best price free viagra in us It was a summer night in Veracruz, México many moons ago and Francisco and I, despite the evening breeze, were wilting on the sidelines of the plaza, watching people dance el danzón, a dance akin to a waltz but during which the dancers, generally older, briefly pause mid-dance to cool down before resuming. It was there, under that tropical sky, to the swell and sway of the orchestra that Don Carlos, a hundred pounds of wonderful wearing a white guayabera and a sombrero de lona, shuffled in my direction with the rhythm twitching in his arms and, in his eye, a glint so strong, it could light a candle. He looked so old, I could envision him waltzing right past me into Heaven, delightfully unaware of the transition. But no. Fortunately for me, he dropped, slightly winded, into the empty chair beside me, tipping his hat on his way down. And with nary a glance at Francisco, he flashed me his twenty-year-old smile and tugged a tiny, time-worn book from his pocket.
http://casadonne.it/?x=dove-acquistare-Viagra-originale-50-mg «¿Sabe Usted lo que tengo aquí, Doncella?» Do you know what I have here, Doncella? The youthful grin was in full bloom.
click here «No, Señor,» I replied with my own twenty-year old smile. «¿Qué tiene Usted?» What do you have?
viagra for women «Es mi libreta — mi libreta llena de secretos.» It’s my booklet — my booklet full of secrets. «Secretos de la vida.» Life secrets.
Like I said, the glint in Don Carlos’ eye could kindle fires. And I could feel the effect. My heartstrings beginning to twinkle like carnival lights beneath the British reserve I was born with. Curiosity starting to warm my generally cool gaze. The emergence of a spirit I tend to guard, protected. And before I knew it, Don Carlos was leaning in, the fragile libreta opening like a paper orchid in his palm, its sepia petals revealing names of songs and places, black and white photos, verses of poetry and words of wisdom plucked from friends who’d become strangers and strangers who’d become friends.
«Son mis secretos.» These are my secrets. «Las cosas más bellas que he encontrado en mi vida.» The most beautiful things I have found in my life. «Hasta ahora.» So far.
Of course, I thought. Because when your heart is only twenty, there’s always room for more. In the spiritual long-haul, the body, as withered as it gets, is merely a formality.
«Claro.» Of course, he whispered in my ear. «Sólo hay tres secretos que cuentan, Doncella.» There are only three secrets that count, Doncella.
He was so close, I could feel his breath on my cheek, the tip of his sombrero on my temple. And while, in any other heat, my instinct would be to recoil, I was drawn in, pleasurably bewitched by Don Carlos — Don Carlos, a charmer clearly aided and abetted by the orchestra and the velvet night sky — Don Carlos, who, at ninety, didn’t give a damn if a gal was spoken for or not — Don Carlos in his white guayabera quoting poetry in the shadow of his hat.
«Los tres secretos de la vida son,» The three secrets of life are, he finally said, closing the libreta and catching my eye, «las mujeres» women, «la poesía» poetry «y el amor» and love. «Pero si Usted lo piensa bien, son la misma cosa, el mismo secreto.» But if you think about it carefully, they’re all the same thing, the same secret. It’s all poetry in the end.
I’d like to say that ‘that’ was it, that Don Carlos slipped his secrets back in his pocket and rose, chivalrously tipping his hat before shuffling rhythmically off, roping a beautiful, middle-aged woman into his arms en route to the dance floor, that Francisco and I watched him dance, mopping the sweat from his brow in the starlit interludes of el danzón. And it’s true. This we did. But that wasn’t it. Not by a long shot.
A decade later, Don Carlos, quite unexpectedly, came waltzing back, then onto the pages of my unpublished novel which for years, has been hibernating under the bed. It was only when, hips still twitching with the music, he hobbled out of memory and into my story, did he give me his name which I’ve treasured ever since. And so he often shows up, dancing his way out of oblivion into the dreariest of my days, unaware of his spectacular transition. When the world gets on top of me, Don Carlos is at the ready to whisk me back to the plaza in Veracruz. He still doesn’t give a damn if I’m spoken for nor cares if the house is a mess. He always has a way of finding my twenty-year-old smile. He’s a charmer like that. «Déjelo por ahora, Doncella.» Leave it for now, Doncella, he says about whatever happens to be troubling me at the time. «Escuche la música, Doncella.» Listen to the music, Doncella. «Admire las estrellas, Doncella.» Admire the stars, Doncella. «Goce del danzón, Doncella.» Enjoy the dance, Doncella. «Y no se olvide.» And don’t forget. «Siempre se puede contar conmigo.» You can always count on me.
And that’s how it happens. How the orchestra starts playing in my kitchen. How, on the coldest February days, the memories of people start dancing. How the palm trees appear in the corner of my eye and my heartstrings begin to twinkle like carnival lights deep beneath the British-born reserve. Over the years, I have been told — dare I say — accused of being unreasonably cheerful in rough-and-tumble times. It’s not that I haven’t suffered here and there. I have. It’s just that I happen to have my own ‘secreto de la vida’: a hundred pounds of wonderful wearing a guayabera, a sombrero and a smile.