Cool People in Hot Places

One cool thing about this trip is that we’ve met so many people:

In Granada, our persnickety front desk clerk corrected the way I held my passport out to him because he didn’t like my hand positioning. He also spent about ten minutes drawing perfect swirly arrows all over a paper map for us, telling us what to do while there. (Who carries a paper map?!) He seemed pretty excited about sending us to a bath house, which I tried to goad Steve into doing on the days while I was at my work conference, to no avail.

In Barcelona we didn’t so much meet as we bonded with every other hotel guest in an exchange of angry faces at 11pm at night when the fire alarm went off and we had to leave the building and stand on the street. I’d been in the shower when it started so Steve assumed... I’d done something wrong in there to cause the alarm noise? I was about to make a joke that this is what marriage is all about— assuming your spouse is at fault no matter what— but then I realized that if the situations were reversed I would’ve 100% assumed HE had somehow showered wrong so... yeah.

In Paris we had a dinner at a sidewalk cafe and met two women who worked for Disneyland Paris who’ve lived there for 20 years. One of them had a stupidly cute one year old son who just learned to walk and who therefore walked in and out of the restaurant past us ... I want to say 70 times? He even held hands with Steve for a bit but I did not get jealous.

Steve’s feet are injured so he stayed in that cafe drinking while I walked around Paris for about 90 minutes but when I got back he was still there, now chatting with an uber friendly couple from Boston who now want us to visit them at their summer place in Cape Cod. I think Steve lured them into being his friends by lying, telling them they don’t have strong Boston accents. (I sometimes do this thing where I accidentally mimic people’s accents while talking to them but I felt like a free vacation to Cape Cod was at stake so I really restrained myself and tried to sound Canadian by saying ‘eh’ a lot.

We met a lovely museum employee when we took a train 280 miles outside of Paris to Nancy France for the day, just so we could see the one Caravaggio painting there. People in Nancy don’t speak much English at all, but they sure speak French quickly!  I accidentally told her I spoke German because the French words for ‘German’ and ‘England’ sound kinda the same to me. The weirdest part of the whole thing is I have semi secretly been learning German on the  duolingo app for a year, and I’m ashamed to admit this but the only German words I can really remember are ‘roommate’ (because it sounds like ‘boner’) and ‘desire’ (because the word is ‘lust’).

Today before we left Paris Steve took the metro out to see a special park while I stayed in the city and walked around the Seine, near Norte Dame. Paris has been so hot— 30 degrees every day, so I was cooling off under a beautiful tree in a park beside the Shakespeare and company bookstore when I look over at another park bench a distance away and a man there looks at me and gestures between us, asking if I wanted him to come over. I shook my head no, and laughed. He came over and sat down anyway.  The confidence! And the audacity! of flirtatious young men in Paris! (And also I guess the desperation! Because I don’t look rich and I’m clearly old.)  Right when he started to tell me I must have some German in my ancestry because of my perfect blue eyes, and was I visiting Paris alone? I got a text that Steve was ready to meet me at the bookstore. Park guy seemed a little startled but ultimately relieved that my husband  wasn’t coming to meet me in the park when I explained this. I should also mention that park guy is Steve’s least favourite person we have met on this trip.

Now we’re in Rouen for a few days. Who is next??

Hells Bells

Granada has a huge, beautiful cathedral that sits on a square that has rivers of narrow alley-like streets streaming away from it. Every alley is the same— apartments above, small cafes and bars and souvenir shops below. It’s a fun vibe at night because street musicians roam around performing, and they’re GOOD. (It’s mostly guitarists and singers but one guy absolutely rocked a homemade cello thing made out of an overturned garbage can,  broom handle, and string.) We wanted to have a sangria and tapas there in an alley our last night, but it was not meant to be. Why? Because it was international yoga day.

Hundreds of people on yoga mats packed the square while a woman on the top of the cathedral steps droned on into a microphone. I guess she was leading the class? Because everyone below moved in unison. There was someone quite insistently drumming beside the leader throughout, so she needed to get a bit shouty about her instructions. I saw frustrated musicians with guitars walk up the alley towards the cathedral square to see what was going on, only to turn around dejectedly and head somewhere else. I also saw a few male photographers, greedily raising cameras overhead to get shots of ladies colourful asses raised (and probably silently farting) in unison. They are the (downward) dogs. 

How long does this last, do you think? I asked. Steve shrugged.

When I looked over again, they were all in tree pose. I could see their arms raised high over spectators heads. Was it wrong that I wanted to run over and gently tip one of them over so she fell into the next woman, creating a domino effect? Maybe it would be less wrong if I felt very zen while I imagined it.

We drank and ate.

Finally, yoga class had reached Shavasana. Nap time. This is my favourite part of yoga— having a little snooze at the end. Why don’t all athletic endeavours include this? I imagine my friends and I after soccer, napping on the turf. We could even throw in a cuddle. This would solve so many of the world’s problems, I decided. No more hooliganism. If the pros played each other and then cozied up at the end? I think of Ronaldo and Messi. Messi has more ballon d’or awards but he’d still be little spoon. 

Shavasana meant it finally got a little quieter in the square. But then... the bells at the cathedral went off and everyone went apeshit.

These bells were LOUD, so everyone in the alley jumped a little. There was no sign of them letting up. Dogs started barking in the apartments and in the street, riling each other up. Kids covered their ears, and a baby started to cry. The woman with the mic tried to shout over the din— but with the constant bells and barking, I couldn’t hear what she was saying, no one could. I couldn’t understand the language she was speaking anyway but the frantic; stressed out change in her voice— that came out loud and clear, like the bells.  I liked to imagine she was shrieking ‘LET YOUR SHOULDERS RELAX! CLEAR YOUR MIND!’ 

Finally, I felt at peace.

In Praise of In Flight Enemies

Since moving to Edmonton for school, Sophie flies a lot and does this thing where she picks an ‘enemy’ on every flight she takes. It could be a person in the aisle seat who falls asleep, blocking bathroom access. Once it was a little kid who was funnier than her and she was jealous. Her new temporary enemy is usually the first thing we talk about on the drive home from the airport. I’ve flown a lot these last two days and for the first time, I’ve made flight enemies myself.

On the 9 hour flight to London not only did I not get any armrest space, I had to gently remove a stranger’s elbow from my knee. Twice. She was so fast and loose with her elbows that during dinner she tipped my red wine askew while gesturing animatedly. I felt quite proud of having caught my wine cup in time and I moved it to the left side of my tray instead, only to then promptly spill it on myself and Steve. I guess that useless looking little divot on your tray table is a more solid cup holder than it would appear. (And as I type this I realize that it probably makes me Steve’s prime flight enemy. None of us are immune.)

Today was a new day with a new flight to Spain. And a new enemy! The man beside me not only conquered the entire armrest between us with his arm but also encroached well past it into my precious narrow airspace. He spread out. With his hairy arms. How hairy, you ask? Would it be too much to say the hair in his arms was 5 inches long? It would, but I’m going to say it anyway. In my zest to demonize my new foe I also couldn’t help noticing that as he fell asleep, his far leg manspread well into the aisle as well. Everything about him oozed into whatever space it could find. He was melted cheese. Melted, hairy cheese. I looked down and saw in horror that he had taken off both his socks and shoes and had curled the gnarled, hobbity toes of one foot around the bar dividing our legroom. He gripped to it like an animal clinging to a branch for safety.

With fifteen minutes left in the flight he began making attempts at small talk which I was very ready to rebuff. But then he noticed the poetry book Steve was reading and they got to talking across me and it turns out they’re both literature professors and poets who have published in some of the same places and they know some people in common. To hear each other they rudely leaned across me but then the hairy man had the audacity to very kindly keep trying to include me in the conversation in a polite and respectful way, which had the effect of me transferring enemy status to Steve. (I was able to do this because I can only assume that by this point the gentleman had also uncurled his toes from that bar because from the way he leaned in, the angle would’ve been impossible.)

And Steve has already exchanged emails with his new bestie. But who knows if the love will last because Steve just found out this guy has a bigger Wikipedia page than him. Trouble in paradise! 

Anyway guys Granada is really nice! I put a picture of it here for you.