The bar was small and narrow, with an atmosphere like a knife-fight. It was empty but for a few couples and our friends weren't there. We stood by the door. A short woman in a wide-shouldered jacket and tie passed us towing a girl in a tight dress and high heels. Neither of them looked at us. The bartender had an Elvis-type hair style. She looked over our unisex jeans, sweaters, desert boots and our unstyled hair. Who the hell were we?

I hung back with Irma and Pilar as Mercedes went to the bar to ask after Paci. She took a long time. When she came back she had a drink in her hand. "It's a bar," She hissed at Pilar's accusing eyes, "I had to buy something. They're not here yet, but she's sure they'll be here later. Let's wait a bit." Irma and Pilar looked at her. Since we'd been standing there we had felt the feigned indifference of the patrons change to challenging looks of inquiry. They did not want to wait.

"We can't just leave!"Pilar and Irma seemed to think we could. "But wait, wait, I'll call them," pleaded Mercedes and went to the phone.

Irma and Pilar so obviously felt out of place, uncomfortable and disapproving, that I didn't dare support Mercedes. But the bar and the women in it felt so intense and exciting that I was disappointed when Mercedes got off the phone without reaching Paci and we left.

We went to a casual bar in the student quarter. Everyone had longish hair, jeans, sweaters. We drank red wine and had tapas - an exceptional tortilla de patatas Espanola, (thick and slightly oozing slices of potato omelette), and chorizo (the hard, red, salty sausage). Comforting, traditional food.

My friends did not talk about Paci or the bar any more. I never found a way to even begin to suggest to Mercedes that it might have been fun to stay.

Other memories jogged by this photo. Further memories. This Photo. All the Photos


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