The Crush: from the initial tachycardia to the current fond flutter

How a crush on a Latino superstar inspired a book, a screenplay, and improved my Spanish!

Have you ever had a massive crush on a pop star? A crush on a scale so hilarious that your friends make fun of you, your siblings doubt your sanity, and you mother frets that your degree of obsession might upset your husband? A crush so intense you’ve caught yourself gushing inappropriately to people you barely know?

Like, you’re in your late thirties and have posters on your office wall?

Come on, don’t be shy. I know I’m not alone.

Ok, I’ll go first.

In the late 1990s I contracted a bad case of Ricky Martinitis. I’ve recently been tested for it again and I still have it, but it’s a tad less acute. I mean, I still go to his concerts whenever he tours, and still listen to his music, and follow him on Instagram, but since I’ve loved him for over twenty years, the initial tachycardia has turned into more of a fond flutter. Nevertheless, my lips still turn up at the corners whenever I think of him; in fact, it’s happening right now.

Back then, however, I was mega-obsessed. To me, he was the most gorgeous thing since the invention of gorgeousness. I listened to his CDs on repeat, watched his videos over and over, and once, in a particularly brave moment, I even plucked up the courage to request one of his songs at the Farm Club in Verbier. You’ll be pleased to know that “She Bangs” went down far better than the DJ expected.

I’d never heard of Ricky Martin until early one morning in late 1995 when he appeared on television singing Maria (Un, Dos, Tres). There I was, a sleep-deprived heffalump, sprawled out on the living room sofa in tatty pyjamas, trying to gather my neurones after yet another frazzling night during which Greg, my eleven-month-old son, had tested his vocal range well into the wee hours. My husband had gone to work, Greg had eaten his breakfast and had drifted off to sleep in his little recliner, and Olivia, my daughter, three-and-a-half-going-on-eighteen, was quietly playing with her Fisher Price camera (she’s now a fashion photographer).

I had the television on because my daughter loved to watch her VHS video of Barney, the cartoon dog, on repeat, which meant the tape needed to be rewound on repeat. While Barney was rewinding, I plopped an exhausted finger onto the remote control and was instantly zapped back to life by a young man with a gasp-inducing combination of cheeky-angelic good looks, enviable hip mobility, and an ability to flirt with the camera that probably taught the Supermodels of the time a thing or two.

Ricky and I have been on a first name basis ever since.

Cedric, my husband, has never seemed fazed by my love for Ricky. To be honest, I think he found it rather entertaining, especially as - back then - both of us were in desperate need of some light-hearted silliness in our lives because, apart from the joy of being young parents, there was a lot of very heavy stuff going on around us.

Sometime in April 2000, when Ricky toured to promote his Livin’ la Vida Loca album, Cedric and I left the children with my parents and flew to Barcelona to see him perform. The concert was an absolute fiesta, the atmosphere phenomenal, and the stadium filled with people of all ages singing all the words to all the songs. That concert cemented my adoration for Ricky. I bought the poster, the mug and the tee-shirt, too.

At the time I was writing for a local magazine geared towards the ex-pat Geneva community, and the positive feedback I received encouraged me to try and write a novel. With life still hell bent on force-feeding both my own and my extended family the most bitter lemons imaginable, I craved escapism, and so every day, while my children were at school, I would sit at my desk, light a Nag Champa incense stick, gaze at the Ricky Martin poster pinned to the wall above my computer and escape to Ibiza, my favourite place in the world. I spent the next eighteen months living in a hilarious, ultra-vivid parallel universe, putting my heroine, Gemma, under the spell of a handsome Latino superstar called Emilio Caliente. I chucked all sorts of embarrassing obstacles on their path to a happily-ever-after, enjoyed constant butterfly-stomach syndrome and giggled at my own jokes. It was the best thing ever.

At the time, one of my closest friends had recently moved to Ibiza so I often visited the island, and was lucky enough to spend an entire summer there while writing the book. One day, my friend caught an exciting rumour on the tinkly chimes of the Ibizinco grapevine: apparently Ricky Martin was on the island with the gorgeous Spanish model, Esther Cañadas. The chimes had even insinuated that the pair were staying at the little boutique hotel just down the road! Giddy with excitement at the opportunity for me to meet the real-life Emilio Caliente, my friend rang to spill the sparkly beans. “Cesca, let’s go and have dinner there tonight!”, she said, breathlessly.

Quick as a flash, I planted the kids with my parents and zoomed over to her house with a bag full of clothes so that she could help me decide what to wear. Then we jumped into her car and hurried down the hill.

There were no Ricky sightings in that neck of the woods that evening, but we both looked sensational, enjoyed a great meal, and had a giggle.

But Ricky-mania has not just been giggles and bon-bon shaking and phantasmagorical rom-com material. I’ve also reaped significant linguistic benefits from Ricky because he’s been the best Spanish teacher I’ve ever had, elevating my high-school Spanish to a respectable semi-fluency. Whenever I’m in Spain and need to explain something in Spanish but can’t think of a particular word, I simply shoot through Ricky’s repertoire and usually find what I’m looking for, somehow managing to formulate my sentences in a way my interlocutor understands. Consequently, I’ve had deep and meaningful conversations on subjects ranging from global warming, gardening, solar panels, skincare, to what sort of lamb cut works best for a good stew.

I’ve now seen Ricky Martin many times in various European cities, and he’s always been fabulous. Most recently, Cedric and I saw his Symphonica concert at the Piazza Grande in Locarno, Switzerland. We had a brilliant time, with me belting out all the songs along with the all the other superfans, and Cedric chiming in during the megahit choruses. And if anyone knows what organic supplements Ricky takes to maintain his physique, energy and incomparable dance moves, do tell, because not only do I want what he's having, I desperately need it. My hips are a mess and my knees are going wonky, too.

Now it’s your turn. Have you ever had a mega-crush on a superstar? It doesn’t have to be a popstar; it can be anyone in any field.

Or am I just really, really weird?

By the way, there is a JUST LIKE A MOVIE screenplay in development in Hollywood! Woohoo!

My romantic comedy, Just Like a Movie, is available on Amazon