Travelling in Pairs (Part 2)

Today is Genna's turn to make it happen, and perhaps it is because of my excesses that she chooses the way she does. Still, at least until this afternoon, I am bound to her as a loyal travel partner and friend. Along our nightly adventure of finding a place to sleep Genna and I come across one of Portugal's many sport centers. This is something we find remarkable about the country - along with an incredible knowledge about wine and regional pride, each little town seems to have the most well-funded sports complex that I have ever come across. It's a nice change from requiring my first born to afford the overcrowded gyms of Boulder, or worse, joining one of our expansive networks of Megachurches in the US that substitute for community builders in a country that refuses to fund secular wholesome social organizations (yes, I have become a raging liberal thanks to travel and the New Yorker). Anyway, I make the mistake of driving past one such sports complex where Genna, again to my misfortune, notices a large pool inside.

"I know, let's get up and swim laps tomorrow!"

Alright, this girl has got to be joking. I make her drink wine and eat ice cream and she's about to drag me into a pool in the middle of Portugal to swim laps? Does she know that my mother is worried that I will drown someday because I am such a pathetic flailing swimmer? She doesn't, nor does she care.

The morning arrives and I hope the girl has forgotten about this ill-advised bout of motivation. Luck is not with me. Having sacrificed both of our absolutely rockin' pack towels to the travel gods, we are left bringing some stinky laundry into the recreation center housing my chlorinated nemesis. Once inside we are promptly interrogated about whether we possess the required swim caps. Does this lady know that I do not have so much as a bathing suit let alone a swim cap? Well no problem then, she hands over two child size caps for me to tuck my 2 foot mane underneath.

Once in the locker room, beside what is becoming a regular entourage of elementary schoolers, I stuff my rolls into a neon green sports bra bargained down to 20 derham in the harassing markets of Marrakech. The tush gets tucked into a set of men's boxer briefs stolen from a Moroccan surfer on the beaches of Imessouane, and finally the hair bubbles out of the head condom that the Portuguese think will somehow contain me (I'm an extra large like everybody else you know). We do our best to avert our eyes from the mirrors as we pad out to the pool, me meanwhile cursing Genna with every waddled step.

We emerge to a team of aerobicisers in the small pool, a flock of youngin's in swim class readying themselves to belly flop into the lanes, and parents abound in the bleachers above to watch little Johnny, I mean Juan-i, thrash about in the blue-bottomed pit. I have immediate flashbacks of red splotchy bellies and chlorinated lungs. Great.

I make a personal note to ensure that Genna dies a miserable death at some point in the near future as a woman in a very sleek looking one piece speedo approaches us with a confused look on her face. It turns out that this is a one-piece only sort of pool and do we not have speedos with us? Well, wouldn't-ya-know, I do have a speedo right with me I just opted for the far superior armamentarium that is my lime green bra and men's underwear combo. She must have not sensed my urgent telepathy, because to my absolute disappointment the woman allows us to carry on. And so to the stares of every adult in the room and some of my traitor 8 year old compatriots we submerge ourselves in the tepid pools and prepare to stroke.

Since we have also been waved off of the kickboards I will now have to prove my mother wrong by surviving this entire adventure without any flotation device aside from the butt cheeks I've been busy padding over the past 6 months of travel. The still psyched Genna drags me across the pool lap by lap, me constantly pulling up my inferior sports bra for fear that I will flash a crowd of onlookers who are all too busy trying to figure out what the hell we are doing there. After what seems like the longest 45 minutes of my life the girl agrees that it is time to raise ourselves out of this water torture.

I trudge my soppy way to free showers, the silver lining on this madness, and assure myself that the next time I feel our ideas of a "good time" seem like they should be an even trade I will promptly bop Genna over the head with a leg of jamón Iberica.