The Man Edition--Part I: Caught in A Bad Bromance

I've been miserable lately. My nose is running, I've got chills and I can't sleep because I came down with a gaydar infection over the weekend. After a month of living in Burgos, my tolerance of the strange habits of the Spanish male species has surpassed critical mass and exploded due to oversaturation of a little thing called bromance.

Last week I went to a bar with some of the boys from my floor. Of the 12 or so people I went with, I only knew two of them. The first was one of my Basque friends, too shy and sober at the moment to think of anything to talk about. I'll call him Silent Bob. The other was Carlos, my neighbour with a penchant for maroon pants and changing his outfits three times per day (Reason 12490 my gaydar has gone haywire). Seeing that I was a bit uncomfortable, the affable Carlos struck up a topic: Had I noticed any cultural differences between Spain and the States?

My mind made a beeline for the local excess of inter-male affection, also known as bromance. "Well, it's like romance," I said. "You know, romance. Only, you know, platonic affection between close male friends."

"Es romance?"

"No," I huffed, lowering my gaze at him and silently noting how dapper he looked in argyle. "Romanza, con una 'r'. BRO-mance, con un 'b'. Como brother, a friend very close to your heart." It took me two repetitions of this before Carlos and Silent Bob grasped the concept. Or at least, they understood what I had said, but that didn't stop them from resting their hands on eachothers thighs and touching eachother's breasts.

If my roommate Doris had been able to see this, she would uttered her trademark phrase: "Spain is just one big gay bar." Normally I would agree, but some very personal experiences with Castilian men--ranging from cuddling (that's another story) to shouts of "Rubia!" (blondie)--have allowed me to confirm their heterosexuality.

Conversely, it is more difficult--much more difficult--to tell if a boy is the opposite. I could take my pants off in public and these boys wouldn't cease fondling eachother, but their public displays of masculine sensuality are but one factor of my off-wind gaydar.

In the same way that zebras huddle together for camouflage and stick bugs blend in with their surroundings, Spanish men have similar natural mechanisms for obscuring their sexual orientation. Why in God's name they would want to do this is beyond me, but then again, this is Spain. It's a whole difference force of nature.

For one thing, Spaniards are generally much better dressed than Americans. If you take a turn around the university campus, where students are dressed at their most casual--though you may spot torn jeans and ratty sweaters everywhere, you will never see anyone come to class in any of the following:
a: pyjama bottoms
b: work out clothes
c: sweat pants bearing the logo of the university, Victoria's Secret, or other
d: Uggs.
For the most part, Spanish males appear to have acceptable hygiene habits and acceptable apparel across the board. Of course, it's always more difficult when they come out in their weekend best.

For another thing, you know the stereotype of the pierced ear? This was probably more prevalent in the 90s, but a single pierced ear on a boy has often connoted gay, depending on the ear. Not the case here. Not only do many of my comrades have a wooden-like hoop dangling from their left orejas, but it was only today at lunch one of them recommended places for me to get earrings just like his.

Finally, there's one more sign. And it's not the mullet that seems to grace the heads of almost half the boys I go to class with. It's the lisp. Spaniards add a slight lisp to their c's, z's and sometimes d's. Barcelona becomes "Barthelona". Cerveza, or beer, becomes "Thervetha". And El Cid, this country's answer to Braveheart, becomes "El Theeth".

Womp womp.

Thus, last week, watching my purple pantalooned amigo fondle Silent Bob con carino while thipping their thervethas, it all came together. And I realized I would never get any action in this country.

And finally, this past weekend a handful of the boys and girls I live with came into my room to partake in some drinks. I had just purchased my first legal bottle of Vodka in Spain, and was very proud. As I poured shots and drinks I turned around to see Silent Bob and Turtle--another one of our friends--sitting on Doris' bed together. Shoulders touching. Holding hands. Fingers? Interlocked.

The next morning I woke up unable to breathe through my left nostril. And that's when I knew. My gaydar was officially infected. I thought all Spaniards were walking replicas of Antonio Banderas and Enrique Iglesias--plump-lipped and easy to understand in their virility. I thought wrong. Well, not about the plump lips. I realized that the Spanish were foreign creatures I would never completely understand. I couldn't help but wonder if my own lips would shrivel up eventually as a result. And the vodka bottle on my desk started looking a little friendlier.

Oh well, theeth happens.