Garlic and Olive Oil

It's 1973.  I've been thinking a lot about the women here in El Puerto de Santa Maria.  I find them very surprising and very puzzling. There's nobody to tell this to as my Spanish isn't all that good. Plus, I don't want to offend anyone.  But since no one questions what's going on around here, maybe I should indeed speak up and point out the obvious, that women shouldn't be living this way?

Macarena  was engaged to be married, but her fiance died in a dreadful accident. She's older than me, possibly in her late twenties. Macarena wears dowdy, shapeless clothes, and always looks morose. Her cheeks are already lined and her hands look rough and weather beaten.

      "I'll never marry. I'll never have children." Her face looks wan and downcast.  

      "Why?" I ask, puzzled.

      "Because people would point their fingers at me and say, 'She already had a man'."

I feel I should tell her that indeed, she can get married one day. But, she'd probably just scowl at me, mumbling, "You're a foreigner. You don't understand."  And she'd be absolutely correct about that.

There's the group of posh young women who look to be about my age. Most days they sit in the Bar Central, their jackets draped over their shoulders like a cape. Thick gold chains hang loosely from their neck and their gold bracelets jingle as they pick up the tiny cups of coffee. I feel a pang of envy for I don't have much jewellery. Nor do I wear clothes as expensive as theirs. They inhale their cigarettes as if they were men, and exhale with the charm of a steam engine.

The loudest one speaks up. "Montse. What's wrong with your husband?" Her voice is deep and her tone accusatory. She taps Montse on her knee.

     "Nothing. He's perfectly fine."  Montse looks defensive.

     "Oh?" Smoke exhales itself from her mouth into the hot air of the bar.  "Well, he doesn't have  a lover, does he?"

     "No, he doesn't."

     "Then, he doesn't have cojones! What kind of man is he?!" She shrugs her shoulders and stares at the others who shake their heads in despair at the mere thought of a husband not having a lover.                                                                                                  

I'm surprised that young, pretty women believe that if your husband isn't fooling around that that makes him less of a man. It's as if it's a sense of pride to have a husband who has lovers. And if he has enough money to pay for an apartment for his bit of stuff, then so much the better.

It's amazing to watch these unfaithful, macho husbands on Sundays. They are so very attentive and loving to their darling wives on this one day of the week. They stroll down the road to the bars and restaurants, he in front, his wife and the children behind him. He lifts her copa of fino and gently places it in her delicate hand, as if she's incapable of picking it up herself. He caresses her jacket, tucks it around her shoulders, and beams down at her. He tickles her throat. He parades her and his children for everyone to see.

The children are very well dressed. The girls wear dresses that go down almost to their ankles. They have what look to be crocheted socks, and little dark, leather shoes that probably cost a fortune. The boys wear short trousers that go all the way beyond their knees. Their shirts look like girls' blouses. And they too wear expensive shoes. The macho  husband beams with pride at his children, picks them up and cuddles them. You'd never know he has another life where his wife and children don't even cross his mind.

It's possible that all the lovely clothes, the private schools, and the expensive restaurants compensate for the infidelity. There is no divorce, so what can the women do?  They have no choice but to abide by the permiso marital doctrine that states that women need their husband's approval to travel or to be employed. Franco's society is without a doubt keeping the family intact.

But couldn't someone speak up? Couldn't the gossip mongers point  their fingers at these macho men, tell them it's more macho to be faithful?

Macarena  knows and accepts her place in society. There's no other way. She's doomed to live the life of a barren spinster. God forbid. She's already in her late twenties, practically over the hill. But if she really, really wants to get married and have children, then shouldn't she just go beyond what the gossip mongers say? Much as she mourns the death of her fiance, she shouldn't cut off any hope of a kind future just because people are pointing their fingers.

It is of course simply none of my business, and in the end it's probably best just to keep my thoughts to myself.

It's 1980 and we've been living in Talavera de la Reina for a just a few days.

I'm a real fuss-pot when it comes to food. I don't like milk. I don't like butter. I don't like cream, and I don't like mushrooms. Nor do I like creamy cheese. You'd think therefore that Spanish food would be appealing to me since it tends to be cooked with garlic and olive oil. It is appealing to me and I gobble it up without hesitation. That is, the food that I cook myself.

When it comes to restaurant food, that's another story.

I'm having lunch with Luria, the Spanish wife of a colleague of my husband's. I tend to order the same things over and over regardless of where the restaurant is, for I've figured out what dishes are free of the yucky things I don't like. Now that we're back living in Spain, it's my old favourites, filete de ternera a la milanesa and ensalada mixta that I order. I look forward to squeezing the slice of lemon you always get. It's really a very happy meal, it seems to me. Luria, on the other hand, orders something that sounds like anguilas. The sound of the word is pleasant to the ear, almost poetic. Not wanting to reveal my ignorance, I don't ask her what anguilas are. The waiter promptly serves us and I tuck in as if I haven't eaten in a week. I don't even notice Luria's dish until I come up for some breath and practically choke on my food.

The anguilas look like worms. Not only that, they look like live worms. They're in a bowl filled with hot olive oil and the anguilas seem to be swimming about catching their last breath, jumping up and down. When Luria places them in her mouth with the skill of Picasso painting some masterpiece they wriggle even more and seem to dangle from her lips. Her tongue slithers down on top of them and she catches each anguila with the precision of a professional fly fisherman up to his knees in thick morning dew. There's no escape. Each anguila slides up and into and then down through the gaping hole in Luria's face. She smiles. She grins. And the tips of the anguilas bid farewell to life itself midst the garlic and the olive oil.

"How's your milanesa?" Luria is bursting forth with joy. I've never heard anyone in the whole of my life ever ask me how my milanesa is with so much exhuberence.

She dives in again and yanks up more anguilas. They too end up leaping about like souls searching for even just a few more minutes of life, before encountering the same doom as the others still sliding their way midst garlic and olive oil down Luria's throat.

"Delicious. Really good." I reply, making sure I'm not talking with my mouth full. "How is your dish?" I don't know why I ask, for it's so obvious Luria is thoroughly enjoying her anguilas.

She nods her head several times and tries to say something, but the anguilas are dangling from her mouth. Her tongues grabs them, and for a second I think she's about to spit them at the innocent-looking priest sitting at the table next to us. I have visions of her doing precisely this. I can imagine the angilas sliding over the priest's bald head, clinging to him for dear life.

"We're just a few anguilas lost in Talavera de la Reina. Holy Father, please forgive us for whatever wrongs we have done. Please."

Anguilas talk?  Who knew?

"They're not as good as the last time I was here."  Luria frowns. Then she starts to laugh. "Look! At the table next to us!"

I gaze again at the priest. Come to think on it, he really doesn't look like the type who'd have anguilas slithering on his bald head. But, there is something odd. Golly. That's a Playboy magazine on his table! Surely not?! I'm surprised to see a Playboy magazine just lying around, never mind lying next to a priest. When I lived  in Spain just a few years ago Playboy magazine was banned. When he notices us staring at him, he very modestly covers the semi-naked lady on the front cover with his napkin.  I look down at my dish and see a knife and fork cutting a large piece of my milanesa. It's Luria!  She's helping herself to the one and only dish that I actually like!

"Would you care for some of my anguilas? In exchange for some of your milanesa?" She asks innocently, with a cheery grin.

"I don't eat food that is still alive." I protest, hoping that I don't sound ridiculous.

She grabs a forkful of anguilas from her bowl and tosses them next to the remaining milanesa on my plate. I don't scream, too much in shock am I. I merely stare at the anguilas, expecting them to wander all over the table. Instead, they just sit there, immobile. I actually feel sorry for them. Poor anguilas. They've somehow suddenly died, right in front of me, adjacent to the slice of lemon that I had squeezed over my milanesa. Death of anguilas. Death by milanesa and lemon. I feel like a murderer.

Luria is busy chewing away at the large piece of my milanesa that she so craftily swiped from my plate. Her eyes are glistening with merriment. I'm not sure if what is thrilling her to bits is my milanesa, the bald priest with the Playboy magazine, or the anguilas that she hopes I'll eat.

"They're dead, silly. Try them. Squeeze some lemon on them." She pokes me in the ribs.

Of course I do what she tells me. I squeeze some lemon on the anguilas - and then I cover them with my napkin.

It's 1981. We're still living in Talavera de la Reina, but the boxes are packed, and we eagerly await the move to the Mediterranean coast. We've heard  a lot about how international it is there. People from Yugoslavia, Sweden, Holland, the United Kingdom, India, Singapore, the United States, are living and working in the Province of Tarragona. Apparently the social life is terrific. and although it's been an interesting and rewarding one year spent here in Talavera de la Reina, we're ready to move on to where the action is.

One thing that's been great about this year in Talavera is that my Spanish has vastly improved. I thought I knew Spanish before coming here, but, really all I knew were verb conjugations and basic conversation. Having to speak Spanish on a daily basis with native speakers who are not used to foreigners at all has been somewhat of a challenge. And I'm feeling chuffed with myself on how well I now speak Spanish. Ha ha!

A friend of mine and I meet frequently so that our kids can play together.  We're sitting in the park next to the swings when she tells me that her son is in bed ill with the varicela. She also tells me that quite possibly our son will get the varicela too, but not to worry as it's not a serious disease. Now, I had to look up the word 'varicela'  in English as I'd never heard it before. 'Chicken Pox' is what I find.

Guess what? Our son does indeed get the chicken pox!  He gets the symptoms a few days before we make the drive to Miami Playa, Tarragona. Reassured that everything will be fine, we begin the process of unpacking and settling into our new accommodation.

It's a brand new house, complete with brand new furniture. I love being able to go out and back in without having to wait on a lift which is what we had to do in the apartment in Talavera. I love the beautiful tiled kitchen and bathroom, and the modern furniture. We even have a garden which is taken care of by a local gardener.

Next door lives a couple from Madrid who have a young boy around the same age as our son. They have big smiles as they inhale and exhale their cigarettes. They can talk for a long time after inhaling, something I've never been able to accomplish. I bet they can even blow smoke rings, another thing I've never been able to accomplish. They play their cassette tapes really loudly, all day long. I can hear Abba singing jauntily through the open windows and the couple start singing along with them.

"We're practising our English!" They announce to me.

Since I don't want their son to become ill I tell them that it's probably best that the boys don't play together for several days as our son has the chicken pox. At least, that's what I think I tell them! I remember that the word for chicken pox begins with the letter V.

I'm afraid that's all I can say in my favour.

The father stares at me, his mouth wide open. He practically swallows his cigarette as he tries to prevent it from falling onto the dried up grass. The mother's eyes grow huge and I don't whether she's going to cry or sneeze. They step back, and yell at their son to go inside quickly.

"We're so sorry, señora. We really are!  What a tragedy!  A terrible, terrible, awful tragedy!"  They rush  inside their house and close the door. They even close all the windows.

I'm left standing, puzzled by their reaction.

I don't think the chicken pox is all that bad is it? I believe it's quite common for young children to get it.

Later that day I'm looking up a word in this huge dictionary that weighs several pounds and that has the teeniest tiniest of print. You'll never guess what I happen to see! Remember how the word for chicken pox is 'varicela'?   Well, the word that I told the Madrid neighbours was 'viruela'. Yikes! Guess what 'viruela' means!

It means 'smallpox'!

So much for being a Smart Alec when it comes to Spanish! No wonder they ran away from me as fast as they could!