I wake to the sound of a hundred children laughing. The sun beams through my curtain and I realize the church with the bells also has a daycare. It’s a glorious good morning and I roll over with my pillow and laugh along with them as the bells toll for playtime.
Playtime indeed. It hits me: I’m on holiday. I’m on holiday for the longest period of time in my life. My first feeling is panic. How am I going to pay for this? I bolt up in bed. How is Forbes doing house sitting all our animals? How is the BnB, did Yvette get the latest bookings to clean? I hustle downstairs and bang off a bunch of mother hen emails to clients and helpers, “Everyone doing okay?”
I updated my will before I left. There’s a part of me that really thinks I’m going to die. I mean, if I’m not being productive…I may as well.
Oh there it is. The guilt. I don’t deserve to go on holiday. This is the same feeling that prompts me to be a work-a-holic and to collect people who consistently verbalize my shortcomings. This is annoyingly redundant because I’ve likely already apologized for existing ad nauseam.
Hm. I tell myself. Hm. I pop a horrible coffee pod into the coffee maker and resist opening the canned milk.
I think back to reading a passage in Exodus where Moses has the opportunity to speak to God on the mountain one on one. He’s been chosen to lead the people of Israel out of Egypt and be their ruler despite the fact that he’s a lisping ex-con on the run from the Pharoah and his own spurned wife. Moses gets all this…glory…from God, regardless, and he takes it in but he doesn’t rest easy with it. He doesn’t deserve it. But it’s not about deserving. God has a way of being maddeningly pragmatic in the OT. He replies, “I will be gracious with whom I will be gracious”. (Exodus 33) And…scene.
I don’t feel comfortable with all this glory either.
I was discussing this with my dear friend, Morris, a few weeks back. He fidgeted as I spoke about being one of the 1% and what to do with that blessing. He said he felt more comfortable thinking it was just luck, not a blessing. And I have to agree with that. Because, conversely, I don’t believe that someone is born into poverty or horrendous disease as a “curse”. We get what we get. What do we do with it is the question. This is what I feel Christianity has in common with atheism: it’s all in the now, baby, make the most of it.
I better damn well make the most of my holiday. Certainly that doesn’t mean worrying about home and sheepishly skulking around Spain now does it? This is your big “get”, Frangione, God knows tragedy is coming, it always is, so freaking JUICE THIS FRUIT TO THE LAST DROP! And frankly, if I have a good rest then I’ll be all the more productive when I get home.
Nora tiptoes downstairs at 3pm. “Good morning!” She props open the curtain and looks out and gasps, “Oh Mom, it’s so beautiful, I can’t believe we’re here!”
I smile. Yeah. That’s the way to do it. “That’s my favourite thing about you as a human, Nora, your gratefulness.”
We put some effort into dressing up and head out to explore our neighbourhood. Badalona, as it turns out, is not the quiet seaside village I thought we were staying in. It’s more like coming to visit Vancouver but choosing to stay in New Westminster. Cute pockets for sure but you know – a suburb. That said, it is quieter, residential, friendly and cheaper. We wander down past the Museum of Barcelona towards the sea and stop into a little cafe for a bite to eat. The portions are generous here and the salads are very fresh, moreso than I generally found in France or Italy. Nora orders an empanada and rolls her eyes to the back of her head, saying it’s soooooo good. I take a bite. I think she is just very hungry. That said, the patatas are crispy delicious comfort food and the bite of chorizo, heaven.
We wander down narrow streets and the shops are starting to open again, 4pm-8pm as I discover. There is a little store entirely dedicated to roasted nuts and he serves them to us in little paper princess hats. Then we wander into a dark bakery, lured by the orange scented donuts. The curly haired woman behind the counter with the wide cheeks and shiny nose reminds me a bit of Mrs Lovett so I avoid the meat pies and panic and pick the lardy croissants. Nora chuckles at me as I stammer about with my Spanish “guessing”, a smattering of Italian and some resigned English. “Sorry, basta, gracias, just the dos, grazie. Ciao!”
On a more serious note, Nora murmurs as we wander down the cobblestones: she feels we should have made more of an effort to learn Spanish before we came, it would be more respectful. She’s right. We should have.
We find some fruit and vegetables and some eggs and sausages for breakfast and some beans for the boy who prefers not to eat meat. I have an amusing time asking for a bar of soap at a pharmacy. There was some armpit cleaning mime going on. We wander back to our beautiful little white washed BnB with its big beautiful wood door and cheerful patio and pottery.
We brush our hair and Nora grabs a jacket and I apply bright red lipstick and we’re out again, now confident of our directions. We get onto the metro and head towards the shopping district, La Rambla. We are not here to see Gucci .or Versace or any of the other European designers. No. We hustle past gorgeous ladies with large bundles of bags and smartly dressed sensual Spanish men in perfectly tailored suits and find Nora heaven: Menkes dance. Menkes is a Spanish shop that makes their own dance wear including…their own leather top wood soled tap shoes!
We find two women in the store: one is an elegant former ballet dancer. She seems to have no time for us. The other is a smiley caramel curled woman who speaks English. She smiles widely when we ask for tap shoes. There is only one pair in the whole store that are Nora’s size…and they happen to also be the first ones that caught our eye…oh yes…it was meant to be. They shine from the display case prettily, all persimmon and cream. Nora tries them on while caramel curls hurries off to assist a flamenco dancer.
“Well, we have to hear the sound, dear.” I prompt, wanting to make sure she tested the shoes out on the little wooden board placed between two stuffed Victorian chairs for that express purpose. “I’m embarrassed.” Nora turns red and shuffles with the gorgeous new shoes on. “These people will never ever see you again. Who cares what they think? Dance!” She shyly puts her head down and smiles just a wee bit. Then her feet start going. Tapatapatapatapatapatapa stomp stomp. Wing wing click clack wing wing stomp! Ms manager ballet who only spoke enough English to tell my daughter her feet are unusually huge, pokes her head out sideways from a rack of tutus. We have earned her respect. Oh now she brings out the fancy board of leather samples and suggests we buy a custom pair for only a modest amount more. A real dancer should have custom built shoes. But we feel the persimmons are just perfect and we’ll save those extra euros because her feet may still be growing.
Caramel curls is back and we discuss the fact that there’s room for insoles for my daughter’s arch support. She practices the word, it is new to her. “Isss ole…” I warn, hearing the possible confusion, “Just make sure you pronounce the N, you want insoles not assholes.” We laugh as Nora pitter patters away on the board, still deciding whether to spend all her Christmas money on the first day.
Ms manager ballet offers us a smile and another five percent off. Nora grins. “I feel it’s right.” I grin back. “Me too.” We giggle and head for the till.
Our next stop on the Metro is Sagrada Familia. It is evening by now. We walk up the stairs to the Main Street and Nora nearly falls over when she looks up and sees the imposing impossible Gaudi wonder. “Wow, I’ve never seen anything that amazing in my life!” It is awe inspiring madness, nightmarish and giddily glorious all at once. We pop around the corner to Los Bellota, an unpretentious little restaurant with a great wine selection. We have some fabulous salads and share a paella with very tender octopus and prawns. Because we have time (the boy’s flight has been delayed) we also order dessert. I had a crema Catalan – very much like a creme brûlée. I shared a bit of cava with Nora. She had some sort of parfait. High on sugar and beauty we get back on the metro and head to the airport to meet the boys.
Because their flight was so delayed we weren’t able to take the metro back as I had carefully planned but hailed a cab instead. The fifty euros was worth it. I wouldn’t have wanted to subject them to an hour and a half bus ride after their day. The boys were in good shape but quite hungry so after dumping their suitcases, we wander the quiet streets of Badalona until we find a little neon gin bar tucked away down one of the winding streets. All they had to eat was alcohol and a few odd jelly candies. We did have a gorgeous GnT with juniper berries and fresh lemon. We tell the bartender uncesssarily that we’re on holiday. He looks at us cock-eyed and says, “In Badalona?!” Then he pens a few “must eat” restaurants for us.
We wander back home, the happy if not light headed foursome. How’s this for glory? These people I get to call family. These lovely humans who make even suburbs magical. This boy who quietly admires a bronze door knocker, this girl who skips along the stones, this man who smiles at me warmly. “It’s good to be here, Bella. With you.”
Before I left Vancouver I popped over to see my friend and see her new house by the ocean. I will call this friend…Virginia Wolfe. (Not for the whole taking a swim in the lake thing, but for the elegant feminist literary genius thing) Anyway, as we wandered around her gorgeous neighbourhood I mused about the way both our lives had transformed in the past five years. In the same year we met our husbands and step kids and suddenly had a whole new blessed life with a home by the sea. Who would have seen that coming? Certainly not me. I tested my theory of luck vs blessing on her. “Aren’t we lucky?” She turned sharply towards me. “No, Lucia, we made this happen. I mean, yes, luck certainly had something to do with it, but we also chose this.”
Oh Virginia, how I love you.
At 1am, our little family turns down the tiny streets towards Santa Maria and we unlock our heavy wooden door. Not a cockroach in sight. We fix up an omelette and nibble at those lardy Mrs Lovett croissants. We will see Barcelona tomorrow.
Sounds like a great adventure!!
That it is indeed!