Tarragona, Spain.
The sky was clear and as blue as a swimming pool. The sun shone brightly, its rays illuminating every earthly object. The fifth day of our Euro trip was a perfect day for the beach. Soft, white sand stretched out for acres, ending at foot of gentle waves cascading from the vast, expansive ocean. The water was cool and clean. It sparkled in the sunlight.
My old college buddies and I had already had an adventurous trip so far. From football matches to drunken parties, from a backpacker’s hostel to foosball contests, we had a fair share of memories for five guys on what might have been our last bachelor trip before one of us got married.
Before reaching the beach, our lunch at a local restaurant had been another ordeal of communication, as we scanned through pages of a Spanish language survival book and hopelessly attempted to interpret the menu items. The hardest thing was getting something vegetariano. Despite our fast-improving Spanish skills, we could find no better food selection other than the usual Paiea, Tapas and Sangrias, all of which had become our staple diet for the duration of our stay in Spain.
Post lunch, we wasted no time in getting to the beach. The sand was adorned with colorful beach umbrellas, well spaced apart. Groups of people played frisbee, volleyball and various other games. We discovered that on beaches in Europe, the women don’t feel the need to wear a top. They were happy to put their assets on display. And we in turn, were equally happy to behold. After ambling along in sand for a while, taking in the variety of sights and sounds on offer, we finally settled on a spot where we spread out our beach towels and made camp.
“Let’s play.” Someone threw a football at me. The ball was brown like the rocks that lay by the side of the sand. I caught it and kicked it back.
We formed a wide circle and kicked the ball to each other. A few dudes, who had been standing by watching, approached us. They were visiting Spain from Saudi Arabia, and invited us to play a competitive game. We readily agreed. It was five of us against four of them.
Within minutes of kickoff, the Saudis ran through us with a series of rapid passes, before tapping into the goal. They yelled to each other in a language we couldn't understand. Our slight numerical advantage counted for nothing. They blazed past us again, and scored another one. It was 2-0 and time for us to regroup.
“We have to defend properly.” Prakash said. “We have to stop them.” He turned to me. “Naveen, you are on defense now. Mark that guy.” He gestured towards the tall, lanky Saudi who sported a goatee, and had scored the second goal. “Don’t let him get away from you.” Mr. Goatee grinned back at me, apparently cognizant of the fact that I had been assigned to mark him.
Play resumed and I stayed close to my target. If he moved left, I followed suit. If he moved right, I was there. I didn’t let him get more than a half-step away from me.
The ball was airborne and flew past to the left of where I was. I dashed towards it. Mr. Goatee was on my heels. But, I was determined to not let him pass me. With my eyes locked in laser focus on the ball, I stepped forward and swung my left foot towards the ball.
“Naveen…” I may have heard a warning cry. But it was too late. I had already made the kick.
Instead of striking a soft football, the side of my left foot connected with a solid brown rock. A bolt of pain darted through my leg.
“Aaaarghhh..” I screeched, clutching my foot and falling to the sand.
People gathered around me. I heard a cacophony of voices.
“What the hell happened?”
“Are you okay, man?”
“The guy just kicked a rock with full force.”
“A rock? Why would he do something so stupid?”
“I think he was going for the football.”
I heard muffled laughter. Blood oozed from the left side of my left foot. I blinked and took deep breaths. The foot was swelling up before my eyes.
“Dude, seriously, are you okay?” I made out Prakash’s voice asking me.
I gingerly touched my foot. I stood up and limped forward a couple of steps.
“Whoa dude, don’t go anywhere. Just stay there.” Prakash commanded. “Let’s get your foot cleaned up.” He emptied a couple of bottles of water on my leg to wash off the blood. The viscous red liquid trickled out from cuts in the foot.
“We need to get stuff from a pharmacy, like antiseptics and stuff.” Prakash said.
“Let me sit down a bit.” I grunted. “We’ll see then.”
So, I parked myself in the sand, with one hand on my foot. I stared at the wound, and didn’t say a word. Meanwhile, the Saudis were getting restless. They politely inquired if we would get on with the game.
“I can’t believe he kicked a rock.” Mr.Goatee shook his head. “Did he not see it?”
“This is foot ball, man.” He told me. “Not foot rock.”
“Yeah,” Prakash agreed. “What the hell were you thinking?”
I started to form a reply, and then stopped myself, thinking better off it. How could I possibly convince anyone that I was too focused on the ball, that I actually didn’t see the rock? Did it help my case that the ball and the rock were both brown? Probably not. A football and a rock aren’t objects that one generally confuses with each other.
They decided to continue playing while I sat there recuperating. It was now four on four. Few minutes later, I came to the conclusion that staring at the foot wasn’t actually healing it in any perceptible way.
I heaved myself up. “I’m going to find a pharmacy.”
The game paused, as my buddies turned to me.
“Are you sure you are up for it?” Suresh asked.
“There should be something back where those restaurants are.” Sohail chimed in.
“Do you want someone to go with you?” Prakash asked.
I shook my head. “I’ll be fine. I need some money though.”
Sohail, who was our official accountant, handed me a wad of Euros.
“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Suresh asked again.
I wasn’t sure of that, but I wanted the gang to stay there and get a few goals back against the Saudis. So, I just smiled and nodded.
“If you are going there, can you get us a few bottles of water?” Sohail said casually.
I nodded, and went on my way. I had been demoted from key defender to water boy. My friends watched me hobble off. They seemed uncertain whether to continue playing or to follow me.
“I’ll see you’ll in a bit.” I said, trying to sound confident.
My foot held up remarkably well. I felt sure there were no broken bones. But it was swollen and bloody. It took me ten minutes to reach the restaurants. I stepped inside the first one, and surveyed the scene. There were several circular tables with fours chairs around them, but no occupants. The only customer was making a purchase at a counter.
“Muchas Gracias” Said a lady, after receiving a strawberry ice-cream.
The man behind the ice-cream counter looked like an Indian. I hadn’t expected to see any of my countrymen in the small town of Tarragona.
I hesitated, unsure of what to say. I decided to stick to our standard conversation starter.
“Habla English?” I asked.
He beamed at me. “Habla Hindi?”
“Huh?” I was taken aback. He burst out laughing.
I smiled and recovered. “Ha, Hindi.” It was strange to be speaking Hindi to a Tarragona local, even if he was of Indian origin. I explained my dilemma to him, displaying the swollen foot as evidence. He sympathized and directed me to a pharmacy a few blocks away across the train tracks.
I thanked him, and trudged off. Now and again, I would check the status of the foot. I began to think of it as ‘the’ foot as though it was some defective equipment disassociated from me, like a torn shoe. But the throbbing pain reminded me that this was no shoe. It was very much a body part.
I saw a green plus sign up ahead, which I recognized as the global symbol for a pharmacy. As soon as it came into view, I saw that it had a shutter covering the entrance from top to bottom. I cursed aloud. Did the pharmacy also close for Siesta?
I ventured into the bar next door. A plump, middle-aged lady stood behind the counter, wearing a long apron. The bar had no customers, and she was busy cleaning the counter top. She took no notice of me standing there. I hobbled ahead and grimaced, partly from the pain, partly to catch her attention. But, the lady concentrated on her task.
I cleared my throat. “Habla English?”
She frowned, and gestured with her palm in the air. “Little.”
“Pharmacy?” I asked pointing to the wall separating the bar and the pharmacy. “When opens?” She shook her head.
I wished I had brought the Spanish language book. “What time? Medicine place?” She just shrugged and continued to wipe the counter top.
Still, I didn’t give up the effort. I took one step back and pointed to my foot. “Injury…Medicine…” I was gesturing wildly now.
She leaned forward to look at the foot. She nodded. “Si.”
I sighed. “What time opens Medicine place?” I pointed to a clock hanging on the wall, inwardly appalled at my pathetic, broken English.
“Cinco” She replied.
“Cinco?” I repeated, looking at the clock again. Cinco meant five in Spanish. It was only four thirty. I decided it was not worth the effort to go back to the beach, so I eased myself onto a bar stool.
The lady scowled at me. She mumbled to herself in Spanish. I figured I should buy something to justify my presence in her bar. Then, I recalled my new role as the water boy.
“Water?” I asked, pointing to a bottle of mineral water.
“Si.” She replied, handing me the water.
“Cinco” I said. We would need one bottle for each of us, five in total.
“Si, Cinco” came the reply. She continued with her cleaning. I waited for the remaining bottles, but they didn’t seem forthcoming.
I tried again. “Cinco” I pointed to the water bottle in my hand.
“Si, Cinco” The lady frowned, pointing to the clock.
“No, no,” I said. “I know what time the pharmacy opens. I want Cinco bottles.”
Her expression remained unchanged.
“Cinco, Cinco water.” I said. I shook my head in exasperation.
“Ok, Cuatro,” I said. “Cuatro water, please.” I would settle for four bottles.
She smiled, finally deciphering my code. She plunked down four bottle of water on the counter, and mumbled to herself.
“Gracias.” I exhaled heavily, and paid for them. I opened one bottle and took a few sips. The television set in the bar was turned off. There was nothing much to do. I examined the foot again. It was swollen, but stabilizing. I sat silently and waited.
“Dude, what the hell are you doing here?” A voice called. I spun around to see Suresh standing behind me.
“You were supposed to go the pharmacy to get medicines,” Suresh grinned. “Not go to a bar to drink.”
“Can you stop thinking of alcohol for once in your life?” I rolled my eyes.
“Vodka, please.” Suresh, ignored me and addressed the bartender. She promptly fixed him a drink.
‘That, she understands.’ I muttered.
“What?” Suresh asked.
“Nothing.” I replied. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to check on you, man. You were gone for so long.”
“The pharmacy is closed.”
“Yeah man, just have a bit of Vodka, and you’ll be fine.” Suresh offered me his drink.
“Vodka is not the answer to everything.”
“That’s what you think.” Suresh shot back. “It always works for me.”
“So, how did the rest the match go?” I asked.
“It was awesome, man.” Suresh replied. “After you left, we attacked with a vengeance. Especially, Prakash. He was like, on fire.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah, I was marking that goatee guy. I didn’t let him do anything, man.”
“So, who won? What was the final score?”
“We won,” Suresh beamed. “4-3”
“That’s great.” I clapped him on the back.
We sat there for a while longer, while Suresh finished his drink, and I waited for the clock to strike five. We stepped out of the bar at five, and I was delighted to find that the shutter had come up and the pharmacy was open.
“Habla English?” I asked immediately, going into the pharmacy.
“Yes,” The lady wearing a white lab coat smiled. “What can I help you with?”
Relieved to be able to communicate with ease, I showed her my foot, and bought bandages, ant-septic creams, cotton wool, scissors, and some other stuff. I paid for the supplies, and thanked her. We turned to leave.
“How did that happen by the way?” The lady pharmacist asked me.
“Well, I…we…umm…” I stuttered.
“We were playing football, and this dumbass kicked a rock instead of the ball.” Suresh said helpfully.
The pharmacist laughed. “Are you serious? Is that what happened?”
I shrugged, and made no comment.
“You actually kicked a rock? What were you thinking?” She asked.
“I wasn’t thinking, I guess.” I managed a smile.
“You are crazy, man.” Suresh said, as we exited. “Kicking a rock. You realize that we are going to make fun of you forever, right?”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll get used to it.” I replied.
Being a self-deprecating humorist, I have told this story to countless people since our Euro trip. Now, I’ve told the story to you.
I imagine after reading this, you will want to ask me ‘What were you thinking?’
And I still haven’t come up with a satisfactory answer.
The sky was clear and as blue as a swimming pool. The sun shone brightly, its rays illuminating every earthly object. The fifth day of our Euro trip was a perfect day for the beach. Soft, white sand stretched out for acres, ending at foot of gentle waves cascading from the vast, expansive ocean. The water was cool and clean. It sparkled in the sunlight.
My old college buddies and I had already had an adventurous trip so far. From football matches to drunken parties, from a backpacker’s hostel to foosball contests, we had a fair share of memories for five guys on what might have been our last bachelor trip before one of us got married.
Before reaching the beach, our lunch at a local restaurant had been another ordeal of communication, as we scanned through pages of a Spanish language survival book and hopelessly attempted to interpret the menu items. The hardest thing was getting something vegetariano. Despite our fast-improving Spanish skills, we could find no better food selection other than the usual Paiea, Tapas and Sangrias, all of which had become our staple diet for the duration of our stay in Spain.
Post lunch, we wasted no time in getting to the beach. The sand was adorned with colorful beach umbrellas, well spaced apart. Groups of people played frisbee, volleyball and various other games. We discovered that on beaches in Europe, the women don’t feel the need to wear a top. They were happy to put their assets on display. And we in turn, were equally happy to behold. After ambling along in sand for a while, taking in the variety of sights and sounds on offer, we finally settled on a spot where we spread out our beach towels and made camp.
“Let’s play.” Someone threw a football at me. The ball was brown like the rocks that lay by the side of the sand. I caught it and kicked it back.
We formed a wide circle and kicked the ball to each other. A few dudes, who had been standing by watching, approached us. They were visiting Spain from Saudi Arabia, and invited us to play a competitive game. We readily agreed. It was five of us against four of them.
Within minutes of kickoff, the Saudis ran through us with a series of rapid passes, before tapping into the goal. They yelled to each other in a language we couldn't understand. Our slight numerical advantage counted for nothing. They blazed past us again, and scored another one. It was 2-0 and time for us to regroup.
“We have to defend properly.” Prakash said. “We have to stop them.” He turned to me. “Naveen, you are on defense now. Mark that guy.” He gestured towards the tall, lanky Saudi who sported a goatee, and had scored the second goal. “Don’t let him get away from you.” Mr. Goatee grinned back at me, apparently cognizant of the fact that I had been assigned to mark him.
Play resumed and I stayed close to my target. If he moved left, I followed suit. If he moved right, I was there. I didn’t let him get more than a half-step away from me.
The ball was airborne and flew past to the left of where I was. I dashed towards it. Mr. Goatee was on my heels. But, I was determined to not let him pass me. With my eyes locked in laser focus on the ball, I stepped forward and swung my left foot towards the ball.
“Naveen…” I may have heard a warning cry. But it was too late. I had already made the kick.
Instead of striking a soft football, the side of my left foot connected with a solid brown rock. A bolt of pain darted through my leg.
“Aaaarghhh..” I screeched, clutching my foot and falling to the sand.
People gathered around me. I heard a cacophony of voices.
“What the hell happened?”
“Are you okay, man?”
“The guy just kicked a rock with full force.”
“A rock? Why would he do something so stupid?”
“I think he was going for the football.”
I heard muffled laughter. Blood oozed from the left side of my left foot. I blinked and took deep breaths. The foot was swelling up before my eyes.
“Dude, seriously, are you okay?” I made out Prakash’s voice asking me.
I gingerly touched my foot. I stood up and limped forward a couple of steps.
“Whoa dude, don’t go anywhere. Just stay there.” Prakash commanded. “Let’s get your foot cleaned up.” He emptied a couple of bottles of water on my leg to wash off the blood. The viscous red liquid trickled out from cuts in the foot.
“We need to get stuff from a pharmacy, like antiseptics and stuff.” Prakash said.
“Let me sit down a bit.” I grunted. “We’ll see then.”
So, I parked myself in the sand, with one hand on my foot. I stared at the wound, and didn’t say a word. Meanwhile, the Saudis were getting restless. They politely inquired if we would get on with the game.
“I can’t believe he kicked a rock.” Mr.Goatee shook his head. “Did he not see it?”
“This is foot ball, man.” He told me. “Not foot rock.”
“Yeah,” Prakash agreed. “What the hell were you thinking?”
I started to form a reply, and then stopped myself, thinking better off it. How could I possibly convince anyone that I was too focused on the ball, that I actually didn’t see the rock? Did it help my case that the ball and the rock were both brown? Probably not. A football and a rock aren’t objects that one generally confuses with each other.
They decided to continue playing while I sat there recuperating. It was now four on four. Few minutes later, I came to the conclusion that staring at the foot wasn’t actually healing it in any perceptible way.
I heaved myself up. “I’m going to find a pharmacy.”
The game paused, as my buddies turned to me.
“Are you sure you are up for it?” Suresh asked.
“There should be something back where those restaurants are.” Sohail chimed in.
“Do you want someone to go with you?” Prakash asked.
I shook my head. “I’ll be fine. I need some money though.”
Sohail, who was our official accountant, handed me a wad of Euros.
“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Suresh asked again.
I wasn’t sure of that, but I wanted the gang to stay there and get a few goals back against the Saudis. So, I just smiled and nodded.
“If you are going there, can you get us a few bottles of water?” Sohail said casually.
I nodded, and went on my way. I had been demoted from key defender to water boy. My friends watched me hobble off. They seemed uncertain whether to continue playing or to follow me.
“I’ll see you’ll in a bit.” I said, trying to sound confident.
My foot held up remarkably well. I felt sure there were no broken bones. But it was swollen and bloody. It took me ten minutes to reach the restaurants. I stepped inside the first one, and surveyed the scene. There were several circular tables with fours chairs around them, but no occupants. The only customer was making a purchase at a counter.
“Muchas Gracias” Said a lady, after receiving a strawberry ice-cream.
The man behind the ice-cream counter looked like an Indian. I hadn’t expected to see any of my countrymen in the small town of Tarragona.
I hesitated, unsure of what to say. I decided to stick to our standard conversation starter.
“Habla English?” I asked.
He beamed at me. “Habla Hindi?”
“Huh?” I was taken aback. He burst out laughing.
I smiled and recovered. “Ha, Hindi.” It was strange to be speaking Hindi to a Tarragona local, even if he was of Indian origin. I explained my dilemma to him, displaying the swollen foot as evidence. He sympathized and directed me to a pharmacy a few blocks away across the train tracks.
I thanked him, and trudged off. Now and again, I would check the status of the foot. I began to think of it as ‘the’ foot as though it was some defective equipment disassociated from me, like a torn shoe. But the throbbing pain reminded me that this was no shoe. It was very much a body part.
I saw a green plus sign up ahead, which I recognized as the global symbol for a pharmacy. As soon as it came into view, I saw that it had a shutter covering the entrance from top to bottom. I cursed aloud. Did the pharmacy also close for Siesta?
I ventured into the bar next door. A plump, middle-aged lady stood behind the counter, wearing a long apron. The bar had no customers, and she was busy cleaning the counter top. She took no notice of me standing there. I hobbled ahead and grimaced, partly from the pain, partly to catch her attention. But, the lady concentrated on her task.
I cleared my throat. “Habla English?”
She frowned, and gestured with her palm in the air. “Little.”
“Pharmacy?” I asked pointing to the wall separating the bar and the pharmacy. “When opens?” She shook her head.
I wished I had brought the Spanish language book. “What time? Medicine place?” She just shrugged and continued to wipe the counter top.
Still, I didn’t give up the effort. I took one step back and pointed to my foot. “Injury…Medicine…” I was gesturing wildly now.
She leaned forward to look at the foot. She nodded. “Si.”
I sighed. “What time opens Medicine place?” I pointed to a clock hanging on the wall, inwardly appalled at my pathetic, broken English.
“Cinco” She replied.
“Cinco?” I repeated, looking at the clock again. Cinco meant five in Spanish. It was only four thirty. I decided it was not worth the effort to go back to the beach, so I eased myself onto a bar stool.
The lady scowled at me. She mumbled to herself in Spanish. I figured I should buy something to justify my presence in her bar. Then, I recalled my new role as the water boy.
“Water?” I asked, pointing to a bottle of mineral water.
“Si.” She replied, handing me the water.
“Cinco” I said. We would need one bottle for each of us, five in total.
“Si, Cinco” came the reply. She continued with her cleaning. I waited for the remaining bottles, but they didn’t seem forthcoming.
I tried again. “Cinco” I pointed to the water bottle in my hand.
“Si, Cinco” The lady frowned, pointing to the clock.
“No, no,” I said. “I know what time the pharmacy opens. I want Cinco bottles.”
Her expression remained unchanged.
“Cinco, Cinco water.” I said. I shook my head in exasperation.
“Ok, Cuatro,” I said. “Cuatro water, please.” I would settle for four bottles.
She smiled, finally deciphering my code. She plunked down four bottle of water on the counter, and mumbled to herself.
“Gracias.” I exhaled heavily, and paid for them. I opened one bottle and took a few sips. The television set in the bar was turned off. There was nothing much to do. I examined the foot again. It was swollen, but stabilizing. I sat silently and waited.
“Dude, what the hell are you doing here?” A voice called. I spun around to see Suresh standing behind me.
“You were supposed to go the pharmacy to get medicines,” Suresh grinned. “Not go to a bar to drink.”
“Can you stop thinking of alcohol for once in your life?” I rolled my eyes.
“Vodka, please.” Suresh, ignored me and addressed the bartender. She promptly fixed him a drink.
‘That, she understands.’ I muttered.
“What?” Suresh asked.
“Nothing.” I replied. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to check on you, man. You were gone for so long.”
“The pharmacy is closed.”
“Yeah man, just have a bit of Vodka, and you’ll be fine.” Suresh offered me his drink.
“Vodka is not the answer to everything.”
“That’s what you think.” Suresh shot back. “It always works for me.”
“So, how did the rest the match go?” I asked.
“It was awesome, man.” Suresh replied. “After you left, we attacked with a vengeance. Especially, Prakash. He was like, on fire.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah, I was marking that goatee guy. I didn’t let him do anything, man.”
“So, who won? What was the final score?”
“We won,” Suresh beamed. “4-3”
“That’s great.” I clapped him on the back.
We sat there for a while longer, while Suresh finished his drink, and I waited for the clock to strike five. We stepped out of the bar at five, and I was delighted to find that the shutter had come up and the pharmacy was open.
“Habla English?” I asked immediately, going into the pharmacy.
“Yes,” The lady wearing a white lab coat smiled. “What can I help you with?”
Relieved to be able to communicate with ease, I showed her my foot, and bought bandages, ant-septic creams, cotton wool, scissors, and some other stuff. I paid for the supplies, and thanked her. We turned to leave.
“How did that happen by the way?” The lady pharmacist asked me.
“Well, I…we…umm…” I stuttered.
“We were playing football, and this dumbass kicked a rock instead of the ball.” Suresh said helpfully.
The pharmacist laughed. “Are you serious? Is that what happened?”
I shrugged, and made no comment.
“You actually kicked a rock? What were you thinking?” She asked.
“I wasn’t thinking, I guess.” I managed a smile.
“You are crazy, man.” Suresh said, as we exited. “Kicking a rock. You realize that we are going to make fun of you forever, right?”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll get used to it.” I replied.
Being a self-deprecating humorist, I have told this story to countless people since our Euro trip. Now, I’ve told the story to you.
I imagine after reading this, you will want to ask me ‘What were you thinking?’
And I still haven’t come up with a satisfactory answer.
