Cursed Pt. 2

Hello, glad the curiosity got the better of you all.

I shall set a small disclaimer here: Prepare yourselves, as this really was a near-death experience and Mother and I are still recovering. Please send chocolates and tissues. Maybe a rom-com?

Turning into our parking spot, sighs of relief and tummy rumbles.

“OH MY GOD! HONEY! What’s that?!” *Mother points to a rock on the roof of a car next to us*

“A rock? I don’t know – I can’t see… it’s dark…” The rock moves. The moonlight has caught two, round eyes.

“IT’S ALIVE!” Mother screams.

I scream.

Instantly we lock the doors. There’s really no chance we can get out. Hunger will have to wait.

“What is it?!” The fear strikes as I hear a squawk. A bird. It’s a bird. I’m sure you all know by now but if you are unaware, Mother’s bird phobia is apparently genetic and consequently we are both a mess.

A car approaches and we bang our windows; “SOS! SOS! HELP US! PLEASE WE’RE TRAPPED SEND HELP!!!! SOS SOS SOS!”

The car ignores our cries for help and turns a corner.

Mother thinks it’s a great idea to explicitly inform me of the likely event that took place before our arrival: “I bet it’s nearly dead. Oh god, it’s been trying to fly hasn’t it?! Oh gosh, it’s just… there. Not moving. It’s going to die… look, it’s head has sunk into it’s body! It’s neck has just… gone!”

I feel sick.

“That’s the squawking! That’s the mother! Oh NO! The mother’s here somewhere… we won’t survive, Darling!”

At this moment a giant eagle lands on the street lamp by our car (ok, the mother owl – but what’s the difference tonight?!) Immediately, fear overcomes and I burst into tears. Mother’s ‘mother’ role is now fully in gear and she produces an umbrella from the side of the car.

“ It’s alright, don’t panic, Darling. Mummy’s got an umbrella, see?”

Nope. I am not okay. “NO! WE’RE GOING TO DIE HERE! THIS IS OUR DEATH! SOMEONE’S OUT TO GET US AND THIS IS THE LAST STRAW! We’ve survived everything thrown at us but THIS IS IT! This is worse than the truck oh my God!”

“Don’t be silly! Oh for goodness sake! What is the first thing I tell you in these situations?! DON’T PANIC! This is not worse than the truck, for God’s sake, Darling! The truck would tip us over and we’d be in a pile up in seconds! The worst that could happen here is that owl would swoop down, whip the umbrella from my hands and peck at my face *drastically aggressive hand gestures of face-pecking*”

“Great. Thank you, Mother. I feel so much better. I’m just going to crawl into this glove box until we’re rescued.”

“RESCUED! OH MY GOD THAT’S IT, DARLING! Oh God, fabulous! I’ll call security!”

As we await our personal emergency services, Mother reapplies her lipstick and pesters me to open the window and wave violently to the security. I do not open the window because believe it or not I’m not yet insane. I do, however, press my terrorised face against the window in the hope the moonlight will catch it and we will be identified. We are!

The security car pulls up a few metres behind us and out step two bullet-proof-vested vigilantes. At this time of night, the quality of security steps up and they are equipped with guns, tasers, batons and other unidentifiable paraphernalia. Both ready to take down a bear with their batons raised high in their hands. Having looked around and seen nothing, they come over to Mother’s car window; “Hello madam, you called - what seems to be the problem?”

“Oh! Thank GOD you’re here! Honestly, we’ve been trapped for ages! We both have bird phobias you see! Oh god, it’s been terrible! See? Over there, on the roof of the car? There’s a BIRD! AN OWL! There’s a Mother too! Oh god, help us please! We want to go inside! They’re going to attack us!!”

“I – you mean, a bird? I don’t --- oh, no, right. I see. Yes. I see. Oh, madam, they won’t attack you. You’re perfectly safe, I promise.”

At this point, Vigilante 2’s eyes light up; “Ohhh! I’ll take him! I want a little bird! Aww, yes I shall take him home!”

“Please, step out of your car – we shall protect you”

Uh-oh. Such a small phrase and Mother’s knees went. A glance at me. A wink. This is not the time, Mother!

So. We are now being escorted from our car to our front door by two impressive Spanish vigilantes. Mother’s fear subsides (now in the arms of two strapping young men) and giggles; “Thank you so much, you’ve saved our lives! I’m sorry to have to call you out like this – it probably isn’t necessary but we were just so scared!”

I’m certain these two men thought it was a wind up as the giggling smile hadn’t slipped from their faces since they discovered the ‘emergency’.

As if embarrassment were not at its highest, Mother then asks for a photograph with them. Mortified.

Sidenote: please try not to buy either of us that owl-design stationery.

Charlotte-Elizabeth xoxo

 

Cursed.

City bound again. This time, for me. Not that it matters because there will always be a dramatic ending. Having survived my interview, we worked up quite an appetite and in turn made the worst decision in months; we headed for tapas. Having vowed several times never to return to a Spanish restaurant, we went against our better judgement. The extraordinary things one does when hungry. I shall state here that NO, we did not choose the wrong place. I estimate we’ve been to over 25 Spanish restaurants since we’ve been here and they all serve the same thing, the same quality (low, very low) and charge for it.

Trying to play it safe, we order a seafood salad, fries, squid and an anchovy/olive… platter (?). Seafood salad arriving first and Mother shrieks. It resembles the horrendous Russian salad but the waiter confirms it’s most definitely not. I’ll admit, this wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t really anything though. A lot of mayonnaise, a few strips of lettuce and some crab sticks but edible. Waiter then brings the anchovy platter. I can’t. I struggle to speak of it. Two microscopic slivers of vinegar-drenched anchovies (yes, they were indeed coated in vinegar. Such a delicacy). That was it. Two slivers. Accompanied by four limp olives for presentation. Confusion at its finest as I stare at it, hoping that if I stare long enough it will transform into anything else. Oooh, I see fries. Brilliant. Yes, I am British, I don’t care. Something to fill us up…. Oh. Maybe not. Mother and I tried to be optimistic but sadly a small sprinkling of fries on a giant white plate made it tricky. Thankfully they were edible (I’m pretty sure these are failsafe and most likely why every Spanish restaurant includes them on their menus). Finally the squid arrived. Not calamari. They had really just fished anything out of the Mar Menor, slapped it on the grill for a few minutes and served it. Please trust me when I say we are certainly not fussy. We eat everything, anywhere. Mother and I had no problems in Los Angeles and we came home twelve stone heavier. At this moment, I notice the ‘specials’. “Thigh of chicken”. No, really, that’s it. Just a thigh. Of chicken. Spain really puts zero effort into their culinary training.  Spain has Paella or Tapas. A collection of every ingredient into one dish or a collection of every ingredient separated into individual dishes.

Twenty minutes later and the bill represents a figure that does NOT represent our satisfaction. I’m in shock. More shocked that we could be so stupid to do it again. I am considering contacting every Spanish restaurant in the country and requesting a sign to be put outside each one. It will illuminate when we approach and say “NO! NOT YOU TWO – YOU WON’T LIKE IT DON’T WASTE YOUR MONEY PLEASE GO NOW!”

Definitely time to go home (maybe eat).

“Ooooohh, what is she doing?” *Mother points at the girl by the river, appears very flexible* “Is that yoga? Or tai chi?”

“I’m pretty sure she’s just stretching before her run…” *Girl untangles herself from position and jogs on*

As the sun sets, the roads become busier (backwards country). A bright light blinds Mother and I, Mother screams and I look in the mirrors. The largest, scariest articulated truck has attached itself to the back of our car and is flashing us. I rarely see Mother in this state but we are both considering the chance that we’re being haunted. We are already going over the limit, we can only believe that the breaks have gone on this truck and he’s going to drive for as long as he can, swerving between currently-oblivious cars. At this point I see fellow drivers’ pitiful faces as they drive past. We are the subject of their prayers.

I’d very much like to continue the story of our journey home (another life-threatening experience awaits), so please refresh your tea and come back for the next post.

Charlotte-Elizabeth xoxo

 

THEY HAVE FLOWER VENDING MACHINES IN SPAIN. THIS IS PURELY THE REASON BEHIND THE MOVE OUT HERE.

Our first soirée

On Saturday night we were invited to a golf and charity dinner. Having discovered the location beforehand, Mother needed to have the upper hand amongst our fellow guests with a pre-visit and we had spent an early evening making friends with Diego the waiter.  Our security guards gave us the number for a taxi firm… actually, the only taxi firm. Mother soon discovered that ordering a cab is noticeably different to the British procedure. One cannot ‘order’ a taxi, one must simply call when ready and then wait. Not something Mother was remotely willing to do; “WHAT DO YOU MEAN?! I want a cab here at 7pm! You’re telling me I have to telephone when I’m ready to leave?! This simply doesn’t make sense. No wonder Spain’s in a crisis. You’re doing it all wrong. What if the cab takes 20 minutes to get here? I won’t arrive on time will I?!”

I presume the taxi firm ‘forgot’ to send a cab as we were standing at the edge of our road (not waiting in our home – impossible address problem again) for another 30 minutes. Eventually Santiago came to the rescue. “Thank GOD you’re here! I’ll tell you – let me tell you, your company is UTTERLY USELESS! I shan’t be using them again!”

Santiago was a joyful Columbian man who agreed with Mother and gave us his personal number; “Here, you call me directly and I take you where you want to go – you wait fifteen minutes and I am there! I promise I come!”

We are given the receipt:

Several glasses *bottles* of wine later, it is time to drag Mother away from Hugh and his fellow golfers and head home. Santiago to the rescue… Or so we thought.

Here, as we stand and watch guests climb into cabs, a large, angry-looking man walks over to us; “You for Santiago? Come. You come.” It appears Santiago has sent his ‘friend’. He ushers us into his unmarked car (suspisions increased). Feisty Mother gambles with our lives and grills Alternate-Santiago with questions; “You’re not Santiago. Where is Santiago? Why are you here? What is your name? Are you a friend of his? Did he call you? How do you know we are the correct people? Where is your meter? You ought to have a meter. I need to know you’re going to give me the right price!”

Alternate-Santiago barely responded. Instead, we are tossed around the giant cab and we are now undeniably in the uncut version of Fast & Furious. The bits too terrifying to make the final cut. Unmarked roads are lit only by moonlight and we are definitely not going the way we came. Mother is only mildly concerned and more interested in the whereabouts of the real Santiago. As we reach the gates to our urbanisation we stop *exhales*. Alternate-Santiago hops out and spends five minutes mumbling into the intercom and then gets back in the car, starts the engine, spins us around and we rumble off in the opposite direction. Getting further away from our home. This is it. This is where we die. We have been abducted. Au revoir. Adios. I haven’t written my will yet! I’m not ready for this! No no no no, should I do my own stunts and  jump out? Yes. That’s the only option---

“Excuse me! What are you doing?! Where are we going?!” Mother addresses abductor and he tells us (I think) that we have to go through a different town and come through the other entrance. An extra ten minutes that felt like hours.

Heart returning to a somewhat regular pace as we spot our security guards and we pull up near home. I am alive. We are alive.

Mother insists upon a receipt and she is given this: