My Boy Javi

I wasn't in Spain for more than a week before I stepped into a tattoo parlor. My spanish is less than adequate, and if I'm about to have my body permanently marked, I would at least like to know exactly what I'm asking for. I was sure I wanted to commemorate my trip to Spain with an everlasting tattoo, but as the appointment approached, I grew more tentative. What if these artists get their kicks messing around with the bodies of unsuspecting tourists like myself. Horrific images started flooding my brain. I'm at the hospital and the doctors are sawing my arm off just above my infected puss ridden tattoo. A giant penis impeccably drawn covers my entire back as a crowd of Spaniards point and laugh at me, or beautifully styled cursive stating, "Fuck off American"trails down the side of my leg. The parlor was no more than 50ft, or I guess I should say roughly 150 meters, from me. I was about to scrap the whole idea and slump back to the group with my tail between my legs, but a voice beckoned me, "I thought you weren't going to show up, come on in" so naturally I masked my apprehension replying, "Why wouldn't I show" and followed the fully sleeved tattoo artist inside. Three other artists were gathered around the counter talking and laughing, but paid little attention to me, so it was safe to assume my presence did not justify the giggling. He said his name was Javi and his English was surprisingly articulate. The stale where I was to be tattoo'd had been prepped for my arrival, and Javi was all smiles. It wasn't a menacing smile, rather he seemed genuinely happy to be demonstrating his art work for an American tourist. My anxiety pulsed one last time as the intense vibrating sounds of the tattoo gun rang through my ear. The needle touched my arm, and it was officially the point of no return. Javi initiated the conversation with some simple small talk, "Where are you from?", "How do you like Madrid", "What are you doing in Madrid". I told him I was an art student and I could see the growing excitement in his face. He was nothing I expected, opening up to me like I was a long time acquaintance, sharing his desires to go to the states, but he didn't have the money. We talked about art, our future goals, our favorite artists, etc. I was taken aback by his knowledge about recession in the U.S. and his empathy towards the country. Here I was thinking Americans were typically associated with money and greed, but Javi has a different perception. I told him about the financial hit my family took from the recession, being that my father was in the construction business, he replied, "No new house when, there's no money", and he was dead on. When I entered the parlor I was expecting a Spaniard drooling over the opportunity to take advantage of some well off American, but instead I had an intelligent conversation with an amazing artist, and I left with a beautiful reminder of my adventure in Spain.