1. The action of leaving unannounced in a way that leaves a person wondering “what happened to so and so?” From the words dip, meaning to leave, bounce or ski dattle and the word slip, as in ‘to slip away’.
The young man was uncomfortable and didn’t know how to say goodbye, so when she wasn’t looking he dip-slipped.
“What’s up mother fucker!” I was surprised to hear Joshs familiar voice shouting these words from the road adjacent to the grocery store parking lot in which I had just resupplied my food for the next few days. I had dip slipped the previous morning out of Burela, Spain after he had slept in longer than I had planned on leaving. It wasn’t a big deal, but the thought of spending anymore time in this town after a day and a half already was far from what I wanted at the moment. I knew that one way or another, maybe 3-4 days down the road, we’d be reunited and not to mention a little time alone is good every once in a while. But there he was shouting obscenities my way. I couldn’t be happier. “Did you take 632a?” “Yea it was amazing!” “I know!!!” We were biking along winding forest roads in and out of coves along the most beautiful coastline i had ever seen. Lots of climbing and decending, tall superhighway bridges and quite a few camino hikers. Josh at this point had been riding since 5am and still had a great head of steam buzzing off the great road we had just come from. Knowing that the town of Avilés wasn’t more than 20 miles away, after a cold coke and some chocolate, we got going. When we arrived to town we prematurely sat down at the first café available and ordered our typical ‘café con leché’ considering it’s the only thing we really know how to order and it tastes good.
“Wi-Fi?” I asked. “Nada” she responded.
The point of the café, other than to enjoy a tiny cup of coffee, was to use the internet and update our social media and such. So at this point our visit was short lived. We decided to put back the shot of coffee we had just ordered and continue our search for a café that provided us with the desired wifi. There were a few options but we settled on the one with the etching of a hiking backpack on the window and some people sitting outside. There sat Robert. (Roll the hell out of both r’s as you say it) Robert was a 30 year old man from northern spain with dirty blond dreadlocks and a passion for life and fighting (and possibly cocaine). We looked somewhat similar in ways. He brought us in, bought us beers and some weird shot that we were first introduced to here at this small café. The shot was poured from a liter glass bottle well above your head into a glass as low as you could hold it while staring straight ahead. It tasted like Apple juice mixed with emergen-c. Not bad, whatever, it’s free. We were offered a place to stay a couple blocks away in Robert’s apartment. I imagined that his apartment was a cold wet kickboxing ring with piles of cocaine on tables, dimly lit with melted candles and the constant blasting of German metal playing through the walls.
“We’d love to stay with you” we lied.
Robert had a group of friends sitting at the table outside who seemed nice and normal and occasionly we were able to jump into conversation with them only to be abruptly interuppted by a clentched fist and something aggressive being said from our new friend.
Josh and I would then mumble as fast as possible, as if speaking in code that there’s not a chance in hell wed be staying with sir Robert. Up until this point robert had mentioned that he was in prison for fighting, loved to fight, and wanted to fight. He did this while clenching his jaw and occasionally pressing his dready head against mine while holding the back of my neck. “I AM ROBERT!” hed say in his thick Spanish accent. “LIFE…” he paused.. “..IS LIFE!!!” Life is life has become our new motto. We had 3 beers, 3 shots of whatever that stuff was and a rum and coke mixed in there while robert called us pirates.Feeling good but ready to go we planned our escape.
“When he goes inside we race out of here as fast as possible.”
“Hes gotta pee sometime…”
With a small bag of coke he apparently had for us, Robert was ready to go home. “Vamanos!” He said and pointed to his house, as he was planning on walking us over there. Where’s my knife, I thought. I could take him but it’d be a tough fight. It’s now or never, I thought as the three of us grabbed our bikes and took a step towards the road.
“now.” I softly said to Josh.
At that moment we hopped on the bikes and faster (and drunker) than we had ever biked, we peddled in the opposite direction of Roberts house, into the middle of the town with robert yelling and whistling.
Don’t look back, just go.
Once we were a mile or so away we ducked behind a big wall in a city park next to a swingset and laughed for a minute, buzzing off the adrenaline from the way we left and the booze we had just drank. We looked at the map for 3 seconds, making sure we weren’t going to somehow end up in the direction of Roberts house and continued east down the road until we camped for the night successfully pulling off a very successful dipslip.