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.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
Juan Wayne and the Bicycle Thief
One of Sunnyview school's high school students lived with his parents and sister in one of the many high rise “tower” apartments of Torremolinos. I believe they lived on the fourth floor, but that’s only an approximation. One day he looked out the window and saw someone trying to steal his bicycle. He grabbed a bb gun and made a citizen’s arrest on the miscreant, marching him to local police headquarters. The police were not gratified to see a civilian taking such a pro-active crime fighting stance.
They weren’t very happy with the bb gun either. After Franco took over as undisputed dictator of Spain, he tried to ensure that civilians did not have guns. That way, his dictatorship could remain undisputed. In 1975, the last year of Franco’s life, rules had been relaxed a little and people with clean records could own small caliber rifles and air guns. But the police were not happy.
As the boy left the station, the police asked him, “Hey, Juan Wayne, do you mind if we make our own arrests next time?”
They weren’t very happy with the bb gun either. After Franco took over as undisputed dictator of Spain, he tried to ensure that civilians did not have guns. That way, his dictatorship could remain undisputed. In 1975, the last year of Franco’s life, rules had been relaxed a little and people with clean records could own small caliber rifles and air guns. But the police were not happy.
As the boy left the station, the police asked him, “Hey, Juan Wayne, do you mind if we make our own arrests next time?”
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
The Barbers of Torremolinos
Shortly after we arrived in Spain our son Eric and his friend, Victor DeGroot, stormed into the maid’s quarters, a tiny room of our house where I had set up my writing shop. It was a good room in which to write. It was so small you couldn’t do anything else. You’d bark your knuckles shaking martinis.
The two boys were livid, enraged. They verbally fell over each other trying to tell me their sad story. It seems that they had been riding a motor scooter the wrong way up a one-way street. Something junior high school boys do all the time. Suddenly the cops stopped them. The boys expressed their indifference to receiving a ticket but were taken aback when the cops expressed their indifference in writing them one.
They said writing a ticket to the children of rich foreigners was pointless because their foolish fathers would simply pay it for them. Instead, the police said that if they caught Eric and Victor being bozos again, they would CUT THEIR HAIR! And no razor cut hair style, either. Buzz cut.
The boys both sported shoulder length hair. Eric’s was straight and blond. Victor’s was dark and curly. Both boys were outraged. They were sure their civil rights were being violated. I wanted to point out that as foreigners living in Spain, we didn’t have very many of those, but I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
Finally they paused for breath. “Can they do that, Dad?” Eric asked.
“Do it?” I replied. “I’ll help them. I’ll sharpen their scissors.” The boys stormed out in anger and resentment. That was good. The cops got the boys’ attention. Let’s hear it for anger and resentment.
The two boys were livid, enraged. They verbally fell over each other trying to tell me their sad story. It seems that they had been riding a motor scooter the wrong way up a one-way street. Something junior high school boys do all the time. Suddenly the cops stopped them. The boys expressed their indifference to receiving a ticket but were taken aback when the cops expressed their indifference in writing them one.
They said writing a ticket to the children of rich foreigners was pointless because their foolish fathers would simply pay it for them. Instead, the police said that if they caught Eric and Victor being bozos again, they would CUT THEIR HAIR! And no razor cut hair style, either. Buzz cut.
The boys both sported shoulder length hair. Eric’s was straight and blond. Victor’s was dark and curly. Both boys were outraged. They were sure their civil rights were being violated. I wanted to point out that as foreigners living in Spain, we didn’t have very many of those, but I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
Finally they paused for breath. “Can they do that, Dad?” Eric asked.
“Do it?” I replied. “I’ll help them. I’ll sharpen their scissors.” The boys stormed out in anger and resentment. That was good. The cops got the boys’ attention. Let’s hear it for anger and resentment.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
The Driving Test
We didn’t really want to drive when we first moved to Spain. Spanish traffic was scary, even though we had driven the Los Angeles freeways. I mean, those guys are nuts. Someone coined a phrase for the Spanish driver’s attitude. Viva Yo!
But after a month of watching the traffic flow we realized that we weren’t going to see very much of Spain without a car. We bought a car, El Flojo, and set about getting international drivers’ licenses.
We made applications and appointments to take the test at the central complex in Málaga where all drivers written and driving tests were administered, We showed them our Guam licenses to demonstrate that we had some knowledge pertaining to automobiles. They regarded the licenses with a little suspicion. What’s a Guam? What planet is that on? But eventually they accepted the licenses and the examiners informed us that the written test would be waived. This was good because the test was in Spanish and I’m not sure we would have passed. We handed in our applications and waited for an examiner.
At that point we had a chance to examine the physical layout of the test center. There were obstacles all around us, artificial hills on which to stop and start up again, places to parallel park, slaloms to go through in forward and reverse gears. You name it, if it was an obstacle, they had it. And in the center, right next to the written test center, was a large bar. If you blew the driving test, you could knock back a couple of brandies and go out and try again when your confidence had been restored. In a way, it makes sense. You want your examinees to drive under realistic conditions, and many people drove over there with an alcoholic ballast in their bellies. But it did give me a whole new slant on the phrase “passing the bar.”
We finally drove out with our examiner. We each drove forward, stopped, backed up. That was enough! We passed. Surprise, surprise. Nobody really wanted to give money-bearing foreigners a hard time. Real Spaniards had a much more difficult time with the test, because the government was just as happy if they didn’t drive.
But after a month of watching the traffic flow we realized that we weren’t going to see very much of Spain without a car. We bought a car, El Flojo, and set about getting international drivers’ licenses.
We made applications and appointments to take the test at the central complex in Málaga where all drivers written and driving tests were administered, We showed them our Guam licenses to demonstrate that we had some knowledge pertaining to automobiles. They regarded the licenses with a little suspicion. What’s a Guam? What planet is that on? But eventually they accepted the licenses and the examiners informed us that the written test would be waived. This was good because the test was in Spanish and I’m not sure we would have passed. We handed in our applications and waited for an examiner.
At that point we had a chance to examine the physical layout of the test center. There were obstacles all around us, artificial hills on which to stop and start up again, places to parallel park, slaloms to go through in forward and reverse gears. You name it, if it was an obstacle, they had it. And in the center, right next to the written test center, was a large bar. If you blew the driving test, you could knock back a couple of brandies and go out and try again when your confidence had been restored. In a way, it makes sense. You want your examinees to drive under realistic conditions, and many people drove over there with an alcoholic ballast in their bellies. But it did give me a whole new slant on the phrase “passing the bar.”
We finally drove out with our examiner. We each drove forward, stopped, backed up. That was enough! We passed. Surprise, surprise. Nobody really wanted to give money-bearing foreigners a hard time. Real Spaniards had a much more difficult time with the test, because the government was just as happy if they didn’t drive.
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