T had been creeping over us ever since our arrival at Gibraltar. We attributed the condition to various causes, such as "feeling the ship's motion," or "a touch of the grip"; but it had secured no definite hold upon us, and we still could rail against the lack of business enterprise exhibited by the Spanish country people and remain guiltless.
As we began to work our way northward, en auto, the insidious habit became more distinctly a part of us, although our state might have politely escaped comment were we not of those candid specimens of earth's creatures known as Man and Wife. I observed it first in the Man, and, being of a confiding nature, remarked upon it immediately. Thus confronted with the discovery, he was forced to admit that he did wait until morning to put oil in the feeders instead of filling them up the night before—as all gentlemen chauffeurs should—and that the frequent rests at the wayside inns were not entirely for the sake of the engine.
My triumph was short-lived, however, for he replied with unnecessary spirit that he had noticed long ago (though had refrained from speaking of it) that I did not pack now until the last moment, and that was probably one reason his slippers had been left behind in Murcia. Upon reflection, I decided not to combat this cause for the loss of the slippers. When a man's feet are tired, packing in a rush seems a better excuse than a fourteenth-century saint. Besides, the spirit of unity that has made us a couple worthy of comment has for its foundation our mutual peccadillos, and the consciousness that we shared the crime of the "to-morrow habit" held us closer than our bonds of wedlock.
It grew rapidly upon us after we had admitted the thing, and with it developed a gentle tolerance of the postponing proclivities of those around us. We bore no malice toward the chambermaid who waved her hand airily as the only response to our demand for towels while the water dried upon our faces; nothing but the choicest of English was expended upon the boy who carried off the gentleman chauffeur's puttees and forgot where he had hidden them (the pitiful bare expanse from knicker to sock top was nothing to the boy); and we abandoned the black looks we were wont to cast at the patron of the inn, who invariably delayed in making out his bill until the motor was pounding at the door.
A cause for congratulation that did much to allay any pangs of conscience was the excellence of our intentions—we expected to do better things when we got farther on, to-morrow, or to-morrow, or to-morrow.
I remember how eagerly (for Mañanites) we entered Alicante, after crossing the map of Spain with unsullied note-book and a sketching-pad free from all impressionistic records. We were considerably behind in our schedule, owing, not to our difficulty in arriving at a town, but to our difficulty in getting away from it. The morning was so pleasant for lazily sleeping, the afternoon so short for a decent run, the night so vibrant with promenading Spaniards, that—well—the morning was pleasant for lazily sleeping. But all this dalliance was to cease at Alicante. Alphabetically speaking, the town suggested a commencement; who could have struggled against the M of Malaga or S of Seville? Alicante was a beginning—a beginning of real endeavor, real results, and the Spanish Riviera.
We had decided to call the strip of Mediterranean coast running from Alicante to Barcelona by this name, for the reason that Spain had as much right to a Riviera as France or Italy. We felt that we were justified in this claim when we discovered palm-trees waving a welcome to us as we neared the coast, and while we appreciated their hospitality we must admit that the town they shaded was as good a start for anywhere as any one could choose, for, no matter the destination, it was sure to be better than the beginning.
There are two things to do in Alicante. One can walk under the palms of the Alameda which runs along the water's edge and be stared at by those who sit in the cafés, or one can sit in the cafés and stare at those who walk under the palms of the Alameda which runs along the water's edge. Only, if you are a Spanish woman, you will probably walk up and down with your grandmother, while your husband or your father sits at the cafés. I have sometimes felt very lonely at those little tables; but they have seemed preferable to the cool stare of the don as he comfortably sips his liqueur. Neither the señora nor the señorita objects to this stare; if they are conscious of it they are unresentful, and they must be mightily strong to stand an evening's senseless parading.