By Becky.   Image by Andyblind.

So we’re planning one last road trip before our move home. Friday we’re heading up to the south of France, to Provence. But so many places are calling out to me. Naturally we’re going to hit Avignon and the Luberon villages, and of course Aix-en-Provence. Gordes is on the list. And the Senanque Abbey. If you can believe it, I am scheduling our stops around the markets. Isle Sur la Sorgue’s is on Thursdays. Lourmarin’s, on Fridays (the fabrics look amazing). Arles’ market, held on Wednesdays and Saturdays, is known for its textiles. But Aix’s big market happens on Saturdays, too. Oh gosh–

Mostly I think I just want to stand smack in the middle of a lavender field that goes on forever, along with the petals, who will no doubt look like they have always belonged there, two flower faires at home in a riot of fragrant purple.

I have such high hopes for this trip! Any ideas about what we shouldn’t miss??

Wood.  Water.  Stucco.  Iron.  Moss.  Stone.

And:  faces.

This morning the petals and I made our way up to the BF International School, where they were scheduled to take some final exams, the school’s principal being their approved proctor.  It’s a hike.  Line 5 metro toward Cornelia Centre.  Off at Diagonal.  Over to the train station.  Wait for the train, along with half of Barcelona.  Crowd in.  Find a place to stand.  Off at Sarria.  Then out and up, streetside.  Catch the V7 bus.  Off at Plaza Borras.  Walk the rest of the way to the campus.

After I’d talked with the principal about a couple of matters of importance, I kissed the girls (both cheeks–our way now), slung my backpack over my shoulders, and left.

Instead of catching the V7, though, I decided to walk back down Via Augusta toward the train, and the walk gave me time to think about metros and trains and the passengers they carry.  Not surprisingly, if you don’t know the direction of the metro line or train you’ve just jumped on, whether you make it to your stop is a fifty-fifty.  I planned to grab the train headed toward Plaza Catalunya.  If I didn’t, I’d never make it to Provenza, the stop at which I needed to get off in order to board the Line 5 metro toward Val d’Hebron.  Seems sort of axiomatic, I know, but it’s an easy thing to forget when you’re new to the process and staring into metro corridors that take you in a dozen different directions.

And I started thinking about how, the day before, the petals had made it home from school on their own, in spite of the fact that the stop for the train is Provenza rather than Diagonal, and I’d forgotten to tell them that.  I had wondered:  would they figure it out?–or would they end up in Plaza Catalunya, never realizing they had gone right through the stop where they were meant to transfer from train to metro??

As a primer on life–especially for the teens we want to raise up to be independent thinkers who know what they want and how to go after it–public transportation becomes the perfect metaphor.  You know the end of the line, then you know which direction to go.  You don’t know the end of the line, then your chances of getting there dry up, just like that.

As I rode home today, transferring at Provenza and getting on the Line 5 toward Val d’Hebron at Diagonal, I thought about how crucial it is to be talking with my own teens about their End-Of-The-Lines.  Where do they want to wind up?  Because if they can identify that, then they can work out where to get on, where to stop, where to transfer, how to backtrack if they need to.

I got off the metro at the Sagrada Familia stop, pushed through the exit gates, and made my way up the stairs and out to the street, where I gazed for a moment at Gaudi’s massive cathedral, which remains my favorite in all of Europe.  And I realized:  even if I’d walked all the way home from the other end of the city, I would always have known I was heading toward that landmark, and I could have recalibrated, even if I’d gotten lost.

There might not be one single thing more important than knowing where the end of the line is.  Where you’re headed.  Where you know you’re meant to go.

Don’t you think?

(Photo:  Miss Lavender on her way to Montpellier, France, a few months back.)

Finding the right baguette can be the work of a day. Or a stay. That is, since our arrival in Barcelona, I have been tireless in my quest to track down the tastiest bread.

Good news, folks.  I found it!  It’s the Pan Artesanal at the Forn de Pa down the street from Park Güell. Perfect crunch, perfect texture, perfect flavor. We dip it in olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Or slather La Vieja Fabrica’s peach jam on it. Or just carry it around and gnaw on it.

The great thing about a baguette?  You can style it any way you want, as Miss Lavender aptly demonstrates.

Take a peek at Lourdes, France, in the French Pyrenees.

And another peek at Miss Zinnia and the indefatigable Goose, tucked away in the tower of the chateau-fort up on the hill.

I’m not sure there’s anything happier than flamenco shoes . . . for kids!  At this store in Seville, you can get a pair in every color of the rainbow!–red orange yellow green blue indigo violet.

“Roy G. Biv.”  (Remember the acronym??)

So:  get dancing!

Sometimes I think, Wait:  what if I get home and home seems just the slightest bit . . . pedestrian?  You know what I mean?  No 14th century basilicas, no street markets a few blocks away, no vibrant flamenco dresses crowding the racks of the local thrift store.

Then I think, Wait.  Interesting things abound at home.  Yes, in the past, I usually had to drive a ways in order to check them out.  But they’re there.  I started thinking about a beautiful old church in Monterey, California, and how, when you walked in, the smell of votive wax was exactly like the smell of every church here on the continent, whether in Hungary, Austria, Bavaria, Netherlands, France, or Spain.  I thought about how much I love Russian Hill, in San Francisco:  the truly amazing antiques shops, the street vendors selling antique jewelry, the circa 1930′s mother-of-pearl button bracelet I scored one afternoon, just before the vendor was packing up to call it a day.  I thought of the time the Eleven O’Clock Dad and I drove to Los Angeles to see what turned out to be some truly gorgeous flamenco, both the guitarists and the dancers so immersed in their craft, so drenched in sweat by the end of the evening, I wondered how they could give that much every time they performed.

My problem is, at home, I sometimes forget to keep seeing.

So my goal when I get back:  find the basilicas in the Seemingly Ordinary.  You know what I mean, right?–bring all my willingness to be interested right back home with me, so that when An Opportunity To Be Delighted comes into view, I can see it for what it is.

Want to try it along with me?

Back in the day: that is, back in my day, if I’d wanted to make my own hair accessories . . . I’m not sure that would have flown. But today, in contrast, a girl can a) find an old piece of lace at a street market, b) make a bow out of it, c) fasten her new “prenda” in her hair, and d) feel lovely for a whole day.

That. Is. Brilliant.

The ascendancy of vintage means that a girl can style herself almost any way she wants, especially if she has a bit of imagination and a pair of clever hands. So much more room for authentic self-definition.

And that. Is especially. Brilliant.

(Miss Zinnia’s bow courtesy of Miss Zinnia, naturally.)

Would you like to dance?

Why, that would be grand!

Shall we, then?

Señora Laura, Camera Rescuer and Super Hero Extraordinaire

This last Saturday, the Eleven O’Clock Dad and I stepped out for a few hours to take some pictures.  Among the many novelties in our day, here were the big two:  a) our camera was stolen, and b) our camera was quite miraculously returned to us.

But we might not be so lucky next time.

First, the story.  In the Born district, we stopped to grab some food.  When we finally found a place to sit, my husband unwound his camera from his wrist, where it lives when we’re out and about.  He set it down between us, and as we began unwrapping our food, a young man approached me.  At first I thought he was preparing to ask for a euro or two, but he couldn’t seem to get the words out, which really disturbed me.  I wondered if he had a speech impediment.  But all he needed was a few seconds to distract us, which allowed his partner to do what he had intended:  reach in from behind, grab the camera, and bolt.

Instantly, my husband was on his feet, lunging for the boy with the camera.  Suddenly there were other bodies, then a scuffle, but I couldn’t tell who was who.  I saw my husband lose his balance, fall, then pop back up, then disappear around the corner after the thief, along with another man who had jumped into the fray.

As I stood there and tried to process the absolute knowledge that the camera was gone–because how could it not be?–a woman approached me and held something out to me.  I just stared at her, then at the object dangling from her hand.  Finally it dawned on me:  the thief didn’t have the camera; she did.  As I reached out and took it from her, out of my mouth came the words, “Tú eres un angel!”  (“You are an angel!”)  I must have said it three or four times, my emphasis building as I realized how true this felt.

So the woman, whose name is Laura, told me what this had looked like from her perspective.  Two young men had been following us, she said.  She and her husband had left the small market around the corner, and they noticed us, then noticed the two young men.  They had remarked to each other how suspicious the pair looked, and they knew from living in a big city that thieves target foreigners.  Although they had two little girls with them, Laura and her husband decided to observe for a few minutes, and sure enough, what they suspected might happen, did happen.

And here’s where Laura becomes a Super Hero.  No, serious.  Here’s where this probably thirty-something mom-of-two turns into Señora Increíble.  As the drama heats up and the guy with the camera starts to bolt, Laura’s husband trips him, a ploy which succeeds, slowing the thief down enough so that Laura can reach out, grab the camera strap, and rip the camera out of his hands.  Shall I replay this?  My new friend Laura grabs the camera away from the punk who is about to disappear with it forever, which stalls his getaway just enough that he must have had to decide either to stay and fight for it (at which point several men would have descended on him) or just run.  So he runs.  And my husband runs after him, not having the slightest idea that a real-life angel has already secured the camera and returned it to me.

You probably know what happened next.  The chase was like something from a movie, where two good guys (one of the witnesses had taken off with my husband to help him try to apprehend the thief) try to outrun a punk who knows the narrow streets and alleyways like the back of his hand.  They followed him down the street, around a corner, down another street, around another corner, and within a few minutes, he was just gone. When my husband returned about ten minutes later, sweaty, murderous, and defeated in equal proportions, he had the great surprise of learning that, while the kid had gotten away, he hadn’t escaped with our camera.

I still can’t get over the fact that this woman did what she did.  That she just jumped in, grabbed something she knew was about to escape for good, and returned said item to the couple to whom it rightly belonged. Gracias, Laura.  Te agradezco y te quiero!

Lessons We Learned

One.  This isn’t the first time someone has tried to get at the Eleven O’Clock Dad’s stuff.  A few weeks after we got here, we were in the metro one day, on our way to transfer to another line, and Miss Lavender noticed a suspicious-looking guy standing behind her dad, close enough that it seemed weird to her.  She also noticed that the small pocket on her dad’s backpack had been unzipped.  Being Miss Lavender, she gave him a fearless I’m-onto-you glare, and eventually he backed off and went to find someone else to steal from.  The take-away:  if you’re carrying a backpack, keep the money pocket zipped tight and fastened with a carabiner.  Huge deterrent to thieves attempting to ferret their way into the pocket in which most people keep their money, passports, and other valuables.

Two.  If someone approaches you with a crazy story, take it for what it is–a crazy story no doubt designed to throw you off guard, distract you, and set you up to be robbed.  When Eleven O’Clock Dad was approached just outside a metro station at Christmastime by a guy with a crazy story, he didn’t buy it, but he came home a mess.  What happened was this.  A guy told my husband that a bird had nailed him (if you know what I mean), and that he’d help him get cleaned up but that he’d have to take his jacket off.  He was insistent.  When my husband looked down at his jacket, it did indeed look like a bird with an unhappy stomach had targeted him.  He was annoyed, but he was also running late and the metros were about to stop running for the night.  The guy insisted:  “Take your jacket off!”  But doing that would have meant taking his camera backpack off first.  And you can guess the rest.  If someone’s got a story that seems too wild to be true, it is.  Walk away.  Now.  Otherwise you become vulnerable to theft, and your valuables may be lost before you can even process what happened.  By the way, it wasn’t a bird that got my husband; it was the would-be thief himself–with dark liquid make-up he managed to squirt on my husband’s jacket when he wasn’t aware of it.  Had my husband taken off his backpack in order to take his jacket off, as this character suggested, the backpack could have disappeared just that fast, along with the camera inside it.

Three.  If you’re carrying a camera and you plan to sit down outside, keep your camera firmly attached to you.  My husband decided that, to be smarter, he should have slipped his leg through his camera strap and slid it up around his thigh, which would have allowed him to keep the camera next to him but still sit comfortably, with his arms free to hold his food.  Even if your camera is right next to you . . . if it’s loose . . . it’s gone.

Four.  Be aware of who’s around you.  The fact that we remained blissfully unaware that two young men with bad intentions were tailing us was eye opening for me.  From now on, wherever we go, I plan to make myself continually aware of who’s around us–especially behind us.  An essential precaution.

Afterthought.  Some folks believe in angels.  I am one of them.  My angel’s name is Laura.  She is the mother of two little girls named Berta and Blanca.  And she’s got guts!