Postcard from La Cala de Mijas

When an Englishman, a Cabbage and a Spanish Market collide

It’s not all plain sailing living abroad.  Especially when you find yourself toe-curlingly-embarrassed by your fellow countrymen here.

Allow me to explain. I’ve always been super proud to tell people I am English. Home of the amazing NHS, 2012 Olympics, Oasis, Take That, Cream Teas and most importantly, Pubs. But since encountering some delightful creatures down on the coast, my own national pride has somewhat waned. Beer bellies straining under tee-shirts, loud language drowning out our European friends’ gentle tones in many a Spanish Chiringuito.  So, now I tell everyone I meet that I’m Irish. Gracias Kerry-born, Granny Fitzgerald.

The final straw came in La Cala de Mijas market. I head there most weeks whilst waiting for my own vegetables to crop. So, there I am, queuing patiently at my favourite Spanish family-run stall, when what do I hear, but that loud, grating, stereotypical English estuarine twang. As I look up, I spy a big, fat, shouty man, imported immigrant-bashing Daily Mail under his arm and sporting a fine year-round-Spanish-tan - this is clearly a guy that lives here. But, immigrant himself, can he speak one word of Spanish? Of course not. The cognitive dissonance is strong with this one.

I watch on in horror as he repeatedly points at the cabbages behind the stall, and demands his “C A B B B B I D G G G E” over and over again. But does the Young Spanish Guy behind the counter get angry? No, he gets even. Brilliant. As Shouty Man shouts and points, Young Spanish Guy moves from vegetable to vegetable, pointing and asking “Este?” This one?  All with a big, friendly smile on his face. And moving slowly. Oh, so slowly. As you can imagine, Shouty Man is getting angrier and angrier. And redder and redder. I fear a heart attack is imminent. Finally, after pointing at Hinojos (Fennel), Pepinos (Cucumbers), Apia (Celery), Peras (Pears), Zanahorias (Carrots), Lechugas (Lettuces), Young Spanish Guy finally picks up the desired Cabbage. “Yes, yes, that’s it.” cries Shouty Man in relief, mopping his forehead and gammon-coloured pudgy cheeks.

But the horror does not end there. Oh no. As Young Spanish Guy turns away to bag it, over comes the stall’s boss. In fluent English, she engages with Shouty Man and asks how her Grandson did, explaining it’s his first weekend working the family stall. I wait with baited breath and pray that Shouty Man just answers “Fine”. But, of course, that would be too much to ask. “Well,” he starts. “He did ok, but he’ll do much better when he learns the language” and promptly turned on his white-socked-in-sandals heels.

I stand there, open-mouthed, appalled and embarrassed at what I had just witnessed. But then, I see the Grandmother and Young Spanish Guy, not cross, but hanging on to each other as they throw their heads back, laughing. I move forward, and feel obliged to apologise on behalf of my country and, attempt, in my best Spanish, to voice my anger. Replying in perfect English, she reassured me “Oh don’t worry, Chica. Antonio is fluent too. He’s been learning English since before he could walk. He knew exactly what El Ignorante Ingles wanted.” Well played Young Spanish Guy. Well played.

Right, must dash. Need to get that Irish Passport sorted and practice my Kerry accent…