As-salaam Alaykum Abdel Fatah (or hello Abel)

Abel marched, or rather two-stepped, into my life during one of those heady ‘Barrio Latino’ evenings.

An attractive twenty-five year old with glossy black curls, huge dark eyes and surprisingly delicate features, Abel, as he was known by all his non-Arab friends (Abdel Fatah, or just Fatah to everyone else – the 19^th name of Allah, apparently) was Moroccan, his family originating from Casablanca although they had recently moved to Ksar el Kebir in the north of the country.

The product of a lawyer father and a school teacher mother, the family of six was completed by a slightly younger brother and two much younger sisters.

By the time we met, Abel had already been in Spain for three years studying to be a pharmacist at the University of Granada, and spoke Spanish so fluently as to be practically indistinguishable from a native speaker.

He wasn’t alone; Granada being a veritable hotbed for those offspring of wealthy Moroccan families who, upon failing to be accepted into the prestigious universities in their own country, had opted for La Universidad de Granada as an acceptable alternative.

(I hope that I wasn’t alone in appreciating the delicious irony of seeing the city overrun by young, cultured North Africans only a measly five centuries after the Catholic Kings had reclaimed it from these students’ Moorish ancestors following an impressive eight-hundred year rule.)

Although he didn’t immediately catch my eye, there must have been some sort of subconscious attraction (possibly exaggerated by tequila) because by the end of that first evening we were sharing what I understand is today known as a Public Display of Affection on the dance floor of a nearby discoteca, much to our various friends’ amusement.

However, after a slightly disconcerting conversation about goats and an unshakeable feeling that such exotic allure was really not meant for me, I bade him a regretfully final goodnight and thought no more about it.

But I was not destined to be let off the hook so lightly, and over the following weeks Abel made charming yet determined overtures in an attempt to persuade me into his life; by which I couldn’t help but feel pleased and flattered, if also more than a little perplexed.

He was diligent in the carrying out of self-appointed tasks such as introducing me to the fragrant offerings of the Calderería tearooms and educating me in the mouth-watering delights that were to be had in the many Maghreb and Lebanese restaurants found in the same area of the city – I still cannot eat Makluba without being swept back to 1998 and the excitement of that brand-new love affair.

Intent on familiarising, and presumably also wooing, me with all aspects of his cultural heritage, I was then sat down and taken on a seductive tour of  Raï – and most especially the music of the Algerian king of the genre, Cheb Khaled.

It can’t have been easy teaching me the lyrics of ‘Aïcha’, but after not a little practice, I was declared safe to warble away in my abysmally pronounced French and even more atrocious Arabic.

I was taken to both planned and impromptu concerts of North African music all around the city, where Abel showed off his sinuous dancing skills – movements that pur me more in mind of a Bedouin maiden than a manly man, but that mysteriously only served to heighten his increasing appeal.

All of this special treatment was nice, very nice in fact, and a welcome antidote to Manolo’s betrayals, but I was still intent on keeping him at arms’ length regardless.

Until the fateful day on which I happened to mention my plans for the future.

‘Leaving Granada? Why?’

‘I’ve got far more chance of finding  a job if I’m on the coast, so when my exams are over, I’m leaving.’

‘No you’re not.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I won’t let you. This summer you’re coming to Barcelona with me.’ And with that, I was swept up for another PDA in the place where it had all began – Barrio Latino.

Well I ask you, what girl could resist that?

A kind, well-educated, dark, handsome man gallantly insisting on whisking me away on another leg of my adventure, it was the stuff dreams (or more specifically my dreams) were made of.

So I agreed, and plunged headlong into the second serious relationship of my life.