Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues!

by John Austin Richards

  I wake, bathed in sweat, shirt stuck to my back, to find the girls giggling mightily. ‘Mary-night, Mary-night! Ha ha ha ha! You have Mary-Night!’

  ‘A nightmare’ Chrissie chuckles, ‘he was having a nightmare.’ If only they knew…. ‘Come on, Sonny Jim. We are home. Santa Marta. Look, we are in the bus station!’

  Thank heavens. Surreptitiously checking my nether regions for puncture wounds, we stumble off the bus, and bid fond farewells to our fellow passengers. ‘Goodbye English!’ grins the Wag. ‘You didn’t spend much money, but we enjoyed your company!’

  ‘I didn’t spend any money’, I reply, truthfully, adopting my best serious-face. ‘My woman has spent it all!’ Which earns me a whack, but also the expected roar of approval. So that was all right, then, but God I need my bed.

  Elena has not quite finished yet, however. She envelops us in a massive bear-hug, then starts flapping her hands. ‘Plees. Ha ha ha ha! I enjoy my day weeth you, moocho, I decided to continue weeth my examins of Eengliss. The next, how you say, level? So plees, Jonneee, we continue after the Cree-mass, weeth classes of Eengliss? Plees you say me yes! Ha ha ha ha!’

  Well there’s a Christmas present I will never forget. Oh deepest joy. My wife, however, seems delighted. ‘I am sure John will be happy to continue the classes, after the New Year, Elena!’ she smiles. ‘I will contact you on Fay-Boo, sorry, Face-Book, to arrange it, in January!’

  Staggering wearily up the cobbled street, she squeezes my arm. ‘Wasn’t that an absolutely fantastic day? What wonderful memories, to treasure, don’t you think?’

  I huff. ‘Oh yeah, wonderful for you. Absolutely incredible memories for you. But two things completely ruined it for me, I will have you know.’

  She gives me a playful nudge. ‘Oh go on, you know you love her really! Ha ha ha ha! Give you something to look forward to, won’t it, classes of Eengliss! Anyway, what was the other thing? Come on, let’s hear it.’

  I am still huffing. ‘Well, what completely ruined my day was that we didn’t win the raffle for that bloody fruit cake, did we?’

  CHAPTER 14. WHAT LAD-RONNY NICKED ME TYRES?

  As a motorist, there is one major drawback in living on a narrow, cobbled hairpin-bend, halfway up a mountain; there is nowhere to park. It might be possible, if you are extremely lucky, to bag one of the few spots where the streets widen, but as that involves a stress-inducing drive around the switchback, dog-legged zig-zags, on the off-chance of finding somewhere, we simply don’t bother. Some of the neighbours do, even though they pay for spaces on a municipal site, which we have christened El Scrapyard, on account of the motley collection of broken-down, abandoned, dirt-encrusted vehicles with flat tyres, sunken into the weeds, which are to be found there. Plus a length of plastic trim from Phil the chicken’s sawn-up Transit van. No. A pleasant ten-minute stroll from our house, where the old part of town gives way to the new, are full-width streets, with pavements, and a two-hundred yard length of garden wall, where we can leave the car without blocking anyone’s view, or causing any obstructions, and where a space is virtually guaranteed. Plus, we avoid the usual Spanish shunting, which is what passes for parking in this neck of the woods, thereby reducing considerably the risk of battle-damage on our pristine white paintwork.

  I said one major drawback, but there are a number of minor ones, too. Cleaning? Forget it. No water. Vacuuming? Not possible. No electricity. Checking oil levels? On a mountain? Are you having a laugh? Nowhere flat, this side of Madreeth. Other little maintenance jobs? Too hot. See what I mean? Not easy, is it, this retirement business? Having said all that, there are wash & vax places dotted about, and I am sure you could find a relatively flat spot on a petrol-station forecourt for checking the levels. They say you should let the engine oil settle a bit before getting the dipstick out, don’t they, so while you are waiting, follow the Spanish example and go for a coffee. Virtually every gasolinera here has an excellent coffee shop attached, and no, not branded national chains selling weak, overpriced slops, but full-strength, heart-stopping espresso for just over a euro. Throw in about a foot of toasted, crusty bread smothered with chopped tomato for the same price, and you won’t need to eat again any time soon. And your oil will have returned to normal in the interval, too.

  Seriously though, we didn’t think about all this when we bought the house, although you pay peanuts and all that, and as we only use the car at weekends, I guess we can live with it, but for anyone considering going down this cheap town-house route, my advise would be to scope out the local area for likely car-parking spots, before you sign on the dotted line. There you go, might just have saved you a load of aggro!

  Mind you, in theory we have no such problems, because outside our caravan on the Camping Rural site, there is an abundance of electric, water, level ground, shade, and most importantly in this country of constant questions such as ‘what you doing neighbour?’, privacy. I say in theory, but so far it hasn’t worked out that way, however. Look, a day toiling away, or should I say boiling away, on the beach, wears you out, right? A cold shower to wash away the sand and the salt, an even colder beer, and a long sit down in a camping chair with a book, after what has been a strenuous week, is just what the doctor ordered. So hands up, I confess, it is all my fault, no excuses, should have known better. We bought the little white SEAT in the autumn, and here we are in mid-February, and I haven’t done a stroke, in terms of basic maintenance. Nothing. I am ashamed of myself, quite honestly.

  Until this evening. Bonnet up, oil and water fine, screenwash needs a drop, though. Headlights on, all good, round the back to check the tail………OH MY GOD! Look at the rear tyres! I have been seriously negligent here. We knew, when we bought the car, that the tyres would need replacing in a few months, but all this sitting around in the sunshine must have addled my brain, what little there is left of it. OK, there is no canvas showing through, but there is little tread visible, either. They used to say, didn’t they, you could use a two-bob piece to check the depth of your tread? Well, I don’t have any English coins on me right now but there would be little point, anyway. Smooth as a baby’s bottom. Right, thinking-cap on. There is a tyre garage just off the motorway near Malaga airport, and we have to go to the DIY place on the industrial estate there tomorrow on the way home for a few bits and pieces, so kill two birds with one stone, call in for two back tyres. There is a shopping centre down there too, near that giant blue and yellow Swedish warehouse, I cannot mention the name as I would get heart palpitations and need to lie down in a darkened room for a couple of hours, and I have all this writing to do, but you know the one I mean. They sell meatballs, I believe.

  So sounds like a plan, but I have a small dilemma. What do I tell Chrissie? Don’t want her lying awake all night, worrying about the tyres going pop, do I? Which I know she will do. It’s how I was brought up, OK? My father was old school, and I can hear him now. ‘Don’t say anything to your mother, son, but…’ All right, it’s the twenty-first century now and those attitudes should rightly be consigned to history, but I was born in the fifties. It’s what us chaps do. Suddenly, the caravan window opens wider and my wife’s head pops out. ‘Have a look at those back tyres while you’re there, will you? We need to get some new ones, the tread is almost non-existent, and I don’t know if your life-insurance policy is up-to-date. Those tyres are like you, completely bald. There’s that Maris place near the airport, so first thing in the morning, you can drop me at the shopping centre, and you can sort out the tyres, like you should have done, TWO MONTHS AGO!’

  Well that little quandary sorted itself out quite well, didn’t it?

  So the following morning we arrive outside Maris, having successfully avoided the giant blue and yellow Swedish meatball emporium, and are greeted in the customer area by a cheery, middle-aged man going by the name of Ramon, according to the name-badge pinned proudly to his spotless overalls. ‘Buscando dos neumaticos para trasera de mi coche’ I announce. There, what do you think of that then? I hope it
means I’m looking for two back tyres for my car, but then again, possibly not.

  ‘No. Ruedas.’ Ramon smiles.

  Now I know this word, ruedas, for some reason. It means ‘wheels’. But I don’t need any wheels, obviously. ‘No, neumaticos!’ I confirm, for the avoidance of doubt.

  His grin tightens, slightly, and I get the finger wagging, too. Only one finger, for now, but clearly I have transgressed in some way. ‘No. Ruedas.’

  For pity’s sake. I have the wheels already. Those circular, metal things, bolted onto the axles. I need the circular, rubber things, otherwise known as ‘tyres’. Neumaticos in Spanish. Luckily, there is a poster on the office wall, featuring said components, so in a not-quite-a-Paddington-Bear-but-almost kind of a way, I gesture at the black rubbery things. ‘No, I have the ruedas, I need the neumaticos.’

  He throws back his head and roars with laughter, although Chrissie and I fail to see the funny side. ‘Sorry, here in Spain we say ruedas, I need to change my ruedas!’ Oh yes, absolutely hilarious that was, wasn’t it? I don’t think. So let us be clear on this. There are separate Spanish words for both wheel and tyre, but if you need a new tyre, you ask for a new wheel. Who knew that? Right now, there are people stuck in rainy old England thinking we are living the life of Riley over here in the sunshine. Let me tell you, it’s just not like that, OK? And why is there never a branch of Halfords, when you need one?

  Summoning up the last of my dwindling supply of smiling, I turn on my heels, head back towards the door, then swiftly about-turn. ‘Buenas dias. Buscando dos RUEDAS para trasera de mi coche!’ And if that doesn’t do it, I am off. Probably get another fifty miles until we are down to the canvas.

  It seems however this was simply good-natured banter all along. Ramon never imagined he would be encountering a dafty Englishman who couldn’t tell a wheel from a tyre this day, did he? ‘Your Spanish is very good!’ he grins. ‘What car do you have?’ I gesture out the window at the little white SEAT standing forlornly in the car park. He performs a double take, as if he was mistaking me for Lewis Hamilton and expected there to be a Formula-One racing-car outside. ‘We have this range of Maris-branded wheels which are perfect for you, good quality, made by Hankook.’ And he rummages under the desk and emerges with a price catalogue. OK, I have heard of this brand, sounds fair enough to me. Little does Ramon realise but he is looking at a bloke who made do with remoulds, in my earlier motoring career, at least until the kids came along. Wouldn’t do that now, of course, having achieved a slightly less poverty-stricken level, but quite honestly I don’t care if they are made by Hankook, or Han Solo. ‘Seen one neumatico, you’ve seen them all’ as mother-in-law might have said.

  He runs a grubby finger down the page. ‘Twenty-four euros, each’ he confirms. Blimey, that seems like a bargain. No idea what I was expecting really, all I can do is compare it with what the price might have been in the UK, and just over twenty quid a throw sounds cheap. Bearing in mind the population of Spain is only two-thirds of Britain’s, with twice the land area, I would have thought that distribution costs here would be higher. I am no economist of course, and other factors such as lower wages and warehousing here come into play, but yeah, I am well ’appy, to paraphrase Del. Or not. ‘Do you want them mont-akky?’ Ramon enquires.

  Mont-akky? Mont? Mount? Mounted? What, like a stag’s head, on the wall? Or is he asking if I want them fitted? Well actually mate I was planning on taking them home, putting them on the patio, filling them with earth and planting them up. Or hang on, what is this in my pocket? Ooh look, a pair of tyre levers for me pushbike. Nah, don’t worry, I’ll mont-akky them myself. What else can I say? That thing for getting stones out of horses’ hooves is going to be no earthly use at mounting tyres, is it? ‘Si.’

  Chrissie has turned away, so I cannot see if she is giggling, or cursing. Ramon meanwhile taps away at a calculator. ‘Equilibrio?’

  Has to be balancing, I am guessing. Equilibrium. Not gonna be twenty-four bucks a piece, are they, these wheels? Does my wife have one of those laser pens, and a handful of lead weights in her bag? No? Therefore it has to be ‘Si.’

  More tapping. ‘Balbo?’

  Unless he is referring to one of those African trees, which grow upside down, he must mean ‘valve’. Damn it, forgot the Wrigley’s. Could have chewed some up, and stuck it over the air hole. What is this anyway, twenty questions? Surely all of these ‘extras’ should be included in the price as standard? Come on, who would possibly want to fit their own tyres? Go on then, chuck in a balbo. ‘Si.’ Right, that is the lot, surely? Nothing else he can stiff me for. Wrong.

  ‘Eye-ree especial?’ Nope, you got me there, Ray. Eye-ree? I narrow my eyes in a not-the-foggiest way. ‘Si, eye-ree. Oxy-hen.’ And he purses his lips, exhaling dramatically.

  My wife meanwhile is still fixated on something she can discern through the window into the workshop behind. ‘Air. He is asking if you want special air. Oxygen. You know, puff puff!’

  AIR? They are charging for air in this place? That free stuff that just floats around in the sky? Does he think I just beamed down from a galaxy far far away, with Han Solo? Arriba mi cuerpo, as they say in Santa Marta. Special air, too, which immediately reminds me of Chrissie’s mother, who always refers to a stiff G&T as her special water. Ramon senses conflict in the room over this latest turn of events, and produces a glossy leaflet extolling the virtues, in Spanish of course, of the special air, which gives a more responsive ride, apparently. Yeah right. Ding dong. ‘No, gracias.’

  Some final adding-up, and wheel-seller has a total for us. The final, final total, hopefully. ‘Seventy-six euros. Baly?’ Actually, that is still pretty good, I think. A remould for the Ford Anglia was about a fiver, back in the day, but seventy quid for two tyres? A result, Jonno!

  ‘Come back in one hour’ Ramon suggests, ‘you can visit Thee-en Montaditos, in the shopping centre.’ I nod in agreement although clearly only he knows what he is talking about. Thee-en is a hundred, I believe, and a word ending in itos usually signifies a small, or little, something. So a hundred little monty’s, whatever they are, possibly? Wonderful, this journey of discovery, isn’t it? Little did we know, when we left the caravan this morning, we would be learning all about special air, and a hundred little somethings, this day.

  Chrissie, strangely, seems reluctant to leave the office, gazing wistfully into the workshop. Usually she would be champing at the bit at the mere mention of a shopping centre. What could possibly be so fascinating about a pile of tyres? Sorry, wheels? ‘So, are you, er, coming, then?’

  ‘Actually’ she purrs, ‘I think I will stay here. Check out the totty! I think he is completely commando, under those overalls. What do you reckon?’

  WHAT? I stare angrily through the glass but all can see is a swarthy, snake-hipped Spaniard wiggling his arse in a manner which would surely earn him a stiff kicking, in certain pubs I could mention. ‘YOU DIRTEE COO! Pack that in, right now. A woman of your age! If I was caught leering like that, there would be hell up!’ And adopting my best aggrieved-face, I turn to Ramon. ‘Miras. El coolo! Women, eh?’

  He guffaws, loudly, then turns, shaking his own posterior. ‘Look, I have a beautiful bum, too!’ Why didn’t I just run the cursed tyres down to the canvas? Not like this at Halfords, is it?

  Dragging my reluctant wife behind me, we enter the shopping plaza, and just about the first building we spot is proudly proclaiming the legend 100 Montaditos, although whoever painted the sign was clearly drunk, as the number ‘1’ resembles a snake which has just been run over by a steamroller. Curious. Still, every cloud, as the place is clearly a cafe-bar, and as the sixteenth rule of travel states never pass a strange restaurant with a splattered serpent in the title, and bearing in mind it’s been a hard morning already, we flop down at an outside table. Placed in the middle are a couple of laminated, pictorial menus, a notepad and a ball-point pen, and it appears these montadito things are miniature baguettes, four inches long or thereabouts,
and yes, there are a hundred of them. Now, it is my usual custom to ignore restaurants displaying photos of the food, on the grounds that I am fully aware of what egg and chips look like, but this is different, as I cannot even begin to imagine a hundred different sandwich fillings. Not that there are a hundred separate pictures, you understand, which means we are going to struggle identifying many of the offerings. What could a christorra possibly be, would you suppose?

  The first sixty or so montaditos are one euro, another fifteen are one-twenty, and what are described as Super Monty’s are one-fifty. There are also items para picar, at two yo-yo, including bowls of chips, onion rings and something described as palomitas, which I thought was the word for pigeon, but then again…. It is not yet official Spanish lunchtime, so the place is not particularly busy, and the noise levels should therefore be tolerable, but I cop a sneaky peek at a group of five teenage girls three tables away who are writing down their selections, swiping their smart-phones and gabbling at maximum volume, all at the same time. Remarkable. How do they do that? I am struggling to remember what day it is. I mime theatrically to Chrissie to make a note of her choices, and she cottons on to the joke and cups her hand to her ear. ‘WHAT?’