Doing the Macarena
There was a sound of heavy footsteps thumping up our front stairs and Roger and I whipped our heads in that direction, simultaneously saying “Who could that be?” Fortunately, we’ve yet to become those kind of isolationists who stare at a ringing phone saying “I’m not expecting a call are you” but give us time, we obviously have potential. It was our mailman, but that wasn’t readily apparent. In Topanga, mailmen don’t wear uniforms and they don’t drive mail trucks and they leave your mail at the end of the driveway in a US Postal Service approved mailbox. FedEx and UPS drivers haul themselves up our stairs but this time it was our mailman carrying this large (like 9” square) parchment (paper not calfskin) invitation. Foreign stamps (Spanish) and an elegantly inked address on the front and of such apparent import that we had to sign for it. “Hmmmmm,” we both said. And then, rather than just opening the invitation, we guessed what it was all about. We’re like that sometimes. “Maria Carmen’s getting married,” I guessed. “Bet it’s Macarena,” Roger said. For the record, it’s Macarena, and she’s getting married in Sevilla and Roger has never been busier at work but we both immediately started thinking of ways to make the trip possible. I love that in him. He’s not all about why things won’t work, but how they could work (when it comes to traveling).
Just last week Roger and I were talking about the bride’s father, Paco (Francisco) who’s an old friend of the hubs. I don’t know his age, exactly, but I’ve always thought of him as being a lot older…not quite one foot in the grave but inching in that direction. He’s married to a fabulous woman, easily 20 years his junior. Okay, that probably makes Paco in his 70s. Maybe even mid 70s. Sadly, that doesn't sound as old as it did 10 years ago. Anyway, Paco's English is pretty good but has its limitations and last Christmas when we were retrieving some messages on voicemail, there was one from Paco. I swear this is what it said. "Roger, Linda, Merry Christmas. Maria's dead. Happy New Year. Bye." Needless to say Roger called him immediately and it turns out that Maria is, in fact, quite alive, but her 90-year old father was quite dead. We listened to Paco's message a few times and not once did we hear the word father or papa or dad or daddy. He said Maria's dead. So sometimes he forgets the odd word. The odd key word. Anyway, Roer was chattering about how he'd really like to go and see Paco now rather than for his funeral. I looked at him like I always do when he talks like that and said, "Okay, let's go." We'd made no further plans, though, and when the invitation arrived we both decided why not.
So, after much jiggling and futzing with Virgin Atlantic online I managed to snag a couple of upgraded tickets for 'Miles plus Money' and now all I need to do is let Paco and Maria know we're coming, book a hotel in Sevilla, let my Mum in England know we're coming, let Roger's sister in Wales know we're coming, let Kim and Jenny in Llandewi Velfry (also Wales) know we're headed their way, get some plane tickets from Gatwick to Sevilla, book some rental cars, get some thoughtie gifts and practice my non-existant Spanish on the CDs I bought Roger for his birthday.¡Yay! ¡Vamos el día de fiesta!