This week I had a letter from a company offering me a gold plated cross from Caravaca and a Nordic duvet. I would get these stupendous gifts simply by attending a talk at a local hotel on a subject of great interest about health. I thought an extra duvet could be quite useful but to get it I had to be accompanied by my other half. So he was duly roped in.
We set off at 9.45 one Saturday morning and arrived to find a throng of other pensioners, perhaps 80 all-told, the majority Spanish, waiting in the lobby. A rep from the company took us up to the fifth floor and presented the speaker, a smart woman who I estimated to be in her mid 40s. She wore a white lab coat and seemed very professional.
The talk introduced a product based on using magnetic fields to get rid of the body’s accumulation of oxidisation and allowing it to regenerate new cells. Several people in the audience testified to the efficacy of the product, having bought at earlier meetings, and she herself revealed that she was in her early 50s, claiming to looking much fresher and feeling much healthier since she started using the machine in question.
Now, I don’t know one way or the other whether the product really does what was claimed (though Rafa Nadal had testified in a sports paper she showed to us that the magnetic treatment had cured a shoulder problem). But when it came to the nitty gritty, I just don’t have 1500 spare euros to risk on trying it out to see. Neither did most of the people there. We’d come for the duvets.
The lady talked non-stop, sketched on a whiteboard and fielded questions from 10.30 until 12.50! By 12.00, people were fidgeting, getting up, and going to the loo; yawning and one or two seemed to be nodding off. She kept on relentlessly, underlining repeatedly the wonders wrought by the magnificent machine until, at last, she said she would now be prepared to answer individual queries and take orders. I didn’t see anyone crushed in the rush to the order forms.
We had to hang on for another 25 minutes before we were let out and handed our “free” gifts, which we felt we really deserved after going through what amounted to severe brainwashing. The talk was, of course, in Spanish so I suppose it was good practice but more than 2 hours rapid-fire hard sell in a foreign language is a touch wearing, to say the least. I can now see why people buy time-shares, just to be able to leave!
Armed with our Caravaca Cross and Nordic Duvet, we legged it to the nearest bar for wine and tapas (coffee by that time just wouldn’t have done it!) Husband declares he will never set foot in another demo talk. I hope the duvet is OK!
Guest Blogger:
Christine Johansson is a British Expat now living in Spain after spending 30 years in Sweden where she met her Swedish husband.
Every year around this time in Torrevieja we have a wonderful carnival that parades through the streets with loud music blasting, horns tooting and ladies virtually in the altogether in celebration of the coming spring. A lot of time and effort has been put into some fantastic outfits and floats, and it’s worth bracing yourself for a long stand in what is still likely to be a cold evening at this time of year. I wonder do the ladies in the bikinis rub that goose grease on them like the English channel swimmers in an effort to stay warm while samba-ing down the street?
As part of the festival, on the fringe if you like, a number of other events take place for all ages and interests, from art exhibitions, dance classes, musical evenings and this year saw the 2010 competition for ‘Torrevieja Drag Queen‘. Apparently drag queens are a big thing in Spain. Well they were this night, that’s for sure! I have seen grown men in dresses before but not in 16 inch high heels! They could hardly stand let alone dance. But bless their cotton socks, dance they did. I least I think they were cotton socks, but to be honest I couldn’t’t see that high.
When the first act came on I was quite impressed for a minute until he/she slipped and went down like a sack of King Edwards. Exactly the same scenario as last year. An audience-wide sharp intake of breath created a vacuum in which the contestant valiantly filled, in the best ‘The show must go on’ grimace, with a few samba inspired moves while lying on the floor. He managed to get up and completed the rest of his act a little more carefully.
Another act came out with more sensible shoes and managed to get through without even a hitch of her skirt. When I say sensible shoes I don’t exactly mean in the style of Miss Jean Brodie, although there were similarities in other ways…… The most poignant act was one drag queen who started removing most of her clothes to a melancholic song. It was as if she was stripping layers off her personality and at the end created a far more lasting impression of the pain of pretending to be something she wasn’t for the sake of the approval of society. She should have won first prize but sadly didn’t even make it into the top three.
Last year virtually everybody went A.O.T. (arse-over-tit). Why so over the top footwear? Each time it happened I was breaking out in small fits of giggles. It was quite funny when it happened to almost everyone. This year most of the contestants were a little bit warier and while the outfits were outlandish their dancing was slightly more subdued. Maybe I should go into the cobbling business for large ‘Ladies’ instead of pushing carpet tile slippers.
My mum came to visit. “You’re looking thin,” she said, though I’d actually put on several kilos. We were stocking up in Carrefour. “Can we get a nice piece of pork, some apple sauce and some stuffing?” I wasn’t sure about pork. It is very easy to come by, but would it be a nice piece, or at least my mum’s idea of a nice piece? As I understand it, Spanish butchers cut their animals up differently to British butchers. Apple sauce may be in the international section or maybe available as baby food but stuffing was off, I was sure that stuffing was off. “But everyone has stuffing with pork” she said. “We’ll be able to get it from one of the British supermarkets later,” I said but, as we were shopping at 8pm, they would all be closed now. I could see I was a big disappointment to my mum. Wasting away, still living off student food instead of a nice joint and now lying to her about the availability of Paxo.
Spaniards don’t eat sage and onion stuffing of course nor do they drink tea with cold milk. Britons who want to live in Spain but who wish to continue eating as they did in Tadcaster or Rochester will generally be able to do it. Certainly, nobody is going to make you eat paella with rabbit and snails. You can still have your dinner at dinner time if you want but if it’s Marmite, Branston pickle and pork pies that you hanker after you’re going to end up in specialist shops. Or living where there are so many of us that even the big supermarket chains find it worth their while to pander to our eccentric tastes. Though you would think that self-raising flour, chillies, limes, and coriander would be easier than they are.
Away from food, I’m still sometimes surprised by what you can’t buy. That’s untrue, there is nothing you can’t buy in Spain if you are willing to hunt, pay through the nose, get it delivered from the UK by someone with a van, or nowadays the Internet of course. If you must have Brylcreem, there’s a way. Therefore, I’m talking about things you can’t buy easily.
You try to get an electric kettle anywhere except on the coast for instance. We lived in Ciudad Rodrigo in Salamanca for a while and our kettle blew up. We scoured Castilla y Leon for a new one but we had to wait until we were back in Alicante. There is not really a Spanish word that most Spaniards recognise for kettle despite what wordreference.com says. I can see your come back here – kettles are unfair, after all Spaniards don’t use boiling water on tea so why would there be kettles in the shops? Pillows though are another thing. Spanish people definitely sleep and they use pillows but their pillows are as wide as the bed and they are sort of flat hard things or they’re shaped like a sausage roll. The pillow cases are different too because they don’t have sealed ends. That different solution to the same need turns up frequently. Let’s say you want to keep the land between your olive trees as free of weeds as you kept your herbaceous border in Stowmarket; piece of cake but you’re not going to be doing it with a Dutch hoe but with something that looks like a trenching tool.
I was teaching English for a bit. I wanted some file paper, lined A4 file paper. Squared paper, blank paper and spiral bound notebooks with double lined paper were all available. All would have done the job admirably and they were all very similar to what I was after but they weren’t quite right. It became a crusade. I got some finally but only in packets of 25 sheets at a time. Perhaps there is something of the national character expressed in paper items because I had some trouble with a diary too. My diary writing career spans 40 years and all I wanted was an A4 page per day diary. You can get them in any WHSmith in the UK for about a tenner but here I had to order it specially and pay 29€ and it had a floppy cover and it was spiral bound. Birthday and Christmas cards are the same, much easier in the coastal areas nowadays but still largely unknown to Spaniards.
The old tourist slogan for Spain used to run “Spain is different.” Nowadays when everywhere is more and more alike I think it’s rather comforting to know that getting knitting needles you understand is going to be an uphill struggle.
Chris Thompson: male, fifty something, white haired and portly. Born and bred in Yorkshire, moved around a bit and then spent twenty plus years in Cambridgeshire. Liked Spain from the moment he got off the bus in Barcelona some 28 years ago. Upped sticks in late 2004 and drove to Santa Pola in a brown MGB GT co-piloted by Mary the cat. Currently lives alternately in Culebrón, near Pinoso in Alicante and Cartagena, Murcia with Maggie the teacher and a newer cat called Eduardo. Fighting a losing battle with Spanish. http://lifeinculebron.blogspot.com/
This time next year, you’ll be almond millionaires.
Well, maybe he never actually said those words, but I distinctly remember Antonio, the previous owner of our farm, standing besides us, arms out flung as he pointed out the boundaries and explained just how much we were going to earn from the land. I’m sure some amazingly large number was mentioned, but perhaps that was a combination of wishful thinking, a complete lack of even basic Spanish, and the fact that he was talking pesetas, where even the cost of a cup of coffee reached triple figures.
It probably wouldn’t have made a difference – we were already in love with the place, but as we stood admiring the views of the snow covered Sierra Nevada Mountains to the north and the Mediterranean to the south, the idea of having all this and making money out of it, seemed almost too good to be true.
Picking almonds can be fun and excellent for relieving stress. For those who have never tried it, the basic idea is you put a net down under the tree and then you hit it with a big stick until all the nuts fall down. As an added bonus, if the tree is really big, then you actually get to climb it before you hit it.
So, our first September in Spain was spent picking almonds. We went about it in a very relaxed sort of manner – we’d work for an hour or so, and then we’d retreat under the shade of one of the huge fig trees. We’d drink a jug of costa, the strong local wine, and occasionally reach up to pluck a ripe fig from the branches above.
Heaven.
All least it was until it came to selling the results of our labours. We had literally tons of almonds and all we got in return was peanuts.
That was eight years ago, and since then things have gone steadily downhill. Most of the Spanish who still farm around here are old. They use their pensions to subsidise the only way of life they have ever known, but this year the almond price was so low that many have not bothered with their harvest.
Almonds have been grown in this area for centuries. However, increasing competition from almond growers in California, where modern farming methods have increased production and standards way beyond what we can achieve, has meant that almond farming is no longer economically viable here, and a way of life will soon come to an end.
Maybe it’s time to go into the firewood business.
This time next year…
Nicola Cleasby grew up in the north of England. After training as an accountant, she spent four years working as a volunteer in Zambia, which left her with a love of the sun and a dislike of 9-5 work. She then spent a number of years mixing travel (whenever possible) with work (whenever necessary) but has now settled down to a life of writing and picking almonds on a remote farm in the mountains of southern Spain. She shares the farm with a husband, three dogs, four cats, a horse, two goats and a handful of chickens. It is a perfect place to indulge her two great passions, reading and writing. Recently published (as Nina Croft) her new book is entitled ‘Tiger of Talmare’ http://www.ninacroft.com/index.html
If you are reading this and don’t live in Spain you probably find this hard to believe, but I’M FREEZING! I think it’s just a case that I have become too used to the Spanish sunshine and warm weather and my blood has thinned from the consistency of a ruby port to that of a cheap red wine.
Weather today is a bone chilling 19 degrees, there is a light but scathing breeze and the cold sun is blazing high in the sky. Brrrr! In all seriousness, the biggest problem is that a lot of the houses built in the last ten years over here are constructed in such a way as to – supposedly – keep the summer heat out. Sadly, they also keep the winter cold in when temperatures drop.
Many a time I have seen myself sitting on my sunny terrace just to warm up my poor toes after walking around on cold floor tiles for a few minutes. No, no – please don’t wail in unison at my hardship. As an artist I expect to suffer for the greater good of cultural advancement, and will come out the far side as a stronger and wiser person before the perennial recycling into life affirming heat again by next spring.
The biggest problem for me is one of cold feet. I just cannot get any heat into my blocks of ice. Carpets are out of course, because for eight months of the year it is just too damned hot to walk around on shag pile without leaving a sweaty trail of toenail clippings sticking up like poisoned lances from an Indiana Jones movie, waiting to trap unsuspecting soft skinned adventurers like myself.
Dear knows what manner of creature would love to settle into a veritable mangrove of manmade fibres. Imagine squelching over that every day. Yuck! I have tried to put down large rugs, which have a tendency to wrinkle at the very corner you constantly walk over, causing you to trip and spill your heat conducting chocolate and churros all over the show. Not good. Then I tried small rugs, or ruglets as I call them. Worse! Barely have you stepped onto them when all of a sudden you are doing a triple somersault with half turn, worthy of Torville and Deane in their heyday!
It’s so easy to get your boleros in a twist if you’re not careful. The problem is that, even if you put loads of ruglets down around the house and tape them, glue them or nail them down, you still have to walk on the cold gaps between ruglets and between rooms, thereby instantly undoing all your good work of the previous three hours to get the heat back into your ‘plates of meat‘.
I then thought I would be clever and get a pair of slippers. I have tried them all…. ‘Granddad’ slippers – traditional Scottish tartan design direct from northern China, ‘Dad’ slippers – like the Granddad ones except you see good looking hunks with three day stubble (on their faces – not their feet!) modeling them in clothing catalogues in an effort to make them look trendy and sexy, deckies – boat shoes that are not designed to be worn with thermal socks in any conditions ashore or on water, and even comic slippers like big feet with toes sticking out and red painted nails – they just leave you looking stupid and feeling cold, as opposed to just feeling cold.
Currently I am lying on my back on two carpet tiles with my feet in the air pointing at the air conditioning unit set to ‘blisteringly hot‘. My carbon footprint has just gone up two sizes!
I’ve just had an idea! I’m going to get some string and tie a carpet tile to each foot. Perfect! Now I can have instant carpeting throughout my house, no matter where I wander. Why didn’t I think of this before? Now where did I put that roll of string?…
TJ Miles is a professional artist and has had his home and studio in Torrevieja for 8 years. He has a nomadic lifestyle but the lure of heady days spent lolling around in the sun and sea finally brought him to his senses, deciding to stay on a more semi-permanent basis. He also runs art classes, exhibitions and writes poetry. What is the art to living in Spain for him? “A reasonably stress-free life, a relatively healthy tan on the outside and, hopefully, a sunnier disposition on the inside. Maybe I am just trying to capture some of that youth back and maybe, just maybe, help myself to live a little longer in the process?” http://tjmilesart.blogspot.com/
I have recently been using an UK debit card to pull Euros from Spanish hole in the wall machines. The UK account is, obviously enough, in Sterling.
So I go through the process, push in the card; choose a language, what sort of transaction, how much etc. Eventually a screen message comes up that reads something like 300€ will cost you £285 including commissions and fees. Do you wish to proceed? The obvious answer is “yes,” of course I wish to proceed. If I were to say “no” the implication is that, the transaction would be cancelled. Nonetheless the better answer is “no.”
When you answer “no” the transaction continues anyway and the conversion between Pounds and Euros works in your favour because you buy rather than sell – or is it the other way around? And we are not talking pennies here. The average rate offered on the screen is around £283 to buy 300€ but the actual cost has averaged out at around £270 when I have answered “no.” That is thirteen quid a pop in the bank’s favour.
If I didn’t know that banks were honourable and upstanding institutions constantly striving to improve services for their customers I’d be ready to classify this as a bit of a dirty trick designed to confuse people exchanging money abroad.
OK this blog is about Life in Spain but what if……..
We imagine you have had a result on the lottery and you like to travel. Here is my suggested itinerary to ensure you are ‘seen’ at ‘the’ events of 2010.
You can spend the remainder of January shopping because you are going to need plenty of gear for this epic schedule.
The action starts on 12th February – the place to be Vancouver, for the Winter Olympics. When you are bored with the off piste, book a flight early March back to Spain.
Your next event is walking some (or the full 800 kms) of the Camino de Santiago, because it is a holy year and so a pilgrimage is in order. During April, you can recover from your blisters and pack your bag ready for May in Beijing – the World Expo 2010 China. A gathering of many nations generally trying to outdo each.
Next, it is off to South Africa for June 11th – World Cup kick off day, England’s first match is on the 12th against USA.
Now you have a big decision looming because of a clash – July 11th is World Cup Final Day but there is also a big event going on in Easter Island, South Pacific – a total eclipse of the sun. Maybe best to hold that booking to see who makes the final (If it is South Korea vs. North Korea – hit Easter Island)
Next desert time in Nevada for the Burning Man festival, August 30th – Sept 6th – I quote
“Is perfect for ‘did-I-really-see-that’ mirages. For 7 magical summer days, strange shapes dot the desert – evidence of what happens if you let your imagination run wild in the hot sun. There are no spectators here: everyone’s a participant. The only things for sale are coffee and ice. Fancy turning your car into a giant spider? Painting yourself blue? Burning Man is calling you.”
(The mind boggles)
For a contrast and change of continent it’s off to India for the start of the Commonwealth games on October 3rd. Fortunately (or not depending on your preferences) you will not be able to stay for the closing ceremony. Because you have to be in Paris for the end of the Peking – Paris (Wacky) Race featuring vintage cars taking around five weeks to cover the 14,000kms.
For the final event it is a return to India (Do not pass Go or collect 200 rupees) for the Camel fair in Pushkar, a tiny pilgrimage town in the Thar Desert of Rajasthan comes into focus. “Hundreds of camels and their owners’ camps fill the desert scrub.” (With what you will find out, mind where you walk)
By now you will have more air miles than Michael Palin!
If you make it to any or all of these – don’t forget to send me a postcard (or a blog comment)
Even in the big cities the majority of Spaniards don’t have access to piped gas. It’s beginning to change but it would still be true to say that the majority use gas bottles.
There are two main types, the silver ones and the orange ones. The orange ones have the huge advantage that they are usually delivered by someone who takes all the muscle injuries on your behalf as they lug them into your living room or wherever. The silver ones are lighter, easier to contract for and more available at petrol stations and other pickup points. I usually get our silver bottles from the local bodega for instance.
We passed a lorry delivering gas bottles in Valencia a couple of days ago and I was amused by the housewives in the flats yelling their orders from the windows to the men with the lorry. We were in company with a Spaniard and she told us that in the olden days, long before telephone ordering, the gas lorries would stop outside the blocks of flats and the “butaneros” would rattle the bottles in the rack to advertise their presence. The sound is very distinctive.
Did you notice that bit about contracting? When we first moved here we inherited a gas heater in the flat we rented. When the gas ran out I had to go to a compound on the edge of the town, far enough away for an explosion not to do too much damage I suppose, and exchange my empty gas bottle for a full one. After a couple of visits, emboldened by my success, I asked if I could have two bottles instead of one. I was made to feel like Oliver Twist asking for more!
The chap at the depot sent me to to an office in town. I’d been in Spain about four weeks by this time and I was incensed, appalled and totally confused when they seemed to need everything short of a DNA sample to sell me a gas bottle. Even worse I would have to pay for an engineer to check that my gas heater before I could sign a contract for a second bottle.
I gave up and did what most Britons do. I found someone who had a bottle spare, paid them 5€ for it and then went to the garage and got a fresh one. Nowadays of course, with my fluent Spanish (oh yeah!) and having become used to giving my date of birth and showing my passport when I buy an iced lolly I didn’t have any problem arranging for an engineer to come and check all the gas appliances. That done I got an appropriate contract with a local supplier. I must say that, despite the faff, I rather approve of a system that insists that you have the appliances checked for safety on a regular basis. People don’t bother of course, particularly poor people and foreigners with language problems, but there are far too many stories on the news about blocks of flats ripped apart by gas explosions for us to take the chance.
Give me another couple of years and I may get around to ordering the replacements by phone. Sheer luxury!
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showed to us that the magnetic treatment had cured a shoulder problem). But when it came to the nitty gritty, I just don’t have 1500 spare euros to risk on trying it out to see. Neither did most of the people there. We’d come for the duvets.
