The Red-Eye

April 3, 2011

Saint Louis, MO – Chicago, IL

6 a.m., March 11, 2011

We are bleary-eyed like everyone. Six a.m. Who can deal? But we line up, check our bags en route (a very circuitous route) to Spain. We board, settle in, look around. The plane is filled with mainly businessmen (some businesswomen). I note the men. Big, hearty Midwestern guys. At least six feet tall, bulges around the midriff. Dress shirts half-tucked in, half-untucked. Ties askew. Jackets rolled into balls and used as pillows for the duration of the flight or jammed into the overheads. Oblivious to their surroundings except to sleepily greet whoever is near them with a good-natured comment. Hair haphazardly cut and combed. Totally unaware that they might be making an impression, that anyone is looking at them. Tired, slightly sweaty already. Decent fellows (almost said “chaps”, as my British friends might).

Barcelona – Madrid, Spain

6 a.m., March 21, 2011

We are bleary-eyed like everyone. Six a.m. Who can deal? But we line up, check our bags en route (a very circuitous route) back to Illinois. We board, settle in, look around. The plane is filled with mainly businessmen (some businesswomen). I note the men. Trim, neat, stylish. Five-eight to six feet max. Well-ironed shirts (ironed by their wives or cleaning ladies, if the wives are lucky; if not, they’ll stay up ‘til one in the morning to make sure their husbands – and children – are well-pressed). Ties neat. Jackets carefully removed, folded lining-out, neatly stowed. Aware of the impression they’re making; perhaps a curt nod and “Buenos días/Bon dia” to the person next to them. Hair well-cut, neatly combed, sometimes slicked back, old-style, with “gomina”. Subtly looking around the cabin, noting who is there, who is worth noting, what impression they’re making. Tired, perhaps, but polished. Attractive, knowing men.

The American guy. He’s a good guy, a simple guy, a man’s man. Feminine side atrophied, if it ever existed. The Spanish guy. He’s clever, perhaps too clever by half, philosophical and therefore not at all simple, a woman’s man. Feminine side well developed, enough to wield when useful.

The other night I was out with two friends, Spanish and Ecuadoran women, married to Americans. They know all about Latin men, love them, but prefer to marry the decent American lug. Me? I know that decent American lug. I miss the witty, knowingly charming, polished Latin man, the one who knows what to say when. My friends say, “Yes, they sweet-talk you but behind your back who knows what they’re up to, while my American guy may lack in the graces but he’s solid and faithful.” So right. Damn… where’s my hybrid?!?