The State Christmas Lottery

I wasn't going to do this, I've done it so many times before, then I had a conversation. So I thought why not?

If you're going to win the El Sorteo Extraordinario de Navidad, the big Christmas State Lottery, el Gordo, on 22 December, an absolutely essential first step to becoming temporarily wealthy, is to get hold of a lottery ticket. If you don't have a ticket your chances of winning are nil. For most people that means buying one. I should qualify that. It's much more likely that you'll buy a tenth of a lottery ticket, a décimo, and with that you have the chance of winning 400,000€. 

If you were to buy a full ticket from one of the State Lottery Outlets, Loterías y Apuestas del Estado (like the one a few doors down from the Consum supermarket in Pinoso) it would cost you 200€. That's why most people don't. Instead they buy a tenth of a ticket for 20€. The big prize, el Gordo, the fat one, is worth 4 million euros for the full ticket or 400,000€ for the typical 20€ stake. Obviously that's before the tax people take their cut. Often you will see decimos on sale in bars and the like. Should you decide to buy your lottery ticket from there you're likely to end up paying 23€. Typically the bar is selling the décimos at 3€ over the odds on behalf of some "worthy" cause.

So each of the décimos has five numbers. The numbers start at 00000 and go on to 99999. There are 193 series of tickets. This means that each number, let's take an example 75045, will be repeated 193 times. 75045 series 1, 75045 series 2 and so on. That's why there are, possibly, 193 winning tickets. Remembering that each ticket is sold in tenths, there are, potentially, 1,930 winning décimos. 

In these days of huge jackpots I suppose that 400,000€ sounds like a mere bagatelle. The big difference is that if all the décimos of a particular number were sold, there would be 1,930 winners and that amounts to a whopping 772 million Euros payout.

There is a tendency amongst groups of Spaniards to buy the same number. The group might be a family - Granny buys two full tickets made up of 20 décimos to hand out to her brothers, sisters, sons, daughters etc. as a bit of a Christmas stocking filler. If the number comes up then each of those relatives will be 400,000€ better off. If it's a factory the car park will soon be full of new BMWs and, if it's a school parent teachers association (AMPA), then the school community will be full of joyful parents and teachers. When the number of the Culebrón village neighbourhood association comes up, on Sunday, we Culebreneros will be splashing the cava around willy nilly. Generally people simply choose from the tickets on display looking for one that ends in their lucky number, includes their birthday etc., but it is possible, online, to see if a particular number, your postcode for instance, is available. 

The tickets are all sold by the different "administraciones", the State Lottery Shops even if they end up with the local pigeon fanciers group or synchronised swimmers fan club. The numbers are allocated randomly to the different administraciones around the country. So the same number may be sold in Alicante, Astorga and Avila or that number may nearly all be sold in some village in Andalucía. 

Certain administraciones have a reputation for being lucky, though actually it's simply a numbers game. If people believe that the Doña Manolita administración, in Madrid, is going to sell the winner, more people will buy their décimos there. The volume of sales means there is a better chance that the winner will come from that administración. It doesn't stop people queuing for hours outside the famous offices though.

How the winning numbers are chosen is also very individual - none of this combining individual digits to get the winning number. There are two enormous "bombos" like those globe-shaped things that you get in a home bingo game to spit out the numbers. In one of the bombos there are all the numbers that are on the individual tickets, that's 100,000 individual numbers. So there is a ball that reads 00000 and another that reads 99999 and there are all the numbers in between. In a smaller bombo alongside there are 1,807 balls each one inscribed with a cash value. Youngsters from the Colegio de San Ildefonso in Segovia stand alongside the two bombos and sing out what it says on the ball disgorged by their bombo. First the number then the prize.

The majority of the little wooden balls, in that smaller bombo, have 1,000€ written on them. This is referred to as the pedrea. For those numbers you'll get 100€ back for your 20€ stake. There is just one ball with the 4 million jackpot and it's the same for the less valuable second and third prizes. There are another ten balls that will produce a win of more than 1,000€. Other prizes are based on having numbers very close to the winners, sharing some of the numbers etc. It's always worth checking your number against any of the dozens of internet sites where the winners are published or going back to the administración to have your number checked. 

Turn on a radio or TV or go into a bar on the 22nd after 9am and you will hear that singing of numbers and amounts, broadcast from the Teatro Real in Madrid all morning, until the prizes are exhausted.

Oh, and if you win some offensive amount of cash as a result of reading this blog don't worry yourself that I'll be offended if you want to offer me large wads of cash as a thank you.

Cautiously optimistic

Just a quick update on my throat cancer. For new readers, during the summer, I got to see an otorrino (Ear Nose and Throat specialist) and, after a few tests he said I had a throat cancer. He passed me to an oncólogo (Cancer specialist). They ordered up a few tests, decided that the cancer was just in my throat and lymph nodes and set me up for a course of 33 sessions of radiotherapy and three of chemotherapy. The radio sessions were in Alicante and the ambulance service took me there for most of the sessions. The chemo was in Elda. Along the way I had a picc port installed in my arm so they could take blood from my veins and put other liquids in. They also put in a PEG tube so I could put "milk shake" type food directly into my stomach when my throat became too inflamed to eat through my mouth. There have been a couple of snags along the way; I ended up on a hospital ward for three or four days because I kept throwing up and the dehydration was damaging my kidneys, but, generally it's been plain sailing.

The last of the sessions of radio or chemo was on 19 October so going on two months now. In the past few days I have seen the oncólogo, the otorrino, nurses in the chemotherapy day centre and a nutritionist. 

The oncólogo didn't really have much to say, but he wasn't worried about me either. He had a good feel of my neck and said he was pretty sure the lymph nodes were no longer swollen. He's going to order a CAT scan and I'm back to see him in about a month. He did say they could remove the picc port from my arm which was taken out by the perpetually cheerful nurses in the chemo day centre. They were also very nice about my Spanish. With the picc gone I was able to have a shower this morning without a plastic sleeve on my arm to protect the dressing for the first time since the beginning of September

The nutritionist said it was about time that I started to eat solid food instead of just feeding through my stomach. She only actually wants me to eat things like rice pudding, custard, creme caramel and the like. I do as I'm told and I've eaten a couple of those things today. They taste odd because my mouth is still slimy but I ate them alright.

The otorrino put his camera up my nose and down my throat and said "I don't see the lesion today that I saw in the Summer". He said my throat was still inflamed from the radio, which I think was to add a bit of caution to his earlier comment. He doesn't want to see me again till March.

And the problems I still have, as an effect from the treatments, are that my mouth is either bone dry or covered in horrible, foul tasting mucus nearly all the time, that I get tired quickly and that I feel dizzy quite often. Not exactly serious concerns. So, not so bad at all.

Paying the premium

When I went to the hole in the wall to get some cash there was a turrón stall in my way. Turrón is a sweet confectionery, associated with the Spanish Christmas, made with almonds, oil, and sugar. In the average supermarket a 250g bar of turrón will cost about 2.50€, most supermarkets carry something slightly better at, maybe 10€ a bar, but most steer away from the handcrafted product because it is breathtakingly expensive. There are all sorts of varieties of turrón, but the traditional ones are the hard and brittle Alicante variety and the soft, oozing oil Jijona style. The varieties of turrón, with chocolate or fruit are really for people who don't like turrón; they aren't much to do with turrón and are trading on the name.

The chances are that if you have some turrón this Christmas, it will be ordinary production line stuff. You might like it; you might not; but it's unlikely to send you into paroxysms of delight. The same is probably true of the majority of foodstuffs that Spaniards tend to rave about and which they buy in truckloads at this time of year. 

For instance angulas, or baby eels, are another Christmas delicacy. I had a quick Google and you can get fresh ones at 118€ per 100g. If that's a little steep the alternative is something called gulas which are made from ground fish reconstituted to look like elvers. A packet of gulas costs a bit less than 3€. This is lumpfish roe as against caviar territory. 

Miguel Angel Revilla, four times president of Cantabria, and well known character, used to always present quality, expensive, anchovies from Cantabria on his official visits. The anchovies I buy for my sandwiches come in triple packs for less than 3€.

It's similar with prawns—what we Britons call prawns. I don't think I'll ever understand the differences in quality when buying the right and wrong type of prawns. Whether gambas blancas, gambas rojas, gambones, carabineros or langostinos are the best and whether the ones from Denia are better than those from Huelva or Garrucha. Not knowing can cost you dear. Six of the better variety in an ordinary restaurant cost me 48€. It still smarts and that was six or seven years ago now.

Faced with such price variations the majority of us tend to plump for something with an everyday cost or, maybe, we push out the boat and buy the next step up. Then, when we taste it, we wonder what all the fuss was about. The problem is that we've bought run-of-the-mill. Spaniards wax lyrical about their air-cured ham. It can be spectacular but you have to be willing to pay for the quality, acorn fed, variety and eat it sliced wafer thin. The ham that most of us get most of the time—in a ham sandwich or as a slice of ham on our breakfast toast—can be anything between average and chewing bacon.

The point I'm trying, so long windedly, to make is that Spaniards often enthuse about certain food products that you may find uninspirational. There are lots of classic dishes, firm Spanish favourites, that often seem very commonplace. Croquetas are a good example; lots have the consistency of wallpaper paste, are served semi heated and taste of nothing much but, if you strike lucky or know where to go they are exceedingly good. Paella is another dish where the difference between a made to order paella cooked with care and the proper ingredients has nothing in common with the bright yellow rice served as part of a set meal in a tourist restaurant. 

Lots of these foods are rolled out at Christmas - mantecados and polvorones, peladillas, roscones, turrón, angulas, gooseneck barnacles (percebes) while other, all-year-round favourites, get a special outing at Christmas—prawns, croquetas, ham, roast lamb, and around here even broth with meatballs (variously named pelotas, relleno or even faseguras). If you get the opportunity go for the quality stuff - it's usually worth the stretch.

I was expecting the Spanish Inquisition

My 'old age' pension is derived partly from the UK and partly from Spain, as I have worked in both countries and accumulated benefits. Every now and again they, the pension people, check to make sure that I'm still breathing and not walled up in some Spanish cemetery. 

Today, was one of those days. There was a letter in our PO box from the UK asking me to confirm that I am still extant. I'm sure they've asked before, and I seem to remember that it was a simple enough process. I signed a form and I got another Briton to witness it. So, today, instead of coming home to read the paperwork, I thought I may as well sort it out then and there where I had access to a post office and at least a couple of people to witness my signature.

Maybe I'd misremembered, something which seems to happen more and more frequently, or perhaps they've beefed up their checks but, when I actually got around to checking the paperwork, they required someone of 'social stature', and with an official stamp, to witness the document. I can't remember who exactly, but the list included people like bank officials, medical staff, town hall employees, the mayor, a solicitor etc. They said I had sixteen weeks to return the form, well minus the two weeks it had taken to get from the UK, so there was no rush, but I like to get these things sorted. The challenge was that I don’t have many contacts who meet the pension authorities' criteria and who wouldn’t baulk at completing an “official” form written in English, which I would need to explain in a world rife with frauds and scams. Then it struck me: my accountant!

In the accountant's office I explained, in Spanish, that I needed someone to witness my signature. 'Ah', said the young woman, 'you want a "fe de vida"'. The meaning was obvious enough, she knew what I wanted but in my Spanish "fe" means faith and the expression I most associate with "fe" comes from the Spanish Inquisition. It's only because I thought to write this blog that I now know that "fe" also has a second translation as ID or certificate.

The Inquisition was supposed to protect the one true faith by searching out heretics - people who practised other religions or didn't accept the absolute truth of the Catholic Church's version of Christianity and its practices. Actually it was about personal vendettas, enriching the church and maintaining its power. The most extreme punishment of the Inquisition was to burn people at the stake and that involved a ritual public penitence before the actual death. That whole process was called, and this is the phrase I knew, an 'auto de fe' or 'act of faith'.

I do this all the time. Someone says 'our David had a puncture' and I see David deflating so I ask if it hurt or if he's OK now. When I try these word associations in Spanish the person I'm talking to generally looks at me as if I'm demented but today when the person in the office said I needed a 'fe de vida' and I said 'thank goodness it's not an auto de fe'. She chuckled. A minor triumph I thought. And I got my form signed.

Burnin' Down the House

It was in the early 80s. I had discovered Spain and was determined to learn Spanish. I didn't know that Andalucía had a reputation for an impenetrable accent, but as I had obviously heard of Seville/Sevilla, a two or three-week language course there seemed like a good idea. I went just after Christmas.

Sevilla has never been kind to me. It's a city where I lose my wallet, get stranded, choose the wrong hotel, or end up in a shoving competition with nuns. That first time I went there, for the course, it was horrible. They put me in a pretty advanced class based on a written exam. Although it was easy enough to fill in a box on a test page with the third person plural of the imperfect as against the preterite, it's quite another matter remembering that as you try to recall vocabulary, word order, gender, as you wrestle with the pronunciation etc. I struggled and struggled with the spoken language. I seem to remember the caretaker found me hiding somewhere, sobbing at my inability to cope with the language, and got me transferred to something more at my level— that may have been the day I thought maybe a little breakfast alcohol would loosen my tongue.

As well as the terror of facing the language, it was cold, and I'm sure that it rained and rained and rained. The "family" I'd been lodged with turned out to be a bloke sloughed in a dark pit of despair because his wife had just left him and whose cooking seemed to include only things made from the intestines of inedible animals or fish that Jacques Cousteau had never met. He did introduce me to lots of things Spanish though because he was stereotypically Spanish—he bought bread three times a day and talked endlessly about the films of Luis Buñuel. His house was dark, damp, and freezing—the sheets, which he didn't offer to change all the time I was there, were damp.

He introduced me to two forms of Spanish heating. The first was the brasero. To use a brasero, you need a round-topped table and a heavy long tablecloth. In his house, the cloth was of green velvet. Underneath the circular table is a shelf, about 15 cm off the floor, which supports a circular heater. The heater in his house had one of those elements that you would get in a one, two, or three-bar electric fire, common until the 1970s and still available, but it was shaped to fit into the space in the near-floor shelf. So the heater was underneath the table; the heavy tablecloth kept the heat in and, so long as you didn't mistakenly rest your feet too close to the heater and set yourself on fire, you could keep your legs warm - though not your upper body. In the olden days, the heat source was actually a metal bowl filled with hot embers. As you can imagine, the potential for post-meal family conversations becoming family conflagrations was significant.

The second form of heating was the Spanish equivalent of a calor gas heater. The heaters have a case that's large enough to house a butane (or propane) cylinder which has a valve connecting to the innards of the heater via a rubber tube. I think even then the heater had a piezoelectric igniter and followed an ignition procedure that can be remarkably recalcitrant at times. The one in Sevilla was in the bathroom—a small room which the heater could warm up in minutes because I think even my host didn't care for naked shivering. The bathroom was the only place I was ever warm inside that house.

Our house can be like a fridge. We stop that by pouring heat into it in an exercise that will hand the planet back to plants and other animals before long. It also causes the people at Iberdrola and petrol companies rub their hands in glee. We have an excuse for the lack of insulation, for the big gaps at the doors, for the high ceilings—it's an old house and our insulation options are strictly limited. Even in modern-built houses in Alicante, insulation is pathetic with the excuse that the Alicantino winter is short and soon gone. It's a total lie. Inside—not outside—our house, and lots of other Spanish properties, are cold from November through to April because hardly anyone pays any attention to insulation. The number of shops and offices where you are dealt with by people wearing outdoor winter clothing is legion. The insulation issue is not true in what are considered to be the colder parts of Spain but here in the South, builders are as optimistic as they are thrifty.

We've never thought to try a brasero and our main heating, when it gets cold, is a pellet burner which produces a very noisy 11 kW of heat so that we have to wear headphones to hear the telly. Nonetheless, in the kitchen, for mornings, and in the space I use as an office and in the living room, we have butane heaters—exactly the same sort of thing I was introduced to all those years ago. These "estufas de butano" produce radiant heat. Sit close and the heat they emit—about 4 kW—makes you think the room is toasty warm when in fact you're simply sitting in a very temporary warm bubble—something you realise every time your bladder forces you to make a temporary move.

At least the butane heaters keep your upper body as warm as your legs.

I'll name that child in three

It often crosses my mind that the micromanagement of the Spanish state in not allowing car number plates to include vowels, because the letters of the plate may end up either being a name or something rude or offensive, is a bit excessive. I can't think of many rude three-letter Spanish words - 'ano' for anus is the one the authorities always quote, along with ETA, the disbanded terrorist organisation. And as for names like Ana and Leo, well, imagine if Swansea couldn't sell those vanity plates - there would be uproar among British-based Range Rover drivers. For years there was something akin in the naming of children.

A little while ago, we were at one of those craft markets. Maggie was very taken with a little knitted cardigan and, for once, she knew a potential recipient - one of the Culebrón villagers was just about to give birth. The child was eventually named Vega, not Bego, the diminutive of Begonia, but Vega which, along with Martina, were the top two girls' names for 2023. Lucas and Hugo for boys. I'd been scratching around for something to blog about and the name reminded me of a puff piece I'd read in a Spanish newspaper.

I'm pretty long in the tooth and I often smirk at the first names for Anglos in the United States where, apparently, River, Gravity, Blue and Busy are considered sensible choices. I have some British pals who, years ago, for their newborn son, chose very different first names and used a last name that had nothing to do with either of the couple's family names. That suggests to me that the rules about naming in the UK are quite permissive. Nowadays, naming is quite liberal in Spain too, though there's a touch of the number plate syndrome in that Spanish law prohibits names which have negative connotations or which violate the child's dignity.

The registering of a birth must be done within 72 hours and the name has to be registered within thirty days of the birth. Lots of the pages I read maintained that the name had to be registered within eight days but I think the time limit has been expanded. In the olden days if the person in the Civil Registry wasn't happy with the name that the parents had chosen, the progenitors were given three more days to come up with an acceptable name. After that, the Justice Ministry could impose a name. That would nearly always be the name of the Saint of the day. Given that lots of Catholic Saints' names are very strange (Nivardo, Faustino, Dimas, Melecio, Hermelando, Evedasto, Agapito, Plausides, Antenor, Antoliano) there must have been several dates to avoid if you didn't want your child to end up as, for example, Ildefonso, Pancracia or Pompilia. The majority of older Spaniards were named for Saints because, when they were born, the alliance between state and Catholic Church was almost absolute. At least most Saints' names are easily adapted to male and female variations by changing the ending: Francisco (male), Francisca (female); Antonio (male), Antonia (female); José (male) and Josefa (female) being common examples.

The registrar would still turn away names like Hitler, Drácula or Stalin, as well as names like Caca (poo) or Loco (crazy) as being likely to cause grief to the child. Similarly with something like Dolores Fuertes Barriga (severe stomach ache). In fact it's the same with any name be it invented, taken from another language, from a book or a film or a TV series. If the registrar considers that it may cause grief to the child in later life then it could be rejected. Nonetheless, apparently names like Arya, Daenerys and Khaleesi (all from Game of Thrones) are now reasonably common. Names of cities used to be prohibited too but names such as Roma, Cairo, París, Dakota, Tennessee and Brooklyn are now being accepted by most registrars. Bear in mind that the rule about the name being prejudicial to the interests of the child might still mean that the registrar will not accept some city names. So, probably no Sodoma Ruiz or Gomorra Romero.

Children cannot be named the same as their brothers or sisters, unless the brother or sister has died, even if the name is a translation - so no Juan and Joan (Catalan, and I suppose Valencian version of Juan, John, Jan, Ivan, etc.). That doesn't stop children being named for their parents which I often think must be confusing within a family.

Compound names are fine but with no more than two names. So while the female María José and the male José María (belt and braces approach to the Christian parents of Jesús) are fine as are Ana Belén, José Carlos etc. - Ana María Carmen or María Isabel Andrea are not. There is an exception where the parents are not Spanish and where the child was born in Spain and there is a tradition in the parent's country for more first names. In that case, multiple names can be accepted by the registrar. Mind you if the child were to go on to naturalise as Spanish, the excess names would be cut from the registered, naturalised name and, of course, any single barreled surname would have to be doubled up.

Surnames, brand names, the full names of famous people and fruit can't be used as first names. So nobody can be called García or Fernández as a first name. Just consider how many personalities would fall foul of those restrictions, from Hunter S. Thompson to Apple Martin. There is a bit of an exception to that rule about not using a famous person's name as a first name. The idea is to stop Rafa Nadal Peréz or Penélope Cruz Hernandez but Nadal and Cruz are both common enough surnames and if that's the family surname and the family Nadal want to call their boy child Rafael and the family Cruz want to call the girl Penelope then the registrar will almost certainly accept the names. But no Gucci Muñoz or Nutella Caballero - no Banana Delgado, no Peaches Geldof.

It's very common to shorten Spanish names: María Dolores to Lola, Yolanda to Yoli, Francisco to Fran, Curro or Paco, and hundreds more. The law used to say that the registry would only accept the full form. Now, if you want to call your child Chema you can but it does seem that the registrars still tend to 'strongly advise' the more traditional, complete name. You can't use just initials either and you still can't use diminutives like Pepita or Juanito.

Yet another prohibition is to put a female name to a male child or vice versa - so no boys named Sue - though this restriction is not usually applied to modern names like Noa and Alex. Basque names are quite trendy at the moment. Some, like Lur or Harri, are traditionally given to both boys and girls, a bit like Julian, Carol or Hilary in the UK. These occasionally cause problems at the time of registration for not identifying the sex of the baby adequately. I suspect that, given the current elasticity around gender identity, this rule may be one of the most polemical prohibitions at the moment.

And now a disclaimer. When Maggie told me about the gift for Vega it reminded me of the article I'd read in 2023 about prohibited names. That article, from The Huffington Post, and another from As were the basis for this post. As I polished the blog (yes, these ramblings are reworked!) I found another article on a 'parents to be' website which highlighted lots of recent changes to the 1957/58 law on naming children and I incorporated those changes as best I could. I couldn't however be absolutely certain that what I was reading was authoritative as articles written in 2024 contradicted what seemed to be more liberal rules reported in 2023. So, while I think the blog is basically accurate there may be tiny, weeny inaccuracies.

A surprising view

Sitting around nattering, putting the world to rights, as one does, on a Saturday morning with friends. We were talking about how people make a living in Pinoso.

The most obvious source of employment is in agriculture, particularly in producing wine grapes and almonds, though there are lots of other crops. Unfortunately, it's also true that there are hectares of good agricultural land lying fallow because of the problem of the "generational replacement". The farmers and winemakers are getting on in years, and their sons and daughters want to be teachers and scientists and influencers and local government officers and not farmers and winemakers.

We'd talked about the salt that is pumped out of the salt dome, El Cabeço, and sent as a brine solution down a pipeline to Torrevieja where it is added to the salt lagoons there to increase the yield. Actually, the technical term for a salt dome, diapiro, also gives its name to a couple of wines produced by the local bodega or winery, as in the photo.

There had been a bit of a mention of the shoes that are still made in Pinoso, though even I knew that the most obvious factory closed a while ago. Apart from seeing the Pinoso'S vans flitting around, apart from smelling the epoxy resin in a little workshop next to the library, and apart from seeing the Jover factory down by the town bodega that makes cambrillones (the reinforcing steel shank set into the soles of most shoes), I'm unaware of any other shoemaking facility. That doesn't mean there isn't any, just that I don't know about it.

And then, of course, we got onto the quarry, Monte Coto. For years it was the golden goose, the largest open-cast marble quarry in Europe - a one-time producer of lots of work and lots of money that provided Pinoso with a spectacular range of services but which has been in marked decline for years.

As we talked about the quarry, I said that I'd seen some relatively recent news that Levantina Stone, the largest producer, were axing between a third and a half of their workforce in Monte Coto, the Pinoso marble quarry, and in the offices over in Novelda. I also said that I know there's a long-running argument between the Regional Government and the Town Hall about both the mining rights in Monte Coto and the costs of putting right the environmental damage of the quarry as parts of it are worked out. The legislative stuff is something that I've never quite worked out because our local sources of media are much more interested in a photo of the mayor shaking hands with someone important from the Regional Government than they are in actually giving informative news.

As we were outside a bar for this conversation and as the bar owner hove into view at exactly the correct moment, I asked him if he knew what the beef was. He told me it was about the rights to the reserves underground. He said that it was crystal clear that the town hall owns, and can exploit, the mountain, but that normally the below-ground mining rights belong to the region.

Now I have to say that I have no idea whether he's right or not; it sounded plausible, but it may, or may not be, true. To him, as a Pinoso native, he was quite sure. I mentioned the layoffs at Levantina and he shrugged them off - at one point that would have been important, when there were hundreds at the quarry, but now the numbers are so low that sacking half of them affects almost nothing. Without any prompting, he went on to say that the town was moribund. He said that Pinoso was now a dormitory town for younger workers who went off to work in the larger towns and cities nearby and that the town's only full-time inhabitants were we geriatric foreigners. There is habitually a coven of us outside his bar on a Saturday morning, and he was quick to point out that he was singularly happy with foreigners spending money in bars and restaurants but that it was hardly a sound industrial base.

I countered by saying that how could a town that had at least seven butchers be a doomed town. "Great example," he said. "Tell me the butchers." So I tried. I mentioned a few. To the first he said, "Closed last month". He went on, "Carlos will retire in three years and he has nobody to take over the business; it'll close." He did that with a couple more before some Dutch person called him over, and that was how the conversation closed.

Now seriously, I have no idea if the town councillors tasked with local development, agriculture, industry and commerce would see it quite the same way, but it is quite strange sometimes how, despite living somewhere, you, one, sees things in a different light to other inhabitants. I can't remember seeing any positive industrial news in the local media for quite a while, but it is true that I can think of several small businesses which have closed in the recent past and going in a way that seems odd to my Northern European way of thinking.

I've seen plenty of local shops, that seemed prosperous enough, just close as their owners retired. A particularly notable example was a local restaurant that was, supposedly, famous all over Spain. Even I had seen it featured on the telly, and the parking spots around the very ordinary-looking restaurant were always awash with ostentatious cars. Last year, it just closed. The owner had got to retirement age, so he shut the business. Recently, a biggish tyre place did the same - one day in business, the next closed tight. I've heard lots of speculation as to why without anyone sounding as though they were 100% sure but, again, I suspect simple retirement.

To be honest, I see Pinoso as typical of lots of small towns. Traditional retail is obviously in difficulty at the moment, but there always seem to be people with new business ventures of one sort or another. Some prosper, some fail. It also seems to me that several of the new batch of incoming foreigners, especially the rich Northern Europeans, are relatively young and still economically active. It could be, though, that mine is an over-rosy view and the bar owner has a point.

Gotelé and bowler hats

We form impressions about places. Ask me to describe Morocco and I'd say reds and oranges and hot and noisy with strong aromas. I wouldn't talk about snow and ice even though I know there's plenty of snow and ice in places and at times in Morocco. In just the same way some of those impressions are now dated. The Britain in my childhood was a pretty austere place and while my my contemporaries wore terylene shorts and brown plastic sandals to play out men going to work in offices really did wear bowler hats and carry folded umbrellas. My guess is that you'd have to go some to find a bowler hat in the city nowadays, at least in an everyday context. In Spain a lot of those cliches come from the South, from Andalucia and from the past. Very few people would think bagpipes as typical of Spain (but try going to a festival in Asturias or Galicia and avoiding them) but they might think flouncy frocks and bulls.

I heard a programme on the radio the other day that made me think of some of the things I associate, have associated, with Spain that are now gone or going.

Most Spanish people live in flats. There are entry phone systems designed to keep the riff-raff from getting into the building. This could be a problem for delivery drivers, postal workers, pizza deliverers and even more so for the riff raff hoping to kick down the door and steal the Lladro (there was a time when Lladro pottery was really popular and seen as typically Spanish by Britons) but the work around is easy enough. If there is no answer, push all the doorbells and, if anyone answers, say "postie," "pizza," or "Amazon", but not riff-raff, to get past this basic front door security. In the past, one of the other open sesames was "Circulo".

The Circulo de Lectores, or Readers Circle, was a book club. I'm presuming you're old enough to remember the idea —a sort of magazine/catalogue with a range of books from classics to bird spotting to philosophers to potboilers. You signed up for a minimum period and promised to buy so many books per year as well as getting a tasty introductory officer. I think it was German-owned, but it was a very Spanish institution. Unlike the book clubs in, say, England, which sent things by post once they'd captured their client, the Spanish version worked on a series of reps who had a strong relationship with their clients. The main reason, apart from Spaniards preferring to talk to someone rather than to read something, was that the Spanish Post Office, when the scheme first started, wouldn't deliver anything heavier than 200 grammes in weight. So the rep who signed you up would also bring you the new catalogue, take your order, and deliver the book or books to you—a bit like the man from the Pru of my youth who collected the insurance money each week and might end up as, at least Godfather, to the newborn.

The Circulo changed over the years and by the time I bumped into it, in about 2008, it was no longer the semi magical institution that it once was, helping to build a Spanish middle class, and its catalogues were simply more junk mail pushed into the advertising letterbox outside my block of flats. By then if you did sign up the Post Office would deliver. I never did sign up, but I was close. The Circulo de Lectores no longer exists.

When I heard a radio programme the other week about the Circulo, I was staring at a wall, painted in gotelé, from my hospital bed. The photo is of gotelé—a sort of textured paint that was very popular in Spain a while ago and which you still see from time to time. That's where the idea for this blog, about things that no longer are, came from.

My sister is getting her kitchen cupboards sprayed. Apparently, there are trends in kitchen cupboards; I suppose I knew that because one of the things that crossed my mind when I was thinking about gotelé was floor tiling. There's a sort of composite floor tiling that is basically white but has splotches of red and brown. I don't know exactly when it was popular but my guess is the 60s or 70s of the last Century. By the time we got around to choosing Spanish floor tiles, at the turn of the 21st Century, our choice was, apparently, and happily limited to variations on terracotta. If we'd arrived a bit later we'd have square white tiles and nowadays floor tiles are rectangular and decorated with a wood grain pattern. Maggie tells me our light oak kitchen cabinets look dated too.

Now, obviously, some things just disappear because the technology changes. Like fixed phones and call boxes. In my holidaying middle years Spanish phone boxes were a real challenge. They had a coin slot where the coins rolled down, except that they didn't, or the ones in bars where you had to ask the person behind the bar to give you the phone and they set going some sort of meter that gave the price of the call, or the locutorios, offices with lots of individual cabins - where you were assigned a cabin and paid when you'd finished your calls. The Telefónica locutorios are not to be confused with those those 21st Century locutorios, nearly always run by Latin Americans, where you could use a computer with an internet connection, as well as phone access, or even buy one of the hundreds of phone cards which, by one method or another, gave you access to cheap international calls. I remember whiling away many a happy hour discussing the merits and defects of the various phone cards. And, of course, just like in the UK, long before denationalisation of the phone companies, there were a series of telephones that were iconic to Spaniards just in the same way as I remember that mushroom coloured model that we had on a small carved table in the family home for years and years and years.

The smoke filled bars, their floors littered with napkins and discarded bits of food, were places to make phone calls but their sound was a mixture of the usual and incessant chatter, coffee machine whirring and crockery clattering and the sounds of one of the two models of one arm bandits. I forget one tune but the other played the Tweety Song, incessantly. And mosto. Mosto is just grape juice. It's still very available in supermarkets but it used to be a standard soft drink in bars. I actually asked for a mosto in a bar the other day just to see if it still exists and the pained expression of the twenty plus server proved to me that it's another thing from the past.

Oh, and el paseo. Not the Civil War paseo, the route to the firing squad, the paseo is or was, the evening stroll before eating dinner. It was a thing where bow legged, short, Spanish men dressed up a bit (think sta-prest slacks and Ben Sherman type shirts), linked arms with their floral and bling be-frocked wives and set out to have a bit of a stroll, stopping off at the same series of bars to take the same range of drinks and tapas, all the while stopping to natter with their acquaintances going in the opposite direction on the same circuit. And mopeds, Spain was full of mopeds, not small motorbikes, not scooters, mopeds; and what a racket they made for 49cc engines. There were several funny tricycle type vehicles too. And still lots of working animals, like donkeys and mules pulling carts or goats climbing step ladders while someone with a bandana played the accordion and sent the children round to collect coins from the onlookers. Nuns and priests in the street; as many as in Rome. And tiny, ridiculously low, ticket windows with a Norman arch shape window which would have been good for wheelchair users but were a bit inconvenient for anyone over a metre sixty five, not that there were many people over that height. They were where you went for a bus, theatre or cinema ticket. The person, caged in by the tiny hinged window, would, naturally, be smoking. Actually that just reminded me the number of men missing various limbs were a common site too. And one that may still exist - Sunday morning bread. Again it was the blokes who got to do this - pretending it was a sort of household task. They bought the Sunday morning paper as well as the baguettes and, why not, maybe a glass of wine in one of those stumpy wine glasses on the way home; after all the little woman was at home doing the housework and getting lunch ready. Sunday afternoon was for football matches. And finally one of those things that does still exist but is in decline. The road junction where you turn right to turn left across the road. They are basically roundabouts with the main road through the centre being the one with priority. There's one by Bar Mucho to go to Encebras and another by the Torre del Rico turn but most of them have been replaced by roundabouts or traffic lights.

Obviously this is an easy game for anyone to join in. You can do it with almost anything. We had a conversation about Spangles, Treets, Marathons and Buttersnap a little while ago. 

Value for money

I just had three or four days in hospital, sort of related to the cancer but not directly. 

On Monday I went to the local hospital to speak to a nutritionist and to get a dressing changed, and one of the nurses thought I looked so rough that she marched me down to Urgencias (A&E), where they did a few tests, kept an eye on me in observation for a while, and then admitted me onto the cancer ward. I spent the next three nights there. Basically, I was just a bit feverish and a bit dehydrated, but at one point the doctor used the words insuficiencia renal, which obviously translates as renal insufficiency—something kidney-related, though I didn’t know quite what. It certainly rattled a Spanish friend when I repeated the phrase to him. I'm not surprised. I looked up the translation, and “kidney failure” sounded quite bad. Apparently, there are stages, though, and dictionaries can be a little binary at times. It was just that my kidneys were a bit overstretched because I was vomiting repeatedly after the radiotherapy and chemotherapy, which, of course, doesn’t help with staying hydrated. Still, it made me think about the people who currently have my back.

When we first moved here, I had some hare-brained scheme for making a living. We'd realised though, even before the glaring holes and the daftness of the scheme didn't seem so glaring or so daft, that we’d need time for it to start producing money. Fortunately, Maggie is a properly trained and qualified teacher, and she was able to find work in a private school - in fact where she found the job is why we ended up in Alicante province and later why we moved to near the Portuguese border and down to Cartagena all the while maintaining the house here in Culebrón. In the first few months her wages kept us afloat as we very quickly used up all the money we’d brought with us from the UK on buying houses, re-registering cars, eating and whatnot. I was incredibly lucky, and I’ll be forever grateful for a couple of circumstances that led to me working for a business here in Pinoso called RusticOriginal.

Like all immigrants needing work, I was at the mercy of unscrupulous employers. Fortunately, my first employers were both mean and generous at the same time. I’d said, and it was my only condition for working for them, that I needed a legal contract. It has always been my one and only stipulation when taking on any work in Spain. Without fail, the employers have twisted the contract situation to suit their ends, but I have never worked without a contract, and that first job was no exception. Sometimes, always, the conditions haven’t been what they should be; usually, the pay rate has been altered, and the terms and conditions—the convenio—have never been adhered to, but there has always been a contract across the six different employers I worked for in Spain.

The reason I was so insistent on contracts was to guarantee healthcare. I’ve never been young in Spain, and I’ve always been aware of the frailty of the flesh, even when I seemed reasonably fit. Pay your Social Security on that contract, and you’re covered. Actually, I was lucky too. Some judges decided, just before I reached pensionable age, that a working day was a working day. If your contract was for three hours and you worked three hours, then you’d worked a day. Before that, a day was, say, eight hours, so if you worked four hours per day, you needed to work two days to clock up one full day. Changing the calculation to days instead of hours made a massive difference—not to my healthcare but to my Spanish pension.

Always working with a contract gave me enough recorded working years to be entitled to a portion of a full Spanish pension. I also receive a UK pension for the years I worked there. My “old age” pension is a combination of the UK one and the Spanish one, but the fact that I am a Spanish pensioner gives me certain rights that have proved very handy over the years for all sorts of bureaucratic reasons—from registering my income with the banks to prove I’m not laundering money to buying a car on finance to getting the subsidised IMSERSO holidays.

I reckon I’ve been in hospital six times in my life: three times in the UK and three times here. Like everyone else, I’ve had lots of other medical “interventions”—from peritonitis and a bleeding stomach to various cancer scares before this current, real, one. As I lay there, awake at 4 a.m. in a hospital bed, I thought of the effort and the cost that has gone into trying to stop me dying of throat cancer: the original referral and diagnosis, the radiotherapy and chemotherapy sessions, the ambulance rides to and from various hospitals, the plethora of drugs, the stuff that’s taken over from food, the clean pyjamas, and all sorts of health professionals talking to me and looking after me—all for nothing more than the requirement that I paid my contributions as part of that legal contract. Donnie Trump may think state healthcare makes us communists and, if  he's right, and I've never heard him say anything that is truthful or right, then all I can say is: "Comrade: Let me hear them balalaikas ringing out".

About a rather special bloke, his crew and their little ship

In Alicante, on the quayside near the hotel, going down to the Casino there's a little bust of Archibald Dickson and a plaque to commemorate him and the crew of the SS Stanbrook. Archie Dickson was of the same stuff as the men and women of the boats patrolling the seas and oceans looking to save the lives of desperate people fleeing for their lives today. Archie knew what was right.

The Stanbrook is small coal fired ship just 70 metres long, 1400 tons and 11 knots top speed. Archibald Dickson is from Cardiff, 47, British Merchant Navy. His ship owners have told him to leave Marseilles and pick up a cargo in Alicante. A Spanish Navy destroyer, controlled by the rebellious forces, which are just about to crush the remnants of the legitimate government, tell Archie not to enter Alicante. He hoists the Red Ensign just a bit higher, grits his teeth, crosses his fingers and takes his ship into Alicante. He doesn't like being told what he can and can't do.

The quayside is heaving with people. They are the routed, the losing side, hoping, desperately hoping, to escape Spain before the fascists come and wreak vengeance. Archibald is supposed to pick up a cargo. Just as he ignored the destroyer's commands he now ignores his fleet operator too. He knows his ship can save lives. At first the loading of the people from the quayside is reasonably ordered; passports are shown, letters of recommendation are checked, International Brigade stragglers are welcomed then it becomes the people at the head of the queue until they can simply squeeze no more people aboard. Alicante is in total blackout. Madrid has fallen to Franco's rebels this morning. The stretch of coast from Alicante to Cartagena and Almería is all that's left of Republican Spain. 

About 10.30 in the late evening of 28 March 1939 the Stanbrook casts off. There are 2,638 people on board bound for Oran in French controlled Algeria. The intended cargo of oranges and saffron left on the quayside in Alicante. As they sail away the Italian air force lays into Alicante with a will. Archie wrote in the ship's log that in his 33 years at sea he had never seen anything like it. People were everywhere on his ship: in the holds, on the deck, on the mess table, in the stairways. Low in the water, terribly overloaded the ship took some steering. The overcrowding kept the doctor busy as people fainted and puked. People crowded around the warmth of the funnel. They got to Oran the evening of the 30th but it took several weeks before the French authorities let everyone off the Stanbrook. Lots of the men were sent to Concentration camps in and ended up working on the Trans-Saharan Railway as forced labour. Many later joined the Free French Forces fighting in Africa and some of them, La Nueve, were the first allied troops to liberate Paris alongside General Leclerc.

Seven months later and there's another war. This time the SS Stanbrook, as part of the British Merchant Navy, is not a neutral vessel. Klaus Korth in command of the submarine U-57, built by the Krupp factory, has ordered the firing of a torpedo packed with 300 kilos of explosive at a small, British ship. The ship has parted in half and all the crew have gone to the bottom. Not a single survivor. The crew will never hear the minute of silence held for them in the camps in Oran.

Submarines in the harbour

Done it then. The prescribed treatment for my throat cancer and inflamed lymph nodes was three sessions of chemotherapy in Elda and thirty three sessions of radiotherapy in Alicante. Today I had the last session - everything finished. The medics tell me that I'll still feel sick, not be able to eat through my mouth, continue to have skin peeling off my neck, and whatnot, for a month or two yet. My next appointment with the oncologist isn't until 11 November (not at 11am) and the next time to speak to the ear nose and throat people who did the original biopsy isn't until mid December. But, for the moment I won't have to get up at 5.30 am to be ready for the ambulance to take me to Alicante every weekday and nobody is going to poison me with vile chemicals or bombard me with particles for a while.

Of course nobody has suggested what will happen if it hasn't worked. I don't know whether they wade in with more of the same or if they give it up as a lost game and just do the occasional round of chemo to hold it all at bay for as long as possible. Along the way I have lost a fair bit of weight and one of the consequences of that was that they needed to make me another full face mask to use for targeting the x-rays (or whatever rays they bombard me with). That meant a second CAT scan and the doctor in Alicante commented today, that when they had done that second scan, the swelling in my lymph nodes had subsided significantly - I think that was a sort of snippet of good news. 

I don't feel well. I'm not really in such a bad way though I suspect I smell badly. More than anything I feel a bit sorry for myself. I feel cold even when it obviously isn't. I haven't drunk or eaten anything for a whole month now. In fact, at the cinema on Tuesday evening there was an advert for Coca Cola. I'm not a  huge Coke fan, it's OK, but, as I was watching that advert I'd swear my tongue was hanging out and I could imagine the taste. I do keep trying to eat or drink. I have a spoonful of yogurt or a mouthful of tea and instead of the expected, pleasant taste I find myself spitting out the acrid fluids and spending the next 10 minutes doing a Barney Rubble impersonationation - urgh, urgh. I'm told to expect another month or two feeding through the stomach tube which often makes me vomit or if it doesn't actually make me vomit it makes me wretch and cough and spit and curse the creation of humankind. 

Sleeping is good except that the downside is the state of my mouth when I awake. I've learned that my best bet is to do nothing. No water to lubricate my throat, no brushing my teeth, no mouthwash. Just wait for an hour or so until my mouth is a sort of acceptable cauldron of terrible tastes and then have a go with the brushing, gargling etc. If I don't throw up in the process then that's a definite win. And, just to finish off my neck has started to peel. If you've always lived with factor 50 sun protection you won't understand this but the old style holiday suntan was to peg yourself out, when you got your fortnight off, until your skin turned bright red. You'd try to ameliorate the pain with camomile lotion (long before after sun treatments) but, if you'd overdone it you'd pay with blisters and boils on your skin full of liquid. As those burst your skin would peel off leaving various coloured blotches. The radio has done something similar but the effects have only really shown up big time in the last couple of days.

And that's just me. Living alongside someone who goes to bed at 10 pm, who hasn't done a stroke in the garden or been shopping or done any of the other tens and tens of household upkeep and maintenance jobs for six or seven weeks and who doesn't want to go to get a drink or a meal or to a fiesta must be a little wearing to say the least for my long suffering partner.

Ambulances

I've been riding around a lot in ambulances recently. I remebered an earlier blog about ambulances, back in 2019. I re-read it and it's much better than this one. It flows more easily and it's reasonably interesting in a Big Chief I-Spy sort of way. The sort of simple information with which you can amaze your friends and confound your enemies. So far as I can see there have been no basic changes to the legislation since I wrote that blog but that didn't stop me publishing this rewrite.

This piece is about the ambulances that are contracted by the Generalitat Valenciana, the Regional Government in, the region I live in. Every now and again Valencia put a contract out to tender and anyone interested enough to bid has the potential for providing the ambulance fleet for the requirements of the region. There are other ambulances, private and NGO ((Non Governmental Organisation). The private clinics and hospitals need ambulances to move their customer/patients around and other groups, for instance the Red Cross, run ambulances which can be hired out to provide part of the safety cover at events from half marathons to encierros.

There is national legislation about the construction, status and identification of ambulances and within that legislation there are some regional variations but, in general, everywhere follows a similar sort of classification which is pretty simple, pretty logical and easy to understand.

The first thing is that, discounting helicopters, rapid response vehicles and the like there are two broad classes of ambulance - those that can provide medical care en route, classes C and B, and those that don't, Class A.

The non-care ambulances, classes A1 and A2, are used to transport ill people around and are not designed to offer medical care to patients en route. These are the ambulances that take people to rehab sessions, to visit physiotherapists and the whole range of appointments at hospitals, outpatient clinics and the like. In the legislation these ambulances are divided into those that transport people on stretchers and those which are collective transport but nearly all the ambulances I've been in over the past six weeks have been halfway between. They have space for one stretcher, space for a standard sort of wheelchair and six or seven individual seats. They also have things like oxygen and defibrillators on board. The drivers will have a qualification as drivers and as first aiders having done a course that lasts about 350 hours. Sometimes these ambulances bear the letters TNA for non assisted transport. These ambulances are predominantly white in colour and have side windows in the rear of the van. 

The Assistance ambulances, class B or class C, are equipped to take care of sick people en route. These are the ambulances that will turn up if you dial the emergency number 112. There are a range of other numbers but 112 is the foolproof one for any emergency service.

The Class B or SVB ambulances are designed to provide basic life support. As a minimum they will have a crew of two, the driver and another person both of whom will have at least the Emergency Health Technician, TES in Spanish (Técnicos en Emergencias Sanitarias) qualification that requires a couple of thousand hours of study over a two year period and with regular updates and refresher courses along the way. These ambulances are SVB, Soporte Vital Básico (in Castilian) or Suport Vitál Basic (in Valenciano) and those letters are usually very obvious on the side of the ambulance. They carry a lot of medical kit on board.

The Class C or SVA ambulances (Soporte Vital Avanzado or Suport Vital Avançat) are designed to provide an advanced life-saving service. Again these ambulances will have a driver who holds the TES  qualification and, at least a qualified emergency nurse. The course to become a nurse in Spain is a four year university degree course. Most SVA nurses also do a further two years masters in nursing on top of the basic qualification. On occasions the nurse may be replaced by an emergency doctor or there may be three, or more, crew on the ambulance. A Spanish SVA Doctor will have done six years at university, a couple of years on a Masters in Emergency Medicine and another four years or so on a specialism like cardiology or intensive care medicine. By the time we're at that sort of staffing level we're into ambulances which are "medicalizadas", they're basically intensive care units on wheels and will sometimes bear the letters SAMU Servei d'Ajuda Mèdica Urgent, Servicio de Ayuda Médica Urgente Urgent.

It seems to me, though it may not be a figment of my imagination that as the ambulances become more serious the colour scheme utilises more yellow, there are still the red roofs and red lettering but the SVA/SAMU ambulances have swathes of yellow while the SVB only have a band of yellow colour.

One last thing thing came from chatting to one of the drivers who normally drove B and C class but had been drafted in for the transport ambulances to cover a sick colleague. It was about the use of lights and horns. If it's a real emergency, urgencia in Spanish because we lay folk know when something is urgent but it may or may not be an emergency, they will put the blue lights on but they really only use the horns to protect themselves when, for instance, crossing red traffic lights. The driver told me that time after time Spanish drivers would react in a very haphazard way if they suddenly found multi tone horns behind them and, as well as drop their mobile phone, they might do any sort of daft thing - so, better to arrive safe and a bit later rather than be the first vehicle on scene having been involved in another road traffic accident.

Esmorzaret

October 9th, is Valencia day, a regional Spanish  "bank holiday" to celebrate the day that King Jaume I entered the captured city of Valencia to bring it under the reign of the Kingdom of Aragon in 1238. 

In 2006 my friend Pepa told me, that on Valencia Day, one of the typical things to do was for lovers to give each other little handkerchief-wrapped bundles of marzipan sweets in the shapes of fruit, piulets, and tronadors (even having seen pictures, I don't know how to translate those words into English). So, on that first 9th October in Pinoso, I sneaked out to buy some from a local bakery, as a bit of a surprise for Maggie. I found all the shops were fast shut. It may be the tradition in the Valencia province of the Valencian Community, but it isn't here in Alicante. It's like paella. Up in Valencia, they have that bright yellow stuff with big prawns in it and round here we have a muddy brown-green paella with rabbit and snails. Ours is much better.

I get most of my news from the radio, but I also read an online, left-leaning newspaper, elDiario.es. Like all newspapers, it has proper articles, opinion pieces, fillers and clickbait. I read an article about esmorzaret by a bloke called Roberto Ruiz. Blog material I thought. Now I've actually seen esmorzaret, just once. I was a bit early for the guided visit I was doing to a citrus farm near Oliva, and I noticed the strange breakfast/brunch ritual of the locals. I did wonder if this was another very Valencian tradition, so I asked the same Pepa about this esmorzaret, and she came back to say that it was both trendy and traditional so much so that she and a group of friends were going out to get one the following weekend as a bit of an expedition as part of a group she's a member of "And after retirement; what?"

I need to add a bit of background here. Spaniards often reckon that they eat five times a day: desayuno/breakfast, almuerzo, comida/lunch, merienda, and cena/dinner. Whether the merienda is real or not, I'm not sure. British Victorians took tea at teatime, but teatime isn't that real for most Britons on most days anymore. Here though my concern is the distinction between breakfast and almuerzo. To overgeneralize, most Brits get up, shower, get dressed and eat something like toast, cereal or eggs—they have breakfast. Most Spaniards don't do that. They get up, have a breakfast drink like coffee or Nesquik, and go out to study or work. For the majority of the Spanish population their first substantial food is taken two to three hours after starting the day. They may go out to a bar or have a pack-up. If the office job starts at 9am and you eat two and a half hours later, it's probably going to be called almuerzo; if you started at 7am and eat at 9:30am, it's more likely to be called desayuno. The idea is the same. Sometimes an early lunch is called an almuerzo too.

Back at the newspaper article, the writer was waxing lyrical about the heritage of the esmorzaret which is basically a sandwich roll breakfast. Far superior, he said, to the foreign brunch and how the Valencian variety existed long before brunch was a twinkle in some foreigner's eye. How, for the food loving Valencianos, the esmorzaret is, not eating for the sake of eating, but rather a sacred custom that must be observed; a social ritual deeply rooted in the local culture, a ritual that has been passed down from generation to generation, from the labouring and peasant classes to having become a daily appointment for many Valencians today. But, the writer stressed, it's more than just a culinary tradition. It is also a time to disconnect, relax, and enjoy good food in good company. In fact, according to him, having a sarnie for breakfast is a fundamental part of the Valencian identity. One not to be overlooked if you are  a visitor and you really want to get to know the customs of this region. 

Roberto goes on to tell us that many people have their daily esmorzaret with their work colleagues, but it is the weekend lunches that are chosen to share the morning calmly with family and friends. Now isn't that a surprise? He says too that bars start to serve the esmorzaret from nine till mid morning. Here again we bump into a possible cultural difference. Morning in Spain lasts till you have lunch. So, for most people it's still morning till 2pm though I suspect that mid morning stretches no further than around 12:30pm.

The next three paragraphs are substantially his. I suspect he may get paid by the word.

For almuerzo, you don't go to a bar, order a sandwich, eat it, and leave. The esmorzaret goes much further. It starts with choosing the sandwich you'll have today, perhaps from a menu, perhaps a suggestion from the bar, or perhaps you choose the ingredients you want to put in the bread yourself by choosing them directly in front of a display case. Once the order is placed, you can then wait with a plate of cacau del collaret (peanuts) and another of olives, and in most places with a basic salad of lettuce, tomato, and onion. To drink? A beer, with or without alcohol, or wine, maybe pop.

Then comes the sandwich, the big moment. The variety is enormous, but some sandwiches never fail. The chivito is one of the best known, with chicken breast or pork loin, fried egg, bacon, ali oli (think garlic mayo), lettuce, tomato, and cheese. Also the brascada, with beef fillet, onion, and cured ham. Or the almussafes, with sobrasada (a paste made from ground pork seasoned with paprika), cheese, and caramelized onion. Or why not the ones with sausage, black pudding, and tomato; cuttlefish with ali oli; loin, pepper, fried egg, and chips; spanish tortilla de patatas with an infinite number of variations; or baby squid with ali oli. Practically anything you can fit between two layers of bread.

To finish, as tradition dictates, the best thing to do is to order a cremaet—a café solo with rum, lemon, sugar, and cinnamon, although the liqueur can be adapted according to taste. It is usually served flambéed and served aflame. All this, from when you started with the peanuts at the beginning to when you finish with the coffee, is the famous Valencian esmorzaret.

And back with Pepa she sent me a photo of the deserted Saturday morning tube station in Betera, where she now lives, to get in for a 10am esmorazet with her friends at Paiporta, a small town just South of Valencia city. Then she sent me pictures of the sandwich she chose, the accompanying chips and ali oli, the guindilla salad and the peanuts. 

El Mossett in Paiporta wasn't one of the ten recommended trendy spots to get your esmorazet in the article. If you're up there and you want to have a go then the mentioned spots were La Pascuala (El Cabanyal, Valencia), El Pastoret (Nàquera, Valencia), Va de Bo (Alfarp, Valencia), La Mesedora (Algemesí, Valencia), Nuevo Oslo (Valencia), El Racó de Vega (Xàtiva, Valencia), Kiosk La Pérgola (Valencia), Cremaet (Valencia), Mistela (Valencia) and Mesón Canela (Valencia)

 

PS It's also a "bank holiday", Hispanic Day, El Pilar, on 12th October but, as it's on a Saturday, and the shops, in the Valencian region can be open if they wish it will, probably, be a bit unremarkable.

Eat up your gruel

I wasn't going to do this again. Not for a while. In fact I have a very slight blog ready to go about ambulances, but a number of people have asked or sent me messages so, I'll do my best to make it short and sweet. Yet another update on me and throat cancer.

Nothing has changed in the treatment stakes. I've now done 25 of the 33 sessions of radiotherapy. An ambulance collects me from home and deposits me back here a few hours later. It can be as few as four hours from start to finish and as many as six and a half. The treatment takes about twenty minutes and the rest of it is waiting or travelling time and the occasional medical Q&A. Yesterday the ambulance from Alicante brought me home via Biar. Locals can gasp and chortle. 

I've done two of the three chemotherapy sessions. The third and, hopefully, final session is on Monday 14th provided that there is no medical reason for not going ahead - apparently things like anaemia, lack of platelets, reduced kidney function etc., can make the process unsafe which is why I have to get a blood test a few days before to check that I'm up to it.

This morning I got a bit of a pep talk from the nurse at the radiotherapy unit. She seems to be the person charged with keeping an eye on me. Her main concern is that I am losing weight. In fact my face had thinned out so much that the original "death mask" that they use to strap me to the table and to target the rays, was no longer up to the job. I had to have a new mask made and a new CAT scan done so they could pinpoint the tumours in relation to the new mask. We had a bit of a chat about this weight loss. As I pointed out I'm still hardly skinny - teetering on the boundary between overweight and obese using that Body Mass Index system. The nurse guffawed when I told her that. She checked. She seemed genuinely surprised when I was right. I explained, in Spanish, about the English word moobs. It didn't stop her though. She wants me to "eat" more. Now I haven't actually eaten anything since 19 September. Since then I have been connecting a squelchy plastic bag full of some all in one food supplement to the tube that comes out of my stomach. The bag is hung on high and it just drip, drip, drips into my stomach. the original plan was for three feeds a day, 600 calories a go. I've now been told to go for four feeds a day. It's a laborious process and the food stinks but I'll do what I can.

Actually saying the food stinks is something else. Cooking food, kitchen waste bins, the porridge residue in the plug hole etc., smell absolutely disgusting. Maggie tells me that things are no more smelly than normal though she says I have fetid breath. I'm not surprised. Nowadays I go to bed early, alone, in the guest room. I get to sleep easily enough but however long I stay asleep, till the first time I wake up, is usually the major part of the sleep I'm going to get. From there on in it's just tossing, turning and maybe a bit of snoozing. When I wake up, at say 3am, my mouth is lined with mixtures of phlegm, slime, and blood or snot tinted gobs of something horrible. Then again, someone has lined my mouth with sawdust. So I'm choking on dust and something as slimy as that Creature from the Black Lagoon at the same time. I can try to brush and mouthwash my mouth back into action but, if any of the liquids, including the "medical" mouthwash which, if it were sold in a standard size whisky bottle, would come in at 85€, touches the back of my throat I am wont to retch and throw up on the yellowy liquid I put into my stomach. It is a singularly unpleasant experience. 

The radiotherapy people are adamant that the majority of my problems are being caused by the whole body treatment which is chemotherapy. They accept that the radiotherapy has reddened my skin caused quite a lot of exfoliation but not much else. And that was the point of the pep talk from the nurse to tell me that with my only real complaints being my throat, a fair amount of throwing up with a bit of side grumbling about the ringing in my ears and how the lowering of my blood pressure makes me wobble, literally, from time to time, I was getting away with this almost consequence free so far. So, my lad, buck your ideas up and make sure you lose no more weight.

"Yes, Lourdes", was all of my reply.

Turning wine into water

I well remember our first ever fiesta in Culebrón. After the Saturday evening meal, under the pines, outside the social centre, the activity shifted to the paved square where there was a stage for the "orquesta," the showband so typical of Spanish small-town fiestas. As soon as we arrived at the square, I headed for the bar to beat the rush. There never was a rush; people went to the bar, but getting some booze down their necks didn't have the same urgency as it seems to have for us Britons. It's the same when a drink is finished; I, or we, go for another, but Spaniards don't worry too much about getting the next one in. They'll get around to it in a while.

I presume we Britons still say that Spaniards don't get drunk, or at least that it's very unusual to see them falling-down drunk. Point Britons at free or cheap booze and we will—at least I will—and I've always thought of myself as the person on the Clapham Omnibus, take advantage.

I used to comment to my Spanish learners of English, that the Spanish, on the whole, seemed to be more sober than we Britons and they would guffaw. They believed that the Spanish, as a nation, got drunk too. True, they had us down as a nation of beer swillers; multiple pints before falling-down drunk style, but they didn't see themselves as lightweights in the alcohol consumption stakes. To be honest I have no idea what it's like out there currently. Young people are the ones who tend to party, and as young Spaniards don't think of going out until late, by which time I'll be well tucked up in my bed, I'm not going to be there to see. Nonetheless, I've heard or read many recent articles that talk about the binge drinking habit of younger Spanish people.

On the roads the DGT, the Traffic Directorate, reckons that booze is present in more than 30% of road deaths and something like 25% are of those breath-tested after an accident are over the limit. Presumably that's one of the reasons that the government is considering dropping the limit from 0.5g/litre in blood levels to 0.2g/litre. That sort of limit means that if you drank a bottle of beer—a tercio (330 ml)—and you were an older man weighing between 75 and 90 kg, you'd probably fail the test unless you gave yourself an hour or more to digest the drink.

I've also noticed a lot of publicity around low-alcohol variants of booze and I've seen or heard several articles about how younger people are rejecting the alcohol culture around them—the culture that drinks beer or wine with a meal and starts a winter's day with a shot of brandy in or alongside your first coffee of the day.

If you live in Spain, you'll be aware of how common low-alcohol beers are. Non-alcoholic variants have about 13% of the Spanish beer market, whereas in the UK it's still well below 1%. There are actually two types of "non-alcohol" beers: 0,0 (zero-zero) and sin alcohol (without alcohol). The sin alcohol actually has a very small percentage of alcohol in it. If you get stopped by the Guardia for a breath test, you may well show as having alcohol on your breath even though you've been on sin alcohol all night. The zero zeros have no alcohol at all. Very few bars bother about the difference, but I've noticed that more and more often I get 0,0 when I ask for sin alcohol. One of the things I've always appreciated about low-alcohol beer is that it looks like beer. Once it's in the glass, those pains in the neck, who always want you to drink more, stop barking and shut up because they think you're on beer. It seems to me that this general principle is one reason for choosing newer non or low-alcohol drinks. Nowadays you can do something similar with a whole range of drinks, be that a 0º gin with tonic or a range of mocktails that are always there on menu lists alongside alcoholic ones. People who are temporary teetotallers (pregnant women, people under doctor's orders, drivers) have it much easier when they don't have to argue that "one won't harm you."

Low-alcohol beers have been around for years, but there seems to be a bit of a boom at present in other low and non-alcohol drinks which are typically alcohol-rich. Cruzcampo has been pushing a beer recently—Cruzcampo Tremenda—as "the perfect choice to enjoy a fresh and tasty beer without having to worry about the consequences." It has 2.4% alcohol, which is half the strength of their standard product. The other day Maggie bought some fizzy wine and it had a big 5% on the label; it was low-alcohol sparkling wine. In Villena, we asked for a tinto de verano in a bar, to demonstrate it to a couple of pals from the UK, and the version brought to our table was a low-alcohol one. True, it was a Colombian server and she seemed to have considerable trouble with my Spanish, but it helped persuade me that low-alcohol drinks are popping up everywhere.

So my general thesis is that for most of we older Britons the continuous, all day alcoholic happy hour, continues to be a part of our lives in Spain but the trend around us seems to be going for lower-alcohol versions. Maybe it's the start of a crusade against booze and very soon beer bottles will be carrying warnings just like packets of ciggies.

Something for the Palace Gates

My sister said that my nephew reads my blogs. He's just about to set off to Colorado because his new wife has a job there. So here's one to send him and her on their way.

Just for those who haven't been keeping up, I have throat cancer. The Spanish healthcare system is looking after me. However, because the Region of Valencia is being run by a very right-wing local government, one of the insidious little side effects seems to be that lots of patients are being passed for care in the private sector. I suppose they natter as they play golf together. Of course, I may be completely wrong. It may be because the private hospitals have more capacity or because they're doing lots of two-for-one offers.

The private hospital is for the radiotherapy. The thing where they strap me to a table and direct particle beams at the cancer in my throat and neck. The idea is that the rays damage the bad cancer cells but that my other cells are strong enough to fight back. Or at least that's how I visualise it. I could well be wrong.

The public hospital, the one in Elda, is where I talk to an oncologist who has decided on the treatment, and it's also where I have to go for three sessions of chemotherapy. Chemo involves using a drip to put some sort of poison into my veins. Again, I understand that the idea is that they kill bad and good cells alike, but the good cells can recover and the bad ones can't. I haven't Googled any of it. I'm just trying to do as I'm told.

The people in the radio place are perfectly nice, but the chemo people on the Day Hospital do their best to be incredibly "up". They say nice things to everyone. Very co-operative, odd sense of humour and very nice hair were my piropos for today.

I'm just an outpatient, I don't have to stay in hospital long. The chemo takes longer; it was about three hours today and four hours last time. The radiotherapy takes no time at all. For purely logistical reasons, I drove myself to Alicante this morning. I got there before 9 am and I was away to get to Elda before 10 am, and my underground parking ticket only cost 55 cents.

Normally an ambulance comes and gets me. For most of we patients, it's much more minibus than ambulance, with four seats in the back with space for a wheelchair and someone on a stretcher. There are the two seats in the front too. Sometimes it's a Magical Mystery tour with a pickup in Monóvar, Elda, Novelda, Monforte etc., and sometimes it's been a more or less straight run. Last week I had two trips that were more like taxi rides. One or no stops. Other times the journey can take two or three hours each way with lots of stops. I very seldom travel with the same people. I have to get up before six to be ready for the ambulance.

People who see me say I look well. That's because, so far, my hair hasn't fallen out and the skin hasn't stretched, leaving me with cadaverous sunken cheeks and a sallow complexion. My mouth is a total disaster area. It's lined with all sorts of foul-tasting mucus, and I often think I might throw up. I've given up eating by mouth simply because everything tastes disgusting. I drink water and tea (which tastes worse than the stuff they give you in bars) and then I drip feed some stuff like baby gruel or Complan into the tube that comes out of my stomach. My ears are very loud too, and I get tired even thinking about doing the weeding, but I'm still driving, still doing light jobs like cleaning the toilets, changing beds and doing laundry. Maggie, though, as well as the stress of my being ill, is taking an unfair share of the household work, particularly as I've stopped shopping and cooking as well as the garden.

So, I think that's it. The wedding plans are moving slowly as Maggie waits for documentation that will start the mad dash to get the rest. I'm still planning to book up one of the Imserso Pensioner's holidays tomorrow, and I have another blog nearly ready to go. It's taking a while because it's a bit weak. This one took the time to type it. Very fast.

The photo is from a local paper in 2020 but it is Elda