Aventuras in Spain

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 ...

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 t...

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 fr...

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

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...

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...

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 ...