EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALMay 23, 1999
Calle Conde de Barajas, Seville
Outback Specialists
It’s nearly June, Spain’s busiest month for tourists. Today
reaches a high of 98 degrees Fahrenheit – I’m using Fahrenheit for dramatics.
Cranky travelers stand sweating on the street corners, with maps and
scowls, or maps and perseverance.
A man, quite obviously staying at the Hotel America, stands at the
payphone across the street. He’s pounding on the telephone at the place where the
coin goes in.
A well-dressed couple spills out of a designer shop and into the urine,
smoke and frying fish. "I not walking around anymore!" She puts her foot down,
"Figure out where we are!"
A pair of back-packers – far from the city-centre – aimless
in a labyrinth of medieval alleyways, glazed over.
A lone twenty-something, rosy and glistening, stops for an almond
croissant and asks the bartender about train tickets. He’ll miss his flight if he
doesn’t get to Madrid by tomorrow morning.
These people need shelter, and directions, and a cold, crispy salad,
and for a split second I understand the Brits and their lovely oasis hotels along the
shores of the Mediterranean and tucked into the pueblos blancos. I want to reach out and
save someone’s trip, even if it’s only a fleeting moment of unsettling
disorientation.
Where there’s live flamenco, the adventurous sip Cruzcampo and tap
their fingertips on the table. Christina’s from Ottawa, travelling as a nanny for her
neighbours. They’ve rented a villa near Lagos in southern Portugal and she’s
taken a few days off to see Seville.
Paul’s from Australia. Now that he’s left the continent
it’s important to see as much as possible before he goes back – Australia’s
a long way from anywhere. He shares his six-month itinerary: Spain, France, Italy, Greece,
Turkey, Holland, Belgium, Ireland, England, New York, then Halifax, Toronto, Vancouver,
Los Angeles, Hawaii, home. Now we’re discussing Grizzly bears and why you don’t
bring your toothpaste into your tent with you, and how there are more deadly creatures in
Australia. Back home, Paul has a friend who's a world-renowned outback specialist. Steve
has a television program called "The Crocodile Hunter" where, in full khakis, he
wrestles pythons and swims up to sharks and stalks big spiders. His wife is a cute
American, also decked out in khakis and very keen, but every so often, while hanging from
a cliff and standing before a swamp of hungry crocodiles, she mumbles, "Um, honey?
I’m feeling a little scared right now." Paul says, "When traveling
in the outback we had to sleep on the ground, which can be a bit risky because the snakes
love the warmth of your body. We’d hang a mosquito net over our mattresses and tuck
it in very, very tight underneath. This way the snakes wouldn’t climb into bed with
us, and we’d only awake to the salivating dingoes, staring us down through the
netting."
"Steve grabbed a 15-foot python and held it in his arms. These are
the snakes that squeeze you to death. ‘Oh, aren’t you a beautiful girl…such
a lovely girl…nice girl,’ he cooed. ‘Don’t worry, she’s not going
to bite, she’s not poisonous, she’s not going to bite.’ Just then the
python wound up and snapped at his face, ripping his cheek open and a great gush of blood
started fountaining out from his face. He calmly held the snake out in front of him and in
a half-whisper, ‘Oh, naughty girl, naughty girl!’ as if scolding a puppy
for pulling his sleeve."
