Remembering my first job with Defex in the arms industry, a “surprise visit from Suzy”, Oli reporting for TVE from Galicia, a heat wave in Madrid, the Ghosts of Spain and the connection with Tárbena, a lazy day by the pool with the family and other stories.

Me in 1982 at the Defex stand at an arms fair in Athens, my first business trip ever.  I was just 25.

Hi again everyone,

Last Sunday when I posted my blogpost on Faceook I got comments from an ex colleague, Iñigo, who used to work at the same company, Defex.  He said: “Do you remember Athens in 1982?  How could I forget?  So I foraged in our old photograph albums and dug out a photo of myself at the Defex stand at an arms fair in Athens, as well as a photo of the colleague and myself by the Acropolis. 

In Athens by the Acropolis with Iñigo and on the Defex stand at the arms fair - 1982

How could I possibly forget my first business trip abroad? I was just 25 and couldn’t believe my luck checking into the Hilton Hotel when all my trips up till then had been on cheap trains and sleeping at sleazy hotels around Europe.  It was in Athens where I first tried lobster which has gone on to be my overall favourite food.  It was in Athens too that I treated my taste buds to dishes like houmus or stuffed vine leaves.  And it was in Athens where it took me, together with Iñigo and Miguel S, more time than anyone else to set up our stand and to take it down in the port of Piraeus.

Defex was my first job.  When I applied for a secretarial/translating post with the company after seeing a vacancy published in El País, little did I know what I was letting myself in for.  I had been living “in sin” with Eladio discreetly in a working class area called Saconia for a few months and searching for a proper job whilst making a meager existence by teaching English to unwilling Spanish schoolchildren so I was delighted when I was called for the interview.  At the time I had no work experience, no residency and therefore no job permit.  Getting a job has always been difficult in Spain but it was even more difficult then because of my circumstances.  Also my degree in Spanish at Nottingham University wasn’t going to help much either.  People in Spain study degrees that will lead them to jobs for which they have studied, unlike in England.  And having a degree in Spanish, the language of the country I was in, was practically a useless piece of paper.   The job selection process took days and there seemed to be about 100 girls applying.  The “headhunter” was a funny chap called Mauricio Xandro whom I have since seen interviewed on the television as Spain’s most prestigious graphologist – the pseudoscience study and analysis of handwriting especially in relation to human psychology.  The tests of my handwriting must have been good as I was offered the job along with a lovely American girl called Rosa of Cuban origin who was married to a Angel, a Maths professor at the Autónomo University in Madrid and who, coincidentally, also lived in Saconia.

Whilst we were going through the job selection process nobody told us what the company’s business was about.  So when Rosa and I met at the offices in the Orense Street in Madrid to sign our contracts, we asked ourselves what the business could possibly be about.  She said it seemed all so hush hush that maybe Defex dealt in pornography.  Finally the mystery was solved by Sr. Ibañez who was dealing with our contracts.  When we asked him, he looked taken aback, took one breath and tried to explain.  He said something similar to this: “Well, Defex exports equipment. We actually export defence material and added “It’s like selling cars”.  l was so relieved to hear it wasn’t pornography that I didn’t stop to think that defence material, of course, meant arms and weapons.  He asked us if we had a problem with that but we both needed the job so badly we said of course we didn’t.  We were so happy to have a job and to be earning 58,000 pesetas a month, a fortune I thought. I worked for that company for 8 years and at the beginning especially it was great fun.  

Defex exported to all the imaginable countries in the third world which would buy Spanish manufactured arms and weapons, tanks and even airplanes and ships from companies such as Esperanza y Cía, Expal, Star, Bazán, Santa Bárbara or Casa.  It was a secret world which made a lot of money and I remember my bosses, Sr. Trujillo, Sr. Cervera, Sr. Esteruelas, Sr. Comín, Sr. Bergia, Sr. Presmanes, Sr. Alcántara and company travelling first class to cities in Africa, Asia and South America, some I had never heard of.  I would book them into marvelous sounding hotels such as the Shangri La in Kuala Lumpur or the Taj Mahal in Delhi. I learned a whole new vocabulary and my geography of those areas improved immensely.  At Christmas, our honorific President, Lt. Gen Oliete, the Head of the Spanish Civil Guard at the time and once henchman of Franco, called us all in one by one to give us a bonus in an envelope.  I went in trembling and when he handed me mine, he said: “so that you can buy yourself a pretty dress”. Thanking him I rushed to the bathroom to open the envelope and found a check for 100.000 pesetas, a fortune for me.  Gen Oliete lived in another world and would never know that the money would not be spent on a dress as of course it wasn’t.  

Soon the Falklands war broke out and I remember Sr. Trujillo telling me that as I was British I didn’t have to work on the project if I didn’t want to.  But of course I did because I wanted to know what was happening.  The Spanish government swore that Spain was not selling arms to Argentina, but I knew otherwise. Communication in the early 80s in businesses was by telephone, letter and telex.  Telex was fun and I loved it.  You would write on a keyboard and send the telex to an address abroad.  You could also write online and get immediate responses.  Often I would be dictated to and write to companies like Tedco in India.  We had to write in a sort of code which was even more fun.  I have many amazing memories of my years at Defex but some stand out more in my mind than others.  I remember an African “King” called Alhaji Abdul Asis and two other surnames beginning with A also.  I called him the “5 As”. He was an agent who for securing contracts with the corrupt Nigerian Ministry of Defence got commissions of up to 100% of the total amount.  Once he came to Madrid and insisted I accompany him to shops in Madrid to find white shoes in the winter.  I was relieved to hear I wouldn’t be on my own with him and that the Chairman’s chauffeur, Luis, would be taking us. This was mission impossible as Spanish men have smaller feet and do not wear white shoes, especially in the winter.  In the end I took him to a chemist shop and he turned up his nose disgustedly.  I remember visiting him too at his top suite of a Hilton Hotel in London.  My mission was to retrieve from him a “certificate of final destination” – very important for shipping arms (but that’s another story).  I had expected him to come down to reception and was petrified when he asked me to come up.  I was worried he might force me sexually.  Thank God he didn’t but I came away from the visit convinced I had been sent there because I was blonde and a good looking young woman.  I have many more memories, such as going to the Bank of Iran in London and having to wear a headscarf.  I also remember there being an “agent” called “Major Kaka” at the High Commission of Nigeria in London and asking myself if there could be one called “Minor Kaka”.  I can never forget either the visit of a delegation from the Ministry of Defence of Iran or was it Irak. I can’t remember but I do remember having to herd them into a private room to pray during the meetings and being asked which direction was the Mecca.  I had no idea so nodded towards the Real Madrid football stadium, the Bernabeu, which I supposed was the Spanish Mecca and would do for the occasion!  At these sorts of meetings no alcohol could be served of course but my Spanish bosses asked me to serve them gin or vodka which would look like water.  I was very worried I was putting the wrong glass in the wrong place on the table but thankfully that didn’t happen.  

Certainly Defex exported to both sides of the conflict, both to Irak and to Iran.  Should I have felt that my work was immoral at the time? I think it did worry me sometimes but not a lot.  I just needed a job and this was actually lots of fun and I got to travel to places like Malaysia, Greece, Turkey, Portugal and of course my beloved London.  But if I was offered a job today in the arms industry I would certainly not take it.  I always find it funny that my whole work experience started in that industry but this is the first time I have told the story.  The arms world is very hush hush and when I looked for a reference link on the internet to document today’s post I wasn’t surprised to find that Defex doesn’t even have a website. Perhaps that will change now after writing this story and if anyone googles Defex they will find this post and find out just a little of what the company gets up to. 

I have digressed but after Iñigo’s comment I thought it was time to tell the story of my first job at Defex in the arms industry.  I hope you liked it.

On Sunday too Olivia left for Galicia where she would be reporting for her programme La Mañana de la 1 all of last week.  We were in for good weather but she was not as you will find out later.

On Monday 10^th June it was my dear friend Sandra’s birthday.  Sandra is my darling friend from Nottingham University who is perhaps the most exotic friend I have.  She was born in India to a Hungarian Jewish war survivor Mother, Magda, and to an Italian Father.  She was brought up in England and now lives in Brussels where we have visited her in the recent past.  I hope we meet up again soon Sandie.  

On Monday, Suzy “surprised” us with an out of the blue visit from London. I have put the word in inverted commas because it was not a surprise to me or Olivia but no one else was to know.  She had come back to do important paper work needed for her job seeking in London such as getting a criminal records certificate, a blood test as well as organizing for her unemployment benefit to be paid whilst living in London.  It was a delight to see her.  Eladio and my Father were indeed surprised.  Here is a lovely photo of Eladio and Suzy in the throes of an emotional embrace upon her arrival.

Suzy and Eladio hugging on her surprise arrival from London on Monday

It was just before her arrival that Olivia was live on TVE reporting from Santiago de Compostela on a horrible case of a man in his 40’s being beaten up by a group of young thugs, allegedly just because he was “old”. You can see it here if you fast forward to 13.05h.  These days I watch her on my iPhone and even now my Father watches her on my iPad which I set up for him. Fancy a 94 year old man watching his granddaughter live on the TV on a tablet.  Isn’t technology just great?

Oli reporting on Monday from Santiago de Compostela

On Monday my first order of the week from Amazon arrived.  I had completely forgotten that I had preordered The Times sportswriter, David Walsh’s “Seven Deadly Sins” about his pursuit of Lance Armstrong.  I devoured it very soon as the story, as some of you will know, is very close to my heart having once been the PR Manager in Spain of the Motorola Cycling Team to which he belonged. I could have told David a few stories too.

That night one item in the news which we watched from bed as we do most nights, struck my attention.  The CEO of Orange (France Telecom) had been taken into police custody as part of the Tapie arbitration case.  As I am a PR manager for an operator, my heart went out to my PR colleagues at Orange and wished them good luck in the story.  I could only imagine they had gone straight into crisis management mode, a worrying situation for any PR professional as I know from experience.

On Tuesday Olivia had a lovely story to report on for TVE.  It was about a tiny baby called Adriana who weighed 850 grammes when she was born in La Coruña.  She was given just 30% chance of living. Imagine weighing less than a packet of sugar or flour I thought whilst I watched Olivia tell the story. Olivia was in her element here as she adores babies and happily told her audience that today 3 months later Adriana weighs 4 kilos.  You can see the story here if you fast forward to 10.20h.

Oli's story of the miracle baby, Ariadna, which she reported on from La Coruña on Tuesday

This time I watched her live from the local supermarket whilst Jesús was serving me produce to later make Suzy cocido madrileño, one of her favourite dishes.  If you have never eaten it this is what it looked like.

The cocido I made on Tuesday in Susana's honour

On Wednesday I accompanied Suzy on some of her errands.  The heat had finally arrived and I think Wednesday was the hottest day of the year so far.  As I waited for her in the shade outside a building in Pozuelo the temperature was 35c!   We had time on the way back to stop at Centro Oeste where Suzy needed to buy something. Needless to say I wandered into the shops.  It was very warm and I spied a pair of shorts I thought might look good on me.  I didn’t need them but thought they would be very practical for our daily walks.  You are probably wondering why I am mentioning a pair of shorts here.  Well let me tell you.  I have never before worn proper shorts since I was a child because of my lifelong chubbiness.  However, as those of you who know me will be aware, I haven’t been chubby for some three years now.  I am so pleased to be able to wear shorts now but at the same time was very cross to find out that you can’t shop online at H+M as I immediately wanted to buy the same pair in different colours which weren’t available at the store.  How can it be that such a huge fashion chain doesn’t sell online in this day and age I asked them this morning on their Facebook page? 

My H`+M shorts, a first for me

Oli was experiencing far lower temperatures and cold winds in northern Galicia and on Thursday the programme did a fun report.  It was with her colleague in Valencia showing just how warm it was there (in the 30c range) whilst she reported in Galicia with warm clothing that it was just 16c.  In fact that day Oli caught a cold, or rather laryngitis as we found out when I took her to the doctor on Saturday upon her return.  You can see the report here if you go to 10.28h.

Oli reporting on the cold weather in Galicia on Thursday

On Friday, her last day in Galicia, the report that day was about the mayor of a village called Noia who, owing to the crisis, had to double as a concierge in the afternoons. You can see the report here if you fast forward to 10.26h

Olivia interviewing the Mayor of Noia in Galicia who doubles as the town hall's concierge in the afternoons

It was on Friday that my second book of the week arrived.  It was The Ghosts of Spain by The Guardian correspondent in Madrid, Giles Tremlett.  But let me tell you why I ordered it.  Earlier in the week I had received an email from a British journalist who lives in Lanjarón near Granada.  She needed help with her Yoigo subscription.  As soon as I had dealt with that we started corresponding. She asked me whether I had read the book or knew the author.  Well, I hadn’t and I didn’t but immediately looked up the book on amazon.es and realised I just had to buy it.  It was right up my street, the story of the recent history of Spain from a British author’s perspective, of someone who, like me who had lived here for a long time.  It was supposedly also a good travelogue and even slightly humorous. 

Ghosts of Spain, my book of the week

Shortly after starting it I showed it to my Father. Unlike me, my more academic Father knew immediately who the author was and even commented he had written a book on Catherine of Aragon (bought that too now).  He wanted to read it too of course but I had already started and was riveted.  Reading it in the shade by the pool on Friday afternoon I was amazed to read, when I got to the chapter about how bikinis were finally allowed to be worn on the Benidorm beaches, that the author, through his wife,  has family connections with the small village of Tárbena.  I read his description of the village which of course I know so very well.  I have very bitter sweet memories of that hidden village in the mountains on sinuous roads some 30km from the ghastly tourist mecca of Benidorm, the Blackpool of Spain.  When we first came to Spain in the early 70s which you can read about here, Tárbena was important to me as this is where I first fell in love. It was with a local boy, a student of medicine, whose black clad valenciano speaking Mother was afraid I would take away from the village where she had high hopes of climbing up the social ladder and becoming the village doctor’s mother.  She did everything in her power for that relationship not to work, including locking up her son all summer in his room and colluding with the local postman to intercept my letters which she never gave to José Francisco. As I later told Giles in an email I wrote to him to tell him about the connection, I came out of the relationship very scathed but had learned the language of Cervantes which I went on to study at Nottingham University.  

That night over dinner with Eladio at La Txitxarrería I told him about the incredible coincidence. He too will read The Ghosts of Spain and it is his opinion I really look forward to as Eladio was brought up during the Franco regime, the story of which takes up a good part of Giles Tremlett’s tale of Spain. 

Saturday was the best day of the week.  For once we were all going to be here for lunch and the weather was glorious; true swimming pool weather.  José Antonio and Dolores were to join us for lunch and the lazy afternoon by the pool after which we took the dogs for the walk.  At this time of year the sun rises before six in the morning and doesn’t set until 10 in the evening. 

It was lovely to have José Antonio and Dolores with us yesterday

The girls had invited their friends too to spend the afternoon by the pool and I just had to take a snap of their group they call “la manada” (the herd).

The girls with their friends by the pool yesterday afternoon

On Saturday Suzy took her first dip.  This is the photo to prove it.  Unfortunately OIi didn’t join her because of her laryngitis.

Suzy's first dip this year. She's going back to London tomorrow and will miss both the weather and the pool.

And today is Sunday and it is another extremely hot day.  I am writing this post by the pool with Elsa at my feet.  I think everyone else is asleep but hope they will join me here after publishing this.

And that my friends, is the story of my first job with Defex in the arms industry and the story of this week, a good week in many ways.

I wish you all the best until next time,

Masha

Recovered, Santa Pola, another trip down memory lane, the story of Frank and Julia, Gandía and home again.

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At the top of the Coll de Rates mountain pass with wonderful views.

Hello my friends,

Today is Sunday August 15^th, a bank holiday in Spain which will go unnoticed as it is a weekend and once again it is time to write my blog.  It is also Independence Day in India so happy Independence day to all Indians reading this entry and there are many of you, or so Google blog statistics tell me.

This week has been great.  On Monday Suzy was back from Montrondo and we had a nice dinner together.  However it wasn’t until the next day that we had a full house with both girls for lunch.

Dinner at home with Suzy last Sunday when she came back from Montrondo.

On Tuesday I went to the doctor with my huge bandage and a bit worried I would be prescribed more time with my foot up and immobile.  However I was in for a pleasant surprise.  My ankle was better and the doctor removed the bandage.  Ouch that hurt, as it was stuck to my skin and he did a sort of peeling exercise leaving nasty marks on my leg.  He prescribed an ankle support and told me I could walk but to take heed of how my foot felt.   The good news was that he said I could go to the beach and that the sand and sea would help me recover. Wow I was so happy to be up and about again. I hobbled for the next few days but now I am walking almost normally.
 

The first thing I did with my newly recovered mobility was to go out with Suzy for a cup of coffee; a normal thing to do for anyone who is mobile but something special for me after nearly 2 weeks stuck at home.  Eladio and I decided then to go off to Santa Pola the next day and be back after Olga left on Saturday so’s not to leave my Father on his own overnight.  The girls went away on Thursday, Suzy to Ibiza with her school friends to stay at Erika’s place there and Oli to cover the Sonorama music festival in Aranda de Duero in Burgos for her website http://www.rtve.es/

Suzy on the beach with Erika this week in Ibiza.

Once again we decided not to take any food or shop in Santa Pola and to eat out even for breakfast so’s to make a real holiday of our 4 day escapade to the coast.  We had all sorts of plans to meet up with friends in the area; thus our stay was filled with social activity.  Another upside was that there was little cleaning to do as we had been recently and left the apartment spick and span. 

On the way out we stopped for lunch at one of our favourite places, the Parador in Albacete where we were served a lovely cool gazpacho to offset the tremendous heat outside which was nearing 40ºc. 

Making a toast to my recovery and our short holiday at lunch   in the Parador of Albacete on our way to Santa Pola.

As soon as we had unpacked and set up my pc (and answered my mails, of course) we set off for the beach where we had our first swim of the season and boy was it nice.  The water was clean and the sea as calm as a lake.   We tried my ankle out for a short walk.  It didn’t feel too bad but not yet good enough for the full beach walk.

I had booked a table for dinner at María Picola in the evening, that lovely restaurant on the road from Santa Pola to Elche.  We were welcomed back and enjoyed what we always have there, a superb arroz a banda.

A happy dinner together at María Picola on the first night of our holiday.

The mornings during our stay were always the same, as we are true creatures of habit.  We would have an early breakfast at El Paripé, a bar across the way with superb views of the bay of Alicante.  We would then go for the papers and return to the flat.  Eladio would read them from front to back whilst I worked and facebooked of course.

The view of the bay of Alicante from our breakfast bar, El Paripé in Gran Alacant.  It's also one of the views from our flat.

On Wednesday we had arranged to go and see our long time friends, Benito and Loli who were our neighbours in Saconia in Madrid where we first “lived in sin” before we got married in the early 80s.  They have an apartment on the beach in El Verger near Denia.

Loli and Benito by their apartment block in El Verger near Denia

We went for lunch to a local place called Casa Ramón for a great “fideua” (sort of paella but made with pasta) washed down by what is called “tinto de verano”, similar to sangria.  The afternoon was spent almost entirely at an ice cream parlour called La Jijonenca overlooking the Denia beach.  Here we talked about our old days and caught up on each other’s news.  We have promised to repeat the experience and next time Benito and Loli will be visiting us in Santa Pola.

Lunch with Loli and Benito at Casa Ramón in Denia.

We had planned to return home via a real memory lane for both of us.  We were to take the mountain road from El Verger, via Orba and Parcent and climb up the Coll de Rates mountain pass to visit Tárbena, Bolulla and Callosa before heading back to Santa Pola via Polop, La Nucia, Benidorm and Alicante.

The mountain road which means so much to me and which leads to Coll de Rates, Tárbena, Bolulla and Callosa

Tárbena, Bolulla and Callosa (Callosa de Ensarriá or D’en Sarrià in Valenciano) were the 3 main villages of my “Callosa days”, the time when I first came to Spain with my parents and which, if you don’t know the story,  you can read about here. The drive was like a venture into the past and the views from the roads as heavenly and magical as always.  I love the view of the little village of Parcent driving up to the Coll de Rates mountain pass which is some 700m high.  That doesn’t sound very much but then sea level in Spain is  measured from Alicante nearby so it is of course extremely high up.  The views from Coll de Rates are breathtaking and never cease to amaze me.  I had been here many times before but probably not in the last 20 or 30 years so it was very special to be there again.

Eladio at the top of the Coll de Rates mountain pass with breathtaking views on both sides.

Our next stop was Tárbena, a tiny little medieval village that nestles in these dry and rocky mountains and by almond trees which grow on terraced land and which are or used to be the main stipend for the village.  I hadn’t been back to Tárbena since the late 70’s and this visit was my real trip down memory lane because it was here I fell in love when I was 18 with a local boy who was studying to be a doctor and the reason I learned  Spanish. I had to visit the place, at least one more time in my life ,and didn’t feel good about taking Eladio with me but I think he understood.  The village was in fiestas and the main square felt much smaller to me than I had remembered it.  We walked through it and towards the house where the boy lived, in Plaza Santa Ana.  It looked closed up.  I didn’t want to meet anyone, just to see where it all began and remember my youth.

The little village of Tárbena which brings back so many memories of my youth.

From there we drove to Bolulla, the tiny village further down the valley where my famous Aunty Masha had bought a ruined house for a song in the early 70’s.  I love Bolulla and understand why so many English people have bought houses there (thanks to my Aunt of course).  We walked into the only bar that was open and came across a group of them who immediately wanted to know who we were.  Everywhere we went I told people I was La Señora María’s niece.  They all knew of course who she was and some of them remembered me.  I have so many memories of Bolulla from our many summers spent there and in Callosa in the 70’s and 80’s and in a way consider it to be my village.

Bolulla, my village in Spain.  I carry this image in my heart.

We walked down one of the prettiest streets there and spoke to 3 old ladies (Rosario, Jimena and non Castillian Spanish speaking Vicenta) for some time, remembering the past and talking about the people I knew; Esperanza, la Señora Elvira, Molina, Pepe the taxi driver and of course my beloved Sra. Julia and Frank (Francisco) Vácquer. 

With 3 old ladies in Bolulla talking about the past.  Vicenta in black, Jimena in blue and Rosario the hairdresser in orange.

Frank was the mayor of Bolulla when we first went there and I remember spending the first nights at his house  as Aunty Masha’s place was in no condition to sleep in (there was even a donkey in the main room when she bought it!).  Frank had lived in Brooklyn and had a wonderful New York accent with limited vocabulary.  But he was our ambassador and we loved him.  He was married to Serafina who spoke French and was what was called a “pied noir” for having lived and worked in  Algeria.  Serafina was always ill and had to be looked after by Frank.  Funnily enough she outlived him.  There is a saying in Spanish:  “mujer enferma, mujer eterna” which means “an ill woman lives forever”.  Señora Julia, a sweet old lady with white hair who must have been a beauty in her youth, lived opposite my Aunt and was our other reference in the village.  We learned later, with great secrecy, that Frank and Julia had been sweethearts when they were young but their love had not been allowed to prosper. I never knew why but suspect they were still in love when I met them.  Frank would speak with reverence whenever he mentioned Julia.  In the late 80’s something terrible happened.  Julia was in a car with her daughter and her grandson, a boy I had given English classes to.  He was driving and the car had an accident and skidded off one of those treacherous mountain roads I love so much.  They fell to their death, 3 generations in one go.  It was a tragedy for the village and I suspect especially for dear Frank Vácquer.  Frank died a few years ago, but there will always be a place for him in my heart and in my memories.

Dear Frank (Francisco) Vacquer's house at the main entrance of Bolulla. 

From Bolulla we drove to Callosa, the village where my Mother bought our house, but it was too late and dark to visit this time.  Soon we were back in our flat in Gran Alacant in Santa Pola and the trip down memory lane was now just another memory.
 

Thursday we spent at Gran Alacant and went to the local market there to buy Eladio some more summer shorts.  He seems to ruin all of them with bleach or paint stains so was in need of some new ones.  He was a bit of an unwilling customer but I managed to cajole him into buying 3 pairs.

Buying shorts for Eladio at the local market in Gran Alacant.  The unwilling customer!

In the afternoon we went to the beach again for another bathe and walk, this time the long one.  Most people go  to the beach in the morning but we always like to go when the heat is over and when most of the people have gone.  We are funny aren't we?

On our beach at Santa Pola, it's actually the Arenales beach.

In the evening we went to Darby’s Chippy for some amazing fish and chips.  It’s a very tacky thing to do but when you have lived away from the UK for so long, fish and chips is something, I, at least crave for.  The owner, a character from Scotland, greeted us warmly and thanked me especially for the mention of his chip shop in my blog!  He must have read the entry about it.  I was bowled over!  The portions we got were enormous and I think it was in lieu of a thank you for my positive write up which you can read here if you are interested. I’m also reproducing the photo of the chip shop owner if you haven’t seen it before.

Darby's fish and chip shop in Gran Alacant, great little find and the only one in the vicinity

Friday was our last day at home as we were leaving on Saturday.  The weather took a turn for the worse as it always does in the middle of August, except that we never seem to remember.  I was going to spend the afternoon by the pool overlooking the sea but it began to rain.  The temperature dropped and of course we hadn’t brought any warm clothing, not even a jumper and certainly no umbrella.  That evening we were due at Jacky and John’s for dinner.  Jacky, a childhood friend and actually my best friend, Amanda’s neighbour in Bradford, now lives with her family in a small village in Murcia on the border of the province of Alicante, in a hamlet called Collado de los Gabrieles.  We drove through an enormous thunder storm with lightening and as we left the apartment I thought guns were being fired.  Thunder storms in this area are always terribly fierce.  Maybe that’s because of the proximity to the sea.

Dinner with Jacky and John and their son Rafi, was great.  It was nice to speak English all evening and John’s curry was superb.  We could have chatted all night but it was dark and we had a long journey home so we left at Cinderella time, at around midnight with promises of going out to dinner together the next time we came. 

Dinner at Jacky and John's was one of the highlights of our trip.

Soon it was our last day, not that our holiday was very long, just 5 days.  We were going to  Gandía to have lunch with Irene and Tomas and their family before making our way home to Madrid.  Irene who is now the proud mother of 4, is the daughter of the González-Gálvez family with whom I lived in 1978 during the year I spent in Madrid as a teacher as part of my 3^rd year studies at Nottingham University.  We have kept in contact every since but  more so since the Father, Gerardo, died.  Irene and her husband Tomas have been spending their summers in Gandia on the coast of Valencia since they were children and it was here they fell in love when they were teenagers.  This was the first time I was to see them here and I loved the flat and the location which is right on the beach front. 

With Irene González at their flat in Gandía. 

Tomas who is obviously a good chef, had prepared a great local rice dish called “arros a forn” which is rice cooked in the oven with many ingredients.  It tasted delicious, as good as it looked.

Great oven baked rice dish made by Tomas and called "arros a forn".

It was a delight to be with the whole family as on other occasions we had not been joined by their older kids, Paula and Tomás, just the little ones, Celia and Nacho and I was actually meeting Paula for the first time.   It was funny to see Irene with her 17 year old look a-like daughter Paula, as for me Irene is still the little girl I tried to teach English to, albeit unsuccessfully because of the terrible tricks she used to play on me. But time of course has passed, over 30 years.  

Lunch yesterday with Irene, Tomás and family in Gandía.

We left in the early evening as we had a 4 hour drive ahead of us and were anxious to get home as soon as possible because my Father was alone at home.  We were greeted by a very excited Norah who hates to be alone.  My Father was also happy to see us.  I had brought him a huge bag of all sorts of English chocolates which I had bought at Quicksave, the English shop across the way from our apartment which I am sure won’t last him very long.  I don't know if you know but even at 91 he is still a bit of a chocolate monster!  So it's quite obvious where I got my sweet tooth from then isn't it? 

And now we are home again with another trip for our memories.  You can see the full set of photos  here and a specfic album of our visit to Irene and Tomas in Gandía here.

But we are not home for long. This week we may be going to Peñacaballera to see friends.  At the end of August we will be going to Santander for a big telecoms conference and then in September we shall be off to Israel and Jordan.  October heralds more trips, one to Stockholm for a communications’ get together and a weekend in Barcelona.  Meanwhile we look forward to the visit of Katheryn and Phil who will be visiting us this Tuesday.  It will be nice to have some British visitors, especially for my Father.  Kathryn and I were at school together so her visit will be another trip down memory lane.

That’s it for this week.  Hope you have a good one.

Cheers Masha

Aunty Masha laid to rest, a Russian funeral and the story of how Spain became a part of our lives and how I came to live here.

Bolulla, the village where Aunty Masha bought a house in 1973 and where it all started.
Hi again

I last left you with the news of Aunty Masha’s death. The funeral, as dictated in Spain has to take place almost immediately and it was to be on the Sunday. Luckily Sasha arranged it for 3 pm so we could drive up on time. It was to be held at the funeral parlour (Tanatorio) in Villajoyosa, a lovely little town in between Alicante and Benidorm.

The Spanish coast is usually a happy place in good weather and of course that area of Spain saw my beginnings in this country, of which I have happy memories. But it was the end of November and it drizzled all day and was dark and gloomy.

I reflected all through the day on how Aunty Masha brought us all here and how it was both fitting but sad that she should die here, so far from her family, all of whom are buried in different places; her Father in Sofia, her Mother in Ruskington (the small town in Lincolnshire where I lived as a child and near Cranwell, the famous Royal Air Force College where my Father taught Russian in the Cold War), her brother Alexander (Sasha) in Montreal, her sister Olga in Sofia, her sister Dorothea (Dara) in New York and her sister and my Mother (Helene or Elena) Lena in Bradford. As Sasha reflected at the funeral, this is what the Bolshevik Revolution did to the Lieven family.

Many times in my blog I have mentioned the fact that it is thanks to Aunty Masha that I came to live in Spain. So now I think is the time to tell that story.

In the early 70’s and towards of the end of the Franco dictatorship (he died in 1975), my Aunty, inspired by Tony, the boyfriend of a student of hers at the University of East Anglia came to Spain, with my Mother, Lena, and the two of them bought a house. Aunty Masha’s was in a delightful but very backward tiny village called Bolulla . It cost under 500 pounds which was an absolute song at the time. It was nearly a ruin and there was even a donkey living in the front room!! My Mother bought one for just a bit more in nearby Callosa de Ensarria , a slighty larger town. The idea being to be separate and independent from her sister and also on a bus route as my parents didn’t drive! I often used to hitchhike the 17km to Benidorm with my brother George and friends. Of course, you couldn’t do that today. This area was very rural and agricultural (oranges mostly) and in sharp contrast to the increasing tourism on the nearby coast. Yes, the Swedish and English tourists had come and wore bikinis and even tangas and package tourism was taking off but rural and sleepy Callosa and Bolulla remained untouched by this “contamination” as they still do today. They have not changed much in these 30 odd years. We of course, an odd Anglo Russian family were very much the subject of their conversations and the object of their eyes whenever they saw us around the village.

We spent summer after summer there from 1973 through to just after I got married in 1983. We enjoyed the Spanish culture, the climate and the gastronomy. We would make lovely meals of local tomatoes, local wine and ham and fresh bread. My parents began to learn the language. It was to be their 6th. My Father’s languages were English, Norwegian, German, French and Russian. My Mother’s languages were Russian, Bulgarian, German, French and English. Spanish was not entirely new to my Mother. As a teenager she had tried to learn what she thought was Spanish from a grammar book she picked up at home. When she recited a few sentences proudly to her Father, he laughed and said it was Italian. Apparently the front cover was missing!

It was not easy to learn Spanish in Callosa. My parents didn’t really realise at the beginning that the language of the village and area was not Castillian Spanish but Valenciano, a dialect of Catalán, totally different. My Mother found out the hard way when on the French border, returning with my Aunt to England by car (we always travelled by car to Spain and back because it was cheaper) that first summer they entered a bar for a coffee and a break in their journey. She asked the barman for an aspirin and explained that she had a headache and used the expression “mal de cap” which is in fact Valenciano. He looked at her and said “¿Quiere decir dolor de cabeza Señora?” / Do you mean you have a headache? That was when my Mother realised the difference and hurried to relearn. They both learned the language pretty well. So did my Aunt but with very bad grammar, right up until she died.

I took some time to learn the language. I had no need to as I was always accompanied by my student friends from England; Issy, Janet, Amanda, Andy, Sophie, Jan, Diana, …. But in 1975 I suddenly had a need too. I met a young Spaniard I soon fell in love with. He was a medical student and an only son from an even more backward village, Tárbena, some miles further up the road from Bolulla. At the beginning we spoke French which neither of us was very good at. I returned to England at the end of that summer determined to learn Spanish. By December I was completely fluent. The relationship grew and I became enamoured with Spain, so much so that when I started university, after the very first term I changed subjects; from Theology to Hispanic Studies. That was the beginning.

The relationship did not last. I was not popular with the very influential and bossy mother, whose wish it was for her son to be the doctor of their village. She went all out to break the union, intercepting our letters from the local post man and even locking up her son for a whole summer in his room.

I came out of the relationship scathed but I had learned a whole new language, Spanish, that marvellous language of Cervantes. Part of my degree at Nottingham University was a year in Madrid as a teacher at a Secondary School in Moratalaz, Instituto Rey Pastor. There I met Dolores who is now my sister-in-law. She was a young English teacher at the time who had quite recently married José Antonio (Eladio’s beloved brother). Dolores took me under her wing and mothered me during my year in Spain. Thanks to her I went to live with Pili Gálvez and Gerardo González where I was supposed to give English lessons to their children in return for my keep. As you will read in this entry, we went on to be friends for life.

The González Galvez family in Galapagar, summer 1979

After my year in Spain I returned to do my finals. My plans for the future were vague. I knew I didn’t want to go straight to London to find an office job as most graduates would do. I wanted to explore the world. Portuguese was part of my studies in the last year and I took it really seriously. Finally I decided I wanted to go to Brasil. There I would teach English to make a living. Río, of course was my destination.

However, I never went to Brasil. The summer after finals, 1981, I met Eladio who is now my husband and to whom I have been married now for 25 years. Eladio was Dolores’ oldest brother-in-law. He was a priest and at the time 35 whilst I was 23. We actually met in their flat in Madrid very briefly. He then returned to his home in León and I went on to spend the holiday in Callosa, yes Callosa, with Dolores, José Antonio and their 2 small children, Miguel and Sara. We had asked Eladio to join us but more out of politeness than anything else.

Dolores, José Antonio with Miguel and Sara, July 1980, just before Eladio appeared on the scene.

So when Eladio turned up in Callosa a few days later, the wind was taken out of our sails. The children fell ill and so we took to going to the beach alone and would spend hours and hours talking about education, the differences between Spain and England and many other topics I can’t remember now. That was at the Vimi bar on the Playa de Poniente in Benidorm where Aunty Masha eventually bought a flat and where she has lived in recent years right up until her death last week. We went back there in 2006 with Aunty Masha as you can read here

The first photo of Eladio and I ever taken - Guadalest in July 1980, the summer we fell in love

I think it took a week to fall in love. All thoughts of going to Brasil went out of my head. After an amazing summer together where we visited Portugal, the south of Spain and Morocco in his little white Renault 5, we parted in September for our last year of singledome. The following summer, after almost daily correspondence, I went to Spain to live. We went to live “in sin”, as it was known in those days, to a little pad in Saconia, once again found by my sister-in-law Dolores. This would have been a complete scandal in Spain in those days so we kept the fact a secret. Eladio left the Church, took state exams to become a state teacher and in 1983 we were married. Susana was born one year later to the day of conception and Olivia the following year in 1985.

So, yes, it is thanks to Aunty Masha that I came to Spain and also thanks to her that I met Eladio. It’s funny too that we fell in love in Callosa, the town where my Mother bought her house in 1973.

During the funeral in nearby Villajoyosa, I reflected on how we first came to Spain and how my life had developed since then. Aunty Masha used to take us to the fiestas in Villajoyosa. I never imagined her funeral being there.

The funeral took place in the non denominational chapel of the funeral parlour. Eladio, my Father and I arrived just a few moments before it began. Here we greeted Sasha, my cousin and Aunty Masha’s only son, his wife, Svetlana, Pepe the banker from Callosa and his wife Reme, Zhana, Aunty Masha’s Bulgarian nurse who looked after her for 10 months until she died, Edmund, a young Kosovar neighbour who looked after them both and then a sprinkling of Russian and Ukrainian people Aunty Masha had befriended when they started coming to the Costa Blanca in search of a better life. These included the 95 year old Baroness Irina of Baltic origin, quite a character.

The shock came when we walked into the chapel, candle in hand as Russian tradition dictates. The coffin was open, as it was, of course, to be a Russian Orthodox funeral, as befitted the daughter of a Russian Orthodox priest. There lay my dear thin and wrinkled Aunt, white and covered in a special sheet and head band with Church Slavonic lettering on it. All I could do was cry. My Father was next to me as was Eladio. But at that moment the person I needed most was Sasha. We stood together next to her coffin hugging tightly and crying openly. We were saying goodbye to his Mother, to my favourite Aunt and to the last of the 6 brothers and sisters and felt like orphans. It was the end of an era and we were the only family witnesses.

After the funeral officiated by a bearded priest, as the religion dictates, we headed off in a cavalcade of cars to the cemetery in Alfaz del Pi, a pretty little town just off the road from Benidorm to Callosa. There we laid my Aunt to rest. The niche is number 11.I can’t forget it.

From Alfaz del Pi we all drove to a bar in Calpe, funnily enough called “The German Bar”. This was where the send off was to take place in true Russian tradition. Here we found a table groaning with zakuski (Russian hors d’oeuvres which my Father said were probably more German than Russian). At a funeral send off, it is supposed that the deceased is with us and in fact there was a big photo of my Aunty throughout. We sat round a huge table and I counted the nationalities; Russian, Ukrainian, German, Baltic, Spanish, English, Kosovar and Bulgarian. Sasha made a wonderful speech about his Mother’s life, including her escape from Bulgaria in the late 50’s. As we ate we found out that at a funeral send off there can be no meat and no dessert. Zhana whispered to me that my Aunt hated fish and loved cakes so would not have exactly enjoyed the meal. The funeral had been sad and the send off was a sort of relief. I felt humbled sitting next to Zhana, my Aunt’s nurse, for all she had done for my Aunt and for what I had not done.

The "send off" in Calpe, the table full of Russian zakuski.

Zhana, Aunty Masha's Bulgarian friend and nurse who cared for her up until her death.

It was too late to return to Madrid, so my Father, Eladio and I drove to our flat in Santa Pola to spend the night where it was bitterly cold. The next day we could not get away faster and left for Madrid as soon as we woke up.

So, yes, this trip, was one trip down memory lane.

Goodbye again Aunty Masha and thank you for buying that house in Bolulla the Summer of 1973.

Masha