Collided with the car wash

So I think we made friends at the pool?

Having previously assumed the residents of our community are all foreign, we saunter to the gates and I spot another being. Under a bush. It’s a dog (I’m not all that fussed over dogs, I’m more of a cat person) and I gently tap Mother – being quiet as not to rouse said animal. She struggles to locate the dog but eventually makes eye contact; “OH GOD! THERE’S A WOLF! THERE’S A WOLF BY THE POOL!”

At this moment, the apparent owners awaken from their sunset slumber and assure Mother it is in no way dangerous; “No, it’s okay – he’s good!”

Conversation ensues (naturally) and Mother asks what breed it is.

“He is our Belgique sheep”

“Pardon?”

“Uhh -- *turns to wife who is not quite ready for a chat* umm, no… Like German sheephuh  but its Belgique?”

“OHHH!! You mean a Belgian shepherd. Ahaa—are you sure? Hmm. I don’t think there’s such a dog.”

“Yes, it is a Belgian shepherd!”

“What’s his name? *annoying kissy-face in general direction of dog*”

“Tusha *reprimands dog in Swedish / German / Norwegian / Dutch*

Mother gains less of a distance between her and the dog; “Hello Tessa!” *more baby noises and weird air-petting / clapping*

Five minutes later and Mother has Mastermind-worthy knowledge of Belgium shepherds. I am struck with the certainty that ‘Tusha’ is an underdeveloped wolf.

Found Mother's Happy Place

A beautiful Saturday morning encouraged ideas to venture out and explore some new places. Having spent the majority of the past few weeks noting down all the great areas that we’d passed during our DIY months, we planned to spend our sunny day in San Pedro (highly recommended to us and we highly recommend it to any of you who find yourself in this part of Spain). A peaceful drive down to this nature reserve, passing sun-hatted families with their picnics and old men with their fishing rods when suddenly Mother shrieks on the roundabout. It takes me a moment to register what’s wrong and then my eyes fall upon a laminated sign on one of the exits. Ah, nothing is wrong and actually, according to Mother, everything is now so right. “Oh. My. God. Oh my God, Honey! What’s that?! Did you see that sign?! Oh, how brilliant, this is perfect!”

The sign simply says ‘PORSCHE’.                                     

Quickly, I rearrange my mind, as clearly the tranquil nature walk is thoroughly off the cards now (was it ever really on in Mother’s mind?) and we manage to sandwich ourselves between two shiny Carreras. 30 seconds later we are not surrounded by marshes, salt lakes and flamingos but a giant, polluted car park filled with beautiful cars and rich Spanish men parading around in their Porsche polo shirts and hats (yuck). Mother’s natural confidence multiplies and she heads straight to a man in an official-looking shirt. Not even a subtle ‘fake-interested’ glimpse at the cars. Straight for Juan. Juan was in a somewhat unapproachable state as he tried to fix a gauge in the car but this did not deter Mother; “HOLA! Now, I don’t speak any Spanish but I need to know everything. Absolutely. What is this on your shirt? *strokes the logo with the back of her hand… seductively or motherly I still don’t know* What does ‘PDM’ stand for? Are you the organiser? Well, if I were the organiser, there would be hundreds of people here! Absolutely hundreds! That’s what you need, you need PR.”

Juan looks terrified. He is about eighteen and is trying to bat away Sergio behind him, who is in fits of giggles. To my surprise, Juan responds in English to inform Mother that he is a volunteer for the day---

“Ohhhhh! *squeal and pat* That is just so lovely! Isn’t that lovely, Darling?!”

Mother turns to me (panic, panic) and I exchange a giggling glance with Sergio.

“You maybe must speak with Ruben, he is organiser for here today” Juan points to another man in a ‘PDM’ shirt who appears to be in deep conversation with what looks like a small crowd of VIP Porsche owners, quite possibly in the middle of a million dollar business deal.

“You know I can’t leave here without a meeting, Darling!” Mother persuades Juan to introduce her and I crave a swift exit. To no avail, as Mother addresses me to accompany her – as if this is all ‘such fun’ and not at all embarrassing.

Ruben spins around, thankfully having just ended his previous conversation. Juan witters something to him in Spanish and then hands him Mother’s business card (of which he had been given within ten seconds of meeting us). Poor Juan is cursed as translator;

‘tell Ruben this… tell Ruben that’. Thankfully (magically) Mother did not come across as over-powering and these Spanish men were simply engrossed in this new taste of foreign insanity in front of them. Sergio was particularly enjoying everything.

A successful day as we left with a meeting for later this week. Mother’s name will be on billboards everywhere before you know it. How nice.

 

Leaving Mother to fend for herself

Another trip to the City but this time I gave Mother the chance to find her own way around and get by with ‘Spanglish’. Mr Darcy* and I made ourselves scarce; filling up on frozen yoghurt (yes, thank you, I am a convert) and experienced true Murcian life. Slightly refreshing not to have to flap about in PR mode all day. I had expected Mother to return to us at the end of the day transformed into Carrie Bradshaw with shopping bags and a takeout coffee. I clearly underestimated her. When we finally met up by the Cathedral at the end of the day, Mother strolls along (yes- strolls!) with absolutely no visible shopping. Instant worry. Has she had an utterly dull day without me? Did she completely fail at ‘Spanglish’?

“HOLA! *sits* I’ve had a lovely day – but you must tell me what you did! OOOOHHHH did you take any pictures?! Tell me everything. I must know.”

So, a compact conversation ensued circling our day and how full we were. Upon asking Mother what she did with herself all day, she had very little exciting news; “Oh, I wandered around, looked for a ball gown – unsuccessful unfortunately but never mind. Stopped for lunch at Joaquin and Emilio’s which was lovely, they were very confused as to why you weren’t there.”

I think the Spanish sun has affected Mother, as she showed no signs of distress in having not found a ball gown. Or anything else.

Twenty minutes later, on our journey back, Mother suddenly exclaims; “OH MY GOODNESS! I completely forgot! I spent the afternoon in the casino! Ha ha ha!”

I should mention here that this casino is exclusive to members only – very posh. I have even witnessed a gathering of nervous school children outside, looking up in awe at the architectural masterpiece. Not touching and definitely not going past the red carpet by the front doors and… Aha. Right. The red carpet. There’s a magnetic pulse between Mother and all red carpets around the world.

“I just walked right in, Darling! The lovely young man must have said something delightful but it was all in that Spanish you see, I really couldn’t understand a thing! Anyway, I made great friends with the manager of this casino, he really is lovely! He showed me all around, I spotted a few nice Spanish men reading some sort of Spanish Financial Times and Mr Manager took me into the most fabulous ballroom! In fact, he took a photo of me in it – I must give off a grandeur impression and he thought it was appropriate.”

Mother has now been cordially invited to a dinner at the casino. I think perhaps she has been made an honorary member. It’s quite alarming how ‘timid’ is not an emotion for Mother. So there are actually benefits of tagging along with this loopy parent; I can now gamble away all my money in the classiest of places.

*(please no quizzical comments on Colin Firth, this one is even more lovely but not in a Jane Austen adaptation)

Giving Mother the opportunity to explore her maternal instinct. Or not.

A day in the city is always approved by Mother, perhaps she feels more comfortable alongside her fellow cosmopolitan commuters. Every trip, we seek a parking space in the free car park manned by the foreign crew (possibly illegally) earning a small wage each day. As we pull in, a pleasant man hastily shouts at us to follow him but Mother has become uncomfortable and shakes her head. She wishes to find her own space (independent woman) but he persists.

“NO! No, no, no, no, no, no – DON’T SHOU- NOPE! I want to park over there! IT’S NO GOOD SHOUTING ALL THIS NONSENSE AT ME IN YOUR AFRICAN-SPANISH I DON’T UNDERSTAND!”

We zoom off in the wrong direction.

Escaped parking drama and entered a new realm of awkward. Walking along the boulevard towards the shopping lanes and we encounter two young boys, around eight, playing football in the sun. Their joyous game is rudely interrupted by a vicious British woman as their ball rolls ever so gently into her path;

“Ahhhhhhhh!!!!! Oh my God, that really nearly killed me!”

Mother fixed eyes onto the two boys and sheer terror graced their faces, their beautiful golden skin turning pale. Here, Mother attempts to discipline the unknown children in English.

“Non football! Non, in park! *aggressively points to park beside boulevard* you must play in park - this is for walk – nearly killed me – very dangerous!” Hand gestures aplenty while I watch, mortified, as the boys may be about to cry. Once again, I’m on the verge of scooping them up and running away. Just as I thought it couldn’t get any worse, one of the boys regained a small amount of voice and cried out; “sowwy!” in a heavy Spanish accent. I am still recovering.

After running our city-errands we dined with our amigos at ‘the favourite restaurant’. The regular two hours of inaccurate translations proceeded, Mother completely unaware that she was attempting French rather than Spanish most of the time and was certain that everyone was laughing with her. The young waiter Mother is… let’s say ‘intrigued’ by, has become the topic of discussion this time.  Sadly, the waiter has a traditional Spanish name (of which I shall not disclose… just in case) and Mother spent the majority of the day trying to pronounce it. Frustration brewing, I broke the sad news to her that, in fact, Mr Waiter was definitely too young for her to pursue and could most probably be her son.

“WHAT?! NO HE ISN’T! Anyway he is definitely the correct age because I see a grey hair and surely that’s enough to go by I wonder if he has a yacht what do you think darling do you think he has a yacht?”

Tragically, I doubt the full-time waiter in his late-twenties owns a yacht.

Charlotte-Elizabeth xoxo

A small percentage of the clan assisting impatient-Mother