Blurry eyed swaying blond girl (jabbing her finger at me): Donde es.. eres el?
She looks like she’s pointing at my bag of Eucalyptus branches and mistletoe. Does she want to know where to get them?
Girl (impatiently jabbing at me with more vehemence): Donde es…esta…eres el?
This time her finger is actually poking me. She either wants to know where my right boob is from, where my scarf is from, or where I’m from.
Not for the first time, I wish I was a fearsome woman. The kind of faintly moustached, broad armed matron who runs the rougher bars in Barceloneta. The kind who even an alcohol addled Barbie would know not to jab in the boob. Who could by discreet tightening of the facial muscles, imply something to the effect of ‘jab me one more time and I’ll break your effing finger off and eat it’.
Instead all I can muster is a vaguely disapproving air and a primly muttered ‘I don’t understand you’ before sweeping out of the room.
As and Indian, looking fearsome is just not in my genes.
Look at the dark goddess of death for chrissakes. Take away the thirst for blood and an…. ‘ethnic’ taste in accessories and she looks like a nice enough girl. You wouldn’t be too alarmed if your son brought her home for Christmas dinner. Right?
‘So Kali, Martin tells us your studying photography. That’s an interesting field. Does having four arms give you an edge over the other students?’
People wouldn’t take her seriously.
In fact I’m willing to bet a lot of money that her little skirt of human arms came about because drunken twits would not stop jabbing her in the boob when talking to her.