Hello to Andalucia Part 6
How a poor, befuddled Englishman has begun to build a new life in Spain.
By Glenn Stuart.
The children dutifully traipsed in, eager voices lowered in anticipation of what was to happen. Big, round eyes looked up at me. Beautiful, flaxen haired girls, like miniature flemenco dancers, boys already exhibiting those Spanish good looks. There was a buzz of excitement which you could almost reach out and hold, and as I settled them down on the classroom carpet, they sat in studied silence, waiting.
This was incredible! Where had these children come from? Perhaps they had been manufactured in some far-off utopian world where everyone was perfect and all things, in all ways were good? No…I was getting ahead of myself! These were children, nothing more, nothing less! They couldn’t be this good…could they?
As things turned out, they were!
The most impressive thing about these wonderful children is their ability to speak English. My school is an international one, which means, putting it simply, that all nationalities are welcome but they are taught in English.We follow the British National Curriculum. For all its critics, it is a good model, furnishing children with arrange of skills and knowledge that will stand them in good stead for twenty-first century. This is why so many parents choose to send them there. And these children were a perfect advertisement for a progressive, forward thinking mind-set that will enable students to function very ably in the modern world.
But enough preaching. I was here, in Spain, and my job is to teach. Yes, there were problems; speaking and listening skills had to be constantly improved as not all were totally fluent, but the sheer delight of being with a class of genuinely polite and responsive children was worth its absolute weight in gold! For the first time in my career, I could actually get on with the job of teaching; and what a thoroughly enjoyable experience it was, and still is!
As I mentioned, these children speak English, to varying degrees. Some of them have such a command of our language that they could quite easily function in a British school! Writing skills are good too. There is one girl who has such a vivid imagination and such a knowledge of English that her poetry and stories are some of the best I’ve seen. I often just sit and gaze at these little people with total admiration. The key, of course, is the support they receive from their parents. And here we have the real difference. I’ve been in the situation, many times in the UK, where parents have marched into school demanding my head on the bloc simply because I have had the audacity to expect good behaviour and effort from a particular child. Not so here. Here the parents treat teachers with total respect. Teachers in Spain still have standing in communities; they are looked up to, admired and supported. We’ve lost that in the U.K. and, as a consequence, teachers continue to leave my profession in their droves. It’s all very sad.
Life, however, is not just about work. It’s about much more important things – like cars!
Now we’ve all heard lots of stories about the car-buying process in Spain – and most of them involve parting with lots of money! Spain is pretty much out on its own in Europe when it comes to cars; they are virtually the same price as a car bought in the U.K. Go to Germany, or even France and considerable savings can be made. Not so Spain. Second hand specimens especially hold their value extremely well and a one or two year old car costs almost the same as a brand new model. For me, however, I wasn’t quite in that league. I’d been riding around in a hire care and that was becoming too expensive. I needed a car of my own; dependable, economical and…cheap! Buying cars is always a minefield, no matter where you live, but when you can’t speak the language and the bureaucracy is mind-numbing, then perhaps it is best to seek out someone reputable. Again, this is not always easy. Where do you go, who do you trust? I was lucky. My village, a close-knit community where everyone knows everyone, was rich in a wide spread of experts – from carpenters to…yes, you’ve guessed it, car salesmen! My advice would always be to go local. At least then you will be dealing with someone who has a strong, known reputation, based on trust and goodwill. So this is what I did, and it was one of my better decisions. Insurance is expensive, but at least we have the added peace of mind that breakdown assistance is included in the premium. Within a few weeks, I was supplied with an excellent, durable and well maintained vehicle of my own. The open road was before me – all I had to do was get in and drive!
Personal problems began to become acute. We’d had a sort of ‘honeymoon’ period I suppose you could call it. Going to the shops and searching out all the weird and wonderful choices, visiting the beach and basking in the sea, sitting out by our rented pool, enjoying the late-summer evenings. It was almost like a pro-longed holiday! Then, of course, work began, and normality slowly took over. It wasn’t the same as Old Blighty, of course, how could it be? When does the sky ever look that blue? Halcyon days that seemed to go on forever. Work, truth be known, was only a minor inconvenience really. No, there was something else. My eldest daughter. Sixteen. A difficult age at the best of times, as I’m sure all you experienced parents would agree! But in a foreign land, with no knowledge of the language? Putting it simply, she was finding it difficult. Very difficult. My middle daughter at least was giving it a chance. She would go out and talk to the local youngsters, armed with her dictionary. But not my eldest.
Naturally we’d discussed the move as a family, trying desperately to weigh up the pros and cons. But idealism is a heady brew. Judgement can often be clouded and in the whirlwind of preparations did we really ever consider how she would cope? She’d left school and still had no idea what she wanted to do, so the idea of breezing around the costas of southern Spain held considerable charm!
Reality, however, is sobering.
Within a few weeks, she was pleading with us to bring her boyfriend over. She was missing him terribly and was using the phone surreptitiously to keep in contact with him. So, we relented, and the next thing was I was standing, with my daughter, at Malaga International Airport, awaiting the arrival of the next plane from Norwich.
Her joy at seeing him was well worth the cost of his flight, the arrangements, the prolonged discussions with his parents over the ‘phone. All my trepidations were cleared away as she burst into tears of happiness and I saw, for the first time in many weeks, real happiness crossing her face. Perhaps it was going to be all right? Perhaps this was another of my better decisions! I felt I deserved more than just a slap on the back!
Of course, this being me, almost the exact opposite was going to happen!
