Roses are red, violets are blue
All my friends said, “Go find a Spanish man to fall in love with you!”
Well, let me tell you: that hasn’t happened.
So far, my most romantic interaction occurred with the italian man at the pasta shop down the street, who told me he couldn’t remember what I ordered because he was too enamorada con mis ojos. I won’t lie, he gave me some butterflies. But the butterflies died when I remembered that he was borderline 70 and probably looking for a tip from an American dumb blonde.
Hi, my name is Lulu, and I am a broad, abroad in Barcelona, Spain for the term. Welcome to my column. When Marbella, Ms. EIC, asked if I had any spicy love stories from Spain for the Valentine’s Love Issue, I told her I did not, but that I could, in the name of journalism, go on a few dates.
My initial hesitation in pursuing dates stemmed from my experiences with men in Spain in my first month here.
To begin, for a 5’11” broad like me, Barcelona—just like Boston—is a city of short kings. I knew that I would be taller coming here, yet reality did not sink in until I realized that I could only see the tops of heads of people in the crowds at clubs.
You know what they say about being tall, right? It means you have big feet. And you know what they say about big feet? It means you need big shoes. Well, in my first week here, I set off to find the same pair of running shoes I had at home. After trying Foot locker, the department store locally known as “El Corte Inglés,”, and getting lost on the subway—sorry, the metro—I finally arrived at Ashi sports, a local sneaker shop whose website promised they carried the Hoka’s of my dreams.
Upon arrival, I was the only one in the store, and the clerk was on the phone. Unbothered by his lack of attention, I browsed, admiring the wall of Hoka’s until he finished and I asked for my size. I initially thought there was some confusion surrounding the conversion from US to EU sizing, but I was mistaken.
He looked at me, “I don’t think we even have that in men’s sizing,” he said. I smiled, and replied that I would find them online. Between you and me, my feet are really, not that big. Anyways.
Two weeks later I went to Madrid, making the questionable, yet plot-thickening decision to stay with a former boyfriend. On our way to a nightclub—I mean, discoteca— the driver asked us where we were from. Making sure to really lisp my s’s, I asked why he didn’t think we were from Madrid. He laughed a bit too hard and repeated the question. When his roommate volunteered our American origins, I jumped in and told him that Spain had “muchos reyes bajos,” (a lot of short kings).
He then asked how tall I was, and before I could finish the conversion from feet to centimeters, my ex-boyfriend jumped in, “Dos metros,” he said.
The car nearly came to a halt. “DOS METROS?” The driver proceeded to cackle, nearly crash, and verbally-clobber my height. He said men in the club must call me mommy and try to hold my hand as if they are my babies because I am so tall. “Un gigante!” he repeated. “¡Jajajaj! ¡No lo puedo creer!”—he couldn’t believe it.
It turns out that I can add metric-imperial conversions to the list of things my ex-boyfriend is not good at. He told the cab driver that I was six-feet-and-seven-inches tall. (Again, I am not six feet and seven inches tall. I am only five feet and eleven inches). Unfortunately, I didn’t realize this error in conversion until about a week later, so I sat in the car and endured the verbal-equivalent of a WWE match. To be fair, we all know men have a tendency to lie about height. Remember: there is no such thing as a 5’11” man.
So, out of all the romance you might have anticipated from this broad abroad, in arguably one of the most “romantic” destinations in the world, for now I’m afraid to say I might not be the ideal candidate. However, I’ll be back next week to update you on how my first dates go—in the name of journalism, of course. Unfortunately, in my initial plan to find dates the good old fashioned way, (you know, boy meets girl at bar, boy falls in love with girl, girl breaks his heart), I found that not only the locals, but even all of the American boys here that I’ve met are also reyes bajos. There must be something in the water I guess, (side note, the water in Barcelona tastes worse than Cambridge, which is an incredibly low bar already).
So naturally, when my initial plan failed, dating apps were the next move. Weirdly enough, if you ever end up in Barcelona, Bumble seems to be the fan favorite; and I appreciate that they include heights on profiles (but the standard buffer of 2 inches should still be subtracted). I’m not a huge fan of Bumble because my back is really starting to hurt carrying the weight of every conversation. If this goes viral though, which I’m sure it will, I’ll continue my application for Raya. Given that all my dates fall around Valentine’s Day, I’ll probably fall in love. Right?
Lulu Patterson ’24 (lpatterson@college.harvard.edu) writes Forum for the Independent.