Aventuras in Spain

It's the summer of 1981. The school year is over. No more driving up to Salou for several weeks to my five year old son's school, El Colegio Elizabeth. Instead, my days are now busy with taking him to different activities. Down by the main coastal road there's a swing park that we frequent. It's a pleasure to watch him smile as he runs about and interacts with children from different places. Being a foreigner isn't so important here in the playground. You can hear French, Spanish, English, and Catalan ringing out in between squeals of giggles and loud laughter. But, it's the giggling that is the common language.  It binds the children together and supersedes all adult concerns about politics, prejudices and the latest shocking events in the news. For example, here in Catalunya, Catalan is being used more and more. It's become a scandal almost. People say that in order to get into the university at Tarragona you need to speak Catalan. Too bad if you'...

The Belgian man puffs intensely on a Marlboro cigarette as he shows off his brand new camcorder. He struggles with the clumsy machine and hoists it onto his shoulder, then tells us all to look natural. We immediately stop what we're doing, becoming like images frozen in time.  He grunts and groans, muttering, "How does this damn thing work?!"  He waves his hands at us as if directing an orchestra. "Got it! Pretend I'm not here!" Then he walks around the edge of his swimming pool pointing the camcorder at everyone.  He’s the only person we know who has a camcorder, and it’s quite a thrill to be filmed. We smile and wave, whilst others laugh and tell him to get lost or they'll throw him in the pool.  His girlfriend, the sexy Brazilian, skips in front of him, teasing him, before diving into the pool.  Not everyone is so content.  Lately, Lanny rarely leaves the confines of her back garden in Vilafortuny. She  loathes hearing ...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...