I do not own Power Rangers: Jungle Fury

Dom and Fran are adorbs.

Places in Books

Just a Spanish Thing


She has been sunburned, though not so bad as she had feared.

Just enough to require some aloe . . .

"Here, you want me to put it on for you?"

"No, it's fine. I'll do it."

I need a minute between overwhelming Dom experiences.

Buddy.

. . . for her narrow shoulders.

And then it's off . . .

"What about your shoulders, want me to carry your bag for you?"

"No, I've got it. Thanks though."

. . . yet again.

And then it's off . . .

"Wow. I can't . . . I can't even process this."

"Yeah, it's definitely unique."

. . . to sightsee.


And it is a sight to see.

It may be just another church technically.

With religious symbols and figures and everything.

But it's beyond that.

So far beyond that.

It's . . .

I mean, wow.

. . . it's a Gaudi.

Not 'gaudy', although she wonders if that's where the term was coined.

Gaudi.

Antoni Gaudi.

A normal enough looking person.

But his architectural artistry.

It's just . . .

. . . beyond words.

She could try, when she gets back.

To describe it to Lily and Theo and Casey and RJ.

Her roommates.

Her mother, if she'd pay attention for once.

She could tell them about the colors.

The stained glass blues, more vibrant and captivating than any simple color has the right to be.

Mixed in with the greens and yellows and oranges and reds in a chaotic, yet completely complimentary way.

The shapes and curves of the buildings, the structures.

Free flowing and organic in ways she has never considered concrete and glass could possibly be.

Almost though they have echoings of trees, branches, lizards and bones.

Broken dinner plates.

But in the most beautiful, magical interpretation possible.

Or something.

So there's the Sagrada Familia Ornate.

Conf Gavela.

Casa Batllo.

And the Parc Guell.

There could be more, the guy's imagination and creativity seems inexhaustible.

But her mind swirls and she's . . .

How do the locals just walk around like this is normal?

Don't they see this?

. . . feels strangely dizzy.

In a way that has nothing to do with balance.

Los Ramblas is next, a hectic hustle and bustle of Spanish life, shops, cafes, bars.

Fountains and arcs and street performers and casual citizens and gawking tourists (of which she is sure she is the gawkiest) all mixed together in a hodgepodge of humanity.

Dom feeds her tapas, Dom feeds her paella.

Dom feeds her fried chipirones.

And all she can do is smile and say 'thank you' and 'how wonderful' and stare in awe and wonder at anything and everything this seaside municipality has to offer.

And they keep walking and they keep seeing everything.

Pictures upon pictures and laughter and conversation and-


"Ooof-"

-the only bad moment comes-

"Hey, that's my bag!"

-when some faceless cretin tries to steal her smaller bag-

"Hey!"

-not knowing she's in the company of the White Rhino Ranger-

"Hey!"

-who promptly slings down his own bag-

"Get back here!"

-and chases after the would-be thief-

"Hey!"

-and tackles him to the ground-

"Oh my gosh!"

-seconds before the Polica arrive.

In their blue suits and white and black brim-checked uniform hats.

No guns, no tasers.

And Fran . . .

"He tried to steal my bag!"

. . . finds that in her excitement . . .

"My boyfriend tackled him! Right over there!"

. . . her mouth has run away from her again.

And Dom . . .

Oh my gosh-

. . . closer than she thought.

And Fran absolutely tomatoes pizza sauce red.

"Oh, um, er, I didn't mean . . . I just . . ."

And Dom shrugs, characteristically unruffled.

"That's okay, Fran. You can call me your boyfriend if you want. I don't mind."

Oh, okay, cool. I-

Wait . . . I can?

And she desperately tries to regroup.

"So, um, why didn't you Rhino that guy?"

And Dom seems more perturbed by this query that by her impetuous relationship identification faux pas.

"Why would I use so much force on such a weak opponent?"

And she suddenly feels . . .

"I don't know. It would have kept you from having to hit the ground like that. And you have the power."

. . . very small.

"Sure, I do. But I don't use it unless I have to. That's not the way of the Pai Zhua."

Oh.

And petty.

Then Dom redirects, lesson apparently direct and succinct.

"Come on, let's go get some demasie."

And over.

"I'm hungry."

And done.

"Demasie, what's that?"

And that's that.

"Cinnamon rolls."

For . . .

"Oh. Okay."

. . . that.


They get caught up, some sort of evening street fiesta they just can't pass up.

Bright, multicolored balloons fill the spaces above their heads as they maneuver their way along crowded streets in between tightly packed buildings.

There's all kinds of people along the way.

There's so much skin showing on some of them, Fran can barely breathe.

Blue and maroon jerseys for those more covered.

Loud, pulsating music and dancing and raucous laughter.

Sangrias and cava flow like water in the streets.

Metaphorically speaking.

At least I think that's water.

Some people are screaming and shouting and running around with flags she doesn't recognize.

There's firecrackers and sparklers and fights.

She doesn't know what sort of holiday is being celebrated but . . .

Wow, I thought Jungle Karma Pizza could be bumpin'.

. . . the nightlifers seem to be enjoying it . . .

"What's going on?"

"Barcelona won."

"What?"

"Soccer."

. . . to the very, absolute . . .

Oh.

. . . fullest.


She's exhausted by the time she gets back to their rented room.

She's seen so much, experienced so much.

And now . . .

"So, what do you want to do tomorrow, Fran?"

Sleep.

"I don't, I don't know. Can we talk about it tomorrow?"

"Sure. I'm going to see if the shower down the hall is open. You okay?"

"Sure."

Shower. Dom's gonna take a shower.

And then she can't even feel embarrassed and secretly giddy by the implications of that.

Huzzz-

Because her head is on the pillow and she's conked right out.

And won't wake up again-

Argl?

-until morning-

"Hey."

"Hey."

-when her eyes open.

"I thought you might like something sweet to wake up to."

To see Dom.

You're right. You are sweet.

Holding a bag.

Oh.

"Thank you."

Filled with freshly baked . . .

"You're welcome, Fran."

. . . bollos.

And both the sweet rolls and Dom . . .

"Feel better?"

"Yeah. I'm beginning to."

. . . are sweet enough for her.


Thanks to DinahRay for so graciously reading something that God bless you, you've never watched. Talk about wonderful support from a friend! :D