Spanish Shilling

I drove up to Granada this weekend: surely one of the most beautiful cities of them all. My passenger commented on the evident kindness of the people there (she’s from Germany, where, apparently, life is much more serious).

We ate well, and stayed in a converted palace just up from the ayuntamiento. From there, we walked up the hill to overlook the city from the lush comfort of a large private estate open to the public.

One bar we found in the Sacromonte district had developed the tapa theme into bringing out a plate of ‘Número Uno’ or perhaps ‘Número Dos’ with the understanding that whatever came, it would be fresh, delicious, and newly prepared.

Spain is so full of pleasant surprises, as readers will know well enough. It’s a good life.

At the same time, there are also some trivial disadvantages to living here as we are also aware. A post on Facebook from Expats in Spain highlights a few of these:

*The paperwork. Oh, goodness yes – the bureaucracy can be a pain. So complicated and often silly. We suppose that it’s because that vast army of public servants must find something to do to fill their days.

*The traffic police and their parking and speeding fines. I don’t notice this much in the south, but my friend Colin from Pontevedra appears to rarely enjoy a peaceful day without finding a multa lying malevolently in his letterbox.

*The number of Walter Mitty clones. This refers to a book by James Thurber about a man who claims a false history of his life before he moved over to Spain. We have all met plenty of these characters, and we know to always take anything they say with a pinch of salt.

*Then there was an answer I gave to the Expats post which reads: ‘To be wary of your fellow countrymen abroad’. Indeed, another well-visited page on Facebook called ‘Named and Shamed, Costa Blanca’, with over 41,000 members, deals with exactly this subject.  

My post above has received (so far) sixty one ‘likes’, showing that many of us have been taken by a glib ‘I speak the lingo’, or ‘let me help, I can get it for you cheaply’ and so on.

In my own case, I’ve been caught out innumerable times over the years, almost always by fellow-Brits. I’ve written a piece about it which I shall publish someday.

During my time, I’ve been ripped off by burglars, thieves, con-men, carpet-baggers, scoundrels, drunkards and dopers; and to keep a balance, also by cantamañanas (fantasizers) here and there and of course leguleyos (dodgy lawyers).  

I think there are three basic ways for a foreigner to survive in Spain: either by having an income from abroad, or from working here, or by living on his wits (at the inevitable expense of others).

But these are experiences – and each person will collect their own. I certainly don’t regret one moment of my life in this splendid country.  

I’m just back from a month’s holiday in the USA, after staying with two of my kids (they live close to each other in Oklahoma). Very nice and I am now rather overweight.

They don’t skimp on their portions over there.

Among other matters claiming my attention on my return was an email from the provincial government asking me to pay something.

I’m running on empty at the moment, but what (and why) would they like me to cough up, and how would they like it – in cash, bank transfer, blood or promises?

Let me see. The letter is a long one, with an important looking title, and it's got the date and even the time (!) sent: 05/12/2024 at precisely 21:59:27 - half a minute to ten at night.

They spelt my name wrong though, no surprise there.

It’s a fascinating world where the bureaucrats dwell.

The missive comes with a ‘don’t answer’ address. See, I have to click on the underlined bit which will take me straight to the page to tell me how much and what for.

Simple.

OK, they want my NIF number. You would think, having sent me the email, they would know that it was me answering it – and if someone else wanted to pay, some confused hacker I suppose, then whatthehell, hey?

Anyway, now they want another number, the one on the top of my Residence Card, so I give them that.

Then, to another page, this time from Hacienda, the tax authority, which says I need ‘un clave’.

Fine, well give me a clave then, why don’t you.

You can’t pay without a clave. Like a password they give you.

I try again.

It sends me this time to a page which says that ‘it doesn’t exist, try again later’.

Do you want the money or not I ask my computer screen. I’m kind of guessing it’s for the annual car tax, but… who knows?

The original email – they sent it twice – says that if I don’t answer, they’ll send me a letter instead. Well, that sounds like a plan I think.

Then I remember, there are some webpages that don’t like Firefox, so I try everything again with Edge, or whatever the Microsoft web-browser is called – sometimes that works.

For some reason, it has switched to English by this stage – must have been something I said. It sent me this:

‘Goes him to him to send a letter by mail postcard to its domicile for tax purposes. When receives this letter again will be able to access to the Record Cl@ve and to register’.

Anyway, how was your day?

 As the ex-president José Maria Aznar said earlier this year, El que pueda hacer, que haga, or in English, ‘he who can do something, do something’!

This conservative leader was – and still is – keen to cause the fall of the Government – by any and all means. A call received loud and clear by many judges, police and the Media. The cloacas, as it’s called: the cesspit.

And how are things going today?

The economy is up and so is employment. Pensions have been raised and new rules are in place to tax the wealthy and the banks.

But the leading stories are the same: Begoña Gómez, the President’s wife, remains in the headlines. We learn this week that, yes, she is married to Pedro Sánchez, and further, that she only has a few bob in her bank account (maybe). The tenacious Judge Peinado remains biting at her heels.

The President’s brother, a musician, doesn’t after all have 1.4 million euros in his bank account, so there’s another door closed.

The President’s cat still hasn’t spilled the beans (it's working for the Venezuelans), but hopes are high…

All of this (except the cat) come from the denuncias of the far-right Manos Limpias, which is currently lodging complaints with the courts over the AEMET (State weather forecasters).

Maybe – just a thought – it’s time to close down this troublesome ‘pseudo-syndicate’.

Other attacks against the Government include a denuncia against the PSOE-appointed Attorney General Álvaro García Ortiz – one of five hundred people who saw an email regarding the boy-friend of Madrid regional leader Isabel Diaz Ayuso and may have leaked it to the media. Unlikely, but there you go. The email – sent out by Miguel Ángel Rodriguez, the head of Ayuso’s cabinet, concerned a (fake) confession that the boyfriend – Alberto González Amador – had neglected to declare some 350,000 euros to Hacienda by using false documents during the Covid pandemic. So far – while nothing much has happened to the boyfriend – the leader of the opposition PSOE in Madrid has resigned, having seen the bogus (secret) email and passed it on to a notary. In short – the inquiry is not (yet) interested in the fraud itself, but rather, over the leak to the media of a phony document sent out last February.

Yet another attack against the Government comes from a businessman called Victor de Aldama, ‘unconditionally’ jailed for a massive IVA fraud in October, and released last week (can this really be true?) after he claimed paying all kinds of bribery payments to various Socialist ministers. The PSOE deny the accusations.

Lastly, there’s the Koldo Affair.  

With all this excitement, taking an inside page are the stories about Zaplana remaining free from incarceration (10.5 years); Feijóo’s sister’s business dealings in Galicia; the connection between Ayuso’s boyfriend and the giant private-health company Quirón; the accusations of corruption against the Vice-president of the Madrid region Ana Millán; the refusal of Carlos Mazón to resign following the inept handling of the flooding in Valencia; and the revelations that family and colleagues of Rita Barberá (the mayor of Valencia from 1991 to 2015 who also under investigation when she died), defrauded the Treasury of over 631,287.65 euros between 2004 and 2008. (Yes, you read that right: and sixty five cents!) And so on.

It all depends, of course, on who controls the media that one prefers to read or watch.

But what says the conservative Corner about the PSOE (and its recent congress held in Seville): ‘The PSOE closes congress in Bulgarian style to rally around Sánchez and his government, besieged by corruption’. We read that ‘absent, were Felipe González and Alfonso Guerra, the historic leaders of the PSOE, who are highly critical of the current government and the populist drift of the PSOE’.

I’m not sure what the Bulgarian Style means – probably something bad.

While some judicial investigations in Spain are agonisingly slow, others move at warp-speed (usually to be filed under the heading of 'Lawfare').

A retired (‘progressive’) judge says: ‘We are facing a permanent judicial coup d'état’.

One must ask - what would be the program of the PP and their uncomfortable ally (beyond tumbling a successful progressive government) - tax cuts for the uber-wealthy and a ban on homosexual marriages?

El que pueda hacer, que haga.

 If I am faced with a word or name I'm not familiar with, I copy it out carefully.

 I expect most of us do. 

However, foreign names are considered to be slightly frightening for many Spaniards. There are either too many letters or not enough. The easiest way is to re-name them something easier to deal with. King Charles of the UK becomes El Rey Carlos tercero. Elizabeth was Isabel. Harry is Enrique. William is Guillermo. 

It's a favour we don't always return - their Royals are still Juan Carlos and Felipe. 

However, this adjustment by the Spanish twitches slightly when it comes to us commoners.

In today's newspaper, Helen Prior becomes Hellen. A simple John becomes Jhon or perhaps even Jhonathan - but never Juan. Come to think of it, there was once a brand of Spanish denims called Jhon Jeans. I may have an old pair somewhere. 

My dad was called William, or rather more often, at least in print, Willian. He was known by us as Bill and by his closer Spanish friends as Napia (our last name Napier causes joy to the Spaniards, as Napia, the name of a long-dead governor of Gibraltar blessed with a large nose, has joined the Spanish language as 'hooter' or 'schnozz'). 

Using one's last name here is a mark of respect by the way (as long as it's pronounceable Mr Cholmondeley). 

Hospitals and other public agencies, confused by our two first names and single surname (the Spanish have two last names, but only usually use the more interesting-sounding one), will often call us by our middle-name, which brings confusion when we hear Señor Robert being called for - a man we know as Ken.

After all, how many people's middle name are you familiar with?

All the above, and then we can be a bit forgetful - foreign names can be hard to remember, right Priscilla?

A Spanish friend has the answer - call all women to their face Guapa and all men León.

My own name is pretty simple, but even after being here for a lifetime, people can still bungle it. There's a mention of me in a book published by the diputación de Almería, about how I ran a newspaper in this province during fifteen years. 

So much for posterity, they've spelled my name wrong. 

As you can see, the local supermarket hasn't done much better, and nor for that matter has the taxman (who regularly sends me very proper emails addressed to Señor Scott).

 I'm having lots of fun on my visit to northeastern Oklahoma - staying with my son and visiting my daughter and her brood, all of them living in the same Cherokee town.

So far, I've visited Eureka Springs in next-door Arkansas, where the largest hotel there had organised a 'Porsche Weekend' with over 400 of them parked in and around the venue. My son, a car enthusiast, drove us over in his tricked-out VW Golf, which was so loud (and supercharged) that conversation was impossible.

On Sunday, we went off-roading in Disney in a Jeep with wide wheels: it's a place about an hour and a half away from home. The town is the usual gas station, shop and sheriff's department, but outside, under a huge dam which holds back a gigantic lake (everything in America is larger than we are used to in Europe), is a 2,000 acre park with rivers, rocks, trees and muddy slides: just the thing for some off-road adventures. 

In Spain, it would be impossible - banned by the ecologists - but here, it's not only a feature, it's un-policed and free to use. We saw purpose-built rigs, 'four-wheelers' and lots of jeeps. 

Anyway, following the endless bangs, thuds, splashes and bumps, my back hurts.

I went down to see the Veteran's Parade today. A couple of marching bands plus a number of cadets, veterans and some military vehicles and fire engines. Like Spain, they throw out candy to the onlookers (I got a Tootsie Roll).

The weather remains nice and sunny (as Almería gets some flooding). The food is good, but there's some genie living in the weighing scales - I've put on almost three pounds (over a kilo) in one week.

Most people here seem to be Trump supporters. There are still plenty of remaining posters about (even outside the churches). 

I think they may live to regret it, but I'm not talking politics on this trip.

Following the floods in Spain (which last week lost me my flight over the Atlantic) and a tornado that landed a few miles away from where I am currently staying in Oklahoma, the election results for the 47th president are in - and it's Trump.

The Doomsday Clock, between one thing and another, has certainly edged a few seconds further towards midnight.

I went to the local polling station yesterday - a bit worried as there were certain to be gangs of motorcyclist heavies wearing MAGA caps and tapping stainless-steel baseball bats off their thighs waiting for anyone who looked a trifle liberal, but the reality was quite different. 

It couldn't have been more peaceful.

One queues for a bit, arrives at the desk run by two elderly volunteers, is checked for a voter's registration and then a large sheet of paper is given (and a pen lent) to go mark one's choices.

There were five available alternatives for president and vice-president (I can safely say that, like you, I have never heard of the other three) and then a collection of other choices - local judges, sheriffs and street-cleaner, and then a couple of 'propositions' which one can vote for or against.

The completed paper is then fed into a machine, and away you go, with a sticker on your chest that says 'I Voted'.

Will Trump act on his threats - to deport those who don't fulfil the current idea of Free, Patriotic American Citizen, once he is sworn in on January 20th next year?

Most probably.

I will be back in Europe long before then.

Right I’ve had my tea, sorted out the list of chores for tomorrow and eaten a doughnut for a balanced diet. It’s now time to get into the car and drive across the town to my favourite bar to get sloshed.

But what is this?

They’re lowering the drink/drive limit from January to one glass of fortified raspberry juice!

The fellow who came up with that one must be chuckling into his telephone as he is whisked across Madrid by his long-suffering chauffeur.

–Diego, Old Sport, you haven’t filled up the decanter.

The new limit – to be five times lower than most European countries – will be 0.10mg/l once the traffic law is modified (early next year says N332).

Spain's 264,000 bars and restaurants are not going to be happy.

Now, this is all fine and dandy for the drinking gentlefolk who live in the city where there's a bar downstairs and a restaurant across the street. Furher afield, one can take the metro or a bus or even a cab. Pop into the disco and stagger home at 4.00am with a song on one's lips.

But me, I live in the country and my nearest bar is 45 minutes away if I walk - or I suppose I could take a taxi, have my beer and waggle my eyebrows at the new barmaid and then another taxi home for an expensive night out.

Unless the barmaid has a car.

The bar in question is part of our local petrol station, so one can assume a certain amount of vehicular traffic. It's a fully licenced bar, in case a non-alcoholic beer doesn't appeal. As for smoking, they ask that you do it outside - near the pumps.

How could Spain sink so low, I wonder? Isn’t this the Party Capital of Europe?

Will I still be allowed to have a beer with my curry?

In the UK, where they must drink without a sobering tapa, and everybody needs to get a ‘round in’, the limit is 0,80mg/l – which is eight times higher than what we will be suffering here.

Yes, I know, drunk driving causes untold misery – but so does drinking at home, which is what I shall have to be doing from now on.