An American traveler gets sent to the 'extra large' pants corner in a Spanish clothing store – to his humiliation.
I didn't plan to shop for clothes in Spain, but I didn't have much choice after my wife and I landed in Barcelona and our luggage didn't. No doubt miffed at being overpacked, our giant duffel bag vengefully decided to visit various airports around the world.
The people at the nameless German airline were certain the pouting luggage would turn up, although they couldn't promise it would be in our lifetime. So there we were. Two weeks in Europe and not a change of underwear in sight. What to do?
Well, my wife, whose British ancestors marched across Asia dressed in white and without spot remover, explained that with heated towel racks in hotel rooms we could wash and dry our clothes each night. After all, the only people seeing us in the same outfits would be desk clerks, who wear the same ensembles themselves each day. But, as usual, I failed to listen to reason.
"We need new clothes," I insisted.
Finally, my wife agreed to let me take on a Spanish department store. I brushed aside the memory of what happened a few years ago when I landed, sans baggage, in Aix-en-Provence. Picturing myself in some chic French outfit, I headed to a local store. I strode up to the salesman who, though much shorter, was able to look down his nose at me. "I'd like to see some shirts," I said with what I felt was Gallic insouciance.
Eyebrows rising above his hairline, he looked at me with a barely concealed sneer. "Monseiur, I am sorry but we do not have..." the sneer grew, "... elephant sizes."