Carlos and Penny left the next week for Ibiza, and I decided to combine work
and pleasure by taking a trip to Torremolinos on the Costa del Sol. Since I had
no idea of where to stay I broke my rule about telling Andre Dubois in advance
that I was going into the field and I called Andre with the expectation that he
would know all of the best places to eat and stay. We had lunch together at the
Gayango in Madrid and when we had finished I said, "I'm planning a little trip
down to Andalucia again, Andre. This time I think I'll go to Torremolinos."
Andre smiled and seemed pleased that I had given him some advance notice.
"Really," he said. "You'll like the Costa del Sol. Where are you planning
to stay in Torremolinos?" Andre asked.
"I don't have any idea," I said. "I've never been there. What do you
recommend?"
"Well, there's the Hotel Pez Espada, but I don't like it. It's too modern.
It's like Miami Beach, and it won't be long before all the hotels will be that
way. What kind of place do you like?" he asked.
"Something old, charming and quaint," I said. "I don't like modern Miami
Beach type places either."
"There are two good small hotels," Andre said. "Torremolinos is divided into
two beaches, one in Torremolinos proper, and the other at Carihuela. On the
point that separates the beaches there's a nice hotel called the Santa Clara.
It's an old Victorian frame house, and a favorite of the English, and rather
proper, but Maria, the woman who runs the bar, makes a good martini. Then
there's the Playa Monte Mar Hotel in the Carihuela section. That's a friendly
little place run by a Swedish woman. It has a charming little bar and restaurant
run by a Spaniard named Pepe who is married to a Swede. He's quite colorful and
likes to dance this new American dance they call the twist. I think you'd be
comfortable in either place."
"They both sound good. I think I'll try the Playa Monte Mar," I said.
"I think you'll be comfortable there. Do you want me or Carmen to go with
you?" he asked.
"No thanks, Andre, I can handle things alone," I said. "And, I'd appreciate
it if you didn't give your people any advance notice. You know I like to see
things in their natural state, with no advance planning for my visit."
"I can do that," he said. "Let me ask you a favor now. If you find anything
significant please give me a call from down there. If necessary, and if you want
it, I can come down."
"You've got a deal," I said and offered my hand to shake with him. I left
Andre on the Gran Via and taxied back to the embassy. That night I drove the
Peugeot home, and early the next morning I was once again on my way to Andalucia
via Jaen and Granada.
* * * * *
The Carihuela section of Torremolinos was a rabbit's warren of twisting
narrow streets, a labyrinth of one way lanes, and I had given up hope of finding
the Hotel Playa Monte Mar. I was on my way to the Santa Clara, which was easy to
find, when I took a wrong turn down a one way street. People waved their arms,
whistled and shouted at me. I stopped the car and started to back up. A
policeman wearing a smart white tunic and a white helmet walked to the side of
the car. The officer saluted, politely admonished me about driving the wrong way
on one way streets, then directed me to the Hotel Playa Monte Mar.
Located amidst a row of simple fishermen's houses on a narrow part cobbled
part unpaved street that paralleled the beach in the Carihuela section of town,
the hotel was an old two story stucco building that had been maintained in good
repair with liberal applications of fresh whitewash, bright enamel and elbow
grease.
A narrow entry with a low ceiling, barely six feet high, opened onto a
typical Andalucian patio filled with plants and flowers growing in the rich
small gardens that bordered the terrcotta tiled floors. In the center of the
patio stood an orange tree loaded with fruit; a humming bird feeder was hanging
from one of the branches.
Instead of a reception desk with a uniformed conserje there was an
open door to an apartment with a small sign on the wall beside the doorway that
said oficina. I entered a room that had the comfortable clutter of a
place where an artist worked.
Furnished with bright cushions on cane furniture, a large table on which
tubes of paints, brushes and stacks of old magazines and mail were scattered,
the room was inviting and cozy. Several oil paintings of Torremolinos street
scenes hung on the walls. On an easel by a big studio window a partially
completed canvas of fishing boats and nets on a beach was an artist's impression
of the scene just outside the window. A siamese cat curled up on one of the cane
chairs seemed to be in charge.
"Hola, buenas tardes," I called out. The cat looked at me, sat up,
yawned and stretched, then jumped down from the chair to walk out of the room.
"Hola," a sweet lyrical voice replied from somewhere, then a tall,
slim Scandinavian woman dressed in white jeans, and a rough homespun peasant's
smock appeared in the doorway leading from a kitchen. Her long blond hair was
pulled back and tied at the back of her head in a pony tail. Slender suntanned
ankles extended below her jeans, and on her feet she wore a pair of peasant's
rope soled alpargatas. I guessed that she was probably a very well cared
for forty years old. She carried the cat in her arms.
"Do you have a room for a few days?" I asked.
"Yes," she replied. "The season is over, and you can have your pick. I have
only one other guest besides Cho Cho San." She looked at the cat and rubbed its
ears.
"Good," I replied. "What do you have that you think is the most
comfortable."
"If you don't mind climbing stairs I have a nice room on the roof.
I call it the penthouse, but that's an exaggeration. It was the servant's
quarters, but I converted it to a little apartment with a private kitchen,
sitting room, bath and bedroom. If you want it you can have it for the same
price as any of the other rooms. It's six hundred pesetas a day, about ten
dollars. That includes breakfast."
"I'll take it," I said and handed my diplomatic carnet to her. In
Spain, either a passport or an identity card is required for registration in a
hotel.
She took the carnet then handed me the police and hotel registration
forms. "Cuerpo Diplomatico," she said and opened the red leather identity
card. "From what embassy?" "The American," I replied and sat down at a small
antique secretary desk to fill out the forms.
"Ah yes, I know Ambassador Walker and his wife Virginia. They're lovely
people."
I handed the completed forms to her. "Yes, they are," I agreed. She busied
herself with the paper work then looked up and smiled.
"The restaurant and bar are just off the patio. It opens for drinks about
six, and Pepe starts serving dinner around nine-thirty. Breakfast is from around
sevenish. I'll give you back your carnet in the morning. It has to go to the
police, you know."
"Yes, I know."
"My name is Ingrid Svensen, Mr. Stuart. If I can be of any help just ask."
She offered her hand. "Welcome."
"Thank you," I said, then turned to look at one of the paintings on the
wall. "Are you the artist?" I asked.
"Yes," she replied, but inhaled with a little gasp. "Do you like the
paintings?"
"Very much, maybe I'll buy one," I replied.
"They're all for sale," she said and smiled. "Do you need help with your
bags?"
"No, I can manage," I replied. "I'll see you later." I shook her hand then
turned to walk out to the car.
In travelling to small villages in Spain, I had adopted the practice of
always asking to see a room before moving in, but on seeing Ingrid's apartment,
I had not done so. I assumed that what ever I got would be acceptable, and I was
not disappointed.
The "penthouse" was spotlessly Scandinavian clean, and furnished with the
same cane chairs and a sofa with cushions covered in bright, colorful local
fabrics. The end tables were made from old wine crates, the lamps from wicker
covered garafon rum jugs, and several of the same Torremolinos street and beach
scene paintings adorned the walls. The hotel seemed to be an art gallery for
Ingrid's paintings. They were all titled, and for sale.
Outside, the rooftop was a large terrace with sun chairs, a table with an
umbrella, and a magnificent view of a white sand beach where small fishing boats
and nets had been pulled up out of the sea. In the distance I could see the old
Victorian Santa Clara Hotel on the rocky point that separates the Torremolinos
and Carihuela beaches, but I was glad that Andre and the policeman had steered
me to the Playa Monte Mar. It was just what I had in mind.
I showered and shaved, then dressed in a clean pair of faded Levis, a cotton
blue and white stripped fisherman's sweatshirt and a pair of blue canvas
alpargatas.
Leaving the hotel, I walked toward the main Plaza along the cobbled streets
of Carihuela, that seemed the fisherman's section of the village. I passed the
fishermen's huts, and a couple of cafes where men sat playing dominos, or stood
at the bar to play chinos and drink chatos de vino tinto.
Once out of Carihuela, I cut across a vacant field that served as a boat
yard, and walked down to the beach then climbed the bluff up to the point to
check out the Santa Clara Hotel.
Set in the middle of an almond grove the hotel was cozy and comfortable, but
Andre had been accurate in his assessment that it was a bit formal. The British
influence was obvious, and once again, I was glad that I had found the Playa
Monte Mar.
It was not yet dinner time, but I looked in the dining room to see the
tables. It had the appearance of a pension, and two of the tables had
half-finished bottles of wine sitting on them. Left from the last meal, the
wine, in pension style, was waiting for the guests when they returned for their
next meal.
A pair of blue haired English matrons sat in the small, otherwise empty, bar
wearing flimsy nylon crepe print dresses to sip pink gins. They could just as
well have been in London having cocktails in a West End pub before going to the
theater. Behind the bar a heavy peasant woman, who I assumed was Maria, sat on a
stool knitting while reading a newspaper.
"Good evening," I said, but I didn't stay.
Leaving the Santa Clara I continued my exploratory walk toward Torremolinos
village. Following a footpath down the other side of the bluff I went back to
the beach.
On the terrace of a deserted, thatched roof, beach bar sat a couple, the man
Spanish, the woman probably Scandinavian, still dressed in bathing suits.
Holding hands across a wood table they were drinking a pitcher of sangrias. Rows
of empty beach chairs stretched from the edge of the terrace to the water. Just
beyond the restaurant, nestled against the base of a cliff, I walked through a
cluster of small stucco whitewashed houses where women sat in the doorways to
gossip and watch children at play while knitting in the evening air.
I then climbed a set of steps called the Bajondillo which zigzagged
up the face of the cliffs to an old stone tower that centuries ago had been a
windmill. This tower and mill were the source of the village's name. In Spanish,
torre means tower, and molino is mill.
From the base of the tower the main street, the Calle San Miguel, a
narrow cobbled lane open only to foot traffic, wound up to the main plaza. There
were a couple of boutiques catering to tourists, but for the most part the
stores were the usual, farmacia, post and telegraph, general store and doctor's
office that were found in any small village. Midway between the tower and the
main plaza was one small bar called the Quitapenas. I looked inside at the long
bar that ran the length of the narrow store front, and it was crowded with a
mixture of handsome suntanned foreigners and burley Spanish peasants and
fishermen drinking chatos of red wine. The bartender kept their tabs by
writing on the bar with chalk.
The Calle San Miguel ended at the main plaza, and on the corner was
the Bar Central, the principle sidewalk cafe. It was the cocktail hour, so I
stopped at a kiosk, bought the Paris Herald Tribune, then took a table outside
and ordered a San Patricio Sherry.
The cafe was practically empty. At a table nearby two women who looked like
mother and daughter spoke to one another in French. An elderly, solitary Spanish
man sat at another table sipping coffee and greeted people who passed by.
Inside the cafe, two men concentrated over a chess game, and one table was
surrounded by a group of noisy polyglot, Scandinavian, British, and French
foreigners. One of the women was slightly over entertained with her drinks, and
was causing a row. I thought that she was French, but I had the impression that
none of them were tourists. They all seemed to live in Torremolinos.
Finishing my drink, I left the cafe to return to the hotel, but rather than
returning to the beach, I walked through the lanes that zigzagged through the
village. It was the time for the evening paseo, promenade. Couples,
families, groups and singles strolled the lanes, stopping once in a while to
gossip with each other and their friends who sat on three legged stools in front
of their simple houses.
The Restaurant Playa Monte Mar, like the rest of Ingrid Svensen's hotel, was
small and tastefully decorated. With low redwood tables, and three legged
birthing stools for chairs, the place had a California ambience. Pepe, a
handsome, young Spaniard, doubled as waiter and barman, and his Swedish wife,
Johanna, did the cooking with the help of Consuela, a young Spanish girl.
It was obviously popular with the local residents since even though the
tourist season was over, all of the tables were occupied. I sat at the bar and
ordered a martini while waiting for a table.
A blackboard on the wall behind the bar contained the menu: Gazpacho
Andaluz; Broiled Lenguado, Langosta, o Solomillo, flounder, Lobster,
or tenderloin of steak; Lettuce and Tomato Salad, and Flan for desert.
Pepe, when he was not mixing drinks or serving tables, changed the records
on a stereo behind the bar. He had been playing classical guitar and flamenco
music, but when a woman, perhaps forty or forty-five entered, he abruptly
changed the record and the pace to Chubby Checkers, Peppermint Twist.
The woman was a carbon copy of Ingrid Svensen in appearance and dress,
except that she was American. She seemed to know everyone.
Slipping from behind the bar Pepe and the woman gave us a spontaneous
demonstration of the Twist. They were both marvelous, and their performance was
rewarded by a round of enthusiastic applause. They embraced one another, took
bows, and Pepe returned to mixing drinks and serving tables. The woman sat down
beside me at the bar.
"Hi," she said. "I'm Marge Winslow. I'm from San Francisco." She offered her
hand.
I took her hand. "My name's Pete Stuart, Marge. I'm from La Crescenta," I
said.
"Where's that," she asked.
"Southern California," I said
"My God, an American, and a Californian, at that!" She threw her arms around
my neck and kissed me on the cheek. "I haven't seen or talked to an American in
months. Are you on vacation?"
"No, I'm in the embassy in Madrid, and I'm down here doing some work."
"The embassy? The American Embassy?" she asked.
"Yes," I replied.
"Oh God! This is my lucky day. Can I ask you a question? I mean you won't
get mad if I talk your business for just a minute?"
"No," I replied. "I won't get mad, but I'm not sure I can answer your
question. What is it?"
"Well, I'm divorced, and I think I'm going to get married again." She held
up her fingers and crossed them.
"Congratulations, and best wishes," I said.
"Thank you," she replied and beamed a smile.
"What's your question?" I asked.
"The man I'm hoping to marry is English. He's a retired Brigadier from the
British Army. He says I will automatically acquire British citizenship if I
marry him." She paused as though that were the question.
And?" I asked.
"That's it, he's British, and I'm an American, but I don't want to give up
my nationality."
"Marge, I'm in the economic section, and all I know about citizenship
matters I learned in an eight hour consular class I took at the Foreign Service
Institute, but I know that you don't have to give up your nationality if you
marry a foreigner."
"Really? You're sure?" she asked.
"I'm positive," I replied.
"Oh God, is that ever good news," she sighed. "What if the Brits make me
take a passport?"
"I don't think the Brits would do that to you, but if they do you should go
to an embassy and talk to a consular officer before you sign anything. I don't
want to give you any bad information," I said. "What are you drinking?"
"Nothing," she said. "What are you drinking?"
"A Martini," I replied.
"I'll have that," she said, and I ordered two martinis from Pepe. "Just one
more question, and I'll leave you in peace. What if I want to take British
citizenship? Do I lose my American passport?"
"If there's anything I remember from my FSI consular course it's that the
American's do not allow dual citizenship. If you choose British nationality, I
think you would have to give up your American citizenship, but don't take my
word for it. Go and talk to a Consul. I wish I could be more helpful, but that's
about all I know," I said and picked up my drink. "Cheers." I touched her glass
with mine.
"Cheers," she replied. "You have been very helpful. I was really worried
that I would automatically lose my American citizenship if I marry Ralph."
"Well you won't," I said. "Just remember to never sign any paper or take any
oath to a foreign government without checking with the American Consul, and you
won't have any trouble."
"I'll remember that," she said and sipped her drink.
Marge and I had dinner together, and she told me that she had been living in
Torremolinos for the past six months. Her fiance, Brigadier Ralph Chamberlain,
was in London winding up his affairs, and planned to join her in Spain within a
few weeks. If all went according to plans they would be married in Gibraltar
because it was a British Colony.
She danced the twist a couple of more times with Pepe, and between dances
she gave me the "low down" on Torremolinos and some of the residents.
The French speaking mother and daughter combination who I had seen in the
Bar Central were refugees from the war in Algeria, and they were both having a
love affair with the same young Danish man. Neither the mother or the daughter
knew that the other was involved, but Marge knew because Jurgen, the young Dane,
had tried to put the make on her. Marge gleaned as much information from Jurgen
as she could before sending him home.
"Everybody in this town has a story," she said. "And I love it. It's the
most bizarre and interesting accumulation of people I've ever met."
"Better than Sauselito?" I asked and smiled.
"Much more interesting," she said. "Sauselito is a middle west prairie town
compared to Torremolinos. How long are you going to be here?"
"I don't know," I said and shrugged my shoulders. "A few days - maybe till
the end of the week. I have to go up into the villages in the mountains to check
on the American food aid program," I replied.
"Good, I'm having a party at my house tomorrow night. Why don't you come.
I'll introduce you to my friend Birgitta."
"Before you start making matches, I should tell you that I'm married with
two kids," I said and laughed. "Right now they're back in the States, though."
"That's all right, so is Birgitta married. Her husband's back in Stockholm."
I laughed again. "What time is the party?"
"About eight," she said. "I'll draw you a map. My house is at the bottom of
the Bajondillo." She took a pen and paper from her purse, wrote her name
and address on it then drew a map. She handed the paper to me. "Not exactly an
engraved invitation to a diplomatic reception, but come anyway. You'll have
fun."
I took the paper, folded it and slipped it into my wallet. "I'll be there,"
I said.
We finished dinner and I walked with her out to her car. It was a little
Citroen, deux chevaux, the ugly duckling of French cars. "I'm so glad I
met you tonight. I have the feeling that we're going to be good friends," she
said and kissed my cheek.
"I think we are going to be good friends, Marge. I'll see you tomorrow
night."
Sevilla had fit my ideal of folkloric Spain, and Torremolinos fit some
idealized image that I carried in my mind of a Mediterranean fishing village,
and was, like Sevilla and Madrid, better than my ideal.
Even though there was a chiaroscuro contrast between the open, free loving,
sun worshipping, Northern European, new-arrivals and the old traditional Spanish
Andalucian culture, there was a perfect blending of the new and the old. The
handful of Scandinavian, British and French who had taken up semi-permanent
residence had adapted to and adopted the local Spanish customs, life style and
pace without disturbing it. They all lived in harmony, side by side, with just
enough of the old to make it charming, and enough of the new to make it
interesting. There was nothing in my personal experience, though, to prepare me
for what I would find in this tiny Andalucian fishing village.
