In early 1975 someone stole our passports, not just mine but Joanne’s and the kids’ as well. Joanne’s and mine would have fetched more from the fence because adult terrorists are more common than child terrorists. (At least, that's the way it was back then.)
Mine was more valuable than Joanne’s because there are more brunette, male terrorists than blond, female terrorists with freckles. But all of our passports had histories, visa stamps, exit and entry stamps, from a variety of countries, really fine platforms for artful forgers.
It was all my fault, really. I was very taken with the straw bolsos that I saw men and women carrying around town. Large bags they were, with straps so you could carry your purchases over your shoulder rather than dangling them in a hand held bag.
Bolsos also made life easier for thieves. They could just dip in and take what they wanted without fiddling around with confederates or pocket slitting. And dainty dipping had so much more finesse about it than the standard snatch and run street crime.
On this particular day I was going to the American chargé d’affaires to do something with the passports. I think they were up for renewal. In any event, I had them all with me in my trusty bolso, and they were all stolen.
I continued on to the chargé d’affaires office, but with a slightly modified mission. I wanted to report stolen passports and request their replacement. As I entered the phone rang. A pretty young lady at the receptionist’s desk did not pick up the receiver. Instead, she called into the chargé d’affaires’ office, “Señor, el teléfono.” Except when she said it, it came out, “sehn.YOR, ehl tehl.uh.FO.no.” I thought, “Dear God, I’ve lost our passports and now I’m dealing with someone’s niece who’s spending her summer vacation in Spain. Someone’s niece who flunked Spanish.”
In spite of this dubious beginning, my report was accepted and they furnished me with forms needed for replacement. Joanne took passport photos, which she then developed and printed in the family dark room. We returned the forms and sat back to wait.
Within a few weeks our children had their new passports, but ours did not arrive. So we waited and we waited some more.
After a while it became apparent that we weren’t going to get new passports, and so I wrote a letter to the chargé d’affaires stating that we didn’t mind being persona non grata, but being permanent persona non exceeded even bureaucratic bounds. What was the problem?
It turns out the feds had a question about our income taxes. They wondered why we hadn’t paid any since 1970, five years before. We hadn’t even filed. But God forefend they should actually ask. Instead, they just moved our applications from the bottom of one pile to the bottom of another.
The answer was simple enough. On Guam we became voting citizens. We filed our 1040s with GovGuam and paid our taxes accordingly. In Spain we didn’t have to pay taxes on the first $50,000 of our annual income, and we were profoundly below that level.
I realize now that even if you don’t own Uncle Sugar any money, you need to file. It simplifies matters so much. How’s Big Brother going to keep his spotting scope on you if you don’t show your bushy tail once in a while?
Eventually our new passports arrived and I only had one problem. In my passport photo I looked like Carlos, the terrorist who was running wild all over Europe at the time. Ah, well, no solution is perfect.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Our Second Car (El Coche Segundo)
After we got rid of our first car, El Flojo, we still needed a car and one day we met an Australian photojournalist who sold us his Canon® camera, lenses and bag as well as his green Volkswagen station wagon. He was gathering up some funds to finance a foray into the United Kingdom before he returned to Australia. This particular car had Dutch plates and was registered to a Brazilian.
In Spain a foreigner bought a used car for cash and didn’t bother to reregister it. So, who knows how long ago some Brazilian imported that car and registered with the government. Who knows when he sold that car for cash and left the country. Or to whom he sold the car. Or why he left the country. Maybe he wasn’t even a Brazilian, but just some guy with a stolen passport. You could write a novel about this guy. But what the hay, I had a bill of sale in case anyone asked me how I got the car. But no one ever did.
The car had a white oval decal, ringed in black, with a black “NL” on the left rear. That identified me as a Netherlander. Many, many cars sported these decals announcing their country of origin. Great Britain was fairly straightforward with their GB. But D for Germany? Well, yes, Deutschland. My favorite was CH for Switzerland. Congress of Helvetia.
It suited me to have Spaniards think I was a Netherlander. I spoke a reasonably good Spanish at the time and people would believe I was from the Netherlands. Spaniards believed that all Americans were tall, blond, blue eyed, and spoke only English. When the American Club, which Joanne and I had joined some time earlier, asked us if we would like to put an American flag decal on the car, we replied no, no, a thousand times no. I could just imagine how much the prices of things would go up if the Spanish vendor thought I was American. It was also common knowledge that Americans were all rich and dumb. So I thanked the American Club member as graciously as I could and declined her kind offer.
About the time we bought the VW we also received our international drivers licenses. Not easily come by. Required the services of our friendly gestor. We had to fill out forms and furnish our California drivers licenses as evidence of something or other.
We didn’t have to take a written test. Good thing, too. The test would have been in Spanish. In those days the Spanish government made no attempt to deal with foreigners. If you wanted to do something that involved the government, you did it in Spanish. My spoken Spanish was reasonable, but I’m not sure how well we would have done on a written drivers test.
Then we had to demonstrate our competence at the official testing area. It was a large compound involving short roads with curves, S curves, places for parallel parking, slalom courses and precision braking. And right smack in the middle was a bar. Just in case you needed a good, stiff brandy before strutting your stuff.
They really made the test difficult for their own citizens, almost as if they didn’t want them to have drivers licenses. But us, ridiculously easy. Drive forward a little ways, Stop. Back up a few feet. Congratulations, señor, you have passed the test. Vaya con Dios.
We drove until June, 1976, without mishap and when we left Spain we sold the car to Gino Hollander, a local painter with galleries in many different cities. He paid for the car with two paintings, a deal we found more than satisfactory. We just parked the car at the airport when we left and put the key under the doormat along with a bill of sale. I believe Gino’s older son used it to take some paintings to Israel. I wonder if the Brazilian was as well traveled as his car?
In Spain a foreigner bought a used car for cash and didn’t bother to reregister it. So, who knows how long ago some Brazilian imported that car and registered with the government. Who knows when he sold that car for cash and left the country. Or to whom he sold the car. Or why he left the country. Maybe he wasn’t even a Brazilian, but just some guy with a stolen passport. You could write a novel about this guy. But what the hay, I had a bill of sale in case anyone asked me how I got the car. But no one ever did.
The car had a white oval decal, ringed in black, with a black “NL” on the left rear. That identified me as a Netherlander. Many, many cars sported these decals announcing their country of origin. Great Britain was fairly straightforward with their GB. But D for Germany? Well, yes, Deutschland. My favorite was CH for Switzerland. Congress of Helvetia.
It suited me to have Spaniards think I was a Netherlander. I spoke a reasonably good Spanish at the time and people would believe I was from the Netherlands. Spaniards believed that all Americans were tall, blond, blue eyed, and spoke only English. When the American Club, which Joanne and I had joined some time earlier, asked us if we would like to put an American flag decal on the car, we replied no, no, a thousand times no. I could just imagine how much the prices of things would go up if the Spanish vendor thought I was American. It was also common knowledge that Americans were all rich and dumb. So I thanked the American Club member as graciously as I could and declined her kind offer.
About the time we bought the VW we also received our international drivers licenses. Not easily come by. Required the services of our friendly gestor. We had to fill out forms and furnish our California drivers licenses as evidence of something or other.
We didn’t have to take a written test. Good thing, too. The test would have been in Spanish. In those days the Spanish government made no attempt to deal with foreigners. If you wanted to do something that involved the government, you did it in Spanish. My spoken Spanish was reasonable, but I’m not sure how well we would have done on a written drivers test.
Then we had to demonstrate our competence at the official testing area. It was a large compound involving short roads with curves, S curves, places for parallel parking, slalom courses and precision braking. And right smack in the middle was a bar. Just in case you needed a good, stiff brandy before strutting your stuff.
They really made the test difficult for their own citizens, almost as if they didn’t want them to have drivers licenses. But us, ridiculously easy. Drive forward a little ways, Stop. Back up a few feet. Congratulations, señor, you have passed the test. Vaya con Dios.
We drove until June, 1976, without mishap and when we left Spain we sold the car to Gino Hollander, a local painter with galleries in many different cities. He paid for the car with two paintings, a deal we found more than satisfactory. We just parked the car at the airport when we left and put the key under the doormat along with a bill of sale. I believe Gino’s older son used it to take some paintings to Israel. I wonder if the Brazilian was as well traveled as his car?
Monday, September 7, 2009
Our First Spanish Rain Storm
Our house, Villa Medellín, was within walking distance of Sunnyview School to the north. Uphill, but within walking distance. We set out to walk to the school just to try things out, see if we were up to the task. It was a beautiful, sunny day without a cloud in the sky. How Spanish. After all, this was the Costa del Sol, Coast of the Sun.
To the north of the school lay some hills, and within the hills lay an active rock quarry. As we walked we heard a dynamite explosion from the quarry and watched as a cloud of dust rose into the air. Within minutes the dust reached a proper altitude and clouds began to gather round. Within an hour clouds covered the sky and it began to rain. It rained for several hours.
I recalled stories of the rainmaker going from town to town and setting off explosions, but I always thought it was fiction, something the Wizard of Oz would try. But no, it really works.
To the north of the school lay some hills, and within the hills lay an active rock quarry. As we walked we heard a dynamite explosion from the quarry and watched as a cloud of dust rose into the air. Within minutes the dust reached a proper altitude and clouds began to gather round. Within an hour clouds covered the sky and it began to rain. It rained for several hours.
I recalled stories of the rainmaker going from town to town and setting off explosions, but I always thought it was fiction, something the Wizard of Oz would try. But no, it really works.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Burro Safari
One day Jane Barbadillo, Sunnyview elementary school principal then and school director now, invited us to visit the hamlet of Tolox (tō.LŌS, more or less). You’ve never heard of the village? If you Google it, you still won’t know much because it sits in isolation, off the beaten path, surrounded by other villages you’ve never heard of. We left Torremolinos and drove and drove, and then drove some more, until we came to a turn in the road that took us off the main “highway.” Then we drove and drove some more.
We finally found Tolox in the foothills. Like many old villages, Tolox looks in on itself. Central buildings face the plaza mayor from which little streets designed for burro traffic spread out. You couldn’t drive comfortably on those streets, not even in the small European cars, because they’re too narrow. You couldn’t skateboard comfortably because the streets were cobbled. Walking had its perils.
We parked in a lot outside of town and walked to the plaza mayor where we met Señor Sanchez, bar-restaurant-burro safari entrepreneur. For 200 pesetas he offered to furnish a light breakfast of chocolate and churros (or brandy and churros if you preferred), a burro trek into the surrounding hillsides ending at a waterfall, a paella luncheon cooked over an open fire by the waterfall accompanied by beer, wine or soft drinks, a return to his stables and a sangria party. At the time 200 pesetas equaled $3.00 and change.
We enjoyed ourselves so much that we set up a field trip for a few 6th-, 7th- and 8th-graders. My part in this scheme, besides being a chauffeur, was to make arrangements for the safari with Sr. Sanchez by telephone. I don’t like talking on the telephone even in English and I really disliked doing so in Spanish. For one thing, they always answered my questions. Then what to do? My Spanish is usually good enough to say anything I wish, but I fall short at understanding rapid replies. And Spanish seems to be spoken at automatic weapon speed everywhere but Madrid. Madrileños pride themselves on clarity, but this concept has not caught on anywhere else.
I phoned Sr. Sanchez. To do so, I had to use the operator and ask for “Señor Sanches, Tolox 50.”
“Tolox cincuenta?” the operator asked unbelievingly. She was obviously used to putting phone calls through to the United Nations Headquarters or Buckingham Palace and now I show up with an obviously bogus number. I was probably some kid or a drunk tourist up to a prank.
After some hesitation, she put the call through and Sr. Sanchez sounded like he was next door.
Once we were all mounted and headed into the hills, things quieted down, at least from my point of view. The kids proceeded nose to tail on their burros and presented no difficulties. Once we got to the waterfall, they went swimming, clothes and all. Again, no problem. I wasn’t going to be the one wearing blisters in sensitive places by riding home in damp clothes.
The paella was almost ready when Sr. Sanchez broke out the beer and soft drinks. Guess which ones the kids wanted. Now we had a teeny bit of a problem that I solved by sitting on the cooler.
In due course we returned to Tolox where the children led their burros to their stalls. Sr. Sanchez had arranged for a sangria party for us all. Fortunately, one of the jennies had just foaled and the kids all wanted to be in the barn with the newborn.
It was really a great field trip, saving for the fact that Sr. Sanchez kept trying to pour booze down our kids’ throats. I later saw Sr. Sanchez burro safari as a regular offering by the Wiley Coyote Tour Company in Torremolinos. They wanted 2000 pesetas. I hoped Sr. Sanchez was getting more than 200 of that.
We finally found Tolox in the foothills. Like many old villages, Tolox looks in on itself. Central buildings face the plaza mayor from which little streets designed for burro traffic spread out. You couldn’t drive comfortably on those streets, not even in the small European cars, because they’re too narrow. You couldn’t skateboard comfortably because the streets were cobbled. Walking had its perils.
We parked in a lot outside of town and walked to the plaza mayor where we met Señor Sanchez, bar-restaurant-burro safari entrepreneur. For 200 pesetas he offered to furnish a light breakfast of chocolate and churros (or brandy and churros if you preferred), a burro trek into the surrounding hillsides ending at a waterfall, a paella luncheon cooked over an open fire by the waterfall accompanied by beer, wine or soft drinks, a return to his stables and a sangria party. At the time 200 pesetas equaled $3.00 and change.
We enjoyed ourselves so much that we set up a field trip for a few 6th-, 7th- and 8th-graders. My part in this scheme, besides being a chauffeur, was to make arrangements for the safari with Sr. Sanchez by telephone. I don’t like talking on the telephone even in English and I really disliked doing so in Spanish. For one thing, they always answered my questions. Then what to do? My Spanish is usually good enough to say anything I wish, but I fall short at understanding rapid replies. And Spanish seems to be spoken at automatic weapon speed everywhere but Madrid. Madrileños pride themselves on clarity, but this concept has not caught on anywhere else.
I phoned Sr. Sanchez. To do so, I had to use the operator and ask for “Señor Sanches, Tolox 50.”
“Tolox cincuenta?” the operator asked unbelievingly. She was obviously used to putting phone calls through to the United Nations Headquarters or Buckingham Palace and now I show up with an obviously bogus number. I was probably some kid or a drunk tourist up to a prank.
After some hesitation, she put the call through and Sr. Sanchez sounded like he was next door.
Once we were all mounted and headed into the hills, things quieted down, at least from my point of view. The kids proceeded nose to tail on their burros and presented no difficulties. Once we got to the waterfall, they went swimming, clothes and all. Again, no problem. I wasn’t going to be the one wearing blisters in sensitive places by riding home in damp clothes.
The paella was almost ready when Sr. Sanchez broke out the beer and soft drinks. Guess which ones the kids wanted. Now we had a teeny bit of a problem that I solved by sitting on the cooler.
In due course we returned to Tolox where the children led their burros to their stalls. Sr. Sanchez had arranged for a sangria party for us all. Fortunately, one of the jennies had just foaled and the kids all wanted to be in the barn with the newborn.
It was really a great field trip, saving for the fact that Sr. Sanchez kept trying to pour booze down our kids’ throats. I later saw Sr. Sanchez burro safari as a regular offering by the Wiley Coyote Tour Company in Torremolinos. They wanted 2000 pesetas. I hoped Sr. Sanchez was getting more than 200 of that.
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