I walked through my new temporary home, the village of Haza del Trigo, a while ago to take a few pictures, and in the plaza by the church an elderly lady motioned for me to come and join her on the bench. Of course she speaks no English, and I had a hard time comprehending her local Spanish, but a few things were understood. One was that she is a widow, and tears well up when she mentions it. The other was that she was curious about Utah. She told me her name but I have already forgotten it.
I tried to explain that I was taking care of a house and a dog for Catherine and Johnny- one of two 'English' households (Catherine is from Dublin) in this otherwise all Spanish town. And that I was looking for the dog, Mutley, at the moment, as he had disappeared. I wasn’t very worried about him, as like the many other dogs in town he roamed free most of the time and was certainly not in danger. It was just me getting used to the routine, and knowing what to expect.
Haza del Trigo- up a winding rambla (dry river bed) a few minutes from the coast, a village of about 100 inhabitants lives in white boxes stacked organically on a hillside. There is a paved road that winds up from the main coast highway, but they are as likely to use the rambla, especially since they can only turn right from the paved road, now that it is a highway. They are also as apt to be on mule-back or motorcycle as they are in a car. This past winter was the wettest in 60 years, and the flooding of the rambla kept it impassable to cars for unusual lenghts of time, while washing out parts of it. It is still recovering.
The little casa I am tending sits near the edge of the town, overlooking some farms- unfortunately many of them are covered with plastic greenhouses- and beyond them are some low hills and the sea. The casa has a kitchen/living area on the first floor, two bedrooms and a bath on the second, and a terrace on top with fabulous views. John has been remodeling the house and it is at this time very comfortable and full of charm. Lots of nice tile work, a winding wrought iron staircase, and gardens in front. Also in front is a small plaza, a play park for kids, and a place that many villagers seem to gravitate to on their daily walks. Catherine tells me that she sometimes has to keep her door closed if she is working on something and doesn’t want frequent interruptions. While I’ve been here neighbors have stopped by with produce from their farms below the village, leftovers for the dog, or just to chat.
So far I have met Emilia, Jose and Pablo, the other English couple (Roy and Linda) and one of their daughters, and the lady in the plaza this morning (I learned from Jose that she has Alzheimer’s). I have said hola to many more, as they are usually sitting in the streets when I walk.
Catherine and I walked down the rambla the day I arrived, and a man from the village on a motorcycle stopped to talk. He was asking Catherine if I was wealthy, and teasing her about her ‘father’, Johnny.
The coast towns just below here seem to have preserved a sense of dignity, of maintaining their personality while having tourist amenities. There is no sense of opulence, of expensive places or shops, or the jutting stacks of condominiums that have spoiled so much of the east coast. Most tourists who come here are Spanish, but there is also the scattered community of northern European expats. I have met two ladies from England, and know of a few from Germany. One (Swedish?) gentleman who had a stroke stays at a campground in his van, and rides around on a motorized wheelchair. It appears that this area remains a relatively inexpensive place to live; drinks are half what they were in other places, and tapas still free with drinks.
A new highway is slowly being built across the region, higher in the hills than the old coast highway. It has tunnels and overpasses that don’t quite come together yet. On the beaches in Las Mamoles, mountains of piled sand and gravel are meant to become a wider beach, as the original was barely a walk way. Meanwhile, like the rest of Spain, Europe, most of the world? business is off, many places are for sale, and people wait. This is a place in transition, suspended. The sense of a place of a different time still presides.
I go to sleep with a frog concert from the rambla, and wake up to layers of sound from pigeons in the roof tops, a cacophony of bird song, and the staccato bell sounds from the goats on the hillside across the rambla. The major theme is tranquility. Catherine and Johnny have just left for their ten day trip, leaving me alone in this village... I plan to just soak it up for a while.
So far I have met Emilia, Jose and Pablo, the other English couple (Roy and Linda) and one of their daughters, and the lady in the plaza this morning (I learned from Jose that she has Alzheimer’s). I have said hola to many more, as they are usually sitting in the streets when I walk.
Catherine and I walked down the rambla the day I arrived, and a man from the village on a motorcycle stopped to talk. He was asking Catherine if I was wealthy, and teasing her about her ‘father’, Johnny.
The coast towns just below here seem to have preserved a sense of dignity, of maintaining their personality while having tourist amenities. There is no sense of opulence, of expensive places or shops, or the jutting stacks of condominiums that have spoiled so much of the east coast. Most tourists who come here are Spanish, but there is also the scattered community of northern European expats. I have met two ladies from England, and know of a few from Germany. One (Swedish?) gentleman who had a stroke stays at a campground in his van, and rides around on a motorized wheelchair. It appears that this area remains a relatively inexpensive place to live; drinks are half what they were in other places, and tapas still free with drinks.
A new highway is slowly being built across the region, higher in the hills than the old coast highway. It has tunnels and overpasses that don’t quite come together yet. On the beaches in Las Mamoles, mountains of piled sand and gravel are meant to become a wider beach, as the original was barely a walk way. Meanwhile, like the rest of Spain, Europe, most of the world? business is off, many places are for sale, and people wait. This is a place in transition, suspended. The sense of a place of a different time still presides.
I go to sleep with a frog concert from the rambla, and wake up to layers of sound from pigeons in the roof tops, a cacophony of bird song, and the staccato bell sounds from the goats on the hillside across the rambla. The major theme is tranquility. Catherine and Johnny have just left for their ten day trip, leaving me alone in this village... I plan to just soak it up for a while.
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