From Raggedy Ann to Pepé Le Pew

On our way to the internet café in the morning, I ducked my head into a hair salon to see how much it would cost to die my Raggedy Ann hair back to brown. As soon as I walked through the door, I knew I would again be employing my pigeon Spanish when all four female beauticians stopped what they were doing to focus their attention on me.

“Hola! Habla Ingles?” I questioned with a cheery smile on my face.

Unfortunately, my friendliness was greeted with a big fat “NO.” I felt like the subject of some psychology experiment as everyone stood watching, waiting for me to make my next move.

Argh. This is going to be a blast.

“No me gusta mi pelo rojo. Te quiero pelo moreno, pero no permanente. Comprende?” I asked, trying to appear confident underneath my nervous laughter.

I don’t know if the woman stared back at me in silence because she couldn’t understand my Mexican accent or if she was merely trying to be difficult.

“Uno momento,” she responded.

The woman returned a few moments later with the shop owner who, luckily, spoke some English. I appreciated the ease in simply asking for a brown dye job using non-permanent dye.

Now, the important question. “Cuanto cuesta?”

“Treinta y seis Euro,” the woman responded, in a more jovial manner now that her boss was present.

Only 36 Euro. That’s nothing compared to what I pay in the States for a color. “Perfecto.”

Gene was told to come back in another hour and fifteen and headed off to the internet café. I, on the other hand, underwent the most unprofessional dye job of my life. After being seated at the water basin, I waited while the dye was prepared and the women chatted around me. Wondering if I was being spoken about, I blocked out the white noise and paged through a Spanish trash mag.

After what seemed an eternity, the colorist reappeared with a bowl of dye in hand and motioned for me to lean back in the chair so that she could apply the colorant. Waiting for the cotton that never came, I prayed that Spanish salons utilized some magical hair dye remover for staining. Before I could finish my Hail Mary, the girl whipped out a roll of saran wrap, stuck the open fold to the side of my head and started wrapping me like a leftover turkey, smashing down the loose plastic ends on the top of my head. Still waiting on my roll of cotton, I was left abandoned under the dryer for the next 20 minutes.

I was delighted to be moved back to the sink, only to sit twiddling my thumbs for the next 15 minutes while all of the stylists gossiped amongst each other. After I was finally rinsed, I couldn’t have been more eager to get in front of the mirror to see my new dye job - particularly, my newly colored brown forehead and ears. The devil on my shoulder mocked me with the slogan that has consistently resurfaced throughout our travels - you get what you pay for.

I was taken aback by the look of irritation flashed my way when I indicated that I wanted my hair dried straight instead of curly. While I sat under the blow-dryer, another girl came to my aid with alcohol to try to remove the dye from my face and ears - a useless attempt. The bargain price of 36 Euro was growing seemingly more expensive by the minute. When all was said and done, the crown of my head remained a red tint while the rest of my hair had seemed to take well to the brown dye. I wouldn’t have let the girl touch my hair again if she paid me.

Transformed from Raggedy Ann to Pepé Le Pew, I was now ready to do some sightseeing. Our first stop was Seville’s Cathedral, one of the largest in the World, measuring 126m long and 83m wide. According to our Lonely Planet guide, after Seville fell to the Christians in 1248, its main mosque was used as a church until 1401 when, due to its deteriorated state, the church authorities decided to knock it down and start again. “‘Let us create such a building that future generations will take us for lunatics.’”

The construction was complete in 1507, though, the original mosque’s minaret, La Giralda, still stands on the eastern side. The ascent to the belfry is constructed of a series of ramps, built so that the guards could ride up on horseback. Midway through our climb to the top, Gene and I had acquired first-hand knowledge as to the reason the interior was made suitable for horses - it was quite the climb indeed.

Luckily, I had skimmed Lonely Planet’s history on the cathedral before we exited, and came across the blurb on the tomb of Christopher Columbus. Being the two ignorant tourists that we were, we had circled the tomb several times, unknowingly, wondering why people were so intent on taking pictures of the monument.

The tomb, dating back from 1902, holds bones brought back from the Caribbean in 1899 and long thought to be those of Columbus. However, the Dominican Republic in the Caribbean claims that Columbus’ bones lie beneath a monument in its capital, Santo Domingo. Since 2003, researchers have been conducting tests on various bones from the Seville Cathedral tomb and elsewhere to try to resolve the puzzle. In 2006, it was announced that the DNA of the cathedral bones matches that of Columbus’ brother Diego (who was also buried in Seville), indicating that the cathedral bones are in fact the great explorer’s. However, Columbus’ bones were moved several times after his death and it’s quite possible that at one stage they went different ways; thus, his mortal remains may be divided between Spain and the Caribbean. Lonely Planet.

Gene, still struggling with stomach cramps, wanted to return to the hotel for a nap before our big night out on the town. We decided, however, that we would first grab some dinner before heading back to our room to shower and get spiffy. We settled on an outdoor café near our hotel, excited to relax over a pitcher of sangria, while we waited for our gourmet feast to arrive.

To our misfortune, our taste buds revolted against the soggy peppers and Chef Boyardee ravioli - a trend we would notice throughout our travels in Espana. Whimpering over another unsatisfying meal, we both agreed to skip out on a night with the youngins and challenged each other to a game of Crazy Eights at a nearby pub.

Being the sore loser that I am, one game turned into ten when I refused to stop playing due to my determination to end things as “Champion of the World.” Gene, who taunted my losses, only egged me on all the more. Needless to say, we were both half in the bag by the time I assented to throw in the towel - not before, however, laying down the law that the tally of wins and losses would be reset each day. I was determined to come out a winner...

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