Holidays are not for the weak.
Dianne, Gwen and Ceri found that out today. Having got up at three in the morning to catch the early flight to Barcelona from Bristol they were ill prepared for the ‘eventful’ and lengthy drive, relying on the somewhat generalised information provided by my direction finder extending their day into the realms of the hallucinogenic.
We managed to find the approximate position of their flat; but finding the exact location and being able to drive there (accommodating the various ‘no right’ and ‘no left’ turns) was something else.
A casual turn down an available road resulted in a long diversion, any left turn being inhibited by a sacrosanct tram way over which one could not pass: we were half way to a Gaudi masterpiece before an extensive roundabout gave us an opportunity to return to an approximation of our previous position.
Driving in strange cities is such fun! The way back to Castelldefels was equal enjoyment. And yes, I am being ironic.
It’s strange welcoming close friends of years’ standing to a foreign country which is now your home. There is the ease of long familiarity based on shared experience and knowledge but there should also be a comfortable sense of future continuity: the assurance that this conversation is part of a quotidian series – but it isn’t. It is an essential part of a limited series of face-to-face encounters that will have to suffice to give flesh to the more impersonal distance of a telephone call that will be the future of the immediate contact. Knowing that someone is only ten minutes away allows distance and infrequency; being a thousand miles away is a gulf which underlines all electronic contact.
I love having them in Barcelona, but nearness also emphasises distance. Emotional paradoxes are only interesting when they don’t touch you personally; when they do they are more frustrating than stimulating.
However, there is much to enjoy before they depart next weekend.
I only hope the weather is good enough to carry their resentment of my continued ‘holiday in the sun’ back to a damp Wales.
They are my ambassadors of despair – in the nicest possible way of course!
Dianne, Gwen and Ceri found that out today. Having got up at three in the morning to catch the early flight to Barcelona from Bristol they were ill prepared for the ‘eventful’ and lengthy drive, relying on the somewhat generalised information provided by my direction finder extending their day into the realms of the hallucinogenic.
We managed to find the approximate position of their flat; but finding the exact location and being able to drive there (accommodating the various ‘no right’ and ‘no left’ turns) was something else.
A casual turn down an available road resulted in a long diversion, any left turn being inhibited by a sacrosanct tram way over which one could not pass: we were half way to a Gaudi masterpiece before an extensive roundabout gave us an opportunity to return to an approximation of our previous position.
Driving in strange cities is such fun! The way back to Castelldefels was equal enjoyment. And yes, I am being ironic.
It’s strange welcoming close friends of years’ standing to a foreign country which is now your home. There is the ease of long familiarity based on shared experience and knowledge but there should also be a comfortable sense of future continuity: the assurance that this conversation is part of a quotidian series – but it isn’t. It is an essential part of a limited series of face-to-face encounters that will have to suffice to give flesh to the more impersonal distance of a telephone call that will be the future of the immediate contact. Knowing that someone is only ten minutes away allows distance and infrequency; being a thousand miles away is a gulf which underlines all electronic contact.
I love having them in Barcelona, but nearness also emphasises distance. Emotional paradoxes are only interesting when they don’t touch you personally; when they do they are more frustrating than stimulating.
However, there is much to enjoy before they depart next weekend.
I only hope the weather is good enough to carry their resentment of my continued ‘holiday in the sun’ back to a damp Wales.
They are my ambassadors of despair – in the nicest possible way of course!
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