I Once Saw a Man Poop His Daughter, Notes on Costa Brava

I earned an enemy in Spain. I’m not sure how. It was our first full day in the country, and we spent it in Barcelona. On the return trip on the train, things were going swimmingly. We were in an end row, back to the door corridor, and there was a woman sitting in front of us, a little younger than us probably. She had luggage to store overhead and worked on a laptop.

It was quiet for a stop and then a child-inclusive group of loud folk got on and the serenity was trampled beneath their sugar-buzzed conversation and tromping about the car. It was at this point I found one little noisemaker who was especially adorable and then the one behind him stopped mid-car to pull his foot up to his face and give it a deep sniff.

That’s when Shawna started calling them toe-sniffers as a gentle reminder that, on those rare occasions when I yearn for little people, I still don’t want to burden another human being with my genetics.

Anyway, they were loud, we were quiet, and they got off the train one stop before us, so we had to endure the shouty-shouts for most of the journey. But we did not participate in them. This is important, our lack of culpability for the train noise and distraction, only due to what happened next.

Just before our stop, the woman sitting in front of us turned back suddenly and looked between the seats at me with flat-out animosity. And I had done nothing.

All right. Whatever. This chic was having a moment and I was on the other end of it. But then… then… she stood up, pulled her suitcase down, and slammed it on the floor, all while staring at me with the same look of utmost loathing. At which point, I still did nothing, but the motion of the train caused her suitcase to fall over, which she apparently determined my fault.

When she at last went out to the corridor, it was most relieving. Unfortunately, we too had to disembark, so we were forced to enter her realm again. And she still hated me. And made sure I knew. And I still don’t know why.

Prior to that, we spent a full day in Barcelona, where we walked all about until everything got very sore, the sangria at lunch was far too strong, and I developed an ugly sun rash that turned my leg into a demon.

What a beautiful city, though. Almost unreal.

Since Barcelona’s air quality is undesirable, I did the city bandit-style and, while many adults looked at me like I was halfway to the asylum, one little boy jumped out of a doorway to shout “Bandida! Bandida!” with such enthusiasm I felt only mildly stupid.

The following day, we were in Tossa de Mar, where I found my first-ever unbroken conch shell in a planter within the castle walls high above the sea, and marveled at how many fantasy worlds exist within the real world.

That evening, we spent in Girona. It was our Spanish base, and where we spent the first night overindulging in tapas. Due to an acute bout of salad-lust, we ended up wandering through the entire old town, despite super-tired feets, and it was on our way back to the hotel that we saw the man pooping his daughter.

Pooping his daughter.

Holding her flat out on her back over the dirt next to a tree with her dress pulled up and panties around her ankles.

Pooping his daughter.

In other essential news, the chicken croquettes were unhealthily delicious, and I got three white peaches and a pound of the best cherries ever picked for two euros.