Spain, 1998

Arriving in the country, it appears you have entered a parallel universe. Chaos reigns, not only at the airport but on the roads around and out of Madrid and people are constantly shouting. They’re not angry, simply communicating and the only way to make your undoubtedly important opinion heard is to be louder and gesticulate more than the person next to you. Completely normal. Therefore, when you, as a foreigner, find it amusing, no-one else does. The Spanish sense of humour is perhaps less ironic than the English. They are more direct, more provocative. They long for confrontation among friends. The English laugh at situations, they create them. But they won’t lie to keep friendships nor flatter to impress. Honesty and openness is hugely respected. It may take some time to prove yourself or integrate as a foreigner, but once you’ve achieved it, you have found true friends, who will greet you in the street and be offended if you don’t stay for one more drink. And yet Spain is a country of contradictions and full of surprises, as are its people. The Spanish are also quick to criticize their own country, sports teams, politicians, sometimes with a tendency to blame others. Could passing the buck be a national sport?

While all of the above may seem like stereotypes, these were my impressions on arriving around 25 years ago. And I’d say for the most part they weren’t far off.

So, on to a couple of specific Brief Encounters during my first year working in Spain. If you have ever driven through Spain, you will no doubt have had some experience with the traffic police, the Guardia Civil. While they have various other remits, where the man-in-the-street is mostly likely to have dealings with them is on the roads. They are pretty ubiquitous and maybe one of the most ominous sights for a motorist is that of a white and green car pulled over onto the hard shoulder.

On one occasion, completely lost in quite a large town, in the province of Jaén, we found ourselves needing to ask for directions. We, my fellow tour buddy and I, were lost in the heart of Andalucía.  Now this is no small obstacle. In Andalucía, road signs were scarce. It’s as if intuition should guide you, bearing in mind these were the days before GPS, at least for us in our battered van with only a radio and a tape deck. But I digress. Back to the Guardia.

One of the things that shouldn’t have amused me but did is that if you approach them they will salute you and say Buenos días before anything else, whether they stop you on the road, come into contact by chance, or even arrest you. The bizarre thing is that I found myself saluting back to the Guardias in question, (they always come in twos), hardly aware of what a ridiculous gesture it was, yet it was automatic. I have no background whatsoever in the military or the police, hence the ridiculousness; I guess nerves had set in.

Note: I was stopped during lockdown at a random check to see if I had permission to be out, and when I said I was on my way to the hospital, the officer in question did not even ask for my papers (which I was quite disappointed about as I had them all to hand), but wished me a good day, said he hoped everything would go well, and waved me on my way. Couldn’t have been nicer.

Anyway, after the awkward call for help, Perdone!, from our van, and their leisurely saunter over, followed by the weird game of salutes, we asked for help. They looked at us blankly. It may well be they were not even from the town we were in and just passing through, but heaven forbid they should admit to that. Public servants after all. Anyway, the upshot was that neither of them knew the street we wanted and after so much formality, they waved vaguely towards the centre of the town, supposing it was where we wanted to go.

What happened next was surreal on the next level, if you consider what had come before was already a little weird. An elderly man approached, dressed in a suit, sweater vest and flat cap and elbowed his way between the two Guardias to approach the passenger window; (we’re still in the car with the engine running.) I must say at this point that it was just as well I was in the passenger seat, as my fellow actor had little Spanish at that point. Although, to be honest, despite having studied Spanish at University, mine, on this and many other occasions, was not quite up to dealing with the unpredictability of certain situations in a foreign country.

However, this elderly gentleman physically butted in and started giving us directions. This was the kind of man who hangs around on the street watching roadworks or house construction, and is more than happy to throw in his two bob’s worth. Maybe his wife threw him out for the mornings while she did household chores, who knows? But he was more than happy to help and had no qualms whatsoever about elbowing out the authorities. At least he was a local, which soon became apparent. Amidst gesticulations, a thick Andalucian accent and general disdain for both us and the Guardias he had so efficiently set aside, he gave us directions, which, by the way, turned out to be correct. Well, more or less. We had to stop again at the fountain two roundabouts further down the road, but I’ve no doubt his intentions were good.

The farcical nature of this episode was only exacerbated by the reaction I saw in one of the Guardias. Although I found it hard to suppress a giggle at the unexpected turn of events, I did not expect law and order to react similarly. As I looked out of the car window, concentrating on what this enthusiastic local was telling me, I could not help but see out of the corner of my eye, the guardia, attempting desperately to maintain a fixed, authoritative expression, while the twinkling of his eyes betrayed the fact that he was as amused as I.

Perhaps bemusement is more often the attitude I have experienced on my travels. A case in point:

One night in December, we were driving back to Aranjuez from Pamplona. It had been four and a half hours there in the afternoon, a show, and then leaving at 10.30 pm. Clearly the same length journey on the way back, so naturally by 2 am we were tired and hungry and needed to stop. It was cold and extremely foggy, so a pitstop was called for at one of the few all night petrol stations there seemed to be. We pulled in and hopped out of the van, shivering with cold, my work buddy still half in costume, with braces hanging down to his knees and both of us giggling from tiredness and cold. Yes, I realise this doesn’t give a good impression of life on tour, or responsible driving, but these things happen. The night had already taken on a surreal quality, given the hour and the circumstances, but to enter the shop and find two guardias, one smoking, staring around the shop for all the world as if it were completely normal, (this was when you could still smoke in petrol stations, oh Happy Days), one eating a floppy packet sandwich, and chatting to the attendant, well, it topped the night. They clearly had no rush to be anywhere and perhaps they spent many nights engaged in similar activities.

The three did not speak to us, or scarcely, but watched intently, which only served to heighten our hysteria though we tried to conceal it, and raise an eyebrow from the smoker.

As I got back into the driver’s seat and switched on the lights, I was aware of the smoker behind me, (yes on the forecourt of the gas station), ostensibly trying to see me out (it was very foggy), and be a helpful citizen. Unfortunately, I misunderstood a gesture. Come here and Move away seem to be opposites to English as far as Spanish sign language is concerned and consequently, I nearly hit the truck parked behind us. Recovering myself, I put the car into first, tried and succeeded in pulling away without stalling, but have an indelible image of the guardia in my wing mirror, looking bewildered but completely relaxed. This kind of thing happens every day, no doubt. All we could think of as we drove away was their image of us; two badly-dressed foreigners entering a petrol station for sandwiches, coke and peanuts at 2 am in the middle of nowhere, (well, somewhere in the region between Zaragoza and Guadalajara; if you’ve ever been you’ll understand this description), in a Toledo reg C15 van.

Bemused they were.

I suppose the point of what I have just shared, if there is one, is that;

I have vivid memories of my first years in Spain, living here and experiencing life, not just as a tourist, which will stay with me forever…

immersion in a different culture is enriching, curious, memorable, often funny and its benefits are unquantifiable…

and…

learn to embrace the madness.

NEW PODCAST AVAILABLE! At link below and on Spotify

Episode Thirteen: Curious Words J-L