It’s Wifey-Time Again!

Hola!

The New York Times warned me about the hoards of tourists in Madrid this summer. I didn’t listen.

Just like the time, circa 1993, at Pascal's Manale (New Orleans) when the waitress warned me about the key lime pie. She said it wasn’t good. I ordered it anyway. Cuz I love key lime pie and I wanted her to be wrong. She was right. Adam on the other hand wisely ordered the bread pudding (their signature dessert). His last bite was soaking in warm butter and rum and when he turned to talk to a friend I speared it. It was divine. When he turned back it was gone. It was our first fight. It wasn’t pretty. 🤓

So what that it would be crowded in Madrid? I really wanted to go to Spain! Just like I wanted that key lime pie.

As some of you may know I meet my friend Suzan at a different destination every year. She was my rock when she lived in LA — first my publisher and then my “Wifey” — a title my hubby Adam affectionately gave her when we became inseparable. It stuck. We’d be each others’ “Wifey.” But my Wifey took off for Europe during Covid, and the growing unrest in our country, and she didn’t come back.

Wahhh.

My Wifey often humors my requests so this year — Spain it was. And we started in … Madrid. Sweet hotel. Balcony. Vibey street.

This pic obviously doesn’t reflect the hoards of crowds.

We sought out and successfully located sumptuous squid, Mediterranean olives. We visited the El Retiro Park (the Central Park of Madrid). But like the NYT promised … it was CROWDED. And Noisy. So we rented a car and headed for the coast. Thelma and Louise. This wasn’t our first rodeo.

As we knew there’d be beautiful detours along the way we were going to wing it cuz that’s when you discover the unexpected. But one also risks wasting many hours taking roads that lead to meh so I delicately suggested we consult my new buddy … Chat.

CHAT GPT!!!!??? My Wifey shoo’d the idea away like a pesky fly. You go ahead and use Chat, she said. I’m going on an adventure. As if we’d separate! I abandoned my awful idea.

Cut to a few hours later when there were so many options and we were overwhelmed with decisions and she got flustered driving and and and and finally, she squeaked out … ok, see where Chat say we should go.

Cuerca and Alarcon and Valencia. Charming Villages. Expansive views, old towns, stone walls, Gothic rock. Just wow. This is what Wifeys enjoy. Note to selves … from now on our yearly Wifey-Time will avoid big cities. We are village people. YMCA all the way, baby. Nooks and crannies.

We felt an urge to thank Chat for suggesting these lovely spots. But Chat doesn’t give a f*ck if we have thanks. After all he’s* … artificial. Artificial Intelligence — an oxymoron if there ever was one. For us he was more like, “Automatic Information.” (If that’s what AI stood for maybe there’d be less controversy. Branding matters.)

Even so, we decided to give him a proper name in order to humanize him. For our sake. What would it be? George? Grimes? Hmm. With a little back and forth an acronym unfolded:

Chat GPT =

Chad. (Of course.)

Chad Garçon. Yes!

Chad Garçon Personal Tele-butler.

F*cking perfect.

Chad Garçon proved to be super helpful. How long will it take us to drive here? Drive there? What about Calp? Can you find us a hotel near the water? What is the Spanish name for bronzino? He had answers. We must give him a rave review at his monthly evaluation and a Christmas bonus if he continues the good work.

On the other hand, some of the restaurants Chad recommended were permanently closed. Some hotels fully booked. I must remember he’s pulling from everybody-and-their-mother’s opinions of what they think is good, not from a trusted source like a friend who’s ‘been there,’ or Rick Steves — a travel writer who’s never disappointed.

“Cozy” to Chad could mean Taco Bell. And “yummy” to college kids prolly wouldn’t meet my standards. He’s merely compiling and consolidating all the opinions of everyone on the whole wide web. So, maybe no Christmas bonus but we weren’t going to fire him either.

This the got right: Calp was indeed near a splendid slice of the Mediterranean.

At a restaurant by the sea we dined on salt-baked lubina (bronzino) delivered on a wheeled service trolley.

Susan’s Spanish was good enough to get us by but it had its moments. For example: Suzan, having a nut allergy, asked the waiter if there was “piña” (pine nuts) in the pesto drizzled on the caprese. He shook his head. But when she tasted it she was sure he was mistaken. She summoned him back. She berated: there are absolutely “piña” in the pesto. I can NOT eat this.😡 The waiter was baffled. He tilted his head. He asked (in his best English), “piña,” you mean like piña colada?” At which point my Wifey realized she had been insisting there was pineapple in the pesto.**

This might be a you-had-to-be-there moment. But trust me. I was. And I wanted to hide under the table.

But hey. I wish I could speak Spanish as well as she does. And thank God that she does because it’s really hard to be in a foreign country when you don’t speak the language at all. I mean, “please” “thank you” “hello” “goodbye” “where is the restroom” I can do. But that’s about it. (I tried to learn Spanish over Covid and I’ve forgotten everything. I just don’t have an aptitude for language other than my own and a little bit of French.)

Barcelona was spectacular. We ditched Chad altogether. Sorry dude. Just walked and walked. 30 miles in three days. With every turn — more beauty. More charm. And Gaudí! What a wild mind he had. We did the Moco. The Picasso Museum. After which I insisted we go to El Xampanyet because the place was a-buzz and dishes were clattering and the servers were smiling. We had one of our best tapas meals of our trip.

Soon, it was over. It took so long to come and then … poof.

It had been nonstop much-needed catching up. Reconnecting. Blabbing about stupid stuff. I don’t always agree with my Wifey, but I enjoy her point of view and have often adjusted mine because of hers. I hope she feels the same about me. I mean, what is friendship?

At the airport we stood at the terminal doors. I pulled her close, gave her a long hard hug and kiss and told her she’s still my rock. We agreed we’d talk often and meet again next year. We’re thinking Thailand. Temples, yoga, beaches, curry.

And then I entered the terminal and felt completely lost. For the first time in 10 days there was no one speaking for me or leading the way.

Remember a couple of blogs ago when I wrote about how I wouldn’t mind a chaperone at the movie theater because of how complicated it is these days to be there? Well international airport terminals are like Vegas.

That said I was early and I told myself to take it slow, Shelly. You can do this. Follow the icons. You’re good. You have Chad Garçon Personal Tele-Butler in case of emergency and … you’re on your way home.

*********

*Please don’t ask me why I think Chat is a boy. I just do.

**There was of course, no pineapple in the pesto. But there were pine nuts. Our obliging waiter delivered us a new salad sans the sauce. Though he wasn’t very happy.

P.S. As much as I’ve embraced my new friend Chad, don’t get me wrong. I have no appetite for how AI is using copyrighted material without permission to train their models. Let’s get a handle on this.

Thanks for staying with me. You can subscribe to my blog here. Get a signed CD or a copy of “Confessions of a Serial Songwriter.” And here’s My Serial Songwriter Facebook Page! 💋