Travel is one of the biggest bonuses that Adventure 20-13 affords us. We’re a plane, train or automobile ride away from Europe and all the culture, cubism or Caesar you can shake a stick at. We may though be better off with the States as our proverbial travel backyard. I say this because our son only ever wants pink milk and slap chips. At any time. In any country. I want to project an image of myself as a refined and cultured embodiment of a good education and a keen interest in history and world affairs. The truth is that I’m quite rude, very crass and wouldn’t know my Gauguin from my Guttoso if they gonked me on the backside. I fit better in America – just as well as my son’s palette it seems. Despite physicality to the contrary, we’re clearly related.
I resolve however to persevere with Europe and make headway into my mission to take in her sights and understand more of her sensibilities. If only to be in a stronger position to geographically pinpoint where each of her countries is located on the world map. Something I confess I am not currently able to do. And I did Geography for Matric. Yes, I know…Hit me Baby one more Time. # Homage-reluctantly-paid-to-Britney-Spears.
For our maiden European Appreciation voyage, we were fortunate enough to be hosted en masse for a week by our friend at her family home in Valencia. A beautiful four bedroom casita set in the rural hills in a region known as Olocau. Big enough to house our brood and the chaos we create and sturdy enough for the same reason. We had a week full of sunshine, swimming and off-the-beaten-track Spain. I’ve condensed my experience into a couple of memories that stand out. You’ll notice very little culture. But shedloads of chaos. Funny that.
• On our departure day, our four-year-old son was randomly searched at customs at Heathrow. A waifish little chap buffered between beefy security amidst a bustling airport is a sight to behold I tell you. He was curtly asked to remove his shoes. Taken aside. And then frisked. He took it all in his stride though. Cool as a cucumber as he was patted down by Attila the Hun. I wanted to ask the guard what he possibly could be packing on such a slight little frame? Bombs from Honey I Shrunk the Kids? Cocaine for little people? I withheld comment though. For once. Probably for the best.
• I tried to smuggle in a litre of milk for my daughter in my hand luggage. My more seasoned travel companions made me remove it before the security police laughed me all the way to the sink. What’s wrong with a little milk on a plane? A lot apparently.
• In Spain, driving on the right side of the road isn’t right. Neither are traffic circles when you approach them from the wrong side. We had a baptism of fire navigating the highways of Madrid en route to Valencia – a three hour journey. My husband lost five kilograms in perspiration and my friend and I toned our glutes with butt clenches at every circle, every entry and exit to a different highway and all the driving in between.
• Tom, the disembodied monosyllabic man who speaks over the satellite navigator app, is a douchebag. Exit to the right does not actually mean to the nearest right. It means at a right approaching at some point. So don’t get into the right lane. Stay in the middle until you miss your exit and you’re treated to the ‘recalculating jingle’. We got a little lost in the dark in an industrial estate in Madrid. We nearly killed Tom there. And left him in one of the 18 alleys he wrongfully took us through. It would’ve served him right. Fortunately lady luck smiled on us weary travellers and with a few blatant disregards of Tom’s cockeyed directions, we made it out. It was touch and go for a while though.
• On this very same car journey to Valencia from Madrid we had to stay awake to remind my husband to stay on the right side of the road. This was so we could stay alive. To achieve a semblance of consciousness, we spoke a lot of crap and ate a lot of crap. I spent much of the journey talking about the most psychotic murder documentaries I’d watched. Driving in the dark in a foreign country with a palpable fear of dying via road death, it somehow seemed an appropriate topic.
• The serial killer theme was given more context by the public toilets that were our pit-stops en route. Pit being the operative word. Spanish toilets make the South African toilets you get at home affairs look larney. They’re proper rank.
• According to the song from the musical My Fair Lady, The rain in Spain falls mainly on the Plain. Just not in Valencia. And not in August. We packed 23 kilos of clothing for four of us, including nappies. Which I figured was pretty impressive. After having condensed our lives into seven suitcases – I proudly believed I had the packing thing waxed. Baggage beast slayed. Truth is, we could’ve packed a single change of clothing, a bathing suit and a towel each and we’d have been sorted for a week. It was over 30 degrees every day. My jeans and hoodie mocked me in the cupboard the entire week. I could practically hear the ‘nah-nah-nah-nah-nah’.
• The Spanish locals are in awe of children with blonde hair. Friendly locals patted our children’s heads everywhere we went. Not unlike in a petting zoo come to think of it. But with less bread and fewer animals. And no cages.
• Few locals speak English in the rural parts of Spain. Thanks to our Spanish-heritage friend, we learnt to say "La cuenta por favor” which means “Check please”. But we did have issues with ordering an iced coffee that literally arrived as black coffee with ice. Looked like a glass of coke. Tasted like jet fuel. At least we could pay for it though.
• My culinary journey with tapas was born and then promptly died shortly after birth. We had two slimy fishy dishes served at a local restaurant which I gave a good go, but I’m not a fan of white soggy fish or slimy fish skin. So I ate a whole lot of bread and cheese. I was also very enthusiastic about the olives and chorizo. And the authentic paella that our host made on our last night. I committed culinary suicide akin to say squirting tomato sauce on truffles - when I made wraps for padkos with the leftover paella and added mustard and balsamic glaze to ‘season’. # Just-Not-Done.
• We drank a lot. Spanish beer is good and very reasonable priced. A quaffable bottle of Rioja sets you back about 2 Euro, which is less than the cost of the tolls on the highway. And it’s not battery acid. It’s very good. My advice – whatever you think you’ll drink, double it. When in Spain…
• The Spaniards take their siestas very seriously. Between the hours of 2 and 5pm, everything shuts down. Literally. Shutters are closed. Shades are drawn. You’ll struggle to get ice if your tongue was on fire during this time. Petrol is even harder to come by. Best place to be is lying prostrate on a lilo in a swimming pool. The pool will come in handy if you do manage to set your tongue on fire.
• Our return trip to Madrid airport for our flight back to the UK was…I’ll just say eventful. We set off at sparrows anticipating that douchebag Tom would lead us along the path of temptation and deliver us to evil. We were wrong. About Tom. He was uncharacteristically compliant. But we did encounter evil. And it came in the form of child vomit. Our two year old started retching approximately 20 minutes into the three hour journey and as if on queue in some pantomime for the seriously disturbed, my son followed suit. They vomited like you see on the movies. Like that scene in Bridemaids. Except not as funny. Not funny at all. We’re talking projectile vomit. All over their laps, the seats – I even found chunks in my handbag. We pulled over at the nearest exit. Changed their clothes. Cleaned as best we could. Then set off to catch our flight. The vomiting continued though. Pretty much the rest of the way. I ended up using a plastic biscuit tub to alternate catching the sick between each child’s up-chuck. When it was a well-timed tandem vom session, I used my hand as a cup. It was one of those moments where I had to remind myself that I chose motherhood. The two feral ones exist at least in part because of me. They didn’t choose me as their mother any more than I had any say whatsoever over their wussy lack of ability to hold their solids and liquids in a moving vehicle. Like a mantra, I kept reminding myself of this fact. If I hadn’t, you’d have certainly spotted two kotch-riddled little blondies on the side of a highway on the outskirts of Madrid brandishing a sign “Free to Good Homes”. I kid you not. It was that bad.
• To bid an authentic adiós or chau to Spain – we could only do it by making a scene at the airport. It’s just how we roll. No poise. No class. Just a shambolic dogshow all the way. In efforts to find my son…yip you guessed it… pink milk and chips, we trawled the airport. We eventually gave up and settled for doughnuts. No less yank but easier to come by at Madrid Airport for some reason. Afterwards we decided to buy some perfume for Granny Gail at Duty Free. Then we suddenly realised that our flight was boarding. Then we couldn’t find the gate. Then we started running. We eventually screeched to the boarding gate waving our children in the hopes they’d have mercy on the stupid tourists. We made it by a hair’s breadth. Grim faced crew waved us in and we did the aisle walk of shame in front of 200 passengers already strapped in and ready to go. Oh and I failed to mention… I had puke on my skirt. In my hair. And in my bag. A class act indeed. Watch out Europe – there’s a special breed of ‘culture’ heading your way. The Cook family.
