Aventuras in Spain

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-

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

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

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

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

This is the first installment of the amazing tale about the fabulously fantastic Alfa Romeo with an identity crisis. It's 1981/2 and we're living in Miami Playa, Tarragona. Technically speaking, I am a tourist. This means that I have to leave the country every three months to get my British passport stamped. No big deal. Always up for a quick getaway to Andorra or Perpignan! I check with the Aduana , Customs, in Tarragona about the procedure for bringing a foreign car into Spain. "You'll  have to take the car out of Spain every six months", declares the big boss at the Aduana.  Ningun problema, not a problem, not at all. Wasn't I already having to go over the border every three months? Off we go to Heidelberg, Germany to purchase a car. You may think it's a BMW, or a Mercedes that we bought. Nope. It's an Alfa Romeo. This poor car has an awful identity crisis. It was manufactured in Brazil and was to have been shipped to Poland. Don't ask me

A favourite expression in Spain in the early 1980's is 'manana', tomorrow. Want to go to the movies? Sure, how about 'manana'. You call the plumber and he tells you that he'll come by, 'manana'. Or worse, he might say, 'pasado manana', the day after tomorrow! Why aren't you working? Oh, I will, 'manana'. When will I see you?  'Manana'. Time has different meanings here in Talavera de la Reina in 1980. Things don't begin on time, things don't end on time. Things somehow just happen, and continue to happen for as long as people want. Let's go to the Prado manana. Okay. What time?  En la tarde. In the afternoon. Yes, but at what time?  That's when you get the shrugging of the shoulders and the hand waving deftly in the air. What a silly question to be asking. What time?! Everyone hangs out at the Prado in Talavera de la Reina. There's a nice duck pond and lots of benches with old men sitting on them. They

It's 1974 and my soon to be husband and I leave El Puerto de Santa Maria, Cadiz to go to Gibraltar. Seems it's the easiest place to get married. With Franco still in power, bureaucracy has so much red tape that you get tangled up in your own shadow. I don't remember ever being too concerned about living in a dictatorship. Before moving to Spain to teach in a bilingual school, I did read that it would be best not to discuss politics with the local people. Okay. Sounds good to me. At that time the only Spanish I knew was "adios amigo", so there was never any fear of my becoming embroiled in any political discussion. In 1972 the border between Spain and Gibraltar was closed. Franco had made sure of that. The only way to arrive in Gibraltar from Spain was to go to Tangiers and then basically retrace your steps and finally enter Gibraltar. Guess what? I succumbed to some dreadful gastrointestinal disease whilst in Tangiers. I was dying. That's what it felt l

It's 1980 and we're living in Talavera de la Reina at Calle del Prado,11. Our apartment is above a furniture store across the road from Simago, a large supermarket. Nice central location!  Early afternoon in our apartment building is full of smells, some not so bad, and others, well, they take a bit getting used to. Garlic, cheap cologne, black tobacco, sweat and even more garlic all whiff up your nostrils and explode in a gigantic kaleidoscope of olfactory dizziness. It's lunch time, and the occupants next door get ready for the main meal of the day. Our next door neighbours own a restaurant just down the road. By the way they entertain every  day one would think that their restaurant was actually inside their apartment!  Through open  windows you can  hear the lady of the house whisk eggs which she uses to fry up her special tortilla espanola. Pungent odours of fried garlic  mysterioiusly float through the air and settle  onto windowsills as the ritual for