Garlic, Missing Post and a Premature Christmas

A simple trip to Correos turns into a day of garlic, missing bank cards, unexpected Christmas shopping and a surprisingly charming notary. Just another morning in Michel Euesden's Spain.

By mid-morning, I had eaten enough garlic to invalidate a breathalyser, collected a bank card that had retired before starting work, and been offered emergency refreshments by a concerned notary. I had only gone out to post a parcel. Buenos días, España.

The plan was simple. Get to Correos early, before the queue developed its own community, elected a president and started discussing the maintenance fees. Blue sky. A nip in the air. The promise of another glorious day on the coast. I had time for coffee.

So, for once, I decided to embrace the Spanish approach. Tranquila, mujer. Siéntate. Sit down. Have breakfast. The paperwork will still be there when you’ve finished. It always is. Often with additional paperwork.

A Spanish Breakfast with Consequences

I ordered a coffee and a pitufo with tomato and olive oil. For anyone unfamiliar, a pitufo is a little bread roll. The word also means Smurf, although this particular specimen had considerably more garlic than I imagine you would find in a small blue person. Not a hint of garlic. Not bread gently rubbed with a clove. This had been rubbed with the farmer. One bite and I could feel my romantic prospects narrowing.

Around me, the Pacos and Juanitos were putting the world to rights in a language developed over fifty years of sitting at the same tables. Technically Spanish. Possibly Andalusian. Largely eyebrows. One said half a sentence. Another raised a finger. A third made a noise like a scooter failing its ITV. Everybody laughed. I understood almost nothing, but I was entirely on their side.

There were a few teeth missing between them, yet nobody was allowing that to interfere with a bread crust you could have used to tile a terrace. No veneers. No cosmetic consultations. Just commitment. ¡Qué arte!

And sitting there, among the chatter and clinking cups, I felt something rather lovely. Peace. No urgent decisions. No complicated explanations. No mentally drafting an email beginning, “Further to my previous seven emails…” Just sunshine, coffee and breath that could strip varnish. I was happy.

Then I went to Correos. Obviously, that needed addressing.

The Mystery of the Missing Post

The parcels went off without incident. Encouraged by this reckless display of efficiency, I raised the matter of my missing post. I have received nothing since August. Nothing. Not even the rubbish. The post you remove from the letterbox and escort directly to the wheelie bin without breaking stride. Even the people trying to sell me things had apparently given up.

August, I understand. Spain closes for essential maintenance of its population on the beach. September is for discussing August. But October? Vamos a ver.

My bank app claimed my cards had been delivered. A bold statement from an app that regularly asks me to prove I am myself while apparently handing my money-access equipment to absolutely anybody. Delivered WHERE? Was somebody creeping up my drive before dawn to steal my correspondence? An unusually dedicated criminal with a passion for utility bills?

Had my address changed again? We began life in our house as number 14. Then somebody decided we were number 9. I still don’t know who. Nobody moved the house. I would have noticed. The mortgage certainly stayed where it was. Perhaps we were now number 12. Perhaps there was a committee. Perhaps they had written to tell me.

After some hand-flapping, teeth-sucking and the sort of consultation usually associated with a difficult wisdom tooth, I was sent to Las Lagunas. There, a sign on the door announced: AUTHORISED STAFF ONLY. Firm. Clear. Unambiguous. So I put my head around it. After thirty years in Spain, you learn that the person who can help is quite often behind the door you aren’t supposed to open.

“Hola… perdona…” Out came a little María with a huge heart. No English. No problem. I had Spanish, hand gestures and the facial expression of a woman who had already ordered the same bank card several times. She took my address. Then shut the door firmly in my face.

Un momento. A Spanish moment. A unit of time with no known relationship to the clock. I waited. Somewhere inside, presumably, my address was being carbon-dated.

Eventually, she returned with one envelope. ONE. I nearly applauded. It contained a bank card I had cancelled for non-arrival approximately three cards ago. There it was. Finally home. Unable to buy anything, withdraw anything or do anything except confirm that, at some point during the summer, the bank and I had shared an ambition.

Where was the rest of my post? Why had this one been there so long? Had it been poorly? Was it waiting for a friend? “¡Hasta luego!” Door shut. Investigation concluded.

Christmas Arrives Without Warning

I needed to gather myself before my appointment with the notary. A little familiarity. A small British comfort. So I popped into Iceland. And walked directly into Christmas. Perdona. ¿QUÉ?

Chocolates. Biscuits. Festive tins. More chocolates. More biscuits. Enough shortbread to repoint Edinburgh. I stopped dead. Had I been waiting outside that postal door for FOUR MONTHS? What happened to Halloween? Had we done November? Was somebody supposed to collect me?

One minute I was tracing an envelope from August; the next I was apparently late defrosting a turkey. I could practically hear Mariah Carey doing her vocal warm-ups behind the frozen peas. And I wasn’t ready.

Christmas used to be my thing. I planned it. Organised it. Loved it. Delivered it. If Father Christmas had needed maternity cover, I could have stepped in without a handover. Food for everyone. Presents for everyone. Extra presents for people who might unexpectedly become someone requiring a present.

An emergency gift cupboard. Because heaven forbid somebody should hand you a scented candle and you had nothing to give them except genuine thanks. I anticipated it with childlike excitement and executed it with a clipboard mentality concealed beneath something sparkly.

But please. Let me get there in my own time. Christmas is MONTHS away. Do not say weeks. Anyone mentioning “only so many sleeps” will be sent to Las Lagunas to locate my post.

Meanwhile, I was staring at the shelves. Where was the Mediterranean diet? Had it gone outside for a cigarette? Olive oil. Fresh vegetables. A little fish. All apparently replaced by a biscuit selection containing enough individual compartments to house a small family.

And the pressure of it! Buy this. Buy that. Get another tin. You never know who might pop round. Who were these people? Why had I spent decades preparing for a surprise visit from a coach party?

I suddenly recognised my own Christmas guilt-shopping. Better get more. Everyone else does. What if we run out? Run out of WHAT, Michel? Chocolate fingers? Would the family issue a statement? “We regret to announce that, despite thirty years of otherwise acceptable hospitality, Michel failed to provide a second biscuit option.”

Madre mía. I shook my head and fled. Bought nothing. Still have no idea what I went in for.

A Notary, a Coffee and a Little Spanish Kindness

I arrived at the notary early, wearing the expression of a woman who had just seen the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Be Paid For. He looked concerned. Was I feeling unwell? Water appeared. Then coffee. Then my paperwork was attended to immediately. Immediately.

I have spent thirty years dressing respectably, arriving punctually and bringing the correct documents to Spanish appointments. Apparently, all I needed was to look traumatised by a Toblerone.

He asked whether I felt able to continue. I did. Although, with that much garlic circulating, I thought it best to direct my answers slightly towards a window. The certificate was dealt with. Kindly. Efficiently. Without anyone sending me away to photocopy something already sitting on the desk.

Then he asked whether I would like a drink with him in the plaza below. Pues claro. After a morning spent searching for proof that I had an address, it was lovely to be treated as though I also had a pulse.

Soon we were sitting in the sunshine, laughing. And there it was again. That feeling from breakfast. The village men had spent half a century earning their easy companionship. Ours had developed over a small mountain of official papers. They had shared history. We had witnessed signatures. But the warmth was familiar.

I explained why I looked so alarmed. “It’s Christmas down in Iceland.” He paused. I suspected he was trying to determine whether this was a geographical observation or something that required further medical attention.

I explained about the chocolates. The biscuits. The missing months. At which point he appeared to decide that this fiery, wiry blonde needed to get out more. And he knew exactly where we should go… Well. Eso os lo cuento otro día.

Why I Still Love Spain

People ask whether I ever think about leaving Spain now I’m doing life solo. Leaving? I only went out to post a parcel and ended up having a drink in a sunny plaza with the notary. Where exactly would I move to improve on that?

Yes, Spain can drive me mad. She changes my house number without consultation. Keeps my bank cards until they’re ornamental. Shuts doors in my face, then pulls up a chair and buys me a coffee.

She is intense. Feisty. Warm-hearted. Chaotic. She has her own rules and occasionally seems surprised to discover she has those. And she refuses to become somebody else simply to make everybody comfortable. We have a certain amount in common.

So no, dear friends. Michel is doing SPAIN solo. With a little trepidation, a lot of laughter and, for the foreseeable future, absolutely no need for additional garlic. Viva España.