very Euro chic. Message me privately if you want a picture.
This is hilarious and I think you need your own TV show...oh Diego.
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