Questionable fashion choices extend beyond Mother.

Amongst many other delights, Barcelona holds the great benefit of being a 'city by the sea'. This means that you could, if you wanted to, have a light breakfast outside Gaudi's house before walking to one of the many shopping streets - aligned with Chanel and Prada - for lunch with friends, followed by a stroll through the rustic 'Borne' quarter to reach the Barceloneta beaches for a swim and a spot of volleyball pre-cocktail hour! Possibilities are endless, apparently.

Mother and I had planned somewhat of a similar arrangement for our final day, however Mother had left the hotel sporting an outfit only appropriate for the lunchtime events. Diamante pumps and the dress she wore to the formal wedding we attended a few months ago. I recall the packing process back at home the night before;

"Mummy, do you have space in your case for my shoes? I'm wearing my trainers and taking one pair of heels and one pair of flats.... but I have no room for them"

(The ever-growing dissimilarities between Mother and I - I do not pack lightly)

"Of course, darling!  Look! I'm only taking two dresses!" *points to the 2 silk garments laid out on her bed* "And I'm wearing this one on the train" *holds up a tight-fitting, silky, floral-yet-winter-appropriate dress*

"Right, okay - what about shoes? Have you packed your sneakers?"

"Pardon? Darling, what on earth would I need those for? I'm wearing my diamante pumps - obviously! They go with everything!"

- N.B. They do not go with everything. They go with everything Mother has packed.

"Underwear?"

"Oh yes. I better pop that in."

As you may presume, I did attempt to re-pack her some suitable attire but was told off.

So, back to the trip. As we leave the hotel we get caught in a light shower. We did actually purchase ponchos but Mother refused to wear hers. Instead, she spends the next twenty minutes extraordinarily frustrated that the tiny puddles are destroying her trusty beige diamante pumps.

"Darling, shall we sit down and have a spritzer?"

"Urm... no. We've only walked down this street, we've got a while to go. It's also 11am. So perhaps you can hold on?"

Mother huffs and declares that she most definitely cannot wait any longer, she is having a breakdown over her now-papier-mâché shoes.  As we find ourselves a nice spot for a morning snack (me) and wine (Mother), the skies brighten and the sun beams down. Mother sticks her leg out into the rush of oncoming tourists in a grand attempt to speed the process of drying her water-marked suede pumps. A combination of the wine and the sun puts Mother in a better mood as we continue our leisurely journey down towards the beach.

Mother looks a little worse for wear as we find ourselves approaching the beach.

"I think we ought to sit down again, I'm starving! Let's find ourselves a nice-" 

Mother breaks off as her eyes land upon a tall, dark and handsome Spanish waiter smiling at her, offering a menu "Never mind! I've found just the place!"

I, myself, am continuously hungry. Even if I had just shovelled a Thanksgiving dinner down me, I'd probably still accept more food. I suggest to Mother that we stroll along the promenade just to have a little 'restaurant-browse', however somehow we still end up at Mother's first choice.

"I want nachos, darling. Do they have nachos? I definitely fancy nachos. They better have nachos! Isn't that a regular thing on menu's here, darling? Check for mummy, do they have nachos on the menu here? Ask that nice waiter over there...  he's coming over, darling! Quick, or you'll miss him! Ask him to bring mummy some nachos! Do you want nachos too, darling? You want nachos as well, we'll have two... or do you want to share?"

"I don't want nachos but thank you for the offer. Also, they don't have them. They had them at all the places we passed though. Why don't you open your menu and see what you fancy?"

Mother's face drops in the same way it does every time she chooses her meal before looking at the menu. Also, the same way it drops when she heavily designs a dress in her head, sets out to a few shops to find this specific dress and returns home unsuccessful.

Instead of opening her menu, Mother orders a large piña colada and then decides to fork around my food. Fifteen minutes later, we're strolling along the promenade again, watching the beach activities and being offered Segway rides (tempting - for me, not so much for Mother).

"I'm hungry. I haven't had my nachos yet."

"I see. No, you haven't. Do you really need them now? It'll be dinner time soon."

"YES I NEED THEM! I NEED MY NACHOS!  I WANT MY NACHOS! Do you think they have them over there??? What about over there?? What about in that ice cream parlour, will they give me some nachos?"

The beach is full of exciting eateries, big and small, that provide nachos. I advise Mother of this and we peer at the people in these places. Specifically those who appear to have nachos in front of them.

"Oh GOD!?! The cheese on those! That's not real cheese!! It's FAKE cheese, darling! I don't want that?! It's SQUEEZY-CHEESE!!! It's powdered cheese?! I can't put myself through that, darling. I can't. I cannot. I want real cheese on my nachos, preferably stilton but I'll settle for cheddar. I'm not fussy, darling."

I can tell this is not going to be a quick fuel-stop. We are now on a nacho-hunt. Which sounds easy, I know. However, now, we are looking for 'real-cheese-topped nachos' - lest you forget. Making it significantly more challenging.

A little while later, still unsuccessful with finding suitable nachos, I glance over at the beach. Admiring the low sun glinting on the ocean my eyes land upon a gentleman sunbathing. Not in his prime, he resembled an animal of sorts. I don't want to say 'beached-whale' but he certainly wasn't a majestic  merman.   I notice, past his rather round tummy, he appears to be wearing nude Speedo's. How amusing!  He also appears to have taken a little picnic with him as I spot a croquettes potato placed just at his crotch and... oh. That is not a croquettes potato. And those are not Speedo's. Mother has followed my gaze and I now sense that the Great Nacho Search is instantly called off.

xoxo

Just a quick announcement regarding Mother's mental state.

Having spent all her life in absolute fear of birds (of any kind),  Mother has kindly transferred her phobia on to me and I now live in fear of these creatures also.  However, with every cloud comes a silver lining and my developed fear of birds has somehow eradicated Mother's fear. 'Mother's instinct' has meant that the protective part of her has flown into action and therefore must face my fear by ignoring her own. Anyway, the point is, Mother has (obviously) over-corrected and now is not only fearless of birds and accepting of them, she frequently speaks to them. Not a problem in itself, of course. However, the last couple of days we have had the presence of a blackbird in the garden. Of course there is no evidence of it being the same bird. Mother has taken it upon herself to befriend this bird, name her Belinda and discuss with me the pros and cons of fashioning a little skirt for Belinda. Mockingly I suggest scouting out a lead and collar while she's at it, of which she is now considering whole-heartedly.

N.B. Jane - I will ensure the well-being of Belinda, do not worry.

xoxo

6 Hours of On-Board Entertainment

Well hello there again, loyal readers. I am rather chuffed with myself that the time gap between my previous post and this one hasn't been witheringly long! This time, Mother and I took our second trip to Barcelona for some business and other things and after the ten hour journey by car we had to endure last time, I persuaded Mother that literally ANY other form of transport would be an improvement.  Naturally, I was thinking of a 45 minute plane journey. As are you, probably. Unsurprisingly, Mother booked a 6 hour train journey instead.

I myself have no problem with early starts, so long as they are for a good reason. Anything that comes under the bracket of 'holiday' is a good enough reason for a 4:45am alarm. Mother has the 'grumpy in the mornings' stereotype down to a T but manages to dress herself (again, not in the appropriate traveling attire but in diamante pumps). Equipped with our luggage and food for the journey (YES! I eventually managed to persuade Mother to pack homemade sandwiches?! Very pleased with myself) we head on our way to the train station.

Mother has a strictly timed schedule so we don't miss the train; I jump out of the car before we park, grab the large suitcase and power-walk to the station's entrance whilst Mother parks the car and runs (haha) to meet me before boarding. In theory, this is sensible as it means I get a head start with the heavy case. However, in reality, it means that I end up waiting at the station for quite a while as I spot a figure stumbling slowly in my direction. Mother did not anticipate the difficulty of a morning run in diamante pumps.

We are now in our seats on the train, preparing ourselves for the 6 hour journey (what are we going to do for six hours?!). Mother is already seated  by the window and is holding up her Chanel compact for shiny-face-checks (post-run worries, obviously) whilst I try desperately to haul the large suitcase onto the overhead rack. I am quite petite and perhaps my strength lies in my mind and soul, rather than in my little arms. I feel a prod; 

"Stop! Look, look... wait for..." 

Mother's eyes are not-so-subtly squinting (and winking) from me to the young man sitting on the other side of the aisle. As I turn to look at him, he kindly stands up and gestures to help me.  With one swoop he gently places the case above our heads, smiles and retreats back to his movie. Mother does not wish to retreat in a similar fashion and instead leans over me, waves at the young man until she catches his attention and dramatically mouths "Thank you!" with a broad smile. She then turns to me and mouths again; 

"Can we switch places, darling?"

Having settled into our journey for a couple of hours, we decide to read a couple of my old blog posts to pass the time. We are halfway through one about a previous flight experience and suddenly Mother exclaims; 

"DARLING! WE'RE GOING UP! We're flying!! Are we flying? Look! The front of the carriage is lifting, can you feel that?! Look, can't you see that? The tops of the seats... look! They're rising!"

"Nope. We are most definitely still on a train. Still on train tracks. Definitely not in the sky, sorry."

Mother ignores me and proceeds to cry out; 

"BUT I CAN FEEL THE FLATULENCE!!!"

".... urm...?"

"Oh. No. No, wait. No, I don't think- TURBULENCE! I meant turbulence, darling! Hahahahaha!"

The next twenty minutes are spent composing ourselves.

As we enter the second half of the journey, Mother tells me she is going off in pursuit of the restaurant. I had to inform her for the third time that it is unlikely she'll find a restaurant on this train but she insists she's going to have as close an experience to the Orient Express as possible. After telling her the bar is in the first carriage and asking for some hot water (for my peppermint tea... which either makes me a grandma or very new-age and health-conscious), she clambers over me and I'm left to read my book in peace. Not for long enough though, as I can hear her jangling jewellery making it's way back down the train and into our carriage.  

"I didn't get you any agua caliente, darling, because I wanted you to get it yourself so you can meet Leon! I've told him you'll be coming along any moment so he's expecting you!" Great.

Of course. She's made a friend. I should have prepared myself.

"Now, sweetie, when you go, don't just lower your head and speed through. Embrace the scenes in each carriage! Do you know, darling, they must have put perfume through the air conditioning in the carriage ahead of us, it smells gorgeous! Anyway, Leon..."

Mother then educates me on each groomed facial feature of Leon, possibly so I don't miss him. The fact that there will only be one bar attendant clearly didn't enter her mind. Also, upon my meeting Leon, I notice that - yes, he is very well groomed. He is also very gay. And very young. I frequently have the task of breaking the news of gentlemen's ages to Mother as I fear she may pounce at any given moment. Much of the time, age still does not discourage her.

Back in the safety of my seat with my tea and trying to position myself to be able to watch the movie the man over the aisle is playing (subtitles are useful after all) I notice the tranquility of our carriage. Compared to the disasters of the UK's national railway, Spain has provided a pleasant traveling experience, complete with headphones and TV screens for passengers. Each passenger is silent, no phone conversations, no pungent KFC buckets rolling around the floor. 

The carriage was totally silent. Except, suddenly, for the mini-explosion coming from my right as Mother bursts open her bottle of Cava (smuggled on board, not to my prior knowledge). I jump and turn to glare at her, along with several other passengers who are disturbed by the bang, as Mother smiles back at me and proffers the bottle towards me.

"No thank you, Mother. It's 09:53am. Can you pass me the water please?"

"I didn't bring any water, darling?!"

"What? Wait, so... you're saying... you didn't remember to bring the water bottles?!"

"Water? No! I remembered the Cava though, didn't I darling!"

xoxo