Aventuras in Spain

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...

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...

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...

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....