The land of the fit

These Spaniards are a depressing people.

Depressing for me, I mean.

Not only do they have the best food, the best daru and enjoy themselves smoking, drinking and carousing all the time; they are also incredibly good looking and fit.

When we stroll along any beautiful park or boulevard or marina, you can hardly see anybody who is not jogging or cycling or rollerblading or skateboarding; or if nothing else, going on a very brisk walk. It’s weird – either they are smoking and drinking, or they are jogging.

The girls will be in skin tight leggings or jeans – the kind of skin tight where you need to have complete body confidence to wear...will outline every mole and wrinkle on your bum – or in very short skirts and tight tops. And they are all good looking too – flashing eyes, great hair, faultless makeup.  I look at them with great admiration. Purely platonic, you understand. Just admiring their youth and fitness.

The guys will be in elegant clothes – even their sweat shirts and jogging outfits look like they are out of Armani – and all look like Rafael Nadal or Antonio Banderas, with sex appeal oozing out of their pores and leaving a trail behind them like a snail leaves a trail of slime.  I look at them with disgust. Bloody gigolos. ‘She who must be obeyed’ looks at them, and then looks at me and sighs.

I sigh back at her.

She is looking like an ad for UNESCO or one of those funds which collect money for impoverished refugees fleeing some civil war. As usual she is wearing clothes which even the cat didn’t bring in – some junk that wouldn’t even be washed up as flotsam and jetsam...looks like she found it floating in the sea while she was ship wrecked. A fifteen year old sweat shirt, a jacket that makes her look like a gray cat with mange, and jeans which are so battered....that I suppose they would be the height of fashion if they were well fitting.

Me -  I am so handsome, that I look like a model!

Unfortunately, I look like the ‘before’ model in a weight loss clinic ad.

Or a Listerine ad.

Or a Clinic all clear ad.

 Or a Fair and lovely ad.

Or an ad for what ‘The well dressed man’ will never ever even dream of wearing.

We look at each other and both sigh so loudly that the flag in front of us flutters sympathetically.

 In India, it doesn’t matter so much, because everyone is pot bellied and disgusting. I remembered the defining memory of the Kumbh Mela – an endless line of hairy paunches rolling over long striped underwear.

 But here we stand out.

We were at the river side watching a traffic jam of Kayakers, rowers, wind surfers all doing healthy activities in the river.

‘It’s all your fault.’ ‘She’ says to me ‘You are tempting me with food. Else I am fine – just carrying a little baby fat’

‘Baby fat?  Dude....the baby is 7 years old.’

‘Shut up. I at least had a baby. What happened to you?’

Talk about rhetorical questions.  We walked on, avoiding a line of cyclists. They have a dedicated cycle lane on the sidewalk! I am very impressed. Talk about a cycle friendly country. Not just the roads, but even the sidewalk has a dedicated lane for anything on wheels – cycles, skates / rollerblades, skateboards, wheelchairs, prams,  etc.

And everyone seems to be on wheels here.  The variety of cyclists is fun to see. You have the exercise cyclists on expensive bikes, the commuters on less flashy bikes, the occasional commuters on rented bikes (they have a beautiful cycle hire organisation in most cities – hire anywhere, drop off anywhere – fully automated), whole families on bikes – Daddy, Mummy, baba, baby in bikes of descending sizes.  Parents with babies in baby seats...

Then you have the young people on rollerblades – the skates with only one line of wheels. They move with unearthly grace, gliding along on the roads. I could watch them forever.

‘You should try that.’ I suggested ‘If I tried it, I would fall and have a fracture.’

‘More than that, the pavement would have a fracture re...’ She retorted. ‘and the government would ask us to pay for the road repair. But I won’t try it either...I will end up in the river or in traffic...i know it’s your evil plan to get rid of me re, but I am too smart for you.’

We walked on and came across a gang of young bloods doing skateboard stunts. ZOOM CLANK ZOOM CLANK. They would zoom down a slope and try to roll on to benches or railings or go up in the air; or try to turn around in mid air or stop suddenly.

Every now and then, the stunt wouldn’t take off and the air would be ionized with Spanish oaths and curses. @#%%^^@@!!!

I turned to ‘She’ and said ‘I also am going to get pierced and tattooed, y’know. As soon as I lose some weight, I will get it done.’

She linked her arm in mine and laughed and said ‘Then you are assured a Tattoo free life for ever re.’

A suited booted guy zoomed by us – he looked like a full corporate type – nice business suit, conservative hairstyle, talking on mobile in one hand – only he was on a skateboard. We looked at him in admiration.

‘I have a brilliant idea to make some money.’ She said.

‘What?’

‘We are the ugliest people here – lets sell tickets for people to come and look at us – like they had in the old days – the bearded lady, the tattooed man, the fattest man and woman, the mermaid....stuff like that. A P T Barnum kind of show’

‘Yeah?’

‘And we will call it – The Beauty and the Beast’