Charity

Charity:  In general, an attitude of kindness and understanding towards others, now especially suggesting generosity.  

To finish up my Transfer Rampage with a tip story . . . 

I was stewing in my own sour juices in the back of the van, spine rattling with every bump, knees tucked up into my chin, when I thought: "This dude is not getting a tip."  Fortunately, with the three hour trip still on-going, I had time to recalculate -  I realized it wasn't the driver's fault and I realized he was the least well compensated of all of the shuttle personnel that I was condemning to the fiery pits of hell in my mind.

When we got home I told him again that I wasn't angry with him and I pulled out a $20 bill.  

"If you've got a ten this is for you," I said.

He pulled out some change.  He had a five and some ones.

"That's OK," he said.  "Whatever you've got, a few bucks is OK."

I dug out the few smaller bills I had, passed them over, shook his hand, and we were home.  

"You know what?"  I told SuperK.  "There were three other couples in the van who got dropped off before us and this guy only had $7 on him."

Makes you think.

Trip Thoughts

Shallow:  Concerned mainly with superficial matters; significantly less deep than wide.

I think we're not that great in being nice to each other if by "we're" you mean "I'm."  I sent this note to my dear friend Barcelona K after our trip.  I realize that it kind of ruins the concept if you do something nice and then tell everyone about it - it makes me suspect an individual's motives - but I've established myself as someone with Shallow Motives.

Anyway, we had trouble getting our internet up and running, thus the short response.

My ears felt pretty unstuffed on Friday morning so I went No Medication - I'm so sensitive to drugs that most of the time the side effects are worse than the cure - for the flight.  No discomfort on take-off but I started getting some weird noises in my head - kind of a metally squinch, like pressure was equalizing but there wasn't much room for error - so I took a decongestant right away and had smooth sailing.  (Barcelona K had asked about my stuffed up head after we got home).

You might want to save this email because I'm going to attempt to say something nice.  :)  You'll find I'm not hard on people as a general rule but I don't pass out compliments like a salesman, either.

Both SuperK and I really enjoyed our time together.  I had this somewhat incomplete memory of you - all very pleasant but we didn't spend all that much time together before you left  - what was it, the jail and maybe Monday night?  I was thrilled to see that my failing memory was spot on - you've become a fine youngish man and we're so happy for your great wife, your great son (times two, now), and the life you've built in a great city.  You were a big part of out experience - the meetings, the dinner at Saga's and the market, the Maritime museum extravaganza, Vietnamese.

It was a legendary trip for us.  We enjoyed much of it, soldiered through some rough spots, and learned a couple of important things about the next one.  Number one: The Fellowship is REALLY important.  Number two: we have to make sure we get an extra room in our apartments.  SuperK and I got along fine but two months, right on top of each other, is too much to ask - she was great because I'm a big personality with some annoying, pedantic, control-freak tendencies. Number three: we need to move a little more often because we have the time to waste on relocation days.

I like the fact that you've stepped out into the big, bad world and are giving things a whirl.  It can be so comforting being in a nice little routine but it can be so boring, too.  So I say this: if it sounds interesting, do it.  We are always doing new things: we had never been to Europe for two months before so there was a learning curve.  How about you?  Ever had a wife and two kids before?  I didn't think so.

Hugs and kisses.

Seaweed and SuperK

The Transfer

Transfer:  To move or pass from one place, person or thing to another.

After experiencing the joys of travel for 2 months, today we experience the agony.  We have an early flight so naturally, keyed up about all the things that can go wrong with an early flight – alarm not going off, cab not showing up, fiery meteor storm from hell striking our building – we don’t sleep very well, awakening long before the alarm does indeed go off.  There’s a lot to be said for the comfort of the Home Alarm System – it’s tried, it’s true, it has stood the test of time.  As we finish our packing, I look outside and see our cab tucked into the alley across from the apartment, a good 20 minutes early. 

I step out onto the balcony – the driver looks up: “Cinco minutos,” I say, holding up 5 fingers.

“Tranquilo,” he replies.

That is such a great word.  Literally: tranquil.  Idiomatically: it’s cool; chill, dude; don’t sweat it, I’m good.

We have a nice ride to the airport, swapping a little Spanish and a little English.  I will say again: people appreciate the effort.  I give the guy a big tip even though in Europe taxi drivers don’t expect much extra.

He collects himself and then says in Spanish: “Until your next trip to Barcelona” or something like that.  Maybe it was: “C’mon back, y’all.”

We are at the airport the requisite 2 hours early for an international flight so we can maneuver through security and customs; the first leg of our trip is just under 4 hours; a 2 hour lay-over; then the big leg, 11 hours in coach.  Ah, can’t beat it.  In reality it was all OK – it’s unbelievable to be able to travel 6,000 miles with so little effort.

Things begin to go downhill at this point and it’s not like we’ve had an painless day already – we just want to get home, take a shower, and climb into bed.  The main airport serving Vacation City is one big airport and we’ve wisely timed our arrival for 5PM on a Friday night before a 3 day weekend.  We contact our shuttle service.  The time is 5PM and we have an hour ride home.  We have been awake for about 20 hours and we’re dealing with the discombobulation of a 9 hour time change when the shuttle shows up with 6 other passengers already on board.

Two hours later we drop off the last of our fellow passengers and I ask the driver how much longer we have.

“About an hour,” he says.

SuperK and I understand that there’s some give and take in travel.  We understand that the shuttle service makes more money if it has a full van.  We understand that farthest away means last off.  Traffic is very heavy which we understand given the day and time.  We also understand that if we would have had some WWII circa grenades with us that some shit would have been blown up. 

I tell the driver that I’m upset.  I use neutral words and I keep my voice at a reasonable level.  I tell him that I’m not upset with him but with his company.  I ask SuperK if I can call the company and she agrees readily.  I can’t stress how unusual this is – when I’m pissed off she almost never lets me open my mouth let alone call someone on the phone, and you can forget about the computer, too.

I don’t think they much cared, to be honest about it.  It was a big deal yesterday but today who cares, really?

F.F.A.

I have contracted a cold.  Some evil Spanish rhinovirus.

We had a thunderstorm last night and the rain fell hard.

Our TV default here - an Internet based service - was taken down by a computer virus.

I'm reading a book set in the future where the ravaging of the planet by man has progressed to a point that a lot of areas are no longer livable.  It's set in two places: an area not far from The New City and the actual area of Vacation Town.  It's been somewhat disconcerting having a writer describe, in apocalyptic terms, two areas with which I'm very familiar.  Weirdly, we got a call from our landlord or caretaker or manager or whatever you call the dude who's in charge of the rental of our land in the trailer park, asking us to call "as soon as possible."  Imagining awful things - our trailer sucked into the stratosphere by a tornado or swallowed by a sinkhole or burnt in a fire - we call, to be told that the weeds in our lot have become a problem.

Last night, in my feverish sleep, I got these two incidents mixed together, waking up with an indeterminate sense that something was wrong.  I have been besieged by a bout of Free Floating Anxiety, the state where worry about odd things becomes real.  It has been a disconcerting day.  I really hate FFA.

Do Not Put the Garbage in the Hallway

Our hosts get to review us as guests - it doesn't just work one way.  If a guest trashes an apartment or sets up a meth lab or something like that it gets passed around.  Fair enough and good for them.  In Nimes, site of the great industrial sanding incident, we gave our hostess Arelette a good review.  We didn't believe that it was her fault that industrial sanders were being used so vigorously and she worked hard to rectify the problem.  She posted the following note about us, translated humorously by Google.

Seaweed and SuperK are lovely hosts!  Communication prior to arrival helped organize welcoming them more comfortable.  Unfortunately work not provided for in the building forced them to shorten their stay.  They were perfectly nice and understanding, despite six days in noise and dust.  They reassured me instead of against me, and left the apartment in a clean state.  I thank them from the bottom of my heart for their kindness and understanding, and I hope to welcome them again in better conditions of course.  I highly recommend these travelers!

Now wasn't that nice?  Seems like we were doing something right.  That's the goal - doing something right, right?

Then, the totally unresponsive people from St. Remy gave us this commendation: 

Everything went well with Steve and his wife.

Doesn't exactly make your heart leap with joy, does it?  I wouldn't classify that as singing our praises.  Honestly, I really didn't care until I saw that they added this private note, for our eyes only:

Do not leave garbage in the hallway.

You might recall that we found these hosts to be on the crappier side.  They didn't respond to any of our questions without repeated follow-up and even then they often answered some other question than the one that was asked.  Ironically, one of the questions I asked more than once but never received an answer for was: "What do I do with the garbage?"  Because they ignored me I started to put the garbage out in the hall.  I didn't want the garbage in the apartment.  I figured if it was in a public space that it might trigger a response which it did, albeit a totally unhelpful response.

I want to know where to put the garbage, not where not to put it, dig?  And really, what are they doing?  Getting us schooled for when we come back to their apartment in a couple of weeks?  I assumed they were treating us with disdain because they figured they would never see us again.  It was like I got served a bad steak, so bad that I had to spit partially chewed gristle and tendon into a napkin which I left on my plate, and the restaurant complained about the detritus.  The problem isn't where I'm spitting the gristle - the problem IS the gristle.

I had been pondering a harsh review but decided against it.  This may change my mind.

Gargoyle Seaweed

I don't think I've ever heard a joke in French.  I don't think the French are a very funny people.  I don't think I laughed in France.  I don't mean to suggest I didn't enjoy myself - just that I didn't hear much laughing.

The British, however, are hilarious.  One night when our Internet was being balky we fired up some Monty Python clips.  Good stuff, even if this reference does age me.

I'm back out on my Gothic Quarter balcony, three flights up, watching people walk by.  I'm starting to recognize some of these individuals which is a very good thing or a very bad thing.  I've come down with a cold - not a good thing - but my bowels have been working like clockwork since I re-entered Spain - decidedly good.  I like this town.  I could come back to this town and I don't go back anywhere.

I was thinking back on the end of my drinking days.  I can clearly remember wondering if I would not be able to take care of myself at some point in the future.  I wasn't a gutter drunk but I sure was a you-can-see-the-gutter-from-here drunk.  I was moving toward the gutter faster than I was going the other way.  So here I sit, perched like a gargoyle on his narrow perch, my beloved wife hovering nearby, enough time and money that I can take a two month vacation half a world away.

This is some good stuff.  I'm proud that I've put in the effort and the work to get here and I'm acutely aware of my tremendous good fortune.

Pandora

Pandora's Box:  An artifact of Greek mythology . . . and actually a large jar which contained all the evils of the world.

That's some jar.  Some skeptics see a similarity between this story and the Bible's Adam and Eve tale, which occurred much later.  I'm just sayin.'

Grind: To move with much difficulty or friction.

Today we climb into our VW Polo and begin the descent from the heady spiritual heights of Montserrat and into the controlled implosion that is Barcelona.  The trip has awakened a whole Pandora's Box of nagging little worries: I need gasoline to avoid the hefty for returning the car un-full but I don't know where the gas stations are - they aren't located every 50 feet like the The States - and I don't want to get off in a bad neighborhood, which seems likely the closer I get to the inner city, while making sure I don't buy the gas too early and use up enough gas to put me in Fine Land, AND, I confess, I'd like to use as much gas as possible without the needle dropping below full which is . . . you know . . . pretty unethical.

Then there's the whole driving in Barcelona thing.  The roads in Europe are roughly the same size as a rain gutter in The States.  Driving rules are flexible and indeterminate.  I would be in a deep, dark dungeon in Vacation City were I to pull half the moves I pull on an average drive here and I may be the most law-abiding driver in Spain.  People really just go where they want to go - there doesn't seem to be much concern for where anyone else is.  If I'm kind and let one person merge then I open the door to a whole merge-a-thon, people merging right at my car.  If you blink you die.  Other drivers can smell your weakness and they come from miles around to merge in front of you.  They make outrageously illegal U-turns to come back and re-merge, laughing all the while.  When you start to recognize the people cutting you off it's time to pull over and take some deep breaths.

The gas thing went OK, $90 to fill the $%!! car notwithstanding, although I did get behind some slacker kids at the station trying to buy tobacco and cokes and snacks and shit.  The attendant rolled her eyes at me as if to say "fuckin' kids."  And I did successfully get the car into the general area of our apartment.  There are so many narrow, Medieval one-way roads in there that if I entered I would never get back out.  Fifty years from now I'd still be in there driving around.  I parked in a no-stopping-ever handicapped loading zone next to a fire hydrant in front of a nursing home while SuperK went for the keys.  I had to move the car several times, shushed out of the way by delivery guys and municipal workers with a "eh, what can you do" good cheer.  I had to move but no one seemed too mad about it.  

I had rivers of sweat pouring off me by the time SuperK returned with the keys - keys the owner didn't want to give her because she wasn't . . . you know . . . me.  The woman holding the keys was a new contact and spoke no English and kept trying to take my wife to the apartment. SuperK managed to finally pantomime: "If you don't give me the keys right now I'm going to kill you."  When she returned I put on my emergency blinkers and we hustled the luggage to our place.  I enjoyed using the blinkers - all the lights on the car go on and off, on and off.  There was no emergency, to the best of my knowledge, beyond the fact that I didn't want to move the car again.  We got the car back to Europcar, full of gas and none the worse for wear and despite a printed sheet warning that people will try to steal your luggage, they'll try to divert you by offering to help some non-existent problem, they'll impersonate a Europcar employee to steal the whole fucking car, for chrissake.  I was vaguely worried about this, too.

SuperK said: "I feel like I'm home."  That's a good feeling.  Everything went fine.  Niggling worries added up to nothing.  I didn't worry about them too much but I shouldn't have worried about them at all.  It was a day of little victories over little challenges and that, my friends, is a big part of what makes travel such a grind and such a joy.