Midsummer 2007 - the Connection

“I am just a stranger, they call me Cuandome,
I am just a stranger who likes to dance,
The girls of Tumbalina call me Cuandome,
The girls of Tumbalina like to dance”


We are all on a brown and white blanket as Joi is playing the guitar in front of me. I had asked him to sing a song about a cowboy. With his soft, gentle and unaccented voice he came close enough. His girlfriend Katrin lies besides him without saying much, taking in the sunshine which has finally broken through. To my right Torge has struck up a conversation with my right foot – and alter-ego – Señor Pie (Mr. Foot). Like Carmen, Torge doesn’t get along with him very well. Also to my right Hubi is looking at the girl which has – according to him – “the most beautiful smile in the world”. She doesn’t notice. She is sitting on a decked surface where another group is just hanging around. Their attention is focussed on Henning, an impressive Swede who claims he can make a clapping sound whilst only using his right hand. His paltry and ridiculous attempt results in laughter, a kind of laughter which makes you smile even though you don’t know the reason of it. Another group is preparing the garage to my left. There will be another party tonight. The rattling of bottles reminds me of the check-in lounge at the airport. The Swedish always bring home a Duty-free bottle or two from abroad. As I flick through the photos with Hubi we try to remember the night before. A combination of Eurovision songs and Amy Whitehouse (...and I said, no, no, no) provided the soundtrack to a night which started with a Midsummer dinner for 36 and ended with Hubi failing to convince Moa’s little sister Maya to ‘go for a walk’. She denied and he got me instead. As we laughed at the funny incident I realize that I haven’t stopped being happy since I arrived.

"Please come for a walk...she is thinking about it"

"I really don't think I want to go for a walk""So then I will go with you Dutchie" Midsummer is something special, something else. In my last article I talked about Quality and that this is achieved by connecting with the things you do. The Swedes connect with Midsummer and get it right all the time. Example. On Midsummer Friday it had been raining solidly for 22 hours, but this didn’t stop the local band ‘The West Coast Boys’ playing their tunes for us as we danced around the Midsummer pole. The two men – well into their seventies – played all the classics on the local football field. The boys had placed themselves neatly between the goalposts. Midsummer songs celebrate the normal life. They sing about going to the market, washing and drying your clothes and something about frogs which I still haven’t figured out although this is my third year of celebration. There are about 100 songs and all are greeted with a swift clap in the hand and a “Yes, let’s do that one!”. That is connecting, that is Quality. In the end it is the people who make Midsummer. It is rare that such a bunch of good people – with an enormous social talent – come together. All of them make me smile and I can’t think of a better characteristic. We create three day relationships which feel like long-term friendships. You tend to get close to everybody you mean even though you have only met this person five minutes ago. I mean, only with a Midsummer crewmember can I have the following conversation:

Question: “So, how did you get that nasty cut on the sole of your foot?”
Answer: “Well last week I was in Cambodia...

(the girl could have stopped there, her answer was already perfect...but she continued)

“...and while I was running on the beach I was struck by a fishing harpoon.”

That was honestly the best answer she could have given. For this story, the are – like the Midsummer songs – about 100 more and we will continue creating them for years to come. Well done everybody, well done ‘The West Coast Boys’.

The Art of Mountaineering

I can see by my watch, without taking my hand of my hip, that it is five-to-eight in the morning. I am early. A fresh breeze on my bare arms tells me that I did well packing a sweater and a rain jacket although the forecasts had been good for the day. I head back into one of the seven exits of metro-stop Calle O’Donnell to meet Tyler. Together we would go hiking with two more friends (Ángel and Hswin) in the Sierras in the north of Madrid. It was exactly what I needed for hiking is like fishing or a motorcycle trip, it gives you time to think. And thinking was on my mind. Despite receiving positive feedback after my interview with the Ministry of Foreign affairs I didn’t get offered the job. Why not?

The forty minute drive in Ángel’s Audi up to the national park ‘La Piedraza’ (big stone) just outside the reservoir town of Manzanares el Real doesn’t leave me with much time to reflect as the newly formed team of the day converse. Ángel is by far the most talkative. He is a hiking instructor and is clearly happy with our enthusiasm to join him for the day. He talks about the houses he has lived in during the 40 years of his life and about the importance of mountaineering preparation. He is an entertaining guy and I am not bothered. The thinking can come later.

Upon arriving at the park around nine o’clock we stop at the cabin cafeteria for coffees and donuts. Although I make an honest attempt, Ángel pays for us all. The surroundings are impressive with high rock mountains waking up to the morning sun. The smell of pines brings me back to the Rocky Mountains of Canada. Ten minutes later we are off. The team is exited at the prospect of a 6 hour hike through this imposing setting. Although nobody knows it I am the most exited. The reasoning could start. The report of my interview stated various valuations on me as a person. It said for example that I am a good worker under stress and that sometimes I have difficulty expressing my thoughts and ideas. All were assertions about my character, about the quality I possess as a person. I have a few problems with this and I would like to point out why.

Recently I have been reading Robert M. Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance which carries the rather unknown subtitle of An Inquiry into Values. It talks about Quality. I am hooked. Actually, I only want to talk to people who have also read it which leaves me in a spot of bother down here in Spain. I turn to Tyler as we are making a stop to put on some factor 25 sunscreen and he confesses that he has started Zen three times without getting past the first ten pages. No help there then. Slowly my mind wonders back to Quality. Zen is at the very hart of what I am trying to get at. It is a search for values and Quality comes out on top. Quality is the undefinable entity which defines everything around it. It is the source of everything we know. Quality – or its absence – doesn’t reside in either the subject or object. Zen tries to get rid of our dualistic way of thinking. Subject-object, mind-matter, wrong-right, good-bad and 0-1. These are all things unknown to nature and which have been created by man. Quality isn’t created by man, but exists a priori (before anything else, like time and space) in the things we see around us. Man however can influence the Quality of something through its interaction with it. If there is no full connection with that he is producing people will view the product as bad Quality.

We’ve moved into lighter terrain above the tree line, we will soon be at the top of the mountain. A discussion flares up amongst my companions. It attracts my attention. Madrid is claimed to be the European city most favourable to the blind. This statement tempts me to make a comment. I calmly agree and verify that I have seen more blind people in Madrid than in any other city I have lived in. “This is because of ONCE – the charity for the blind who sell lottery tickets,” adds Tyler. I nod and slip back into thought. People can possess Quality as well. Actually, everybody possesses Quality you just need to know how to use it. Zen promotes a society without school or University grades. This way, students are challenged to determine themselves what Quality is. They are not told what it is. In the book the metaphor of the motorcycle mechanic is used. The good mechanics, the ones who work with Quality, are very much connected to their work. In fact, the moment of pure Quality is when subject and object are identical. They feel the machine they are working with. They have let go all manual instructions and do not need to be told what to do or what Quality is. They know. They can see its Quality. They are challenged when something goes wrong because this will bring them forward. They are making an art of what they’re doing and do not expect that others will see this art, although it is noticed. Think of a world where everybody makes Quality decisions. Now, during my interview not one question was asked about Quality and if I either possess it or if I know how to spot it. Instead, seven characteristic points were evaluated through which they told me what good is and what not. Mister Pirsig would have been very disappointed indeed for this is totally the wrong approach. The Ministry could only really have been happy with me if I could determine Quality myself. Quality is undefinable and Pirsig’s main striking point is the motto of his book (which also appears on page 398): ‘And what is good, Phaedrus, And what is not good – Need we ask anyone to tell us these things?’ It is past midday now and we are heading back down the woods. As usual, it is tougher descending than ascending. Hswin is having difficulties and asks her boyfriend Ángel if we could stop for a moment. We do. Her legs are hurting and I admit to myself that mine are doing the same. I pass a water bottle round and it ends at Tyler. He looks tired and when he finishes he puts the bottle besides him. We talk about Oklahoma and that all the lakes in this North American state are manmade. We get up again, brush the pine needles of our pants and leave. The water bottle remained where it was.

I like to think that I have a classical way of reasoning and that I like to understand what I am doing. I believe that I most of the time connect with what I do. I feel that this was missed during the interview. Now I understand that it is not possible to change human thought or an interview procedure for that matter, but it is nice to think about it. Well, there you go. My day of thinking came to an end (for rethoric purposes this article was a summary of my thoughts of the day, it could have been a lot longer) as we approach the same cabin-like restaurant of this morning. Pre-empting Ángel’s wish to offer us a drink I beat him to it before we enter the café. “I would like to buy you a beer,” I say proudly and surprisingly he accepts without a struggle. We sit down in the shade and enjoy the four cold Mahou bottles brought to us buy the waiter. Ángel stands up and says he is going to find himself a cigarette. Still contemplating the day I offer him a weak – but sincere – smile. A few seconds pass and I snap back to reality. “Ángel doesn’t smoke.” As soon as I realize this I see our mountain guide returning with a big grin on his face. He has paid for the drinks, this was obvious. So much for connecting to your actions, Thomas. So much for Quality.

La Boda en High Easter

26th of May. My mother’s birthday. My sister’s wedding.

For weeks I had been telling my students that I was going to England for my sister’s wedding. Whole classes were devoted to matrimonial vocabulary. For months Carmen and I had carefully been collecting various parts of our outfits. My suit from El Corte Inglés, shirt, tie and socks from Zara. My shoes from a Chinese shoe shop in La Latina. My matching belt from El Rastro market. Carmen had endured a similar odyssey.

Not only Madrid was eagerly awaiting the marriage. My sister’s wedding in High Easter was the talk of entire towns and various small villages in Galicia. For Carmen, one of their own was going to an English wedding. England, the land of women curas (vicars), coffee in the Churchyard and above all – and by far the biggest talking point –, the land of pamelas (hats) at major events. This kept people gossiping for evenings upon end.

On the 24th of May Carmen – and with her a good part of Spain – was ready. So was I. The present had been bought (a full tea set, craftily manufactured by the Galician master’s of Sargadelos) and the suits were in the bag (a special bag for suits that is, Carmen always thinks in these things). We took the 20.50 EasyJet flight from Barajas Airport to London Luton (we were delayed, missed the last bus to London Stansted and had to wait three hours at Luton whilst keeping a dodgy man awake who admitted that Spanish real estate corruption was ‘his kind of style’. Eek!)
I told you Carmen was ready but I dare say she wasn’t. Actually neither was I. She had been asking me for a long time what the wedding was going to be like. What were people going to be wearing? I really didn’t have a clue. I had only been to two English weddings before, both of cousins of mine. The last one was two years ago and I have to admit it was great. There was a band inside the church and they were playing religious songs throughout the ceremony (and as I recall there was also someone dancing modern ballet). For the other one my cousin had rented some sort of manner (big, stately, country palace). All very Sense and Sensibility and quite the contrary of the Baptist wedding I mentioned before. I was rather sure that Emma’s wedding wouldn’t be similar to any of them. So what could I say?

On the other hand, Carmen’s experience of weddings was limited to Galician ones. Now one needs to understand that the most important thing of a Galician wedding (well apart from the couple saying their vows of course!) is the food. If there are less than 8 (!!) seafood dishes the wedding is considered to be poor. Thus, the most frequent question I was asked up there was ‘yes, but what are you going to eat?’. Again, no clue, although I was sure we were not going to reach their high level of expectation.

We arrived at the house in good spirits and everybody had there own little tasks of preparing things. My dad had the longest list of things to do, but had to scrap most of it as the making of the wedding cake was taking far longer than expected (Can somebody phone Ann and ask her if she knows why this Icing Sugar is not setting properly….please?!). In the meantime I had to pick up people from the Airport but I got lost on the country lanes. I am a city boy. At night we enjoyed an Indian meal with most of my Dutch family and some international friends. The party had begun.
26th of May. The big day. I woke up with a strange sensation. There were voices downstairs, one of them was unmistakenly regional Essex. This could mean two things. My mother had changed her accent overnight or the make-up artist had arrived. As I was still half asleep I was contemplating the first, but after rationality had taken over I whispered to Carmen that we should have to get up and she should head down to get her face painted. I was sent on some errands and my shopping list for Tesco’s included: 48 cans of Carlsberg beer, 12 roles of ultra-soft toilet paper, enough ice-cubes to fill have a tank, cheese-crackers (the amount was left to my own imagination), 2 containers of cereals (Frosties and Ricecles), a toothbrush, 5 packets of digestives, 6 liters of orange juice and a newspaper. The lady at the check-out counter thought that my parents had gone away for the weekend and I was making the most of it. She was wrong: I was making final and extremely vital preparations for a wedding.
Upon my return the house was buzzing. The make-up artist was still there and had been accompanied by the hairdresser since my departure. Neither was going to touch me though. After a quick breakfast of Ricecles I hoisted myself into the suit and discussed the plans for the day with my brother over a cup of tea. We were going to be the ushers of the wedding. This meant we had to move people from place to place. Most difficult was entertaining people after the lunch between the restaurant and the first song played by the band (there is a walk of 5 minutes between the restaurant and the tent in our garden which would be the scene of the party leaving a gap of one hour and 55 minutes). Easiest task: getting people away from the church after the mass towards the champagne.Piet and me left our girlfriends behind who helped my sister get into her dress (which up until than had hung in my room as a ghost reminding me what lies in the future) and headed to the church to welcome people and lead them towards the coffee. As we were walking through the village (we illegally crossed the cricket pitch and then turned right towards the church) I felt rather smart and I guess Pieter felt the same although we didn’t discuss this point. The first cars started arriving as soon as we had done. An elegant car with neatly dressed people turned up first. The woman was wearing a hat and the question “are you here for the wedding?” seemed ridiculous (the last wedding in High Easter was four years ago) at first but was an instant success with all the guests who thought it was slapstick ushering so Piet and I smoothly repeated the inquiry to all cars arriving at the car park.

Things were going well and soon Carmen, Ernestine (my brother’s girlfriend) and my mother also arrived. Upon seeing coffee in the churchyard Carmen giggled her first giggle. This is not how it normally goes. People have coffee in their houses not in churchyards. A fair point really if you think about it. But there was no time to relax for the usher, soon we had to push people towards the church and so this is what we did. However I felt a bit useless when David the coffee man moments later raised his voice to the crowd and asked them to move to inside the church. I had been outplayed. After about ten minutes everybody was in. Well, everybody except my dad (who for once had a good excuse for being late!) and the bride. The vicar churned out the standard pre-ceremony babble, no photos, try to keep quiet and, oh yes, maintaining the church roof is an expensive business so please donate something upon leaving the church. Carmen poked me and we both laughed at this begging. The good old Catholics in Spain are still heavily supported by the state.
There were some agonizing minutes between this warm-up and the arrival of the bride but the ancient organ-player (who actually seemed part of the furniture) kept us all entertained with some snazzy tunes. Alex – the groom – put on a smile and was looking around a bit. Was he dancing to these melodies? There were quiet chats between family members and friends who hadn’t seen each other for a long time. A lot of nodding, I don’t know why. And then it happened.
Some whispering at the back soon turned out into real excitement. My sister had arrived and was making her way into the church. I turned around and the first thing I saw was my dad’s everlasting beaming smile. “The man is going to have some serious cheek-ache tonight,” I thought as I turned my eyes to my sister. She looked beautiful, stunning. The dress fitted perfectly and was very elegant. Slowly they walked down the isle, like in the movies really.
Actually, everything was a bit like in the movies. The vicar started the mass and soon we were singing. Why does everybody know the melodies to these psalms except me? Luckily, the funny thing about psalms is that you can sing them with any melody you like and you still fit in with the rest. So this is what I did. Carmen isn’t used to signing in church (in Spain they have choirs!) so she just hummed.

After the singing and signing it was time for the big act and the vicar had a small surprise up her (rather spacious) sleeve. First, she asked the happy couple to take their vows (I swore Emma was going to break out in the giggles whilst the vicar was struggling her way through Alex’ middle name: Gerrit) and then she addressed the audience. “Will you all support Emma and Alex during their marriage?” Unanimously we shouted “We Will”. I could feel Carmen’s eyes fixing on me. I knew what her question would be and the answer was ‘no’. No, this wasn’t customary. With that – and the Lord’s prayer – the ceremony ended and we all rushed outside for the photos to be taken. Some had already spotted that the coffee had been replaced by champagne and headed straight for the outside bar placed next to the tombstone of someone who had died in 1932. Happy faces all around.
For the ushers this was a busy time as general entertainment is one of their tasks and there was a lot to be done. Slowly a line was formed outside the restaurant which conveniently shares its backyard with the church and the important people received handshakes and congratulations. The ushers were the last to enter the restaurant. The bottom of my tasty third champagne glass was telling me to slow down. I did.
The table-seating was spot on. I was neatly placed between my godmother Caroline, Carmen and some of Emma’s posh Oxford friends. It was time for some food. Over some appetizing carpaccio with avocado we discussed the mass of the vicar. Over chicken with ‘some kind of sauce’, fresh asparagus and new potatoes we chatted about crazy Emma and Alex stories. Over desert (a chocolate bomb) we laughed about the speeches as told by my dad, Alex and his best man. Highlight was the question ‘how to say something nice about Emma?’ Answer: she was a very good hockey goal-keeper. Good one dad.

The wine was from the Marlborough Sounds, New Zealand (half of the room could testify that they had been on the vineyard of the wine’s origin or at least mighty close. A fact which I am not sure David the wine man appreciated) and was racing to my head. Simply delicious, but I took it easy. There was more ushering to be done. The hard part. From the restaurant to the house. In the end it was easy. Shove a drink in the hands of the thirsty and begin a party. It worked. The hours before the band (a very good heir to the Yardley Syncopators) arrived were spent with more chatting which became increasingly louder. By the time the band played their first song people were ready to start dancing. Emma and Alex traditionally took the first which was – I think – a Rat Pack song. From there on everything was just a bubble of laughter, fun, red wine, dance, chat, sit, white wine and talk. Carmen and I enjoyed a lot but it was evident that Emma and Alex enjoyed it even more. Felicidades.

Coffee at 14.30

My fight against bureaucracy prevailed (see Lunch at 13.30).

After weeks of annoying my Embassy in Madrid I made the exam (which basically was an IQ-test) on Monday the 14th of May at 9.00 o’clock. My triumph was complete. The woman, my enemy, was there to greet me. “I am so glad that we could sort things out,” was her welcome. I grinned. She proceeded with the niceties “Would you like coffee?”. “No not really,” I thought. “Yes, milk and sugar,” I answered. She delivered the goods 90 seconds later, she had added a stroopwafel (Dutch type of biscuit). “Good luck, I hope you pass,” she beamed as she put me behind the reception desk computer. “You can’t pass an IQ test, you cow,” was my final reflection as I slipped into concentration.

The reception desk. They put me behind the reception desk. A final stroke of genius by my old foe. Whilst I was turning kubuses on their heads people were asking by phone how to apply for a new passport. The Consulate is open from Monday to Friday from 9.00 to 17.00 (except on Wednesdays and beware, they close for lunch!!), I could tell them but I was making the test. The examination itself took two hours and ten minutes. Although disappointed with the lack of concentration I knew that I had given all I could. A couple of days later I received the swift answer from Woerden. Against all odds I had made the cut and was invited for an interview in The Hague: Tuesday the 29th of May at the Ministry of Interior Affairs.

The Hague, a city which I had sworn never to live in again. There are so many differences between Madrid and The Hague that I don’t even know where to begin. In Madrid you can walk into a restaurant at 02.00 and order a dish. In The Hague, well, you can’t. Either way, I had been drawn back by fate to the diplomatic centre of the Netherlands.

My meeting was at 15.00 on the Lange Voorhout – a stone’s throw away from the Dutch parliament. I flew into Amsterdam in the morning after a short sleep in England (I had been there for my sisters wedding, report and photos coming up!). It had been 8 months without setting foot in Holland and I felt like an alien although passport control greeted me as one of their own.

Upon arriving at an empty parental house I went straight to bed setting three alarm clocks for 13.30. I woke up just as a middle-aged woman was just tucking into her lunch 1200 kilometers south. I honestly wasn’t nervous. Nothing to lose really. Within 15 minutes I had my suit on (the same I wore to the wedding only days earlier, this time with a white and blue striped shirt, topped by a yellow and blue striped tie. I certainly looked the part as I took bus 18 into the centre of town.

I was early. 20 minutes early. I noticed that I was checking myself out in car windows. My stride confident, my walk arrogant, my step posh. This was bothering me, three hours in The Hague and I was back to being posh although I was still reassuringly feeling alien. It was the combination of suit and city. I had 20 minutes to kill so I turned into the Pulchri Studio – which is next to the (magnificent) building I had to be at 15.00. The Pulchri Studio did not help my increasing poshness…actually it worsened. Even my movements were different; I noticed that whilst I was picking up the newspaper a young waiter boy was approaching. I ignored him for while until I found the time right to turn my head and communicate my order: a cappuccino. My voice was different. Aristocratic. Superior. Upper-lip. Sad.

With a whip I had the last sip of my cappuccino and hoisted my left arm up in the air with a certain level of style so that my watch became visible. Time to go. I had already seen that a Cappuccino cost exactly 2 Euros. I left the coin on the bar. The waiter boy looked at me. I made an attempt to wink at him but I have never been good at that.

It took me exactly 12 steps to get from the Pulchrie Studio to the Interior Office. I didn’t have to ring the bell because a man in a nicer suit than mine entered. I followed him. I don’t think he noticed me. Even if he did he wouldn’t have said anything. Maybe hello. I looked as if I was already part of the set-up.

As I entered the big reception hall there were two women waiting on my right hand side, both holding a folder on which I am sure nothing was written. They were waiting for me although I remained cool. I didn’t walk to them but instead headed to the reception desk. Another woman. “Hi, I am Thomas Reeve and I have come for the Traineeship Interview.” No words, she just nodded to the women in the corner. They smiled. So did I.

Both introduced themselves but I forgot both their names within one second, as I normally do. The one on the left led me to a room on the same floor. There were three other candidates waiting in silence, accompanied by somebody of the project team organizing the selection process. The blond girl asked me – as soon as I entered – if I had made any expenses coming to The Hague. I put on a smirk smile. “Well,” I began, “I have come from Madrid.” This made an immediate impact on the room. I knew this would happen, that is why I did it. Pathetic.

One guy, who was sipping at his third coffee in 15 minutes, suddenly awoke. “Madrid?,” he asked without introducing himself. I confirmed as soon as he said it. Only then did I really notice his face. He was the typical koorbal (posh Dutch student member of an elite fraternity). “Does your father work for the embassy or what?,” he barked. Fifteen thoughts raced through my mind. I will name three. 1) That’s the worst question somebody has ever asked me as their first. 2) Ha, the embassy, the boy doesn’t have a clue. 3) Why did I pay 2 Euros for a cappuccino if I could have got free coffee here?

After contemplating these thoughts I snatched back: “No, actually my girlfriend is Spanish.” The boy was disappointed, I wasn’t.

The following fourteen minutes I spent in the waiting room. I was topic of discussion and although I tried my best not to be pretentious, I was. But that’s OK. Being pretentious in their world is a pro. Meanwhile I filled in my expenses form: a return ticket Schiphol Airport- The Hague Centraal (14 Euro). Then, all of a sudden: “Mr.Reeve, please would you like to follow me?” Still not nervous I did what was asked by one of the ladies with folders. I commented: “Nice building” (this was a sincere comment) and she agreed. She didn’t go into my small talk though. At all.

I cannot tell you anything about the interview itself. I signed something prohibiting me from it. I can only say it went rather well. With that I leave you all in suspense, like I am now. On Wednesday June the 6th I will be called with the result. Either I am in or I am not. In the meantime I am back in Madrid, far away from diplomatic Den Haag. Today in English class one of my students confessed that she had always thought that poodle dogs had hoofs, like horses and lambs. This puts things right back into perspective, doesn’t it?

El Torero de los Coches

I was relaxing on the terrace of the Galician beach house when Alberto came to join me. We both agreed that we had enjoyed ourselves the evening before. It had been Carmen’s 25th birthday and we met with some friends of her to celebrate this superb achievement. Amongst them house-philosopher Oscar (Great man, calls me ‘Ome Mortego’ for undisclosed reasons, Batman in Galician) who after much thought claimed that the Partido Popular (the Spanish conservatives) lie so much that they could tell people that they are selling beer while they are in actual fact selling urban buses. From that moment on we were toasting to urban buses.

During these political discussions and birthday celebrations Alberto mentioned something to me about a Car Rally which was to be held the following day throughout the district. I had pretty much forgotten about it when he reminded me the following morning on the terrace that we really should be heading off to the course to find some good spots.

Carmen stayed at home to prepare her birthday lunch and as we left the house we were just passing the midday hour. There was a shrewd type of heat going when we stepped into Alebrto’s navy blue Citroen. One of those heats that you don’t really realize but is certainly there. We stopped at a near by village to pick up José-Maria (a bloke) and our team was complete. (In the car heading to the track I was trying to rattle off some Rally rhetoric, but I think my unknowingness of cars was obvious.)
Upon arriving at the track – which was set out on various Galician back roads – the tension was immediately noticeable. This was a day exiting things would happen. Now, Alberto and José-Maria had already been to many rallies, for me it was my first (well, one time when I was young, I witnessed people thundering down a Swiss mountain road in wheelbarrows, but I guess that doesn’t count). These two boys knew exactly what to do and I sheepishly followed them.

Alberto, taking the lead, decided that we needed to head for the best corner on the track. This is easier said than done at Rallies. The decision to move up the course is a decision which takes you right back to the primitive origin of mankind for ‘looking for a good spot’ means as much as ‘run for your life San Fermin style’ (cars pass every two minutes). Alberto started by asking the local farmers how to get there. Three minutes of shouting, smiling and a lot of patting on the back and we were on our way. “We just need to pass the river up there and we will have the best spot,” indicated - a rather sure of himself - Alberto. I was just happy enough not to have to run on the road.

We headed in the direction to which the rural wise men had pointed us (through a field of mud) and we soon found ourselves in a spot of bother. A thick line of trees, no river, and a cacophony of loud laughs in the distance. A trick had been played on us and a whole village took it upon themselves to chuckle about it. Bless them. Not to be outdone we continued and climbed a fair sized mountain full of Eucalyptus trees until we suddenly bumped into two rally-drivers who were just as surprised at the meeting as we were. We had climbed to a somewhat obscure part of the course where the two drivers had managed to crash their Peugeot and were now standing by the side of the road. We were exited, they weren’t. After a quick “he is foreign and would like a picture with you” from Alberto we decided to take a closer look at the car they had crashed. This is a basic mistake in Rally-watching. I didn’t know this (although Carmen later claimed that she had warned me about it). Cars pass every two minutes and they can get so confused when they see a crash that they make the same mistake. I however, was unaware of this and was not about to give up on such a good photo opportunity. Foolish.

Suddenly, a noise. Shouting. A crowd which I had not noticed up until then was crying to us. “Coche, coche, cruza, cruza!!”. This is Spanish for: There is a car coming, if you don’t cross the road soon it could crash into you. My photo smile turned into a horrible nervous ‘are-they-talking-to-me-I-am-just-a-foreigner-leave-me-alone’ smile. Alberto and José-Maria crossed the road quick as a flash. As I said earlier, connoisseurs.

I remained stuck to the ground, incapable of doing anything. Deer in the flashlight kind of thing. The cries remained but I had long stopped listening to them. Things slowed down, they really did. Right in front of me a Renault (137) was ripping around the corner. I noticed there was a yellow pear with sunglasses on the left-hand side of the car just above the indicator, which I thought was funny. The car spun and was heading for me. The cries had definitely stopped now. ¨Is that a woman navigating the vehicle?¨ Yes it is. The car had left the road and was still moving when it hit some kind of stone or branch five meters in front of me. This saved me.
The bump stopped the car and revived my heartbeat. I had experienced my first real rally moment. Alberto and Jose-Maria accepted me as one of them and were soon calling me ‘El Torero de los Coches’ (The Torero of the Cars) which I keenly tried to spread.

We returned to the beach house where all was tranquil. A world (well only a couple of kilometers) away from the adrenalin filled back roads. Carmen and her parents had prepared a great Chrurasco (Spanish type of barbecue). With Manuel, the dad, I was turning spare-ribs as big as a very big loafs of bread. Whilst sharing a beer. My masculinity had reached a very high point indeed. We had a great time. Congratulations honey!