Garlic and Olive Oil

I have to descend wide, meandering steps in order to gain access to the beach. Down, down I go. It isn't a very long beach, but it's fine for a nice stroll.  It's not too hot at all, and there's a fresh breeze coming from the sea. It's early in the season and, although there are some families with young children, it's far from full. It's as if this is my very own private beach, and I can't help but smile, as I enjoy the beauty of the sand, the seagulls, and the sound of the waves. I inhale deeply the salt air and the smell of coconut wafting from people strolling by my side. I think I'm in paradise! I could spend hours and hours here, quite easily.  

I spy an older woman sitting on a towel.  As I get closer to her, guess what I notice?! The top of her swimsuit is pulled down. Yes!  You can see her bare boobs! The poor woman. She probably doesn't realise that her swimsuit somehow has fallen off her shoulders.  Maybe I should tell her? I mean, she would be really embarrassed if people were to see her bare boobs, wouldn't she?

I approach her. But then I stop abruptly. Want to know why? There's another woman, about the same age, lying on a towel next to her. She sits up. Guess what! Her swimsuit is also pulled down to her waist. I can see her bare boobs too!  What's going on?

The two women grin at me and wave. They say something which sounds German. I don't know what to think. I keep walking. I don't know where to look. I can't help but wonder about  the two German women. Their boobs are sagging and dangling all the way to their waists. I don't think it's an accident, either. Why on earth would they want to get a suntan on their boobs? I lower my head and pretend to have this absolute fascination for the sand.

I remember before we moved here that people mentioned how women go topless on the Mediterranean.

"There are beaches where everybody goes topless!"

"There's even a nudist beach where you're going!"

For some reason I didn't think women would be topless on our little local beach here at Miami Playa. I had visions that it would be the larger, touristy beaches such as in Salou where you'd find the topless crowd who would all be young and beautiful with perfect bodies.

Feeling embarrassed and definitely awkward I suddenly realise that I have no choice but to retrace my steps and go by the two older German women flaunting their naked boobs. You see, although there is another set of steps that I could climb to get back up to the road, it looks really dilapidated. I'd just as soon go up the steps that I already came down. Oh dear. Either take the bull by the horns, as the saying goes, or sit down and wait for the topless pair, no pun intended, to depart.

One of the bare-boobed ladies calls out something to me as I walk by, head down. I turn around hoping that someone else is there and that he or she can respond. Nope. There's nobody. What could this half-naked woman be asking me?

She points to her wrist. She grins. Not only are her boobs ugly, so are her teeth. They are crooked, yellow and simply too big for her mouth. I try to focus on her wrist. She wants to know the time?

"It's half past four!"  I yell out to her.

She consults her friend, obviously trying to come up with a translation. Now there are four boobs bouncing around, bobbing up and down  like pancakes being flipped over a frying pan.

I walk faster, practically run to get away from them. But, guess what?  The two of them stand up. Imagine standing up for all to see their bare boobs!  At least they haven't removed the bottom part of their swimsuits. Thank God for that! They come after me and one grabs my wrist.

"Ah!"  They chatter together after seeing the time on my wrist watch.

They smell of sweat and onions. Their faces and arms are suntanned but the stark outline of where their swimsuit tops should be is as white as white could be. I hate to be rude, but I have to get away from the grotesque dangling boobs and the odours of sweat and onions. Paradise has indeed been lost. 

Maybe I'm  just a prude. Someone once called me that years ago. Actually, they called me a broad-minded prude. That's not so bad, is it?

Thank you for reading my post. If you'd like to read more about the seventies and eighties in Spain please check https://spanishinterludes.wordpress.com/

One thing I really hate to do is to visit a dentist. Bad luck hangs around my mouth. So many odd things and mistakes have happened any time I'm in the clutches of a dentist. Therefore, it's with butterflies in my stomach and sweaty palms that I end up at a dentist in Cadiz. It's not that I have actual toothache, it's more a dreadful feeling that something is not quite right with a tooth on the upper jaw.

"Open your mouth."  The dentist looks like a band leader conducting his orchestra, or a lion tamer goading his long-suffering animal to perform.

Now, opening my mouth isn't the problem. It's what happens next that causes me great consternation.

He picks up long, thin, pointed instruments and proceeds to poke and probe.

"Aha. Senorita, you need to have the tooth pulled."

"I do?"  I'm surprised, for I'm not in too much pain at all.

"I can pull it now, if you like." He grins down at me.

Before I can nod or shake my head he injects the tooth, presumably with anaesthetic. He injects all around the tooth maybe three or four times.

Guess what?  He's injecting the wrong tooth! He's sticking the needle into a tooth on the lower jaw, not the upper jaw.

He places the needle down, picks up the pliers and pulls and pulls. The pain is beyond any pain that anybody has ever experienced in the whole of the whole world's life. Believe me. There was no time for the anaesthetic to work.

I hear a crack.

"The tooth has broken, senorita. Don't worry I'll get it out."

He yanks on a drill and drills deeply to duly remove the remainder of the tooth.

I'm dead. I have to be dead. I can no longer feel the pain. When there is so much pain, you reach a point where everything goes numb.

Or, maybe it was the anaesthetic finally kicking in.

"Here, take this."   He offers me some cotton wool and adds, "Goodbye,senorita."

He dismisses me.

I can't even think of any Spanish. Not a single word comes to mind as I nurse my bleeding mouth. I want to yell at him for pulling the wrong tooth. I want to kick him in his fat ugly face.  He grins widely at me as he ushers me to the door and plays with his moustache.

"If you have any more teeth problems, just come back, any time. Ah, one moment.  Do you want to take your tooth with you?  A little keepsake?"

I would love to take my tooth with me!  I would love to still have it, you idiot of idiots!

I have to tutor two nurses at the local hospital, the Residencia Zamacola. They're beginners who are really keen to learn English and I don't want to disappoint them.

I arrive in pain, sharp, searing pain.

"What's wrong? You look pale."

Both nurses look at me with concern.

"Sit down and relax.  Tell us what happened."

I relate to them the best I can about the inept, unprofessional, stupid, moronic, dreadful dentist.  I don't think I make much sense as I struggle to speak in Spanish, all the while, spitting blood onto the cotton wool.  The best evidence is in my mouth which they both gaze into with huge eyes.

"You need to be careful when it comes to dentists. Some of them are doctors who have only done six months of dentistry."

"The pain will go away. Do you know your blood group?"

I stare at them both, not believing for a second that the pain will go away. I've never ever thought about my blood group, and I don't really care what it is.

"We can test your blood group, if you'd like."

I don't know why they offer this. But they do, and I get my blood group tested.

It's AB +

"It's quite a rare blood group. That makes you special."

Both nurses smile down at me.

I don't know how to smile. The pain is too deep. I don't understand why doctors can do just six months of dentistry and become a dentist. It's simply not right.

Thanks for taking the time to read my post. Feel free to check out my blog about the seventies and eighties in Spain at http://seventiesandeighties.blogspot.com

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Hasta pronto!

When people found out that I was moving to El Puerto de Santa Maria in the Province of Cadiz, a region of Spain where 'nobody ever goes', they were more than surprised. Advice flourished as they warned me about the fact that Spain was ruled by a dictator with the name of Francisco Franco, and that it would be far, far better to go to Torremolinos or Lloret de Mar where you get a nice suntan as well as fish and chips.

"Where did you say you are going?!  Never heard of it!"  People's nostrils would flare open when they asked this. It's as if they were chastising me, as if they were utterly appalled.

"You're giving up your teaching job?!" At this stage of the conversation not only did people's nostrils flare open, their eyes opened wide too. I think even their ears burst open. With the flick of the wrist they would increase the volume on their hifi as if to add to the admonishment.

"I hear there's the Secret Police!" The people who said this aren't the same ones whose nostrils flared open. No. The people who mentioned the Secret Police are the ones who know that I'm up for adventure. It's really a major character flaw of mine, to feel bored easily. Secret Police? What do they do?  Why are they secret? Who are they? I wonder what they look like?

Now, I must confess that I have been wondering of late about these Secret Police People. I think I've seen one, at least one. I could be wrong, but there again...

There's a man I've noticed  in the Bar Central. He wears a cape, and looks very dapper and dramatic. He could easily be one of the Three Musketeers.  Any time his garment slips off, even a teeny tiny bit, he grabs it then, with the flick of his wrists places it back on his shoulders. He certainly is in control of his cape. He has a long pointed nose, thick dark hair that seems to float over his ears, and he wears black leather gloves. 

I find it quite a performance each time he removes said gloves. It's like a striptease act. He pulls on each finger of the gloves and slowly, seductively reveals naked hands. He then smacks the gloves together and slaps them on the counter.

One of the barmen rushes over to serve him obediently, head bowed, even although it's my turn.

Oye, sunshine. I was here first!  I feel like yelling, but the Secret Police Man who just performed the striptease with his gloves might lock me up in jail, or something. 

I've learned to say 'oye' just like the locals do. Then, when nobody pays me any attention, I call out, "Oiga!" I haven't quite mastered snapping my fingers as it does seem a bit rude. Anyhow, usually the barmen pay me too much attention. They love to flirt and leer at me as they lick their lips. They say things that I don't understand. But, as long as I get my cafe solo and bocadillo de jamon york, then I can put up with their preposterous antics.

I glare at the Secret Police Man who's getting served even although it's my turn. I think I'm good at glaring. I glare and glare and try to convey to him that I know he's a Secret Police Man. 

Really, doesn't he realise that everyone knows who he is ? Even if he hadn't performed this ritualistic striptease dance with his gloves, the very fact that a barman practically kisses his feet is a dead giveaway. His naked hands are pale compared to his tanned face and neck. That's another giveaway, I have deduced.

There's another man I've noticed hanging around the bars. He's the matador Galloso. He's very dramatic, too. But, you can tell he'd never be accepted into the Secret Police, for he wears his hair in a little ponytail at the back. Ponytails are quite possibly simply not accepted in the secret world of the Secret Police. They're just too ostentatious.

The barmen grin like buffoons any time Galloso swaggers in and glides on to the bar stool. They welcome him with a huge embrace. Galloso's hands are always naked, so they're brown, brown like his eyes. He's never alone. Rather he's always surrounded by a group of people any time he enters the bar. They're the hangers-on, I suppose. I guess he can't manage to order a coffee or sherry on his own? He can kill bulls, but sipping on a drink all by himself is just too scary a thought?!

I think the Secret Police Man with naked hands and I have some things in common. 

We are both independent. We can both go into a bar on our own. We don't need to be in a group. Absolutely not. We both stand when we could sit down, and we both observe everyone and everything. His eyes squint as he gazes around him, just like mine as I inhale the strong odours of garlic, olive oil, stale wine,  black coffee and that je ne sais pas aroma of something clean, yet festering.

Gosh, maybe I could become a Secret Police Person? Wouldn't  Franco welcome me to his coterie of spies and sycophants?

I'm certain I could master the art of stripping my hands of black leather gloves. And, I don't mind wearing my coat like a cape. Hmm. It's quite possible that Franco would buy me a real cape! There's probably a budget that he's set aside for his Secret Police. I wouldn't say no to a trip to Madrid to get myself a cape made of the very best of materials and a pair of soft black leather gloves.  I'm one hundred per cent sure that I can learn the skill of removing them seductively.

I think, after all, like many things, it's all in the wrist. Ha ha.

One Frequently Asked Question:   You make light of the Secret Police. Didn't they commit atrocities?

Answer:   If I were writing a post about the history of Spain I would analyse the role of the Secret Police under Franco. In this particular post my objective was to satirize the Secret Police. I also poke fun at the matador, Galloso. 

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