Well, we are here, but only just. Getting here was like Frodo going up Mount Doom and I did wonder if it would ever be over. The last few days in the UK, when we were living out of one cardboard box and I was majorly stressed, behaving like a mad, inefficient Monica from Friends, everyone kept saying, don't worry, it'll be fine when you get there. I did doubt this at the time; it falls into the category of advice like "of course you're not fat," and "of course you'll get a First", i.e based on no evidence whatsoever.
In the event, the nasty premonition that the arrival would be all wrong, was actually right.
Firstly, there were the cats. I do love them, but it would have been a lot easier (and cheaper) to shoot them and buy new ones at the other end. They went mental, producing dreadful deep caterwauls and hanging their sad little paws out of the grille of their enormous, deluxe travel box. People kept turning round and staring in the airport, as if they were crazy celebrities. I kept saying things like "don't worry Shrimpy, we'll soon be there," but they clearly didnt understand and having had four days locked up before we left (if not, they would have run away, as they knew what was coming), they were completely nuts by the time we got to Heathrow. Alexander claimed when he went to the loo he could hear them in the hold and I wouldnt have been surprised. Nobody looked at the endless cat travel paperwork I had so laboriously procured; they were all very relaxed and just shoved us through, though only with about five minutes to spare as we had to go to a Special Needs bay and wait for the poor things to be loaded up. None of this process is explained by BMI, as I pointed out to the nice lady.
"We didn't really know what to do," I said, plaintively. "I couldn't get anyone to give me any advice."
"Oh, I expect you were talking to Bombay," she said. "It's not on their question list, so they don't know how to answer. The best thing is just to nip down and see us." In Heathrow, that is, an hour away on the M25, but if I'd known, I might have done it.
"You could put some advice on your website," I suggested.
"No, they don't tell you on the website," she said cheerfully. The cats looked at her pleadingly, wanting to be let out.
At the other end, they came out on the conveyer with the luggage, yowling fit to bust. Actually, we are not talking yowling, really, but dreadful, agonized, tortured screeches. They had upset their food, been sick and crapped in the box, so it was a choice of the air conditioning and the smell, or windows open and the heat.
Later, I noticed that my Spanish neighbours generally ignored the cats, while the English people treated them like temperamental royalty who happened to be travelling with us. Well, I knew the attitude to animals was different (Daily Mail donkey stories, etc) but of course they do have pets. The word for a pet is a "mascota," which is interesting: a mascot in English being something lucky you hold up during a sport match or an exam, whereas a "pet" is something you call someone up North. A lot of men around here have little dogs, the type with a smile and a curly tail; you see them walking them in Vera. It is always men, usually old men, not women. The other day in the square I heard one talking about his dog to another man, pointing out its attributes. I think dogs are something a man has in the way he might have a particular car, in any case, there is no way anyone here says "oo, de little sweetie darling, did he want some Whiskas?" the way, or treats a cat as if it were a baby, only better.
Anyway, the journey from hell continued. Oh well, I thought, we'll soon be there and it will all be lovely, because of all the work Juan Mañas has done since May. At the back of my mind, I thought: or has he? I had texted him a week ago, although I knew I should have called about a month before that, but I sort of didnt, because I didnt want to face the fact that I know what he's like, and I think I knew what he might have done, or not done.
When we got to the house and opened the door, there were three men there with the radio on. Half the ceiling was on the floor, the furniture was all in piles, and all the beds were covered in plastic. The sitting room floor was covered in rocks and cement. The cats were yelling in their box. It brought new meaning to the expression "I could not believe my eyes," because it actually couldn't register what was going on. Sandy and I just kind of looked at each other, and then sat down and felt like crying.
I shouted at the men, who looked bewildered. Juan gave me his word he would do all the work in June! Why are you here! There is a whole lot of furniture arriving on Wednesday! (this was Monday) Where are we going to sleep! The builders looked at me a bit vaguely and said they had just been called a week ago. Jose, the boss builder, said that we could probably go to a hotel, or one of Juan's houses. I said no. He said, maybe the furniture lorry could come another day. I said no, it had to go back to France. He said, well, it'll soon be finished. I said, how soon. He said, oh, two weeks perhaps.
In the end, I called Juan and sort of held back., trying to be Spanish and relaxed and think that mañana was another day, as I shrieked hysterically at him. He turned up about an hour later in his van, as he always does, and was very friendly and grinned at me. I kind of grinned back and then I asked him what he was doing to me, what happened to him giving me his word? He was a bit sheepish and gave me some rather useless explanation to do with him having done his bit but not the decorators. Anyway, he said the men would get it all tidied up by Wednesday and then come back later. Don't worry, no te preocupes. Tu tranquila. You hear these words a lot "no pasa nada," and "no te preocupes/no se preocupe," don't you worry. Also, my neighbours always say "tu tranquila," which seems to equate to, "just relax."
I was not at all tranquila, but there was not much I could do and in the end, the men worked from eight till ten at night and got it tidy enough to get the furniture in, sort of, only most of it would not go up the stairs. Fortunately Gary was there; he is a great guy and a total optimist, not at all British. The fat one, Dean, that works with him kept saying, "No way luv, there's no way any of that will get up them stairs," as if he was pleased about it (this is so typical of any UK workperson), but Gary was very positive and managed to get a lot of it in and take it back and forth and stay for hours trying to work out where it could go. We worked non-stop and had nothing but Fanta orange all day, and then fell asleep on our dusty beds, surrounded by little bits of rock.
Really this was the story of last week; get up when men arrive at 8, make coffee (getting electric shock from machine), have no time to drink it, move boxes, lose things, try to find them, can't find any paperwork needed, chargers, etc, drink Fanta, move more things, fall asleep among dust and rocks. The men were quite jolly; they sat down outside at 11 or so to have their breakfast and went off at 2.30 for lunch, but came back on the dot and worked till late, even waiting till 9 with me for a furniture lorry when it had got lost. (This was new furniture we had to buy for upstairs; the chico who delivered it was so cross at how late it was and how far away we lived, and that he had to get back to Roquetas del Mar, that he had left half the bits behind and didn't assemble it).
The first week
We had a list of things to do, all very boring and to do with banks, cars, and so on.
It was all predictably chaotic - nothing we planned in May had worked out, no surprises there. However, I did manage, finally, to get the papers for the old Hyundai from Pedro, our lawyer - after about a year. One of the decorators gave me the number of the ITV (MOT equivalent) place, and amazingly I phoned and got a time to turn up there. The conversation lasted about 5 seconds and is a model of me being English and the man at the ITV being Spanish:
Man: Digame! (this is how everyone generally answers the phone; a bit unnerving when it is briskly yelled at you - it means, tell me, talk to me, and seems the equivalent of "Yes?" in English, only presumably not so rude).
Me: Hello, I wonder if you can help me, the thing is, I've bought this house, and there's an old car, I havent driven it yet, but the thing is, I think I need to get it a test... ramble, ramble.
Man: Registration?
Me: Er (working out what "matricula" means).. hold on a minute.. Oh, I think this is it. Reads out number.
Man: 2pm, Tuesday the 31st. Hangs up.
My neighbour, Pablo, has kindly agreed to go to the place with me, which is a relief, as I can just see it probably won't be simple; the Hyundai is ok but you have to disconnect the battery when you're not driving it as the warning light won't go out and it drains it. Tu tranquila, Julia, he said.
Meanwhile, we bought a new car, a Ford Focus, ex showroom, good price. Mysteriously long and opaque transaction, during which the men kept disappearing for half hours without explanation, but it all worked out int he end. He was a very jolly and nice salesman who Pepe Lopez assures me is "buena gente", a good guy and he seemed to be: he explained it was in n his interest to give us a good deal as we might come back and get another car, which he would prefer. We met Pepe in the garage, having his 4x4 repaired; normally he is on a quad, as they all seem to be in Rambla Alhibe. He showed Sandy a lot of pictures of him racing it in Morocco, getting Sandy all excited about buying a Landrover and then hammering it around the desert. There is a big car race of some kind every other week in Vera, it seems; clearly will be on Sandy's to-do list. Clearly, having a 4x4 sends a different message in Rambla Alhibe than in Sevenoaks.
I called Inma, our lawyer, Pedro's, admin lady and failed to reach her a few times. I asked her about residency; we have a letter from the bank saying we need to renew the non-resident status on our bank account, but perhaps not, given that we will be resident. She finally says Almeria office is moving, she will find out where to and get back to me. She hasnt, yet.
Meanwhile, the broadband saga continues; we are managing with a dial-up line and a wire hanging across the stairs, which we keep tripping over.
I tried a number I found in the Ayuntiamento, claiming to call Gloria and get rural Internet, but it was Telefonica again, who were no help at all. However, I found a leaflet from a company called Iberbanda, and spoke to them in Madrid, then in the local Sorbas office, to a nice man with the wonderful name of Eulogio. Names here are great; the lady in the furniture shop is called Luz Divina. Eulogio said we had to put in an application and then they could find out if we could have the service; they won't know this till they come up here.
Meanwhile, it's down to the Lubrin library if you need a fast connection. – possibly the only practical way of getting online. The chairs are quite small; everyone else there was four years old and playing a game with a penguin; but that was OK. I can't say I've exactly missed being online, but it did give me an anxious feeling. I have always pitied those people who said they felt as if they had lost an arm when they lost a mobile phone (how is it similar, really?) but I do now see that being completely cut off from the online world is a bit unsettling. Mind you, I could get used to it easily. When the lady there finds out Sandy works for IBM she asks if he can advise them on putting wireless into the whole town; he recklessly agrees and says he can get her a free router which seems to delight her.
We go to collect our new cheque books. I now have one and BBVA in Vera have enlightened me as to why I couldnt use my passport number to access my account online. It seems they had used some other numbers from another part of my passport. No pasa nada, she reassured me, it won't matter. When we have our residency cards, they'll maybe switch it over, or maybe not.
Later in the week, the pool man, Tony, says he is having it put in in Rambla Alhibe so if Iberbanda doesnt work we can try that. He has been doing a good job on the pool, especially as he has a wasp phobia and there was a big nest under one of the loungers, and also the almond tree nearest the pool has some disease that makes it gummy and attracts wasps. We called Pablo to cut it down; his goats then came up to eat the branches, which they did in about 5 minutes flat, like a lot of locusts.) The fact is, however painful the transition has been, however much cement is in the house, and however many Spanish call centres I have to negotiate, it is quite impossible to be anything but happy sitting on the terrace in the warm, 10pm evening, watching the goats come home while the sky turns turquoise, then green and the moon rises. This is the most wonderful place I have ever been. I can't quite believe I am here; today I did about five hours of cleaning but at the end of that I dived into the pool and came out into 40 degrees and a chair with a view of my date palm.
A little reflection
I have not read a newspaper for two weeks. did read El País in the UK, but I am nowhere near a newspaper shop now. In fact is it is not high up my list; I feel much better for not reading all the depressing stories about murders and floods. This is considered to be a pig-ignorant approach but I don't care. I have always wondered about "need to know" - on what basis exactly do you need to know something? What about needing not to know? It is not as if anything happens if you don't, though no doubt my mother would point out this is how Hitler got into power, since both she and Sandy think my lack of interest in history, politics, etc, is deplorable and I am one step off Jade Goody.
I have not watched TV. (I did listen to the radio for the first time today; it was a Spanish phone in about people's psychological problems, which I partly understood though I had the feeling I was missing interesting nuances. Hmm, Marie Carmen, you must just carry on with your life.. etc.) We don't have TV yet; question whether we will, or not. We did bring the Sky box, because Sandy kept threatening me "you know, the only way you can EVER get Sky is if you bring the box with you". Well, it is in a cardboard box somewhere in the house; we'll see if we actually need it.
I have also not used a tumble dryer. It is just so great hanging out the washing, something I have not done since I was a graduate student, I don't think, when Mrs George, the bonkers landlady, used to come out from her lair with her cherry brandy and tell me I was not doing it properly and must peg things from the very edge, not fold them over; this lesson has now come very useful and I have passed her wisdom onto Lara. There is something very satisfying about hanging out washing that you just don't get from a drier/ The sun dries everything in about 5 minutes and it is an excellent thought that it would have taken me hours of electricity to dry the same stuff at home. This has nothing to do with me being environmentally aware; one of the huge reliefs of leaving the UK is not having to hear the words "carbon footprint" again: I dont think anyone in Almeria has a clue what it is, in fact, I am not sure they have got to the concept of environment really. However, here they are drying stuff on the line, and eating organic tomatoes - our neighbour in the wheelchair came up and gave me a bag the other day as a welcome gift and told me they were "ecológicos" (guessing the accent goes there) and they were certainly delicious. He also made a very nice speech about how all the "cariño" of the village would be open to me, and compared me favourably to the other Inglesa who does not speak any Spanish and has six dogs!" I will have to go round with some presents soon - it is hard to know what so I generally fall back on Tartan shortbread biscuits from the airport; suitably British though actually Scottish, as when you look there are never any traditionally English things, except a roast dinner, which you can hardly present to someone.
It is still hot at 9pm, and just now out of the window there is a beautiful sunset; on other nights the sky has been pale green beyond the hill, with a crescent moon and the evening star but today it is a pale orange; the moon moves mysteriously around the sky and changes size, but the whole sky as far as I can see is full of hundreds and thousands of stars, far more than I ever saw at home. There is no light at all, except the free street lamp stuck on every house by the council and these hardly disturb the darkness. Once it is dark, wild boars are out and about, apparently - Sue says you can tell from the smell if they have been, and certainly a patch of the garden stank the other day - though that could have been anything.
Now I am sitting here, waiting for my chorizo and patatas a la pobre to cook. There is a party of tomcats somewhere on the hill; the goat man, Antonio, is just crossing the corner of our field on his way home; the goat bells are ringing. Am home alone; kids have gone to Madrid and Sandy is on his way to New York from Madrid tomorrow. It is very peaceful; I feel more at home here than I ever did anywhere else, though I do wonder where Shrimpy is and if he has joined the cat party; he has walked further every day, and is doing new and interesting things like sleeping on a pile of boxes in the garage, climbing almond trees, and hanging by all four paws outside the upstairs windows because he hasnt worked out they have mesh outside: it was an odd sight looking out this afternoon and seeing a furry stomach pinned against the glass.
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