Feeding our teenagers always presented difficulties whether we lived in California, Guam or Spain. Spain had government subsidized bread, milk and fish provided real help in filling teenage maws. Another boon to the Harris household was Smugglers’ Cheese.
Smugglers’ Cheese was processed cheese packaged in five-pound blocks and smuggled in from Holland. This cheese provided a tasty and nutritious morsel for our kids and the piranha pack who would periodically descend upon our kitchen.
The black marketer sold his cheese under the stairs of the front of the British Embassy. It was a great location because everyone knew where it was. (The embassy is actually in Madrid and Torremolinos has just a consular office.)
People probably put up with the black marketer because everyone liked the cheese including the embassy employees and the beat cop. However, I imagine he crossed a few palms with pesetas as well.
One day the embassy moved its consular office. A teacher at Sunnyview School complained, “Now where will we get our cheese?”
“Same place,” a Brit teacher replied. “The Embassy isn’t selling the cheese. It’s the black marketer.”
We were all reassured about our source of cheese and the solvency of Her Majesty’s government: they didn’t have to sell to smuggled cheese to pay their embassy office bills.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Satan's Cat
It was outside of a bar in Torremolinos, near the beach, where Joanne and I met Satan’s cat. Just like that. Satan’s cat was neither small nor large, but he gave off an aura of a saber toothed tiger. Missing left ear. Right eye, gone. Several major scars adorned his face and front end, none on the back. Satan’s cat obviously faced his troubles squarely. And loved it. Even a casual inspection from ten yards away assured you of his gender. He swaggered down the middle of whatever path he chose, this gato del Diablo, this jefe of Andalucia. He was an El Máximo.
Neither Joanne nor I would have approached him with anything short of a .357.
Suddenly two Dalmatian pups bounded out of the bar and, sighting the cat, decided it would be fun to chase it up a tree or, even better, in front of a car. They charged, but the cat, rather than fleeing, sat down in the middle of the road and eyed the young dogs speculatively. I could almost hear him think, “Shall I blind the one on the right and castrate the one on the left, or vice versa?” The cat did not run, but waited calmly and with fell intent. I smelled brimstone. The cat smelled blood.
The pups realized that something wasn’t quite right and stopped bounding and prancing. They surreptitiously looked at each other. Neither would retreat first, but for damn sure neither would attack first either.
So there the three sat in the middle of the street. They would be there yet, but the pups’ owner came out of the bar and called them to follow him. The pup followed their master. Gladly. Quickly.
And Satan’s cat went on his way, his afternoon paseo undisturbed.
Neither Joanne nor I would have approached him with anything short of a .357.
Suddenly two Dalmatian pups bounded out of the bar and, sighting the cat, decided it would be fun to chase it up a tree or, even better, in front of a car. They charged, but the cat, rather than fleeing, sat down in the middle of the road and eyed the young dogs speculatively. I could almost hear him think, “Shall I blind the one on the right and castrate the one on the left, or vice versa?” The cat did not run, but waited calmly and with fell intent. I smelled brimstone. The cat smelled blood.
The pups realized that something wasn’t quite right and stopped bounding and prancing. They surreptitiously looked at each other. Neither would retreat first, but for damn sure neither would attack first either.
So there the three sat in the middle of the street. They would be there yet, but the pups’ owner came out of the bar and called them to follow him. The pup followed their master. Gladly. Quickly.
And Satan’s cat went on his way, his afternoon paseo undisturbed.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Saloon Singers
Our neighbor, David McConnell, and I shared an interest in guitar playing and folk music. We soon agreed to sing and play together and maybe do something in public, should the occasion arise. To my surprise, thanks to McConnell, the occasion soon arose.
One of Sunnyview’s parents, Jeff Rich, ran a local Italian restaurant and bar. The restaurant and bar were on the main floor of a hotel and so, when approached by McConnell, Rich agreed to anything that might draw patrons into the bar.
I wasn’t so certain that all this was going to work out well because it had been at least four years, maybe longer, since I had taken guitar in hand and actually tried to entertain someone. But after the first few bars of music, everything was fine for me. I could remember the words, the chords, and manage to finish up at the same time as McConnell. What more could he ask?
Most of our audience were tourists for in those days you could put together six weeks in Spain cheaper than you could stay home. On Friday nights we rowed Michael ashore, sympathized with Tom Dooley, and cast longing looks at our empty tips jar.
Sometimes, to rest our voices, we would have a wine at the bar while one of Rich’s waiters put on a show. He was slim and dark haired, wore his shirt open to the navel and his pants were so tight I think he sprayed them on. He could have used his shoes as a mirror to pluck his eyebrows. He only knew the chord of E major, but he stomped his feet and wiggled his hips, shook his hair, spun the guitar like a top. And. My God, how the man got tips. The little old American ladies loved him.
One American lady, while admiring the waiter, chose to compliment me on my language. “You soitny speak good English. Wheredja loin?”
(I’m overstating her accent here. She definitely did not talk like one of the Three Stooges, but there were strong traces of New Jersey in her speech. She was fun to listen to.)
“Well, ma’am, I’m an American.”
“No, ya not. I’m from New Joisy, and I know an American when I hear one. Now where yah from?”
It hit me that this lady didn’t come all the way to Spain from New Jersey to meet Americans. She could have done that at her local McDonalds. So I confessed. “You got me, ma’am. I’m a Gallego. I come from Galicia.”
“Well, you soitny speak good English.” She was totally happy having met a native Spaniard, and such a talented one at that.
One of Sunnyview’s parents, Jeff Rich, ran a local Italian restaurant and bar. The restaurant and bar were on the main floor of a hotel and so, when approached by McConnell, Rich agreed to anything that might draw patrons into the bar.
I wasn’t so certain that all this was going to work out well because it had been at least four years, maybe longer, since I had taken guitar in hand and actually tried to entertain someone. But after the first few bars of music, everything was fine for me. I could remember the words, the chords, and manage to finish up at the same time as McConnell. What more could he ask?
Most of our audience were tourists for in those days you could put together six weeks in Spain cheaper than you could stay home. On Friday nights we rowed Michael ashore, sympathized with Tom Dooley, and cast longing looks at our empty tips jar.
Sometimes, to rest our voices, we would have a wine at the bar while one of Rich’s waiters put on a show. He was slim and dark haired, wore his shirt open to the navel and his pants were so tight I think he sprayed them on. He could have used his shoes as a mirror to pluck his eyebrows. He only knew the chord of E major, but he stomped his feet and wiggled his hips, shook his hair, spun the guitar like a top. And. My God, how the man got tips. The little old American ladies loved him.
One American lady, while admiring the waiter, chose to compliment me on my language. “You soitny speak good English. Wheredja loin?”
(I’m overstating her accent here. She definitely did not talk like one of the Three Stooges, but there were strong traces of New Jersey in her speech. She was fun to listen to.)
“Well, ma’am, I’m an American.”
“No, ya not. I’m from New Joisy, and I know an American when I hear one. Now where yah from?”
It hit me that this lady didn’t come all the way to Spain from New Jersey to meet Americans. She could have done that at her local McDonalds. So I confessed. “You got me, ma’am. I’m a Gallego. I come from Galicia.”
“Well, you soitny speak good English.” She was totally happy having met a native Spaniard, and such a talented one at that.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Robert the Bruce’s Heart and the Macho Bus Driver
We were returning from Carratraca to Torremolinos by bus once. We had gone to Carratraca from Torremolinos on the same bus with the same driver the day before. A solemn group we were, many recovering from their exertions at a discothèque the night before. Livelier than porch furniture, but not much.
` Our driver stopped the bus on the berm of a hillside road and directed our attention to the plain below. Silhouetted on a hill on the other side of the plain rose the ruins of the castle of Teba. “Here,” our driver announced, “is where Robert the Bruce almost lost his heart to the Moorish army.”
Some of our group were familiar with the story, but for others, including myself, it was totally new information. What was Robert the Bruce doing in Spain?
Actually, he wasn’t in Spain, our driver went on to explain. Just his heart was in Spain. The rest of his body had remained behind, buried at Dumfermline. The Bruce had always wanted to go on a crusade or at least make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. But, what with fighting the English, he just never had time to go. (Subsequent research informed me that Robert the Bruce changed allegiances five times in the course of his political career and spent some of his time fighting other Scotsmen as well. Politics was a murky business in those days and many Scottish nobles also held lands in England.)
When the Bruce died he begged his friend Sir James Douglas to carry his heart to Spain to fight the Muslims, or even to Jerusalem, if they got that far. The Good Sir James (also known as The Black Douglas in England where mothers used this name to scare their children to bed) set out with some soldiers and some other nobles set on adventure carrying the Bruce’s heart in a silver box. There Sir James joined forces with a Spanish army. The combined armies found themselves facing a sizable Moorish force on the plain below Castle Teba.
The Moors feinted a retreat and the Scots charged. The Spanish had seen this trick before, and so they didn’t charge. The Scots were soon surrounded, but the Douglas fought his way free. But looking back, he saw the Sinclair surrounded and fighting for his life. The Douglas rode back into the fray and soon found himself hopelessly surrounded.
He thereupon threw the silver box containing the Bruce’s heart among the enemy and charged. Both the Sinclair and the Douglas died in the battle. The box containing the Bruce’s heart was found under the Douglas’ body and returned to Scotland where it was buried at Melrose Abby, not Dumfermline.
I have gone a little overboard in telling this story, considering this is a memoir and I wasn’t there at the battle, and I’m really glad for that. It’s a fascinating story, a real story. If it were fiction, it would make more sense. I especially like the story because it demonstrates that other people besides Plains Indians can find a way to die gloriously but stupidly on the field of battle.
As the driver concluded his little story of Moorish mayhem and Scots vainglory, one of our female tourists loudly complimented him for giving such an interesting tour. “Besides,” she added, “you’re so macho.”
We burst out laughing because macho in Spain has a different meaning than it does in California or Arizona. In Spain the word refers more to endowment rather than behavior. Some less than generous people wanted to know how she knew and when she knew it. Our lady tourist, now vermillion, said, “Oops!” and sat down.
True story. Well, I don’t know about the Robert the Bruce part, but the macho bus driver, certainly.
` Our driver stopped the bus on the berm of a hillside road and directed our attention to the plain below. Silhouetted on a hill on the other side of the plain rose the ruins of the castle of Teba. “Here,” our driver announced, “is where Robert the Bruce almost lost his heart to the Moorish army.”
Some of our group were familiar with the story, but for others, including myself, it was totally new information. What was Robert the Bruce doing in Spain?
Actually, he wasn’t in Spain, our driver went on to explain. Just his heart was in Spain. The rest of his body had remained behind, buried at Dumfermline. The Bruce had always wanted to go on a crusade or at least make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. But, what with fighting the English, he just never had time to go. (Subsequent research informed me that Robert the Bruce changed allegiances five times in the course of his political career and spent some of his time fighting other Scotsmen as well. Politics was a murky business in those days and many Scottish nobles also held lands in England.)
When the Bruce died he begged his friend Sir James Douglas to carry his heart to Spain to fight the Muslims, or even to Jerusalem, if they got that far. The Good Sir James (also known as The Black Douglas in England where mothers used this name to scare their children to bed) set out with some soldiers and some other nobles set on adventure carrying the Bruce’s heart in a silver box. There Sir James joined forces with a Spanish army. The combined armies found themselves facing a sizable Moorish force on the plain below Castle Teba.
The Moors feinted a retreat and the Scots charged. The Spanish had seen this trick before, and so they didn’t charge. The Scots were soon surrounded, but the Douglas fought his way free. But looking back, he saw the Sinclair surrounded and fighting for his life. The Douglas rode back into the fray and soon found himself hopelessly surrounded.
He thereupon threw the silver box containing the Bruce’s heart among the enemy and charged. Both the Sinclair and the Douglas died in the battle. The box containing the Bruce’s heart was found under the Douglas’ body and returned to Scotland where it was buried at Melrose Abby, not Dumfermline.
I have gone a little overboard in telling this story, considering this is a memoir and I wasn’t there at the battle, and I’m really glad for that. It’s a fascinating story, a real story. If it were fiction, it would make more sense. I especially like the story because it demonstrates that other people besides Plains Indians can find a way to die gloriously but stupidly on the field of battle.
As the driver concluded his little story of Moorish mayhem and Scots vainglory, one of our female tourists loudly complimented him for giving such an interesting tour. “Besides,” she added, “you’re so macho.”
We burst out laughing because macho in Spain has a different meaning than it does in California or Arizona. In Spain the word refers more to endowment rather than behavior. Some less than generous people wanted to know how she knew and when she knew it. Our lady tourist, now vermillion, said, “Oops!” and sat down.
True story. Well, I don’t know about the Robert the Bruce part, but the macho bus driver, certainly.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Rabies in Spain
A rabies epidemic broke out in Málaga Province in 1975 and the Spanish government responded in three ways. First, they issued an edict that all dogs would receive rabies vaccinations. Second, they required that all dogs wear muzzles, with a $250 penalty per violation. Third, an order came down that all stray dogs be shot.
The first edict produced curious results. But to keep veterinarians from profiteering on the free, government-issued vaccine, all the vaccine was concentrated at a government building in downtown Málaga. The result was a monumental traffic jam as everyone and his dog from all over the province converged on this one spot. It was our experience that Spaniards culturally resist lining up for anything, preferring a great seething mass instead. A milling mob at the plaza de toros creates quite an impact after the last bull has been slain. But ten times that many people, assisted by their dogs, can tie up traffic in all directions for miles. And so it happened. It even interfered with siesta.
Eventually the traffic cleared, the dust settled, and the whimpering, barking, whining, shouting, honking, fist shaking all became things of the past. Muzzles were another story.
For one thing, there was no legal definition of a muzzle that anyone would admit to knowing about. One woman shopper in a bakery, seeing a policeman standing right outside, borrowed a white ribbon and bow, tied it around her dog’s nose, and walked right by him. Actually, she didn’t walk, she marched. She paraded. Even her dog pranced. In Spain, you get points for style. I think her short skirt helped also.
Another lady took clippers and clipped where a muzzle would go. She got away with it. In those days in Spain women expected to “get away with things” as their natural right.
Most of the Málaga dogs were unenthused about the muzzles. There was nothing in the new law that said anything about fit and sometimes small dogs tangled their feet in the contraptions hanging from their noses, while large dogs tried to wear muzzles that would barely fit over their noses.
One previously well-mannered German shepherd, Hilda, didn’t want to go for walks, something she had loved to do in pre-muzzle days. After a week of enforced promenades with the hated muzzle, she rebelled. As her owner stood at the doorway calling sweetly and holding out the leash and muzzle, Hilda ran into the dining room, leaped on the dinner table, scattering dishes everywhere, stole a whole roasted chicken, and retired defiantly to the bathroom. “I don’t understand,” the woman complained later. “Hilda’s always had perfect manners. She’s never done anything like that before.”
Toby, an Irish setter by trade, lived with an English journalist and his family on the third floor of an apartment building. He was naturally exuberant, gregarious, and loved parties. He wanted to be near to every guest and he never met a canapé he didn't adore. He was sometimes a pest, but his great charm overcame his other negative qualities.
Toby saw little use in a muzzle which interfered with his smile, the angle of his tongue droop and his ability to scoop up stray pieces of food from the street. After his first walk, he grabbed the muzzle, took it to the balcony and dropped it into the swimming pool four stories below. (This was Spain. The first story was on the second floor.)
It was the third edict condemning stray dogs to execution that I found most unusual. In the States dog catchers would be mobilized, dogs scooped up, their owners given the chance to reclaim them and pay their fines, and only as a last resort would the animals be “euthanized.” Spain had roaming firing squads.
We lived at the foot of a hill and walked to the top to our work at Sunnyview School every day. We grew to know and appreciate a saggy, mangy bitch who lived in the fields and whelped litter after litter of puppies, most of whom were eaten by predators or fell victim to passing automobiles. But though her pups died with regularity, Old Bitch, for so we called her, always survived.
But one morning as we walked to work we saw a team of government dog shooters, their official status proclaimed by their same color coveralls, creeping through the fields, hiding behind some old walls and vegetation and slowly surrounding Old Bitch. She lay in the weak winter sunlight, asleep after a hard night of raiding garbage cans, oblivious to her danger.
“It’s all over for Old Bitch,” I whispered to Joanne. “I’ll miss her.” I had grown to respect her as a survivor.
But that afternoon, as we walked home we saw Old Bitch snoozing by a thornbush. There was no sign of the dog shooters. They had her surrounded. Maybe they shot each other.
The first edict produced curious results. But to keep veterinarians from profiteering on the free, government-issued vaccine, all the vaccine was concentrated at a government building in downtown Málaga. The result was a monumental traffic jam as everyone and his dog from all over the province converged on this one spot. It was our experience that Spaniards culturally resist lining up for anything, preferring a great seething mass instead. A milling mob at the plaza de toros creates quite an impact after the last bull has been slain. But ten times that many people, assisted by their dogs, can tie up traffic in all directions for miles. And so it happened. It even interfered with siesta.
Eventually the traffic cleared, the dust settled, and the whimpering, barking, whining, shouting, honking, fist shaking all became things of the past. Muzzles were another story.
For one thing, there was no legal definition of a muzzle that anyone would admit to knowing about. One woman shopper in a bakery, seeing a policeman standing right outside, borrowed a white ribbon and bow, tied it around her dog’s nose, and walked right by him. Actually, she didn’t walk, she marched. She paraded. Even her dog pranced. In Spain, you get points for style. I think her short skirt helped also.
Another lady took clippers and clipped where a muzzle would go. She got away with it. In those days in Spain women expected to “get away with things” as their natural right.
Most of the Málaga dogs were unenthused about the muzzles. There was nothing in the new law that said anything about fit and sometimes small dogs tangled their feet in the contraptions hanging from their noses, while large dogs tried to wear muzzles that would barely fit over their noses.
One previously well-mannered German shepherd, Hilda, didn’t want to go for walks, something she had loved to do in pre-muzzle days. After a week of enforced promenades with the hated muzzle, she rebelled. As her owner stood at the doorway calling sweetly and holding out the leash and muzzle, Hilda ran into the dining room, leaped on the dinner table, scattering dishes everywhere, stole a whole roasted chicken, and retired defiantly to the bathroom. “I don’t understand,” the woman complained later. “Hilda’s always had perfect manners. She’s never done anything like that before.”
Toby, an Irish setter by trade, lived with an English journalist and his family on the third floor of an apartment building. He was naturally exuberant, gregarious, and loved parties. He wanted to be near to every guest and he never met a canapé he didn't adore. He was sometimes a pest, but his great charm overcame his other negative qualities.
Toby saw little use in a muzzle which interfered with his smile, the angle of his tongue droop and his ability to scoop up stray pieces of food from the street. After his first walk, he grabbed the muzzle, took it to the balcony and dropped it into the swimming pool four stories below. (This was Spain. The first story was on the second floor.)
It was the third edict condemning stray dogs to execution that I found most unusual. In the States dog catchers would be mobilized, dogs scooped up, their owners given the chance to reclaim them and pay their fines, and only as a last resort would the animals be “euthanized.” Spain had roaming firing squads.
We lived at the foot of a hill and walked to the top to our work at Sunnyview School every day. We grew to know and appreciate a saggy, mangy bitch who lived in the fields and whelped litter after litter of puppies, most of whom were eaten by predators or fell victim to passing automobiles. But though her pups died with regularity, Old Bitch, for so we called her, always survived.
But one morning as we walked to work we saw a team of government dog shooters, their official status proclaimed by their same color coveralls, creeping through the fields, hiding behind some old walls and vegetation and slowly surrounding Old Bitch. She lay in the weak winter sunlight, asleep after a hard night of raiding garbage cans, oblivious to her danger.
“It’s all over for Old Bitch,” I whispered to Joanne. “I’ll miss her.” I had grown to respect her as a survivor.
But that afternoon, as we walked home we saw Old Bitch snoozing by a thornbush. There was no sign of the dog shooters. They had her surrounded. Maybe they shot each other.
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