Can you guess the homeopathic remedy?
I hadn’t intended to stay out late, but the joy of traveling is leaving yourself open to the unexpected. So even though I was exhausted from the flight, had yet to shower or change my clothes, I heard the music and knew I had to follow it.
I was full from dinner—a gluttonous meal of linguine with clams, seafood risotto, and bruschetta smashed with bright red tomatoes. I had only intended to take a quick walk to stretch my legs, but the jangle of the tambourine was so jarring in the night air, I couldn’t ignore it.
It was only getting darker as I meandered the stone path, its rocky ledge bringing me perilously close to the waves below, yet the sound was getting louder. Just when I thought it better to turn back, I saw her. Dressed in dark, flowy linens, flashes of her tambourine caught my eye as she spun around in the sand. If it was a dance, I didn’t know it. Instead, her jagged, twitching movements made her look like she was in a hurry, impatient and rushing into the wind.
Breathless, she called out to me.
“Do you know this song?” She yelled. “The music is magic, you know. Whatever ails you, music can cure.”
I didn’t answer but took her comment as a sign I was welcome in what appeared to be her sacred dancing space. I moved closer and that’s when she screamed.
“Your shirt, oh no, no,” she growled. “You’re obviously a tourist. Che brutto.”
I looked down, suddenly aware of how out of place my tie-die sweatshirt seemed in this setting. Vibrant and slightly juvenile with its strong colors and embroidered flowers, I nodded sheepishly.
“Sorry, this my travel sweatshirt,” I apologized. “I’ve just flown in from California.”
Her attitude turned on a dime. Sudden rage flipped into jubilant laughter.
“Peace, love, America!” She threw her head back and squealed. “What fun to come all this way. You must dance with me. Hurry.”
I tried to match her jerky movements, but my tired limbs were no match for her frantic pace. When I reached out to take her hand, she swatted it away, apparently averse to touch.
My curiosity got the best of me. “But why are you out here so late?” I finally asked.
“My legs,” she replied. “It’s like they come alive when I go to sleep. Dancing is the only thing that helps.”
“Well, mine are exhausted,” I said, suddenly aware of how far the walk was back to my hotel. “I hope you find some rest.”
“You know,” she paused. “Music isn’t the only magic I have. For 100 Euro, I could give you back your shirt.”
“My shirt?” I responded, confused.
And that’s when I felt the cold ocean’s spray on my bare arms. My brutto sweatshirt was gone, somehow manipulated from my body when I wasn’t looking so that I was now exposed, standing in the dark in just my thin tank top.
But, how?
Homeopathic Remedy: Tarentula hispanica
