The year was 1991. I had just turned 21 year old and was in the middle of a month long backpacking, train hopping tour of Europe with my friend Kim following a semester in London during which many pints of beer were consumed and many happy pounds gained. The city was Barcelona and Kim and I were on a mission to hike up to the Olympic stadium, just so that we could say that we saw it.
Before we ventured on our quest we did a little shopping and I picked up a fuzzy scarf as a souvenir for my dad. Its rich colors of burgundy, dark blue and muted orange reminded me of my dad and so I haggled with the street vendor and walked away with it in a colorful shopping bag.
We trudged up what seemed to be the side of a mountain for a very long time, sweating under the layers of clothing we had worn under the wrong assumption that it would be a chilly day. When we finally reached our destination, we realized that the Olympic stadium was, well, a stadium. It was a bit anticlimactic since we had expected something a little more exciting. We took the requisite photos by the structure and decided to head back while there was still enough daylight.
We looked around and saw that there was possibly a different route of getting back down the side of the large hill we had just climbed. Eager for a quick way down and a nice walk in the shade, we started walking through the woods on what seemed to be a series of trails heading back in the general direction of the city. We were looking forward to returning and having some sangria and perhaps some paella. All was right with the world.
As we turned down one section of trail we noticed a man standing to the side and we passed him without a glance, assuming he was just another hiker like us. We noticed a set of stairs leading up to a house and decided to investigate. When we realized we were likely trespassing on private property, we quickly retreated back in the direction where we had seen the man.
Suddenly he jumped out at us, pants around his ankles, and what in our memories was the most enormous male appendage we had ever seen dangling down toward his knees. Kim and I both screamed simultaneously and began running. All I could think was that we were going to get raped and murdered in this wooded area in Spain and no one would ever see us again. I held tight to the shopping bag and ran as fast as my impractical black shoes would take me. I could hear Kim screaming behind me and for an instant I thought "Oh, shit, he got her!"
He didn't get her. In fact, I don't think he was even chasing us. He was probably just some pervert who enjoyed exposing himself to naïve female tourists. He was the first of several we would encounter in the coming weeks.
We emerged from the woods, sweaty and disheveled, breathing heavily and drawing looks of bewilderment from a group of people who were picnicking nearby. We immediately returned to the main road and went back the way we came. The next day we got up bright and early and got the hell out of Barcelona.
I gave my dad the scarf and he wore it for many years. I stumbled across it a few months ago and was immediately swept by conflicting memories: happy images of my dad warming his neck with the scarf and nasty, ugly memories of the man in the woods with the enormous penis.
I took the scarf home with me and have worn it several times. Each time I wear it I'm reminded of my dad, who I'm sure would have throttled that guy if he'd had the chance. I'm also reminded of a time in my life when I was blissfully unaware of the dangers of the world. A bad memory has been muted by the good ones in its place. And yes, we can laugh about it now.
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| Creating new memories with the scarf! |
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