Ian Ferguson

Andalusian Expectations

Andalusian Expectations

My expectations of myself and others can sometimes be unrealistic and my holiday in Spain is giving me cause to examine this character trait a little more closely.

I arrive in Cajiz, a small village in the Andalusian campo ten minutes walk from my villa which is perched high on the escarpment above the wonderfully fertile olive and avocado groves for which this region is so well-known. It is a baking-hot day and I need a beer to cool myself down. I ensconce myself in the only bar in the village, the Cafe Bar La Curva, and the owner, Rapha, comes out and looks me over with not a trace of a smile or acknowledgement. However, a smile isn’t what I want to order, it is una cerveza. Rapha steps past me out into the street, looks left and right and goes back inside to his place behind the bar.

I feel anger rise within me and force myself to calm down, I’m on holiday after all. I reassess my expectations. I am a stranger to everyone in this village, un touristo with sweat running down my back onto Rapha's red plastic Cruzcampo chair. I am a foreigner who speaks muy poco espanol, very little Spanish, and even less Castilian, the local dialect, not the best of circumstances to elicit a smile from my host. And then I remember, Clive (the man who leased me the villa) telling me in a conspiratory tone yesterday morning that Rapha has just recovered from throat cancer, had the growth cut out in an operation that has left part of his face paralysed. Yes, perhaps I should reassess my expectations of this man?

I resolve to be more tolerant when he comes back out onto the terrace to take my order. Eight minutes pass and I decide to go inside to look for him. After the camera flash brightness of the terrace, the inside of the bar is like a cave and it takes my eyes several moments to acclimatise. Rapha is nowhere to be seen but I recognise the older man behind the bar as his father, se llama Rapha tambien, also called Rapha. I approach the bar and my smile is met by a stony inscrutable stare. Perhaps he has cancer too? I chastise myself for such an ungracious thought.

“Una cerveza, por favor,” I say in my best sing-song Spanish making sure to roll my “r's”.

“Grande?” asks old Rapha.

“Si.”

On a whim, I decide to order a coffee just in case both Raphas take a dislike to me and refuse to serve me further.

“Y un cafe con leche doble.”

Without any acknowledgement, old man Rapha sets the beer tap running into a huge dimpled glass with Cruzcampo etched on the side in red lettering. He turns and begins fiddling with an enormous ancient SEMAFRI coffee machine which takes pride of place on the gantry at the back wall of the bar. While old Rapha and I wait for the beer to pour and the water to dribble through the packed ground coffee, I ask for un agua con gas, a sparkling water. He says something but his words are lost under the gurgling of the coffee machine and the strains of the Flamenco guitar music which fill the bar.

“Perdona?” I say leaning in slightly.

“Con gas?” he says more loudly this time.

“Si, gracias.”

He says something else and again I fail to pick it up.

“Perdona?”

“Grande?”

“Si, gracias.”

He searches around in a double door stainless steel fridge and after several minutes of rummaging and a few oaths I realise that the fridge isn't going to offer up a sparkling water.

“Con gas o sin gas,” I say letting him know that still water will do.

He appears to ignore me and continues his search.

“Senor,” I say.

He turns and looks up and I think I see a smile, or is it a grimace? Perhaps his knees are hurting?

“Si?” he asks looking irritated.

“Con gas o sin gas.”

“Que?”

“Con gas o sin gas.”  

“Con gas o sin gas?”

“Si.”

“Con gas o sin gas?”

“Si.”

He looks at me as if one of us isn't quite getting it and I think it’s me.

“Con gas o sin gas?” he tries again.

.

I realise he is asking me a question rather than confirming my offer of flexibility.

“Sin gas.”

He shakes his head, mutters something and returns to his rummaging. At last he pulls a bottle of water from the fridge, and fetching the coffee glass from the machine, and the beer from the tap, deposits all three in front of me on the counter.

“Agua sin gas, cafe con leche doble, y una cerveza grande,” he says with his family's trademark stoicism.

I carry my drinks out to the terrace and place them beside my book. I put my sweat-drenched cap back on my head and check my mobile phone. No messages. Good, this is a holiday after all. Then I feel slightly miffed that no-one back home has felt the need to check on my well-being.

Letting my coffee cool, I sip my beer and look out at the whitewashed walls and terracotta rooftops of the village below me. The winding streets are lined with flamboyanes, their translucent scarlet and orange flowers fluttering in the gentle breeze drifting up the valley from the sea, releasing their intoxicating scent to mingle with the aroma of the coffee in front of me.

I take another sip of beer and silently thank whatever superior influence in the universe is responsible for this very special experience. I express my gratitude for the beauty of the world and the grace of Mother Nature in her infinite wisdom. I even thank God for bestowing on me the good health to enjoy this moment of serenity.

I am abruptly awoken from this reverie when one of the locals sitting nearby on the terrace coughs up what must be his entire bronchial cavity’s phlegm and gobs it over the boundary wall of the terrace onto the pavement. Disgusted, I turn to see who has committed this atrocity. He is ancient and looks like he might not have too much longer to wait for the final trumpet call from St. Peter's celestial orchestra. I watch as he buttons up his red and white checked shirt over the silver hairs on his bronzed and concertina-skinned chest and belly. He pushes himself from his green plastic Heineken chair pausing and swaying unsteadily for a moment as he acclimatises himself to his new increased altitude. He toddles unsteadily across the terrace and down the steps into the street but instead of striking off downhill toward the village, he turns and heads for the triangular grey stone-chipped area that constitutes the car-park. He straps on a blue crash helmet and stands there like one of the Space Cowboys. I nearly choke on my beer as he straddles a 1000cc Harley Davidson and with one swift descending blow from his plimsoll he kicks the motorcycle into life. He waves with a flourish to his cronies on the terrace as he passes and he’s gone like an ancient Steve McQueen downhill through the village. Within seconds, the scent of the flamboyanes is engulfed in a fug of petrol fumes and engine oil and I decide it is time to leave. I drain my beer and my coffee glass and gather my belongings.

I step into the dusk of the bar once again and pay the elder Rapha for my drinks. As I stroll through the village singing softly to myself, I realise I have paid twenty euros for a nine euro bill and did not get any change. I’m indignant at old Rapha’s disingenuity and I chastise myself for my lack of attention to detail. Then I laugh. I’m on holiday, and anyway, what are a few euros between a traveller and his indigenous host? It is then I decide that I should definitely reassess my expectations of people. I decide to begin with myself.