The Real Spain

We were probably as guilty as anyone. We wanted the Real Spain. That's the one where dark skinned men ride donkeys and raven haired señoritas swirl their skirts. Houses should probably be whitewashed and bougainvillea trimmed. A BMW xD35i would be a cause for young boys to point. Benidorm and Torremolinos would, like Bhopal or Fukushima, be places to avoid.

Not a lot of donkeys in Cartagena.  Though we did get the Friday off work because it was Dolores  - Nuestra Señora de los Dolores - Patron Saint of Cartagena. There were bands marching up and down the street getting ready for the processions, fine tuning their timing for Holy Week. They were surrounded by shoppers. All next week it will be big time Catholic ritual as the brotherhoods, dressed in robes that became the model for the Klan, parade around town carrying huge religious statues. One of my students told me that he dislikes the religious parades but he loves being in Cartagena for Holy Week. The town's alive he says.

On the way home to Culebrón we stopped in the industrial estate between Santomera and Abanilla to go to the restaurant that shares a metal box type industrial building with a sweet manufacturer. Lovely sugary smell as we left. We reckoned the restaurant would have a cheap set meal because there were lots of production line workers sitting at the tables outside having a smoke. We were right; the bar was heaving and the food was cheap. There were maybe five blokes behind the bar and the waiter dealing with our section was actually running between tables. It was as typical a bar as you could possibly want though there wasn't a whiff of bougainvillea.

We've got builders in. There are a couple of blokes plastering as I type. They'd said they'd be here around 10.30 and one of them did show up pretty punctually for a builder at 11.10. Before coming here they'd been to check that the solar powered hot water system they'd installed somewhere else yesterday was working properly. One of them couldn't come straight here after he'd checked that job because he had to take his daughter to her swimming class.

So, you see, we got the real Spain after all.

Filling up

I try to avoid the single petrol station in Pinoso if I can. They aren't ever actually unpleasant but they are a bit offhand. The staff sort of vaguely ignore me or talk across me to another customer. It's common for them to beckon for my credit card rather than ask me for it. Their reasoning may be that very few of we Brits speak any Spanish so it's not worth trying to talk to us but, whatever the reason, I don't like their attitude much.

It's not a cheap petrol station either. The diesel cost 1.439€ per litre today and the price comparison sites says that if I'd hunted out the cheapest petrol station in the province I could have saved 13 centimos per litre and got it for 1.309€.

According to the reports if I want to save money I should avoid Galp or BP stations where prices tend to be the highest. Repsol stations, which are the most widespread, have widely variable prices and the best bet for lower prices are the independent brands including the hypermarkets or Cepsa, the second most common brand. There is a common belief in Spain though that cheap fuel from the independents isn't to be trusted because it lacks the essential additives of the big names.

Apparently if I really want to save money I should make sure that I tank up on a Monday with diesel in a hypermarket in the province of Huesca. Conversely I should avoid stations at weekends, especially just before a Bank Holiday and especially on motorways or in rural areas. It's a Bank Holiday in Alicante on Monday and of course Pinoso is a small rural town.

The Monday thing is interesting. The EU asks Member States to report fuel prices on Mondays and Spanish prices are habitually a couple of percentage points lower that day. The petrol companies say it's because demand is lower on Mondays so they drop their prices to attract more trade. Critics say they do it to make their prices seem more reasonable.

Most of the petrol stations in Alicante and Murcia still seem to be attended service. The last few times I've filled up before today it's been in a service station near Fuente Alamo in Murcia. The first time I went there I didn't see anyone on the forecourt wearing the distinctive blue and orange overalls, I looked for, but didn't find, one of the signs to say service was attended so I set about serving myself. The pump fired up OK but as the fuel began to flow and I stared vaguely into the distance I felt a hand close on mine. "How much do you want?" said the attendant as he gently, but firmly, relieved me of the nozzle.

The fuel market in Spain is controlled by three big firms. Repsol and Cepsa  have well over 55% of the total outlets between them with BP being the third big player. Nearly all the refining capacity is with the same companies so that even independent stations and hypermarkets are ultimately buying their fuel from one of the big three.

Most people believe that these three companies operate a form of price fixing policy by not really competing too hard with each other. Even the independently owned but company branded stations get a message everyday to suggest appropriate pump prices.

But cars won't run without the stuff and we can't all live in Huesca so we mutter gently but ultimately pay up.

Back to Benidorm

It cost more this year. 15€ more to be precise. We set out earlier and I think we maybe got an extra meal. Otherwise it was very much the same. In Spanish style we stuck with what we know and went to the same hotel. Benidorm remains as unique as ever.

Maggie said the best part for her was in a bar with a motorbike/Hell's Angels theme and live music on the seafront. I think the bit I enjoyed most was when someone asked us if we wanted to go into a bar - free drink he said. He wasn't the first to ask nor was he the last but, for some reason, we went into his place and not the others. There was a group of girls on a hen party and later a bunch of blokes out for a stag night. They were all in fancy dress and it seemed a bit desperate as they tried, so hard, to have a good time in a tacky bar on a coolish evening in a quiet Benidorm. There was a bloke who took off his shirt maybe in the hope of attracting one of the girls with his six pack. Unfortunately for him any physical plus was nullified by the minus of his drink fuelled inability to walk.

On Sunday we crossed the whole length of town to the Gran Hotel Bali, until recently the tallest building in Benidorm and for many years the tallest building in Spain. There are four taller skyscrapers in Madrid now but Benidorm, amazingly, still has the most high-rise buildings per capita in the world. We intended to go to the observation floor of the tower but the cloudy day and the draw of the paid for school dinner quality food in our hotel were too much and we didn't make it. A treat for next time.

We were with the Culebrón Neighbourhood Association of course. Just like last year. Actually we didn't interact with our Spanish neighbours as much as last time because of our unwillingness to initiate conversations in Spanish so it wasn't really as interesting. We have nobody to blame but ourselves and we still had a good time.

Finally, a word of warning. The Benidorm City Bus Tour has to be one of the least informative tours in the world with, apparently, nothing of note along the whole length of the journey.