Monday, April 27, 2009

Spanish Coffee

One Saturday morning Gail Meredith-Smyth, one of Sunnyview School’s two office staff members, arrived at our house. It was early Saturday morning, in fact. Joanne and I were still in bed.

Gail did not come to our house on a whim. It had been pre-arranged that we would all go to the village of Antequera together by bus. The bus left early. Gail knew that. We had not internalized that information.

To go to Antequera by bus we first had to go from Torremolinos to Málaga by bus, and that bus was leaving soon. She brightly announced that she would “put the kettle on,” and she did. I don’t know why she put the kettle on. We certainly didn’t have time for a pot of tea before we caught the bus for Málaga. Maybe it’s something in the British DNA.

We dressed in a hurry, turned the kettle off, and left. We arrived two buses later in Antequera shortly after 9:00 a.m., too late for breakfast. Spaniards are not big on breakfasts anyway. A slice of bread dipped in olive oil and freshly minced garlic (delicious) and a shot of brandy, and they’re good to go. Or if not brandy, aguardiente, “toothwater”, a really disgusting licorice flavored booze. Joanne and I were not raised that way, and we wanted some real food for our breakfast. Too bad. So sad.

We did promote some coffee. You could tan leather with Spanish coffee. For a demitasse of coffee you run steam through a demitasse of grounds. The result is mixed with milk and a generous helping of turbinado. Turbinado is the brown, lumpy sugar you find in some health food stores. It’s about all we used in Spain. The resulting beverage was almost as effective as mainlining caffeine and it kept us on our feet and going all morning.

And go we did. We climbed up the tallest hill to visit the Moorish castle ruins. Then we walked over to the local palace to visit the museum. Then we walked out of town to see the dolmens, burial chambers dating back to the Bronze Age. No bodies in the burial chambers. No bronze, either.

We walked everywhere until 1:00 p.m. when we could wrap ourselves around some pork chops and wine. I had drunk Spanish coffee before, but this was the first time I had ever put it to a real test. It’s amazing stuff. Jet fuel.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

A Boy (Spanish) and a Girl (Canadian)

We met our boss, David McConnell, in downtown Torremolinos for wine one night. When we arrived we found him ensconced at a table with a nubile Canadian girl celebrating her 18th birthday. Our friend Ina Robinson once said that all women either had bosoms or bazooms. This bazoomy girl from Canada wasn’t sure what was going to happen on her 18th birthday, but she was sure it was going to be wonderful.

Our own children were not much younger than this girl and Joanne was heard to call McConnell “cradle robber” under her breath. He retorted, “Easy, ‘Mom.’” And to be perfectly honest, we didn’t know what plans McConnell may have had for the evening, but they were complicated by the presence of a third party, a young Spanish male dressed most stylishly. He wore his shirt open to the navel. A gold colored medallion dangled from his neck by a gold colored chain. We knew he was no spy because there was no room in his pants for even a microdot let alone a secret message or stolen state paper.

Joanne took exception to the boy’s style, or lack thereof. If you’re going to be a sophisticated seducer, you should have more than two squiggly little chest hairs. She decided that if he was going to run with the big dogs then he should learn to drink like them as well.

She bought him a wine. And another. And another. We spelled each other so we didn’t have to match him drink for drink. He soon began to make trips to the men’s room, from which he returned with water dripping from his face, hoping a cold splash would reduce dizziness. It doesn’t. I speak from experience here. He frantically suggested we adjourn to a discoteca magnifica where we could dance. We wouldn’t hear of it. By Jove, this wine is splendid. Let’s have some more, shall we?

The young Spaniard was game but eventually lurched home. He probably had a head as big as a soccer field the next morning, but maybe he learned something. I hope he learned that if intended to run with the big dogs he should button up his shirt. Or at least paste on some phony chest hairs.

We went home shortly after the Spaniard’s departure. Never did find out what happened with McConnell and the girl. None of our business.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

The Haircut


The Haircut

The time was late 1974 or early 1975. Our son, Eric, and his good buddy, Victor Degroote, together ruffled far more feathers than either could have hoped to have done individually. Wherever they went, the boys brought with them a whole
new level of meaning to the word “synergy.”

The biggest problem I had with Eric and Victor was keeping a straight face. Once the two boys invaded (they never quietly entered anywhere) my “office” where I was working on some travel articles. They were outraged.

It seems they had been riding double on a motor scooter. Nothing wrong with that, actually. It's done all the time wherever I've lived. But they had been going the wrong way on a one-way street. They might have thought they could see traffic better that way. But I suspect they just didn't think.

Surprise, surprise, the Spanish traffic cops picked them up. The boys were fearless and defiant. “Go ahead, issue your tickets.”

I don't remember which boy issued the challenge. Maybe I never knew. But the cop's response was great, I thought. “No, we're not going to write you tickets. Your rich American fathers will just pay them. Instead, we'll cut your hair.”

That got their attention. At that time long hair was “in,” and every teenage boy with any idea of style wore his hair as long as or longer than the girls did. Tickets? No problem. Daddy fix. But the loss of their hair would have been an unsustainable outrage. “Dad, can they do that, just cut your hair like that?” demanded Eric.

“Do it? I'll help 'em. I'll sharpen their scissors.”

Well, no nurturing parent there. They left muttering to each other about life's basic unfairness and Eric's bad luck in having a father who actually sided with the law. Actually, I would have liked to see him wearing short hair. I used to tell him that the reason he did such strange things was because his hair sucked all the blood away from his brains.

Copyright Ken Harris 2009

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Grog

When we lived in Spain we met a huge, black, vile-tempered cat named Grog. Grog had a family, the Hickeys, a man, a woman, a teen-age boy, a pre-teen girl, each one of them the soul of sweet reason and amiability. Grog took it upon himself to be ill-natured for all of them. What a guy.

The first time I met Grog I discovered that he permitted his person to be touched only by members of his immediate family and such others individuals as he had personally inspected. I failed the inspection.

Grog’s mama apologized, but I told her not to worry. It was my fault entirely for attempting to pet an animal without a formal introduction. Anyone that rude deserved to bleed a little.

The next time I visited, I decided to leave Grog alone. I studiously ignored him for almost an hour. But Grog, disagreeable creature that he was, decided that we were going to be bosom friends. He plonked himself on my bosom and demanded to be petted.

Grog was, in a word, difficult.

The family decided to return to the States, but before Grog could go with them he had to receive a battery of shots. Somehow he was enticed into his kitty cage and, accompanied by his mama and his pet girl, off he went to the vet. Unfortunately for everyone, Grog’s family spoke little Spanish, the vet spoke less English. After several hectic minutes of a curious mixture of Spanish, English, French and German words liberally laced with hand gestures, the vet understood that he was to stick needles into Grog. The family warned the vet that the cat would probably object to being pierced and offered to help. The vet, however, declined all offers of assistance and told them to come back at five o’clock to recover their pet.

When they returned they found a disturbed cat and a disturbed vet having a stare down. Grog was still in his carrying case, well toward the back so he couldn’t be scooped out by surprise. The vet’s arms were decorated with iodine and Band Aids. Grog wore a defiant look, tinged with contempt, while the vet’s eyes expressed a combination of anguish, frustration and loathing.

Grog’s girl reached into the carrying case and gathered Grog in her arms. The vet grabbed his needles and quickly gave the cat his shots. “There’s the Grog monster, all shot,” murmured the girl.

“Ojalá” muttered the vet under his breath. That’s Spanish for “so mote it be.”

Mrs. Hickey informed me recently that Grog lived for several years in the States but eventually succumbed to coyotes. As big and assertive as Grog was, I'm sure there was more than one coyote involved, and I'm dead certain that he did not go gently into that good night.



Copyright Ken Harris 2009