A Foot in Two Campos

It all seems a bit one-sided so far.  I keep getting presents from the Spanish Government, and I barely seem to have contributed anything to them yet.  My latest gift from them was €2.000 off my new car.

The sad part was saying goodbye to the ancient old SEAT Ibiza I’d bought on arrival, which now turned out to be worth double what I’d paid thanks to the government’s scrappage scheme known here as Plan PIVE, whereby if it was destroyed and traded in for a new or nearly-new car, I got €2.000 discount.  So when the clutch went last week it seemed like providence and I headed for the showrooms to see what deal I could negotiate.

After some heavy negotiation sessions (fantastic for practicing Spanish – I should have paid them for the lessons!), I settled on a 5-month old SEAT Mii with just 150km on the clock.  I got the guarantee extended, a further price reduction, and a sat-nav thrown in.  It’s sweet, small, and shiny and red!

In addition the Diputación de Málaga (province-wide government) has given me a shiny new red pavement to match the car.  When I moved into the house in July the road was pretty dire.  It’s been chaotic for two months but we now have red pavements, grey paving in the road, a new staircase up the steep bit, and new flat areas for the neighbours to sit out on in summer.  Although inevitably noisy and dirty, the workmen have remained polite and helpful throughout, never leaving me without a bridge across the mud to get in and out, and patiently stopping work whenever one of the residents needed to squeeze out past the digger.   See Blog 31 and 32.

In terms of presents I should include the town trip to Málaga, paid for by Colmenar Ayuntamiento (town hall).  A fascinating day out in November for 50 residents including several museum visits and an excellent lunch, all paid for out of council funds.  Plus of course, for me, a 12-hour Spanish intensive course and some new friends made amongst my Spanish neighbours.

The final present from the government was last night’s superb free concert in Málaga Cathedral.  El Jóven Orquesta Barroca de Andalucía and el Coro de Ópera de Málaga (the Andalucían Baroque Youth Orchestra and the Málaga Opera Chorus) performed “The Messiah” in the stunning cathedral setting – a wonderful Christmas experience.

So the scales are at the moment definitely tipping in my favour.  Okay there was a chunk of purchase tax on my house, and IVA (the Spanish equivalent of VAT) on absolutely everything, but I’m pretty sure that the score so far is Tamara 1:  Spanish Government 0.  But in 2013 I shall spend more time here, will become fiscally resident and at last begin to contribute something more back to the country that has already given me so much.

© Tamara Essex 2012

Traditions from home and abroad mingled this year, and new traditions began as old ones were put away.  The warm sun made this a very different Christmas from those of previous years, plus a new village, new neighbours, and the first Christmas in 54 years without Mum.

The elves on the window-sill are as old as I am, and the porcelain choristers too.  But the Santa hanging from a rope tied to my balcony is new, and the candles in every room are there as much in case of power cuts as for any seasonal purpose.

A first for me was buying a ticket for the El Gordo lottery, and watching the TV programme on Saturday morning to see if my neighbours and I were all to be rich.  The system of distributing tickets around the country generally means that luck falls not just individually but on a whole village.  This time it was not to be us, but hearing the schoolchildren singing out the numbers and the prizes was a bizarre experience.

Singing carols with the Alegría Singers felt like old times and reminded me of my time with Goldsmiths Choral Union, performing at the Albert Hall every Christmas.  This year the venue was a little different, but Moreno’s Bar in Puente Don Manuel gave us mince pies for our efforts, which had never happened at the Albert Hall!

Going out for a Christmas morning walk is a revived tradition – throughout the 80s and 90s Mum and I were in the habit of taking a three- or four-night hotel break for Christmas, and with no cooking responsibilities would always don walking boots and cover five or six miles before lunch (with Mum’s hip-flask charged with whisky!).  So it felt like an old tradition to pull on the boots this year, though it made a change to be out at Christmas in a light jumper rather than wrapped in seven layers against a cold biting wind.

And as the now-familiar path took me towards the Enchanted Place, a surprise – yesterday’s very hot sun plus some night-time drizzle had combined to bring out the first of the almond blossom (surely earlier than usual?).  Very symbolic ..... new beginnings, the cycle of life, turning the corner towards a new season.  A delightful and unexpected bonus, and despite the analogies fighting for space in my mind, it made the walk a happy one, not a sad one.

After my walk it was back home to open presents and to raise a toast to Mum.  The last few Christmases had been tough for her as she became frailer, but a picture of her in her dressing gown opening her presents last year will always be a special one.  Her appetite had largely gone so Christmas lunch consisted of just a few tempting morsels - a sliver of smoked salmon, a couple of prawns, and a mouthful of a favourite locally-made game pie.

So my Christmas lunch at Bar CO2 was a return to an old tradition I’d missed for several years.  As English as it could be.  Proper Christmas dinner with crackers and hats, but with the Spanish square outside, the fountain and the Ayuntamiento (town hall).

Christmas lights, different yet the same.  Nativity scenes, different yet the same.  A Christmas walk, different yet the same.  Spanish and English cultures, mixing.  So many things completely different, which over time will become normal.  A Spang-lish Christmas.   Every tradition had to begin somewhere, once upon a time.  Today is the first Christmas of the rest of your life - happy Christmas everyone.

© Tamara Essex 2012

 So.  First Christmas in Spain.  It seems to me there are three ways of doing this – (1) try to import all English customs and do it as Englishly as possible;  (2) try to do it completely Spanishly and be a bit confused throughout;  or (3) try to do it as Spanishly as possible but with just a couple of familiar things in order to remember what day it is.  I went for number three.

And it wouldn’t be Christmas in Málaga without a trip to see the Christmas lights (brilliantly designed by Grupo Ximenez from Puente Genil) and a tour of the belenes (nativity scenes).

I’d made a note of a couple of unmissable belenes, and then a very helpful woman in the Oficina de Turismo added a few more, mentioning in particular one which she thought I would find especially fun.  My tour began in an orderly queue outside Málaga Ayuntamiento (town hall).  Well we were bound to be orderly, there was me and four elderly ladies, and six police officers.  Though the police presence became more understandable as opening time approached and the hordes arrived (including a loud singing lady who burst into impromptu wailing while a school party clapped along in time).

The belén was stunning.  On a large scale, incredibly detailed, and beautifully executed.  The large crowd shuffled by good-naturedly, with a few more outbursts from the singing lady.  Having visited belenes in Barcelona, I looked out for the rather rude caganer, but this particular political tradition is mainly restricted to Catalunya so was nowhere to be seen.

Then on to Málaga cathedral, with an attractive wire sculpture scene outside the main entrance.  Inside were three life-size scenes, dramatically-lit to emphasise the contrasting gloom, the intense colours, and the simple story.

Outside on the roundabout at the foot of Calle Larios was a rustic belén.  Nearby in the main Oficina de Turismo they had gone with a maritime theme and built the whole belén in a fishing boat.  Rather beautiful (or should that be “boatiful”?).

Then on to the “wild card”, located in the Sala de Exposiciones del Archivo Municipal.  Nearby, so no distance to walk to, and the lady in Turismo had emphasised that I must be sure not to miss it.

The first four I’d seen couldn’t have been more different.  Or so I thought.  I was about to see the most bizarre belén.  It was made entirely from Plasticene (Plastilina in Spanish).  It was a strange juxtaposition of a solemn religious scene, with characters apparently out of Wallace and Gromit.  Joseph (who did bear a more-than-passing resemblance to Wallace) had a look on his face as though he was hoping one of the three Kings was bearing Wensleydale cheese.

After this it was late enough that the Christmas lights were about to be turned on, so I returned to Plaza de la Constitución just in time.  You know you’re still a Spanish “newbie” when you still find it odd to take in one single view including an ancient Moorish roof, palm trees, garish Christmas lights, oranges on the branches, and a massive blow-up Santa. 

Strolling down Calle Larios I was dragged into a coffee shop by the four sweet old Spanish ladies I’d befriended in the queue outside the ayuntamiento.  They hadn’t known about the other belenes so I’d written them a list, and apparently they’d been following me around all evening.  They insisted that I finish my evening with them over a coffee and cake.  How could I refuse?

© Tamara Essex 2012

I’ve always been a “completer”.  When I start something I like to finish it.  So it didn’t take much psycho-analysis to work out that when presented with a card with a box for each of fourteen participating tapas bars to visit, I wasn’t going to leave a single box unstamped.  And we had just Sunday to do it.

As part of Colmenar’s  Fiesta del Mosto y la Chacina, each bar would provide a speciality tapas of their own choice, and a drink, and then the all-important stamp on the card.  My friends Steve and Linda set off with me as we walked out to the Arco del Sol on the edge of Colmenar.  We were Antonio’s first “Ruta de Tapas” stamp-collectors, and after we had enjoyed queso viejo with our drinks the ink was fresh as our cards were duly stamped.

On to Venta de Colmenar.  This “speed-dating” type of pub-crawl was introducing me to bars that from the outside had not appealed.  Venta de Colmenar was a good example.  Unprepossessing, adjacent to the small industrial estate, yet friendly and welcoming, and serving a tasty tapas of callos (well we weren’t likely to get through the day without sampling tripe!). 

Out to tick off the other two “outliers”, Hotel Balcon de los Montes (lovely home-cured ham) and Restaurant Belén (migas – except they’d run out so we decided to return later).

Next, to Bar Tele-Club (callos, or tripe, again) which was another unattractive building hiding a pleasant bar with friendly staff making time to chat despite the crowds.  The same went for Peña Flamenco (tomate frito con morcilla).  With six stamps we were well on our way.

Almost adjacent we dived into El Ventorro (morcilla con tomate again) and Mesón El Pilar where Miguel didn’t mind serving a second round of tapas when I realised we’d eaten it before photographing it!  Our next stop was Bodegas José Molino, where Pepe showed off his fine wines with justifiable pride.  The great barrels filled a long tunnel, while a bright rear patio served as a temporary art gallery.  A different experience, and our ninth stamp.

Bar Los Pepes (asaduras con tomate) and the place was rocking.  Music and bodies filled the bar and nobody else looked like they were bothering to collect stamps any more, but after a bit of searching the wooden stamp and inkpad were found with a smile.

With completion within sight we sprinted back up the hill for a return visit to Restaurant Belén.  Still no tapas so we had a drink and got our stamps anyway.  Then back down to the centre and to Dutch-run Bar Bartola.  Round the corner to Bar CO2 (by this time, late afternoon, we’d given up expecting tapas, but were served with some sausage with our drinks anyway.  Linda had dropped out of the Ruta a few bars before and had settled in CO2 to read.  Staying put was more tempting than the climb up to our final two bars so Steve and I set off with the finishing line well within our grasp.

Bar Diego was one I’d glanced into but had assumed (wrongly) that it wasn’t particularly welcoming to a single foreign female.  In fact the son of the owners was welcoming, and served the most delicious tapas of the day (aliño de espárragos), a hot dish of egg, breadcrumbs, and mostly asparagus.  It was so delicious we dived into it and scraped the dishes clean before remembering the photo.  Yet again, a further portion was supplied generously and good-humouredly despite our (almost genuine) protests.  With the football on, and a relaxed family atmosphere, it was hard to drag ourselves away but we had one final call to make.

Taberna de las Flores at the top of my hill provided our final drink of the evening, plus a worrying moment when it appeared the inkpad had been lost.  But all was well and the fourteenth space on the card was duly filled.  Shortly after 8pm, having started nine hours earlier, we returned to the big tent where the whole thing had begun, but it was deserted and we were clearly too late to hand in our completed cards.  If anybody else had completed the tour, they would have needed to do it without any slow, relaxed enjoyment of their surroundings.  We didn’t even know what the prize had been. 

Steve and I looked at each other, totally content, knowing that the best prize had already been won by us – our completed cards could be retained as a reminder of a truly excellent fiesta, some good bars discovered, and some good friends made.

© Tamara Essex 2012

Christmas plays well in Dorset market towns, especially Shaftesbury.  The stone parish church and the charming town hall sit comfortably at the centre of lights and celebrations during late-night shopping.  Santa, elves, the Shaftesbury Town Silver Band, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, and the community choir carolling in the crisp winter evening.  It's Christmas in Dorset and all's right with the world.

Except that I'm staring at a bag, sized to within a millimetre of Easyjet's rigorous cabin allowance.   I'm packing a few presents and cards I've been given, a few presents and cards I'm giving, a china teapot, some Wensleydale cheese and my black choir outfit which inexplicably includes a reindeer headdress.  Closing the door on the cosy thatched cottage which has hosted my last eleven Christmases and all the traditions of decorating that go with that.  Leaving behind the boxes of Christmas stuff, all labelled - front porch, little lounge, big lounge.  Everything had its pre-determined place.  Instead, heading for Spain and the slightly daunting task of beginning a new set of Christmas traditions.  The unknown.  Nothing has a pre-determined place, including me. 

It's sunny in Spain, right?  Expats dine outside all year round, and then in the winter when the evenings turn slightly chilly they slip on a cardigan for a last drink on the terrace before sitting cosily indoors watching Strictly Come Dancing, right?  And all the while, friends and family back in the UK quietly agree with Government suggestions that the Winter Fuel Payment shouldn't be paid to Brits in Spain.  Wrong.  The days are bright and often sunny, lovely for crisp winter walks, but when the sun drops over the mountains the temperature plummets.  Friends complain that their wood-burning stoves are guzzling fuel faster than a steam train.  The tiled floors, though strewn with rugs, are chilly.    We wear two pairs of socks, even in bed.  Power cuts are frequent and tend to affect the whole village (and, according to addicts of "Strictly", occur most often on Saturday evenings).

So the wood-burner will be the focal point for the Spanish winter and therefore for my first Spanish Christmas.  I found a tiny 1ft tinsel tree in the drawer of the bureau delivered from Dorset, and I have some baubles.  And of course I have a vast supply of candles, in preparation for the power-cuts.  I am missing the ingredients to build a belén, the nativity scene that should take pride of place somewhere in my house.  I have some ancient elves, passed down from my German grandmother, that could just about pass as shepherds.  I have some green raffia paper.  I could build something on the window ledge, to show willing.  I can skip most of the normally-required characters, but I probably need some sort of stable-type contraption as the centrepiece.

Christmas-shops.  Will there be Christmas-shops?  A December visit to Barcelona some years ago seemed to include Christmas-shops.  Certainly there were shops selling caganers, the great Catalan "up yours" to whichever political figure is out of favour (this year it's Rajoy, of course).  Perhaps December needs to include a trip to see the Málaga lights, and a day out in Granada.  One of those will surely provide a small wooden stable?

My final dilemma is whether to give Ana and Julia, the little girls next door, their bags of chocolate coins on Christmas Day (the traditional, though historically incorrect, day of present-giving in the UK), or on Kings' Day (the traditional, and of course more logical, day of present-giving in Spain).  I am leaning towards Christmas Day, which for them is not a special day, so I can explain how Christmas is done in the UK. 

In the meantime, I have some time to explore how Christmas is done in Spain.

© Tamara Essex 2012

 “Christopher Robin was going away.”  Possibly the most tear-jerking words in the whole canon of children’s literature.   The opening line of “The House at Pooh Corner” - chapter ten “In Which Christopher Robin and Pooh Come to an Enchanted Place and We Leave Them There.”

It makes tough reading, even for grown-ups.

They walked on, thinking of This and That, and by-and-by they came to an enchanted place on the very top of the forest …..  Sitting there they could see the whole world spread out until it reached the sky, and whatever there was all the world over was with them.

“Pooh, when I’m – you know ….. will you come up here sometimes?”  “Just me?”  “Yes, Pooh.”  “Will you be here too?”  “Yes, Pooh, I will be really.  I promise I will be, Pooh.”  “That’s good,” said Pooh.

For many of us of a certain age, the age of people who took O-levels, wore hot-pants and watched “Follyfoot”, chapter ten was our first experience of separation and loss.  Christopher Robin was going away.  Somehow though, he had promised, he would always be there.  Somehow though, if we go to the enchanted place, we will always find him there.

I found the enchanted place by accident, about six weeks ago.  And like the best enchanted places, it’s close and very easy to get to.  I went for a long walk on the day that would have been my mother’s birthday (Blog 28 - Reflecting).  Maybe my heart and mind were more open to the enchantment, but whatever it was, when I stepped round a corner and saw the perfection of the spot, the framing of the view, the mountains and the valley, all viewed through the almond trees, I knew I had found my enchanted place.  “The whole world spread out until it reached the sky.”  For no reason and for every reason the tears flowed.

And at that moment a question I had been struggling with was answered.  I don’t need to bring my mother’s ashes out to Spain.  The lemon tree that I planted for her is there on the patio so I can give her a smile each morning.  And when I want to, I can go up there sometimes to the enchanted place.   “Will you be here too?”  Yes, I will be really.  I promise I will be.” 

“That’s good.”

© Tamara Essex 2012