Family spent our second-straight day at the beach in Blanes, about an hour outside of Barcelona.
Two things stand out:
1. Tits.
2. Cigs.
If there were, oh, 1,000 women at the beach, probably 100 were topless. Which is interesting, in that it’s not interesting.
What I mean is that, in Europe, people don’t get all googly stupid about the sight of bare breasts. In America, the end result is 50% oogling, 50% morally offended. Here, the whole thing is greeted with a sigh. Actually a sub-sigh. People sigh if they slightly care. In Spain—nada.
Not being used to the site of breasts at a beach, I did notice. And, as I said to my wife, I’d break it down as so:
90% of exposed breasts—Don’t even register.
2% of exposed breasts—Sexy.
8% of exposed breasts—Nasty.
As in old and wrinkly and discolored and just, blech. I’m not saying anything’s wrong with a 90-year-old woman going topless, because it’s certainly her right. And if it makes you happy, hey, go get ’em! But, well, it’s sorta like watching a bunch of ants gnaw on a dead person’s foot. Watchable, but only through fingers.
As for the cigs, they’re everywhere. E-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e. Did people in Spain not get the memo that smoking causes, like, cancer and stuff? I mean, it’s one thing to smoke. It’s another to do it in your kids’ faces, as I’ve seen about 500 times this week. Smoking with babies, with toddlers, with teens. Just as bad, the butts cover the beaches. You dig a few inches, there’s a butt. Nasty, with a capital N.
But not as nasty as the 90-year-old’s exposed breasts.
Not even close.
PS: Am reading a terrific book—Tom Callahan’s Johnny U. Fabulously done.
