Spain's finest musicians

Experts at avoiding eye contact with fellow diners

So we appear to have forgotten what 'grocery shopping' is and had to fill the hole with a couple of tapas at our local authentic Spanish restaurant. Wonderful food has left us feeling very un-bikini-ready, however we were joined by diners with only one thing on their minds: meat. And lots of it. Had yet another glorious evening of Mother cautiously whispering a run-down on the antics from the table behind me. I must add here that such transfer of information like this has got us into trouble before (sniggering from us recognised by tempered couple and suddenly confronted by angry lady demanding to know what on earth was so funny).

As the evening progressed, Mother narrated the adventures of 'The Slobbery Brits', much to my amusement. Only one word could possibly do to politely describe the female: over-fed. Mother continued to gasp in horror as an enormous platter of meats arrived and the couple physically darted their bodies towards the food as if they had been starved of nutrition for months (probably not the case). To describe this couple accurately, I must tell you that the male addressed the female as 'mate' ( however romantic aquaintances confirmed later in the evening) from behind his iPad that sat four inches from the now half demolished table of pork chops, steaks, ribs, kangaroo (yes, really) and other delightfully frangranced carcuses.

All was not lost when suddenly a traditional Spanish band danced in with their guitars and banjos and maraccas to serenade the diners. Mother enjoyed this very much. Camera out, hips wiggling, lips giggling and almost tried it on with one of them as apparently "he looks just like Antonio Banderas, darling!!"

Sadly the entertainment didn't last long enough and our attention was forced back onto 'The Slobbery Brits'. Mother announces that she has been wondering what exactly the male is regurgitating every five minutes. Was it the bone from the steak or was it dentures? Hard to tell when his entire head was covered in brown goo.

We have yet to find an un-lobstered, clean, well-spoken Brit... Besides us, of course.

Charlotte-Elizabeth xoxo

Horror in Torre

Back to the city today, with a quick detour to Torre Golf Resort (we had been warned off this area but curiosity got the better of us). We have become expectant of losing our way now and managed to find yet another unpaved road to squeeze through. Mrs Garmin completely clueless, shouting “recalculating, recalculating, recalculating!” at us as we travelled miles up a gravel path. “Hmm, do you think this is right, darling? I wonder if all the residents of this golf resort have to travel up here. Is there another entrance?” Slowly bumping up the road and we spot a yellow car parked at the side containing several men and one slightly wobbly man clambering into the vehicle. “Oh my God, quick, let’s turn around! Honey, what do we do?! I have to turn around, who is that?!” Five seconds later I was in a James Bond movie. Sadly our car is not as robust as a Land Rover and yet we raced back to the main road, ignoring the giant rocks as we bounced over them (praise the Lord for seatbelts) and mother spinning her head back; “ARE THEY FOLLOWING US OMG THEY’RE DEFINITELY CHASING US HELP!”

Escaped possible brutal torture and finally found ourselves in the Sims. Torre Golf Resort was frighteningly doll-like; in the middle of nowhere (our worst fear) and based entirely on a computer game. Separate entrances for visitors and residents (a little snooty) and precisely cut hedges lined every street. It was a maze. Every house the same, white villas with wooden fences and cars in every drive (the occasional jet ski taking a car’s place), sprinklers, children on bikes. It does indeed sound very Desperate Housewives but unfortunately it was more a cross between The Stepford Wives and Village of the Damned. “LOCK THE DOORS! We are never, ever coming back here again!”

Rapidly obtaining more male acquaintances

A trip to Alicante to see the lady who is organising our apartment. Ready on time at the front door when Mother inhales loudly behind me; " you're wearing jeans?! Oh. You can't really wear denim, darling. We don't want to appear middle class, I want to make a good impression! Couldn't you change into a dress?" Ten minutes later I was positively upper class.

Travelling through southern Spain and we spot a run-down building on the side of the freeway with a broken-neon-lighted, under-dressed lady plastered on the side; "Oh look, Nancy's Club, darling!"

"... Mhmmm, yep, that's a strip club."

"Well, good! At least it's lively!"

Also managed to exceed regular levels of planning by actually going to the airport to ask about parking. Internet details were clearly not sufficient. I have no objections to spontaneous airport visits - I'd be quite happy to just pitch a tent in the terminal (Tom Hanks stole my life-plan). In less than an hour, Mother had made friends with two car park attendants, two information desk assistants, one Swiss air stewardess and one Italian waiter. I should mention that the latter nearly became more than a passing aquaintance. Stopped for a salad (because 4pm has apparently become lunch-time for us since we've been here) at the airport gastrobar and Mother toppled over when 'Antonio' strolled along. Another public interview as we discovered where exactly in Italy he originated (Mother politely pretended to know of the little town he was from) and then Mother's emotions very nearly got the better of her when she asked what brought him to Spain; "a girl. *bashful smile*. I met a girl and I moved here."

"Ohmygod honey! You see? I told you Italian men are romantic! Oh my god how lovely! I've always loved Italian men! Oh god, I just love everything Italian! Maybe we should be in Italy rather than Spain! I love Italy!"

Later that day we went down to our local plaza to relax. Barely five minutes later the 'Guard Civil' struts in - military black boots, handcuffs casually draped over his hips, guns in holsters, possibly a bullet-proof vest. Flirtatious wink from Mother before any other onlookers could steal his attention. Ah, he left the door open... Perfect opportunity for a 'totally accidental' encounter. Mother then spent the next five minutes calculating the exact moment she should stand up to close the door to cross paths with the 'Guard Civil'. Mental countdown begins as he strolls towards the door. Tension builds. Suddenly, a lady comes out of nowhere, stands up and hovers by the door. A huff from Mother and then; "UGHHH! JUST SIT DOWN AND EAT YOUR BLOODY CHIPS YOU STUPID BRIT!!"

Blisfully unaware of Mother's outburst, the lady gently closes the door. Mission definitely not accomplished. Oh dear, Mother looks like she might smash a plate around lady's striped-pink head.

A little bit of good news: our lovely neighbour has given Mother some 'Qualms' tablets. I like this neighbour.

Mother's QOTD: "I don't know darling, I'm just not happy in non-palacial surroundings!"

Charlotte-Elizabeth xoxo

Small struggles

 

"Having no broadband is more painful than childbirth" - Mother's morning epiphany.

I do admit, having to travel to connect with the world is somewhat frustrating, even in a paradise setting.

12:30pm : another errand-filled day began with a trip to the police station (purely for formal document things, Mother has not yet become a mass-murderer). More PR skills exposed as we tried to worm our way into getting certain documents earlier than the issue date (Mother simply doesn't wait).

12:40pm: overheard Mother's conversation with Erik (poor man who's been showing us apartments) as he explained that the dishwasher was by Fagor... generating a frown and a sigh; "Oh. Right. Why is it not a Bosch dishwasher? I only want Bosch, they are the best in England you know. I don't like Spanish  makes, they're not as good. Can't I have a Bosch dishwasher?"

"Senora, Fagor is Spain's finest make for appliances, it is same as Bosch for UK, it is best"

"Yes that may well be but it's still not Bosch is it?"

13:00pm: headed to the local library to consider it as a temporary, convenient work place. Mrs Garmin has failed us again. Trusty Google believes this Biblioteca is thirteen minutes away. Just as we set off, Mrs Garmin tells us its an hour away. Scenic trip through the mountains and many villages containing camel-like animals (?!) with multiple wrong-turns (inevitably) and we finally enter a large city. Perhaps this was not the same place Google had suggested? Lovely, tiny cobbled streets of which Mother zoomed down in our red sports car feeling very Italian and we arrived at the library. Ten minutes before it closed. We drove over an hour to arrive at a closing library only to ask them where a nearer library is.

Discovered that not-so-trusty Google was to blame. Apparently the library it had suggested has not actually finished being constructed. It opens in April.

Also discovered that there is, in fact, a very good library five minutes from where we live.

Mother is coping well (sort of) with the lack of internet connection and is managing to fly around using office spaces and business hotels. I am struggling to understand the inner workings of mobile communication and have possibly broken the internet several times.

Wish us luck

Charlotte-Elizabeth xoxo

P.S. On the bright side, the sun is shining and numerous lobster-Brits have been spotted frying themselves.

PR Queen is back in business

19:00pm: managed to get ourselves invited for dinner at the Golf Hotel. As we pull up, Mother spots an entire football team heading inside, leaps out of the car and hurries up behind them; “Darling, darling! We’re going to dine with top footballers, darling!!” Awkward encounters have not yet ceased in Spain. Mother waltzes into a huge, lavish banquet room (I nervously trail behind) and we are immediately greeted by the manager (relationship has moved quickly from formal handshakes to friendly air-kisses).

19:30pm: enjoying a lovely meal, I leave Mother for two seconds to order herself a drink and upon my return I discover that our poor waiter, Antonio, is on the brink of resigning. Oh dear, I catch Mother ordering a ‘red white’; “a tinto blanco por favor!” Brilliant.

20:30pm: retire to the lounge for coffee. Mother literally forces me to have alcohol, footballers swan about while mother telepathically flirts and Gustavo (manager) is looking on with amusement.

20:32pm: Gustavo then joins us just as Mother’s night owl persona peaks. Typical business-talk caused me to tune out (and excuse myself for two minutes) but to my surprise when I return the conversation has completely changed to personal life; “you work all the time! Do you not want to get home to your wife? Or girlfriend? Or children? Do you have children?”

Awkward.

“Oh yes, no I don’t have wife or girlfriend. I work all time. I have two girls though! Yes they are wonderful, I have two daughters. You are married? Your ring… you have husband, no?” Awkward.

“OH! *laughter* no, no, no, the ring? Ahh, I am only married sometimes, hahahaha!” His facial expression clearly showed that he had no idea this was British humour.

More exciting ventures to come

Charlotte-Elizabeth xoxo