A while ago I published an essay about returning, after 25 years, to La Alberca, a village in the western end of Castilla y León. It seemed quite popular with readers, so I decided to do an audio version of it, since there are probably many subscribers to my podcast who might not come to the blog. I’m also dabbling with a new keyboard I bought recently. So this is the first time I’ve ever added my own music to an episode. Let me know what you think. Thanks for listening.
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On my way to watch last week’s Spain-France World Cup qualifying match, I thought about my friend James and shook my head with a chuckle. Dear old James. Poor chap is afflicted with the most absurd superstitions when it comes to sporting events. You probably know the type. If his team loses, it was because he was there. Or maybe because of something he did. Or something he didn’t do. Who knows where he got the idea he could jinx sporting events? I don’t pretend to understand the man and besides, that’s up to his therapist to figure out, not me.
The day of the game, Continue Reading →
When I first moved to Spain I used to get a kick out of touching fruit in supermarkets. I’d be walking through the produce section and say to my girlfriend, “Watch this…,” and as we passed near a bin piled high with oranges I’d reach out and tap one quickly with the tip of my finger–always looking around beforehand, naturally, to make sure nobody was watching. “Ooooh,” she’d say in mock horror, “you are bad!”
Perhaps I should explain. Continue Reading →
In the Mercado de Bailén, in Malaga, a fishmonger gave me the lowdown. If I wanted to see the boats unloading fish, I had to go to Caleta de Velez. In Malaga, only a few boats come in every day. The port of Malaga is too expensive, he told me, so the fishermen go to Caleta, only a short drive up the coast.
By the time I got there, many of the boats were already tied up to the dock and more were coming in; big boats, motors chugging in a throaty diesel rumble as they shifted into reverse, gunned it for a second or two, and glided gently up to the dock with unerring precision. Continue Reading →
My friend Iñigo has no sense of direction. I realized that after he got lost even though he had a windshield-mounted GPS that uttered clear directions in a soothing female voice. Janet or Sara or Melinda, whatever her name was, knew where she was going. Iñigo, however, had no idea. On our first wrong turn, Iñigo turned to me and said with a smile, “I’m the worst with directions.”
I thought the fact he admitted that, and still had the confidence to ignore the GPS woman’s instructions, was really quite admirable.
I wasn’t any help either because I didn’t even know what we were looking for. I thought we were going to visit a chicken farm west of Madrid near El Escorial. I got up early on a Saturday and took the Metro over the Iñigo’s place, wondering whether I had made a wise choice of footwear. (I was thinking, rubber boots would have been ideal.) Turns out we were going to a tomato farm on the road to Valencia. Okay then.