Mother confuses Spain with France again.

Hello and welcome once again to another blog post! As some of you may know, Mother and I recently took a trip to Sitges for business at the Film Festival. As soon as our train pulled into the station, Mother hopped off and skipped down the road; "Darling! I love it here!"

I struggled to mirror the excitement at this precise moment; 

".... we've literally just left the station... we don't even know where we are... how do you know y-..."

"Darling, look at the narrow, hilly streets! It's so ME, darling! SO French!"

So, we begin our long walk to the hotel with our suitcases, along the promenade by the ocean. As we pass people, Mother turns to me and says; "they're all looking at us up and down..."

"Yes, I know - I wouldn't worry, it's probably just-..."

"No, darling! They're looking at us, making judgement, darling! That's good, it's a sign of upper class!"

Mother instantly feels at home and glides along.

We then pass a father at a cafe holding a baby at the exact moment his pram topples over. Mother flies at it, heroically, and catches the pram before the handles hit the ground. Her own suitcase has wheeled off down the hill. The father (a dashing, tanned gentleman) stands up to retrieve the pram from Mother's hands and thanks her.

Honestly, Mother will find any way, anytime, to interact with a potential suitor.

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On our second night, the light soon faded and it became evening, so we headed out for a small supper.  We found a little Italian rather close to where we were staying with lovely interiors and amazing food, as it turned out.

However, upon arrival, Mother tries to persuade me she is merely observing (not complaining) when she nearly keels over at the lighting. 

"Hmm..." she says, squinting, "this is lovely, darling, really but it's just FAR too bright in here. I like it more dimmed, you see."

"Yes, Mother. I know."

"Yes, well, all of these lights are not as warm as they ought to be. It's rather uncomfortable actually."

With this statement, Mother proceeds to delve into her handbag, retrieve a black leather pouch and pull out her Ray-bans.  She puts them on. Excellent. A few heads turn, whilst Mother purses her lips and attempts to read the menu.

"I'm not sure that's normal behaviour, Mother..."

"Well, darling. I shall ask the waiter to dim the lights!" she says, as she waves at the waiter (sunglasses still on).

The waiter approaches our table, ready to take our order, as Mother says; "hello, do you think you could turn the lights down? Or off?"

"Off, madam?"

"Well... it's just... it's very bright in here. Can you dim the lights? Or turn the ones over here off?"

"I don't think so, madam, I think they are all... just a moment, let me check for you madam..."

Off he pops, talking into his headset.

A few moments later, he returns with an apologetic explanation that the lights are all controlled by one single operator and therefore cannot be 'customised' to preference.

Mother accepts this with a smile (I know, odd. Sitges must have something in the air) and she proceeds to count the lights in the restaurant. Only, it's not the lights she is counting...

"51 plus 14 bulbs, darling! Look at all of these lights!"

I push the wine list towards Mother in an attempt to distract her.

After sharing a light but AMAZING meal (one of the best Italian meals I've ever had), Mother wants to know as much as possible about the chef. Naturally. So Mother calls over another waiter to interview him.

"So, where is the chef from? Italy, obviously but whereabouts? Because that was amazing!"

"Oh, thank you! Well, actually he is Spanish. Our chef is Spanish"

"No. I mean where is your chef from? He is not Spanish"

"Yes, I understand. He is Spanish, madam" the waiter replies, with a smile "he is from Argentina"

"He can't be... he is not Spanish! Spain cannot cook!"

I really thought Mother had offended the entire restaurant until the waiter replies; "Ah but madam, this is Catalunya!"

The conversation continues as Mother gets more and more confused as to how exactly the chef is not Italian. She honestly tries to persuade the waiter that the chef is Italian.

An hour later, Mother practically has the recipes for every item on the menu along with their origins.

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 A few nights into our stay and we are awoken at 3am by a howling group of British women returning to the hotel after one too many. Mother does not settle for improper hotel guests, of course, and aggressively jumps out of bed and hurries to the door. Flinging it open (with minimal clothing...) I hear her shouting at other human beings.  She is telling them off, like school children.

"Hello? Hello! Excuse me, are you British??"

A woman replies with a strong Northern accent; "...yeah...."

"Of course you are, for God's sake, it was perfectly pleasant before you all arrived!"

"eh?"

"Do you think you could have some respect for all of the other hotel guests, you're not the only ones staying here you know! We are trying to sleep!!!"

"riiiight, aww-keh. sorreh"

Mother returns to bed as I am hit with the realisation that, for the rest of the stay, Mother and I will be leaving the hotel together each morning and, therefore, these women will know I am associated with the lady who shouted at them, ruining their drunken splendour.

To make matters worse, the next evening Mother hears more squealing women in the corridor. It is about 8pm and we are getting ready for dinner when Mother decides to pre-warn these women. She whips open the door to find a gay gentleman (I think this is where the squealing was coming from) on the arm of another Northern hen-party woman.

" You're not thinking of coming in again at 3, are you?" Mother blurts out. There is no filter.

"What?"

"Last night, perhaps it was you who was making all the atrocious noise..."

"No, nope. Wasn't us." The woman replies.

"Well.... there are other guests here too!"

"Yeah, no. Hmm. Wasn't us."

Hearing this conversation from behind the door (I had zero time to hide in the bathroom so ran behind the door and tried to conceal my breathing) made me cringe and pray for it to be over. There was more than one awkward silence.

I decided to leave the room a few minutes before Mother was ready and wait for her outside the hotel.

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Disclaimer:

Mother did not spend the whole time complaining and shouting at strangers. In fact, for the majority of time, she was joyfully bouncing around the town, embracing the French patisseries; 

"everything is SO French, darling!!"

and enjoying multiple glasses of wine. We made friends on our travels and Mother has sowed her business seeds everywhere, which made the trip even more productive. 

xoxo