Something in Spain
Right at the end of June, she was taken into hospital and operated on for a problem with her pancreas. It was a long and complicated operation, followed by a few days in the intensive care unit. Now she's on an ordinary ward with and the suggestion is that she'll be there for a couple of weeks.
While Maggie's life became one of pain, sensors, tubes and wires strapped to her body, mine became one of driving back and forth between Elda Hospital and home. My side of the bargain was easy enough and, despite being one step removed from our usual forays into Spain I realised just how much it was all around.
Take the roadworks. Of course, just as it became routine for me to drive from Culebrón to Elda four times a day, someone decided to dig up several kilometres of the route for resurfacing. I found an alternative that was perfectly good, and actually rather pleasant, although it had one drawback. At six-something in the morning the rabbits were still very much out and about. They carpeted the road. There were a couple of near misses but, I'm glad to report, no fatalities.
Before I changed routes, though, I realised there was something distinctly Spanish about the roadworks themselves. Nowadays, the blokes labouring in the blazing heat are covered from head to foot in fluorescent overalls and wear enormous floppy hats to keep the sun at bay. No more bare torsos, shorts and heavy boots. I imagine it's much the same throughout Europe, but somehow it still looks typically Spanish to me. Two of the workers have the singularly tedious job of stopping and starting the traffic. They are, in effect, human traffic lights. There's no sophisticated technology beyond a pair of walkie-talkies. Instead, they wield paddles the size of oversized table-tennis bats, one side showing a red STOP, the other a blue arrow.
Visiting hours in the intensive care unit (UCI) are from 7.30 to 8.30 in the morning and from 7.30 to 8.30 in the evening. At those times the hospital is wonderfully quiet. At ten in the morning it's a frenzy of citizens and staff in different-coloured scrubs but, at half past seven, it's a haven of air-conditioned peace and tranquillity. I can even find a space in the rough, unmade car parks nearest the entrance. It's so quiet that the gorillas – the men who make a living directing you into a parking space you could easily have found yourself, in return for a small tip – haven't yet appeared for work or have already gone home.
Waiting to go into the UCI, I noticed another of those little customs that seem almost universal here. Everyone says good morning or good afternoon. The other day I watched a Belgian or Dutch customer walk into a café and begin with, "Can I get a coffee, please?" without so much as a hello. It struck me because it sounded so abrupt here.
Outside the locked doors of intensive care are a couple of rows of plastic chairs. The nurses are arriving to change shift, the cleaners need to get through the door and relatives gather for the visit. I was often the first one there and, in all that coming and going, I never saw anyone fail to greet everyone else with a "Buenos días" or "Buenas tardes".
Once inside, there's the familiar ritual of pulling on disposable gowns and those blue galoshes, calzas, that fit over your shoes, followed by the antiseptic hand gel and a face mask. Because the nurses change shift at eight, there are effectively double the usual number milling about during each visit. They told us they work twelve-hour shifts, either four days on followed by three off, or a three-week rotation with a fourth week free.
Whether genuine or simply part of the job, the warmth of the staff was remarkable. At the start of each shift the nurse responsible for Maggie would introduce herself and, as one team handed over to the next, several others would stop to exchange a few kind words and a smile. Genuine or not, it made Maggie feel she was in good hands.
It's been warm recently. Most days have brought faultlessly blue skies and temperatures of around 37°C. It feels like high summer in Alicante. The cigarras, the cicadas, the grillos all sing. The earth seethes with heat; things crack as they expand. The shimmering air, the chorus of insects and the astonishing clarity of the light seem to define this time of year. Wonderful, however much people might complain that it's a bit warm.
One day the fuel light came on in the car. As it happened, I was passing through the village of Salinas. I think the village's population is around 1,5000 and as I pulled into the garage, it seemed to me that half the salineros were there. The garage has a bar, and it was heaving. Outside stood a gaggle of six or seven men, probably about my age. As I filled the tank, I could hear their conversation. They were talking about hunting. I caught snippets about the merits of different shotguns and dogs. Hunting in the UK is Range Rovers and
Come to think of it, the petrol pump was a bit Spanish too. I took the nozzle from its holder and waited for the cashier to reset the pump, but he didn't. I went inside and asked whether I had to pay beforehand, which used to be the almost certain routine at self-service garages."Yes," he said. "Oh, I wanted to fill it.""Oh, in that case, go ahead."
It required a conversation, as so many everyday transactions here do. I often think how many little exchanges there are in Spain when, in the UK, you could probably go through the same routine without saying a word.
While Maggie was in the UCI – eight days in all – my visits were limited to the two allotted hours each day. Now that she's on the ward, I could stay with her twenty-four hours a day if I wanted to, or if I were able.
A few days into that routine, I decided I ought to break it. Rather than spend the hours between visits simply pottering around the house, I organised the day so I could meet friends for a beer, go to the pictures to see the excellent Los Músicos – a French film about four virtuoso players brought together to play four Stradivarius instruments, all made from the same tree – and then head into nearby Elda for a contemporary pop music festival in the town centre.
I didn't stay for much of the concert because I was feeling a bit knackered, but what struck me was the atmosphere. It was a Saturday night in a small Spanish town at the height of summer. Children raced through the streets, while the bars and cafés overflowed with customers. Plenty of people barely glanced at the concert as they wandered past on their way to an ice cream parlour, a horchatería, a bar or simply out for the evening stroll. Others drifted between the live bands and the DJs while the stage was prepared for the next act.
The temporary bars, the toilets, the Punto Violeta (safe space for women) and a couple of charity stalls all became natural meeting places, surrounded by little knots of conversation. The whole place seemed to burst with life.
I was still carrying the bustle of Elda with me as I pulled up outside our house. It was probably around eleven. The neighbours were in the early stages of a barbecue. I could hear the clink of glasses and smell meat sizzling over the coals.
I didn't stop.
The alarm was set for five hours' time. There would be another early drive to Elda, another day beginning and ending at the hospital. I went inside and headed for bed.
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