Day 5

Terrible argument this morning . . . 

You see, I now have three women in my life . . . my wife, a very pleasant english gal named Tom Tom and an abrupt and calculating american lady named Garmin.  Unfortunately not a single one of them can navigate worth a damn.  I now spend my days with each of them shouting directions at me and arguing with each other as to which is the best route to take.  The wife . . . she is never quite sure, but always goes with her gut instinct.  My sweet English gal . . . always gentile and never uncertain of where she is or where she is going, but gives you very little warning as to her next decision and it takes her an eternity to make up her mind.  Alas, my not so gentile American lass.  She is by far the best at giving you fair warning as to your next mis-step, but she keeps changing her damned mind and telling you to go where you cannot .  Now a days, whenever I cross over a bridge with these three ladies, there is a moment when I sincerely consider turning my little city car into a freaking submarine.

We all got up with the sun this morning to drop off mom at her office in a neighboring town.  On my way back home, having lessened my navigation crew by a factor of one, the sweet English lady and the angry American got into a horrible fight.  Neither one of them could agree which way to turn, which left me . . . well . . . LOST.  I went with my fellow countryman and ended up in a mud bog surrounded by caravans.  For those who aren't familiar with that term, caravans are travel trailers used on holiday.  The problem with these particular trailers is that they appeared to have long outlasted their usefulness on holiday and now had become someone's semi-permanent residence.  With untrusting and likely criminal eyes gazing in my direction from behind tattered plaid curtains, I renounced my patriotism and told the American bitch to take a hike.  Sometimes a clean breakup is the only way to go.  I apologized to my English love, praying that she would forgive me.  Thankfully, once I had pledged my allegiance to the crown, we were back on the paved straight and narrow.

Back at our quasi-bachelor pad with mom away, the fellas and I formulated a game plan.  Going to chill for a bit and eat some sandwiches on our recently purchased "American" bread, then jump in our rental car to take the dog for a long walk at the much acclaimed city park.  The "American" bread was a bit yeasty, but edible.  Don't think the kiddos enjoyed it that much.  To be honest, the stuff kind of sucks the moisture out of one's mouth to the point of dehydration.  Stomachs moderately full of spongy goodness we hit the streets.  Not wanting to soil the interior of the car anymore than we already had, I put the dog in the back hatch . . . MISTAKE.  Upon arrival at the park, I popped the hatch and the dog sprang forth like those snakes you find in a novelty peanut can.  Unfortunately, he didn't take flight toward the curb, but rather right into the path of a speeding Citroen.  Knowing the kids would not forgive me for killing their dog inside of a week of our arrival, I dove for the dog like a wide receiver diving for the game winning touch down.

The dog and I survived much to everyone's surprise.  Both our heads escaping bumper driven decapitation my a matter of inches.  Now dirty, with blood dripping from the road rash on my hands, I gathered the crew and headed into the park.  STUPID DOG.  Once in the park, everything seemed so serene and peaceful.  Perhaps it was the near death experience that has brought about this feeling of bliss.  As with everything in my life lately, however, this feeling was short lived.  We strolled on and on, enjoying the flora and the fauna until we finally made our way to the playground area that I knew would be too much for the boys to resist.  Settling back onto a nice park bench, I tended to the dog and my wounds while my offspring went to play.  We were there for about 5 minutes before I noticed  a very proper looking policeman heading in my direction.  As if near death was not enough for the day, incarceration would surely add a nice cherry to the top of this sundae.

It is well established by now that my comprehension of the national language is somewhat lacking, but you add the pressure of "official" inquiry and I fold like a cheap suit.  By now, however, I have managed to memorize some basic phrases.  Trying my best not to seem guilty of anything,I stammer out that I do not speak the language.  In a surprisingly kind response he began gesturing and spitting out basic vocabulary, a bit of which I could interpret.  He either said something about our dog and eating or something about a midget and a banana peal.  A bit more feeling out seemed to indicate to me that I had broken the rules and that there was perhaps a concern that my rabid dog was going to eat the children's faces.  He escorted us out and we parted our conversation with a "thank you" on my end and an "enjoy your meal" on his.  I am still not entirely sure what it is that got us bounced like a patron at a nightclub or why he thought I needed to have something to eat, but I just hope that this was not a lifetime ban from the park.  Fairly dejected and with somewhat unhappy kids in tow, we jumped back in the car and headed back to the hotel.

I knew that the kids weren't interested in spending the remainder of the afternoon crafting father of the year cards for me, so I just settled for a group nap.  The wife decided to catch a ride back with a co-worker so as to not add insult to the injury that was our day today.  She appeared just in the nick of time, because I swear I heard my kids hand crafting pitchforks and torches chanting something about Liberte!