Spanish Eyes, English Words

Paddy has been such a good boy while I've been battling this virus, and he's been so good at dog training that I decided to take him for a really long walk on Sunday as a treat. It was a treat for me too, because I've missed our meanderings through the orange groves - and missed the glorious sight of him in hot pursuit of rabbits which - thankfully - always manage to outwit him. I really don't know how I'd cope if he brought me a comatose bunny, and it would be comatose or worse, because although he would only want to play, the combination of a small bunny and 32 kilos of boisterous puppy is only ever going to have one outcome, and it's going to be bad news for the bunny.

We got home after an hour, and Paddy settled down for a well-earned nap, after checking out the garden with Daddy. After a while, I noticed he was messing with his nose. Now, he usually grooms his face and snout with the help of a paw, but this looked like something else. When I went to see what was happening I was horrified. My beautiful boy looked like he'd got a new job as a punchbag in a gym. His snout was three times its normal size, and literally growing in front of my very eyes.

My first thought was that he'd picked up a pine caterpillar, but there are no pine trees in the orange groves. Then I remembered that the hairs can travel on the wind, and I was beside myself. I looked out the vet's number, but the only number I had didn't switch to an out of hours service. I wasn't too worried, as I was sure there'd be a list of out of hours vets on the Internet. Only there wasn't, and after 15 frantic minutes when Paddy was getting more and more distressed, I had the idea of ringing one of the animal shelters - after all, they must need an out of hours service, right? Thankfully, I was right, and a few minutes later, we were on our way to the vet at Benimar.

As I drove like Lewis Hamilton on a grand prix circuit, I could see Paddy reflected in the rear view mirror, and it wasn't a pretty sight. His eyes were now closing rapidly, and I was terrified in case the swelling travelled the other way and blocked his airways before I could get him the help he clearly needed. I was no longer worried about pine caterpillars, as the vet had ruled that out because his tongue wasn't swollen, but obviously something was very wrong.

When we arrived at the vet, she administered a cortisone injection straight into the vein. For this, he had to keep very still, and of course, he didn't want to. It took 20 minutes of puppy wrestling to get the cortisone where it needed to be, and both the vet and I were in a state of collapse by the time the deed was done. She was pretty sure he'e eaten a bee or a wasp, and had an allergic reaction, and because he hadn't reacted until about an hour after we got back, it was unlikely it had happened in the orange grove.

With treatment, the swelling soon started to subside, but his hormones must have still been racing around in the evening, because our usual 20 minute walk took less than 15, and we also managed to chase two cats. Normally, he hardly gives them a second glance.

Tuesdays' training class was looking distinctly dodgy, but he'd made a full recovery, so off we went. He's made such big improvements over the last month that the trainer Alex regularly checks in case I've traded him in for another model, but on Tuesday he really surpassed himself. We've finally managed to get through to him that 'stay' means just that, not 'get up and follow Mummy just in case she's leaving me here.' And on Tuesday, he managed to 'stay' for a full five minutes, even with the temptation of other dogs who were not so obedient taking off after their owners. And he did it without a single verbal command - it was all done on hand signals. Oh, it was such a wonderful feeling not to be the Embarrassed One for once!

The only blip was when Paddy had his play time off the lead and he wouldn't come back to have his lead back on. Alex said it was my fault, because I wasn't giving him the right signals. My voice said 'Come' but my body language and hand signals said 'Playtime!'  When I got it right, he came back right away, and I mentioned to Alex that maybe it was me who needed the training, not Paddy.

'At last,' he said. Now you know why you're here every week.  It will be fine from now on.' So, all this time, I've been the problem, not Paddy. It's a sobering thought, isn't it?

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IFather’s Day, or El Dia del Padre, is celebrated on 19th March, and,as in many cases in Spain, the fiesta has religious as well as social connections.

Father’s Day is also St. Joseph’s Day. As Jesus’ father, Joseph is the most important father in history. It's a public holiday in Spain, although some regions may choose another day instead of St Joseph’s Day.

Father’s Day as we know it has more secular origins. In 1909, Sonora Smart Dodd of Washington decided to commemorate her late father on his birthday in June, as her way of thanking him for raising 6 children as a widower. In 1924, President Calvin Coolidge declared the third Sunday in June Father’s Day. Over the years other countries, including the UK, adopted the custom.

In the week before El Dia del Padre, children in Spanish schools will be busy making cards and gifts for their fathers, and grown up children living and working away will do their best to return home for the day. In Spain, the family is paramount.

In the Community of Valencia, where we live, 19th March is also the culmination of Las Fallas in Valencia, a 4 day fiesta of fireworks, music and effigies which culminates in an enormous bonfire on March 19th. Las Fallas originates from the days when the carpenters of Valencia used to burn old wood and wooden utensils used throughout the winter in honour of St Joseph, who of course was a carpenter as well as Jesus’ father.

These days, the emphasis is on fun, and Las Fallas is well worth a visit if you’re in Valencia mid March. Be prepared for the noise, though. Spain is a noisy country anyway, but the level of decibels at Las Fallas is akin to a sonic boom. That’s one thing I love about Spain and the Spanish people; they certainly know how to celebrate, whatever the occasion!

Image credit: Maggs Perkins @ maggs224.com

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Okay, so the cliffhanger from the last post is that, after almost 3 hours in the Quesada offices of Liberty Seguros, waiting in vain for the text that never came, regarding the courtesy car we still hadn't got, we were heading for home to wait for the text that was definitely on the way. Then we would call the lovely and very helpful Maria Jesus (MJ) who would order a taxi to take us to collect our courtesy car.

With me so far, or have you lost the will to live? I wouldn't blame you if you had, to be honest. Anyway, we headed home to Paddy, whose separation anxiety had ratcheted up several notches, having been home alone for almost 5 hours. Neither of us had the heart to tell him he was going to be left again, very shortly. Or at least we hoped he was. Two hours after arriving home, the text that was definitely on the way must have got lost, and I was just about to call MJ to communicate the news, when she beat me to it.

Apparently, even she had given up hope of ever receiving the elusive text, because she'd taken the radical step of ordering a taxi to take us to collect the courtesy car. At last we were getting somewhere. We knew that our own car was being repaired in Almoradi - about 5 kilometres away - so when MJ said the taxi would be collecting us at 5.00 pm, we weren't too concerned. By 5.30, we'd be back at Piddock Place, complete with courtesy car, and Paddy wouldn't have to spend too much more time home alone. The long day was almost over.

Actually, it wasn't. Our courtesy car was not waiting for us in Almoradi - it was in Alicante, 55 kilometres away. Not unreasonably, I wanted to know why we needed to go to Alicante, and why the garage at Almoradi couldn't supply a courtesy car.

'Is way it works,' said MJ, and I could sense the shrug of the shoulders. 'Way it works' also included me having to ring MJ on my mobile when the taxi driver arrived, so she could tell him what he needed to do. He turned out to be a she, and she arrived at 5.15, only 15 minutes late. That's good for Spain, isn't it? And she clearly wasn't expecting more than one passenger, because she had her two kids in the back - a 4 year old boy and a 9 month old girl. So our taxi driver had to shuffle the kiddy seats along a bit to make room for me in the back.

Goodness only knows what Elf 'n Safety in England would have made of it - or the fact that our taxi driver didn't see the need to wait until she'd finished talking to MJ to head for Alicante. After 15 minutes, when she'd received instructions and enquired after MJ's family and passed on the latest news about her own , (turned out they knew each other) I got my phone back, with the balance seriously depleted.

Always one to make the best of any situation, I practiced my Spanish on the taxi driver (another Maria) and played peek-a-boo with the baby. The boy was a bit wary of me. One question I asked Maria was how long she had lived in Alicante. Turned out she lived in Almoradi, so the next question was, did she know where we were going? Her 'Si' didn't sound totally convincing, and the fact that she drove past the railway station three times before finally deciding to ask a fellow taxi driver for directions seemed to add weight to my suspicions.

By the time we found the car hire depot, it was 6.30 pm, and the Alicante rush hour was in full swing. And I remembered that I had never, ever driven in the city centre. The nearest I'd got was the N332 coast road, because if we go into Alicante, we go on the train. In a short while, I'd be driving a strange car out into the dark, in a city I'd never driven in, at the height of the Friday rush hour. It could only happen in Spain.

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Not so long ago, I was taking some visitors from England to Moncayo Market on the Lemon Tree Road.  As I negotiated the Guardamar roundabout on the CV905, a silver BMW overtook me - yes, you read that right - and managed to plough into the side of my trusty, 10 year old Ford Fiesta in the process. He then drove off without stopping, but that was only the start of our troubles. The real problems arose when we tried to claim what our insurers, Liberty Seguros, trumpeted as the highlight of the policy - a courtesy car for up to 30 days while our car was being assessed and repaired.

In England, the garages that do the repairs usually have a selection of courtesy cars. When my daughter's car needed a new clutch, we dropped it off, then collected a courtesy car, which we returned when we collected the repaired car after its spell in intensive care. One garage, one poorly car, one courtesy car, all located in the same place. Simples! But not in Spain, oh lordy, not in Spain!

The first problem was the speed with which we received our much-trumpeted courtesy car. We didn't expect to get it immediately - it was a Saturday afternoon, and Spain grinds to a standstill on Saturday afternoons. But we did expect to get it when we went to the insurers office in Quesada on the Monday after the accident. Should have known better after 7 years in Spain.

Apparently, we couldn't have the car until our car had been at the garage that was doing the repairs for 24 hours. So we could have the car on Tuesday, right? Wrong. Maria Jesus from Liberty Seguros told us she couldn't book the hire car until Wednesday morning. So we could go home and relax. Yeah, right! My car has been pranged by a hit and run driver, we have friends visiting, and we don't have a car to take them out and about. Very conducive to relaxation, isn't it? With no other choice, we headed home to await Maria Jesus' phone call on Wednesday morning. She would definitely call us before noon, so we wouldn't have to hang about waiting all day for a call.

And she definitely did (not) call us by noon on Wednesday. So I called the office, only to be told that MJ would definitely call us back as soon as possible. It was a double negative, because she definitely did not call back. Thursday was a busy day for me. I had a morning meeting, and in the afternoon, we were taking our visitors to our friends' hacienda, then on for an evening meal as it was the last day of their holiday. So we decided to forget about the courtesy car and call into the insurance office to track down the elusive courtesy car once our visitors had departed.

So, on the way back from Alicante Airport, we called in to see Maria Jesus in the Liberty Seguros office, and vowed not to leave without the keys to our courtesy car - or at least the promise of them. Her face lit up when she saw us walk in, and the conversation went something like this:

'Ah, Mr Mrs Peedock. I call yesterday about your courtesy car.'

'Great! So we have one now?'

'No, I call again now to make sure your car is at garage, then I tell car hire company is there, then they send you text, then I see text, then I tell them you can have car, then you have.'

'Why do I have to have a text before I can have a courtesy car?'

'Because is way it work. They say text come in 20 minutes. You go for coffee, if no text in 30 minutes, come back here, and I sort it for you.'

With those confusing instructions ringing in our ears, we headed for the nearest cafe, waited 45 minutes just to be sure - we are in Spain after all - and then headed back for the office. MJ was occupied with another client, and although her two colleagues were eager to assist us, she insisted we needed to wait until she was free. That was fine by us - we didn't fancy repeating the story again, or repeating the registration of our car umpteenth time that morning.

Although we'd filled in all the forms, and MJ had copious notes, including the car registration, we still had to repeat it every time she spoke to someone on the phone. As it had happened at least 6 times that morning, and about 10 times on the Monday morning, there was a fighting chance it might be embossed on her brain by now. We didn't fancy having to begin the process all over again with someone new.

By the time we were sat in front of MJ again, the clock told us it was two hours since she'd first greeted us with a smile. While we were waiting, we were explaining our problem to another lady. Maybe we did her a favour, because she'd come in to change her vehicle insurance to Liberty Seguros. When she heard we'd waited for 6 days for a courtesy car, she decided to stay with the devil she knew, and hurriedly left the building.

3 phone calls later  - and 3 repetitions of our registration number later - there was still no sign of the text or the car. During one of the waits for responses, MJ asked if we needed a taxi to take us to collect the car. As that meant we wouldn't have to inconvenience any friends or neighbours, we said yes, and we would be very glad we did before the day was through.

The fourth call brought a glimmer of hope. The person who needed to send the text was out of the office, but he would be back at 2.00 pm, so we could return to the comfort of our home to await the text, then we would need to phone MJ to communicate the contents of said text so that she could order the taxi to take us to collect our courtesy car. Finally we were getting somewhere ... or were we? Part Two to follow.

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