I Am Jason Bourne
Ok, I should back it up a bit. Sometimes I get ahead of myself and make a profound statement because I like the sound of it. It’s fun. You should try it sometime. Maybe say, “I am Jason Bourne” next time you answer the phone or reach climax during sex.
I’d like you to know when I travel internationally, I am always at maximum awareness. It’s my default setting. You will NEVER hear stories about me being pickpocketed in Barcelona or falling asleep on the train from Rome to Venice only to awake and realize someone had stolen my bag. NO! When I travel the world, I’m a vessel of diligence. I am efficient. I am dialed in. I am elite. I am Jason Bourne. I know where the American embassy is located. I’m utilizing multiple sim cards. I’m memorizing train routes. I am not f*cking around. Sure, I’ll see the sights or enjoy way too much wine at that lovely waterside café, but believe you me, I clocked that asshole with the beard and aviator shades sitting alone with an untouched macchiato, speaking discreetly into wireless earbuds the moment we sat and perused the menu.
That Spanish Beauty
One night in Seville, Spain, after a long day of sightseeing with a friend and totally being Jason Bourne, I decided to have a quiet dinner alone. I navigated the Barrio Santa Cruz and then ducked into a lovely local spot off a cobblestone street just three blocks from Parque Amate. I was seated by a sharp-looking, left-handed waiter in the back corner of the packed dining room. Sitting in the back, facing the front door, with all exits identified is always a must. Thank you, Jason.
The dining room was an obvious mix of comfortable couples and nervous singles. Small lamps emitting low light gave the room a romantic vibration. Yes, I was alone, but I really do love my company. The walls were covered with light plywood, giving the place a cheap feeling, but the local art on display made it all very hip. I decided to order a bottle of Borboleta, some pasta, and settled with my thoughts. I swirled my glass, unlocking the wine’s flavor, and took a healthy sip. The taste was of dark cherry, interwoven with a subtle hint of strawberry, vanilla, and some spice-tasting notes. Well, that’s what the label said. It just tasted like red wine to me. My palate is a basic bitch. Besides, the waiter recommended the wine in broken English and presented the bottle resting on his forearm, so it had to be good. Right?
After I confirmed the ridiculous price, which forced me to act like I was a seasoned wine enthusiast, I spotted her. Her beauty was unbelievable. She was a local blonde with a pretty face, a cute smile, and a body sculpted by what was probably 10,000 hours spent in a palate’s studio. Which made me glad, well, very happy. She was a Spain 10, so, just for context, that’s a Rhode Island 30. She was sitting at the next table, facing me, and obscuring my view of this Spanish Goddess was some guy I found to be very annoying. I couldn’t see what he looked like, but I could hear moments where he fumbled words, sloppily ate fish, and took nervous gulps of his red wine. “What is this guy, a f*cking idiot? You don’t pair red wine with fish!” I thought to myself, recalling what my waiter had told me five minutes earlier, as I swirled my wine, and reunited it with my purple teeth, instantly elevating my persona to that of a sommelier. “Oh, smell the berries, or whatever that is…”
Meet Creepy Cute
As the evening developed, I kept an eye on my Spanish Princess as she delivered the occasional courtesy laugh to the man obviously holding her hostage. I consider myself to have quite the imagination but, I could not imagine how these two could have possibly met. It had to be some Spanish dating app where schlubby guys could meet models. Or, does “Make a Wish” have a dating app?
At one point, the guy left for the restroom, leaving me and La Bella face-to-face. We instantly locked eyes. I smiled. She giggled and then shyly took a sip of her wine, never breaking eye contact with me. I chuckled and smiled. I was melting. I was in love. I was instantly picturing our life together. It’s ten years into the future and we live in the Spanish countryside. I’ve adopted the name Miguel, and this woman, my beautiful Spanish wife, and I are raising our three Spanish children on a Spanish farm under a beautiful Spanish sky. I can’t tell what crops we grow on this farm or if it’s just for show, but it’s the perfect life to bring an additional six Spanish children into. So, just to review, we now have nine Spanish children. If you think about it, we are growing Spanish crops on this Spanish farm.
Me and this Spanish model are essentially flirting while her date is in the bathroom. Poor guy. I assumed he was in there, posing in the mirror, trying to pump himself up. Either that or panicking as he exerted an incredible amount of strain on his bowels. While whatever was going on in the men’s room, the beautiful woman sitting across from me was all I could think about. At one point, we just stared at each other and I said, “Hola.” She laughed and said, “hello.” This was great! She spoke English! It’s at this point I knew that this was a “thing.” The connection we had was undeniable. This couldn’t be a coincidence! The universe– Wait a minute! What am I doing?! I’m Jason Bourne! This is a classic, “get the beautiful woman to distract the guy while the bad guys move in” play. Was she a decoy? Damn, if she was, she was a good one. How do I play this? What Would Jason Do? (Remind me to make that a bracelet…) After a couple of seconds running scenarios through my head, I decided I didn’t give a sh*t. Go ahead! Set a trap to steal my organs! I don’t care! So, I drank more wine and after a respectable number of flirtatious exchanges, I devised what I considered to be an “ironclad plan.”
The Ironclad Plan
Once Donny Defecation came back from doing his duty, the date would come to an end. The two would then walk outside while I would wait in the wings like a CREEP. After what I had witnessed, there was no way she was going home with him. So, after their goodbye, I would watch him saunter off, and then I’d make my move, asking her to join me for a drink and/or bottle(s). What could go wrong?
After about ten minutes, the gentleman in question returned from the bathroom and I confidently drank my wine, knowing what the future held for me. My Spanish Senorita quickly diverted her gaze back to her captor, obviously to avoid being rude, as he nervously took a seat. His stupid head and stupid shoulders were back to their regularly scheduled program of blocking my view. But patience is a virtue, and I knew I must embrace its sweet promises for future bliss. And then, the dream turned unbearably sour.
The guy stood up. I thought the dinner was coming to an end. But she remained seated. He then stepped away from his chair, turned to her, and dropped to one knee. He proceeded to present one of the biggest diamond rings I’ve ever seen and asked my Mamacita to be his wife. She said yes! And it wasn’t like a, “I’m just going to say yes to sort of move this along, so I can get you out of here and have a bottle(s) with this American,” yes. No, it was very much a, “You’re my soulmate and I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” yes. Those are two very different yeses. The Rhode Island 30 then jumped to her feet, wrapped her arms around him, and kissed him like her lips had been designed for his and his only. The restaurant patrons applauded as the happy couple embraced and started their new life together without me. And then, just like that, they were gone. She was gone. Forever. It was over. And I was alone.
After another bottle of wine, paired perfectly with my sorrow, I wondered how that all happened. What was that undeniable connection I felt with this woman? Was the feeling mutual? Was she into me? She seemed like she was into me. There’s no way she didn’t feel what I felt. Right? Impossible! But I guess I’ll never know. That moment was so crazy. I even took a picture of it because I knew nobody would believe me. It was a weird night for me. And so, I sat and drank and sat. Alone. I drank to not feel. I drank to have amnesia, like Jason Bourne.