I mentioned to my host brother that I was going to meet up with some girls I wanted to impress and he offered me his moto for the night. Needless to say, I obliged his hospitality and accepted. He gave me the keys and a goofy helmet and I was gone. I left ten minutes late and tried to time it so that I would make a grand entrance: while I was puttering my way there I was busy imagining whipping off my helmet to gasps, squeals of delight, and maybe even a little bit of applause.
However, before I can go any further with this story I need to explain how and why I am currently in possession of a magic token. Four or five days ago my host mother presented me with a buckeye nut. It is brown and smooth and shiny and feels and looks exactly like a magic token should. She told me that her father (who is 91 and she visits every day in the hospital) used to always give her buckeye nuts to carry, saying they were good luck. In and of itself, her giving me one was a very sweet and thoughtful gesture. The strange part is that when I was little my Argentine grandfather would give me buckeye nuts as well, and he also said they were for good luck. Actually, he would say something in thick, heavy Spanish that my mother would then translate, but regardless, the nuts were for luck.
What makes it weirder is that these nuts are one of the few things I actually remember about my grandpa. I remember the thick, heavy accent and I remember how he smelled old (in retrospect, I think it was his aftershave). I also remember how his drooping mustache reminded me of a walrus and how his whiskers were as stiff as the bristles of a toothbrush and would scratch against my cheek when he kissed me.
But really, more than just about anything else, I remember the smooth, brown, gnarled, shiny, hard buckeye nuts he would give me before he smiled his toothy grin, like they were a secret just between us.
Because of this, when my host mom gave me one and I held it in my hand, I was both thankful and a little caught off guard. It reminded me of whiskers and aftershave and I started carrying it in my pocket because that’s where it seemed like it belonged. Then I promptly forget it was there.
Now we get to the night of correfoc, where I had foolishly taken my camera. Not only did I have the fire to contend with but I also had to watch out for an endless mob of Barcelona (city with the most thieves in the world) residents out to enjoy the night. I eyed up suspicious characters; I shielded my camera from the fire with my body; I held it like it was a baby, and an expensive one at that.
In short, I was vigilant and responsible, and after correfoc we went to a bar for a beer to celebrate our casualty free fire-run. My friends put their jackets down in the corner where we were playing darts and I hid my camera under them. When I got my beer I talked to bartender for a while because I recognized his Argentine accent. I introduced myself, tipped him well (tipping is not customary in Spain and I don’t normally do it), and left. We finished our game of darts, my friends grabbed their jackets, and we went on our way. When I was already across the street I heard somebody yelling my name: it was the bartender and he was holding my camera.
I thanked him hugely, shook his hand many times, and gave myself a minute to contemplate how phenomenally stupid I am-- it was hardly enough time.
God had I been lucky. What if anybody else had seen the camera first? What if I had gotten a different bartender? What if I hadn’t tipped, or hadn't asked his name? If I were to play the scenario out a thousand times more, I’m not sure I would ever get the camera back again.
Then I remembered—the nut!
I pulled it out of my pocket triumphantly and showed the girls I was with (and would later feel inclined to drive a moto to impress). I explained how and why the buckeye was lucky and gathered two things from their reactions.
First, they clearly didn’t believe that the nut was actually magic.
Second, they definitely thought it was weird that I carried it in my pocket.
I handed it to one of the girls and told her to hold it for a little while. When I took it back I said that now, if she looked for it, something lucky would happen to her in the next couple days. I didn’t know if I was kidding and neither did she.
The next night when I saw her she was excited:
“The nut,” she said, “it works!”
She told me she had been in a cab with her friend and had left her phone in it. The cab driver had heard her call the friend she was with by her name so when he found the phone he had looked up the friend's name in her contacts, called her, and promptly arranged to meet up and return the phone. Now that's service.
“Told you,” I said to her.
So, back story established, let's go back to me puttering along on my host-brother’s moto, dreaming big dreams about small things. Then there’s a forgotten turn signal, and a siren, and two cops asking for license while I try to casually figure out how the hell the kickstand works on this god-damn-good-for-nothing-going-to-put-me-in-Spanish-jail moped.
I decide my chances are better if I don’t speak Spanish. They ask me if I know what I did and I answer with the name of the street where I live. They ask me if I know where the turn signals are on the bike—-I don’t-- and I tell them that I’m. a. student. at. the. University. here. to. practice. my. Spanish.
They exchange glances and it seems to me like they’re in a hurry.
They have no idea what to make of a Delaware driver’s license. They ask me if I have my passport—I don’t—and I hand them my credit card.
They look at each other again.
Have you been drinking one asks me, slowly, leaning in to smell my breath.
“No, sir” I say, and it’s the truth.
“Have you been smoking?” the other asks. He brings his forefinger and thumb together, holds them to his lips, and inhales.
“No, sir” I tell him, holding eye contact. That's true, too.
They turn towards each other and talk deliberately quickly. One asks the other what they should do. He says they should fine me: it’s 200 Euros. The first says he doesn’t even know how to fill out the paperwork for somebody with my license. The other agrees, and says it will be a pain since I don’t understand what’s going on and they will need to bring in another cop who speaks English.
I nod and smile the smile of the good natured but dim foreigner.
They're quiet for a little while, look at each other again, and then nod a nod to one another that lets me know I've gotten off the hook. Phew.
They turn towards me and speak very slowly:
"This was your first and last free pass," one says.
"Drive safe," says the nicer one.
I keep nodding and they turn and walk back to their car.
“Buenas noches señores,” I yell, a little too excited, but my grin is real now.
They look back and smile at me like I'm funny, get into their car, and drive away. I wait until they’re through the next traffic light before I start the bike up because I still have no fucking clue how to work the turn signals.
I reach into my pocket and touch the buck-eye to make sure it’s still there. Of course it is: I’m too lucky to lose it.
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