“No, but my friends have,” Xabi responded as though he were referring to the weather.
I’m sitting there thinking…” Oh My GOD, Help! Help! Where is Spiderman, Rambo, and Superchicken when you need them? All I wanted to do was give a man a pen and here I get a terrorist! I knew I should have dropped out of guitar class on the first day like a good little slacker.”OH THE POWER OF LUST! Incredibly as this sounds, due to the fact we were both young and both thinking with our hot pockets instead of our brains, Xabi seemed to trust me enough to respond directly and honestly in relation to my bold question.
He went on to tell me how they trained running in the hills of Basque country. How they helped each other out with connections to jobs (he was working part time as a busser in a Spanish restaurant downtown Frisco) and loaning money.
I sat there recalling the recent news articles of ETA members attempting to bomb the new Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, Spain. Could one of his supposed “friends” have been planning to blow up Picassos, Warhols, and other corny art as a declaration against the Spanish government? I will never know.
But as all ex boyfriends of mine will tell you, lovers tire of me faster than politicians (or pimps) can break a promise. After Xavier dumped me for a love affair with himself, I took the $200 he bribed me with to move out (in 1996, $200 would take u further) and never looked back…that is until the summer of 2012.
So, thanks to Mark Sucker-berg and all his soiled Pampers, I found Xabi alive and well via Facebook 16 years later. He is now a pilot for a European commercial airline. Quite ironic post 9-11, no? I didn’t message him. His profile was set to “come and get nosey” mode, so I put on my Murder She Wrote granny panties and did some snooping. And while I can’t say whether or not he is still affiliated in this ETA circle, I do know much of the separatist organization’s violent tactics died out by the year 2000.
So while the gods have smiled upon Xabi and blessed him with hours of flying around the heavens, those same gods are probably laughing their holy butts off at an interesting twist recently added to my Basque story.
On a trip to Mexico last year, researching the origins of my dead biological father ( I was adopted at the age of one here in the U.S.), I stumbled upon the biggest joke of all. In meeting my bio father’s sister, she took me aside and in her most serious Spanish stated:
“Amanda, your father was Basque.”
What? A Mexican Basque? What next? Was I also related to Pancho Villa? He should only wish not.