Study Abroad

“Study abroad? You must be kidding. He’s only in second grade.”

Bryan’s teacher surely thought Shelley was nuts. What eight-year-old leaves school early to go to Europe? When my sister-in-law explained the opportunities afforded by the trip, Bryan’s teacher decided that she would like to be adopted and go, too.

Tim and I were taking Bryan, pollywog #1, on a transatlantic cruise to Barcelona with visits to Paris and Iceland thrown in. Pollywogs 2, 3 and 4 were invited to come along, but a variety of excuses to stay home were offered up. Anna Lauren couldn’t miss her dance recital, because the costumes were already paid for. She no longer turns her back to the audience and stares at the scenery, so I could understand her parents’ interest in seeing their investment finally pay off. Tyler’s principal threatened to take Rachel to family court if he missed all those jam-packed learning days at the end of school. And Keegan…well, Keegan…hadn’t yet come to terms with being away from her family for more than 24 hours. I have no idea what she thought they might do without her.

So Bryan had us all to himself. We carefully explained that this wasn’t the gift shop experience of a lifetime, but an adventure of epic proportions. He had to behave every day and not cry like a little girl if the ice cream machine didn’t have strawberry. He agreed to all the rules, threw four pairs of underwear into his suitcase, and grabbed his passport. The boy was ready to roll.

Life onboard the Disney Magic was indeed magical for Bryan. After he realized we weren’t going to sink into the depths of the Atlantic where he would be eaten by sharks, he settled right down and quickly made friends from around the US and England. He took drawing lessons from a Disney cartoonist and won her sketch of Dopey. He and Tim concocted a boat out of a couple of plastic cups and entered the boat race in the pool. He went on a scavenger hunt, camped overnight in the Oceaneer Lab, attended lectures on sea monsters, watched movies and plays, marveled at the magician and the hypnotist, and swam until he was waterlogged. He plotted the home countries of many crew members on a world map and left gifts for his Secret Mickey. Unfortunately, he also learned that he didn’t have a future in towel folding.

When we arrived in Madeira, we took the cable car up the mountain and rode a wooden toboggan down. As we careened through the streets, trying to avoid cars and trucks, Bryan screamed, “I’m gonna die today. Tell Momma I love her.” There is nothing like facing death to focus one’s priorities.

At Gibraltar, he got up close and personal with a few of the Barbary apes. He always wanted a monkey; so when we left, I checked his backpack for a stowaway.

Finally, the cruise was over, and we disembarked in Barcelona. We dropped off our luggage and met Ann-Marie, our Runner Bean Tours tour guide. We were her only clients, so we got a fantastic private tour. Bryan learned songs, ate candy from one of the oldest shops in town, saw the giants used at carnival, played games, and fell in love with Barcelona. As Ann-Marie left us, he assured her that he would be back—next June to be exact.

Our hotel, located in the heart of the Barri Gotic, was quintessential Europe. I warned Bryan about the elevator, but he didn’t believe me. He and I squeezed in with our luggage—and I do mean squeezed. Tim waited patiently for his turn. El Jardi offers a more realistic experience for an eight-year-old than Marriott.

The next morning we were off to Paris and to meet Shelley. She was determined that she wasn’t missing all the fun. We rode the train from the airport and then the metro. We found our apartment, and after some confusion, managed to drag our luggage up three flights of circular stairs. The apartment was spacious in places and tiny in others. The kitchen was usable; the dishwasher-not so much. It was the size of a drawer and leaked. Four or five items, say three pairs of granny panties, one bra, and a tee shirt, fit in the washer; the dryer was a wooden rack. When I washed my face in the bathroom sink, I had to open the door. Otherwise, my rear end had nowhere to go. We made do.

We spent the next few days strolling the streets like real Parisiennes. Breakfast was a fresh pastry from the bakery down the street; lunch was wherever we happened to be at the moment; and dinner was either at a neighborhood restaurant or something whipped up by Shelley in our tiny kitchen.

Bryan’s Paris favorite was the Egyptian exhibit at the Louvre, but the Eiffel Tower was a close second. He stood at the bottom of the obelisk where Marie-Antoinette lost her head and visited her palace at Versailles. Bryan had never seen “real dead bodies,” so we went to the catacombs. I had sworn after going with Rachel a few years ago that I’d never do it again. The exit stairs, circular and extremely tight, were every bit as awful as I remembered. The defibrillator was still hanging on the wall. I think Bryan has a picture of himself at most of the underground cemeteries, so he should be satisfied for a while at least.

Next we were off to Iceland. The place is a perfect setting for alien movies—all black lava, few shrubs and fewer trees. We loved it. The lava beach didn’t quite measure up to Destin, but we weren’t there for a beach experience. We stood inside a glacier, walked among thermal springs, rode among volcanoes, and boated out to see the puffins. Shelley and Bryan walked behind a waterfall; Bryan was looking for treasure left by trolls or so the story goes.

On our last day we decided to swim at an indoor thermal pool. No tourists here; only the locals. Dear God, we should have known better.

We walked the few blocks from our apartment to the pool. At the desk, we were given a locker key and a towel. Tim and Bryan headed to the men’s locker room while Shelley and I searched confidently for the ladies.
As we reached the corridor, we noticed a lady removing her shoes and then saw the sign, “Remove your shoes.” That should have been all the warning we needed. But no…..

Inside the locker room, a young mother, naked as the day she was born, was nursing a baby while another child made a few attempts at dressing herself. An older woman was at her locker presumably changing into her street clothes. Shelley and I found our lockers and proceeded to take off our clothes, hang them in the locker, and put on our socially-acceptable swim suits and cover-ups. Satisfied that we had accomplished job one, we headed for the pool.

As we walked through the shower area, an old lady yelled at us in Icelandic. We froze in our tracks. We turned to see this butt naked old lady pantomime showering. Specifically, she made sure we knew exactly which parts needed special attention.
We looked around—mortified—when Shelley saw the sign. Indeed, showering was required before entering the pool. Resigned to our fate, we removed our cover-ups, stripped off our swim suits, and turned on the water. Unfortunately, the soap dispenser was across the room and old eagle eye was making sure we used soap.

After a good lathering of all the required places, we redressed and again tried to find the pool. We found Tim and Bryan outside in the hot tub. We took off our cover-ups yet again and shivered to the hot tub. At some point, we thought none of the other people there could speak English (later learning that nearly everyone in Iceland speaks English), so we brought up the subject of the showers. Tim and Bryan had known ahead of time to shower. Apparently, Bryan had had some trouble getting his water to turn on, and an elderly gentleman had kindly helped. I can only hope the boy isn’t scarred for life.

For the next two hours we enjoyed the pool. Shelley and I tried to stay in the water and not walk around like a couple of bank strutters. We were the only women in bathing suits with skirts. Not to mention those damn cover-ups. Then it was time to leave. Oh, dear, the showers again.

We knew the drill but we didn’t like it. We stripped; we soaped; we rinsed; we redressed.

Outside in the cool air, I said to Shelley, “I don’t know about you, but I’m still hot.”

“It’s just the embarrassment,” she muttered.


Love,
Gay, an old dog who is learning new tricks
July 1, 2013