A priest in a brown robe belted with a white rope, a nun in running shoes matching her black habit, and a wolfish dog white as an angel jaywalk into city traffic…
What sounds like the beginning of a barroom joke was actually a sight I encountered a stone’s throw away from the Vatican during my recent 40th wedding anniversary dream trip. The trinity caused a car to hit the brakes and blare its horn while making me wonder what in the world Pope Francis would think about the two two-legged scofflaws.
Just as Saint Peter’s Square will always fondly remind me of the jaywalking Catholic dog, the French Riviera visited a day later provided another souvenir dog tale.
My wife and I, despite knowing only a fistful of French words between us, had successfully navigated the train system from Villefranche-Sur-Mer to Nice; where we successfully navigated both a long foreign menu and a surly waiter short on affability; then successfully navigated our return to the charming Old Town port whence we started.
To celebrate not getting lost en route either direction, and not mistakenly ordering Pieds De Porc (pigs’ feet) or Couilles de Mouton (mutton testicles) for lunch, we found a seaside bar just in time for Happy Hour. “The Good Mood” brasserie could well have been named “The Good View” for our outdoor two-top table overlooked, across a narrow cobblestone walkway, a postcard bay filled with sailboats and picturesque beach populated with sunbathers.
Certainly we were in a good mood as it is hard to imagine a lovelier place to rest one’s feet after a long day of sightseeing and enjoy a glass of wine and pint of beer. On the proprietor’s recommendation I had a “1664” French golden lager originally brewed when its name suggests.
Gazing at the sea, which in color seemed to be a reflection of the cloudless turquoise sky, a lone swimmer caught my eye. He was doing laps between two yellow buoys, perhaps 50 meters apart and bearing “No Motor Boats” signs, employing freestyle towards us and breaststroke when heading away. I would estimate his pace was about a half-mile per pint by me, which means he swam a full mile as I watched.
Ernest Hemingway’s footprints had appeared a number of times during our travels that began in Venice; and his fingerprints would be found at our final destination of Barcelona two days hence; and sitting here I could imagine Papa writing and drinking, and perhaps even challenging the swimmer to a race.
Before the swimmer finished her workout, and I finished my second 1664 for the recommendation had been a good one, a second swimmer appeared. She – or he, it was impossible to tell, but I will go with “she” – was slower in pace, yet much more enthusiastic. Indeed, the Black Lab splashed with abandon as she chased a tennis ball.
The dog’s owner, a young woman with an obvious sense of mischief, threw the tennis ball towards the orange buoy – close, closer, closer still – each time the freestyler approached it. On the fourth toss her aim and timing were both excellent and it looked like the lap swimmer and the Lab swimmer would collide…
…or perhaps the freestyler, looking up as he switched to breaststroke, might see the tennis ball and fetch it himself.
Alas, the dog-paddler got there first. Returning to shore, in her own display of playful mischief, she shook herself dry while getting her owner all wet and my good mood got even gooder.
Next up: Looking for Hemingway and finding Picasso…
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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn
Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.
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