Family Tableaux

Last August, our family had just completed a grueling ten-day journey through Andalusia (a region known as the frying pan of Spain) when I found myself in Madrid's Plaza Mayor, staring at the back of my teenaged daughter's head and thinking evil thoughts. Tabitha had just informed me how much she regretted giving up her summer job (dishwasher at Papa Gino's in Falmouth, Massachusetts) to join her younger brother and parents on this European odyssey. "Why you ungrateful wretch," I thought, "I wish you were back in Falmouth. Or worse, Granada."

Dodging the usual array of talentless, poncho-clad Andean flautists, Chinese refugees drawing tourists' names in the shape of a dragon with rainbow-colored sponges, and Vietnamese folding palm leaves into insects, Tabitha and I happened upon the latest Faneuil Hall-type export, a phenomenon now sweeping through European capitals like the bubonic plague:a suited man mid-stride, necktie permanently aflutter thanks to hidden length of wire, briefcase raised, running to catch his nonexistent train. "Look," said Tabitha contemptuously, "his facial muscles are moving."

We returned to our cramped hotel room to find my wife, Frances, and son, Rusty, staring at the blades of our slow-moving ceiling fan. "It's like time-lapse photography," said Frances, gesturing upward. I issued an invitation: "Who would like to visit El Escorial?" Groans all around. "I never thought I'd miss mowing lawns," said Rusty. "Or Papa Gino's," chimed in Tabitha. "You want to work?" I barked. "Fine. We'll start tomorrow."

The next morning the four of us were up early to get a prime space in Plaza Mayor. Ignoring the threats of a fire-eating midget who claimed we were in his zone, our family embarked on what was to become the most lucrative period of our lives. Standing still as statues, we assumed positions which came readily to us after seventeen days of travelling together. Tabitha adopted the same sullen pout she normally donned each morning when discovering a large glass of fresh-squeezed juice was not included in our vacation budget. Rusty's angry scowl ("Why won't you buy me an Eminem CD for 24 euro?") and my wife's expression of utter exasperation ("Oh, buy him the CD for God's sake: I can't stand this anymore") complemented the look that graces my countenance when waiting in a European "line" to purchase stamps.

There we stood: four deeply unhappy budget travellers heartily sick of each other in a hot Mediterranean country. Within 30 minutes, crowds began to gather. "Look," an excited Scottish adolescent observed to his parents, "It's us." "No," demurred his father, "We haven't reached that stage yet." "George," corrected his wife, "you reached that stage in Barcelona." Coins began to rain into Rusty's upturned baseball cap which we'd placed on the ground in front of us.

By noon, Frances was ecstatic: "Oh my God, we need a bigger hat." And it was true: we were the hit of the square. Other performers began to whine that we lacked permits, but the tourists couldn't get enough of our family tableaux. We cancelled our train tickets to Portugal and established a surefire repertory: bewildered family consulting a map, family disputing a hotel bill, family disputing a restaurant check, and, of course, our greatest crowd-pleaser, family disputing itself. Rusty would ape pulling Tabitha's hair, my wife would turn her back to me, and I would point an angry finger and look apoplectic. Visitors went wild: "You've been there," they shouted, "Tell it like it is." Our performance truly resonated: some audience members sobbed and clutched each other. A feature in "El Pais" compared our routine to a rebirthing experience.

Soon certain foreign families were spending all their time in Madrid watching us: we were their vacation! As our coffers grew full, it was like "The Wizard of Oz": Tabitha got her juice, Rusty got his CD, my wife got air-conditioning and I got our own room and, consequently, sex in air-conditioning.

The tipping point arrived on the 23rd of August (the day the "tardy commuter" statue finally abandoned his post in a huff) when we unveiled "Matador." Rusty flared his nostrils (something he does with annoying frequency anyway) and got on all fours like a charging bull. Tabitha waved an ugly red cape she'd bought in Seville in a (successful) attempt to enrage me, and Frances and I brandished swords which we later sold to the midget who was doing a slow trade on the periphery of our crowd. People began to scalp spots with good sightlines of us and we raked in more than 1,100 euro that day.

As the start of school loomed, we held a conference. "Look," I said, "we can do this right, get a tent, hire guards, charge admission and consider franchising our act throughout Europe and Asia or we can return to a ranch-style house in an overpriced suburban enclave with disappointing schools and a circle of friends who bore us." The vote was unanimous to remain in Madrid. "I didn't realize my work ethic was so strong," announced Rusty. "It's because we don't have to talk," said Tabitha. "No," said her brother, "it's because we don't have to talk to each other.