Living in Spain

Driving backwards along the lane leading up to my house the other day and pulling into a space where the ostrich couldn’t get me to let Manolo’s father pass (he is incapable of reversing; hence, one backs up every time one meets him on his way back from visiting his cows), it occurred to me that my life is not as dull as it was before moving to the countryside.
The trip into town and back again for my newspaper is a journey of surprise and adventure, to be undertaken with disregard for schedule. The four kilometres could take a few minutes or a large part of the morning, depending on road workers, shepherds, cowherds, stray ostriches, tractors, floods, trees knocked down by high winds or Manolo’s car parked in the middle of the narrow lane making up the first half of the journey.
The usual delay is meeting one of the old women struggling along the road on her way to or from the local clinic. In the old car, they would consider the offer of a lift slowly, eyeing the doors falling off at the hinges and the tattered interior before accepting, and would grip the dashboard in terror all the way. One had to drive slowly too, because the wobble in the steering wheel tended to frighten them, and on arrival, one had to park and open the door to haul them up from the depths of the ancient upholstery.
In the new jeep, they are more ready to accept a lift, but balk at the height of the seats once the door is opened. All the old women of Spain have at least one bad leg, I now know, and if you have never helped an old lady with a straight leg into the seat of a large jeep, you have not experienced life on the edge.
The most effective way of doing this, I’ve learned, is to manoeuvre the straight leg inside the door first and push from behind. The danger here, of course, is that the leg will give way, so one lifts as well as pushes, like trying to heave a sack of potatoes onto a high shelf. The problem is getting a grip. These old ladies are not built like you and me. They have nowhere to grip. You grab one part and push and another part flops out on the road again. You try to grab all the parts together and discover they have none that can be identified and held in place. You finally bend low, put your shoulder to the general area of the lower body and heave. Then you sit gasping for breath and trying to focus your mind on not having a heart attack.
Sometimes I think of doing us all a favour and letting them walk, as they have been doing for years before I arrived and others will be doing for years when I’m gone. But then I remember just how exciting life in the countryside can be, and I always stop.
And sometimes they take one look at me and my jeep, put their heads down and walk faster.

Filed under: General by Vivion O'Kelly