by Dancer, Jack
I spot the girls and saunter up to the table where they’re sitting and offer up my smiling Buenos Dias, but to no avail. Other than a cursory smile from each, Terry and Monica are looking like they're having their last meal before the gallows. But then, with Ebba in their faces cheerfully chirping on about the Taverna La Tomaquera and doing her best to rub in the good time they'd missed out on, who could blame them?
The day hasn't even begun, and the forecast already looks like a high-pressure system packing a lot of turbulence and at a female to male ratio of three-to-one - one being my alleged girlfriend, the second my alleged secret paramour and the third? Not entirely sure but from all indications, I think Terry’s still seeing me as the world's biggest scalawag. It's looking like this is going to be a dicey day.
Two friendly hellos approach our table from James and Lisa - James as perky as a chipmunk, but Lisa's looking like she's dragging anchor.
“So, how are ya'll this fine morning,” asks perky James.
“Hello James. Good to see you again,” I say then turning to Lisa, “And good to see you too, Lisa.”
“Had a lot of fun last night, Tucker. Can you tell?” she asks.
“Nothing a little hair of the dog won't cure.”
“Hair's all that's left this morning I'm afraid. Seems she ate the dog last night. Or, maybe it was the dog that ate her. Which was it Lisa darling?” laughs James.
Lisa looks at him and says, “Watch it buddy before that dog's barf is worse than its bite.”
“Yuck Lisa,” says Ebba, “we've got breakfast going on here.”
“Sorry, hon. I gotta find the coffee pot.” She turns and heads off toward the two twenty gallon coffee urns located at the far end of the buffet.
“Nanette darling,” James says, “still here? Thought you'd be back all snuggled up in your luscious apartment by now.”
“I wish. They're finishing up the remodeling today so I should be home tomorrow.”
Then turning to Terry and Ebba he says, “So, what're y'all up to on this fine day, girls?”
“Ebba's taking us on a drive down the coast in her convertible,” says Terry.
“Oh, my, how fine,” he says, then turning to Monica, “I don't believe I've had the pleasure. You must be, Monica.”
“I'm sorry,” Terry says. “Yes, this is my friend, Monica.” Turning to Monica, “Monica this is James Culpepper. He and Lisa are FAs crewing another flight.”
“Pleased to meet you Monica,” James says with a small wave. Sorry, we missed you two last night. I understand Mr. Sandman showed up at your door a little early. Can't say I blame you. It must have been utterly exhausting having to ride one of those dinosaurs for all that way.” He turns to me and says. “Tucker, you should be ashamed of yourself, treating a lady with such primal behavior . . . (catching himself) I mean, utilizing such a primitive means of transportation, and all.”
“Yeah, Tucker, you should be ashamed of yourself,” mocks Ebba.
“It wasn't an adventure for the faint of heart,” Monica cuts in with a snicker, “Required stamina, aye, Tucker?”
I nod and smile anticipating Ebba inserting a knife into my ribs, but she says nothing. Thank you Jesus. The burning stare she's leveled sideways at me is enough but I refuse to acknowledge it.
“Well, I am very happy that you survived your adventure, Monica.” Addressing the group James says, “and I hope all ya'll enjoy your trip down the coast. It's such a fine day for driving with the wind in your face and the sunny shine overhead,” he says turning away, then turns back as if remembering something he'd forgotten.
“Come to think of it, I made the same drive myself a couple of years back. It was quite enjoyable. If you happen to find yourselves near the lovely little town of Tarragona around lunchtime - it's only a couple of hours down the road - ask someone for directions to a little restaurant called El Balcon. It means the Balcony and it’s situated with a lovely view over the Mediterranean, being right there on the water, and all. The food is good but there is something else that I think you'll find quite surprising.”
“What?” I ask.
“Just go there and discover for yourself. If I tell you, it'll ruin the surprise. Trust me on this. Ya'll won't be disappointed,” he says. “And, on your way down, just before Tarragona there's an old Roman Aqueduct called, Pont del Diable. It means 'Devil's Bridge', and it's well worth a stop. And it's free. It's just off the side of the road back through some woods in a very secluded area. There's seldom anyone there, so it's not like something touristy. Anyhow, ya'll have fun. And it was nice to meet you Monica, honey.”
“Nice to meet you too, James,” Monica returns. “Now isn't he a friendly fellow.”
“Just one of the girls,” says Ebba.
“Okay, so how 'bout we get this show on the road,” I cut in to head off any premature turbulence from my earlier forecast.
“I'm ready,” says Terry. “And I think that's a great idea about the Devil's Bridge. I'd love to see it.” She turns to Monica. “Say, you think we could bring Juan along for a little devil worship?”
“Who's Juan?” asks Ebba.
“Probably the best set of buns in Barcelona. Monica and I discovered him last night. You'll probably meet him before this trip's over . . . but if you do, just remember, I've already claimed him.”
“Okay, can't wait,” says Ebba a bit put back. “But then, with this group there seem to be lots of claim jumping going on.”
“Don't even think it,” Terry warns her with a grin.
After a quick trip back to our rooms to collect jackets and scarves to bundle up against the breezy ride in Ebba's topless BMW, and cameras to record all the fun ahead of us, we meet at the elevator. When the car arrives with its universal ding and the doors part, I get the distinct feeling I'm walking into a pit with three very anxious and out of control terriers. I push the button to the garage level.
Ebba tosses me the keys.
“Today you're in the driver's seat.”
“Figuratively speaking of course,” I say.
“Of course,” the other three respond in unexpected unison, and everybody laughs for the first time, breaking the morning chill, thank God.
Terry and Monica are again occupying the back seat, and I adjust the rear-view mirror for a clear line of sight to Monica. She notices my little ploy and smiles. I return it gladly. It's the first intimate communication we've had a chance to share since Portbou.
We have no set destination except south, down the coast. The Devil's Bridge I guess.
Out of the hotel garage, we head east toward the Avinguda de Rius i Taulet taking the tree-lined Boulevard to the Magic Fountain of Montjuic, built for the International Exhibition of 1929. We turn right onto Avinguda de la Reina Maria Cristina and in a short distance we pass between the two forty seven meter, tall Venetian Towers that flank the entrance into the Placa d'Espanya, one of the most important squares in Barcelona and also built for the International Exhibition of 1929.
A large monument dedicated to the waters of Spain centers the square, surrounded by a huge roundabout, much like the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. I merge into the melee and drive nearly a complete circle before shooting out onto the Gran Via de les Corts Catalanes and continue on until we find the A-2 Autopista de Pau Casals.
Once we're out of the city, the traffic thins considerably and thirty-six miles later we're cutting through fields of farmland on both sides of the roadway until we come to the AP-7 Autopista del Mediterraneo. Sixteen more miles and we come across a sign for Pont del Diable (Devil's Bridge) and a small empty parking area that nudges its way into a copse of trees.
We turn in, and park and everyone gets out, stretching legs. The old Roman aqueduct, not fifty yards away, towers over the treetops. From the car park a small sign points to an opening through the trees where a path leads to the old structure. Ebba and I walk side-by-side with Terry and Monica following until we come upon the two-story bridge with overlapping arched columns spanning ov
er 200 meters across a valley, so says the plaque describing the aqueduct.
The bridge is constructed of stone blocks twenty-seven meters high. Unknown is the actual date of construction though it's known to have been during the era of Caesar Augustus. To be as old as that, the structure is in magnificent shape, fully intact so that you can walk the entire length of the bridge without encountering a single break.
And as with any decent historical site, the legend here is universal - the aqueduct was built by the Devil after winning a bet and the soul of a fair lady.
While the girls explore the bridge's walkway across the valley, I'm busily photographing the structure with my Nikon, and the Garmin GPS attached to the camera is embedding the exact coordinates within each digital image. I picked up the GPS attachment before this trip so that later, I won't have to depend on my memory to recall exactly where a photograph was taken. Lately, my memory seems to be getting pretty full up, so any new additions means something has to go to make room.
Walking down to ground level and out of sight of the girls to relieve myself against one of the ancient columns, I find a crevice between two stones, which appears to be an ideal place to slip into it the laminated sheet - no larger than a postcard - I'd brought along. And with a little dirt and gravel to fill the remaining void, my little prize is safely tucked away. I shoot the spot with the Nikon and the GPS marks the buried treasure with a digitized X and I deem the christened spot my “Aqua Relief.”
On the climb back to the aqueduct's upper level, I pass Terry and Monica on their way down.
“Restrooms are out of order ladies. No toilet paper.”
“So, that's what you’ve been doing down here?” Terry says.
“Me? No ma'am. I would never stoop to desecrate any historical monument. I use a tree like any self-respecting man.”
“I brought my own tissue” Monica says displaying a small packet.
“In that case, I did notice behind some bushes, several wads of those lying around and figured that would be the ladies' room. You can't miss it.”
“I'm going back to the car,” says Terry turning and heading that way.
“I'll get Ebba and meet you there,” I say while Monica continues down the path to the bottom of the aqueduct, tissues in hand.
Back at the top I find Ebba sitting, taking in the view.
“Where'd you go?”
“Had to take a break, so I walked to the bottom where no one would see me.”
“Why is it guys have this thing about peeing in the woods?”
“Because we can?”
“Marking territory's more like it,” she says.
“That too,” I say considering the irony.
As we walked back down the path through the stand of trees separating the aqueduct from the car park something brushes across my head giving me, a startle.
“What the hell?”
“What?” she asks.
“Something brushed over the top of my head.”
I look around to see what it might've been. There was no low-hanging limb. No breeze. I couldn't account for anything that would've brushed over my hair like it did. And yet I had the distinct feeling that I'd been here before and something or someone was welcoming me back with a pat on the head. It was very real, and I couldn't shake the thought that I was being welcomed back to this place. Perhaps I'd been a Roman soldier or one of the workers, back in the day, and now, having returned, the spirit that's been hanging around here all this time decided to reach out and touch me. Phone company, probably.
We made it to the El Balcon restaurant James had recommended and along the way came across another Roman artifact, this one under excavation, located right on the beachfront in Tarragona. It was an entire Roman Amphitheater that had been built around eleven B.C. It was huge with a capacity for thirteen thousand spectators. It was a place for the gladiators and the hunt of wild animals, but it was also a place where prisoners’ sentences were finally executed. All this according to our waiter at El Balcon. But, that wasn't the surprising thing James was hinting at when he said to come here, and I have to say, his was a surprise I would have never guessed.
It was like we'd gone to Tarragona and found ourselves in the French Quarter in New Orleans. What we found at the El Balcon was a Dixieland Band at its finest. No kidding. The music was great. And as it turned out, Tarragona is nuts over Dixieland music. Who would've figured?
They're so nuts about it; they host one of the largest Dixieland music festivals in the world. Festival Internacional Dixieland de Tarragona was started in Tarragona, Catalonia, Spain, in 1994.
I knew something seemed a bit odd when we walked into the restaurant to The Saints Come Marching In. And James was right. Had he told us ahead of time it wouldn't have been the same.
After listening to more Dixieland at the El Balcon than I've heard since the last New Orleans Jazz Festival I'd gone to, and taking a few photos of the beautiful Mediterranean waters, we headed back to Barcelona.
The drive down to Tarragona and back was nice enough as far as the beautiful surroundings and weather went, but like the dirt cloud following Charlie Brown's Pigpen, there was a pall hanging in the air - the unspoken thing.
twenty
16:00 Hours, Tuesday, 2 September.
The Fira Palace Hotel.
While Ebba's returns the rental car, I head back up to the room, and just as I'm outside the door, I'm getting this uneasy feeling that someone's on the other side just waiting for me to walk in so they can beat the shit out of me for the lottery ticket. The dead guy's mother maybe?
Should've waited for Ebba and let her go in first, I’m thinking.
I insert the plastic key card into the reader and with the green light and a click ease the door back. I peek around inside. No one. Doesn't look ransacked though they could be hiding. I need something to throw and flush 'em out. My camera? No way am I'm throwing that. My wallet? Not the wallet. I'll throw a few coins, looks like play money anyhow. So, I dig out what coins are in my pocket and toss 'em in underhanded. Nothing. The carpet swallows any sound. So, I take off my shoe, a loafer, and throw that hard enough for a good, loud thunk.
Still nothing. Looks like the coast is clear. And just as I'm about the step in, I notice a couple standing in the hallway, staring at me.
“Long day walking. Can't wait to get these shoes off,” I say with a smile then reach down and toss my other shoe inside.
Tourists.
I drop the camera on the bed and retrieve my laptop from the carryon bag and log onto the hotel's WIFI, then boot up my Outlook to check for email and as the inbox populates, one appears from Saul. I click it open.
Subject line: Don't Be A Sucker. Things Aren't Always As They Seem.
He goes on to point out that the Spanish Lottery is rife with fraud and if the ticket happened to come into my possession through some means other than me purchasing it personally from a legitimate outlet, then I should have it authenticated prior to making a claim on the winnings just in case it turns out to be a counterfeit. I don't want to find myself in, as he puts it in Spanish legalese: Deep caca. Assuming, however, that the ticket is legitimate, he goes on to address my questions:
* Players must be at least 18 years of age and are not required to be of Spanish citizenship, neither are they obliged to have a fixed residence in Spain.
* To be recognized as the bona fide lottery winner, the claimant must have purchased a physical ticket, but not necessarily in person. An agent of the claimant may purchase the ticket. Wonder just how strict the definition of “agent” is?
* Should a forged ticket(s) be presented as bona fide, but cannot be readily substantiated; the claimant must also present the original sales receipt.
* Winnings are not taxed by Spain but are taxed by the United States. Figures.
* The timeframe to collect winnings is ninety days from the date of drawing after which any unclaimed winnings will return to the general lottery fund.
* Winnings e
xceeding 600 euros must be claimed at the Loterìas y Apuestas Del Estado, No, 93 Estacion de Sants, Barcelona, Spain.
* The holder of a winning ticket may remain anonymous as long as a legally designated substitute is assigned to claim the winnings.
* At the ticket holder's request funds can be electronically deposited into any bank account in the world.
As to your question regarding a local contact to advise you and assist in claiming your winnings, please contact:
Jose Fernandez, partner
Fernandez, Lopez, Carbello, Attorneys at Law
Barcelona, Spain
I have spoken to Jose personally and have apprised him of your circumstances and requirements.
As to your question regarding a local bank with which to establish an account and to provide other necessary services we recommend:
Bank Of America
Entenza 332-334, Barcelona
Contact: Miguel De La Guarda, branch manager.
I have also personally spoken to Señor De La Guarda on your behalf but have not apprised him of the specifics of your situation, only that you require banking services. He is also awaiting your call.
I have taken the liberty to arrange an appointment for you to meet with both Jose Fernandez and Miguel De La Guarda at the bank's office on Tuesday, September 2nd at 4:00 PM Barcelona time. Please call Jose on his cell (number: XXX-XXXX) if you need to reschedule.
Contact me if you require any further assistance.
In the meantime, I wish you good luck that yours turns out to be the winning horse. If it does, my fees double.
Seriously, Tucker, take every precaution to be safe.
Regards,
Saul
I jot the contact information down in my Moleskine notepad, delete Saul's email, and leave a note for Ebba that I've gone out for a short walk around the hotel area. I need to make this quick.