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Pointing the Fingers and Parading the Cojones - El Puerto de Santa Maria - 1973

It's 1973.  I've been thinking a lot about the women here in El Puerto de Santa Maria.  I find them very surprising and very puzzling. There's nobody to tell this to as my Spanish isn't all that good. Plus, I don't want to offend anyone.  But since no one questions what's going on around here, maybe I should indeed speak up and point out the obvious, that women shouldn't be living this way? Macarena  was engaged to be married, but her fiance died in a dreadful accident. She's older than me, possibly in her late twenties. Macarena wears dowdy, shapeless clothes, and always looks morose. Her cheeks are already lined and her hands look rough and weather beaten.       "I'll never marry. I'll never have children." Her face looks wan and downcast.         "Why?" I ask, puzzled.       "Because people would point their fingers at me and say, 'She already had a man'." I feel I should tell her that indeed, she c

The Tale of the Slippery Eels, the Bald Priest and the Milanesa - 1980, Talavera de la Reina

I'm a real fuss-pot when it comes to food. I don't like milk. I don't like butter. I don't like cream, and I don't like mushrooms. Nor do I like creamy cheese. You'd think therefore that Spanish food would have been appealing to me since it tends to be cooked with garlic and olive oil. It is appealing to me and I gobble it up without hesitation. That is, the food that I cook myself.     When it comes to restaurant food, that's another story.     One day I was having lunch Luria, the Spanish wife of a colleague of my husband's. I tend to order the same things over and over regardless of where the restaurant is, for I've figured out what dishes are free of the yucky things I don't like. Now that we were back living in Spain, it's my old favourites, filete de ternera a la milanesa and ensalada mixta that I ordered. I looked forward to squeezing the slice of lemon you always get. It's really a very happy meal, it seemed to me. Luria, on th

Smart Alec and the Chicken Pox - 1981, Miami Playa, Tarragona

It's 1981. We're still living in Talavera de la Reina, but the boxes are packed, and we eagerly await the move to the Mediterranean coast. We've heard  a lot about how international it is there. People from Yugoslavia, Sweden, Holland, the United Kingdom, India, Singapore, the United States, are living and working in the Province of Tarragona. Apparently the social life is terrific. and although it's been an interesting and rewarding one year spent here in Talavera de la Reina, we're ready to move on to where the action is. One thing that's been great about this year in Talavera is that my Spanish has vastly improved. I thought I knew Spanish before coming here, but, really all I knew were verb conjugations and basic conversation. Having to speak Spanish on a daily basis with native speakers who are not used to foreigners at all has been somewhat of a challenge. And I'm feeling chuffed with myself on how well I now speak Spanish. Ha ha! A friend of mine

Serenely Serene and the Sereno - Madrid 1974

It's 1974 and I'm staying in an apartment in La Puerta del Sol, Madrid. I hear piano music for hours and hours. It's a pleasure to listen to the young boy practising the scales over and over so many times, The sound of his music stands out over the cacophony of women's voices speaking loudly, of radios blaring forth long advertisements interspersed with occasional long-winded monologues about something or another. I know so little Spanish that it's easy for me to tune people out. I have a temporary job tutoring English. Some of my students are wealthy children who live in fancy apartments with fancy furniture. Everything is perfect in their lives. They are all handsome and they have every material item you could wish for, from the tiny leather bound dictionary and the gold chain around their necks, to the expensive clothes purchased in boutiques. They float about serenely, with not a care in the world. They speak Spanish with the crisp Castilian accent that revea

The Lady from Leon and the Washing Machine - Talavera de la Reina, 1980

Much as it was a wonderful opportunity to experience life in Talavera de la Reina and visit the surrounding villages, we found the people in this part of Spain an awfully serious bunch. There was no stomping of the feet, no clapping of the hands like what you found in Cadiz. There was no Andalucian humour and no loud shrieks of laughter were to be witnessed. would daydream about moving to the coast, to the Province of Tarragona. packed up to leave Talavera de la Reina for the coast.  After several months one year of living here my Spanish has improved remarkably. Well, that's what I think, anyhow. After one year of living here, in this arid part of Spain where very few foreigners reside, we are deliriously happy about moving to the Mediterranean. We hear wonderful things about Salou, Cambrils, and all the villages along the coast of Tarragona. Apparently the whole coastline is international. People from Sweden, Yugoslavia, Singapore, the United Kingdom, the United States, a

The Secret of the Crazy Lady. 1981 Miami Playa, Tarragona

In 1981 my husband, small son and I were living in Urbanización El Casalot, Miami Playa, Tarragona. This was brand new development and construction was still taking place. Across the road from our house workmen yelled and babbled among themselves, in between peeing on the street, spitting and blowing their nose on the ground. Their transistor radio would be blaring forth with loud advertisements forGalerías Preciados, condensed milk and Camel cigarettes - 'El sabor de la Aventura!'. Occasionally the workmen would burst into song, imitating Julio Iglesias singing "De Niña a Mujer" and "Hey". They were actually pretty good singers, not that I'm an expert, but Julio Iglesias himself would have been happy, I'm sure, to be listening to this open-air concert. There was something else the workmen got up to besides hammer and bang and make lots of noise. They would play with a puppy. He looked like an Alsation or a German Shepherd pup, based on his colour

FOR SEQUELThe End of the Amazing Tale of the Fabulously Fantastic Alfa Romeo - Catalunya/Andorra, 1983

1983, Andorra La Vella Desperation seeps its  seedy way through my bones. I have no choice but to get rid of the fabulously fantastic Alfa Romeo . Between legal shenanigans in Spain and our imminent move to the United States, the best thing is to cut one's losses and dump the car.  Ouch! I swear my Romeo blinks away a tear as it reads my thoughts. I park him in  front of one more car dealer, Automóbils Jordi, on the Avenida Santa Coloma. Please take my car .  I'm hoping nobody can hear my thoughts, nor sense my desperation. Maybe Jordi won't realise that my Alfa Romeo was manufactured in Brazil for export to Poland, and that somehow it ended up in Heidelberg, Germany where I purchased it. Maybe he'll be just dying to buy a lovely Italian car. I inhale deeply and march in. "Do you want to buy my car?  It's a delightful and magnificent Alfa Romeo." Do I sound bright and cheery?! "No, señora. If I buy it from you, then I have to sell it, don&#

We're Not So Different From One Another After All - Talavera de la Reina, 1980

It's 1980 and we have just moved to Talavera de la Reina, Spain. We're living in a long skinny apartment on the Calle del Prado, right downtown. Our neighbours are curious when we first move in. They stare politely at the boxes being unloaded and piled up in the lift, and smile shyly.  But, they keep their distance after a few days once they realise that we're harmless and won't disrupt the peace. Well, all except one. She's the Lady from Leon  whose apartment is directly opposite the lift. She knows everything that is going on, all the comings and goings of everyone on our floor. And every time she sees me she either wants to accompany me or find out where I was. She laughs a lot, talks a lot, then talks some more and giggles some more. She wears the old-fashioned clothes that women tend to wear here once they reach the age of 50. Sometimes it's difficult to get away from her, for every time I exit the lift she opens her apartment door and starts chatting.

The Noble, Honourable and Well-Respected Crotch —- Cadiz,Spain, 1973

It's 1973 and I teach English privately to students located on and around the Avenida Cayetano del Toro in the city of Cadiz. It's a thrill to enter their homes, smell the aromas of garlic and olive oil, of cologne, of black tobacco. Spain is an olfactory delight. Not that I enjoy  the smell of black tobacco, but even that seems exotic in an obtuse manner. I feel happy teaching and I look forward to seeing my students progress in English. I have never met so many wealthy people in the whole of my life.  Some even have maids who wear little pink uniforms and who treat me as if I'm from the aristocracy. They bow their heads when answering the door then they usher me into a room with a round table draped in a thick tablecloth. On the walls are tapestries. The wife of the man of the house usually welcomes me, offering me sherry, Anis, coffee, cigarettes, all of which I refuse as graciously as I can. I'm here to teach English, not to socialise. Anyone who is anyone has

The Plan Is - Get me that Cap! 1974

Valdelagrana, El Puerto de Santa Maria, 1974      I teach English to this wealthy, educated man from Madrid. Due to his work, he's living in Andalucia, a region of Spain that does not appeal to him one bit.      "The Andaluces are nothing more than patosos. Lazy bums who spend their time dancing and drinking." He shakes his head in dismay.      "They are fun to be with, I must admit." I'm not joking about that. The local people laugh a lot, drink a lot, clap their hands a lot. Not too sure how much work they get done, however.      "That's the problem. They are not the slightest bit serious, certainly not in the office. In Madrid, we work hard. We plan and we accomplish."           He really is a serious individual. He studies his English seriously, and he looks serious; even his expensive clothes seem serious. Therefore, I am surprised one day when he introduces me to his wife. I'm expecting to meet a serious, formal woman wearing

What's Going to Happen Next?! - Talavera de la Reina, 1981

Talavera de la Reina, 1981      I teach English privately to various groups of students in my apartment on the Calle del Prado. One student is a history teacher who, according to her, speaks the best Castilian Spanish.  Her Spanish is the real McCoy, absolutely. None of this Talaveran slang, and certainly no cutting off the ends of words as the Andalucians have a tendency to do. She's from Madrid, something she remarks upon every occasion she can get.       "I'm not from Talavera, you know. I'm from Madrid."  She moves her shoulders back and forth as if to emphasize this important point. She wants help with her English as the group she's in is more advanced, so we decide on meeting an extra time each week to do an exchange. She'll coach me with my Spanish and I'll help her with her English.        I quite like being told how to pronounce Castilian Spanish correctly. It's so much easier than reading rules and regulations from a textbook.      

Dancing

How do you know you're a fan of the seventies and eighties in Spain? Do you remember dancing and laughing to the birdie song?  El Baile de los Pajaritos? We were all dancing to this song. At the beach, at the swimming pool, at birthday parties, everyone who could move danced to this song. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nfCAEn3gywk

FOR SEQUELThe Continuing Tale of the Fabulously Fantastic Alfa Romeo

It's 1983 and here I am, in Andorra, trying to sell the fabulously fantastic Alfa Romeo. With our imminent departure for the United States, and the upsy downsy interpretations of Spanish regulations, I decided it best to go over the border to try and sell the fabulously fantastic Alfa Romeo. Or, at least get rid of it somehow. Nobody in Andorra wants to buy it from me, not even for parts. I guess I can't blame them. This poor car has a really odd pedigree - an Italian car, manufactured in Brazil for export to Poland.  Somehow, it ended up in Heidelberg, Germany where we purchased it. I have to think really hard to try and come up with a solution of what to do next. No matter how hard I think, I can't come up with any solution!  In the end, I do what drivers do best - I drive. I just drive up the Pyrenees. Up and up and higher and higher I go. I climb so high that there is no longer any vegetation. I climb so high that the road peters out to just a goat trail. Oops. I&#

The Amazingly Atrociously Delightful Indefinite Future in the Subjunctive Mood- Learning Spanish

El Puerto de Santa María, 1972/3 My private Spanish tutor and I don't have any text books.  There are none. Instead of reading a grammar book,  we read newspaper articles together. I read out loud and he corrects my pronunciation. He talks of the present tense and the past tenses, all at the same time. And I've to look for examples in the articles.  He gives me dictations from the newspaper articles and we discuss them. Well, I don't actually, for I'm lost and befuddled. He also talks of the subjunctive, the future, and the conditional, all at the same time. It's as if the present tense is of little importance. So much for memorizing the present tense of the AR, the ER and the IR verbs!  I actually love the subjunctive mood in all its complexities. The Spanish language is perplexing and mystifying, intriguing and seductive. When you speak Spanish you have to pretend you're in front of the bravo toro, and give it your all. This is not some  wimpy, insi

The Two Colleagues and the Pregnant María del Pilar — Talavera de la Reina, 1980USEFOR EBOOK

1980, Talavera de la Reina I was teaching English privately in my apartment on the Calle del Prado. One little group was made up of two colleagues who were advanced students of English and who worked together at the Colgate company, just outside Talavera de la Reina. They were always punctual, and always very well dressed, complete with suit, tie and shiny shoes.  They were always very formal and respectful, even using 'usted' with me, despite the fact that we were  around the same age, in our early thirties. They had studied English extensively and were coming to me for conversation. Many times I'd use National Geographic as a way to get them to converse in English.  They thought the articles and photographs fascinating and the quality of the paper outstanding. Sometimes we just chatted about this and that. I always liked the challenge of guiding the conversation and then later of coming up with a spur of the moment dictation based on what we had just been talking ab

Who? Me? You? All of us? - Learning Spanish, Part three, El Puerto de Santa Maria, 1972

It's 1972 and I'm living in El Puerto de Santa Maria, Cadiz. I'm chugging along, getting used to not understanding what people are saying to me. I live in a cloud of words whose meanings are punctuated with lively eyes and hands that gesticulate. I try moving my hands, hoping that that will somehow make me understand people better, or that they'll understand me more. But it doesn't help. It's not just the fact that I don't understand Spanish, it's also that I can't get the few words I know uttered in time before the topic of conversation changes! By the time I've figured out what I want to say, got the nouns and adjectives agreeing, it's already the end of the day and people are off to their beds. The one BIG faux pas I make is one that is simply not acceptable. Says I, at any rate. I should know better, but I keep making the same error over and over. Guess what it is?! I talk to a group of friends and I say, "¿Quieres ir al B

Learning Spanish, Part Two - El Puerto de Santa Maria, Spain, 1972

1972, El Puerto de Santa Maria. I have a lovely sharpened pencil and a notebook, and I can't wait for my first Spanish lesson. The doorbell of the apartment rings and I meet my very own personal private tutor for the first time. He's a bit older than me, and a little bit taller. He has a beard and also has very nice teeth. "Agudas. This word is an aguda". He talks loudly and writes a word in my notebook, then underlines it. "This next word is a llana." He underlines it too. He has a  flair for underlining words. I haven't a clue what he's talking about. It's something to do with accent marks and pronunciation. I ask him that question that native speakers of English always ask any time they find themselves in a situation requiring even just a rudimentary knowledge of a foreign language, "Do you speak English?" His eyes twinkle and he grins broadly as he replies, "Why? What difference does it make?" His English is cer

FOR SEQUELThe Big Fire - Miami Playa,Tarragona, Spain, 1982

It's the early eighties and we're staying in a nice, brand new house in Urbanización el Casalot, Miami Playa, Tarragona. My husband tells me he saw a fire the other side of the mountains, over by Ascó. "We should leave. The way the wind is blowing, the fire could reach us."  He announces. Apparently some little old lady near Ascó has been burning olive branches. "But, Ascó is far away from where live. So, we should be fine, shouldn't we?" says I.  Famous last words. The next morning, at around five a.m. my husband wakens me. "The fire has spread. Look!   It's already this side of the mountains." "Och, don't be daft. It's still far away.What a pest for waking me. I'm going back to sleep." Just call me a grumpy grump first thing in the morning. Later that day the fire gets closer and closer. The wind is howling spreading ash, embers,  and smoke in random patterns. The road from our house to the main co

The Dogs - 1975 El Puerto de Santa Maria

It's 1975 and we're living on the Avenida de las Galeras, Valdelagrana, El Puerto de Santa Maria. Across the road is a wasteland where the wild dogs roam. They come by in packs each day at roughly the same time. I'm not afraid of them, however, for they ignore me. They seem more intent on their wanderings and staying in a pack, their noses sniffing the ground as opposed to checking out the humans on the other side of the road. The dogs who live with people are regarded as guardians of property, and not as pets. They're tied up in their yards all day and bark like crazy anytime you walk by. They look ferocious, ready to bite. It's common to see stray dogs just lying on the pavement underneath a tree. They sleep all day and don't bother anyone. Even when someone throws a stone at them or kicks them, they don't fight back, they just remain motionless. Perhaps there's nowhere to run to. And the people who abuse them are the very ones who feed them, so

Learning Spanish - Part One

It's September, 1972, and I've just arrived in El Puerto de Santa Maria to teach in a bilingual school. In the mornings I teach English to four year old Spanish children. In the afternoons I teach elementary subjects to children aged 5 to 9 who are native speakers of English. Here's the problem. I don't know any Spanish. I have heard of the expression, 'Adios amigo', but that's it for my knowledge of Spanish.  Even my students who are native speakers of English know more Spanish than me. Everyone knows more Spanish than me. And my four year old pupils speak up in indignation each time I mispronounce their names. I, in my ignorance, at times think they're the ones making mistakes. "Federico? Shouldn't it be Frederico?" I actually think his name is misspelled on the roster. "Senorita, mi nombre es FEDERICO!" He has his hands on his hips as he tells me off. Time to do something about this appalling lack of knowledge on my pa

FOR SEQUELWhat Nudist Beach?! Miami Playa, Tarragona, Spain, 1981

Summer, 1981, and my son and I are cycling down to the pool at Urbanizacion el Casalot, Miami Playa, Tarragona. We haven't been living here long. What do we notice lying on a wall?  A cute little stray kitten. He's black and white and looks up hopefully at us as we pass by. We just have to go over and pet him. He's so happy. He purrs and smiles at us. Well, that's us hooked. I knock on the door of the house whose wall he's lying on in case he actually does belong to someone. Turns out the lady of the house is the owner of the house we're renting. She's Italian and the house she's living in just now is this huge mansion. It's just her little summer getaway residence. She's been taking care of the kitten, but is returning to Italy soon and doesn't want to take it with her. Guess what?  We get the kitten. Off we go home and present him to my husband who is a real cat lover. We decide to call the kitten, Tom Sawyer. Tom for short. Anyhow, we

FOR SEQUELThe Continuing Tale of the Fabulously Fantastic Alfa Romeo, 1983

It's 1983 and we're living in Urbanizacion el Casalot, Miami Playa, Tarragona. The Alfa Romeo is sitting in the driveway. With so much red tape anything's possible, even a new deadline for when I have to pay the fine. Ha ha. Come to think on it, what will happen after I pay the bloody fine? Maybe I still won't be allowed to drive this fancy car with the odd pedigree? This Alfa Romeo is nothing but a real pest. I did do what I was told to by the Customs in Tarragona, which was to take the car over the border every six months. I should have got the Tarragona Customs man's statement in writing! In the meantime, now we find out that we're moving to the United States in a matter of weeks.  Oh?  Things change around here from day to day. What to do about the car? We don't want to take it with us. That would be even more red tape. Finally, after cogitating and ruminating and speculating, I come up with a plan.Guess what I do? I drive the Alfa Romeo to An

Where's My Bed?! February, 1981

February, 1981, and we're living in Talavera de la Reina. I'm teaching English to two children whose parents own shops in the town. All of a sudden the doorbell goes and I find the parents standing in the doorway in shock, panic-stricken. "We've come to pick up our children, señora." "Yes, they need to come now. Right now.  Hurry up!" "Why? What's happened?" I'm surprised to see the parents for they never burst in like that in the middle of a lesson. "Shots. There were shots fired in the Parliament in Madrid." "Nobody knows what is going to happen!" They all leave just as fast as they had appeared. I wonder what they're talking about, what's going on? The one person who'll know is the portero. He knows everything about everything and about everyone. Even what he doesn't know he makes up. Still, he's a good person to talk to. Downstairs I go to look for the portero. He's panic-

Strutting About, 1973, El Puerto de Santa Maria, Spain

It's late afternoon, 1973, in El Puerto de Santa Maria. I look out the window of the apartment at  the horses being trained for the Feria. A man has one tethered and he holds the strap loosely as the horse walks round and round in circles. It tries to get away, but the man pulls it back and soon the horse settles down. It starts to strut, lifting its hooves high off the ground. The Feria is one of the most important events of the whole year. It's a time for not just the horses to strut around, but for the people as well. The women wear brightly coloured dresses that flair out each time they move a leg, and the men are dressed in tight-fitting trousers and short jackets that make them look as if they're wearing their big brothers' hand-me-downs. I've been practising the Sevillanas dances with one of the teachers from the school. We attend a local church where they offer free dance classes. Pretty good, if you want my opinion. The instructor is this really skinn

The Glass of Milk and the Lobster, 1972, El Puerto de Santa Maria

It's 1972 and I'm sharing an apartment in El Puerto de Santa Maria with two teachers from the bilingual school where the three of us teach. It's always hot here.  You can't escape the sun, for it reaches even to the back of your knees. I become redder and redder, and the freckles on my arms blossom forth like the morse code tapping fiercely some important message. The teacher with the lovely complexion and quizzical stare gazes upon me. "Do you know you're red?" "Emm." I'm not sure if this is a rhetorical question. Doesn't everyone go red in the sun? "And what are these things on your arms?" She touches my skin lightly as if afraid she'll catch this red disease she sees before her. "Freckles."  I make a mental note to look up 'freckles' in the small red dictionary I carry around with me. "You don't go brown?  Why not? Everyone goes brown."  She looks appalled. I almost want to

I have...what?! 1972, El Puerto de Santa Maria

It's 1972 and I'm teaching in a bilingual school in El Puerto de Santa Maria, way down in the Cadiz Province.  The deal  isn't so bad. I get free accommodation and free food, not to mention some cash paid under the table. If Franco only knew! Knowing only two words in Spanish, "Adios, amigo", I live in a dream-like state of total surrealism. I haven't a clue how to pronounce my students' names, let alone carry out a simple conversation. When one little boy announces, "Tengo caca" I simply stare beyond him with a big smile, hoping I at least look semi-intelligent.  Doesn't 'tengo' mean, 'I have'?  He was probably telling me he had a new toy, wasn't he? The smell of sunflower seeds and cologne clings to the air. The children's hair lays plastered in a brilliant shine and their gold chains and medallions gleam in the Andalucian sun streaming through the classroom window.  I suddenly wonder if they are safe, if anyone

FOR SEQUELThe Alfa Romeo - Part Two

The tale of the fabulously fantastic Alfa Romeo with identity crisis continues. 1982. The two Guardia Civil arrive at my house. "Buenos dias, senora." They greet me with big grins. At least they're civil. No pun intended. "Is that coffee I smell?" The big jefe, boss, enquires, his nose sniffing in appreciation of my culinary talents. He can't really be expecting me to offer him coffee??! Not when he's here to denounce me. "Would you like some?" I try to smile and be a gracious hostess. "Well, yes, that would be nice. Muchisimas gracias, senora." I disappear into the kitchen to get some cups, all the while muttering under my breath. "Senora!" "Yes?" I'm expecting them to tell me how much sugar they want in their coffee. "Have you any typing paper? We seem to have left ours in the office." They've got to be kidding. First of all they want coffee. Now, to add insult to injury, they expe