Chapter 55: Travels with my Mother

To speak Danish well, it may help to get food poisoning
So my mom came to visit me in Europe for 9 days or so. First, we went to Copenhagen to visit her brother (see pic of me, aunt, uncle, mother) and then we travelled to Granada and Barcelona. I must say, Danish is a bizarre and annoyingly strange language. There is a pervasive yet nearly unpronounceable sound in Danish, called the glottal stop, usually spelled with an O with a slash through it, followed by a D (for example, the name of the suburb where my aunt and uncle live: Birkerød.) When people speak Danish well it sounds like they are on the verge of throwing up, gagging repeatedly as they choke back the vomit. Danish also has other weird and unique letters, like å and æ, which I suppose reflects the fact that Danish is, apparently, the second most difficult language in the world to pronounce, and needs special letters for some of the sounds. No one understands me when I attempt a word or two.

Momma nearly loses her knickers over a flamenco dancer
In Granada I took Momma to Los Torantos - a fantastic flamenco troup that performs in the deep caves in the side of the Alhambra mountain - where the gypsies traditionally lived. Now, as readers of this blog may know, I just love flamenco, but the minute Momma clapped eyes on the male flamenco dancer, I knew I'd made an awful mistake. "Take a picture of him" she says, elbowing me fiercely in the ribs. "I need more wine" she demands - after downing my glass as a followup thirst-quencher to her own without so much as a by-your-leave! "Whose is that?" she asks, even as she reaches for a neighboring spectator's glass. (Ooooh, the irritated and baleful look in her eyes when I stayed her greedy hand!) But seriously, I am so glad Momma enjoyed the flamenco, and I gotta admire her enthusiasm for something that I so love myself, even if she did clap slightly out of time. At least she enjoyed herself, unlike all the other po-faced tourists who sat there, paralyzed and stricken with fear of visibly showing any joy or excitement. Oh, there is something so awfully frozen about so many of us, that we cannot even clap or smile or sing in public for fear of exposing something in ourselves. And what I hate most about those awful po-faced tourists is how they remind me of myself.

Did you know....?
Momma and I went on an Olive Tour, where we learned an amazing fact that will wow and astound you. Here it is. Hold on to your hats! Green olives and black olives are not separate species. They are just the same fruit at different stages of ripeness. How can I have lived 43 years of life without knowing this? The world will never be the same anymore.

A few observations about crazy Spain
- people here love to ride their scooters with their helmets poised neatly atop their heads, but with the buckle straps dangling ostentatiously unbucked.
- this is a nation of budding Imeldas. There is a shoe shop, or two, on every street block. Almost as many shoe shops as ice cream parlours.
- Barcelona was ranked 8th worst city in the world for particulate air polution, according to a recent World Health Organization survey. Although hard to believe this places it worse than even London or Mexico City!
- the Spanish love their pig. I've been porking out on pork since I got here. Chorizo craving is a terrible thing to suffer, just terrible.

How to get your Momma off your back
My mother advises me, "For God's sake, buy a place. Get yourself a Spanish lover. Settle down. You're not getting any younger you know." (And of course, she's right. I'm sprouting old man eyebrows. Very long and bristly!) But I inadvertedly stumbled across a great way to deal with such well-intentioned advice. First, take one friend with a lifestyle as crazy as yours. (It helps if the friend is exceptionally good looking and garrulous.) Second, add mojitos or caipirinhas. Third, add more mojitos or caipirinhas. Four, zone out of conversation and watch cute waiter as mother and exceptionally good looking friend proceed to gabble and laugh and ignore you. I can personally vouch for this recipe. After meeting the lovely German de la Melana, my mother said that she "finally" understands my life. Whew!

Don't get your palabras confused
Learning Spanish? Snap! Not! All these words to remember! It's so daunting, and the potential for perilous confusion is endless. For example, I was talking to an acquaintance and asking him where his partner was. He looked at me oddly, but I pressed the point. Anyway, it turns out I was asking him where his bird was. Or perhaps I asked him where his wanker was. I'm not sure. (Pájaro=bird. Pajero=masturbator. Pareja=couple.) Similarly, I think I astounded a salesgirl in a supermarket by asking her where her penis was. (Pollo=chicken. Polla=penis). But at least I didn't have it as bad as a friend who was asking directions of an old lady in the street and proudly announced to her that he was a pederast. (Peaton=pedestrian. Pederastra=pederast.)