Garlic and Olive Oil

There's one thing that I do not like at all about living here in Spain. Guess what that is! 

It's the public toilet!  No only is it a question of dealing with the oddest of odd toilets which tends to be a hole in the ground, but it's also the extreme lack of said public toilet. Beggars can't be choosers, and I guess a hole in the ground, if you're lucky enough to come across it, is better than the rear end of a bush.  As for the toilet paper, well, don't get me started. It's like

brown wrapping paper.

I'm driving along a narrow country road going towards Rota.  Maybe I should have used a rest room before setting out, but, who would think that there wouldn't be any toilets ANYWHERE?! Rather than hide behind a bush, I stop at a teeny tiny bar at the side of the road hoping there will be a public toilet. Please, show me the hole in the ground so that I may stand and be happy!

"Can I help you, senorita?"  What a pleasant man. He smiles at me, pleased that he has a customer.

Desperate as I am, before I even order a sherry or gaseosa, I blurt out, "Is there a toilet here?"

"Of course, of course. Senorita, of course."  He seems pretty definite that there's a toilet here. Good news.

"My aunt will escort you."

What? His aunt will escort me?  Why?

"I'll be able to find it. Thank you, anyway."  I'm trying to be nice and polite. Just tell me where the bloody toilet is so that I can end my misery.

A woman appears from behind the beaded curtain at the back of the bar. She's short and chubby and is wiping her hands on her dress. She looks like a nun, dressed completely in black. She's wearing a long gold chain and hanging from it are a medallion and a crucifix. In the medallion is the photo of someone. I wonder who the photo is of?

"Senorita, you want to use the bano?"

I'm practically jumping up and down at this stage, but I manage to blurt out, "Yes, could you tell me where the toilet is?"

"I'll escort you."  She extends her arm as if to show me outside.

Gosh, where is the toilet? Outside? I didn't see any toilet when I parked my car.

"Come with me, senorita."

She beckons me to follow her outside into the late afternoon sun. Where are we going?

Next to the bar is a shack, for want of a better word.

"Come, come with me." She's grinning, revealing really ugly teeth. Her face is like the land, all dried up and lined,  and she smells of garlic and strong cheese.

Now, I'm not sure what's going on, but my bladder is in dire distress, so I have no choice but to follow her.

"In you go." She indicates the shack.

Oh, the toilet is in the shack?  I catch on quick.

It's dark inside and there are no windows. After fumbling for a switch I begin to think that perhaps the electricity has been turned off?  Or worse, maybe there isn't any electricity. I hope this old woman isn't going to mug me, I really do.

I have to strain and strain my eyes in order to see. It's worse than being inside a picture house.

Guess what I see?

A bucket!

I'm not sure if the bucket is empty. While weird images flash around in my mind the man's aunt announces, "I'll stand guard. In case my nephew or any of the other men come in."

I feel so very rude and ungrateful when I decline the use of the bucket. I don't know what shocks me more, doing the toilet in a bucket that others may have used and whose bodily excretions could very well be still lurking around. Yikes!  Or, having the woman stand guard as I empty my bladder.

The human body is strong. Its fortitude knows no boundaries. Somehow I clench my bladder with every muscle and convince myself that relieving myself behind a bush is much, much better for my health, my sanity, even my modesty.

Thank you for reading.  If you'd like to read more please visit my blog at http://seventiesandeighties.blogspot.com

Friends and acquaintances talk a lot about an older couple who love to party and invite people over every week-end to swim in their pool. They are much older than anyone else I know, beyond retirement age, and have lots and lots of belongings. They even have a camcorder!

"You should see their fridge!  It's taller than you!"

"They even have a clothes dryer!"

Imagine having a dryer! Nobody has a dryer. We all hang our clothes on a washing line outside to dry. This older couple is certainly the source of lots of gossip.

"I think she's had a face lift or something."

"He's really tall. Well over six feet."

My curiosity piqued, I therefore couldn't  help but accept their invitation to attend one of their pool parties. 

The wife greets me with a huge grin that practically splits her face in two.

"Hi!  So nice of you to visit us!"

I examine her face carefully, scrutinizing each line. Has she had a face lift? Hmm. That's what people say. She does look pretty good considering she's well into her sixties. Maybe I need to somehow look behind her ears. I heard that's where they cut you, pull your skin tight.

"Hi!" Her husband is indeed tall. He shakes both my hands at the same time as if we're about to dance. As tall as he is, his hands are really small. Gosh. So are his feet. He's barefooted and I'm expecting him to fall over, so tiny are his feet. How could such small feet support his tall body? I can't keep my eyes off of them.

"Don't be shy. Come on, let's go to the pool. Everybody is out there." 

They usher me outside. Abba's 'Thank You For the Music' is playing on a cassette recorder lying next to an ashtray full of Virginia Slims cigarette butts. I wonder who smokes Virginia Slims, and, more importantly, where they got them?

"Make sure to put lotion on your face. You don't want to get burned," warns the older woman.

People are pushing one another into the pool. Some haven't even changed into their swimsuits yet. They clamber out the pool, dripping wet, their clothes clinging to them, and shriek with laughter as they get ready to push someone else into the water. I just hope they don't pick on me. Not only am I a non-swimmer, I'm scared of the water. I make a beeline inside the back door of the house before anyone can grab me.

The older woman is standing in front of the famous dryer that I've heard about. It certainly is big. There's a pile of beach towels and wet clothes that she lifts carefully as she places them inside the dryer.

"Hi! Did your clothes get wet too? I can dry them." She beams at me.

"No. I came in here so that nobody pushes me into the pool." I look behind me to ensure there's nobody charging up ready to grab me.

"It's great having young people over. We enjoy their company so much.  They help us laugh."

"Do you have any children?"  I'm wondering why this older couple would be always having guests, most of whom are so much younger.

"Two sons whom we rarely see.  One lives in Thailand and the other lives in New Zealand.  What's the point in retiring and moving back home? That's why my husband is still working, why we're living in Spain." She shrugs her shoulders and turns to press the start button on the dryer.

I stand on my tiptoes to try and peek at the back of her ears to see if I can spy any scars that would signify she has had a face lift.

But, as if she senses what I'm up to, she turns round before I can see the back of her ears, and remarks, "I'm going to the States next month. Need to get more work done on my skin." 

"You look nice."  She does look nice, for her age, so I'm not making it up.

"Thanks, hon. You're a cute gal. Real sweet. Hey, could you take these shoes to my husband?" She points to a pair of shoes which are enormous and way far too big for her husband's small feet.

I pick them up, ready to be of assistance, and notice newspaper tucked tightly into the toes.  Surely he's not trying to make his feet look bigger by wearing these long shoes? I try not to laugh.

Between one getting work done on her  face and the other pretending to have longer feet, whatever next?! Or, am I just jumping to conclusions?

P.S.  I am jumping to conclusions! The older woman hasn't had plastic surgery, nor is she going to get it. She has skin cancer or possibly pre-skin cancer. Hence her concern that I use lotion in the sun. The shoes with the newspaper inside them don't belong to her husband. They belong to someone else who got soaked when people were being tossed into the pool. The newspaper is to help dry the shoes.  ha ha!

Please visit my blog at http://seventiesandeighties.blogspot.com

Copyright Sandra Staas   

It's 1973.  That's me been in Spain for one year now. The funny thing is, that if you were to ask me about the politics of Spain I wouldn't know how to reply. I know there's a dictator, Francisco Franco,  but I don't feel as if anyone is dictating how I live. In fact, I don't  find life here difficult at all and I rarely think about Franco. Partly it's because I don't know enough Spanish to completely understand the few conversations that deal with him. And partly it's because I live in two worlds. There's the Spanish lifestyle that includes  my renting a room from a Spanish woman and speaking Spanish with the locals. Then, there's the Non-Spanish lifestyle in Rota where I go most week-ends to hang out with the international crowd, speaking English all the time. I never think about freedom of the press, nor censorship, nor any of the concerns that Spanish citizens might experience. It never occurs to me that there might be things that Spanish people want, but that they cannot get.

After finishing up the school year at the bilingual school in El Puerto Santa Maria, I'm now living in the city of Cadiz, just across the bay. One of my private students is a doctor who works at La Residencia Sanitaria Zamacola.  He also has his own private practice in his apartment located on the main avenue. He is a person highly esteemed in the community, complete with an elegant coat of arms for all to see hanging on his wall. I am indeed duly impressed each time I enter and gaze with awe at the intricate design on the coat of arms. He's from Badajoz, and a fine specimen of a specialist in the nobility without a doubt he is.

We meet in his consulting room that is filled with ornate, rich wood including a very elaborate desk. There's a globe that he opens up with flourish and offers me a sherry. It's ten o'clock in the morning! When I refuse, he offers me a Ducado, one of those cigarettes made from thick black tobacco, which I also refuse. He then, with the skill of a magician, produces a packet of Marlboro, known as tabaco rubio, blond tobacco, and offers me one.

I do so wonder many times why people hire a private tutor to teach them English, and then all they do is ply said tutor with booze and tobacco.

He lights his cigarette. It goes out. He gets another match, and with the flick of his wrist, succeeds in lighting it again. He puffs and he puffs so very heartily until the cigarette appears to be finally lit.

"Senorita."  He's laughing like someone who's got caught doing something he shouldn't be doing.

Now, to be fair, he's not eyeing me up and down, nor is he stripping me with his eyes, nor is he grinning lasciviously at me. Nor is he asking if I have a boyfriend, and nor is he inviting me out for a drink whilst his wife is away visiting her family in Jaen. I will say all of this on his behalf.

But, I just know that there's something he wants. What could it be?

"Did you manage to do the homework?"  I'm trying to keep the conversation to the topic at hand which is the learning of English. He probably hasn't done his homework, for he never has before.

"No."  He laughs again, just as robustly as before, all the while exuding smoke from his nostrils.  He grabs an ashtray and stubs the cigarette out. Gosh, he's only just started it. All right for some. Marlboro are expensive cigarettes compared to Ducados.

"Senorita."

"Yes?"

"You know Americans, don't you? Probably you do, I mean, you foreigners all know one another, don't you?"

"I know lots of foreigners. Some are American."

"These Americans, they have Playboy?  You've heard of the magazine?" He grins slyly.

I know several Americans who have the magazine, but it's no big deal. Nobody thinks anything about it. Certainly, nobody is sly about having the Playboy magazine.

"Yes, I've heard of it."

"Could you get me some copies?  Of Playboy?" He lowers his head as he lights another cigarette.  "We  don't have access to it. It's not permitted.  And I hear the articles are very interesting."

"You could practise your English reading it  Is that what you mean?"  Did I really say that? Gosh, I'm clever.

"They can be old copies. Not necessarily this year's."  He raises his hands as if to assure me he doesn't want to cause any problem.

"I can get you National Geographic. They have very good articles, too,  which I'm sure you'd enjoy even more than the articles in Playboy."  I can't help but play with him. He looks so surprised and crestfallen when I suggest I get him National Geographic.

"Oh..." He coughs loudly and wipes his eyes.  "Did I ever tell you that I'm blind in one eye? Well, I am."

I don't know why he's telling me this. But I stare intently into his eyes to try and figure which one is the blind one.

"You have beautiful blue eyes, senorita." He's licking his lips like a cat that has just been presented with a bowl of cream. I can just visualize him ogling the photos in Playboy. Hmm, that is, if I actually get them for him.

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It's 1981 and I'm living in an apartment on the Calle del Prado, Talavera de la Reina.

Based on what I can understand of discussions on the transistor radio about the assassination attempt on President Reagan, it sounds as if a Mr. Brady has a serious brain injury. I wonder who Mr. Brady is?  I get busy with tidying up and washing dishes, all the time wondering about the significance of the shootings. Why would anyone be shooting at the President and this Mr. Brady? I don't have an answer. If the people on the radio do, then they're talking just too rapidly for me to comprehend. Might as well get on with my day.

I plan on going to my exercise class, something I really look forward to. In fact, I just bought a new leotard and tights and can't wait to wear them. On the way to the gym I always stop off for a few minutes at my Cuban friend's apartment located close by. She's a poet who smokes endlessly. Any time you see her she's puffing dramatically and seductively on her cigarette holder that she grasps as if it were a pipe.

"Here comes the little girl." That's how she always greets me.

She looks at me over her shoulder and marches down the hallway, all the time inhaling her cigarette. She takes for ever to exhale, and I'm amazed that she doesn't choke in the interim.

"Want some brandy?" It's become a habit of hers to ask this same question.

I don't even drink brandy, ever. Well, maybe once in a while, but only in the evening. And she knows it.

She sits down on the leather sofa and tops up her brandy glass.

"Are you coming with me to the gym today?" I think carefully before I speak, making sure my Spanish is perfect.

She rarely accompanies me to the gym. We just somehow have got into this routine of me always ringing her doorbell as I make my way to exercise class, of her offering me a brandy, and of me inviting her to join me.

"Come by on your way back and tell me all about it." She laughs hollowly. "Anyhow, I need to figure out this new washing machine. It's supposed to be automatic. How about that?"  She tips her cigarette ash into the tall ashtray standing next to the sofa.

"Did you hear the news about Reagan? I wonder why someone would try to kill him?"

"The United States is a fucked-up country, that's why. We were screwed in Cuba, then we were screwed in Miami. We thought we would have a wonderful, magical life in the United States."  She gulps down the brandy and pours herself another. "It sure as hell wasn't. Have I ever told you about the time I spent in Miami?"

I forgot that she can talk for hours about Castro and Cuba, so I hate to get her started on Reagan and her 'magical' life in the United States.

"Better go, or I'll be late for my class. I always look forward to it."

I walk quickly down the road and notice a group of three women standing next to one of those photo booths that you sit inside to get your photos taken. The women stick their fingers in the slot where the photos come out. They even crouch down and try to peek up inside the slot.

"How does the machine work?!"

"It's magic."

They stand up and stare at me.

"Do you want to use the machine?" One of them asks me rather curtly.

"No. No, I don't"

"Thank goodness," she replies. "Our photos are being developed. And if you get your photos taken at the same time, the machine may not work properly."

Why on earth would she think that? I'm so surprised at her logic.

Their photos appear and they rush like crazy folk to grab them. They almost tear the photos yanking them out of the slot.

"They really look just like us!"

They seem so totally amazed that I almost say to them, "Who else would the photos look like?"  Gosh, surely it's not the first time they've used a photo booth?!  No wonder they thought it was magic!

At the gym the owner turns up the volume on his radio. His small black and white television is already blaring forth as well. Through the cacophony of raised voices I try to understand what he's saying to me.

What?  My exercise class has been cancelled?  How could that be?!