Spanish Streetwalkers

It was late Friday and we were coming back from a Halloween party, waiting for the downtown F at around 10 pm. Catalina and I were dressed as hipster crossing guards in matching electric orange reflective vests and laced leggings.

“Oh I love your costumes!” a high-pitched, impeccably coordinated young man cried. Catalina and I turned towards each other and then him,

“Thanks,” we each replied with a smile as the train arrived and we all boarded.

“Yeah!” he continued, “Spain, right?”

“… Spain?” I asked, turning back towards Caty to exchange a mutual look of confusion, “What?”

“You know… Spain.” The man seemed to be grasping at ends, and we had no idea what he was talking about. “Never mind, I guess I’m thinking of something else.”

“No no,” Caty said, “tell us what you’re talking about.”

The man smiled, “I don’t know if I should…”

“Well now you have to,” I replied.

“Okay well I read this article two days ago about how prostitutes in Spain are now required by law to wear reflective vests.”

“WHAT?!” Our friends burst out laughing, and we did too, faces turning bright red.

“Haha, that’s pretty funny I guess. I thought you were being political, you know…” the man trailed off again but we were lost in a fit of hysterics. As the train approached the next station the man continued, “do you mind if I take a picture, my friend will get such a kick out of this” we were reluctant but still laughing too hard to say no. Attempting to maintain a straight face in the photo we smiled and with a click he thanked us and got off the train. I guess our costumes were significantly better thought out than we had imagined. It’s hard to decide what’s more amusing, our original costumes or the one we unintentionally fit into impeccably.