First Night in Torremolinos
©Ken Harris, 2008
Welcome to Spain. Bienvenidos a España. Give us $400, por favor. It was the overage from Los Angeles come to haunt us all the way across the Atlantic. Joanne got steamed all over again. She’s still steamed, come to think of it. But it’s early days yet. This happened in 1974 and it’s only 2008. Anyway, we showed the kindly TWA representative our receipts and he released us just in time to make our flight to Málaga.
All my benighted life I had been mispronouncing the name of this city, putting the accent on the second syllable rather than the first. Perhaps it’s because I had never seen it spelled properly before, with an accent over the first “a.” In the States we aren’t given to tildes, umlauts, or other accents. Anyway, I had misgivings. I wondered how many other words I was going to have to learn to pronounce over again.
Our future boss, Honey Pettis, met us at the Málaga airport, piled us into the Sunnyview School van and drove us to our new home, Torremolinos (tor.ray.mo.LEE.nos). Honey was French and her first name was Huguette, but she despaired of her American husband, or any other American for that matter, learning to pronounce her name properly, and she said she preferred “Honey.” Since she was running an American school and many of her parents were Americans, the nickname just made things easier all round.
Honey took us to an apartment on the first floor of a beachfront apartment building. We rested for a bit and then walked to the Pettis residence, also beach front, where we met the entire Pettis family, Chuck Sr., Mike, Chuck Jr., John and Sultan, the German Shepherd who liked to carry large rocks in his mouth.
On returning to our apartment we were briefly confounded by the buttons on the elevator. If we were on the first floor, why did we need an elevator? Because in Spain, and in all of Europe from what I understand, the first floor is on the second floor. The ground floor is the piso bajo (pee.so BÄH.ho) and is clearly marked on the elevator button with a PB. The floor above the piso bajo has to be the first floor, doesn’t it? You could start numbering with the second floor, but that wouldn’t be very logical now, would it?
We unpacked enough stuff to get to bed and I don’t think it took anyone longer than thirty seconds to get to sleep. It had been a long day. We slept soundly until around 2:00 in the morning when a drunk began serenading the neighborhood with music from Jesus Christ, Superstar. Well, not the duet and chorus numbers, but the solos. And the man had a magnificent voice. Badly as we needed our sleep, Joanne and I were glad that nobody interrupted him until he was through with his concert.
Old habits die hard, and Joanne and I were awake as the sun rose. Somehow coffee, bread and butter had materialized in our apartment and, as the sun came up behind our building, we sat on our balcony overlooking the Mediterranean taking our breakfast and thinking, “You know, this could work out.”
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Flight to Spain
Flight to Spain
Copyright Ken Harris 2008
My wife, Joanne, and I taught on Guam from 1970 to 1974. Our contracts expired in June, 1974 and we decided to live somewhere else for a couple of years. We applied for teaching positions in various countries, but received no offers. So we decided to move to Spain for a year without jobs since we understood prices were reasonable and a year’s stay would not make serious indentures into our savings. (We had saved a lot of money on Guam.)
Before we left Guam we visited a travel agent and presented a specific itinerary. We bought tickets ahead of time from Agana to Los Angeles, and then Los Angeles to New York to Madrid. Our plans extended no further than that. We had everything worked out except what kind of sandwiches we would eat at Kennedy.
By then we were seasoned travelers. Our daughter, Patricia wanted to leave ahead of us, visit a friend in Connecticut, and meet us in New York on the appointed day at the appointed time. Somewhere in Kennedy. (If you’ve never been to that airport, it’s about the size of Rhode Island.) We saw nothing wrong with her plan because she was, after all, almost a 10th-grader and as long as she didn’t go to Spain without us, what could go wrong?
Over the summer two job offers at Sunnyview School in Torremolinos came up, high school for Joanne and a 6th-7th combination for me. We accepted because, while the financial rewards were dismal, it would give us something to do while we enjoyed the culture of Spain. We adjusted our plans to include a leg from Madrid to Málaga (MAH.lah.gah), only twenty kilometers (about 12 miles) from Torremolinos.
We spent an indolent summer with Joanne’s parents and visiting friends. Our daughter was in Connecticut, but our son, Eric, who at that time was enjoying an extreme case of 8th-grade-it is, stayed with us. He aggravated his grandfather Heyser almost beyond endurance, but we kept them on opposite sides of the house most of the time and thus got through the summer without homicide, mayhem, or even a 911 call.
Eric did not want to go to Spain, and so he drew up this elaborate “rap sheet” that he attributed to the FBI. His plan was to be intercepted at Madrid airport and put on a return flight to New York. He would work out the further details from Kennedy. He had done the entire document in blue ink from a Bic pen in his finest printing, but I doubt if the Spanish customs would have been impressed. In any event, he had lost the folder by the time it came for us to leave for Spain.
Joanne, Eric and I checked into Los Angeles for our first flight. We were flabbergasted to learn that we owned another $400, right now, on the spot. Not even a kiss. The clerk contended we hadn’t paid enough on Guam. And there we stood at the head of a long line of people waiting to buy their tickets and Pat was already on her way from Connecticut to meet us in New York. There really wasn’t much time to think. So we paid the $400, vowing to write a letter of complaint and seek a refund later.
If I had thought things through, I would have bought an extra ticket for one of our suitcases, Los Angeles to New York only. It would have cost less than $400 although a boarding pass for S. Harris might have raised some eyebrows.
We met Pat and caught our flight to Madrid. It was a huge plane with humanity packed in as tightly as could be. Once underway, Joanne, still steaming about the $400, began to regale all of the passengers around her with our sad story. Others began to contribute their tales of woe. We had paid more than anybody else, but everyone had paid a different fare to be on that flight.
A flight steward appeared and asked what the problem was. I think it says somewhere in the Steward’s Handbook that you don’t ever let customers compare prices with each other. He quickly bought us a round of drinks. Doubles. Then he gave us the address of a senior vice president to whom we could complain and said something definitely would be done. It was a magic address. We wrote the letter and sent it after we arrived in Spain, but never heard any more about it. Like most magic, it didn’t work.
I suspect the steward may have given us his own home address. And I suspect something was done with our letter. In my imagination I can hear the toilet flushing now.
Copyright Ken Harris 2008
My wife, Joanne, and I taught on Guam from 1970 to 1974. Our contracts expired in June, 1974 and we decided to live somewhere else for a couple of years. We applied for teaching positions in various countries, but received no offers. So we decided to move to Spain for a year without jobs since we understood prices were reasonable and a year’s stay would not make serious indentures into our savings. (We had saved a lot of money on Guam.)
Before we left Guam we visited a travel agent and presented a specific itinerary. We bought tickets ahead of time from Agana to Los Angeles, and then Los Angeles to New York to Madrid. Our plans extended no further than that. We had everything worked out except what kind of sandwiches we would eat at Kennedy.
By then we were seasoned travelers. Our daughter, Patricia wanted to leave ahead of us, visit a friend in Connecticut, and meet us in New York on the appointed day at the appointed time. Somewhere in Kennedy. (If you’ve never been to that airport, it’s about the size of Rhode Island.) We saw nothing wrong with her plan because she was, after all, almost a 10th-grader and as long as she didn’t go to Spain without us, what could go wrong?
Over the summer two job offers at Sunnyview School in Torremolinos came up, high school for Joanne and a 6th-7th combination for me. We accepted because, while the financial rewards were dismal, it would give us something to do while we enjoyed the culture of Spain. We adjusted our plans to include a leg from Madrid to Málaga (MAH.lah.gah), only twenty kilometers (about 12 miles) from Torremolinos.
We spent an indolent summer with Joanne’s parents and visiting friends. Our daughter was in Connecticut, but our son, Eric, who at that time was enjoying an extreme case of 8th-grade-it is, stayed with us. He aggravated his grandfather Heyser almost beyond endurance, but we kept them on opposite sides of the house most of the time and thus got through the summer without homicide, mayhem, or even a 911 call.
Eric did not want to go to Spain, and so he drew up this elaborate “rap sheet” that he attributed to the FBI. His plan was to be intercepted at Madrid airport and put on a return flight to New York. He would work out the further details from Kennedy. He had done the entire document in blue ink from a Bic pen in his finest printing, but I doubt if the Spanish customs would have been impressed. In any event, he had lost the folder by the time it came for us to leave for Spain.
Joanne, Eric and I checked into Los Angeles for our first flight. We were flabbergasted to learn that we owned another $400, right now, on the spot. Not even a kiss. The clerk contended we hadn’t paid enough on Guam. And there we stood at the head of a long line of people waiting to buy their tickets and Pat was already on her way from Connecticut to meet us in New York. There really wasn’t much time to think. So we paid the $400, vowing to write a letter of complaint and seek a refund later.
If I had thought things through, I would have bought an extra ticket for one of our suitcases, Los Angeles to New York only. It would have cost less than $400 although a boarding pass for S. Harris might have raised some eyebrows.
We met Pat and caught our flight to Madrid. It was a huge plane with humanity packed in as tightly as could be. Once underway, Joanne, still steaming about the $400, began to regale all of the passengers around her with our sad story. Others began to contribute their tales of woe. We had paid more than anybody else, but everyone had paid a different fare to be on that flight.
A flight steward appeared and asked what the problem was. I think it says somewhere in the Steward’s Handbook that you don’t ever let customers compare prices with each other. He quickly bought us a round of drinks. Doubles. Then he gave us the address of a senior vice president to whom we could complain and said something definitely would be done. It was a magic address. We wrote the letter and sent it after we arrived in Spain, but never heard any more about it. Like most magic, it didn’t work.
I suspect the steward may have given us his own home address. And I suspect something was done with our letter. In my imagination I can hear the toilet flushing now.
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