Living in Texas, you pick up a lot of Spanish.

I remember a commercial that was done by a news anchor named Gloria Campos, a woman of Mexican descent that appeared to re-embrace her heritage when it became cool to be ethnic again. I remember the commercials she used to do in a whipping Spanish breeziness, advertising the local tv news broadcast she was on in Spanish on an AM radio channel, KRVA (or as she said it, "Kay-AIRRRRR-vay-ah!"

Thanks Gloria.

The Spanish helped a lot while in Mallorca. We've both been to Spain before, for both business and pleasure (in fact Angus had been to Mallorca twice before), but neither of us were that keen on Spain actually, as we had nothing in our memories that stood out as being so exceptional, so sweet, so...something about our travels to Spain.

This trip changed that for both of us.

We took an early morning flight to Palma-the plane was quiet and not so full, we had a row to ourselves that we stretched out in and read a handful of newspapers. We landed without event in Palma, our luggage popped out onto the belt like an overdue baby (proof, for once, that those priority tags on the luggage really do mean something), and then we hopped in a cab to Palma, and to our hotel.

Our hotel was a tiny, family owned one called Hotel Portixol. Angus and I are both big believers that a hotel can make or break the holiday, so we do a lot of research on where to stay, and which hotel to choose. We chose this one since it was recommened in the Rough Guide, and because they looked nice. We got a larger room than we wanted, one with a Mediterranean view, and we opened the doors to our room.

It was amazing.

We had the biggest balcony of the hotel, and two sitting areas that we used constantly while we were there.

See?

Ironically, the hotel had a very strong Swedish influence- their DVD library packed with Swedish films, some of the staff were Swedish, an entire bookshelf in their library devoted to Swedish titles. As we're both still fluent in Swedish, we debated checking some of them out but decided some "us" time was more on the menu. It was amazing that no matter how far you go, you still take pieces and parts of former crossroads in your life with you.

It's easy to get sappy when they pipe Roxy Music through the overhead stereo constantly.

We went for a long walk around Palma. An older town but very lovely, we enjoyed the little alleys, the creaking buildings. The people were very friendly and the wine (which we partook of a great deal, a great deal of the time) had no problems pouring down the throat. It was not warm outside-in fact, when the wind kicked up, it was pretty damn cold-but we were away and enjoying just being outside.

We had a massive lunch then went back to the hotel for a siesta.

As one does when one is in Spain, I guess.

And while chilling out on the balcony, I heard a child wailing in true horror.

"Daddy!" screamed the upset child. "Daddy where ARE YOU?"

I was sure there was a lost English-speaking child just outside our door, so I ran to it and opened it. Instead of a child, there was a man sitting calmly on a chair, hands folded. He looked at me.

"Sorry, a little child care and discipline. Are we disturbing you?" he asked, thick English accent pouring around his crossed knees.

I realized that the child was actually in the room next door, and his child was in the room alone.

Nice.

We went down to dinner not long after that-since the rain was throwing it down outside, we decided to eat in the restaurant at the hotel. The food was excellent, especially as seeing there was no veggie food on the menu, I asked if they could make something on the side for me. I got the usual question: "What would you like?" And I gave my standard reply: "Whatever the chef would like to make."

This usually shows the good chefs from the bad ones. The good chefs often love being given an open canvas, the ability to create anything that they like. The bad chefs? Yeah. You're getting stir-fry.

The meal was fantastic-the waiters hovered nervously to check we liked it, and when I pronounced the meal they'd made me one of the best ever, they comped half our dessert.

We went back to the room and sat on the balcony for hours, talking and drinking wine.

When it got cold, we tucked the duvets around ourselves and just stayed outside, talking. We hadn't talked like that for ages, it felt great to just be calm, to just talk, to just relax. We went to bed not long after. The beds were so comfortable, the pillows fantastic, the temperature perfect, the air tainted lovingly with the scent of the ocean.

I slept so fucking badly you wouldn't believe it.

Angus snored, so I stuffed my ears with kleenex. I was plagued by Kafka dreams. Around 2 am, I heard:

"Daddy! DADD-EEEEE! Where ARE YOU!" screaming through the wall.

Ah. Child care and discipline at 2 am. How kind.

And I'm no parent, and no child care expert, but maybe that kind of thing can be adjourned for a few days, for the sake of others around you in a hotel? And maybe-just maybe, I have no idea you know-it's not a great idea to have a child feeling utterly alone in a foreign hotel room?

I managed to fall back asleep, and around 7 am I heard the mother of the screaming child, with screaming child in the hallway.

"Dad-DEEEEEE!" roared the child.

"Ben!" demanded the woman, knocking on their bedroom door. "Ben! BEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNN!" she screamed, banging her fists and screaming through the door. "I don't have the key on me! BEEEEEEEENNNNNNN!"

For. Fuck's. Sake. Woman. Go down to reception and ask for another key. I hated my neighbors so much that I was plotting revenge in so many socially unacceptable ways.

It was too late for me-I was furious and I was awake. I read a magazine for a while, before waking up Angus and going for breakfast. We had a nice breakfast, complete with many Swedish offerings (not everyday you get offered Kalle's caviar for breakfast. Thankfully.) and then we walked around Palma, doing some Christmas shopping, relaxing, enjoying the day.

We had a massive lunch, then went back to the room for a siesta. When we woke, we decided we weren't hungry, and so spent the evening on the balcony again, talking and drinking. We were doing much better than we had been-maybe we were still a tiny bit cautious and stiff, but things had vastly improved and the anger and difficulties of the previous week erased from our thoughts. And I felt completely relaxed and calm, my thoughts of work not once popping up in bubbles of thought in my head.

Sunday we woke at a leisurely pace, had breakfast, packed all the wine we bought, and headed home. We talked a lot on the airplane, and even had relaxed ourselves enough to hold hands, give pecks on the cheek, nuzzles on the earlobes. Our luggage arrived with no problem, we headed home feeling relaxed and happy.

Then we got home.

Where we found:

1) Full inboxes with work emails.
2) A letter from the Wiltshire constabulary demanding a courtdate with me and all kinds of other scary things as they apparently are getting assy with me having an American drivers's license after I was caught speeding.
3) More problems from the former tenant of the house Angus is selling.
4) We move house in 5 days.

And last but far from least:

5) The estate agent had shown our house to some potential buyers early Saturday morning. Friday morning, after we'd left, the maintenance man had come in.

And he'd locked the Tabby Bomb in our house for over 36 hours. The poor thing was terrified.

Terrified, and without a litter box.
So she used our bed.
That's right.
Our bed.

The estate agent showed the house Saturday morning-and made a note that it stunk and that a cat had shit all over the bed.

Then they locked the cat in the house for another 24 hours.

The bedding and mattress pad are ruined and packaged neatly into a bundle for the estate agents to deal with, and we are marching off to the estate agent's this morning with the offensive materials as soon as they open, demanding they have them replaced. I'm not remotely angry with Tabby Bomb, I think she's been through enough recently, but I am furious with the estate agent losers. Not to mention, I am horrified that people were shown our house, and that they think we might live like that.

Angus and I wearily looked at each other and counted up in our head the next time we have a weekend away, which isn't coming soon enough.

It's in 2 weeks.
When we go to Sweden to get my cats.
2 weeks from today.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:50 AM | Comments (17) | Add Comment
Post contains 1576 words, total size 10 kb.

1 Oh, poor Tabby Bomb - and ugh for you coming back from a holiday finally somewhat relaxed to be faced with all that. Here's hoping that things improve further and that your holiday relaxation does help. 2 weeks will pass...

Posted by: martha at November 15, 2004 11:48 AM (5HJ2h)

2 That two weeks are going to fly. Just 14 days until you get your girls back? You must feel like a six year old waiting for Christmas! :-)

Posted by: Jim at November 15, 2004 12:52 PM (tyQ8y)

3 This means when I get back from my honeymoon, you'll have your kitties back! I'm so happy for you!

Posted by: Jadewolff at November 15, 2004 01:44 PM (8MfYL)

4 Oh man, the kitty potty is part of why we've been reluctant to get another cat. We used to have a cat that would get angry with us when we left, so she would pee on the bed while we were gone. Luckily, it was a water bed, so the cleanup was relatively easy. After that, we left the bedroom door closed. However, she had another habit. As soon as she saw the suitcases come out, she would pee in them if we left her in the room for any length of time. Still, I do miss that damnned cat. *sigh*

Posted by: Easy at November 15, 2004 01:51 PM (U89mk)

5 Awful! I've grown used to expecting puppy poop and damaged furniture every evening when I come home from work, but damn, never on my bed!!!

Posted by: Mick at November 15, 2004 03:17 PM (VhRca)

6 Mick and Easy-yes...it's just that gross and bad. We're fighting the estate agents, but I am pretty sure we're just going to bin the bedding. Jade/Jim-it's like Christmas AND Easter in this house Martha-thanks. I am most definitely feeling weighed down.

Posted by: Helen at November 15, 2004 03:29 PM (WEElQ)

7 Well, I'm sorry you had to come home to such disaster, but I'm glad you got to relax a little on your vacation. When in doubt, drink. Or something like that. I'm so happy you are finally getting your girls back! Now that I'm thinking of joining you folks in the UK, my thoughts are already churning about how long I'd have to be without my beloved puppy. Hopefully, the two weeks will fly by.

Posted by: amy t. at November 15, 2004 03:42 PM (zPssd)

8 *sigh* Welcome home. Regardless of the cat situation, it looks like you got what you needed out of the mini-vacation.

Posted by: sporty at November 15, 2004 04:05 PM (NsnoE)

9 I guess one has to take the bad with the good. I'm glad you had a nice time away (despite the neighbors) to relax. Hopefully, the next time you'll have less stress when you get back home too.

Posted by: MrBob at November 15, 2004 04:22 PM (Pib5l)

10 sounds like a perfect weekend escape. sorry you had to come home to a boat-load of crapola...ah mondays... and 2 weeks til kitties! woohoo!

Posted by: kat at November 15, 2004 06:47 PM (QkuGS)

11 Funny... our kitty used our bed this past weekend as a litterbox... he was locked in as well. Why the bed... oh why does it have to be the bed. Hope the next two weeks fly by for you.

Posted by: Jessica at November 15, 2004 07:55 PM (DCWs3)

12 Oh, I'm sorry you had to come back to that, but so glad you had a nice time on your weekend away (despite the neighbors). I hope the Tabby Bomb wasn't too traumatized, and will recover. As will you, I'm sure.

Posted by: scorpy at November 15, 2004 08:49 PM (LiWFK)

13 If only Gloria Compos knew she had inspired a blog entry.

Posted by: Jennifer at November 15, 2004 10:23 PM (6Quju)

14 I hate people who want to share their parenting skills with you. But love your adventure. Where in Texas were you enjoying Tex-Mex?

Posted by: CarolC at November 16, 2004 03:38 AM (Iv75X)

15 Jennifer-somehow, I suspect Gloria would find a blog post beneath her, but maybe I am being uncharitable Carol-I used to be a Dallas girl. And I still LOVE my Stars.

Posted by: Helen at November 16, 2004 07:12 AM (AeGVs)

16 How awful about the bed! I had an old cat a few years ago that got confused towards the end of her life and started using our bed as a litter box. Ugh. Nice holiday; I'm so envious! We never go *anywhere*! :-( Hope the two weeks fly by for you until you have your two sweeties again.

Posted by: Amber at November 16, 2004 04:28 PM (zQE5D)

17 How true: ...no matter how far you go, you still take pieces and parts of former crossroads in your life with you.

Posted by: the girl at November 16, 2004 04:41 PM (MYeTv)

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