Hola! from Espana, or Figueres to be more exact. This afternoon is the wedding of my dear friend Mireia, and at midnight, I turn 31.
I don’t have much time to post — so my expose on the absence of tampons at JFK aiport will have to wait — but I wanted to let my friends and readers know the essentials. I’ve been traveling for about six days now. Despite the tiny hotel rooms, Dan and I haven’t fought at all, unless you count my getting sulky over his ability to write funnier picture captions. We took some surreal photos at the Dali museum yesterday. We climbed railings, stood on our heads, and fooled French people by placing our stuffed penguin, Sushine, in exhibits.
Also, as many of you will recall, I was robbed two years ago in Barcelona, on a little street named “Robador” (which translates like it sounds — and no, it does not sound like “Moroccan man tried to steal my wallet and I-Pod but fortunately I got away.”) Well, on Friday night, walking back along Avenue Paral-lel after drinks with the ladies, a swarthy man wrenched my arm in yet another attempt to take my handbag. Life is full of second chances. I’ve experienced many: getting to make-out with Shep, my high school’s quarterback who wrote me off as the weird girl with a Phantom of the Opera calendar in her locker, five years later; or getting back on the Tilt-a-Twirl and this time, not throwing up bratworst and onions. So Friday, in what could have been a mojito-motivated bad decision, I fought back. I clenched my purse. We circled each other. Then, having watched too many Buffy the Vampire Slayer episodes, I kicked him in the face. What my leg-lift lacked in force it made up for in startle. The robber was shocked. He produced a pocket knife. Again, we circled. I remember watching Planet Earth a couple weeks ago and commenting on a team of divers who filmed footage of an especially darty and aggressive shark without cages. “Planet Stupid,” I told Dan. But now I was leading with adrenaline and a kind of sick second-chance pride; I kicked the man in the face again. At no point did it occur to me to punch. I felt like the most intimating gesture I was capable of was a display of flexibility. I was, after all, the top of my class at the Sit-and-Reach.
The fight happened very fast. At some point my purse spilled, and a dark and beefy undercover Catalan cop saw us and chased the robber into a side-street. I was very, very lucky, and I admit I should have walked away when he pulled a knife — but it was such a small knife, and I needed to reclaim my bad-assedness.
Here I am with half the Catalan police force: