May 7, 2010

We returned last Sunday from an amazing trip to Spain. We started in Sevilla, which was warm and beautiful, made a quick stop in Cordoba and then drove on to Granada. Our apartment in Sevilla was right in the center of the city, and decorated with posters of Bo Derrek, Harry Potter and Audrey Hepburn. If there was a unifying theme, it eluded me. We visited the cathedral, the palace, and Rob and Megan went to the bullfighting ring. Claire, Erin and I refused, on principle (plus we were pretty tired).


We had a few glitches along the way; for example, no one mentioned that you can't drive into the center of Granada after eight o'clock in the evening. Which can make it a bit difficult to get to your rental apartment. We used GPS, but apparently the satellites weren't told about this charming custom either. We found ourselves driving up the mountain, only to find that the road the GPS had directed us to was closed off. We stopped to ask a waiter at a restaurant who was very helpful. He said "there's no way to get there from here." But he said it in a really charming way and smiled the whole time. He told us to go back down the mountain and ask someone in the lowlands. Which we did. The man at the gas station sighed and said, "it's very difficult. I'm not sure it's possible right now." Where were we, France? We were in regular contact with our landlady who apparently either didn't drive or hadn't been out of her neighborhood in fifteen years. After about two hours (I'm not kidding), by which time Rob was banging his head against the steering wheel and I was growling at the children (Claire was quiet, but Megan and Erin were giggling hysterically at our incompetence), the landlady agreed to meet us outside the walls of the city near her neighborhood. So, at ten pm, we were hauling our luggage through narrow alleys, on cobblestone streets, past outdoor restaurants and up numerous steps. Finally, we made it to the apartment. Luckily, it was perfect. It was located in an old building with a spectacular view, and it was completely redone and very Mediterranean. Lots of tile, ceramics and dark wood beams. It was also located a short distance from the International Institute for the Interpretation of Water. Who knew there was such a place? But, aren't you glad there is? I've always felt we take the stuff for granted. Now, I can rest easy knowing someone else is taking care of the heavy lifting.

By midnight, we were fully recovered and being entertained by a multilingual restaurateur who got Megan and Erin hooked on filet mignon (Rob was sort of hoping for sirloin).

It turns out that Granada is the Berkeley of Spain. Lots of hippies in dreadlocks, buskers singing and playing guitar (badly), and dogs. Lots of dogs. At night, they would gather on the square just outside our flat, smoking interesting herbal substances and spinning and dancing.

On our third night, we were eating outside in the village square and Rob and I were enjoying a really nice bottle of Spanish wine, when Erin asked, "So what is the meaning of life, anyway?"
Clearly, she'd been spending too much time with the hippies.

Three ways to tell you're in Spain, not France.

1. People wear colorful clothes. In France, grey is the new fuchsia.

2. People are tan. In France, my kids look Spanish. The average French citizen looks like they just got out of a casting call for the Twilight series.

3. People are friendly. They smile a lot. Let's just leave it at that.

4. You can buy food for less than a night in a four star hotel.

When we got back to Paris, Claire discovered that she'd left her bag (with her computer and wallet inside) in the taxi we took from the airport. I called the taxi company and the woman informed me that, without the number of the cab, we were out of luck. She directed me to the Parisian lost and found, then hung up on me. We knew there was no chance we'd get it back but, since Claire was hysterical (she's been writing a book on her computer and it wasn't backed up), I tried anyway.

If only all of France worked like the lost and found (or, as it is formally known, the Office of Found Objects). You fill out a form, with the date the object was lost, as well as a detailed description. Your form is inspected carefully by someone who, if everything is in order, gives you a number. When your number is called, the person behind the counter looks at your form and enters the key words to see if there's a match. When I got there on Monday, they informed me that it was "too soon," and I should return on Wednesday. I returned on Wednesday and...
voila! Not only had the taxi driver returned the bag, with the computer and wallet safely inside, but the Office had opened the computer and emailed Claire to let her know they'd found it. Of course, she didn't get the email because she didn't have a computer, but the point was, they tried. They went the extra kilometer. Amazing. I was almost weeping with joy.

I told the man at the counter: "This would never happen in the US."

He shrugged and said, "You have a lot of thieves there."

Here, I think, is another advantage of socialism. Since a taxi driver earns about as much as a doctor (and gets at least as much vacation time), he doesn't need to keep what's left in his taxi. He's happy to return it.

Either that or we got really lucky.