JESUS & GORDON BROWN: YES, WE CAN!

Surprisingly, Jesús didn’t comment in the Spanish class this week about Lewis Hamilton’s recent win. In fact, he seemed a bit preoccupied.

At first, to get us to practise the conditional tense, he asked us what we would do with the "‘Gordo’ " as he put it. As this was the same day as the crucial (for Gordon Brown) Glenrothes by-election, I exchanged glances with the other Brits who fell about helplessly laughing. For a second, Jesús’s face registered, firstly, surprise then total bafflement at our unforgivable pig ignorance of such an essential part of Spanish life.

As we did our best to stifle the laughs, he gamely tried to educate us in Spanish culture as he went on to describe in detail precisely which ‘Gordo’ he had in mind. Namely, an event so important that many Spanish regard the day it takes place, December 22nd, as the real start of the Christmas festive season. El Gordo - ‘the fat one’ - the Spanish National Lottery jackpot.

The draw, he patiently explained, is shown on television in the morning while newspapers publish special editions solely with the list of winning numbers and photos of the winners spraying champagne on one another and around the ‘lucky’ place they purchased the ticket.

Finally, by way of bringing the class to an end, he said that if we wanted to get rich fast, we needed to start buying straightaway our participaciones, either from lottery vendors in street kiosks and shopping centres or from organisations ranging from bars to charities which buy numbers and redistribute them in smaller sums to clients and friends.

He’d already bought a large number, he added with a pained look on his face, since he was desperate to recoup some of the money he’d now unavoidably, categorically lost to a developer on his recent apartment purchase.

He looked so crestfallen we almost forgave him his earlier tirades against Lewis Hamilton. For we’d only just read in the local press reports that Spanish developers are so indebted they can’t drop prices any further without making a loss. "You can forget about prices falling 30%to 40% – I’ll give it to the bank before that," said Guillermo Chicote, president of the Association of Constructors and Developers of Spain, at a recent conference.

However, despite Chicote’s fighting talk, that’s probably what will happen. Dozens of developers, including Martinsa-Fadesa, one of Spain’s biggest, have already been forced into administration, causing mayhem for many British investors who have no property to show for their early-stage payments. And only goes to highlight the risk of buying off-plan in the current market: better to snap up something newly built, but already finished. Indeed, unless the government steps in and bails out the sector, large-scale repossessions of even new developments by the banks look likely too.

Well, let’s hope Jesús is equally lucky with El Gordo next month as Gordon was this.

Who needs Obama when there's El Gordo? Yes, we can!

WHAT, YET ANOTHER FIESTA?

Arrived at Spanish conversation class yesterday, late as usual and clutching in my sweaty hand last week’s homework, to find the whole building - the local town hall - closed. No sign of explanation anywhere. It was as I was leaving, despondently and somewhat puzzled, that the euro dropped. The fiesta taking place in a nearby town has been ‘adopted’ by this one and celebrated as a municipal event. Or rather, all the local municipal buildings close down and it’s yet another public holiday!

Jesús, our teacher, must have forgotten to mention it last week but then, he did seem a bit distracted, rushing off at the end to see his ‘abogado’ (lawyer) about some flat he’d bought off-plan. But judging by the dismal look on his usually cheerful face, it wasn't just the plan that was beginning to look off but the flat too. No doubt, it won’t be long before we hear all the details. Jesús likes to use any conceivable current event as a topic of conversation and, apart from the frequent fiestas which he naturally adores, his on-going house-hunting problems must take pride of place in the top ten we’ve discussed to date.

Speaking about records, Spain must occupy a place in the top ten countries of the world for the number of its official national public holidays - 18. Of these, the main ones are Semana Santa (Easter Holy Week) which is celebrated with huge religious fervour here in Andalucia; Los Reyes Magos (The Three Kings) on 6th January, a favourite with children because that’s the day they get their second helping of Christmas presents; and 25th July, the festival of Santiago (St James), Spain’s patron saint.

Then there are, in addition, the regional fiestas. Of these, the most important are the processions and bonfires of the Fallas of Valencia in March; the bonfires in Alicante and elsewhere on St John’s Day, 24th June; the festival of Moors and Christians in April in Alcoy, province of Alicante and the infamous bull-running in Pamplona, northern Spain, in the first week of July.

But the overall winner of the title of pseudo-Barbara Cartland-lookalike gaudiness of all regional fiestas is without doubt Seville’s Feria de Abril. Women enveloped in the most outrageously and hideously dayglo, skin-tight flamenco dresses vie with each other in flouncing up and down Seville’s beautiful avenues often to the accompaniment of snapping castanets. Or are driven around town in family-owned, horse-drawn open carriages flicking their fans in disdain at those not in possession of such luxury and battling their way through the seething, wine-drinking crowds. And, given that the average Spanish woman is not exactly petite, those skin-tight frocks don’t do any of them any favours - neither the average-looking woman flirting on a Feria street nor the immaculately-coiffed aristocrat in her private entertainment enclosure.

And last, but by no means least, are the local fiestas. In fact, every town and every village throughout Spain, however large or small, will have its own fiesta mayor, when their inhabitants let their hair down with processions, fairs, competitions, music, dancing and consumption of food and alcohol in much the same way as their ancestors have done for centuries. Madrid, for instance, celebrates the festival of San Isidro, the city’s patron saint, on 15th May. And on this single day, the sophisticated metropolis that is modern-day Madrid, turns into a collection of mini fiestas, each with its own village-like atmosphere, the residents celebrating the holiday just as their parents and grandparents before them.

SHIFTING TECTONIC PLATES

Got back from the wedding to find P and Lola, not exactly in separate beds - the celebrations continued overnight - but in separate rooms and as far apart as possible. P in his tiny office at the rear of the apartment and Lola on the terrace at the front. Both seemed somewhat subdued - unusually so for Lola, a boisterous and unashamed flirt at the best of times. Now, though, she didn’t show any of her former enthusiasm to go for a run and meet like-minded bichon frises particularly after being cooped up for so long but merely allowed herself to be scooped up by Sra N. and whisked back to her apartment.

She was so restrained I wondered if P might have added something to her food bowl. This he vehemently denied, attributing her "calmness", as he put it, to the restful night she’d spent in her basket on the terrace - undisturbed by him. After all, I was fully aware, wasn’t I, that any close contact with dog hair made his eyes stream? So this arrangement had worked out best for both parties. He’d been able to get on with his work - he works from home - and Lola had managed to catch up on some overdue beauty sleep.

I didn't want to belabour the point for a number of reasons. Firstly, since P had done me the favour of dog-sitting so that I’d be free to take Sra N to the wedding and meet the love of her life. Secondly, since there is another issue between us, cropping up with increasing frequency of late. Namely that he wants to stay here indefinitely whilst I’m more ambivalent. Much more ambivalent. Let me explain.

Since P can work from home via the internet anywhere in the world, he settles down with extreme ease wherever he happens to be - in Andalucia now just as easily as in LA years ago. Moreover, he’s not as close to his family as I am to mine. When we lived in California, we rarely saw his relatives directly due north in Canada whereas I have a need to visit my frail, elderly mother in north Wales at regular intervals.

In addition to my family, I also miss the variety and buzz of London’s theatres, concerts, galleries and restaurants. Whilst I wouldn’t go so far as to say the only culture here is the one growing in a tub of yoghurt, there is a definite lack of London’s urbaneness, cosmopolitanism, sophistication. But then, Andalucia isn’t Madrid. It’s provincial because it is, after all, a province. Not a metropolitan juggernaut.

The British sense of humour and fair play is another aspect of life I miss. I realise this sounds like a deeply rose-tinted view of the UK which, I am only too aware, has huge problems all of its own. However, when you open a newspaper here and read about yet another mayor or high-ranking official arrested for corruption, you start to ask yourself when is it all going to end. And the answer is always the same: not for a couple of generations. So ingrained is the culture in local life.

The newly installed Mayor of Marbella, Angela Munoz, and her team are gamely trying to root out the corruption that still remains in local government. However, the layer at the top is moving in one direction and the layer at the the bottom in the opposite, both consequently in constant collision with each other. With the result that no permanent change will occur until the old guard, the ancien regime, passes on.

This tension between the two forces seems to me like a shift in the Andalusian tectonic plates. A bit like the current shift in the tectonic plates between P and myself too. But I’ll come back to that - and corruption - in a later post. And more, too, about that wedding and Snr. N…

Now though I’ve got to prepare for my imminent Spanish lessons - the first for a week - with Jesús. (Yes, that really is his name. and not at all uncommon here.) Last Saturday, he telephoned all class members to say that, in addition to the cancellation of Monday’s class because it was Columbus Day, there wouldn’t be any further classes last week because "everyone would be attending the local fiestas". By "everyone", he was of course referring to himself. Ah, such is life in Spain…