As we wound down our time in Spain in the Spring of 1976, one of our last official acts was to throw an anniversary party for ourselves. It was our twentieth anniversary. In the States we had entertained by inviting other people into our homes. In Guam extended families either attended fiestas or gave them. But in Spain the custom was to invite each other out to restaurants.
For example, we knew of a fish place in The Calvario, a village sparated from Torremolinos by a protrusion of land that swept into the Med. The little fish place had no menu because they didn’t know what was going to be caught that day. Each time we ate there, we’d have to go through a little ritual.
“Hay calamari?” (Squid)
“No, no hay calamari?”
“Hay boquerones?” (Deep fat fried fingerling fish, eaten bones and all. Full of transfats. Yum.)
And so we would proceed through the same litany every time we went there. But we could always depend on fresh fish, salad, bread and wine for about $2.00 a head.
Our multlilingual neighbor, Claude deBretteville, always solved most of our problems, whether it came to procuring entry stamps for passports, finding a hotel room during Romería, or, in this case, finding a suitable restaurant for our party. She found a very small restaurant on the outskirts of town that had been used as a stage coach house in the early 17th century and had stayed in constant operation since. Ventorilla La Perra.
The restaurant was small but had an ambiance a Stateside business would kill for. It was actually built 300 years ago, not two years ago and made to look old. White stucco exterior, tile floors, wrought iron. Our 22 guests dined outdoors that evening on paella, salad, and bread. The paella contained shellfish, lobster, fresh asparagus. Gourmet magazine could have featured this dish. We also had an open bar. Our guests could have as much beer, wine or soft drinks as they wanted. I suppose tea and coffee as well.
It was a wonderful party. To employ the old cliché, a good time was had by all. I especially had a good time when I got the check. It was about $80 U.S., generous tip included. And we didn’t even have to clean up. We just went home. Now that’s the way to celebrate an anniversary.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
University Tee Shirts
In 1975-76 Spain was a cheap, cheap, cheap place to take a vacation. That made it attractive for college-age people to go walkabout in those days as part of their coming-of-age experience. Armed with backpacks and Eurail passes, you could find them in every town in Europe.
You could especially find them in Torremolinos, which had a cachet to it thanks to James Michener’s book The Drifters. First published in 1971, was a hugely influential book, translated into at least ten European languages. Five translations, Dutch, Finnish, German, Portuguese, and Spanish, featured the name “Torremolinos” in their titles. It would have been the answer to the Chamber of Commerce’s prayer, if only the Hippies brought more money with them.
Many of the young people traveling in Torremolinos on the cheap were university students during the fall, winter and spring months. They wore tee-shirts all over the street advertising this university or that. I suspect there were far more university tee-shirts than university students, but I’m of a suspicious nature. I think the expectation was that Ohio State people would see each other and hang out together. But why you would go all the way to Spain to hang out with someone from your own university? I never understood the thinking there.
Confounding the scheme, however, was the practice of exchanging tee-shirts. After a few brewskies there would be a round of tee-shirt exchanges and someone wearing an Oxford shirt might not even speak English. He might be a Heidelberg student and the person he exchanged with spoke no German.
We saw lots of Oxfords and Sorbonnes, lots of Georgetowns and Ohio States. Didn’t see too many Bob Jones Universities. The most popular tee-shirt of all was UCLA’s. You could probably get two Sorbonnes and a beer for a UCLA shirt in good repair. Free market economy, nothing like it.
You could especially find them in Torremolinos, which had a cachet to it thanks to James Michener’s book The Drifters. First published in 1971, was a hugely influential book, translated into at least ten European languages. Five translations, Dutch, Finnish, German, Portuguese, and Spanish, featured the name “Torremolinos” in their titles. It would have been the answer to the Chamber of Commerce’s prayer, if only the Hippies brought more money with them.
Many of the young people traveling in Torremolinos on the cheap were university students during the fall, winter and spring months. They wore tee-shirts all over the street advertising this university or that. I suspect there were far more university tee-shirts than university students, but I’m of a suspicious nature. I think the expectation was that Ohio State people would see each other and hang out together. But why you would go all the way to Spain to hang out with someone from your own university? I never understood the thinking there.
Confounding the scheme, however, was the practice of exchanging tee-shirts. After a few brewskies there would be a round of tee-shirt exchanges and someone wearing an Oxford shirt might not even speak English. He might be a Heidelberg student and the person he exchanged with spoke no German.
We saw lots of Oxfords and Sorbonnes, lots of Georgetowns and Ohio States. Didn’t see too many Bob Jones Universities. The most popular tee-shirt of all was UCLA’s. You could probably get two Sorbonnes and a beer for a UCLA shirt in good repair. Free market economy, nothing like it.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
The Guys with the Funny Hats
The guardia civil are those Spanish cops who wear the silly little patent leather hats and carry the silly little Schmeisser machine pistols. One look at these guys and you know that there is not a gram of humor there.
They and their families live in their own community called a cuartel. Single men live in smaller, bachelor quarters. All the rooms face inward. Four massive walls and a few guarded gates present the outward face to the public. Why mince words? It’s a fort.
In those days members of the guardia never served in a part of Spain where they might have extended family. Police from Galicia service in Andalucia. Police from Andalucia served in Murcia. This reduced the strain of having a family member want a break when apprehended in a no-no.
Here’s a guardia story about a man who owned the bar where McConnell and I dazzled the Icelanders with our many repetitions of Battle Hymn of the Republic. He told me he was at home one afternoon when a loud knocking sounded at the door. Two guardia civiles stood there, silly hats, Schmeissers and all. They told him that the commandante requested the honor of his presence at headquarters at the cuartel immediately. He accompanied the policemen, of course, and upon arriving at police headquarters encountered--a plumber.
The bar owner had hired this particular plumber to do some work at the restaurant and paid him in advance in the form of two checks. The plumber did not complete the work. The owner asked his banker if he could cancel the checks. The banker said of course he could. But the banker say what would happen next. So much for don't-ask-don't-tell.
The commandante listened to both our hero's and the plumber’s stories. Then the commandante told the plumber that starting the next day he would work and complete his job in a satisfactory manner. The alternative was to be put out of business. This was not an idle threat.
Then to my friend he said, “You may not know this, being an American, but when you write a check in Spain, it is a contract. When you cancelled that check, you breached that contract. Now here’s what you are going to do, señor. You are going to write the plumber another check right now, and if it bounces, I will put you out of business.” That was not an idle threat, either.
The guardia civil never made idle threats. That’s why people didn’t mess with them.
They and their families live in their own community called a cuartel. Single men live in smaller, bachelor quarters. All the rooms face inward. Four massive walls and a few guarded gates present the outward face to the public. Why mince words? It’s a fort.
In those days members of the guardia never served in a part of Spain where they might have extended family. Police from Galicia service in Andalucia. Police from Andalucia served in Murcia. This reduced the strain of having a family member want a break when apprehended in a no-no.
Here’s a guardia story about a man who owned the bar where McConnell and I dazzled the Icelanders with our many repetitions of Battle Hymn of the Republic. He told me he was at home one afternoon when a loud knocking sounded at the door. Two guardia civiles stood there, silly hats, Schmeissers and all. They told him that the commandante requested the honor of his presence at headquarters at the cuartel immediately. He accompanied the policemen, of course, and upon arriving at police headquarters encountered--a plumber.
The bar owner had hired this particular plumber to do some work at the restaurant and paid him in advance in the form of two checks. The plumber did not complete the work. The owner asked his banker if he could cancel the checks. The banker said of course he could. But the banker say what would happen next. So much for don't-ask-don't-tell.
The commandante listened to both our hero's and the plumber’s stories. Then the commandante told the plumber that starting the next day he would work and complete his job in a satisfactory manner. The alternative was to be put out of business. This was not an idle threat.
Then to my friend he said, “You may not know this, being an American, but when you write a check in Spain, it is a contract. When you cancelled that check, you breached that contract. Now here’s what you are going to do, señor. You are going to write the plumber another check right now, and if it bounces, I will put you out of business.” That was not an idle threat, either.
The guardia civil never made idle threats. That’s why people didn’t mess with them.
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