Spanish Shilling

 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.