America is a Continent (and the Geriatric Nomad)

After over a month of pitiful pleading, Maribel was finally in a position to offer me a few hours’ waitressing in the little hotel restaurant during weekday lunches.

Set in the interior patio, the mosaic-topped tables with their wrought-iron chairs were dotted about under a gentle canopy of vines, wisteria and bouganvilla: the tuneful gurgle of water from a large marble fountain adding to the idyllic atmosphere. And when the simple but tasty and affordable menu was added to such surroundings, our busyness levels – especially during the summer months – were assured.

It probably took about a week or so of ferrying bowls of ajo blanco and plates of tortilla de patatas before I really began to experience the full force of my boss’s personality – something the solitude of my Saturdays had seemingly shielded me from.

For Maribel was one of Life’s ‘doers’, and when she wasn’t actively ‘doing’ she was screaming at those around her to ‘get doing’ or to ‘do faster’ or to ‘do more’. Whatever we had ‘done’, would invariably have been done infinitely better by Maribel herself. This led to her ‘doing all over again’ whatever it was that you had ‘done very badly’ but this time of course it was ‘done properly’ (with you watching, and observing, and taking notes whilst all the time knowing that the same rigmarole would be observed the very next time you attempted to ‘do’ whatever it was).

Rafael was always conspicuous by his absence during these frenetic periods of activity and verbal castigation.

He himself fell victim often enough to his wife’s tongue-lashings – usually for eating or drinking something that she considered bad for him – and I’m sure witnessing somebody else’s humiliation for a similarly minor transgression would have been rather more than he could have coped with. I think he no doubt also worried that a disgruntled employee might one day appeal to him for backup, he was the owner of the hotel after all, but as he had long since handed over any semblance of responsibility to his quick-witted, if sharp-tongued, spouse, it was a scenario he was  prepared to go to any lengths to avoid.

And so I returned to a life of  beck-and-call, this time at the mercy of a harpy whose shrieks from the kitchen almost certainly sent a good proportion of her customers away in dire need of an indigestion remedy.

A large number of the visitors to Hotel América were North Americans, but contrary to what they might have surmised from the name of the establishment, Rafael was not a huge fan of the good old U S of A. The plaque behind the reception ‘América es un Continente’ being a strong declaration of that fact, not that our clientele ever picked up on the pointed undercurrent of the statement. On one hilarious occasion a couple of young US women came to the reception to change some money.

‘Hoe-lar sin-your,’ said one. ‘Um. Es possible change money Americano?’

‘You would like to change some money?’ replied Rafael in perfect English. ‘Of course, which currency would you like to change?’

‘Oh! You speak English! Great!’ gasped lady number two. ‘We’d like to change some American money please.’

‘Certainly madam,’ replied my poker-faced boss. ‘Which particular money would that be? Pesos, Bolivares, Reais…?’

I somehow managed to change my snort of uncontrollable mirth into something vaguely resembling a cough, but it wasn’t easy, I can tell you.

(I’ll let you guess whether or not they got the joke).

The next step in the long journey to growing up was undoubtedly my paternal grandmother deciding to come over to Granada for a visit.

A frustrated traveller – my grandfather had long since dug his heels in over any but the odd overland jaunt around the British Isles, preferably with fishing tackle at the ready – a granddaughter abroad must have seemed like the perfect excuse for a European adventure.

For the granddaughter abroad, however, the responsibility involved in steering a seventy-four year old lady around the cobbles of Granada was infinitely more of a worry than said granddaughter had anticipated. For although seventy-four is no age at all in these times of good health and longevity, my grandmother was about five foot tall, weighed approximated the same as a ten-year old on rations and boasted limbs not much sturdier than pencils.

The onus was great, as was the additional dread of family wrath should I misplace their venerable matriarch or neglect to send her back in the same condition in which she had arrived.

So you can imagine my horror when the problems began to occur even before she had set dainty arthritic foot on dangerously slippery Andalucian cobble…

I first had an inkling that all was not as it should be when I went along to meet her at the chosen hotel – we had decided that as the airport was a distance out of town and I had no means of transport, she would take a taxi to her accommodation where I would be waiting for her.

But there she most certainly was not, so after much pointless questioning of the bemused receptionist, I collapsed like a wilted cabbage on a reception sofa to try to make some sort of plan.

To my great relief (the plan-making not having shaped up to much) the, by then less bemused, receptionist eventually called my name across the foyer and I was beckoned mysteriously over to the telephone only to hear my missing relative’s voice at the other end.

‘ I’m in Madrid!’ She announced, with unexpected glee.

‘What on earth are you doing in Madrid? You’re supposed to be here?’

‘Oh I know. I missed my connection, you see.’ The breezy lack of concern in her voice contrasting considerably with the rising squeaks of distress my own voice box was choosing to deliver.

‘Ok, ok. Just stay there, I’ll have to think of a way of getting to Madrid to meet you.’

‘Oh don’t worry about that, I’m coming down on the train.’

‘What do you mean, “You’re coming down on the train”? It’s nearly nine o’clock at night for heaven’s sake!’

‘Well, everyone here is ever-so friendly; they’ve organised a sleeping compartment for me on the slow train out of Madrid!’

The gall! Up in Madrid the fearless pensioner was having the time of her life, whilst her poor granddaughter was threatening to hyperventilate her last onto a garishly-patterned hotel carpet.

‘Are you sure about all this? Are the people there? Can I speak to them please?’

‘Of course, I’ll just hand you over.’ I could hear a rustle of the handset being passed and my grandmother’s cheerful voice, ‘It’s my granddaughter – she speaks Spanish, you know.’

So I chatted with some nameless, faceless member of staff at the Aeropuerto de Barajas, who somehow managed to convince me that my elderly relative would be delivered to me in one piece by seven o’clock the next morning.

And do you know what? She was; and to my great relief she was joined that same day by her brother, who had arranged to come out so that I wouldn’t have to worry about her while I was at work. And so passed a very pleasant week: the older generation pottering around doing their own thing while I waited tables, followed by group activities in the afternoon – occasionally of a cultural variety, but more often than not just sitting in cafés and watching the world go about its business.

On several occasions they even made their way up the hill for lunch at Hotel América, and although absolutely everyone fell in love with my charming grandmama, not least Rafael, there were a few cultural differences that the Spanish contingent found rather surprising.

Firstly was the fact that a seventy-four year old woman could go around quite comfortably and without embarrassment in trousers (or slacks, as she referred to them) and with a face unadorned by make-up; when so many older Spanish ladies apparently felt unable to leave the house sans coloured and perfumed bouffant, clanking gold jewellery, swanky dress and crocodile-skin pumps, thickly applied mascara liberally surrounded by powder-clogged wrinkles.

The second thing that had the Spaniards gaping at abuelita across the terrace was her ability to down two or three gin and tonics before the lunch had even arrived at the table, before polishing off at least half a bottle of wine during the meal.

Far from being ashamed, I actually felt rather proud of the fact that she could drink any old Spaniard under the table and still manage to stroll out of the restaurant and down to Granada under her own steam.

¡Viva Granny! I thought smugly to myself…