Garlic and Olive Oil

Talavera de la Reina, 1981

     I teach English privately to various groups of students in my apartment on the Calle del Prado. One student is a history teacher who, according to her, speaks the best Castilian Spanish.  Her Spanish is the real McCoy, absolutely. None of this Talaveran slang, and certainly no cutting off the ends of words as the Andalucians have a tendency to do. She's from Madrid, something she remarks upon every occasion she can get.

     "I'm not from Talavera, you know. I'm from Madrid."  She moves her shoulders back and forth as if to emphasize this important point. She wants help with her English as the group she's in is more advanced, so we decide on meeting an extra time each week to do an exchange. She'll coach me with my Spanish and I'll help her with her English.

     "Curl your tongue. Now say 'lápiz'."

     I do as I'm bid, curl my tongue and blurt out, 'lápiz'.

     "Well done! Do you know there are people who don't understand the importance of pronouncing the 'z' correctly?"

     "No. I've never thought about it."

     "Say the word, 'casar'. Now, say the word 'cazar'."

I'm very careful to pronounce that 'z' the proper way.

     "If you pronounce the 'z' the same way as the 's' you end up with the same word!" She laughs loudly. "Have you heard of the old Spanish saying about a man being cazado and then casado. Being hunted and then married?"

     "No."

     "It's one way to remember the importance of pronouncing the 'z' the way it's supposed to be."

     I quite like being told how to pronounce Castilian Spanish correctly. It's so much easier than reading rules and regulations from a textbook.

     "The letter 'd' is suave, soft, at the end of a word. Although it's soft, it's still there. Think of the word, 'verdad'."

     I say the word, 'verdad', and out comes just too strong of a 'd' at the end.

     "Do NOT pronounce the 'd' as in English!"  She actually does yell at me this time.

Oops. The pronunciation of the letter 'd' never has been high on my list of priorities up until this very second.

    "Verda...th."  She corrects me, emphasizing the 'th' as in 'this'.

     I curl up my tongue and pronounce the word as closely to the way she did as I possibly can     Such a fine point, but it makes all the difference to my pronunciation.

     Not only does she teach me the finer points of Spanish pronunciation, she tells me about her husband  and about the finer points of changes in Spain since the new democracy.

     "My poor, poor husband works so very hard. His office is in Madrid, of course. Not here.  Oh, so much does he have to put up with."

     "Why?"

     "He has to deal with so many people."  She looks down and stares at her stiletto heeled shoe as she moves her ankle round and round. "Didn't you say you might be moving to Tarragona?"

     "Yes, possibly in a few months."

     "Then, you too will have to deal with the Catalans."

     "I don't know anything about them."

She snorts, and throws her hand up in the air as if swatting a fly.

      "Let me tell you a story about the Catalans. One day, my husband, who is a very important man, held a meeting in his office in Madrid. Guess what?"

      "What?"

      "This Catalan man turns up at the meeting. Well, the Catalan man begins talking in Catalan. To my husband, no less. Imagine! In Madrid, in my husband's office, this Catalan man speaks in Catalan to my husband. Well, I tell you."

       "Does your husband know Catalan?"

       "Of course not! What is the name of the country we're living in? What is the capital of Spain? What is the language of Spain?"

        Before I can answer, she slaps the table with her hand. Her forehead is perspiring as she gets more and more annoyed, and she grimaces, raising her eyes to the ceiling.

        "Let me tell you, Spanish is the language of the Spaniards. And Madrid is the capital of Spain. When you're at a meeting in Madrid, you speak in Spanish. Not Catalan."

        She fidgets, plays with her thick gold necklace,  crosses her legs, then folds her arms.

       "Now, my husband, who is a very noble man, a man who can enjoy conversation with anyone, decided to get the better of the Catalan. You know what he did?!"

       "No."  Gosh, maybe he punched him on the nose?

       "He answered the Catalan man in French!  Imagine! That shut the Catalan man up. My husband told him that if he could speak in Catalan, then maybe we should all speak in French, or German, or whatever language we wanted. But, that since they were in Madrid, the capital of Spain, where the language is Spanish, then isn't it the right thing for everyone to speak in Spanish?"

       "Why did the Catalan speak in Catalan? Maybe he doesn't know Spanish?"  What silly questions I ask.

       "If the Catalan people don't know Spanish, then what's wrong with them? I repeat, what is the name of this country? What is the name of the language?! Of course, they know Spanish!"

       "I think that under Franco they weren't allowed to speak their language?"

       "Oh, and that's an excuse? Just because we have a so-called democracy now, that's supposed to mean that they don't have to speak Spanish?!"  She waves her hand as if fanning herself and mutters, "What is happening to this country? What's going to happen next?  I ask you!"

It's 1983 and here I am, in Andorra, trying to sell the fabulously fantastic Alfa Romeo. With our imminent departure for the United States, and the upsy downsy interpretations of Spanish regulations, I decided it best to go over the border to try and sell the fabulously fantastic Alfa Romeo. Or, at least get rid of it somehow. Nobody in Andorra wants to buy it from me, not even for parts. I guess I can't blame them. This poor car has a really odd pedigree - an Italian car, manufactured in Brazil for export to Poland.  Somehow, it ended up in Heidelberg, Germany where we purchased it. 

I have to think really hard to try and come up with a solution of what to do next. No matter how hard I think, I can't come up with any solution!  In the end, I do what drivers do best - I drive. I just drive up the Pyrenees. Up and up and higher and higher I go.

I climb so high that there is no longer any vegetation. I climb so high that the road peters out to just a goat trail. Oops. I've been thinking so much about what to do with the car that it's  somehow escaped me that I'm driving too high up the mountain.

Now I have another problem to think about - how to get back down the mountain!  The trail is too narrow to do a three point turn. There is no guard rail. The only thing to do - is to reverse down the mountain.

I hug the back of the passenger seat with all the passion and strength of someone about to meet her doom. All the while my neck is twisted, straining to see where I'm going. Where am I going? Down would be good. Over the mountainside down into the valley, not good. Concentrate. Just follow the dirt road, low gear, feet in control, calmly guide the steering wheel.

I try not to look down the mountain into the abyss below. I think of only one thing, reversing down the mountain, however slowly I have to do it. There's nobody around. Imagine if I fall off the mountain?! Who would find me? When would they find me? What about the car? It has come all the way from Brazil to Germany, to Spain, to Andorra. I owe it to make sure it stays in one piece.  Don't I?

Maybe not. Must be the high altitude that's weakening my brain.

I make it far enough down to where the goat trail becomes a sort of a road. Suffice to say, there's enough space if I breathe in, to turn the car around. Not much room for error, but, tired of reversing I figure it's now or never. Three point turn! Here I come! I pull sharply on the wheel, bring the car horizontal, bumper bumping the mountain. Rev up gently, move forward deftly, without zooming over the mountain. Reverse once more, swerving. Let's get the hell out of here!

This Alfa Romeo talks to me. It's been enjoying the drive up the mountain, the exhilaration of the mountain air, the fun of reversing down a mountainous trail, and finally, the thrill of the race downhill. And here was I, not so long ago,  calling it nothing but a pest.

What to do with this fabulously fantastic Alfa Romeo?   TO BE CONTINUED

My private Spanish tutor and I don't have any text books.  There are none. Instead of reading a grammar book,  we read newspaper articles together. I read out loud and he corrects my pronunciation. He talks of the present tense and the past tenses, all at the same time. And I've to look for examples in the articles.  He gives me dictations from the newspaper articles and we discuss them. Well, I don't actually, for I'm lost and befuddled.

1980, Talavera de la Reina

I'm teaching English privately in my apartment on the Calle del Prado.  One group is made up of two advanced students who work together at the Colgate company, just outside Talavera. They are always punctual, and always very well dressed, complete with shirt and tie. They even use 'usted' with me, even although we're around the same age.

The handsome one with the dark curly hair announces, "Guess what I'm going to purchase?"

Nobody replies.

"A video cassette recorder." He beams. His face literally lights up as he awaits admiration from his colleague and me.

"That must cost a fortune!  A video cassette recorder?!" His colleague is stunned.

"Yes, it is VERY expensive. It's the latest craze." He can't stop grinning from ear to ear.

"What are you going to do with this v.c.r.?" 

"I don't know. Look at films?"

"How does it work?" The colleague looks up at me as if I should know. "I think you connect it to your television?"

We sit in silence.

I am technically inept. I don't even know how to read instructions, so I change the subject.

"How are your families?"  Families are a safe conversational topic.

"My wife is SO jealous. She really is jealous." That's the colleague talking.

"Why is she jealous?" V.C.R. Man can hardly get the words out, his face is still smug and grinning, thinking of his new machine. 

"She won't let me go to London! And I should go. Shouldn't I? I mean, how am I to perfect my English?"

V.C.R. Man grins salaciously. "You want to go to London without your wife? To learn English?"

"Just for a week or two, that's all."

They shrug their shoulders in unison. Agreement has been met. The wife is indeed jealous, and should let her husband go to London.

"Couldn't you take your wife with you?" What a silly question I ask!

The two men frown at me.

"She's happier taking care of the house and our children. Anyway, London isn't a place to take your wife!"

"Why not?"

"There's Soho. Places like that. Definitely not somewhere I'd want my wife to be. Absolutely not."  He slaps his hand on the table.

Time to change the topic of conversation once more.

"How is work?"  That should keep them speaking English for a while.

"Do you know María del Pilar?" V.C.R. man asks his colleague.

"Of course. She's pregnant. Everyone knows about her."

I look enquiringly at both of them. There must be some other part to this story about María del Pilar.

"She's not married!" They both splutter at the same time. They gesticulate with their hands as if wiping the floor with María del Pilar.

"You disapprove?" 

"Absolutely!" V.C.R. man has no doubts at all about his disapproval. "She's not married!"  He loosens his tie. 

"Then," says I, "do you disapprove of the man who got her pregnant?"

"What?!  Why would we disapprove of him? "

It's 1975 and we're living on the Avenida de las Galeras, Valdelagrana, El Puerto de Santa Maria.

Across the road is a wasteland where the wild dogs roam. They come by in packs each day at roughly the same time. I'm not afraid of them, however, for they ignore me. They seem more intent on their wanderings and staying in a pack, their noses sniffing the ground, as opposed to checking out the humans on the other side of the road.

The dogs who live with people are regarded as guardians of property, and not as pets. They're tied up in their yards all day and bark like crazy anytime you walk by. They look ferocious, ready to bite.

It's common to see stray dogs just lying on the pavement underneath a tree. They sleep all day and don't bother anyone. Even when someone throws a stone at them or kicks them, they don't fight back, they just remain motionless. Perhaps there's nowhere to run to. And the people who abuse them are the very ones who feed them, so they might as well remain.

One day I'm out walking and come across a box on the pavement. I look inside and discover a puppy. He's been abandoned, just simply dumped.  I pick the puppy up and take him home.

He's friendly and cute and cuddly. Someone obviously has been feeding him, so I don't think he was too long in the box when I found him. My husband welcomes the puppy who adapts very well to life in our house. I buy him a nice collar and leash from the American Naval Base and take him walks. I get him food from the American Naval Base as well. I don't think there are any pet shops here in El Puerto de Santa Maria. Pets that people have are usually birds. You see lots of small cages at the side of houses and you hear the birds sing and chirp. But people don't generally have dogs and cats as pets.

Our house has a small garden enclosed by a wall and railings. It's a safe place to put the puppy, for he's too small to climb up on the wall. To be doubly sure, I tie him up with a great big long rope.

One day, a month or so later I notice the rope has become loose and the puppy is free to do whatever he wants. He's big enough to climb on the wall, yet still small enough to squeeze through the railings and escape. He doesn't do anything. He's happy in his own little world. He knows that he'll have food, water, a nice warm bed, lots of petting. He wags his tail as I approach him.

He never tries to get away, never even peeks out through the railings, so I stop tying him up.

One late afternoon, after cooking dinner, I step outside into the garden. The puppy is gone. He's vanished. I call his name, and I whistle. I open the garden gate and run one way, then another, all the time yelling his name. But he's not to be seen.

He doesn't come back. My husband and I eat dinner in silence. I know it's my fault the puppy is gone. I should have tied him up.

We've heard of the gypsies who roam around. People say that they steal babies. But I don't think they steal dogs. I don't believe a gypsy would have taken the puppy. We search the neighbourhood, ask neighbours if they've seen our puppy, all to no avail.

The next day the pack of wild dogs appears across the road, just as they always do. They're large, ungainly, ugly dogs. Coming up on the rear is a small, cute little dog. It's our puppy!  I call out to him, I run across the road to pick him up and cuddle him. The pack of wild dogs, circle me and sniff at me. They don't growl, they don't bark, they simply stand their ground. I'm in their territory and I better leave. The puppy watches their every move.

And as they walk away, he follows them.

It's 1972 and I'm living in El Puerto de Santa Maria, Cadiz.

I'm chugging along, getting used to not understanding what people are saying to me. I live in a cloud of words whose meanings are punctuated with lively eyes and hands that gesticulate. I try moving my hands, hoping that that will somehow make me understand people better, or that they'll understand me more. But it doesn't help.

It's not just the fact that I don't understand Spanish, it's also that I can't get the few words I know uttered in time before the topic of conversation changes! By the time I've figured out what I want to say, got the nouns and adjectives agreeing, it's already the end of the day and people are off to their beds.

The one BIG faux pas I make is one that is simply not acceptable. Says I, at any rate. I should know better, but I keep making the same error over and over.

Guess what it is?!

I talk to a group of friends and I say, "¿Quieres ir al Bar Central a tomar un cafecito?"

What's wrong with this sentence?

Hmm.

It should be, "¿Queréis ir al Bar Central...." That's if you're using vosotros. If you're being formal or speaking to Latin Americans, you should say, "¿Quieren ustedes ir al Bar Central..."

The point is that the verb should be in the plural for you are talking to more than one person. I'm too busy translating from English into Spanish and I come up with the singular. There is only one 'you' in English, that's why. Och. Who's daft?

I'm sure people are offended that I'm only inviting one of them and not the whole group to the Bar Central. But I don't know enough Spanish to explain why I'm making the mistake, or to quickly form  the correct part of the verb. So, I start gesticulating my hands, hoping that they'll get the idea. While they're gabbing to one another, their fingers dancing in the air, the conversation gets louder and louder, and I end up with a headache.

The good thing is, that we somehow all go to the Bar Central, and, instead of un cafecito, we have a nice wee glass of Tio Pepe. That's when I suddenly burst out with "¿Queréis vosotros ir al Bar Central?"

 I've finally got the verb!

They look at me as if I'm nuts.

"We're already at the Bar Central!"  They all laugh loudly in unison.

It's 1981. My son and I are cycling down to the pool at Urbanizacion el Casalot, Miami Playa, Tarragona. We haven't been living here long.  What do we notice lying on a wall?  A cute little stray kitten. He's black and white and looks up hopefully at us as we pass by. We just have to go over and pet him.

He's so happy. He purrs and smiles at us. Well, that's us hooked. I knock on the door of the house whose wall he's lying on in case he actually does belong to someone. Turns out the lady of the house is the owner of the house we're renting. She's Italian and the house she's living in just now is this huge mansion. It's just her little summer getaway residence. She's been taking care of the kitten, but is returning to Italy soon and doesn't want to take it with her.  

Guess what?  We get the kitten. Off we go home and present him to my husband who is a real cat lover. We decide to call the kitten, Tom Sawyer. Tom for short. Anyhow, we have lots of fun playing with him. After a few days, we figure we can let him outside for a little bit.   

Well, the most awful thing happens.

We have these really noisy, kind of obnoxious neighbours who are originally from Madrid. I can never keep track of how many people are actually living in the house. The wife of the man whom I guess is the one renting the house beams at me over the wall separating our two houses.

"Senora. Look what I found!"  She points to a black and white kitten. She picks him up and starts to cuddle him. "He just suddenly appeared in my garden. I've always wanted a cat.  I think I'll call him, Juan." 

Oh no! That's my Tom Sawyer!  I almost yell the words like some crazy lunatic. He's mine! I did see him first and he's already settling in. Besides my husband and son have both taken a liking to him. 

"He's actually our cat. I found him the other day lying on a wall."

"What do you mean? If he's your cat then he shouldn't be in my garden!"

She practically throws Tom to the ground. Her husband appears and pats her on the shoulder.

"Come on, my love. There are lots of stray cats. You can get another one."

She glares at me, then him, and then me again.

"I guess you're right." She reluctantly agrees. 

He squeezes her and says, "Of course, I am. Now let's go to the nudist beach. That always makes you feel good."

1972, El Puerto de Santa Maria.

I have a lovely sharpened pencil and a notebook, and I can't wait for my first Spanish lesson. The doorbell of the apartment rings and I meet my very own personal private tutor for the first time. He's a bit older than me, and a little bit taller. He has a beard and also has very nice teeth.

"Agudas. This word is an aguda". He talks loudly and writes a word in my notebook, then underlines it. "This next word is a llana." He underlines it too. He has a  flair for underlining words. I haven't a clue what he's talking about. It's something to do with accent marks and pronunciation.

I ask him that question that native speakers of English always ask any time they find themselves in a situation requiring even just a rudimentary knowledge of a foreign language, "Do you speak English?"

His eyes twinkle and he grins broadly as he replies, "Why? What difference does it make?"

His English is certainly better than my non-existing Spanish. He reverts back to Spanish with a shrug of the shoulders.

Yikes! This is not going to be easy! I was kind of thinking the lessons would be in English.

"The vowels." He pronounces each vowel precisely and with the energy of someone running to catch a bus. He gets me to pronounce the vowels and the list of words he's already written. Then he talks more about llanas, agudas, and the strange-sounding esdrújulas, and writes umpteen more words. He circles each accent mark, all the while speaking in rapid Spanish. I get the impression that the esdrújula words always have accent marks. You don't have to think too much on how to pronounce them. Not that I really care. But it does seem important.  After all, accent marks help you to correctly pronounce the word. I learn how to pronounce words like, 'loro' which is a llana word. It ends in a vowel, so the natural stress is on the next to the last syllable. The aguda words have the stress at the end. Think of the infinitives - hablar, cantar, perder, vivir, etc.

"Tarea. Homework. Read a newspaper article and circle the llanas, agudas and esdrújulas."

Fantástico! That's all I can say. And that's my esdrújula for today.  I really do love to say the word, 'esdrújula'. It makes me feel as if I'm really speaking Spanish. Another word I fall in love with is, 'desafortunadamente'. What a long word! I go around trying to use my new words any chance I get.

"What time is it?"

"Esdrújula, I don't know."

"Where are you going?"

"Desafortunadamente,.."

I really need to add to my vocabulary list. A conversation using 'esdrújula' and 'desafortunadamente' is somewhat limited and people look at me with great big eyes as if they do not understand a thing I'm saying. It's okay. I don't understand what I'm saying either. I just enjoy the sound of the Spanish vowels. They're short, but powerful, unlike English vowels which sound as if they're whining and running out of steam.  And, my name sounds so important when Spanish people pronounce it.

My very own private tutor of Spanish keeps me focused on the task at hand.

It's back to newspaper articles. No pun intended. He underlines nouns and their articles.

"Each time you learn a new vocabulary word, combine it with an article. That way you'll know the gender."

He recites a list of nouns and tells me to give him the article.

hombre - el hombre

mujer - la mujer

dedos - los dedos

manzanas - las manzanas

"Once you figure out the articles and gender of the nouns, you can add on adjectives."

El hombre gordo.    La mujer alta.     Los dedos largos.  Las manzanas rojas

He taps his pencil on the words. "Don't forget. The 'h' is silent. And, always remember, the 'j' is mas o menos, something  like an English 'h'.  Pronounce the following words:  hola, hombre, jardín, jamón.

He taps his pencil again.  He screws up his face and exaggerates the sound. He really does have lovely teeth.

 TO BE CONTINUED

It's 1983 and we're living in Urbanizacion el Casalot, Miami Playa, Tarragona.

The Alfa Romeo is sitting in the driveway. With so much red tape anything's possible, even a new deadline for when I have to pay the fine. Ha ha. Come to think on it, what will happen after I pay the bloody fine? Maybe I still won't be allowed to drive this fancy car with the odd pedigree?

This Alfa Romeo is nothing but a real pest. I did do what I was told to by the Customs in Tarragona, which was to take the car over the border every six months. I should have got the Tarragona Customs man's statement in writing!

In the meantime, now we find out that we're moving to the United States in a matter of weeks.  Oh?  Things change around here from day to day. What to do about the car? We don't want to take it with us. That would be even more red tape.

Finally, after cogitating and ruminating and speculating, I come up with a plan.Guess what I do?

I drive the Alfa Romeo to Andorra. I time the trip so that I arrive on the border during siesta time. That way, the customs people are usually snoozing and won't even look twice at me or my car. I breeze through customs and over the border into Andorra.

It's time to get rid of the car. Surely somebody will buy it? I go to one taller, workshop, and ask if they'd like to buy a nice Alfa Romeo car.

    "Where the heck was your car built, lady?  The parts aren't even Italian!"

I go to another taller, and another, and another.

     "Lady, this is the strangest Italian car I've ever seen. We can't even use it for parts. Who built it? Where?"

     "I could maybe rent it to foreigners. They drive anything.  But, no. I can't use it, sorry."

So much for the swanky Alfa Romeo!  It had indeed been manufactured in Brazil for export to Poland, and had somehow made its way to Germany. Guess it's pedigree was just too mixed.  It had a good run all the way from Miami Playa to Andorra and drove well. Surely someone will buy it?

                                TO BE CONTINUED