Un cancion Castellano
Un cancion Australiano
One Spanish song, One Australian song he says with the confidence of a Rajah.
We have found Carlos, a young man in a much much older body, from a family of winemakers. Here at his bodega (vineyard) for the late season harvest. He speaks English, has taken a shine to two Australiana backpackers and has been taking us to little vineyards, to the thermal springs, feeding us Asado, Humitas, Tamales and of course, wine. We are not complaining.
But we have been asked to sing for our supper, as Amiga una had let slip that I like to sing. I try to return the favour, but she will have none of it. The onus is on me. (though to be fair she will sing along)
Tonight we sit round a makeshift table, glorious red wine in plastic cups, remnants of a pig-asado on big plates.
Someone brings out a guitar. Of questionable tuning. But ye old Señor in the corner rips out an old folklorica tune. And then eyes turn to me.
Un cancion Castellano,Un cancion Australiana. Carlos says. Sing something to make me happy.
Of course, I can't remember anyone else's song but my own. Actually, at thsi point I can't remember anything.
Someone pours more wine into my cup. por courage! they say with laughter in their voices.
Un cancion Castellano, Una canciona Australiana.
So I sing a song. Tongue loosened with good wine.
Pig fat, white bread and wine.
And a song to the stars and the acoustically echoing winery shed behind me as I sit on a wine crate (I do fall off at one point I recall) and try to avoid the challenging gaze of un old Señor in the corner, who later, when I have so much courage I can't sing any more, sings what sound like the same song ten times in a row.
I wobble a little as we get a lift home to a room that is so completely dark in my drunkeness I need to put a foot on the floor so I know which way is up.
When I wake in the morning, I vow to learn one song in Castellano.
