Hot chocolate

After leaving the monastery in El Escorial, I decided to wander around the village, maybe find a little outdoor cafe to sit down and people-watch. I was walking along the tree-lined sidewalk when I glanced across the street and saw two men working a hot chocolate and churros stand. They were motioning for me to come over. Probably just trying to get some business, I thought. Who wants hot chocolate in the middle of the day in the summer? Eh...Spaniards.

I crossed the street.
"Hola." The lanky, bald one grinned at me.
"Hello." I waited. There was a strange pause.
Now both of them were smiling. They looked at each other, then back at me.
Well? I thought. What?
"I'm sorry, I don't have any euros yet."
The lanky one spoke again, but it was too fast. The words rammed into each other. Halfway through his passionate monologue, I began to concentrate on what he was saying. He was raising his eyebrows. "Tu es muy bonita."
Huh? I think he said I'm pretty.

"Thank you...um...gracias."
The other one began to talk. He rattled off a few sentences, pushing his Spanish-sounding S's through tobacco-stained teeth. I was so busy looking at them, I forgot to translate.
"Oh...no hablo espanol. Soy Americana."
"No espanol?" The lanky one looked slightly incredulous. As his compadre squinted at me, a slick, dark curl fell over his eye. "A little?" he asked. I responded in halting Spanish. "A little, but not much."
The two smiled again.
If I'm so pretty, how 'bout some free hot chocolate? I thought. Tobacco-teeth leaned forward. "Tiene un novio?"
"Novio?" I asked, wracking my brain for the word. Novio...novio. I know I've heard it before.
"A man," he offered.
"Oh!! ...Novio! Boyfriend! Si."
This did not dissuade them at all.
"Donde es?"
"At home, in America," I responded quickly this time. They both kept smiling.

Umm...did they not see that I'm black? It occurred to me that things are different here. I've been reading Maya Angelou's autobiographies. She was hit on by men all over the world...and she says she wasn't even pretty...just different, exotic.
I guess these guys like all kinds of chocolate, huh.

I gave them a once-over. Nope and nope.
Neither of them looked anything like the sculpted Spanish gardener or distinguished expatriate I had imagined having an affair with. (My host family's gardener is a short 126 yr-old man from South America... not sexy).
I politely excused myself and walked away, turning once to toss a half-smile in their general direction.
Give 'em something to talk about tonight at the bar.