Garlic and Olive Oil

I'm living here in Talavera de la Reina, on the Calle del Prado. There aren't many people who speak English, which is good. I want to improve my Spanish, and I want to get to know the Spaniards. I lived in Andalucia for four years and learned a lot. Later, I also studied Spanish at Mary Washington College in Fredericksburg, Virginia. I should be well-equipped to at least get by here in Talavera de la Reina. Right? Hmm.  Hope so.

People talk of being immersed in a foreign language, of thinking, eating, drinking, even sleeping with the foreign language. That's how you learn. You need to become obsessed. You need to memorize vocabulary lists, and you need to write and re-write verb conjugations until you get them completely correct. Never, ever forget that accent mark. And, never, ever place an accent mark where it doesn't belong!

That subjunctive? We all know of it. It's one of the hardest parts of Spanish grammar. How do we forge through it?

I love the 'if' clause. When I was learning it, I came  up with all sorts of strange sentences just to practise formulating a complicated sentence. "If I had only gone to the dentist more often, I wouldn't have so many problems with my teeth."  Yes, try saying that in Spanish. It's fun, and I've always loved thinking up ways to practise my Spanish.

So what? I hear you thinking.

You know what's what?

My mother's visiting me right now. It's her first time here in Talavera de la Reina. There are no menus in English, no signs in English, and there's nobody around here she's liable to meet who speaks English, except for me, my husband and our four year old son.

Guess what?

My mother has already made friends with the Lady from Leon who lives on the same floor. The Lady from Leon doesn't know any English and my mother doesn't know any Spanish. Yet, they communicate. They have a laugh and they each talk in their own language. Somehow it works!

There are so many different ways of communicating. You don't always need to know the grammar, the syntax, the vocabulary. You just need to have a desire to communicate, to learn about how other people think, how they live.

Thank you for reading.  Please feel free to read more at my blog.    http://www.seventiesandeighties.blogspot.com

It's 1980 and I'm living on the Calle del Prado, Talavera de la Reina.

I seem to be constantly chastising my young son for leaving his room in a mess.

"Pick up your toys and put them away."

" Make your bed."

" Put your books back on the shelf."

It's usually a rush to get him dressed and out the door in time for school. The school bus stops in front of the Simago supermarket across the road. Many times I just wear really casual clothes, figuring that I'll dress nicer later when I venture out to the gym or shops. I usually manage to brush my teeth and splash water on my face before venturing out, but that's about all.

There's this other mother I meet every morning at the bus stop who is the exact opposite, even first thing in the morning.  She always looks as if she's going out to some fancy restaurant, or to a cocktail party. She tends to wear stiletto heels, a beautifully tailored suit with shoulder padding, and a frilly blouse. Her hair is always arranged as if she's come from getting it professionally styled, and her skin looks flawless with its soft, expensive make-up carefully applied just so. She loves to talk.

"I can't wait until my husband gets transferred back to Madrid. It's so difficult living here in Talavera. In Madrid we had THREE maids, and here we only have one." She moves her shoulders back and forth as if to emphasise how cruel life is here in Talavera.

How to respond? I find it easier to say nothing. The madrilenos. the people from Madrid,  really do tend to look down their noses at the talaveranos.

"Of course, I can't blame my maids for not wanting to come to Talavera." She snorts and adds, "My husband has a very important position in his company. He's very highly thought of."  She nods her head vehemently, then sighs loudly.

The bus comes and the children climb aboard. We wave fare thee well, and I proceed to think about all the things I need to do.  The 'cursi' lady doesn't move.

I don't really know the meaning of 'cursi', but I've heard it used to describe women who are always dressed up in fancy, expensive clothes.  I like the sound of it, and I'm afraid I might call the cursi woman 'cursi' thinking that that's her name.

"Hola, Cursi!"  Imagine if I called that out to her!

"Would you like to bring your son to our apartment after school? The boys could play together."

Her question sounds more like an order. Before I can come up with some excuse, she announces, "Great! I'll have something for the merienda."  She places her arm in mine, escorts me across the road to my apartment and speaks confidentially to me. "I'm so glad that we have met. You're not anything whatsoever like the locals."

Later that day my son and I are ensconced in the cursi lady's fancy apartment. The boys are having fun with all the toys spread out on the floor, and playing Twister. The cursi lady is telling me about her life in Madrid where everything is more civilized. Her voice drones on and on, but it is nice to hear Castilian Spanish.

It's time to leave, so I tell my son to pick up the toys and put them back where he got them.

"What?!" The cursi woman screams like a gypsy at the weekly market. "Absolutely not!  My son never picks up after himself, and your son shouldn't either!"

I'm dumbfounded. Her eyes stare at me in shock, appalled that I expect my son to pick up the toys.

"That's what maids are for. They clear away things. Didn't you know that?" She talks to me as if she's addressing an inferior.

She calls on her maid who then enters the room, head down, and immediately clears away all the toys.

"Mummy, can we get a maid?" My son gazes up at me with eager expectations.

"You don't have a maid?" The cursi lady sounds puzzled. "I can't imagine how you possibly manage.  I certainly couldn't."

"I want my son to be independent, to respect his belongings, and to have responsibility." I feel I should say more, but I stop at the expression of disdain on her face.

She looks disappointed in me.  She's probably thinking that I'm no more sophisticated than a typical talaverana.  She'd be correct. I'm not the slightest sophisticated when it comes to having a maid, never mind three. Even if I had a maid, I'd still expect my son to pick up after himself.

Thank you for reading. Please feel free to stop by my blog at http://www.seventiesandeighties.blogspot.com

From Monday to Friday I'm busy teaching at the bilingual school in El Puerto de Santa Maria. When I'm not teaching I'm studying Spanish and practising new vocabulary and verb tenses with the two Spanish teachers I live with. 

Week-ends are completely different for that's when I get out and about and mix with other foreigners.  On Saturday afternoons I make my way to Rota, to hang out with the Americans who work on the Naval Base. There are also some people from Australia, Great Britain, New Zealand, and Scandinavia. They are travelling the world, just drifting around. It's a bit like meeting characters from James Michener's book, 'The Drifters', and I feel intrigued as if my nose and ears are tingling with sensory pleasures.

There's the smell of Brut after-shave, Head and Shoulders shampoo and Dial soap as well-showered faces greet guests, ready to entertain and be entertained.

I can't tell the difference in accents between the Australians and the New Zealanders, and the Americans all sound the same to me. They laugh loudly, even although most of them are not happy to be in the navy, nor in Spain. They only signed up so that they wouldn't be drafted to go to Vietnam. I love the delicious aroma of charcoal being fired up as the sailors get ready for a great barbecue of huge thick steaks. Midst grilled meat, cold beer and Mateuse wine we think only of what is happening now. We don't talk of war nor of Generalisimo Franco.

I guess we're all drifters, just passing through, getting along despite hangovers and dirt roads.

It is a pleasure to converse in English with adults, instead of children. It's thrilling to meet people from so many different places.  I feel as if I've stepped inside a play or a novel and I am part of a journey that's going around and around, with no destination in mind. I'm reminded of Joni Mitchell's song, 'The Circle Game',   and I wonder why it seems as if Time has slowed down, that all that matters is right now. 

On the radio blaring forth from an open window some woman constantly tells anyone listening to take a 'navy shower' in order to preserve water. Her voice sounds soothing, seductive, even, as she explains that you should lather up and then turn the water off until you're ready to rinse.

"Take a navy shower..."

I've been thinking about the town of Rota. Parts of it seem more American than Spanish.  There are streets where all you hear is English and where the bars are endless. Benny's Bar, The American Bar, The Sangria Shack, are just a few that the sailors frequent. Not everyone is pleased with the American influence.  Some of the local people are quite vocal in their appraisal of the American presence and  they discuss loudly their thoughts whilst playing  games of dominoes.

"The Yanks cause trouble!"

"I certainly don't want my daughters mixing with them!"

The car rental dealers, however, are happy with the influx of American sailors, as are the landlords who rent out their flats. The bar owners are over the moon.

"The Yanks bring in lots of money!"

Since apparently the American government pays Spain tons of money for the privilege of using the Base, I guess then, those who are annoyed with the presence of the Americans should take it up with Generalisimo Franco?  But, do you really think that some locals in Rota can influence a dictator?  After all, in the United States people are demonstrating, protesting the war in Vietnam, yet still the war continues.

Sometimes you have to wait and let events sort themselves out, allow for the vagaries beyond our reality to settle into a peaceful routine. 

It does seem surprising, but, regardless of the influx of American sailors, Rota still manages to retain its charm and authenticity.

In the evening, when the Rotenos stroll about hand in hand down to the harbour, when children squeal and dart in and out as they chase one another, you'd never know there are so many foreigners living here. 

The Spanish routines of the paseo, of children being up late, of whole families sitting outside talking, of lovers gazing at the stars and the fishing boats, all continue. You can still hear the dripping of water on tiled balconies as the geraniums are watered, and you can still smell  that comforting aroma of garlic and olive as it trickles up your nostrils.

Thank you for reading. Please stop by my blog at http://www.seventiesandeighties.blogspot.com

I've been teaching at the bilingual school in El Puerto de Santa Maria for about two months now. I'm trying hard to learn Spanish with a private tutor, and slowly making progress. My background in French really helps with all these verb conjugations! I get to practise what I learn with my flat mates who are Spanish and who teach at the same school. I enjoy my students and I love watching them interact during el recreo, recess.

Everything seems to be going great, right?

Well, yes and no.  Want to know why?

Much as I love being immersed in the Spanish culture I find it frustrating. I'm sure people think I'm stupid and utterly weird. I speak Spanish, at best, like a two year old. In fact, if someone asks me the time, I can't figure out the numbers fast enough to answer. I end up shoving my arm out so that they can see my watch!

I don't particularly enjoy the food as I've never eaten garlic nor anything cooked in olive oil. I think it's growing on me, even just a little, so maybe I'll start to like both garlic and olive oil. I can't keep up with the late nights, unaccustomed am I to taking a siesta in the afternoon. I can't honestly say that I like the taste of sherry; certainly not Tio Pepe which is really dry.  At times, I'm afraid that I'll never be accepted, that I'll always be a foreigner.

Not only that, people stare at me whenever  I wear a loose-fitting blouse.

"Why are you wearing a smock?" They look disapprovingly at me, their eyes turning upwards.

"Smocks are for people who are pregnant." They stare at my belly as if to see if it's swollen.

I don't bother answering, not that I could, for I don't know enough Spanish. I just think that if they don't know what the latest fashion is, well, too bad. I know I'm not pregnant, and that's all that matters.

Now, that's not the only thing going on.

I've met several American military personnel  from the American Naval Base at Rota, not far from here.  I find it such a relief to be able to speak in English!  But, here's the thing. I don't identify myself with any of these people, either. The Americans look very odd,  I think, with their short, military hair cuts. Most men have much longer hair. Their conversation revolves around the same topic which runs along the lines of:

"I've got six months, two weeks and five days left." 

It took me a while to  figure out what they were talking about. It's the amount of time they have left in military service. You see, a lot of them joined the navy so that they won't  be sent to Vietnam.

Even when I remark on something so mundane as the weather, "Gosh, isn't it hot today?"

They tend to reply, "Today is one less day that I'll be in the military!"

They have girlfriends back home, even fiancees. They open what they call billfolds to show me small photos of their loved ones. They beam with pride as they chew their gum and flash shiny, straight teeth. They have lots of L.P.s together with fancy stereo systems, and they hum to "Brandy" and "American Pie". They also have piles of Playboy magazines.

"I just read the articles, that's all."  

I find it funny that the articles in Playboy are so interesting. But, what do I know?

The American sailors seem genuinely nice, despite the odd haircuts. Like little boys on Christmas Day they eagerly open care packages sent from aunties, grannies and mammies.  Inside are favourite home-made cookies, local newspapers, Life and Mad magazines, photos, chewing gum, letters. Some even include recipes. That way they can prepare home-cooked meals which will make them feel as if they're not far away from their families, nor even in the Navy.

I suppose I'm lucky being able to meet people from two entirely different cultures. That's, after all, the whole reason for coming to Spain – to meet new people, learn a new language, and experience new cultures. I just feel at the moment that I don't belong with either the Spaniards or the Americans. And, I sometimes wonder if I'll ever be able to go back home and live my life the way I used to? Perhaps, after a while, I'll be not only a foreigner here in Spain, but also a foreigner when I go home?