The Spanish personality: starring the cleaning lady

The Spanish are not known for being shy.

The episode which got me thinking further about this generally-acknowledged fact occurred on Saturday, and consisted of one of a group of what looked like nine or ten-year-old boys slapping my 21-year old flatmate on the backside as they walked past us in the street. This is a perfect example of the rather brash attitude exhibited by some (I would like to stress definitely not all) of the Spaniards I have happened to come across during my time here. I was reminded of another incident which took place soon after our arrival at our new flat: not having been offered the orange sticker with printed names on it that every other flat’s post box is adorned with, we decided to make our own. Shreds of paper, many different coloured pens and about ten minutes later, we had our label and proudly stuck it to our letter-box. However, after walking past it the next day on our way out of the building, we realised that we were walking across none less than a crime scene – the label had gone. Confused, and utterly curious, we began an investigative search and to our horror, discovered its remains in the waste paper bin, only centimetres from the letter-box vicinity. On further inspection, we realised that it hadn’t just been picked off and placed into the bin – no, it had been screwed up viciously into a ball and thrown in an apparent fit of inexplicable anger. After only having lived in the building for about a week, who could we possibly have distressed that much?
We do have our suspicions: the most likely culprit in our opinion is the bin-lady, in the foyer, with the rubber gloves. Our reasoning behind this is that within the first few days of living here, we accidentally messed with her ‘system’ – it seems that putting rubbish bags outside the front door a second before the allocated time of 19.30 is not the way forward. We’ve also annoyed her since by putting out an apparently overly-offensive rubbish bag, because when we opened the door the next morning, she’d placed it onto our doormat so that we physically had to step over it to leave the house. And according to her, a few days ago one of our rubbish bags stained the floor (although we can’t see anything). So she’d definitely have the motive, it’s just whether she could see through such a villainy. After the incidents following that which caused the post box crime, I am awaiting a similar vengeful scandal. However, whatever she decides to do, a repeat of post box vandalism is out of the question because, after tenderly unscrewing the crushed little label, we stuck it back on but to the inside of the box rather than the outside where it is clearly too exposed to angry cleaners. I eagerly await the day when in bin-world, we do something so outrageous that we catch her with her fingers trapped in the slot, desperately clawing at the label that’s just out of reach... This honestly seems to be as far as crime goes in Alcala. The police force here are in desperate need of something to do: I can’t say that I’ve actually ever seen a policeman doing any work – they always seem to be congregating on the streets in groups of about four of five having a chat, or at most, shepherding traffic when the lights are out of order. The one time we’ve actually seen something happen – a woman was having a full-on screaming match with her boyfriend just opposite our block of flats – the police got far too excited and sent out no less than six cars, sirens blaring, to calm down the situation.

The Spanish have also exhibited their unreserved attitude in a more caring way, for example I got stopped on the street wearing just a T-shirt several times in November by middle-aged and old folk asking me: Are you not cold dressed like that? With them all bundling up in coats, scarves and gloves the moment the temperature drops below 20°C, it must be an odd sight to them to see someone strolling down the street wearing just one layer. I quite like the fact that they stop me – it feels like they care about your wellbeing – but also I think it’s just a natural curiosity that, unlike the British, they have no qualms about satisfying. For me and my fellow British friends here, a November day in Spain is equivalent to a day in May in England. For several days at the end of November, it was 24°C and there have been some beautiful blue and cloudless skies even at the beginning of this month – making it difficult to believe that there has been a foot of snow in Leeds and that it is Christmas in less than two weeks.