Brown Girl, Brown Girl, Where Are You?

That was the title of a craigslist post I found, from a White man seeking a Black woman. Only now do I think I can mildly relate to the sentiment.

It´s about 9:30 in the mañana, and I´m leaving Tarragona and heading to Barcelona. I´m going to be by my lonesome for three días, but I´m sorta excited to get down to some real touristy stuff, walk on bustling streets and risk being robbed-- oh yeah, and I´d like to see some more negroes.

There are very few Black folks in northern Spain in general-- there are 0 in Tarragona. Everywhere I´ve been, people look at me like I´m either lost or about the jack something. Esther, my model for womanhood and wifery, says that people are just looking because I´m "muy guapa"-- very pretty-- not so much. They are looking at me because they only see me on la tele!

I wondering if they can handle the TRUTH of Sojourner in the flesh. It makes me a little uncomfortable--especially when it comes from older people, who make no bones about being all up in my George Foreman (grill). But I know that us Negroes stick to the major cities and major spots, and tiny beach towns like Tarragona aren´t our cup of tea (you know we don´t like beaches-- why get my hair wet? You know how long it took to construct this lie?!). And, unfortunately, it´s quite possible to live in this mundo and never see a real life brown person. HOT MESS!

So, I eagerly await my three days in Barcelona, where I can blend in, eat tapas without being eye fucked, and possibly get my wallet stolen. I´m about to spread la verdad all up and down Las Ramblas-- and hopefully I´ll meet some foreign hotties to keep me company. I´m thinking of trolling some of the high-end hostels for children of a foreign diginitaries who are trying to get away from it all.

London Calling, Pt. 2

I am currently in Spain, sitting in the oficina of my step-aunt and uncle. If this post contains several typos, I apologize in advance; i am having problemas with this keyboard.

anyway, i got in to spain at noon yesterday, and hadn´t slept since friday night-- and even that sleep was questionable. It was a whirlwind three days, involving meeting relatives I didn´t know I had (an unearthing daddy drama), going on a "magical pub discovery adventure" with a friend who hadn´t seen in 2.5 years, and getting crunked on the streets of LDN. Things I´ve learned:
- Brits don´t think it´s funny when you´re walking through the tube/subway station and start singing "America, Fuck Yeah! Coming again to save the muthafuckin´day, yeah!"
- Chips means "french fries." And, funny enough, actual potato chips are called ¨crisps."
- The customer is never right. The sassy attitude of the English server makes no apologies for f-ing up your order.
- You can not go walking around Notting Hill asking strangers where you can find Julia Roberts.
- The English lad epitomizes the word "strapping"-- you will never get osteoporosis on this side of the pond.
- The next time Brits start talking about fat Americans, remind them about the English breakfast: beans, toast, eggs, bacon AND sausage, roasted tomatoes and mushrooms. Seriously, all as on meal.
- I am indeed not black enough. When meeting my Nigerian relatives, the question of my "African side" was raised, as it was a bit upsetting to them that I interact with the white Other and had no Nigerian pals. If only they knew about my romantic life.....