Garlic and Olive Oil

It's September, 1972, and I've just recently arrived in El Puerto de Santa Maria, Cadiz, 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 part. It's time to learn Spanish.

I learned French in school, so that should help, shouldn't it? At least I'm familiar with conjugating verbs.

Someone, through the grapevine, as the saying goes, recommends this guy who tutors daft folk like me. He'll be my private tutor. How posh is that?! TO  BE  CONTINUED

The tale of the fabulously fantastic Alfa Romeo with the identity crisis continues.

It's 1982, and I'm alone in the house after the two Guardia Civil men leave. They have just told me that I won't have to pay the fine if I appeal it. Yeah!

Sounds good to me. I write this long epistle explaining how the Customs in Tarragona have told me all I need to do is to take the Alfa Romeo, purchased in Germany, out of Spain every six months, That is exactly and precisely what I have done.  I feel like writing the words in capital letters. Confident that my appeal will  be accepted I expect to receive word shortly that all is well and that I can drive my car again.

Wrong! My appeal is denied!? How could that be? So much for the Guardia Civil telling me all I had to do was to appeal. Okay. Now it's time to take this to another level. I go to a Gestoria and pay a gestor to file my appeal. Maybe then it will get more attention. Gestors are who you turn to when dealing with any legal documents. At least, that's my understanding.

Hmm. Well, guess what happens? This appeal is also denied!

By then the date for paying the fine passes. I'm too nervous about driving the car lest the powers -that- be find out. And find out they would. It's a small community and foreigners stand out. They could throw me out of Spain, or worse. Images of underground prisons speed through my mind as I recall stories just ten years ago about atrocities performed by the secret police. Were they all true?

Golleee. Time to come up with a plan of action.  What to do?   TO BE CONTINUED

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, senora."

"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-stricken too. "Senora!  Ay, senora!  Shots fired in Madrid. Be careful!"

I begin to wonder if everyone has gone mad. Madrid is a good 90 minute drive away.

"My wife has gone to buy flour and sugar. Lots of it. Who knows how long we'll need it?"

I'm now certain that people are going crazy around these parts.

"People are closing their businesses. They're going home and locking the door. Senora, you do the same."

I dawdle upstairs to the apartment, all the time wondering what has caused this hysteria.

My husband returns from work.

"Pack your bags. We're going to Portugal!"

"What? Not you? You're also going crazy?  Am I the only sane one around here?!"

My husband explains that something big has gone on in Madrid, how the military has taken over the government and how nobody knows what could happen. He figures we should perhaps go over the border to Portugal until events settle down.

In the end we decide it's safer just to stay. We sit up to the wee small hours watching the recording of some man play the guitar on the funny little black and white television. There is no information being emitted. We know nothing. Maybe we should have gone over the border?  Maybe there will be another Spanish Civil War? Yikes! 

Later, the King appears on the television, looking serious and in command. By his side is his son. The King gives a riveting speech. He tells people to stay at home, not to be on the street. and bellows forth, "Viva la Democracia!  Viva Espana!"

Well, really. Now can we go to our bloody bed?!

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 apologise for being so red, for not going brown, for not looking so gorgeous and beautiful as all the other senoritas who swagger about with the confidence of a bullfighter before the bull.

"You look like a lobster." She added, reaching her finger out to touch my skin again.

"It's due to the sun. You see..."

"You didn't look much better when you first arrived."

"I didn't?" Gosh, how could that be? I hadn't been in the sun before coming to Spain.

"When you first arrived, you looked like a glass of milk!"

It's 1980 and we have just moved to Talavera de la Reina, Extremadura. We're living in this long apartment which even has a maid's quarter. I might end up there after doing my wifely duties such as polishing the wooden floors!

Opposite the elevator door lives a cheery lady from Leon. Each time she hears my footsteps or the elevator door she miraculously appears in her doorway.  She calls out something, and  waves her hands with great enthusiasm, then giggles loudly.

"Buenos dias. I thought it was the plumber!"

"Buenas tardes. I thought it was the baker!"

"Hola. Que sorpresa!  I thought it was my daughter!"

"Where are you going?"

"Where were you?"

"What did you buy?"

I always smile and then fumble for answers all the while being aware of the verb endings and how important it is to get adjectives and gender to agree. Many times I think she's just being nosy and meddlesome, but she does seem nice.

One day, I come out of the elevator and, as usual, there is the lady from Leon opening her door.

"Oh, it's YOU!  What a surprise!"  She tends to talk in shrieks.

I smile and try to walk away in the direction of my apartment door.

"Come, come with me!"  The lady from Leon beckons me inside her apartment.

I had never been in it before and was curious to see what it looked like. The beautiful parquet floors are what stood out. They gleamed and they shone. The furniture was ornate, as if out of a Victorian novel. There was the smell of chlorine and amonia. Everything was immaculately clean.

The lady from Leon is grinning widely as she starts singing and her feet start tapping.

"Come! Join me!" She produces two rags. Places one under her feet and offers me the other. Come!  Let's dance!  This is how I polish the floors!"

We dance and slip and slide, and soon I'm shrieking and giggling, just like the Lady from Leon.

It's 1972 and I'm teaching in a bilingual school in El Puerto de Santa Maria, way down in the Province of Cadiz.  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 black 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 might yank the gold chains from their necks and run off with them. My arms reach out to protect them, and they each hug me tightly staring up at me with huge big eyes.

All, that is, except the little boy who had  announced earlier, "Tengo caca." He's still standing at his desk, looking very mournful. I wonder what could possibly be wrong with him?!

The tale of the fabulously fantastic Alfa Romeo with the identity crisis continues.

1982. The two Guardia Civil men 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 expect me to provide them with typing paper so that they can type up my denouncement?!
"Anything else that you'd like?"  I try not to speak too sarcastically.
"Can we use your table?"
They place their typewriter on top of the dining room table and proceed to type with one finger.
This is going to be a long process, I just know it.
"Senora, you do know that we'll have to clamp your vehicle?"
"What?" I hiss and splutter. Then my brain kicks in as I recall the butano man who has to have access to the garage when he replaces the butane bottles. "But the butano man, how can he enter the garage if my car is in front of it? With clamps on it, no less."
"Hmm. You're right senora. You need to be able to move your car. But, you must promise not to drive it. Palabara de honor. Word of honour."
I try not to laugh.
"Of course I won't drive it."
"Good coffee, senora. Very tasty." He swallows it in one gulp.
"We're giving you a fine."
"I haven't done anything wrong. I did check with the Customs in Tarragona and they told me all I had to do was take the car out of the country every six months. That's what I have done."
"Oh, don't worry, senora. You won't have to pay the fine."
"I won't?"
"No, of course not. We give you the fine, you appeal the fine. That's how it works."
And then they stood up and left.
How on earth was I to appeal the fine?  TO BE CONTINUED

The Alfa Romeo, PART ONE.   This is the first installment of the tale of the fabulously fantastic Alfa Romeo which suffers from an identity crisis.

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, and Italian boy. 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 how and why it ended up in Germany!

Months go by, and I'm happily driving the Alfa Romeo up and down the main coastal road between Miami Playa and Tarragona taking my son to the Anglo American School. By then, we have progressed from the German export plates to Florida ones.( Image below is of the title of the car registered in Florida.)  By then I've already been over the border fulfilling my obligations of getting my passport stamped as well as taking the car out of Spain.  All is well, at least that's we believe. 
 

One day, driving back from Tarragona, I spy a Guardia Civil jeep behind me. Oh no! They can't really be after me? Can they?  No, of course not. If they were, they would have flagged me down. I continue on my way and turn off the coastal road to enter the town of Cambrils. Guess what? The  Guardia Civil jeep turns off too. It follows me all the way to the centre of the town and parks close to me. Now what? What the heck do they want?

Hmm. Right there and then, in front of the whole of Cambrils Centre the Guardia Civil denounce me. They're  just any Guardia Civil,  for the one who does the denouncing is the big jefe, the big chief. It's to do with the foreign car, the Alfa Romeo, with the foreign plates. I explain to them that I spoke to the Aduana in Tarragona and was told that there was no problem bringing the car into Spain as long as I tale the car out of the country every six months.

This falls on deaf ears. The two Guardia Civil men strut about, their chests puffed up  like cockerels about to get into a fight. They announce that I can no longer drive the car. Yikes!  But, I have to pick up my son from school and take him home, ddon't ?  "Vale, okay, senora. Pick up your son, take him home. We'll come by tomorrow to fill out the paperwork."  They know where I live?!  They don't even ask for my address. They certainly do  know where I live.

Relieved that I could still drive the car to the school and  home, my knees are nevertheless shaking. I have never been denounced before. This is what it feels like to be a criminal?!

The next day, the big jefe and his sidekick turn up at the house.   TO BE CONTINUED

It's 1980 and we're living in Talavera de la Reina. Our apartment is above a furniture store and is 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 cooking for a crowd commences. 

First to arrive are the youngest children, yelling and calling out. After they finish eating, an older crowd arrive, also yelling and calling out. I think there's even a third group of people that  arrive, all the while yelling their heads off as if everyoneis deaf. 

The lady of the house certainly does  enjoy cooking. She even coos for the restaurant, in addition to serving up meals for some twenty or so people each day in her own apartment. Although we haven't spoken too much, sheisn't  unfriendly, by any means. She's just simply too busy to be dealing with la extranjera, the foreigner, whose Spanish leaves a lot to be desired, and whose pale, pale skin is just, well, too pale for around these parts. She always gives  me a huge wave and a gigantic grin as she  marced by any time we meet in the corridor. 

Therefore, I didn't mind at all when my husband asked me to get her recipe for alubias blancas, white beans. We've eaten at her restaurant a few times, and he loved her white bean soup. He loved soaking his bread in the soup bowl as he made sure he'd get every single drop of this nectar.

"You want the recipe for my sopa de alubias blancas?"  Her face lghts up as she pronounces "sopa de alubias blancas" with pride and genuine caring. She grins kindly on me as if we have suddenly become best friends.

"Yes, please. My husband really loves it.  And I do too, of course." I hastily add. 

" You start off with a good caldo, broth. White beans, paprika, garlic, olive oil. And, what gives it that special flavour is the head of a cow."

"The head of a cow?" I try not to sound too uninformed. 

"Claro que si. Of course, The head of a cow.  That's what we use in the restaurant."  She taps me on the shoulder and proceeds to walk away.

"Oh. Wait a minute. It's just for you and your husband, isn't it? Then, the head of a cow might be too big. Use the head of a pig. Yes, that would be better. Sometimes I've used the head of a pig instead."

"The head of a pig?"  I mumble, wondering where on earth I can  find the head of a pig.

"Oh. Since it's just for two people, then maybe the ear of a pig would be quite sufficient."

"Thank you. Thank you so much. I can't wait to try your recipe." 

I really can't  wait to try her recipe. But, I'm afraid I won't place any head in it. Not even a tiny head!