Garlic and Olive Oil

Connie, the headmistress of the bilingual school where I teach is a canny businesswoman. When you first enter the school you see large framed posters of Oxford and Cambridge universities on the wall. They give the impression that she has graduated from one of these establishments.  The oh, so wealthy Terrys and Osbornes who send their children to her school are quite impressed by the headmistress being a a posh English person with a fancy university degree.

If only they knew! Connie doesn't have even an O level to her name. On top of that, she's not English. She's Welsh.

Connie is absolutely brilliant at getting whatever she wants at a reduced price, or even for free.

"It would be so lovely to have a piano.  I wonder how expensive it would be to buy one?" She announces one day with a wistful smile. "We could offer piano lessons to the students. The parents would jump at the chance."  Her eyes are twinkling as she calculates how much money she can make if she offers piano lessons.

Say what you want about Connie, she is indeed a canny business woman who works hard and whose one wish is for her school to develop and flourish. Therefore it is no surprise that things somehow tend to work out for her. It's as if the Gods themselves are working in aiding and abetting her.

You see, a group of Americans stops by. The leader is a stout man with a huge belly and huge teeth. He fumbles with his tie, playing with the knot, as he speaks.

"Maam.  We are a close-knit  group of Christians who want to meet and worship the Lord. We're in need of a place to hold our meetings."

"Oh?" Connie smiles, her eyes looking up at the ceiling as if thanking the Lord for bringing these Americans to her humble establishment.

"Could we use one of your rooms for our meetings? Please? We'd pay you of course."

Connie is now beaming. This is wonderful!

"It'd just be twice a week that we'd meet, in the evening. Would that be okay?"

"Absolutely." Connie can hardly believe her luck. Out of the blue she's going to be bringing in more money in the way of rent.

"One thing. I hope it's not a problem. But, we have a piano. We'd need to leave it in the room. We use it when we sing, when we praise the Lord."

Connie says nothing. I think I actually hear her brain plotting quickly what her next move will be.

"Not a problem at all. Not at all." Connie grins back before adding very sweetly, "There would, of course, be a tiny extra charge for storing your piano."

"Of course. Praise the Lord. Maam, you have made us all very happy and grateful." He turns to the rest of his group and hugs them.

Connie's eyes sparkle as she gets ready to use her trump card.

"Would it be all right if we play the piano from time to time?" she inquires in her best and poshest English accent.

"Feel free! We're just so happy and thrilled that you're allowing us the use of a room for our meetings!  Praise the Lord!"

I feel like muttering, "Amen!"

Connie has got her way again. Who would have thought that in a matter of minutes she's got herself the use of a piano? Not only that, she doesn't have to pay a penny for it, and, in addition, she's charging rent for the piano?! And, don't forget the money she'll bring in from the piano lessons!

It's 1973 and I'm on my way to Pamplona, to see the Running of the Bulls. I've cadged a lift from this American boy stationed at the Naval Base of Rota. He's a friend of a friend and he's driving to Pamplona as part of his grand tour of Spain. I'm to meet up with Australian friends who are camping in Pamplona and I'll come back down to Cadiz with them after a few days. Sounds like a plan!

The American boy and I arrive in Pamplona. People are sleeping on the streets, the bars are full and there's a general air of party time gone wild. We climb over people and look for the places that became so famous  because Ernest Hemingway hung out there. Obligatory touristy thing accomplished, we start looking for the Australians. Yes, where are they? I've been assured they'll be on the outskirts of Pamplona camping in their Winnabago. How to find them? We drive everywhere looking for them. Guess what? They're nowhere to be seen!  Where am I to stay? How am I going to get back down to Andalucia?

The American boy suggests I accompany him on his tour of the rest of Spain. Golleee. Slight problem is I don't have much at all in the way of money. He decides he'll just hang about in Pamplona and then take me back to Andalucia. Gosh, what a noble gesture!

"I'll still see the sights of Spain. We can go back a different route." He smiles broadly.

Okay. What the heck? Even although I hardly know this American boy, he does seem polite and quite unassuming. One might even describe him as a gentleman.

Now, gentlemen do lie. And words are cheap. That's what I've always heard. But still.

That night, we're dancing on the streets with all the crazy people who are boozing it up and singing away as if this was their last day on earth. All the hotels are fully booked, so we just know that we'll be sleeping in his car, or on the street. No rush, the night is still young. We keep dancing along one street and then another. People are hugging us, complete strangers grab our arms and walk with us, laughing hysterically.

The American boy calls out to me, "I'm gonna run with the bulls!"

"Really? It's dangerous!  And, you don't have the red hat and scarf thing, do you?"

"I'll figure it out." He's grinning from ear to ear as he steps off the narrow pavement on to the road and trips over someone's feet. He goes down with a thud.

No longer grinning, he lies there, his body twisted.

"Are you okay? For heaven's sake, what happened?" It's so obvious what happened, but I ask anyway. He really looks a poor soul lying there on the street here in Pamplona.

"My ankle hurts! Ohhh!"  He hops over to the pavement and sits down. "Ohhh, my ankle!  My ankle. It really hurts! I don't think I can walk!"

Well, all those new-found friends we had just met disappear down the road all the while skipping and dancing. They probably don't even know that we're still here, so intent are they on making merriment. I've suddenly got a headache. All this Pamplona stuff is becoming one big nusiance. No Australians with their camper, no hotel rooms, and now this, the American boy damaging his ankle, unable to walk.

"I need a hospital." He's whining, his head held between two hands. "I think my ankle is broken."

I run into a bar and ask the barman where the nearest hospital is. Turns out it's not too far.

"Can you make it to the hospital? It's close by."

"I'll try. I sure will." He really does seem in a great deal of pain.

He hops along, hanging on to my shoulder, and somehow we make it down the road.

"One thing." He stops hopping and stares at me intently.

I can't imagine what he's about to say next. I hope it's not that he has to do the toilet and that he needs me to help him. Gosh, I hope not!

"Promise that you won't tell anybody what happened here tonight."

"Okay."  I am so relieved that he doesn't want me to help him do the toilet.

"I'm going to tell people that I hurt my ankle running with the bulls."  He grimaces, obviously in pain. "You keep quiet about it. Okay?"

"Yes, yes. I promise."

"Everyone sure will be impressed when I tell them I got injured in Pamplona, running with the bulls." His eyes glaze over as he imagines the praise and admiration of his friends.

Now, maybe it's just me, but I feel he'd be lying if he were to tell this story. And here was I thinking he is a polite, unassuming gentleman. I'm beginning to wonder who else has tall stories about running with the bulls in Pamplona?

Our house is in Urbanizacion Casalot, a brand new development in Miami Playa some three kilometers from the coastal road. When we first arrived here the whole place was abuzz with cheery tourists laughing and drinking until the wee small hours. People walked about with towels around their shoulders as they made their way to the swimming pools.  You could sit on your front porch and listen to live music at the restaurant just down the road.  It was one long holiday all summer long.

But, come the month of October, and the place becomes deserted. Even the German tourists disappear. From one day to the next, the 30th of September to the 1st of October, everything changes around here. There's a mass exodus. On the main road, shops and restaurants that were bustling in the summer close down for the winter.  All that remains is an eerie silence as I ride my bike or go for a walk. I so look forward to the week-ends when the Spanish from Reus and Tarragona come back and spend Friday and Saturday nights in their holiday homes.

There is a visitor, however, who stops by every day. It's a large friendly dog who seems to be constantly pregnant. I've seen her many times meandering about with her pups. But then, the next time I see her she's alone.  Before you know it she's pregnant again and then the cycle keeps on repeating itself.  I feed her and give her water and pat her on the head before she plods off, sauntering away.

One cool autumn day I'm walking briskly when three dogs appear and follow me. I always find it best to ignore stray dogs for you never know how they will react. So, I continue walking, hoping that my uneasiness isn't sensed by them. They catch up with me and walk by my side. All the while I try to keep my eyes focused on the horizon as I hasten my pace. The largest of the three dogs begins to bark at me. I glance at it as it growls and snarls, showing its teeth. The other two dogs are watching closely as if to see what I'll do.

By now I'm scared. With all the tourists gone, there's nobody to help me. Although our one and only neighbour remains in the winter, he's visiting family in France just now.  There's no way to communicate with anyone. I could get attacked, mauled even, and nobody would know.

Just then, a fourth dog turns up.

Guess what it does?

She whacks the dog barking and growling at me with her front paw, places her teeth on its neck and pushes it down to the ground. I'm astonished.

Guess who the dog is?  It's the friendly one who visits each day! I'm thinking that the three dogs may have been from one of her many litters. She was chastising the one barking and growling for she recognized me as the one who feeds her and gives her water!

Thank you for stopping by.  Please feel free to check out my blog at http://www.seventiesandeighties.blogspot.com

It's 1982 and we're living in Miami Playa.

I've just got back home and I notice the 35,000 pesetas we left lying on the wall unit is gone. A carton of cigarettes is missing as well. I'm surprised and shocked.  Surely we haven't had a burglar? I go into the bedroom. Nothing is different there. But then I remember my jewellery that I hid in a suitcase. I crawl underneath the bed and discover the suitcase open. My jewellery, all of it, is gone. It isn't much, but the pieces have sentimental value.

I feel numb. Someone has been underneath the bed? Someone has taken the time to rummage? Who? How did they get in? I examine the bedroom window. Since there is no air conditioning we leave the window open, but we do close the blind. It has small holes, so that way we can get fresh air. From the outside you can't tell that the window is open. The blind has been forced up and there is a footprint on the dusty windowsill.

Maybe someone saw something suspicious going on?  The only neighbours who are around now that summer is over are the strange Frenchman and his even odder teenage son. They basically do nothing and we wonder often what the boy does all day long.  I march down to ask the Frenchman if he saw anyone lurking about. Actually, I'm already beginning to suspect his strange son. I wouldn't put it past him to break in and help himself.

I yell through the Frenchman's open window. What comes out of my mouth is like a hyena screaming its head off. I just suddenly remember that my French isn't all that good, and that the Frenchman doesn't speak English or Spanish. He hears me and pokes his head out of the window.

"Bonjour, madame!"

I'm left standing feverishly trying to come up with some words to explain what has happened.

The Frenchman stares quizzically at me as I jump up and down doing charades in the attempt at conveying what has happened.  I even show him the sole of my shoe, just to let him know that I am indeed a serious and concientious detective and that nothing will go by me. If I can find the sole of the shoe that matches the footprint on the windowsill, then I have found the culprit.

I nod my head vigorously as if that might help get my message across to him.

Just then his son arrives. He certainly looks guilty, and I'm dying to see the soles of his shoes. There has to be a way! I could admire his beautiful shoes and ask to try them on? No, that wouldn't work. I could pretend to fall down, and grab his ankle, lift his foot and peek at the sole.

Too late. He goes inside his house without even a bonjour or salut.

His father, the Frenchman, is still staring at me through the open window.

"Bonne chance, madame. Good luck."

Since we have no telephone there's no other way but to go down to the police station in person. Off I go in the fabulously fantastic Alpha Romeo to Hospitalet del Infante and relate my tale of woe to the bored looking Guardia Civil man. He types the report so very slowly with one finger.

"Señora, it was probably gypsies who burgled you. Many of the foreigners around here have been burgled. The gypsies get a child to sneak in the houses, then the adults dispose of the goods. Your stuff is probably already in Morocco!" He snaps his fingers to show how quickly my jewellery has been transported and duly dealt with.

"There's a footprint on the windowsill." I declare, determined that he should investigate the scene of the crime.

"What size is the footprint? How much was the blind forced open? Do you think an adult could have climbed through the space? Think about it, señora!"

I do indeed think about it. Oh dear. It's possible he's correct. The footprint was quite small. Hmm, and the Frenchman's son is one big lanky fellow who has enormous feet. The space where the blind was shoved up was small. A great big tall lad like the Frenchman's son would never be able to squeeze in.

"I'm afraid there's nothing to be done. Gypsies are clever. They move fast and they don't stay around."

"You really believe it was gypsies?"

"Absolutely. Without any doubt. I'm sorry, señora."

I can't believe I was so dead set on the Frenchman's son being the culprit!  Imagine if I had grabbed his ankle to get a good look at the sole of his shoe! I almost did!

Granted, I jumped to conclusions.   But, who can be really sure that it was the gypsies who burgled us? They get blamed for everything. Shouldn't there still be an investigation, no matter what?