Sleepless in Barcelona

*Note to reader: A friend once advised me to keep certain personal/relationship issues private/separate from my comedy/writing. However, we all know that "the personal", i.e. sex and relationships, supply some of our best material. So, I decided 5-10 years post-relationship it might be ok for me to discuss specific people. You know, when it really no longer holds any emotional ties or link to my current life. Then again, despite the fact that I tend to bond easily, I do not forget people easily. What can I say, I'm not an easy-comer, easy-goer. If ya ain't careful, ya might be stuck with me for life!*



It was the summer of 2001, I was 23, and my long lost faith in "love at first sight" was restored the moment I laid eyes on him that first night in Spain...



Let me back track a moment and explain: I had previously been awaiting another boy to return from a 3-month sojourn overseas. We'd been writing "intense" emails all summer...



...quick interjection: Back in the day, a guy had to really like you to write a real letter. Nowadays, the instant gratification and fleeting-flirty nature of e-mail & texting renders the act of meaningful communication nearly null and void, but I digress...



...and I was hoping that upon his return, we would finally have a chance to truly date. Unfortunately, he had other plans, which involved an older girlfriend he'd been traveling with (I naively believed they were "just friends") as well as moving to another city. Obviously our reunion was a major let down, but luckily I had a trip to Europe planned the very next day. As I boarded the plane that evening, my two friends, Debbie ("the good girl") and Jamie ("the bad girl"), reassured me that I'd have much more fun on our Mediterranean adventure without a boyfriend. I mean, we were headed to Ibiza. What party girl in her right mind wants boyfriend baggage on Fantasy Island? For once, the devil and the angel on my shoulders agreed -- it was time to score some much-deserved, hot foreign ass.



We spent our first jet-lagged day touring around Barcelona. I instantly fell in love with the city's unusual architecture and perfect seaside location. We took power naps that afternoon, then awoke with just enough time to get dolled up, eat some tapas, and explore the nightlife. Jamie, who had previously spent a summer in Spain, suggested a cavernous, underground tavern, the name of which escapes me. We sat down and ordered a pitcher of – what else – Sangria, and that's when I saw him. He was a gorgeous, mysterious, and slightly sketchy raver with ice blue eyes, wild peroxide-blond hair (including blond chin fuzz), wearing silver sunglasses on his head and a t-shirt that said "Brain Drain." Oh yes, this was the man for me! We made eyes at each other from across the room, and I pointed him out to my friends. "He looks like Spike from 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer!" I purred. And since the only requirement I ever had was that each boy be different from the one before him, this vampirish stud looked like fresh blood. Jaroslaw Domgala – nickname, Jarek – was nothing if not unique.



Jarek, who was alone, approached us and introduced himself to me first, asking for my name in Spanish. Jamie played translator, and I soon found out that Jarek was 24, Polish, and working in Barcelona as an "alicatador." That's a very eloquent way of saying he was a construction worker, though Jamie and I later wondered if he was actually a drug dealer. But he gave me a business card, so I believed him. He was so damn cute, I would've believed anything he said – if I could understand him. With his broken English, my bits of French, and Jamie translating the Spanish parts, Jarek explained that his name was Polish for "Jeremy." He said he was in exile from Poland because he'd dodged the draft. (Was there a war in Poland in the early 2000s that I was not aware of? Perhaps.). He claimed he could only return to his country to see his family by sneaking past the border in the middle of the night. Mmmmm, me-likey a dangerous man on the lam! Plus, he complimented my beauty, saying he originally thought I was Spanish because I looked like an Andalusian girl. (Do you recall the scene in "Back to School" where Rodney Dangerfield and Sally Kellerman recite the poem about the Andalusian girls with the flowers in their hair? That's my favorite part!) Needless to say, I was a goner.



Jarek became our tour guide that night, leading us around to various bars and parties. Despite his shadiness, Jamie and Debbie agreed that he was very sweet and very into me. In fact, as we made out on a park bench at 4 in the morning, Jarek expressed many romantic sentiments to me, claiming that I made him "so happy," apparently believing that I "understood him" (ummm…) and that I was "the one" for him. In between passionate kisses and the equivalent of "wow" in four different languages, Jarek promised to visit me in New York and maybe even move there. All this from a guy I'd known for less than 6 hours. But, I was not scared...I was smitten! It was soooo romantic.



Obviously I invited him back to my hotel room. Jamie and an American dude she met somewhere along the way were hooking up in the bathroom, Debbie slept in one bed, and Jarek and I fell into the other bed. We made sweet, sweet almost-love to each other. I had a strict "No One Night Stands" rule regarding sex – even out of the country. He was cool with that, since he was moving to America soon anyway. I needed to write letters to both the U.S. and Polish governments first, but other than that, it seemed like a done deal. As we parted ways at 9am (poor Jarek had to go directly to a construction site), I cried my eyes out. Was I crazy or just crazy-in-love? Definitely a little of both.



The next night in Ibiza I met a hot Portuguese-born guy who I spent the next four days with, but I could never quite muster up the emotion for Paul that I felt for Jarek. It was actually quite frustrating because Paul lived in NJ, and we even dated once I got back to New York, but Jarek was "the one who got away". A day or two after September 11th, Jarek even called me. He wanted to make sure I was OK. We talked for all of ten minutes and could barely understand each other, but it didn't matter. I was blissed out. A few weeks after that, I received a post card in the mail that read "Muchos besos y carinos, Jarek." My roommate translated it for me – "Many kisses and lots of love."



[Above: The art of scrapbooking is lost in the digital age.]

That was the last time I ever heard from Jarek. About a year later, I sort of tried to recreate the magic of that night by dating another foreign guy. That relationship eventually made me see the long-term realities of "international" dating. I still get pangs every now and again for those sexy Euros, but nowadays I know better. As it turns out, the "language of love" is not enough to sustain a relationship with a writer who cringes upon reading grammatically incorrect e-mails...which I know is completely ridiculous & hypocritical seeeing as how I only speak a bit of one second language while they spoke 2 or 3 pretty damn well. Ugh, I hate that I was such a condescending cuntrag...but so it goes...Adios Jarek, we'll always have Barcelona. *Sigh*

The Nine Best Insults of My Life (Thus Far)

It's fairly easy to make fun of other people, and sort of "cool" to make fun of yourself these days. I mean, according to Entertainment Weekly my generation is caught between self-seriousness and self-deprecation. Maybe that's true. In which case, I'd like to earnestly say that the following disparaging remarks made by friends, family, acquaintances, lovers and strangers throughout the years were quite hurtful and/or shocking at the time, but I am over most of it, mostly. "Stuff that doesn't kill you makes you stronger, yada yada yada..." The thing is, I can put on a decent poker face when I want to...but please remember, deep down, I am fragile, vulnerable and sensitive, not to mention rather naive. No, really!



And now, in no particular order...


2006 - A drunk British man in a bar approaches me. I can only make out half of what he says, but eventually I understand (kinda) when he tells me, "I have a girlfriend who works in fashion in Tokyo." OK, so I guess he isn't hitting on me then...I'm not sure what to say really, so I just casually remark, "And how's that working out for you?" To which he replies, "How do you think, You daft twat?" Wow. That was so rude and uncalled for. I can't decide whether to laugh or slap him, and thus, I calmly turn and walk away. By the way, I really like the French electro-disco band Daft Punk. Anime videos are so fun!



2000 - A drunk (American) guy in a bar approaches me and my friend Erin. He will not leave us alone, despite numerous requests on our part for him to do so. When I tell him to go away for the last time, he replies, "You're a robobitch!" Alas, it was an exceedingly lame comment, but I was less level-headed in my youth. I responded by dumping a pint glass of beer on his head. Then he grabbed my neck, so I punched him in the face. Or I smacked him in the face. I think I sort of bitch-slapped him a few times on both sides of his face, actually. Regardless, his glasses fell off, he dropped to the ground to find them, and I ran...all the way across the street to my apartment. I may be a robobitch, but I only fight on my own turf!



2001 - Two friends and I walk down a New York City street one night, and as a homeless/vagrant man passes us, he announces, "I'll take the double quarter pounder with cheese in the middle!" That would be me. Or my ass. Either way, I think he actually meant it as a compliment. But you know, still.




1989 - My brother Ivan used to tease me about having hair right above my upper lip. This was in 5th grade, right as I went through puberty. My mom finally bought me special bleach for my "peach fuzz," and I thought I'd fixed the problem. But then Ivan chided, "Now you look like a cowboy with a blond moustache!" I don't remember exactly now, but I probably freaked out and bit him after that.



2006 - Upon receiving an email detailing the good news that I'd recently been hired by a new magazine/web site, my ex-boyfriend - we'll call him Mr. Burns - quickly replies, "Whose dick did you have to suck to get that job?" Classic!



2002 - My former editor tells me her web-dev boyfriend (now husband) used to not-so-secretly refer to me as "Memento." Why you ask? Because I was pretty technologically challenged back in the day (still?). Apparently he liked to jest that I "kept polaroid pictures of my computer with instructions written on the white parts in the top hand drawer of my desk." It isn't true...but only because I never thought to do so - would've been a huge help actually!



1992 - When I was in middle school, say 7th and 8th grade, I had pretty pimply skin. Not only that, but I would pick at them zits, thereby making my face look even worse, and then I'd try to "cover up" the damage with make-up. Yikes. One night, my best friend Jamie called up this boy Joey to find out if he liked me. When she asked him if he thought I was pretty, he said, "Yeah kinda, but why does she have, like, burn marks all over her face?" Eeek. That was way harsh -- and I heard it with my own ears over 3-way calling, too. Poor me, I felt like the Elephant Man's twin sister after that phone call.




2000 - I had to delete the original entry here. It's a long story to describe why, but let's just say, all's forgiven. Instead, I will include here one of the funniest insults I've ever heard: "Pillhead." It wasn't directed at me, rather, it was a derogatory term heard repeatedly in the very first episode I ever saw of the reality show "Cheaters." A Southern black woman had the cameras follow around her cheating husband -- turned out he was boinging her sister behind the garage on Easter! My wonderful, hilarious friend Jesse watched the whole thing with me, and to this day, we still refer to each other as pillheads -- and it has nothing to do with drugs!



1984 - Finally, my brother Ivan once again takes the insult cake! One day when I used the old rickety bathroom (it wasn't even #2, I swear!) at my grandparents house, the toilet bowl got clogged. For the next, oh, maybe 5 years, whenever my brother really wanted to get my goat, he'd start to taunt me with this rhyme: "You're the toad who laid the load at grandma's house that overflowed!" He still calls me "Toad" to this day, and I must admit, it's become a term of endearment. Awww.



Got something insulting to say about me? Go ahead -- make...my...day!