The English Paper About Spain
So, I went to Spain this summer with my cousin, Maddie. We had a scrumtrulecent time and there's lots of stories and pictures, but for now, this is what I have.
I friend of mine is an English teacher and asked me to write a memoir for an example for his freshman class. This is what I came up with.
I swear to God I didn't make ANY of this up! This all actually happened, although when I read it back, I barely beleive it myself! Imagine being there!? Craziness.
I wasn’t really sure what it was that woke me so suddenly. The fireworks? The full marching band, complete - as my ears observed-with a tuba? The vociferous snoring? All of the above?
My cousin Maddie and I were well-aware of the perils of staying in a youth hostel when we booked two nights in one of Barcelona’s more popular hostels: shared showers, co-ed 10-bunk rooms, the hodge-podge of people that hostels tend to collect like a touristy flytrap. Fodor’s had informed us that, for the exchange of privacy, even we could afford to stay in the heart of one of Spain’s most spectacular cities. However, Fodor’s had failed to mention the unconventional alarm clock. An intentional oversight? Maybe we should have read the small print.
You can imagine our surprise when we were so rudely awakened that Sunday morning by what I can certainly say was the loudest noise I’ve ever heard. The earsplitting hiss and then subsequent scream of fireworks shot through our sleep faster than heroin. Even before I cracked an eyelid, I could feel Maddie startle in the bunk above me, mirroring my own knee-jerk reaction to a T. As she clamored to the edge of her bed, I half-slid, half-fell out onto the floor. Fortunately, I have reflexes like a cat and landed squarely on my two feet. I could hear someone across the room that was either not so lucky or adept.
“What the…?” Maddie spat though her teeth. She tossed her pillow to the end of the bed, and then followed it off the edge. Cat-like reflexes must run in the family.
“Qu'est-ce que c'est?”
It took me a moment to realize where I was. Spain. Barcelona, to be exact. The surprisingly lucid French voice belonged to one of our roommates. Lucky for him and his five buddies -- here on holiday for the weekend -- they were bunked with the two cute American girls. Unfortunately, the Napoleon Complex is one of the most widespread birth defects in France and it appeared that all six of the French fellows were grievously afflicted with it.
The French words that followed his question may have been lost in translation, but my travels had taught me that the universal language is expletives, not English. I clearly understood him.
I shrugged. He winked. I rolled my eyes.
Maddie had the floor-length window flung open, and was leaning over the small balcony, barefoot and on her tiptoes. Another hiss of a firework was followed by a 10-second long shrill screech. It was getting louder, this impromptu alarm clock. I then realized that it was not just fireworks that we were being ear-raped by. A quick lean out the window found a full marching band rounding the corner into the alley beside our hostel.
I head a low chuckle behind me and realized that Frenchie had snuck up and sandwiched himself in the half-foot of space between Maddie and I. The Napoleon Complex Syndrome in him had manifested in diminutive size and apparently a load of gall. We simultaneously glared at him; he took the hint and took a Napoleon-sized step backward.
Another firework. Another boated blare from the utterly superfluous tuba. I leaned back over the railing for a better look, just as the majority of the parade rounded the corner. Besides the full band, there were dancers, flag-wavers, and a throng of men, women, and children that had mingled in randomly, most sporting little flags or streamers.
I really didn’t know what to think, but I was accepting of other cultures, and started working on accepting Spain’s idea of a suitable hour of the day to have a parade.
Maddie straightened up suddenly and let out a strangled laugh. “Is that…?” she began, narrowing her eyes as she snapped her head around in bewilderment. “Is that the Burger King?!”
“What?” I snorted cynically, shaking my head.
But she was stanch with her observation and thrust her index finger at what I assumed must be a figment of her over-active imagination. My eyes followed begrudgingly, and subsequently widened in disbelief.
There, in the middle of all of the raucous, was a life-sized, plastic rendering of a king. The Burger King, or maybe just a royal smidgeon off. Close enough to throw me. Because that made perfect sense, there appeared to be a Burger Queen and a Burger Chicken following close behind. The happy family was, naturally, festooned in standard-issue Burger King Crowns, and all wore the vacant - and, yes, very creepy -- stare of the American Burger King.
I was beginning to think that maybe I was still dreaming, but even I knew the extent of my own imagination.
“Quoi?”
Frenchie was as adroit as he was undersized and had stealthily wedged himself in between us once again. The façade of confusion he plastered on his rascally face did not mask the pride of his accomplishment. His buddies were similarly impressed. We were not. Maddie and I both took a step together and pressed him out like a wrinkled shirt.
“So, just to be clear,” I turned to Maddie, drawling my words out slower than a drunken southerner, “It’s six-thirty in the morning. That is a marching band. That is a tuba. Those are fireworks…and that is the Burger King.”
There was an absurd pause. Her big, brown eyes narrowed again and then lit with mirth.
“And the Burger Chicken.”
Good point. How could I forget the 6-foot Burger King crowned chicken?
We both burst into hysterics. So did the French boys.
They didn’t speak much English, so we were well-aware that there was no way that they understood our dialogue. We turned in unison, intrigued.
It was then that we both noticed a different and distinct sound permeating the room, so scandalously loud, it seemed feigned: Snoring; and a lot of it.
Forgive me, I failed to mention that beside our six French Don Juan’s, the remaining bunk was occupied by a duo of burly British men, who smelled specifically like old socks saturated in body odor.
The snoring seemed to be coming from the pair of them, and it was as if they were in a subconscious battle for snoring domination. Had there been a title to award the SnoreFest Champion, it would have been a photo finish -- by a nose, if I may.
It took a second to realize where the nutty Frenchmen’s laughter was directed, exactly. “When in Rome, do as the Romans,” so goes the saying. In this case, “When in Europe, sleep naked and let your sheet fall off.”
Besides the six French nuts that stood there snickering and pointing, we were all being subjected to two pair of a different sort.
I blinked a few times and touched the inside corners of my eyes. “Are my eyes bleeding? Are they bleeding?” I asked Maddie, only four-quarters serious.
She wasn’t quite as fazed, but her hand still found its way to cover her gaping mouth. We’re a little melodramatic by nature, I must admit, but in this bizarre situation, it seemed requisite and a low response on the reaction scale.
It was then that a pillow flew through the air and landed with a deadened thump, square on the slightly louder (but only in my opinion) Brit’s face.
Apparently, the prize for the winner is a pillow… Oh, and now a shoe. Articles were being torn from the Frenchmen’s luggage and thrown very hard at the British men, who were still as naked as the day they were born. I supposed that this was in a valiant -- albeit hilarious -- effort to end the extemporized SnoreFest, but it was to no avail. They never moved; they never even flinched as object after object - including a full backpack - was thrown unceremoniously at their bare bodies. And I could have sworn they got louder.
I transiently wondered what they had gotten drunk on the night before, and perhaps where I could get some.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was our little friend, Frenchie. He was practically bouncing with glee and motioned for us to listen to him.
“How do you say…?” he started, and then made some comically theatrical motion, throwing his whole body into a spontaneous game of charades. Language barriers had their benefits, and our particular barrier lent me a good half-minute of unadulterated hilarity.
Maddie and I exchanged amused looks as he danced around, vainly trying to demonstrate what he could not remember how to say in English. It was only when he attempted to articulate his thoughts, did we understood the word he was so unproductively searching for.
“How do you say?” he began once again, “Chin-saw? Chin…saw?”
He made a boisterous roaring sound, leaned back, and brandished an imaginary chainsaw, as though he were enthusiastically prepared to take down an entire forest of redwoods.
When he caught that we grasped his illustration, he nodded at the noisy Brits and smirked. “They…are loud…chin-saw.” Cheeky fellow.
I felt in that moment, that if I were to die now, I could literally say that I had seen everything. I could die a happy woman. I’m sure Maddie felt the same way, because she was currently doing her best to die from laughter.
The Frenchmen were all doubled over and shaking, slapping each other on the back and roaring around the room with their imaginary chainsaws, a la Leatherface from Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
Forget blood. My eyes watered with tears and I joined everyone in hysterics.
Fortunately, there are no laughter barriers.