A chase plagued by language “issues”

by Mom Bailey

As I read the post about Mom Dog giving birth to all those puppies down in Tobarra, I was seized by a crazy desire to give each daughter a great big MomDog lick.

I immediately booked a ticket to Madrid. Sarah finished Wwoofing and came north, and we waited for Perrin, who had taken a boyfriend detour in Nice.

We had a lovely 10pm meal, although why the Spanish prefer to dine in the middle of the night is a bit perplexing to a mom from the American Midwest. As we walked back to the apartment, which was lent to us by a generous friend, we heard someone yelling behind us. In English.

“I going to kill you!”

I glanced over my shoulder. In the distance, across a wide boulevard, I glimpsed a man in a tweedy brown blazer. He was inexplicably shaking his fist at us. In case I had somehow missed his meaning, he drew his finger across his neck in a throat-slitting motion.

“He doesn’t seem very friendly,” I commented. We walked faster. The words “I going to kill you!” floated over our heads. We picked up our pace; the shouts got closer. We began to trot; he was gaining on us. I looked down our route–we were halfway down a deserted dark street.

“Let’s get back to that restaurant!” We doubled back, heading for the only light, streaming from a pub on the boulevard behind us. The man started to cut us off.

We ran for it, and tumbled in, mystifying a row of Spanish men who sat nursing their evening drinks.

“I kill you!,” floated in the door, and the man–let’s call him Harry–started pounding on the window. Sarah and I slipped behind a marble column, hoping Harry couldn’t see us.

Not speaking a word of Spanish, I gave the men what I hoped was “Do something!” look.

It worked. Not speaking any English, one man swirled a finger beside his head in a “he’s crazy” motion. Another called the cops, and four men ran outdoors. First they tried to talk with our pursuer, but he still struggled to reach us. Finally the men picked him up, carried him across the street, and sent him up the boulevard just ahead of the police car.

We smiled our thanks and left a nice tip. I resisted the urge to give Sarah a big Momdog lick.

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About sistersbailey

We are Perrin and Sarah Bailey, collectively known as “The Sisters Bailey”. The moniker was born out of a crazy weekend at the 2009 New Orleans Jazz Fest and it was the first time we had ever been referred to as one unit. We grew up in Alexandria, VA together and then separated for college - Perrin to The University of Pennsylvania and Sarah to Northwestern University – and somehow landed together in New York after graduation. It was in the midst of the hustle of Manhattan that we became friends for the first time in years. Somehow we landed jobs in the same industry - Sarah worked in marketing at HBO and Perrin managed creative digital promotions for her media agency’s main client, Disney - just three blocks from one another. One day we decided to leave our jobs, sell our belongings and travel abroad with a backpack and a collective savings of $10K. The stories of our continuing adventures and those of other fearless travelers are here to inspire you.
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