Our village has its local fiesta this weekend in honour of St James. We were looking forward to participating.
Last night we went to the meal along with our ex next door neighbours. We were greeted by several Spaniards but our conversational level being what it is the conversations soon petered out and the Spaniards, after a moment or two of checking their footwear, moved on. When two more Britons joined us the predominant language became English and people stopped speaking to us. When it came time to sit down our pals chose a table well to the side, away from the mainstream. Some Spaniards nearly sat next to us but they thought better of it and left a couple of empty chairs between their position and ours. Everyone was perefctly pleasant, they kept us topped up with beer and wine, and made the odd comment as they passed but, in truth, we were a little ghetto of foreigners.
Today we set off to try the gachamigas (a local food) at lunchtime. We were amongst the first there. We were offered beer, we sort of participated in the conversation about how hot it was and why it would be a while before the gachamigas got cooked. I felt even more isolated and foreign than the night before. I really felt that we were intruding; that we shouldn't be there. So we left.
And, as penance, I decided to tidy out the garage. It was hot work as you can guess from the pile of stuff on the patio. Maggie thought I was mad but I never did like the idea of hair shirts and self flagellation.