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Author: Mike Maples

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

A Town Called Catharsis...

Sorry to ejaculate so much bitterness into your eyes, but I'm coming up on the halfway point of my "vacation" to Spain and just needed to write something down to keep from smoking a lefty while making homemade pipe bombs blindfolded. I'd like to preface this blog by saying that the country of Spain is beautiful and really is a sight to behold. And so far, the Spaniards are a very friendly lot and very hospitable.

This post, however, is not about them or their country. This is a tale of a gringo who gets queasy at the thought of any kids other than his own (singular) forced into taking a vacation to a place, during a time, and with a crowd that is the very antithesis of what I imagine a vacation to be: relaxing. Read on...

Spain sucks and this vacation is pure, unfiltered misery with a side of iwishiweredead. I told my current roommate, or wife, that this would blow. I told you guys that it would, and I was correct as always. My son is fucking miserable with jet lag and teething. So flying in coach with two seats the size of barstools with this fucker on our laps was totally awesome for the 3-hour flight to Chicago, then a 4-hour layover there was a fucking joy, followed by a 9-hour flight to Madrid. 

I said repeatedly that vacationing with a toddler is not, in fact, a vacation, but more a testament to self-punishment. Nay, says the roommate. People love to travel with their kids.

We weren't halfway through our flight to Chicago before she agreed with this point that I had made months ago. Good thing she realized it then because our traveling was about 3% done. On that flight, we were understandably surrounded by Spaniards, who are truly some of the nicest people I've ever come across but who also vehemently refuse all forms of hygiene. The lady next to me had such bad breath that my eyes rusted. 

A culture hundreds of years older than America and only one in every five actually doesn't like to smell like a crock-pot full of cabbages and vomit? Can I get a Speed Stick and some Axe for you? A Cert, perhaps? No hairy pits, though. They've got the leg up on the French with that.

Once we got to Madrid, the utter lack of planning on the wife's part became glaringly evident. You see, I didn't want to go on this trip for several reasons and told her that I'm not going to participate in any way to the purposeful flagellation of my sanity and that this trip is solely her responsibility. 

I even told her that since she refuses to make any good financial decisions and must go to Europe, then I'd stay at home with our son.  "Nice fucking guy," says every chick I should be fucking.  But no. And the only goddamn reason I'm here is that because of her lack of forethought, I'd worry too much about him.

Because I told the wife it was her vacation, her responsibility (though sadly, mostly my money), I shot myself in the dick because of the very lack of foresight I was worried about. When we arrive in Madrid, only then does she realize how fucking far we are from our final destination. Three fucking hours. By bus. Meaning more money for bus tickets. 

After paying for that shit, she then realizes that the bus station is miles from the airport, and we'd have to take a series of subway trains to get to it, and through a really shady part of the city. Fucking awesome.  Meanwhile, our son actually looks at us as if to say, "what did I do to deserve this?" That's the worst part for me, seeing him so sad and miserable. 

So train to bus, 2 hours. Then she realizes that this bus ride, which should have (only?) been 3 hours would actually be 6.5 because we'd have to stop at every The Hills Have Eyes town between there and our destination. I'm so torqued on amphetamines and Monster energy drinks that I want to T-1000 sword-hand the roommate's head through a carton of milk. After that, we arrive, finally, at her sister's house in Pamplona.

Nice town, chilled out. But my brother-in-law hates his fucking life more than I hate mine and has ants in his pants. He always wants to go out.  
"Go drinking, party, dance, yes?"  
"No."  
"Mike, don't be an asshole," says the roommate.  
Fuck it, I've only been awake for 40 hours. Give me more amphetamines and I'll wash them down with gin and tonics. Nothing says fun like preparing for a night out like Whitney Houston. 

Oh, and I don't speak Spanish at all. I understand a lot, but not enough to get down. So from this trip's onset, I'm immediately excluded from basically everything.

Then, Mr. Ant-Pants wants to show us the "real Spain," meaning the entire goddamn country. One. Fucking. Day. After. Our. International. Flight. Eight hours in an SUV because this fucker doesn't even remember the way around the "real Spain." We get hopelessly lost multiple times, during which time I hope that a villain from any Antonio Banderas movie will rush the car and stab us all to death with swords. 

This occurs daily for three days, all while my kid is shitty, their kids are insane, and I am vein-necked trying not to kill the fucking lot of them. And when I say insane, they're the kids you see on Supernanny that make you want to perform your own vasectomy with a corkscrew. I never thought I'd actually consider punching a seven-year-old with a grown-ass-man fist like he was an extra in The Expendables

Important things to remember: there is a heatwave here, nearly 100 degrees everywhere we go. No AC.  As in anywhere. Have you ever slept in a squeaky one-man cot with two other sweaty fucks in 100-degree weather while your baby complains of teething pain and constipation? 

No, you haven't because it would be stupid to do that and is the seventh ring of Dante's Inferno. Alas, I did do all of the above. Only today, just today is there AC at one of these joints we're at, but we're only here for a night or two. Then... who the fuck knows? I sure hope we don't bump into any more air conditioning because it wouldn't be a vacation if I didn't leave a sweat-shadow everywhere I fucking sat or lay.  

I went out and bought a device labeled as a small AC until similar in size to a space heater, then traveled all the way to where we're staying to find out that it is, in fact, a space heater. Yay. Why would they even fucking sell me this? 

Also, Spanish people eat basically once a day, sometimes twice, and it's a 3 to 4-hour ordeal. The rest is just snacking. Everything is also cured somehow; nothing is fresh. It's delicious, but imagine eating pepperoni and olives all goddamn day. I have salt-cankles and bologna-fingers so shiny and tight that I'm worried they'll bust. And these fuckers drink virtually no water. It's either wine or Coke. So when I say all I need is at least 3 regular-sized meals and a gallon of water a day since I'm sweating out my fucking skeleton, they look at me like I'm an insane, fat American. 

Unless you eat flies because they are fucking huge in Spain.

Also important: this will be for two God-forsaken weeks. I literally have tears in my eyes because I'm so fucking miserable. Or sweat, still not sure. Still jet-lagged, too. All of us, although the wife refuses to agree with me as she often does out of spite. I know that later on, she'll agree that this was the worst idea she's ever had and will agree with my previous assessment, although she'll say it's somehow my fault that we were all miserable I'm sure. 

I told her that if she makes another stubborn decision like this again without listening to reason (and to reason, I mean to me), I'll buy her a flight ticket and a subscription to whatever Spain calls their version of match.com.

The moral of this story, lads, is that no matter what your woman tells you, it is likely wrong. Women are not rational or reasonable, they are emotional. They will do anything that pops into their mind without considering any possible consequences that follow. If you disagree, you're an asshole and deserve to be punished until you agree. It is because of this that they are the weaker sex and can't be trusted with important positions like a family vacation planner or President. If you know, simply by using logic, that something sounds fucking stupid, that's because it is.  Don't go along with it to maintain peace or I promise you will regret it. 

You all don't need me to tell you what a vacation should be as we all have differing opinions, but I think a common theme is relaxation. It should be, by my definition, less strenuous than work and thus alleviating the pressures of work and preparing your return to work more in a more refreshed state.  

If you're too broke to do an international vacation the correct way, as I am, then stay at home, take a week off, crack a beer, and do the things you really enjoy. Movies? Do it. Shopping? You go, girl! Video games? Until your eyes bleed. Sleeping in? Staying up late? Going to your favorite bars and restaurants? Hell yeah! If you want to go international (and you should because there is plenty to see in the world) then do yourself a favor and save up for however long it takes to afford the circumstances, you want (hotels, car rentals, spas, the like) and if you have kids, find a fucking sitter or wait until they're at least a few years older than 1.5. 

And while visiting family, especially those you haven't seen in a long time, is cool, if you stay with them for two weeks, you are a fucking burden. We can agree to disagree, but it's true. You're cramping their life and style, costing them money, and not even at the cost of your having the best possible time.  

Because if you were having the best possible time, you'd be at a Disney resort in Orlando, drinking beers with me at some hole-in-the-wall while the wife and kids catch up with the rest of your family, then going back and fuck your wife loudly on clean sheets in a nicer bed than yours with the AC on full-blast and the room-service Heineken bottle dangling from your butthole, all while your kids are in a separate room watching Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. 

Sitting nut-to-butt with an old man who smells like red wine and Dorito-sweat on a bus isn't fun. Flying with a baby who, by no fault of his own, is being a dick isn't a good time. Staying with family for two weeks while they bicker and their kids make you want to feed them Diet Coke and Mentos isn't an ideal "vacation."  Thinking about what you have to put on eBay to afford this fucking catastrophe's considerable debt isn't a blast.

Ruining the days of everyone you come in contact with for the entire duration of the trip? Priceless. When life hands you lemons, squeeze them into the eyes of everyone around you.