Feeling: THE BELG

Feeling: THE BELG

And the last of Girona life.

1. I ''twas out for my morning joggle (I found this ideal track that heads out into the hills then skirts back around the Old Town to round on home) when I came across a slim little store that you might not even notice, should it not have had a rack of on-sale tops of my liking out the front. I popped in for just a pure peer – and ended up leaving with two pairs of pants, a skirt, two tops and a dress (having bought them, I will clarify; I didn't make like Marie and hide them in my handihold).

It's just such hardship to resist in this place; everything is my style, that sort of hippie-boho-crotchet-classic-medley look. And this shop was myself personified in clothing. The girl manning it was fabulous too – she helped me decide between the tan, mustard or khaki dress (much as I tried to justify it, I couldn't convince myself that purchasing all three was acceptable) and gave me a further discount from the total price. (I'll admit, I even went back again the next day for another top and pair of trou).

The bag was a fair bit more packed to leave Girona this morning than it was on arrival.

Is going home to NZ with 22 more pairs of bottom half attire than you came with (as yet – we still have three-point-five months to acquire more) a bit excessive?

2. I finally found some fake tan. Honestly, I had been about to concede my status as being of a pale hue, when a very final-try-attempt was made at one last chemist (my joy the day earlier at The Pedaller having discovered and purchased me some was short-lived elation upon finding it was tan accelerator for in the sun; you would never have known it unless you translated the small print as I did, or dosed your entire body in it only to find no glow in the a.m as I also did).

I think the Spanish must all take on a tanned tint quite naturally, as fake tan is to be found NOWHERE (aside from said chemist, obviously). And now I finally fit in – as long as you don't look too closely at my patchy feet or definitively lined ankles. (Or very brown knees). (Or botched up wrists). (Ok, I look in line from quite afar).

3. I've been trying really, really hard to just chill the fuck out and not be so rigid. Have a list of things I would quite like to get done in a day, but not schedule Breaking Bad in from 2pm until four and head out for dinner at 7pm on the dot; BB could be on a sensational roll and three episodes of viewing be the desired go, pushing dinner departation back until 7.54; in such a case, I don't want to start sillily stressing.

Whenever I feel the angst arising in me I take a deep breath and tell myself to Just Be. And it's working wonders!

Yesterday I was at the local Spar (supermarket, let me clarify; nothing pampery) and the counter lady was unloading a box to a shelf. She apologised for making me wait and made moves to scramble up to serve; "No no, no worries," I said. "Finish what you're doing. I'm in no rush." And I really meant it.

It felt really good to not just be a front.

4. Back to Breaking Bad.

I get so caught up in an episode (ok, episodes; it's gotten to the point it's very seldom we watch purely one at a one go. Considering we've both never been "series" sort of people, Netflix has got us well and truly) that when I venture out I feel like I'm in the thick of illicit drug dealings. Especially here, when everyone surrounding speaks Spanish.

The other day when I was up around Lidol (another supo) there were a group of gangly guys sauntering quite shiftily outside. I fully felt that Hank and Gomez were in the next street on their binocs and flip phones observing them in some arvo dealings. I found myself acting quite shadily myself, before I reminded myself I wasn't actually in Albuquerque and Gus Fring wouldn't roll past in his shoddy Volvo. (Must be said, I was a little bit sad).

5. Last night, for our final Girona eve, The Pedaller and I went out for dinner before meeting up with a pair of his pals in the square for some gelato. It was about 11pm and the place was bustling with bodies, mainly being those of young kids kicking a ball around. It just astounds me, that cultural difference between here and home, how late night outings for families are the real norm and that 7.30 bedtime for under 10s is just not the way.

6. Just a little observance I could have totally wrong, but it really feels the way: NZ airports really fence off arrivals and departures, while European chuck them all in the pen. Barce and Brussels airports have you disembarking and pushing through the those-to-depart throng, while when you head in in Auckland, glass partitions keep you segregated from those awaiting boardance. Interesting, and I wonder what the reasoning is?

So we are currently en route back to Belg: 12 hour round trip from door to door. We had a bit of a fuckfest at the Girona train station where we were directed onto the wrong platform, missed the 10.43 and had to sneak onto the 11.33 (lady at ticket service and man at information were absolutely awful and dismissive so I had no qualms about not paying another $55). We got to Barce, downed a juice then retrained to the airport (a man busted out with a tune on his violin once on board, much to the joy of the other carriage passengers; if someone in NZ did the same he would be told to quieten down, or should he get a go on it, everyone would ignore him and look awkwardly away) where we lined up for an age to do the bag drop, another age to go through customs (where an arsehole-y power tripped security man barked at a poor young boy to climb on the scanner in the spotlight and really embarrassed him), and a further age in line to get some food (I had a very gruvashing – I.e., "grumpily ravishing" – Pedaller on my hands).

I have to say, the whole experience made me take quite agin Spain, much to my chagrin. (Only for the day though – I could still totally live in Barcelona).

From here it's two-and-a-half days in Buggenhout, I go on to Holland until Saturday morn, then it's back to my yogi life for a full two months and a half.

I will definitely be very, very saddened to depart from The Pedaller, but judging from how these last two months have gone, we'll both be back home before we know it.

(And I've found this wonderful wee interactivity in the in-flight magazine from Barce to Brus, where each copy has a separate first line of a subject and the passengers write the remainder. After a certain number of flights and many contributors, they're going to be ferreted through – the contributions, not the passengers – and put together to formulate one long tale. Ingenious! And I froth over this sort of thing. My line is "What are you doing dressed as a raccoon at this untimely hour?" My creative writing is a'fizzing with possibilities. Will keep me entertained as The Pedaller slumbers).

No longer on Spanish time.

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