After a few days languishing on the Spanish coast, we headed back into the city to meet friends who are living there for the school year. Our girls are the same age and their family is wonderfully immersed in the city and the local culture. Plus, they promised us turkey and stuffing. We enjoyed a few days wandering the city, being tourists and having them show us all the sights which were wonderful. We absolutely loved Spain. (Or at least the Andalucia region, as we have not been anywhere else to yet pass proper judgement.)
Besides, it was there that I met the Barber of Seville. I’m pretty sure it was him. He had a certain flourish with the scissors as he waved them about that seemed decidedly theatrical. And, as he opened his well-worn straight razor and brought it to my neck, I noticed a shake in his equally well-worn hand that suggested he was certainly old enough. He spoke no English and with my limited Spanish, I hoped I had explained that I wanted a slight trim up top and a shave out front and not the other way around.
He hummed as he worked, and when he leaned in close to manage the details, he smelled like a mix of coffee, leather and after shave that I assumed was applied daily from one of the ancient bottles on the shelf above me. Tonics with names like Uomo, Sexista, and the old standbys, Aqua Velvet and Karate.
Then he leaned me back in the lone chair and it was then that I saw the poster on the wall. A signed photo of Miguel Indurain, Spain’s most celebrated cyclist and multiple Tour de France winner. He is a hero here on the order of George Clooney and Peyton Manning combined. It was personally signed with a note which I asked him about. He gestured to the chair I was in and said that Miguel was his customer, too. Me and Miguel. He could have shaved my head and I would have gone home happy.
Besides, it was there that I met the Barber of Seville. I’m pretty sure it was him. He had a certain flourish with the scissors as he waved them about that seemed decidedly theatrical. And, as he opened his well-worn straight razor and brought it to my neck, I noticed a shake in his equally well-worn hand that suggested he was certainly old enough. He spoke no English and with my limited Spanish, I hoped I had explained that I wanted a slight trim up top and a shave out front and not the other way around.
He hummed as he worked, and when he leaned in close to manage the details, he smelled like a mix of coffee, leather and after shave that I assumed was applied daily from one of the ancient bottles on the shelf above me. Tonics with names like Uomo, Sexista, and the old standbys, Aqua Velvet and Karate.
Then he leaned me back in the lone chair and it was then that I saw the poster on the wall. A signed photo of Miguel Indurain, Spain’s most celebrated cyclist and multiple Tour de France winner. He is a hero here on the order of George Clooney and Peyton Manning combined. It was personally signed with a note which I asked him about. He gestured to the chair I was in and said that Miguel was his customer, too. Me and Miguel. He could have shaved my head and I would have gone home happy.
On Thanksgiving proper we went to a tapas bar for dinner. (Note: When you explain to someone on a crowded and noisy airplane that you took your daughters to a tapas bar, be sure to enunciate or you might get nasty looks from the rather pious folks seated around you.)
Spanish tapas are the best invention in the free world. You grab a table, order a beverage and then they brings you little snacks. Then you order from an exotic list of other snacks, all perfectly proportioned to share a bite or two. When you have had your fill, you wander off to another tapas bar and start the ritual over again. You do this until about 2 am, at which point you sing while wandering through the cobbled streets among friends.
We had quail legs and little baked Moroccan puff-pastries stuffed with chicken, saffron and cinnamon. We had calamari and cured jamon (Note: they are a little possessive of their ham, so don't ever try to compare it to Italian proscuitto in front of them). It wasn't turkey, but it was special and we were decidedly thankful. On Friday, we spent the day wandering the sights, marveling at the architecture and the orange trees, meeting our friends, and then ending the day at their church, with a variety of expats, college students and locals, enjoying an authentic Thanksgiving meal with all the fixings, which made us as full as it did homesick.
Spanish tapas are the best invention in the free world. You grab a table, order a beverage and then they brings you little snacks. Then you order from an exotic list of other snacks, all perfectly proportioned to share a bite or two. When you have had your fill, you wander off to another tapas bar and start the ritual over again. You do this until about 2 am, at which point you sing while wandering through the cobbled streets among friends.
We had quail legs and little baked Moroccan puff-pastries stuffed with chicken, saffron and cinnamon. We had calamari and cured jamon (Note: they are a little possessive of their ham, so don't ever try to compare it to Italian proscuitto in front of them). It wasn't turkey, but it was special and we were decidedly thankful. On Friday, we spent the day wandering the sights, marveling at the architecture and the orange trees, meeting our friends, and then ending the day at their church, with a variety of expats, college students and locals, enjoying an authentic Thanksgiving meal with all the fixings, which made us as full as it did homesick.
Saturday we rose early and went out for fresh churros, which are the Spanish equivalent of the carnival funnel cake, albeit refined. Then Kellie had the chance to get out on the river in a rowing shell with our friend, Gregar, while the rest of us rented bikes and rode down the promenade shouting encouragement and taking photos. We filled the day, and ourselves, with more tapas and then turned in to prepare for the 4:30 am alarm clock for our return to Italy. Lindsay, on the other hand, went out on the town with her friend, and returned a few hours before the alarm sounded, making for a short night. We were back in Rome by 9:30 and in Florence by early afternoon, where we checked into the apartment we'll be until our return to the states next week. Time is winding down and we have a lot of mixed emotions – we're as anxious to get home as we are eager to embrace the time we have left in this amazing place.