Spanish Lullabies

Warning: There is no photographic evidence to prove this holiday ever took place. Spain and Italy being what they are, Becky and I returned from our trip with no cameras, cash or credit cards. Imagine a photo of a Spanish fountain here.

No. 43: Roll like Catherine of Aragon

...Leaving the square we return to the hostel to get our bags, saying goodbye to the quiet guy running the front desk who Becky and Sarah have dubbed Hot Jesus.

The sun has finally set and there won’t be much to do until the clock gets closer to midnight, so we look for a restaurant where we can sit until the streets get crowded again. Walking down Las Ramblas, the main promenade where most of Barcelona’s traffic pools through, we see a small café with doors wide open, a youngish looking man in a gray suit motioning for us to come in.

“Buenos noches senoritas. Are you American?”

We sit down as the friendly assumer passes out menus and glasses of water. I’m using my small red suitcase as a footstool as Becky orders bread and tomatoes for the table, and a shot glass appears in front of me.

“This is very special,” the restaurant man tells us, revealing a glass bottle containing a bright yellow liquid that looks like Mountain Dew. He introduces himself as Alonso, the manager of the restaurant, and he pours us each a thimbleful of the drink. It tastes like Windex.

“Where are you beautiful ladies from?” Alfonso asks as he pours more window cleaner into our glasses.

“From Florida,” Sarah tells him as she bobs her head to a song playing on the radio. It’s Hungry Eyes, and I find myself humming along as well.

“Florida is very beautiful,” he replies. “Miami is a wonderful place.”

“You’ve been?” Becky asks.

“No, but I have many friends who have told me.”

Sarah starts to sing along to the music in the background, doing her best Jenifer Grey impression. As she finishes the middle chorus I pick up the lyrics.

I’ve got hungry eyes/I feel the magic between you and I/I’ve got hungry eyes

Sarah takes hold of my hand and we’re in a duet. Someone turns up the radio and we stand to finish the performance, drawing out the last note and gazing lovingly at each other as if Sarah’s father has just told me nobody puts Baby in the corner.

We finish to mild applause and more yellow alcohol.

“You do know I just filmed that, right?” Becky asks me.

“Oh leave me alone,” I say. “Sarah makes everyone bisexual.”

“Where are you girls going later?” asks Alfonso, delighted with our display. “I would love to show you a club my friend owns.”

Becky and I look at one another to silently debate the issue with our eyes, while Sarah replies “Sounds like fun.”

“Yeah, that would be good,” I hear myself say, wondering if I’ve had too much Windex cocktail.

We gather our things and head back out to Las Ramblas, which is beginning to wake up. Marquees are lit up on top of bar fronts and a group of girls in short skirts and cheap high heels are waving to convertibles that pass by.

“This is my car,” Alfonso says, pointing to a small blue compact. I’m sure I’ve seen a Lifetime made-for-TV movie cautioning against this, 'Mother May I Leave Without My Daughter,' but I climb in the backseat behind my friends. As we race down the street I try not to think about how my father would react to my current situation, which isn’t difficult given the warm hum in my blood following three straight hours of drinking.

Sarah is chatting with our new guide in surprisingly good Spanish, and we pull in to a small parking lot positioned next to a beach...

Scary Ghost Stories and Tales of the Glories

No. 42: Have a British Christmas

Christmas in England has a lot to do with ghost stories, something I should have figured out from constant readings of “A Christmas Carol” and “The Turn of the Screw.” I’m understanding it fully now as Zeddy and I board a motorized cart to ride through a Christmas-themed haunted house that’s set up in the middle of Hyde Park. I wasn’t aware that things like Christmas-themed haunted houses existed, but I also wasn’t previously aware that some people in this world eat pig’s blood for breakfast and call it sausage. I’m learning a lot this year.

“Boo!” shouts a gray plastic ghost with a Christmas wreath around his neck, as it jumps out at me and Zeddy while we sit politely in our slow moving car.

“Zeddy, this doesn’t seem like a traditional Christmas,” I say as we pass some rubber spiders hung up on a tree like ornaments.

“Of course it’s traditional,” he replies, snapping my photo as we move along. “We have roasted chestnuts.”

Zeddy hands me one of the chestnuts and I pretend to eat it. Roasted chestnuts are fantastic in a Mel Torme song, but are a little bland in real life. They’re sold at tiny stands throughout the city come December-time and taste a bit like raw peanuts covered in tree bark. I spit some shell out onto the moving ground below us and cover it up as a cough.

We came to Hyde Park today for some ice skating, something my Florida self had never actually done outside. Obviously, I’ve spent plenty of summer camp time at the Sunrise Ice Rink, a man-made and air conditioned shrine to frost, but the idea of strapping on skates and gliding around in fresh air had me thrilled. Taking to the ice this morning I was filled with Christmas cheer, and I decided to share some of my American traditions as we gracefully glided over English ice.

“Zeddy, have you ever heard of a movie called ‘A Christmas Story’?”

“A film Erica, we call them films.”

“Yes,” I replied, holding my arms out at either side to steady myself, as a group of 12 year olds zoomed past me in ear muffs. “Have you heard of it?”

“No, but it sounds like it’s about Christmas.”

“It is,” I said, flapping my arms about. “It’s very famous in America, and on Christmas day there’s this TV network that plays it for 24 hours straight, over and over.”

“Splendid. What’s it about?”

“Well, it’s about this boy named Ralphie and he really wants a bee bee gun for Christmas. And everyone says he can’t have one because he’ll shoot his eye out. But then he gets one and he goes outside, and he shoots his eye out.”

Zeddy turned his feet and came to a halt on the rink, sending up a spray of icy foam and causing me to run into the side wall as I hadn’t yet picked up my stopping technique.

“That sounds bloody awful!”

“Why?” I shouted back. “It’s wonderful, everyone loves it.”

“He shoots his eye out?” Zeddy asked incredulously. “Sounds like just the thing some barmy American would come up with. How about ‘I Ran Over an Elf’? Or ‘I Slaughtered Santa?'”

“All right, all right,” I said, stomping toward the little exit platform on the side of the rink.

“Or ‘I’ve Killed a Gingerbread,’ or ‘I Raped a Reindeer’?”

For the remainder of the morning I stopped sharing my countrymen’s traditions.

Star Sightings

No. 39: Attend a film premiere at Leicester Square

If you’re genuinely British, you prove it by talking about how much you hate Leicester Square. It’s big, crowded, noisy, flashy, filled with tourists, and I love it. The area is surrounded by little theatres, outdoor cafes, street painters, shops selling those obnoxiously tall hats with the Union Jack on them, and lots and lots of cinemas.

These movie houses attract worldwide attention, as every film ever has its big London premiere at a Leicester Square theater. Anything Colin Firth, Emma Thompson or Mr. Bean has been in was first screened here.

I learn this one evening as I cut across the square to get to China Town for some crispy duck on pancakes. I’m walking along innocently enough when shrieks the stuff of Beatles mania fill the air. I see an astonishing crowd of people and camera flashes going off, above me a large banner with the word “Twilight” emblazoned on it.

Huh. Must be a run on Pick n Mix at the Odeon. (I’ll take a moment here to praise the English tradition that is Pick n Mix. Americans have hot buttery popcorn at the movies, the Brits have jars and jars of gummy fried eggs, shrimp-shaped Smartees and banana smiles. Look into it.)

I’m reading my morning Metro on the Central line the next morning before I understand. Photos of Robert Pattinson are splattered on the pages, with background shots of dreamy eyed girls fawning over the vampire heartthrob as he walks the red carpet in Leicester Square. I’m amazed at my powers of observation, and shrug it off as a missed opportunity.

But this is not the last time this happens to me. Like a moth to a flame, I seem to continually find myself walking past huge Blockbuster mega stars as they publicize their latest films. I hear women screaming for Will Smith and tweens crying over Zac Efron; see ladies falling out of windows to sneak a peek at Josh Hartnett and watch cars filled with James McAvoy’s entourage speeding away. I find it very bizarre, this element of the superstar walking down the little side road where I like to pick up a box of takeaway curry.

I thoroughly enjoy anything having to do with celebrity, though, and begin to keep track of the A-list brushes I walk by; my piece de resistance came one afternoon when I passed Patrick Stewart walking down Shaftesbury Avenue in sunglasses and a baseball cap. I followed him for five blocks.

Unfortunately, such ready access to fame begins to lose some of its sparkle, a truth I realize one evening when Lauren and I stake out a spot in the bustling square where we heard rumor some filming would be taking place for the next Harry Potter movie. There’s a crowd of people lined up behind a small barricade and we assume we must be in the right spot, until we learn the eager bunch are waiting to catch a glimpse of Russell Crowe, who’s about to step out of his SUV. We sigh in disappointment, shrug our shoulders, and promptly head home.