Standing outside our front door with our beachy feet, we had two choices: we could track sand into our fussy landlord's apartment, or we could offend the locals by washing our feet in the street. Prior to our arrival here, we read that Spaniards keep the beach at the beach; even the most modest display of swimwear on the street is frowned upon. We knew that feet-washing was crossing the line, but inspite of our best efforts, sand was clinging to our skin. With our deposit on the line, we chose the latter of our options, and just outside our apartment door, I dumped my two-liter bottle of tea all over our feet while passersby gaped. "The next time we do this," Gary said, "let's make sure we have a maple leaf emblazoned on our beach bag."
"Dad, they're going to know we're Americans," Lauren answered. She's probably right. The Canadians never get blamed for anything.