Excuse me

My theory is simple enough. Spaniards like to talk. A corollary to that may be that Britons prefer to read. I suppose that Spaniards like to interact with other people, whenever possible. I mean, for goodness’ sake, why else would anyone going into a post office, or a hospital waiting room, feel the need to say hello to the room in general? Or why on that quiet woodland stroll does every sport clothes clad passer-by offer a greeting? I know walkers do it everywhere, but this is for the walk from the car park to the neolithic cave, not a trudge along the Pennine Way.

It is, I have to say, possibly true that this universal truth is not so universal where the pace is hustle and bustle. It is right for our little corner of the world, but it may be that nobody in Zaragoza says hello as they enter the bank, although I suspect they do. I mean, otherwise how would they queue? We Britons stand in a line. There is a physical marker. No need to communicate. All we have to do is look up from our phone every now and again to make sure we have not been left in a void. Spaniards stand in an amorphous mass, but as they arrive they ask who is last in the queue. They form a virtual queue. People who don’t know the system may end up getting cross as they suspect queue jumping.

I’d thought of this as a blog topic a little while ago and so I’ve been noticing examples over the last few weeks. Even in these times where people appear to be born with their map-equipped phones welded to their hands, people will still occasionally stop you in the street to ask for the nearest Santander Bank or petrol station. I’ve had both questions from cars at the kerbside in the last month or so.

In Sax, in a park, sitting in front of a stage, with props on it and background music playing, a man asked us if this was the place for the circus show. It’s true the audience was so sparse it seemed unlikely, but the clues were there. In Petrer last Sunday a woman caught me completely off guard by asking why the windows were covered with brown paper. She knew the answer better than I did; it was to protect them from fireworks—maybe a traca or a correfoc—but she asked anyway. On Monday I was washing the car. A bloke came over and asked if I had a lighter. I quipped about a changed world, but he wasn’t dying for a ciggy; he wanted it to soften up the plastic tube to reconnect his car’s windscreen washers. A bit later he asked me what coins the car wash ran on, even though there were pictures of the coins next to the coin slot.

Asking is even officially built into some events. There are lots of processions that have a route—along this and that street to this and that square. It’s dead common for the publicity to say that the parade will follow the customary route. Fine if you and your grandparents were born in the place, but not so good for comers-in. Again, lots of the posters for events like circuses often say “in the usual place.” I suppose it saves printing costs, but if you are a circus virgin in that particular town then you will need to ask if you're keen to see Co-Co.

Maggie and I were talking about the unavailability of menus when we stopped off for a drink in Salinas. It was just before lunchtime and we had plans to eat at home, but the olives they gave us to go with the drinks did what they are supposed to do. They “opened our appetite.” We watched as some people ordered a light lunch, others were on the tapas. They obviously did food and we reckoned that if they had given us a list we would have succumbed. As it was we would have needed to ask. We didn’t.

We have a restaurant in Culebrón. We’re bad customers; we don’t go there often enough. Nowadays I think that Sergio and Blandine know about selling up and are quick to ensure that you know what’s available. In the past, though, there used to be a little game that went a bit like this—but in Spanish, of course.

‘Hi, Eduardo (Sergio’s dad).’
‘Hello, you two. How are you doing?’
‘We’re fine. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, too. What can I get you?’
‘Well, what do you have?’
‘Everything. What do you want?’
‘Errr, well, errr—do you have gazpachos or paella?’
‘Yes, we have both.’
‘OK, we’ll have rice with rabbit and snails then, please.’
‘And to start?’
‘Well, what do you have?’
‘Everything. What do you want?’
Etcetera.

When we’d eventually settled for a simple (the simplest) salad, some almonds and maybe some whitebait on crisps, we’d realise that other people in Eduardo’s were eating mussels, or tomato and mojama, maybe fried cheese and jam, even grilled meat. If we’d entered into the spirit of the thing then we would probably have done much better. Or if Eduardo had it written down.

One of the bargains in Spain is the set meal: the menú del día. Notice the ú in menú. That makes it a set meal. Menu, the list of what there is, is a carta in Spanish. Even on the coast, this menú isn’t always offered in detail; it will just say first course, second course, pudding or coffee and a drink for 13.95€ (or whatever). You will have to ask to be told what today’s first and second courses are. This has advantages for the average Spaniard, who can ask all sorts of questions about what’s on offer. It’s fine for us too, when we’re alone. The problem comes when we have guests. As I add in the extra task of translating the list, I am wont to forget half the list.

Oh, just to finish, and off topic as always, about menús. If there is one advertised outside, often on a blackboard, but when you sit at your table you are presented only with a written menu that doesn’t include the set meal, then you need to ask specifically for the menú. It’s a bit of a tourist-spot “trick.” You are drawn in by the cheap offer, but unless you ask, they will not offer that deal again. They are working on tourists not being so ready to talk!