I tidied away the books and toys, packed away the cot and stroller, washed the sticky fingerprints off the walls and emptied the paddling-pool. A few balloons still remained, drifting aimlessly across the floor. I knew I should pop them and throw them away, but I didn’t. The balloons reminded me too much of Indy giving chase, scuttling across the floor on all-fours at great speed and squealing with delight when she caught one.
As another summer began to die, so did the leaves on our vine. Our garden needed tidying constantly and we always had rubbish to dispose of.
Since moving to El Hoyo, we’d discovered that the Spanish are incredibly resourceful and find ingenious ways to use items that Brits happily throw away. The previous owner of our house used an old upside-down frying pan to cap one of the chimneys to stop the rain coming in and sparks flying out. It was a little quirky but worked perfectly well. So we kept it, giving it a new coat of black paint every now and then.
Our frying pan chimney top
Any person walking in the Spanish countryside will soon encounter gates barring entry to private property. Closer inspection will reveal that these gates are often homemade and can be quite elaborate. One such existed close to our village, halfway up the mountain. The owner had fixed two metal bed frames, with springs and all, to posts. The frames met in the middle and were padlocked together, making a very serviceable portal. Topped with an old bed-head and a weather vane, it was almost a work of art.
We learned all kinds of tips from the villagers. For instance, we kept and dried the annual prunings from our grapevine as they made excellent fire-starters in the wood stove.
However, El Hoyo hadn’t yet embraced the ethic of recycling daily household waste. We had no bins of different colours for different types of trash. All rubbish, whether glass, paper or general waste, was hurled unsorted into the same bin. People often left the lid open and village cats dived in to search for scraps. As the sun beat down, unpleasant odours of rotting food wafted out. Then, at six oʼclock every morning, the refuse collection men arrived to take it all away.
When we first came to the village, communal bins were conveniently placed at most street corners. But times changed and since the economic crisis, cutbacks were made.
“Itʼs gone,” said Joe one day, coming back into the house still carrying a bag of trash.
“Whatʼs gone?”
“The garbage bin. The one next to the cemetery.”
“Really? I expect they’ve just moved it. They are planning to begin work on the extension soon, perhaps they wanted it out of the way.”
“Well, I canʼt find it.”
We traipsed round the streets looking for a skip and finally located one near the square. For the next few weeks, throwing rubbish away became a game of hide-and-seek as the bins never remained in the same place twice. Good exercise, but slightly annoying and Joe constantly complained.
Then, one day, a massive, shiny new bin appeared in its original place beside the cemetery. It gleamed with newness and around the base was a metal bar. For a while, Joe wrestled to open the lid, sweating and cursing, then discovered that if he stood on the bar, the lid magically snapped open. His good temper was restored.
No longer would the village cats be able to sneak in and ferret out the wonderful delicacies a communal garbage bin had to offer. But Joe was happy. Until a rather unfortunate incident occurred.
28. Preparations
Ana’s Lemon Leaves
Joe stepped on the bar, watched the lid jump open, then absent-mindedly threw the car keys into the dumpster instead of the bag of rubbish he was holding in his other hand. He stared in disbelief into the depths of the vast bin before turning the air blue with Anglo-Saxon profanities.
The bin was empty and the car keys lay at the bottom, winking at him. He leaned down into the bin, reaching for the keys, but they were tantalisingly just out of reach. He stretched further, until the keys were only inches from his fingertips. With one last effort, he tried again. And that’s when catastrophe struck.
As he reached down, his feet left the rail and the dumpster’s lid snapped shut.
“Hey!” he shouted into the bin’s dark interior, his legs flailing as he tried to push the lid back up and slide his body out.
But the bin was not letting go its hold. He couldn’t push the lid up and his feet couldn’t reach the rail. He was afraid to squirm too much in case he overbalanced completely and fell into the bin.
“Hey! Help! ¡Ayúdeme!”
As luck would have it, he had to wait only a few minutes for rescue, although he later told me that each minute felt like a lifetime.
Fortunately, Pancho the mayor happened to walk round the corner, no doubt to check some detail at the cemetery. He quickly stepped on the foot rail and the lid flew up, releasing its hold on Joe.
“Ah, good, I was hoping to see you or Beaky,” he said, as Joe brushed himself down.
He didn’t seem at all surprised at Joe’s predicament and didn’t even question why Joe was headfirst in the village dumpster.
“In case you were wondering, I dropped my car keys in the bin,” explained Joe. “Would you mind standing on the rail so I can get them out?”
So the mayor stood on the rail again and Joe managed to reach the keys successfully without the lid descending on him again. Pancho carried on talking.
“I was going to ask Beaky to arrange our first session of English lessons,” he said. “Could you ask her to get in touch with me, please?”
Joe assured him he would, stopped rubbing his bruises and made his way home.
“Well, I’m certainly not going to get in touch with him,” I said firmly, having heard Joe’s tale of woe, finishing with the mayor’s request.
“I’m going to take a shower,” said Joe. “Wash the bin smell off me.”
“One question... When it happened, why didn’t you find a stick and fish the keys out?” I asked. “Or call me to stand on the rail to keep the lid open?”
“Oh, I didn’t think of that,” said Joe.
“I think we should chase the builders again,” I said to Joe that autumn. “If we’re going to Australia in the New Year, we must have our new window bars finished. Especially if we’re going to be away for a couple of months or so.”
It wasn’t just the security of the house that worried us. The upstairs door that led onto the roof terrace had become warped and was letting in water. Whenever it rained, water poured under the door and flooded the floor so badly that water ran down the walls into our dining room below. We needed the house to be both secure and watertight before we left for Australia.
We’d first contacted the builders back in March.
“We’ll come and look at the job next week,” Julio had said at the time. He was the boss, Romanian and fluent in English and Spanish.
The builders had arrived in June to take measurements. We chose the doors and burglar-bar designs and were excited about getting the work done. A week later we received an estimate and agreed on the price.
“It’ll be nice to get it all done before Karly, Cam and Indy come in August,” I had said to Joe.
“Pigs might fly,” he snorted.
He was right. Nothing happened. Our family and granddaughter arrived and the summer was now making way for autumn. The sun still blazed and there hadn’t been a drop of rain, so replacing the leaky door wasn’t essential. Winter still seemed a long way off.
In September we phoned the builders again.
“Your new doors and bars are ready,” said Julio. “We will start work next week.”
“Pigs might fly,” snorted Joe.
The builders arrived early in October. They brought the new doors and laid them out on the roof terrace and in the garden. They tapped the walls with a hammer and left a few pencil marks. I was delighted that work had begun.
“That’s good!” I said. “It’ll all be finished before the fiesta and the Gin Twins’ visit at the end of the month.”
“Hurrumph!” snorte
d Joe. “Pigs might fly.”
Summer stretched long that year and the village fiesta weekend approached. The builders didn’t turn up, but as the village was so busy, it was probably just as well.
It was around that time that I developed big red splotches all over my body. They appeared on my arms, hands, legs, elbows and even my face. I wondered if it was some kind of allergy. I felt fine and they didn’t itch but the look of the spots made me self-conscious and I avoided mirrors. For the first time, I didn’t go to any of the fiesta events.
Luckily, our roof terrace commanded a perfect view of the village, so at least I could be a spectator. I watched as all the villagers arrived with their friends and families. I saw Geronimo let off the fireworks that marked the beginning of the festivities. Unseen, I saw all of Alejandro Senior’s family pile into Paco’s house for a few drinks and tapas before ambling down to the square. It was good to see them all firm friends again.
Over the weekend, Joe and I watched the processions, the marches and the games. We saw the band strike up in the square and watched the dancing.
We watched the village ladies carefully carry their dishes to the square for the Pudding Contest and the men take their bottles of wine for judging. Paco never entered the Wine Contest. He always said there was no point as everybody knew his grapes made the best wine. It wouldn’t be fair to the other contestants if he won year after year.
We saw groups of visitors making their way to the cemetery. Villagers pointed out the progress of the enlargement, although at the moment there wasn’t much to see except marker stakes.
I loved watching it all, but there was one particular little scenario that filled my heart with hope.
The Ufarte house had remained empty and locked up after Lola and her seedy-looking partner had left. But on the Saturday afternoon of the fiesta, I saw two people unlock the front door of the little house and enter. It was Papa and Mama Ufarte.
Were they back together? I tried to read their body language. The children weren’t with them and Maribel had regained her lithe figure after her latest pregnancy. She looked well and her hair shone with health. Papa Ufarte looked more relaxed than I had seen him for a long time.
Their visit was short but it was a good sign and gave me hope. Perhaps Maribel had forgiven her foolish husband. But until they returned with all the children and the old grandmother, until Papa Ufarte strummed his guitar and Maribel danced in the street, I couldn’t count on it.
On Sunday evening, the village emptied again as the cars followed each other, nose to tail, up the winding road and out of the valley.
The weather stayed beautiful for the Gin Twins’ stay. The swallows hung around for longer than usual but there was still no sign of the builders. The Gin Twins had to share their roof terrace space with the new doors, laid out and ready to be fitted. In the garden below, the burglar-bars leaned against a wall awaiting installation. The sun soon turned the Gin Twins’ pale skin the same colour as the rusting burglar-bars.
November came and the days shortened. After a couple of wild nights of driving rain, water leaked under the old door upstairs. We mopped up as fast as we could, but water still seeped through the floor and streamed down the dining room walls. Getting the builders in was becoming decidedly urgent. I called them on the phone and emailed, but couldn’t make contact.
One evening after dark, Joe was in the city taking a short-cut through some waste ground to get back to the car. In Spain, many shops don’t close until 10:00pm. A huge figure suddenly loomed out of the shadows. Joe clutched his purchases and car keys tighter and quickened his pace.
“Joe! Joe! It is I, Mario!” boomed a voice from the darkness. “My boss is Julio! We are your builders. We come next week.”
“Oh! Hello Mario,” Joe said, greatly relieved. “Fancy seeing you here!”
“Yes, I saw you in the shop and followed you.”
“Oh I see. Well, we are really looking forward to seeing you next week.”
However, Joe wasn’t totally convinced.
“Did you see that pink thing flying past our window?” Joe asked me a week later.
But this time he was wrong. Our builders did arrive. But in our village things rarely go smoothly. Unfortunately they picked the week when the cemetery works began in earnest. Their arrival also coincided with a major overhaul of El Hoyo’s sewage system and a resurfacing of the main street. Unable to bring their equipment to our house, the builders shrugged and disappeared once again.
“Well, there’s nothing more we can do,” I said to Joe. “We’ll just have to be patient. This is Spain, after all. In the meantime, perhaps we should dig out and check our passports. Then we can book flights as soon as the building work is done.”
It felt good preparing for the trip to Australia. Cam, Karly and Indy would soon move to their new house. Humming to myself, I found and opened our passports.
Valid until 2014? To my horror I discovered that our passports would expire in January. We wouldn’t be travelling anywhere unless we renewed them immediately.
Nothing is ever simple. Living in Spain, we couldn’t just pop to the post office and get them renewed.
I hurriedly researched the renewal process for overseas residents. I found the relevant government website and read it carefully. The fee was hefty, £295.72 ($500). Ouch! They also required a signed declaration form and two passport photos. That seemed simple enough.
I began with the forms, which I could download and print off. Of course, the ink had dried in our home printer, which infuriated Joe. He always maintained it would be cheaper to buy a new printer every time we needed to print something rather than pay for yet another cartridge of printer ink.
We bought more ink and completed the forms successfully. The next hurdle was the passport photographs.
“Have you ever seen a photo booth anywhere?” I asked Joe.
He thought hard. “Nope, I don’t think I have. I guess we’ll have to go to a photographer’s shop?”
Carmen and Paco, having never been out of Spain, had no need of passports and no idea where we might find a booth or a shop that produced passport photos. So we went in search of a professional photographer.
Surprisingly, we found one quite easily and entered his shop, full of hope.
“Passport photos? No, we only do weddings, family portraits and fiestas,” said the assistant, surrounded by galleries of arty photos showing smiling brides, babies and happy families.
“Can you suggest anywhere we can go to get them done?” asked Joe.
The man was very helpful, even drawing us a little street map. We eventually tracked down the little shop he recommended. We’d passed it a thousand times and had never noticed it before. Other than seeing a few photo frames in the window display, we weren’t very hopeful. We pushed the door open and entered.
The shop was filled with all sorts of strange paraphernalia: flower vases, snow-globes, luggage straps and calendars. The walls were plastered with posters and, to our astonishment, one showed an array of passport photos.
“We’d each like a set of passport photos,” Joe said to the smiling young assistant behind the counter. “Like those,” he said, pointing at the poster.
“Of course,” said the girl. “Follow me.”
She led us into a small back room where a stool had been placed in front of a white screen. Gleefully we each had a set of photos taken and the assistant waited for a machine to spit them out. Then, using a special clipper tool, she helpfully cut them to size.
“I can’t believe it was so easy!” I said to Joe as we left the shop with our precious photos.
My smugness, however, was short-lived. Did you know that Spanish and British passport photo sizes are different? I didn’t know that until I checked the passport website again. Back we went to have another set taken and this time the girl cut them to the UK size.
I was on the point of sealing the envelope addressed to the Passport Office when I noticed something else. Not only is the
size of the photo important, but the dimensions of the head are significant too. Our latest photos were still wrong. We needed to have them taken again. By now we were on first-name terms with the girl in the shop.
Third time lucky, we hoped. We posted the photos and forms to England, hoping everything was in order. We were told that the Passport Office would need at least 4 weeks to process our applications and allowing for the Christmas holiday period, we doubted if we’d get them until well into the New Year.
Then, wonder of wonders, the week before Christmas, our builders returned. They did such a fantastic job replacing the door and fitting the burglar-bars that we kept thinking of more jobs for them to do before they disappeared again. They replaced all our windows and we were delighted with their work. All the winter draughts vanished and at last our house was watertight and secure.
We waited for news of our passports and hoped that the UK Passport Office would find our applications satisfactory. If it did, we’d soon be on our way to Australia.
Christmas passed without incident and Joe and I were presented with hand-knitted hats by Marcia. Neither of us ever wore hats but we were touched by the thought.
We also received a phone call from Karly in Australia.
29. Winter
Lamb Steaks with Almonds and Paprika
“Merry Christmas, Mum!”
“Merry Christmas! How has your day been?”
“Lovely, we had a brilliant day. We love the new house and I cooked Christmas dinner for twelve! Cam’s parents and grandparents came and it was really good. Indy was spoilt rotten of course.”
“Oh, good! So how do you like having Christmas in midsummer?”
“Well, I’m pretty used to Aussie Christmases now. Doesn’t feel that strange anymore. We’ve filled the swimming pool and we use it every day. Are you still coming over, do you think? Escape your winter and enjoy our summer? Time’s running out now.”
“Well, I don’t know… Our passports still haven’t arrived. We’ve been watching the news and the weather in the UK has been awful. Terrible floods, worst on record. What with Christmas and trains and planes being cancelled by bad weather, who knows when we’ll get our passports? All we can do is wait.”
Two Old Fools in Spain Again Page 20
