I used to love reading magazines like ‘Hola’ and ‘Lecturas’. Images of Princess Carolina of Monaco, Julio Iglesias, Princess Diana, and so many other rich, famous jet-setters were constantly spread out before me. I couldn't help but want to read the articles to find out what the latest gossip was. I’d look up words in my teeny tiny Spanish-English dictionary and marvel at all the vocabulary words I was learning. Highbrow these magazines were not, but entertaining they absolutely were when studying Spanish.
It never bothered me that I was neither rich nor famous, nor that I probably never would be. I was always quite happy living the lives of the rich and famous vicariously for a few moments any time I gazed at their photos and read the articles about them. I think everybody likes looking at photos, and most people like getting their photos taken especially when on holiday.
On numerous occasions, on the beach at Salou, complete strangers would ask me to take their photo. They would splash about in the waves, or pose playfully all the while grinning widely under the hot summer sun.
"Hello!" Lovers, mothers, fathers, friends, grannies, you name it would all call out in the loudest of voices as they shoved their camera upon me. "Would you mind taking our photo?!"
I always obliged. They'd hug one another, throw a ball high into the air, splash water, giggle like hyaenas, jump up and down in the hope that the photos would prove to everyone that they had had an absolutely smashing time on holiday in Salou. After all, the camera never lies.
"Take my left side! I have a beauty mark there, on my cheek." The woman with a buxom bosom that blended into her buxom belly flirted with the camera. "Can you see how brown I am? If not, I'll move to the shade. I don't tan easily and I want people back home to see how well I looked on my holiday."
I didn't have the heart to tell her that she was as red and blotchy as I was. Well, she wasn't really as red as me, and did have a little peach colour to her, but I bet you her skin peeled later.
"Take a nice photo of my boyfriend and me, if you don’t mind, that is." The young girl with big brown eyes stared lovingly at the tall skinny boy with big ears and a thick, long moustache that covered his mouth. It was hard to see if he were smiling or not due to the immense amount of facial hair.
A nice photo? What does that mean? I think she was hoping I'd capture the love between them as they stood close together, the sea behind them, water dripping from them in long, loud drips. She looked cold as she rubbed her hands and her shoulders, even although it was around 80 degrees Fahrenheit.
"Thanks awfully. We’re on holiday together.” She placed both hands on her hips and winked seductively at her boyfriend who took the hint and embraced her tightly from behind. She was no longer a shivering, self-conscious girl, but a strong, attractive woman to be reckoned with. I snapped the photo and handed back the camera. Her bottom lip quivered as she thanked me again, then turned to look at her boyfriend whose eyes were no longer on her, but on a group of giggling girls parading by.
The people I used to meet on the beach tended to be tourists who had come over to Salou on a cheap holiday, probably a Thompson Square Deal that included the flight to Reus and two weeks in the sun in a noisy hotel. I never did get to see my photographic masterpieces for even if they put the film in to be developed locally it took at least one day, maybe two. By then, they, the models, could be on their way back home to dreary skies and languid nights by the fireside. I did so hope that the photos worked out well and that they’d provide comforting, pleasant memories of a holiday spent in Spain. When they gazed at my photos I hoped that they would regard themselves as stars, famous, rich jet-setters living the good life on the Mediterranean.
I used to go to the hotels in Salou for a morning coffee The tourists would arrive from their rooms, ready for breakfast, their hands clutching tightly jars of Roses Lime Marmalade and Typhoo tea bags as if this first meal of the day simply would not be right without the comforts of home. They looked lost as they walked about and tried to figure out which table to sit at. The women, wearing white cardigans, obviously brand new, and probably from Marks and Spencers, looked nervous at the waiters pirouetting about, calling out in rapid Spanish. The men, feet covered in socks and wearing uncomfortable looking sandals, tried to act as if they knew how to order breakfast by nodding their red faces and blinking their bulging eyes. After all, wasn’t that how you ordered another pint in the local pub after you’d had a few?
I wondered how the rich, famous people whose lives were sprawled out in my magazines coped when they travelled the world staying in luxurious hotels, castles and palaces? Did they try new foods? Were they able to navigate the nuances of different cultures, different countries? Or, did they continue living the life they always knew, staying within their comfort zone, just like the tourists? Their smiles and poses reminded me of the tourists who would ask me to take their photo. Maybe the reason everyone beams huge grins any time we’re in front of the camera is the need to convey how happy we are, how great everything is, even if only for the duration of the click of the camera. In that, there is no difference between us and the rich and famous.
Not long afterwards, I went to Monaco for a few days. There I was, climbing the hill, camera around my neck; just like one more typical tourist. A car appeared in front of me descending the hill. Guess who was driving it? Princess Caroline! She slowed down, made eye contact with me and smiled such a lovely, genuine smile. Her skin looked fresh, with little if any make-up. She could have been your next-door neighbour going out shopping, and not the Royal that she was. It was as if she were taking time off from the trappings of the jet-set lifestyle, as if she simply wanted to be herself. I was so taken aback at seeing a famous person smiling at me, in the flesh, as opposed to in a magazine that I didn’t even think to take a photo. As she drove on by, down the hill, my camera lay heavily around my neck as it dawned on me how I had missed a great photographic opportunity.
But, maybe it was for the best that I didn’t take a photo of Princess Caroline that day in Monaco. I would have been looking at the photo over and over and may have ended up thinking of her as just a normal everyday person doing boring, everyday things; certainly not a Royal who lives in a palace. I preferred to think of her the way she was portrayed in my magazines. There, images of an elegant princess dressed in haute couture dresses, hair perfectly coiffed, and face professionally made-up exhibited a lifestyle that appeared divinely perfect and spectacularly magnificent.
After all, as I said already, the camera never lies.
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