Luismi

How did that song go after that anyway? Something about tu... la misma de ayer la incondicional.... la que no espera nada, tu....? I could never figure it out.

In 1988, I went to the "Tu" magazine open day at the editorial offices on General Acha Street, with my best friend Alicia. We climbed three flights of stairs to the editorial office, collected a goody bag (which, as I recall, contained the latest issue of the mag, a sticker set, and some surplus covermounts from the last few issues - crappy tin mirror, ugly hot red lipstick, you know the kind of thing) from a minion by the door, had a three-minute makeover (typical eighties style - too much pink blusher and a swathe of electric blue mascara) and joined the queue.

The queue was what we had really come for, or rather, what was on the end of it. We didn't read the magazine religiously - we preferred Facetas and No.1 and (at a push) Mizz because they had lyrics and better free gifts, variously, and when we did read the mag, we giggled over the cringeworthy problem page, and that's about it - but still, the open invitation to the "Tu" open day was pretty difficult to turn down, seeing as we were in La Paz, just down the road practically, and there was going to be a special appearance by none other than Cristian Castro, who was the big thing.

We hadn't met anyone famous before, or at least famous and relevant - like, someone that people at school might have heard of; Giacomo Urresti simply didn't count - and so we stood in line, with autograph books purchased specially for the occasion. Mine was green leatherette, and it slid in my sweaty hands as we approached the front of the queue. Cristian sat at a trestle table surrounded by used polystyrene cups and editorial types in batwing sleeves, more keen on hanging out with the pseudo-celeb than manning the makeover table (work experience girls weren't so lucky). I thrust my green leatherette autograph book in his direction.

"What's your name?" he asked, for the thousandth time that day, probably. I don't know what came over me in the split second between processing the question and opening my mouth, but something clearly did, because I heard myself say, quite clearly "Karla" which was not - and never had been - my name.

I can only assume that in that, my summer, I was making the difficult transition from Cochabamba to La Paz (a city that I just H-A-T-E), and was perhaps bothered by the prospect of another five years of dealing with Carol - Carola - Carolina - - and/or Carolita type jokes. Time for a change, to something more sophisticated. Carol was a name for a little girl, while Karla was a name for a "woman". In fact, a couple of weeks after the open day, I started German school and told everyone my name was Carolina - a rash action which sadly stuck, and meant that for two years trying to get rid of the nickname again.

Cristian Castro obligingly scrawled his autograph in my little green book - "Para Karla, con amor Cristian xx" - and that was the last autograph I ever collected. The book remained empty, except for that one scribbled page in the middle, which I was too embarrassed to show anyone - even my best friends - because they would have quite rightly pointed out that it was very nice, only it wasn't actually made out to me. I threw it away a few years later, but my cheeks still glow hotly when I think about it.

I did not have a crush on Cristian Castro. This story is tangential to the subject I intended to approach, which is the true subject of my teenage crush. Where were we?......For a short period between 1988 and 1989, "Tu" contained a photo feature page called "Los Guapos de Canelas" -"Canelas' Hunks" named after then-editor Angela Canelas. Every week, there would be a full-page headshot of a hunk, as requested by all the girls whose names appeared threaded across the bottom of the page. Ricky Martin. Menudo. Morten Harket and Mags Furuhurhurrhurrhurrholmen from A-Ha. Simon Le Bon. Ben Volauvent-Perrier or whatever his name was from Curiosity Killed the Cat. Michael J Fox. Chayanne. Tom Cruise. Manolo Otero. Manolo Otero?? Who suggested him, for goodness' sake?

Regardless, I carefully tore them out, and blu-tacked them in a row to my bedroom wall, in a long row above the bed, not because I fancied Ricky or Morten or *shudder* Dolph, but because I thought I ought to. Alicia dared me to snog Ricky Martin once, and I did, standing on the bed with my tongue against the wall, even though I didn't know what I was supposed to be doing. I even had the Canelas' Hunks pull-out-double-sided-calendar for 1989, though there was a staple puncture-hole in the middle of Stuart Adamson's forehead, which was sort of unfortunate, though on reflection it could have been a portent of bad things to come. Who can say?
I never bought into any of those pre-packaged hunks, though. They brightened up the room, yes, but they didn't make me feel anything.

...........And then there was Luis Miguel – Luis Mi Rey.

Everything changed on my birthday. With a record token I received from some kind nun, I went out to Aroma shopping centre to buy a copy of La Incondicional, though I forget on whose recommendation. I was transfixed. The music, yeah yeah, that was moving and amazing and all that - but I was a teenager. I loved the music, but I also thought that Luis Miguel was a total hottie.
For a little over a year, my bedroom wall resembled a shrine. I consumed everything I could get my hands on about him. Posters, articles, pieces torn from magazines and papers, blutacked to the flowered wallpaper, the newspaper edges curling up from where my hands had run over the images and words. Of course, at this stage, I hadn't yet heard him speak, hadn't yet realized that he wasn't the sharpest tool in the box. None of that mattered - he was cute and fit and lovely.
As a byproduct of having a big girlie crush on Luis Miguel, I came to love the music. When my feelings for him faded, as they were bound to do (to be replaced briefly by Matti Nykanen and Stefan Edberg in the sporty summer of 1990, and then the darker charms of Morrissey and Vittorio Bennetori), my love for the music remained - and for that I am eternally grateful.
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