Canadian Flying Wedge

Joanne went next door one morning with McConnell’s morning cup of coffee and found five young strangers asleep in his living room, two men, three women. He didn’t really know who they were. He’d only met them the night before in downtown Málaga. I got to know these young people a little, and they really had a great story. It would be a wonderful novel. If only I were a wonderful novelist.

The most serious minded of the young people seemed to be a young Canadian named Elmer. He called himself Rem. Why Rem? When he was in the 8th grade people began spelling and pronouncing their names backwards. Elmer became Remle and Remle became Rem. His mother hated it. All the more reason for keeping it. Rem was engaged to be married but his fiancé decided that it would be better to not go through with it. So Rem decided to treat himself, his sister, and a good friend, to a backpack trip through Europe using money he’d saved up for his honeymoon trip.

The three young Canadians found themselves in Málaga when a cruise ship docked. They went aboard for an evening of vino and dancing. There they met two young women, English and Irish, who had signed on with the cruise ship as dancers. Once aboard, their passports were taken from them for “safekeeping.” In the meantime, in addition to their regular dancing duties, “other services” were sometimes requested. Rem and his party were outraged and readily agreed to help the girls escape.

The ship’s purser returned the passports whenever the ship docked because the girls needed them for customs inspection. This time, however, things were going to be different. After the girls had their passports and had been cleared by customs, Rem, his sister and his friend formed a flying wedge of righteous Canadians, put the girls behind them, and barged their way onto shore through surprised passengers, crew and customs people.

Once away and fairly safe from pursuing pimps, who didn’t really want to catch them and find themselves explaining things to the guardia, our young band of refugees found themselves in the middle of the night in the dockside area of a strange Spanish city wondering what to do. Even if there had been someone to talk to, they spoke no Spanish. They didn’t know anyone in town. They didn’t know where the consulate was. Of if there was a consulate. It was a typical young person’s plan.

Fortunately for them, along came McConnell. On his motorcycle. He agreed to take them to his home. I have no idea how many trips this took.

They were really neat kids. I distinctly remember their story because when I heard it I felt old for the first time in my life. Look at it this way. I would have notified the authorities who would have assured me that things would be investigated and everything would be under control. On the whole, I think the Canadian flying wedge was the better answer.

An Unnamed Cave

Several caves in the Málaga vicinity (if you define “vicinity” broadly) are noted tourist attractions, or should be, with natural wonders or prehistoric paintings. But other caves have no claim to fame. They have no prehistoric paintings. They are not remarked in tourist guides. Fodors has nothing to say about them. They are tubes in the ground, unlit, unmarked, and fit only for teenagers to explore. Those are the good ones.

Our son, Eric, and his friend, Victor deGroot, decided to camp overnight in one such hole in the ground near Torremolinos. The boys hitchhiked to their chosen cave with cans of food and bedrolls, prepared for a great adventure. It was cloudy and threatening rain. All the better. More adventure.

Night fell darkly. Rain fell heavily. The cave leaked wetly. The boys decided that their adventure was uncomfortable and they would be better off home. But it was harder to hitchhike on a dark, rainy night and the boys met with no success. Finally some policemen pulled up in a car and made the boys stand in the rain while they played Twenty Questions. At last the police told the boys to go home. The boys asked for a ride but met with a resounding, “Nope.”

Teenage years are hard. And sometimes wet.

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.