Garlic and Olive Oil

It's 1981 and we're slowly getting packed up to leave Talavera de la Reina for the coast.  After one year of living here my Spanish has improved remarkably. Well, that's what I think, anyhow. After one year of living here, in this arid part of Spain where very few foreigners reside, we are deliriously happy about moving to the Mediterranean. We hear wonderful things about Salou, Cambrils, and all the villages along the coast of Tarragona. Apparently the whole coastline is international. People from Sweden, Yugoslavia, Singapore, the United Kingdom, the United States, and other countries work and play throughout the Province of Tarragona.

Not that the people of Talavera are any less special than the international crowd. It's just that they seem such a serious bunch of people. No stomping of the feet, not even at the annual feria, no Andalucian humour, no loud shrieks of laughter are to be witnessed here; certainly not on a daily basis. Any guffaws you might hear usually come from me as I try to figure out how to work the washing machine. You place the hose inside the machine to fill it up? After said machine goes chugalug, you then place the hose at bottom of said machine in a drain or bucket to drain the water? Okay. Then what do you do next? Hmm.

One day a pipe of this splendid washing machine breaks. I manage to get a workman who has  'voluntad', whatever that means, to repair the machine. He's a very silent person. No radio, no humming or singing, and definitely no clapping of the hands are involved in his presence. After living in Andalucia for four years in the seventies I somehow expect all Spanish people to be dancing and clapping their hands. I think that has been part of the cultural shock here in Talavera de la Reina. Somebody, please make these people smile!

The workman replaces the pipe and announces in a quiet voice that the washing machine can now be used. Humdingery doo! He leaves just as quietly as he arrived, presumably with his 'voluntad' intact. I set about the task of placing the dirty clothes inside the machine, inserting the hose and turning on the tap. So far so good! I'm a happy person. Doesn't take much to make my day. Just when I'm about to knock on the Lady from Leon's door to tell her the washing machine has been repaired, guess what happens?

The pipe that the workman with the 'voluntad' used to do the repair comes flying out of the machine . Water gushes up in the air and all over me. Water runs into the hall, under the front door, and out into the corridor. There's a flood. Someone is banging at the door. Drenched, I open it and find The Lady from Leon.

     "There's water all over the place!"  She's frowning at me,

     "There is?" I'm trying to sound scientific.

     "What happened? Look, there's water going underneath dona Jimena's front door!" The Lady from Leon chuckles.

      "I don't think the workman did a good job repairing the machine." Now, that's the understatement of the year.

 Together we figure out we should somehow turn the water off. The Lady from Leon, being big and brave marches through the water now up to our ankles and duly turns the tap. She examines the pipe with all the scrutiny she gives when choosing tomatoes at the local market.

      "Look!"  She holds up the pipe. "This is an awfully narrow pipe. I think it's a gas pipe!"

      "You mean the workman used the wrong pipe?"  Brilliant deduction on my part.

We stand there gazing in amazement at the washing machine and the water on the floor. Then slowly burst out laughing. Already word has got around and the next thing the neighbours arrive shaking their heads in disapproval. They glare at me, at the washing machine, and at the Lady from Leon.

      That's when it dawns on me that I'm really not the only foreigner living in this apartment complex. The Lady from Leon is also a foreigner. After all, she's not from Talavera, either.

It's 1981. We're living in Urbanización El Casalot, Miami Playa, Tarragona. This is a brand new development and construction is still taking place. Across the road from our house workmen yell and babble among themselves, in between peeing on the street, spitting and blowing their nose on the ground. Their transistor radio blares forth. You can hear loud advertisements for Galerías Preciados, condensed milk and Camel cigarettes - 'El sabor de la Aventura!'. Occasionally the workmen burst into song, imitating Julio Iglesias singing "De Niña a Mujer" and "Hey". They're actually pretty good singers, not that I'm an expert, but Julio Iglesias himself would be happy, I'm sure, to be in my shoes listening to this open-air concert.

Something else the workmen do is play with a puppy. He looks like an Alsation or a German Shepherd pup, based on his colouring. He frolics about and seems to have lots of fun playing with the workmen.

That is, until they stop work for the day and go home.

Guess what happens to the pup?

They hide him inside the house they're constructing. They basically brick him up so that he can't get out. How do I know?  At night I hear him howl his little head off. He's a poor wee soul. I can't stand it any more, so on Sunday when I know the men won't turn up I go and search for him inside the house. The noise comes from a corner where there are bricks stacked up. I pull the bricks away and lo and behold, there he is!  He jumps up and down, his tail wagging, his tongue hanging out. He's absolutely filthy. He's covered in dust and cement and who knows what else.

I pick him up and take him home.  I give him a lovely bath and feed him and give him water.

I want to keep him, but I reluctantly decide that it's not practical, and anyway, presumably he belongs to one of the workmen.

I have no choice but to take him back across the road, place him in the corner, and pile the bricks up again so that he can't escape.

I keep wondering how he is and can't wait until morning when the workmen will be back. At least he'll have company then.

On Monday morning the workmen arrive, making as much noise as a herd of elephants stomping around. I spy on them from behind the lace curtains to see if they'll let the pup out. They do. Out he comes, leaping up and down, his tail wagging furiously. He looks over at our house. I think he wants to come and have another bath, maybe some nice food.

The workmen stare perplexedly at him, scratching their foreheads. How did the pup get so clean?!

Did someone give him a bath?!

I think my secret is out for the workmen turn and gaze over at our house.

"Señora loca! Crazy lady!"  they call out.

At least they're laughing. Maybe they're happy that I bathed the pup. Maybe they really do care for him?

1983, Andorra La Vella

Desperation seeps its  seedy way through my bones. I have no choice but to get rid of the fabulously fantastic Alfa Romeo. Between legal shenanigans in Spain and our imminent move to the United States, the best thing is to cut one's losses and dump the car.  Ouch!

I swear my Romeo blinks away a tear as it reads my thoughts.

I park him in  front of one more car dealer, Automóbils Jordi, on the Avenida Santa Coloma. Please take my car.  I'm hoping nobody can hear my thoughts, nor sense my desperation. Maybe Jordi won't realise that my Alfa Romeo was manufactured in Brazil for export to Poland, and that somehow it ended up in Heidelberg, Germany where I purchased it. Maybe he'll be just dying to buy a lovely Italian car. I inhale deeply and march in. 

"Do you want to buy my car?  It's a delightful and magnificent Alfa Romeo." Do I sound bright and cheery?!

"No, señora. If I buy it from you, then I have to sell it, don't I?" He shrugs his shoulders.  "I don't know of anyone who'd want to buy your car. That's the problem." He stares through the showroom window at my sad-looking vehicle.  Word must have already got round that there's some really red and pale, blotchy foreign woman trying to sell an Alfa Romeo with a spurious pedigree.  

"I'll just leave it in the street, then. I can't take it back into Spain." I get ready to leave.

"One moment, señora. Maybe I can help you after all."  He knows I'm desperate. His eyes are twinkling as he sums me up. 

"You want to buy the car?"

"No. I don't. But I can try to sell it for you. Just give me the documentation of the car and I'll see what I can do for you."

Call me a fool, call me a stubborn fool. But I'm simply not about to hand over the documents, not without getting paid! Little does he know, that I'll take anything, even five thousand pesetas.

"And how would you get the money to me once you sell it? I live about five hours away."

"Oh, señora. Don't worry. I'll mail you the money."  He's smirking at this point.

"No. No deal. Give me the money now, and I'll give you the documents."

I'm surprised at my tone of voice. I feel as if I'm in a boxing arena fighting a World Heavyweight.

"Señora, señora. Don't you trust me?"

That question doesn't even deserve an answer.  Ha ha.

In the end we reach a compromise. I leave the car with him, but I retain the title deed of the fabulously fantastic Alfa Romeo. He's to contact me if he gets a buyer and I've to rush back to Andorra with the documents. 

What a daft situation!  It would have been better to have just rented a car instead of getting messed up with foreign plates, the Guardia Civil, and now this escapade of fleeing to Andorra. Financially it would have been the same. I think the fabulously fantastic Alfa Romeo cost $3,000. Still, it has been an adventure!

P.S. Do you think I ever hear from Automóbils Jordi?!

P.P.S. And I wonder where my fabulously fantastic Alfa Romeo is now?