There is an ongoing
battle in my brain, in which I cannot decide which mantra to live. 1) lower
your expectations and reduce disappointment or 2) expect greatness, receive
greatness.
This particular day
required the very tiny expectation that one might have of a city; to be
functioning.
Mother has an upcoming
important business meeting with a fancy Lord and, of course, shopping for
appropriate attire became the top priority. She cannot rock up in her Hawaiian
sarong and curlers (the 'everyday' fashion choice). So, on Saturday, I
appointed myself 'personal shopper' for the day and took Mother shopping in
Barcelona. The ease of public transport remains and, twenty five minutes later,
we arrive on Passeig de Gracia. I notice Philipp
Plein is closed. Prada, a few
doors down is also seemingly closed. As is Mango.
Interesting. I don't mention this to Mother, as she may erupt into a violent
panic. Unfortunately, Mother spots Tommy Hilfiger and tries to walk in.
"Darling! Where's
the doorman? There's no doorman! What is one supposed to do in these
situations?" Mother's face crinkles.
She has not noticed
that the door is locked. There are also no lights.
Suddenly, a voice
comes from the ground below us. There is a handsome, homeless man (albeit in
shiny brown loafers that may or may not have been by an Italian designer) who
is speaking to us... along with a Chinese couple holding a large camera and
looking equally perplexed.
"Yes, the shops
are closed - it is a fiesta today."
"WHAT?! You're
joking, aren't you. You ARE joking?"
"Yes, it is the
fiesta of Barcelona today. There is a Nike shop down there that is
open...."
"Oh my God. Oh my GOD. Oh my God! I can't believe it. I
can't BELIEVE IT! No. No. NO! They can't be serious. They cannot be serious. Another fiesta? Another fiesta?!"
Mother erupts in the
street, to the homeless man's surprise (he is not used to the British outcry).
 |
| sad and empty |
I thank the gentleman
on the floor and guide Mother anywhere else. I, too am upset about this
inconvenience .... as there couldn't really be anything more inconvenient on
this particular day. Nonetheless, after a few moments of breathing, Mother and
I decide to "embrace the situation". Sort of. There is one store open
round the corner and Mother waltzes in and makes a direct path towards the shop
assistant.
"Hello! Now, I
want to buy something in here because I want to CONGRATULATE you on the fact
that you're open!"
N.B. Mother enunciates
the word 'congratulate' quite aggressively with her mouth. I worry, again, that
her jaw may dislocate.
Two minutes later, I
see Mother in deep conversation with a woman browsing through the cardigans. I
can hear her.
"You know, Spain
complain about their financial difficulties but this is why there's a crisis
here! THIS IS WHY!"
The woman is from
Canada and slowly nods; "Yes... I was wondering why the shops are closed.
Why are they closed? They don't close on a Saturday in Vancouver... there'd be
a riot!"
"Yes, I know!
Well, it's another damn fiesta, isn't it! As if they need another one! This is
why there's a crisis in Spain, you know. It's Sunday tomorrow - they close
anyway! Why wouldn't they just move the fiesta day onto tomorrow? They are
losing millions of euros, let me tell you! The amount of money Chanel would
have made today! Saturday, of all days! I mean really!"
After another ten
minutes of telling the entire store why Spain is having a financial crisis, I
drag Mother out and make our way towards a different part of town. A shred of
hope remains within us that there may be shops open in the quieter part of
town.
As we head towards the
other end of town, a swarm of over 300 humans are flying in our direction and
we soon realise that the fiesta is happening everywhere. All over the city. Our
last shred of hope dissolves into the giant bobbing Queen's head as it passes
us in the crowd.
Right, so quite
clearly any kind of shopping is out of the window.
As afternoon brews, it is
time to find somewhere to eat lunch. Mother's mantra of "embracing the
situation" returns (briefly) and decides we ought to bask in the fiesta
spirit and relax over some food. Neither of us realised how difficult it could
be to find a table anywhere on this
particular day.
Eventually, after much
fluster, we find an organic, non-Spanish cafe. In fact, Mother finds it whilst
I wait a few blocks away (I avoided the trek of restaurant-hunting because of
my knee situation) and, when I arrive at the restaurant 30 minutes later, I see
Mother waiting outside with a glass of cava in her hand. Of course.
As I browse the menu,
I see Mother is not. Instead, Mother is transfixed by a waiter and immediately
calls him over. For what, I am not sure - as she has not seen the menu yet.
"Darling, could
we possibly move to that table over there, please?" Mother bats her
eyelashes expectantly.
I am a little
sceptical at this request, considering we have waited a long time for an
available table - so an instant relocation may not be as easily accommodated as
Mother thinks.
I am proven wrong as
the waiter happily moves us to the table near the window. I notice Mother is
cava-less. This is odd and as I look at her I see her struggling to recall what
is missing.
"Darling I d---
OH! My cava! He must have taken it away... Wait uh---"
Mother proceeds to
hail the waiter down again;
"Darling, sorry -
you took my cava away, darling!" She pulls a sort of sad-puppy face.
"Oh... I- I- I'm
sorry yes, yes I bring you another one don't worry" Lovely waiter says.
As he brings Mother a
fresh glass of cava (may I add here that the previous glass that was taken away
was very nearly finished...), Mother gently grabs the waiter's forearm, before
he can escape, to ask him his name.
"Luis Miguel but
it's Luisimi for short"
"How beautiful! Oh how wonderful!! Luisimity?
Loosemiti? Louis? Oh anyway it's gorgeous where are you from? Are you
Spanish?"
"I am from
Argentina, actually"
"OHHH!!" She literally shouts
"OF COURSE YOU ARE! Ohhh how lovely, that's
why you are so SMILEY!!!! You know, all the people from Argentina are just SOOOO lovely!"
It continues.
As Luisimi brings me
my calming lavender tea (N.B. some might call me a grandma but you do not
realise the necessity of calming tea when you are with Mother) I offer Mother
to taste it. She does.
"Hmmm.... lovely,
darling! Yes... what is that?" Her face grimaces.
"It's calming
lavender tea, Mother"
"Yes. I see. What
sort of alcohol is infused? Because it's quite subtle, isn't it? Is it vodka,
darling? Or perhaps gin because that would go with lavender, surely."
"Uh.... it's just
tea, Mother. There isn't actually alcohol in it..."
"What do you
mean, NO alcohol? What are you drinking then, darling?"
"What? Tea....
the tea? I'm drinking tea. See?"
Mother's confusion
fades as the food arrives and her attention is diverted towards Luisimi and his
bright smile.
 |
| quintessentially 'us'. |
"Barcelona is
lovely but it's always so much better with cava, don't you think,
darling?"
"Mhmm."
As we eat, an older
gentleman is seated at the table behind Mother. Instantly I am uplifted (I love
old people) and even more so now that I see he is dining alone. My heart swells
and Mother whips around to see what's going on, with great fear of missing out
on any restaurant antics that may be happening behind her. The man does not
realise that this restaurant is a vegetarian restaurant and is perplexed when
the waitress tells him there is no meat. Bless his heart, he hesitantly orders
the risotto and waits patiently.
It arrives and he
looks quite pleased as he powers through it. Mother frequently and not subtly
spins around to check his satisfaction levels. As if she were the chef seeking
approval.
As the man leaves after his meal, he walks past our table. He does
not get very far, however, as Mother suddenly launches herself at him and
clenches her hand around his jacketed arm. He jumps and looks around, ever so
startled, to see Mother grinning up at him. Her hand still tightly secured
around him.
"It's good, isn't
it? Did you like it?" Mother attempts to get across her questions in a
bizarre Danish accent.
He responds timidly,
still shocked; "Please?" as if to say "Please let go of me you
crazy woman".
" It's good, no?
You like?" Mother's accent remains.
"Yes.... uh- yes
you are right.. yes. Ok." He says, nodding and trying to pry Mothers grip
from his arm.
"Bye!"
Mother shouts at him excitedly.
The man scuttles off
and, soon after, we do too.
In the lovely sunny
afternoon, Mother and I are walking through some back streets of Barcelona
(often where one might find a little hidden treasure of a store) with the mild
plan of heading towards the beach. As we are strolling along the wide, empty
street looking at the buildings, I am jolted forward. Literally. Something very
heavy has just been smacked into my ankle and a human force has pushed me.
Instant fear... I think I'm being mugged. Panic strikes me as my horrified face
turns to Mother. She grabs me and we both turn around to see a haggard, dirty
old woman that strongly resembles the Evil Witch from Snow White, proffering
the apple. She doesn't say anything - only grunts and mutters something like
"MOVE" at me whilst struggling with a large 5 litre bucket of water
as she continues to push past me until she gets to her porch. I remain in shock
as I am being physically shooed out of the way. Another encounter with a crazy
woman fuels Mother to react quite aggressively;
"HEY! WHAT DO YOU
THINK YOU'RE DOING?!" She shouts at Evil Witch.
Evil Witch responds,
grimly; "Move faster!" with a surprising American accent.
Mother is taken aback
and says; "NO! NO MOVE
FASTER! NO! NO MOVE FASTER THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!!"
The old hag scuttles
into her hole with her bucket of water. (Sorry, I wouldn't normally be so rude
with my descriptive words but there were a number of ways for that woman to
handle the situation with consideration. She just bulldozed me instead).
Those of you who may
be concerned that Mother is to attend her business meeting in a sarong and
coconut bra; we plan to return to the city of shops next weekend. Pray for us
that there will not be another fiesta. Or another crazy woman.
xoxo
