Count Julian

and suddenly a brief hurricane: a young girl who could not
be anything but Spanish, bouncing along, her step light and
agile, as though propelled by the admiration she arouses: the
eyes of all the males in the crowd riveted on her: on her innocent
jutting breasts, on her zealously guarded treasure: a theological
fortress, a sacred grotto: stubbornly defended and impregnable:
a subject for literary contests, for learned, abstruse plays on
words: fancy figures of speech revealing yet again the talents
of a people with a natural gift for elegant compliments, for
high-flown verbal gallantry: the apogee of a national style
of rhetoric that has been a tradition for generations: raving
beauty, blushing rose, gorgeous creature, queen of the pin-ups,
living doll: flattering remarks in a soft voice, the saliva drooling,
which she pretends not to heard or really does not hear,
being totally absorbed by the assault on her sanctum sanctorum:
the males closing ranks, weapons at the ready: as she passes
within three feet of your table, offering marvelous spheres, solid
possibilities for speculative reflection: which wriggle and oscillate
in helicoidal arcs as she walks away from you and all her rejected
suitors: would-be speleologists dreaming of exploring the crypt,
the secret cavities: remains of civilizing Hispanic presence in
these parts, holdovers from another era, more or less falling
apart from old age and chronic ailments, resigned to genteel,
messianic poverty, with a toothpick hanging sententiously from
their mouths; she is now braving the bards in the cafe next door

-- Juan Goytisolo