For simplicity sake, I'd booked a manicure at the Hotel's salon. I had beautiful nails going into the
appointment. For two weeks beforehand, Robert forbid me to do any
household tasks that might damage my nails. He'd say, "nails!" and
take over whatever I'd been doing.
Orlando's Salon was a dark, dingy,
windowless room that in location and decor looked like poorly converted storage space. Even though it borders Spain, Gibraltar is a British territory and the local language is English. Orlando had gone for the day, leaving me with his Spanish speaking manicurist.
I wear my nails with square tips and
rounded corners, but for some reason this chick had me pegged as a
pointy talon kind of woman. I've had manicures all over the place... Bangkok, Krakow, Aarhus, etc. and I've never had a manicurist not ask if I wanted to keep my shape.
I stopped her and tried to explain what I
wanted, but she didn't understand, so I brought up a photo on my
iPhone. By the time she'd filed the talons back into a reasonable shape and evened out the others, there wasn't much left to my nails... then she
said, "humph... corta." Oy! They weren't short when she'd
They ended up several different shapes,
so I fixed them on they sly while she went for supplies... by "supplies" I mean a basket of scary purple, black, blue, red, glittery, and hot pink nail polishes. I asked, "French?" She sighed, but obliged, doing white tips freehand and so thin
that I could barely make them out. I'd packed my white nail polish, so I decided I'd just redo the tips when Robert got back with the luggage. But she asked if it was ok, so I consulted the iPhone again.
repainted them with wider tips and they looked ok, but she hadn't
used a base coat and I'd declined the glitter-infused top coat, so I didn't have high hopes that this
manicure was going to remain intact for 15 hours until the wedding. I often do my nails myself, but I wanted to make sure they wouldn't chip which is the only reason I'd booked the manicure.
to the Hotel's pricelist, a French Manicure was to be £20, but she
charged me £30 and I couldn't be bothered to argue about it. As Robert
often says with a dismissive wave of his hand about things that aren't
worth stressing over... "Pope Francis." I said "Pope Francis" to the
manicure and as I left the salon, Robert drove in with our
Rush hour driving in Gibraltar is not for
the faint of heart mostly due to hundreds of moped riders with a death
wish. Robert reached the border after many sudden stops and swerves, only to discover near the front of the queue that his passport had flown off the passenger
seat and was lost somewhere in the car. With the agreed hand off time closing in, he'd
hoped for a quick crossing. To help this along, he held his passport
with the seal of Great Britain facing toward him. He was in a Spanish
registered car, and held that way the passport looked Spanish, so they waved
him right through.
The only info we had regarding the
delivery vehicle was that it would be a grey Citroen and it would meet
him in the taxi stand. When he got there, there was already a grey
Citreon in the taxi stand. He approached it, but it was the wrong Citreon. So he sat in the taxi stand sweating the possibility of a ticket for
quite some time as grey Citreons came and went. Eventually
ours came, and he made a quick crossing back into Gibraltar, this time
showing the British seal side of his passport.
We swapped war stories and decided a bottle of Red was in order, so we took another walk to Morrison's.
Next up, our wedding...
Labels: our love story, travel, wedding