Sunday was the last day of one of the first races of the season, called Palma Vela (vela means sail, FYI.) That’s what my hubbie does here in good old Palma de Mallorca. He works for a cool company called OneSails, where they make sails of all things, and also designs and builds racing sailboats with his cousin, shout out to Peter Bresnan who runs the Palma franchise of OneSails, among other sailboat-y things. Where was I? Ah, yes, the races. Next stop, Valencia. “Honey, can I go?” asks my hubbie. “Yes!” I say, but only “if you teach me to drive stick, I get good at it and know how to get around without getting lost (otherwise, I’d be housebound while my chauffer is off in southern Spain for five days.)” “Deal!” Stay tuned for blood-curtling updates on my driving skills and experiences on the road with crazy Germans and Brits among other nationalities.
Anyhoo, so my sister-in-law and I decide to go meet the guys at the port on Sunday evening to surprise them upon their return. And in typical Spanish fashion, they arrive very late from having placed fourth in the race. Good job, guys. Then I witness some of the “hard labor” they have to deal with after a race. Yes, folks, free yummy treats and beer are forced upon them by hot Nordic girls dressed in white denim mini-skirts and polo shirts at the port club, which is strategically located right where the boats get in, so of course it’s unavoidable. Ah ha! So this is why the guys (Peter and Leo) don’t get home until freaking 9 p.m. or later during races. WTF. Attention all sailors, your cover’s blown guys, give it up.