Note: Before the concept of international travel became a fading concept with That Wretched Beast Known as Covid, we traveled to Spain quite often. In order to keep the hope alive of once again returning to said lovely country, I have yanked this travel tale from the archives. Enjoy.
I really didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did.
The afternoon had been going splendidly. Another session by the pool with my three compadres. Spirits were flowing, naturally, as such procedures are dictated in the international bylaws of vacationing in a country that is not your own. It’s just what you do.
Slowly, as I piddled with my blog, I realized that the other three were doing things beyond the mere protocols of imbibing. (Side note: Yes, much to the dismay of those who feel that vacations are best spent sans blog, I am allowing myself a few hours to do so each day. There’s something in the air here, in a villa perched on a steep hill on the outskirts of Cómpeta, with the surreal sunlight and the vistas of the sea. There is an ancient language, seeking me, and I want to speak more of it.)
Sigh. I’m digressing once again, which is easy to do here, where the simple distractions compel your pursuit, and the seafood is so astoundingly fresh that you could incorporate a new religion, all hail the new messiah and the tax-exempt status. Speaking of pescado, the lovely Raz and Rosanna commandeered the kitchen in order to prep a glorious mound of fresh prawns for the grill. (They were in there for what seemed like three hours as they did magical things. Well, not always magical. I am not a fan of deveining anything, and I will happily pursue other avenues of alchemy. But they were also invoking the power of bacon strips and jalapeno slivers in a frenzy of Wiccan abandon. Gustatory salvation was waiting in the wings, it must be told.)
My partner, Terry, was equally busy, striving with fortitude and various activities to ensure that the ensuing meal would please the gods of the mountain whereupon we temporarily dwelled. (I’m not exactly sure what he was doing, as he abhors seafood, but his machinations must have proved satisfactory as he was not evicted from the cocina by the Deveining Duo. I suspect that Terry was slyly concocting something non-fishy for his own nosh, but no documentary photos exist of the goings-on.) Preparations finally achieved, the trio then raced to the poolside barbecue station and began sizzling and flipping with alcohol-infused glee.
And those mountain gods did smile. The repast we enjoyed was sublime. I personally had at least three orgasms, I’m not ashamed to admit. (There may have been a fourth, but initial reports from the Seismographic Institute indicate that it was merely a gas bubble with misguided intentions.)
Post-meal, I sprang into action.
Well, not immediately. After three orgasms, maybe four, there is a mandatory recuperative period wherein one must loll about at the scene of the crime and smile whimsically. Objective met, I raced into the kitchen and shooed everyone out. My contribution to the cavalcade of cooking would be to restore the kitchen to a status that would not require crime-scene tape.
Let it be known that resuscitating a room that has endured three hours of prawn-deveining is not something than any of us should hold lofty as a life goal. It’s just not.
Still, I persevered. And I did a rather admirable job, if I’m allowed to admit so. The abused cookware and crusted grilling-implements and mysteriously-sticky counters were now sparkling in absolution. For my final act, I was simply going to wrap a platter of leftovers in aluminum foil and shove it in the fridge.
This was not my immediate destiny.
Instead, upon hoisting the rectangular box of foil, I did something unforgivably wrong and the roll of dainty pressed metal leapt out of my hands, bounced off at least three walls, careened off the stove, ricocheted off the refrigerator, somehow rolled out the front door and essentially tried to flee the mountaintop, wailing that we shouldn’t cry for it, Argentina, as the Tinman’s toilet paper billowed across the countryside.
I was stunned.
More importantly, I did not simply and immediately confess my inadequacies to my villa-mates. I tried to cover my sordid tracks by rewinding 36 wretched miles of aluminum foil onto a tube of shame that is not meant to be rewound.
And thusly, ladies and gentlemen and disappointed gods of the mountaintop, we are left with Exhibit A which opened this post and stunned my traveling companions when they wandered into the kitchen this morning, in search of a spot of tea and instead found this debris from the wreck of the Hindenburg.
Sometimes people should simply keep blogging and not make an attempt to better mankind by tending to the fallout of lacerated prawns.
Original Note: Greetings from Cómpeta, Spain. More to follow. Assuming that I survive the Spanish Inquisition which surely must follow my inability to keep calm and carry on…
New Note: Previously published, revised here and there. And for the few of you who might be wondering, yes, we finished off the leftovers for lunch the next day, once we removed the bits of gravel that were stuck to the aluminum foil. The fare was still just as delicious, and I had my fourth (maybe fifth, jury still out) orgasm. That’s just part of the magic of southern Spain.