The Shoelace

“This was definitely a mistake,” I thought.

At that same moment, I noticed the smell of orange blossoms wafting through the streets, drifting about the grand architecture of Andalusia’s largest city of Sevilla.

As a younger man, I would have been fuming at my choice of dragging two heavy bags from the Santa Justa train station on an endless walk to our Airbnb rental. The incredibly loud clickity clack rhythm of suitcase rollers hitting cobblestone streets would have driven me more and more insane with each clack.

Not to mention the goddam clicks.

But my companion and I are adults now. We no longer suffer the curse of impetuous youth. We kept our heads down and remained calm.

It’s not that we weren’t frustrated, hot, and hungry. It’s just that when you get older, your mistakes dry up and litter the long road you’ve left behind.

What’s does one more misjudgment on the list matter? This too shall pass.

Yes, that’s it. Fighting through the discomfort to find the life that matters most. La vita bella as they say in Italy. Enjoying the smell of the orange blossoms on the street. The architectural wonders of the city shining in the bright sun. The wine and good food that lay in our near future.

There lies the mending ointment that we require. To recharge our spirit so that we may live on and and build up a compilation of brand new misjudgments in our wake – half of them fear based and the other half just plain stupid.

For every episode of misery or drudgery, there is always a shining light. A moment or event letting you know that while God is laughing his ass off at you, his rich blessings are placed along your path.

I am loathe to mention that the dragging of the luggage was only part of the struggle on our first day in Sevilla. Another failed idea I had was that, on our walk from the train station, we would stop at several tapas bars and cafes along our walk. We would sit at an outdoor table, our luggage resting near us, and have an chilled glass of Albarino plus some tapas. People would smile at us and tell us we are pretty.

In an attempt to execute this plan, I walked into two different cafes and asked for a table. At the second attempt the young man told me that the entire empty restaurant was reserved.

Fair enough. Makes no sense, but whatever.

My first attempt was more interesting. When I asked for a table, the woman told me in Spanish that they had no water and kept saying “Trabajo” which means job or work. I didn’t understand so I just said gracias and walked away. In retrospect, I am pretty sure she thought I was a bum and wanted free water. She basically told me to get a job. They must have incredibly handsome and put together bums in Sevilla, because I was really looking fabulous that day.

Later on our walk a small Andalusian girl, still nearly an infant with a beautiful flower in her hair, gave me the finger. She too told me to get a job.

They say that the third time is a charm. Of course that is ridiculous drivel and has no place in the realm of rationale and logical thought.

The third restaurant I tried was a very upscale fine dining establishment. I walked in with my sweaty luggage, just hoping they wouldn’t immediately offer me a dishwashing job. The regal looking maitre’d in a well tailored suit asked for my name as he looked at his list. I said “my name is John, but I don’t have a reservation.” He looked at me with concern and said “no reservation?”

(Long dramatic unecessary pause as he shot me a concerned look with a raised eyebrow.)

“No problem, we will fit you in.”

See, I do have a f@cking job!

We clickity clacked our way through the empty restaurant, following our savior, Don Reservacion.

I apologized for the bags. He smiled and replied “it is no problem. The people of Sevilla are very used to dimwitted Americans clickity clacking their samsonite rollers through our streets, sweating like Spanish wart hogs, and getting turned away at every decent restaurant until one of us is struck by the kind lessons of el Dios and allows one of you loud, hamburger eating pinche gringos to enjoy our incredible cuisine and delicious wine.”

I replied, “mmmkay.”

Of course it was the best meal we’d had in Spain. By far. And we’d had some damn good meals. A crip cold Albarino wine. Iberico ham. Olives. Red tuna tartare with black truffels. Garlic shrimp in a red cream sauce. Whole roasted sea bass with grilled vegetables.

The only downside of the meal was the anticipation of finishing and leaving the restaurant. The anticipation of two dumbasses clickity clacking our way past the other fancy diners, ruining their otherwise wonderful Sunday meal with their families. The anticipation of bouncing along the cobblestone streets, disrupting every sidewalk cafe conversation with the the cavernous echos of the click and the clack.

After an eon plus the duration of another ice age, we made it to our flat.

The rental was lovely and the day unfolded with sunshine, tapas, wine, and laughing.

Why do we press on?

Because.

There are treasures ahead.