Garlic and Olive Oil

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 a rudimentary knowledge of English, and anyone who thinks he is Someone has his own private English tutor. And since I'm a private English tutor whose native language is English, I am indeed a prize that my students and their families enjoy bragging about.

Before long, their neighbours are wanting English classes.

"Señorita, I see you tutor the cardiologist. My husband is a very important man with a very important job, and he'd love to have you tutor him as well. We can pay you more, you know, if that helps you find the time."

"Señorita, you tutor the Comandante of the Guardia Civil three times a week? Well, MY husband would like you to tutor him FIVE times a week. We can afford it."

Sounds great, doesn't it? Well, there is one problem. Most of the students really don't want to learn English at all. They have no interest whatsoever. It's just a game of who can outshine the other by flaunting the fact that they have the wherewithal to hire a private tutor. Never mind that there are language schools close by where you can learn English cheaper than paying for a private one-on-one class. These 'very important' men of the house wouldn't dream of mixing with the proletariat.

They love the charade, however. They get the chance to flirt with a rubia who is much younger than they are. Their wives can't complain for they're the ones who set it up! For the most part. during the lessons, the men pretend to show interest in English. They may giggle a bit too much and they may even exhale their cigarettes all over me. However, they don't say or do anything untoward. I always get paid and their wives and maids are always close by.

It's a different story whenever I happen to meet one of them on the street. He calls out loudly to me, as if he's some gypsy at the local market. He introduces me to his married friends with a huge, gigantic wink.

"This is my private English tutor. She's a native speaker. Blond, just like the Swedish girls!" He touches his crotch with an upward motion and grins knowingly.

Perhaps he's dying to urinate? Hope he doesn't pee right here on the street in front of me. I've seen lots of men peeing on the street. Some don't even turn their back to you.

I don't understand the meaning of the exaggerated wink. He and his friends eye me up and down and down and up, strip me with their eyes and grin lasciviously. They scratch their crotches so eagerly that I begin to wonder when was the last time they bathed.

"Señorita, do you have any friends who look just like you? Rubias? We could all go for drinks some time." His tongue licks his lips and his nostrils flair. His back is erect and his chest expands so much that I'm sure he'll burst the buttons on his tight fitting shirt. Even the thick gold chain dangling from his neck bounces up and down as he strives to breathe. "My cousin has a holiday flat just round the corner. We could go there." He grins like a buffoon and pokes at his teeth with a toothpick.

I never knew I had this effect on men.

And I never know how to respond when a situation like this arises. I should perhaps be honoured. Maybe I should ignore the scratching of the crotches, the licking of the lips, the innuendos. In the end, alas, I always feel awkward, disgusted and very disappointed. I feel like saying to him, "I'm going to tell your wife!"

But I don't. I tell his wife that I have just too many students, and that I can no longer tutor her husband. She looks at me knowingly, as if perhaps this has all happened before.

"I understand, señorita. I do. But, I want you to know something extremely important. My husband is a very noble, very honourable, very well-respected man. Remember that." Then she sees me to the door.

Maybe you think I'm crazy, but I pack my bags and jump on a plane. Actually, it's three planes that take me to Seville. The scary part for me is how to get from the Seville airport to the town of Rota. I have visions of being kidnapped and murdered. But, the taxi driver very graciously turns out to be a decent individual who has no thoughts of kidnap or murder.

He drops me off in the town of Rota at a bar called Benny's.

I've to meet someone called Lupita. She's the cousin of an acquaintance of a friend of a friend of one of my colleagues who teaches in the same school as me. I've been assured that Lupita will put me up for a few days until I find a job, hopefully, at the nearby bilingual school where I also might possibly be able to live.

"Hola, rubia." Lupita greets me with a huge grin. She has dyed blonde hair that cascades over her chubby face. The dark roots are showing, but she doesn't seem to care as she sweeps her hair up on top of her head. "I just got up." She grins again.

I'm a bit surprised that she just got up. Even I get up earlier than six o'clock in the afternoon.

Lupita escorts me to her apartment down the road, all the while chattering in a mixture of English and Spanish. Her English has an American accent at times. I get the idea she's from Seville, that she has a child who lives in Seville, and that she works here in Rota, in Benny's Bar. The stench of black tobacco and rum envelops her and wafts up my nostrils. There's another odour that emanates and I can't figure it out.

We walk down a narrow dirt road to her apartment. A donkey, at least it looks like a donkey to me, saunters by. Maybe it's a Great Dane. Whatever it is, has great big eyes, and seems, thank goodness, perfectly harmless. But I do wonder why it's just wandering around. I hear music from an open window and someone singing in what sounds like an oriental language.

"You like? He always plays the same record over and over. John, the American. He was in Vietnam." Lupita shrugs her shoulders as if in agreement with something.

She unlocks her apartment door with a huge key.

"There. Make yourself at home." She indicates a tiny room with a teeny tiny narrow bed. I rest my suitcase on the tiled floor and suddenly feel exhausted. I notice there is no carpet, not even a rug.

"I'm going back to Benny's, just for an hour or so. Wanna go out tapa hopping later?"

"What is tapa hopping?"

Lupita laughs loudly. "You eat a little, drink a little, eat a bit more, drink a bit more. Go from bar to bar. Meet people." She plasters lipstick on her chubby lips and grins. "A pretty girl like you, with blue eyes and pale skin won't have any problem meeting people."

She leaves before I have time to respond.

I hide my passport underneath the hard, flat pillow which feels as if it's full of sand. Then I place the little amount of pesetas I have inside the grubby looking pillow case. All good advice from my mother when I first told her I was moving to a foreign country. I've never seen a bed like this. It has wooden slats and a really thin mattress made of foam. I look underneath, expecting to see something.

I try to sleep, all the while reliving the three flights, the taxi ride, and meeting Lupita. I wonder why she is working in Rota when her son is living in Seville. My mind chases around one thought after another. I start to doubt whether I've done the right thing in coming to Spain to immerse myself in another culture. After all, I gave up a good teaching job in Scotland to come here. I hear the American's strange, haunting music over and over. He plays the same songs, again and again. The sound of the high-pitched woman singing lulls me, almost intoxicates me. At least I haven't been kidnapped or murdered, and my passport hasn't been stolen. Tomorrow I'll contact my mother and let her know that I'm fine. I don't know how to make a telephone call, but I'll write to her. So far, so good. I automatically place my hand underneath the pillow to feel for my passport. Yes, it's there. Everything is fine. I doze off.

"Rubia! Bonita! Are you there? Come on, let's go tapa hopping." Lupita stomps into the apartment, her heels clonking on the tiled floor.

"I only drink now and again. Shandys mainly." Actually, I have tasted a rum and coke, whisky, advocaat, and sherry. But, all I ever drink is a shandy or a lager and lime, and that's at most once a week on a Saturday.

"I don't know what a shandy is." She laughs loudly. "Well, it's okay. It's okay if you don't come. Less competition." Lupita swirls her hair to one side and stares at herself in a small mirror on the wall. "I'll wear my red skirt tonight. Shows off my knees. Yes, that's what I'll wear."

She changes from trousers with huge flairs at the ankles into her short red skirt, but keeps on the same blouse with gigantic floral prints, and the same high-heeled shoes. She re-arranges the beads round her neck. You really can see her knees. They stick out more than the rest of her legs. They look chubby and seem to wobble each time she moves. Then she sprays Maja perfume all over her hair, and leaves again.

I find a pot on the dining room table and look for a spoon but end up delving into what seems to be cold lentil soup with my fingers. I have never tasted anything like it before. It smells like Pepita. I notice garlic and olive oil on the tiny kitchen counter top. So, maybe that's what is in the soup giving it this strong fragrance. This means that I'm going to smell like Lupita? My stomach bloated with the cold lentil soup, I fall into a deep sleep and don't wake up until around nine o'clock in the morning.

There's no Lupita. Maybe she's at Benny's Bar? Maybe I was in such a deep sleep I didn't hear her come back last night?

Someone is knocking the front door.

"Hi. I heard that Lupita had a new lodger." He speaks with an American accent.

"Only for a few days."

"If you need anything, just let me know. I live upstairs." His eyes look bloodshot and weary. His fair hair is short and sticks up like exclamation points.

"You're John? Lupita isn't here. I can't imagine where she is."

He looks surprised. "You really don't know?"

"Know what?"

"Oh. I guess you don't." He pulls the belt on his trousers and places his hands in his pockets.

"What don't I know?"

"Lupita, and usually her lodgers are ..."

"Yes?"

"Aw gee. Lupita is a prostitute. Everyone knows." He looks at me sideways and adds, "Hey, you're not a prostitute as well, are you?" He takes his hands out of his pockets.

"No, I am not!"

"Okay. Okay! Just thought I'd ask. Always good to know these things."

Granted, I probably reek of the same odour as Lupita after stuffing myself last night on the cold soup. But, there the similarity ends.

I'm ready to box the acquaintance of a friend of a friend of that colleague of mine on the nose for setting me up with Lupita. Imagine if I had gone tapa hopping with her! I certainly would have become immersed in a different culture!

Thank you for reading. This blog evolved into a memoir about my life in Spain in the seventies and eighties. It's entitled, Aventuras in Spain, and can be found at Amazon Kindle. If you'd like to find out more please click here.