Visitors From Mars - Setting Up Home in a New Country
When my wife and I bought a house in a small Spanish village we had no idea of the cultural differences we would encounter. We were both from northern Europe and had worked around the world. So we thought we knew a little about integrating into other societies.
In fact, starting a new life in rural Andalusia proved to be a fascinating - and sometimes traumatic - experience. Most of the locals had had no contact with foreigners. Thus, for them, we weren't too far removed from Martians.
Our exotic habits and ideas were a source of endless curiosity and amazement. As when we painted our front door.
"Have you heard?" "It can't be true." The word ran around the village as fast as tongues could wag - i.e. about the speed of light. pueblo tabak Those foreigners didn't seem to know anything. Guess what they'd done now? Painted their front door blue, that's what. Yes, blue!
It's difficult to imagine the sensation created by simply wielding a paintbrush. But in the upper part of the village in Andalusia where we had bought a tumble-down house tradition ruled and nobody, but nobody, had ever painted a door any colour but green or brown.
When we decided to change the colour of our door, which must have been at least a century old, we at first tried to scrape off the paint. Ridiculous idea. We felt like archaeologists delving into history as we peeled off layer after layer of paint, each one presumably representing an earlier generation.
The easy way out was to apply a dark blue coat. This stunned the neighbours. They came to marvel, then reeled back in shock when they spied what we'd done to our ceilings.
To lighten the rooms we made the ceilings the same colour as the walls: white. It was unheard of. Ceilings were green - it was the custom, as our stunned neighbours informed us, and that was that.
But how polite they were! "Precioso," muttered Encarna, she of the fierce dark eyes and temperament to match.
"Precioso," exclaimed Concepción, she of the 150-decibel voice, before rushing away to report our latest gaffe.
Other comments were less diplomatic. As we laboured up the 40 or so steps on our street carrying furnishings for our newly acquired home, we ran the gauntlet.
"But why do they want that old chair? He's looking tired isn't he? Have you seen what they've done to their living room?"
The upper part of town was where the poorest lived, we soon discovered. As our savings had been seriously depleted by the house purchase, we fitted in fine. But our rustic taste in furnishings baffled everybody.
They couldn't understand why these eccentric new arrivals insisted on installing peasant stuff, pinewood chairs with rush seats and colourful mule blankets on the walls. Where we saw simplicity, they saw poverty.
As we could afford to move to the village, we must be rolling in cash. Yet we declined to flaunt it. We were clearly eccentrics beyond redemption.
As we proved when we obstinately refused to buy another house. Hardly a day went by in the first few months without somebody offering to sell me a property.
"But I've got a house," I insisted. "I don't need another one."
They walked away, shaking their heads. And now I know why. If I'd taken up any of those offers, I'd be a worth a king's ransom today.
Journalist and author David Baird's book Sunny Side Up - The 21st Century Hits a Spanish Village gives an intimate glimpse of what goes on behind the white walls of Spain. His documentary Between Two Fires - Guerrilla War in the Spanish Sierras has won praise from leading historians. His latest books are works of fiction, Typhoon Season, a nerve-tingling thriller set in Hong Kong, and Don't Miss The Fiesta!, passion and adventure played out in southern Spain. More information at the Maroma Press website