I spent almost thirty months in Barcelona. Unlike Robert, who I occasionally saw as he passed through during the tourist season, I did not head southwards each winter. I had no burning desire to see more of Spain - I'd seen Valencia, Granada and Madrid in the fifteen-day tour I took on arrival. I was impressed by the many ancient and historic buildings and the dramatic changes in landscape, but it was Barcelona that I called home. This city was essentially the cradle of my re-birth.
Spain was undergoing considerable change during my time there. A larger middle class was emerging and there was a sense of optimism following the restoration of the monarchy. I was fortunate enough to be there at this time and fortunate enough to be in a city that revelled in its unique culture. It was this uniqueness that held me in thrall.
The people became my family. The only other person on the planet I remained in touch with was my father, Gordon, still living in Melbourne but in increasingly poor health. We wrote to each other at monthly intervals - not greatly affectionate or intimate letters, but certainly civil enough and I continued to sign off with love. For so much of my life he was the only relative I'd known but he was no match for the warmth and support I derived from the people of Barcelona.
An acquaintance of mine, Marco, was obliged to return to his homeland - Guatemala - because of some legal problems with his properties there. This was a stroke of luck for me because Marco had a flourishing clientele of wealthy women to whom he gave private tutelage in English. He had no idea how long he would be away - indeed, he never came back! - but he asked me to look after this highly successful money-spinner for the duration. It was a no-brainer. I swiftly bade farewell to my seventy-pesetas-an-hour job and eagerly embraced this new opportunity.
Marco was a tall, suave, silver-haired guy in his fifties. He sort of oozed class I guess. As a replacement, I represented a difference as dramatic as that between night and day. I was in a totally different league here and I feared that these rich, bored and sophisticated ladies would consider me gauche and unimpressive. Marco was a hard act to follow and I was concerned that I might decimate his clientele within a few weeks. My friend Carmen had suggested that Marco maybe did more than just teach English to these women and that worried me too. Anyway, he took me around and introduced me to each lady before he left - handed them over to me as it were - and thereafter I flew solo.
I need not have been concerned. Almost without exception, these ladies adopted a quasi-maternal attitude toward me. Sex never raised its ugly head. To be honest, English rarely raised its ugly head either. These were wealthy, bored women who battled ennui by employing language tutors, masseurs, interior decorators, dog walkers and personal shoppers. I am not denigrating these women. They were not vapid or self-obsessed or shallow. But they were bored and even lonely while their husbands were out making money and their children were away at schools and universities abroad. Rather than attempt to describe each one of them, I will relate my experiences with one of my favourites, a woman who will remain nameless but who exemplified the kind of students I now tutored.
The Senora lived in a beautiful apartment on the Paseo de Gracia. The door was always answered by a maid who led me through to one of the reception rooms. The Senora was an elegant woman, always immaculately groomed and with an air of calm dignity about her. On a table beside the armchair I would occupy, there was always whiskey, a jug of water and ice. The Senora's husband was involved in some way in the building of bridges and other complex structures and he was rarely in town. From the outset it was apparent that learning was not the top priority. She already spoke passable English anyway. No, the chief object was to converse - maybe even gossip - sometimes in French but usually in Spanish, and, over time, we came to know a great deal about each other.
The Senora talked to me about her children - now flown from the nest - her charity work, her annual visits to the Metropolitan Opera House in New York, her entitlement to sit in what I think she called "the Diamond Horseshoe" boxes at the opera, her travel experiences and a great deal else besides. But mostly she wanted to hear about me. She was fascinated by Australia and this young man she chatted with twice a week, a boy younger than her own son. Not having previously consumed alcohol, I was close to getting intoxicated on my first visit, She was a perfect hostess, continually rising to re-fill my glass. I thought it might be rude to refuse. In time I learned to ensure I ate heartily before each lessson, thus blotting up some of the booze. She loved to hear stories about my day-to-day life and I discovered she had a delightful giggle when amused.
At the height of summer, the Senora retreated to her finca - a sort of farm but in reality the family's country estate - and there were to be no lessons for two months. I had grown accustomed to the large sum of money she placed in my hand after each session, but was resigned to managing without it for a while. To my astonishment, at the conclusion of our last lesson for the summer she pressed into my hand payment for every session that would have occurred over the two-month period. Not only that, she twice sent her chauffeur to collect me that summer so I could lunch with her on a lovely terrace overlooking the swimming pool and clay tennis court.
I hope I'm doing this woman justice. She was not merely one of the idle rich - she was a cultured and civilised lady whose life, I believe, was circumscribed by rigid rules within her stratum of society, rules founded around marriage, religion and noblesse oblige. And she was not alone in this. Most of my new "students" resembled her in many ways. She was by far the nicest, however, though I did have a soft spot for one other woman whose idea of an English lesson was to take me to lunch. Having discovered how inadequate my wardrobe was for the grand places she patronised, she also regularly took me shopping for clothes. "Little gifts" she called them as she paid the bill. I can't recall ever speaking English with her beyond our initial session. If anyone was learning in this process it was me. My Spanish and French advanced in leaps and bounds and I even developed an appreciation, if not a liking, for fine wine and whiskey!
Years later, my wife had difficulty believing that none of these women ever "put the hard word on me". I was able to convince her that this was the case. The most intimate transaction until the end was a handshake. And, with me, the formal usted or vous was never used; it was always tu - the second person singular - the language one only employed with intimate friends or family. Thus, yet again - if in an up-market way - I was being mothered. Another reason I lingered so long in Spain.
I was in danger of staying too long at the fair. For my twentieth Birthday, my dear friends Nuria and Carmen gave me a collection of Spanish short stories. I have it to this day. On the fly-leaf Nuria wrote: "To our lovely, lazy friend. Time to get serious and go back to your studies". She was right. A few months later I said goodbye to my students and my many wonderful friends, my Spanish "family"; I walked my favourite walks one last time; and then I headed for home via England. This time I travelled by air.
I spent only a week in London. On a whim, I travelled to Tunbridge Wells, my mother's home town. I knew the address and found the house esily enough. I mounted some sort of pathetic stake-out for an entire afternoon, hovering behind trees, parked cars and the shopfront paraphernalia of a nearby store. I didn't see anyone enter or leave the house except for a lad around my own age. He was whistling and looked cheerful. I could see the resemblance. This was my brother. He walked by me and entered the store. I entered too and stood close by. I pretended to study a display of magazines whilst obliquely studying his profile. He bought a packet of cigarettes. So prosaic and yet I was fascinated. I wanted to reach out and touch his arm. I wanted to speak. I think I wanted to embrace him and hold him tight and say "I am your long-lost brother". I did none of these things - I just watched him walk back towards the house and I felt the trembling of tears on my eyelashes.
Soon afterwards, I was on a Qantas jet headed back to Australia. For the time being at least, my quest for a real family was over.
Spain was undergoing considerable change during my time there. A larger middle class was emerging and there was a sense of optimism following the restoration of the monarchy. I was fortunate enough to be there at this time and fortunate enough to be in a city that revelled in its unique culture. It was this uniqueness that held me in thrall.
The people became my family. The only other person on the planet I remained in touch with was my father, Gordon, still living in Melbourne but in increasingly poor health. We wrote to each other at monthly intervals - not greatly affectionate or intimate letters, but certainly civil enough and I continued to sign off with love. For so much of my life he was the only relative I'd known but he was no match for the warmth and support I derived from the people of Barcelona.
An acquaintance of mine, Marco, was obliged to return to his homeland - Guatemala - because of some legal problems with his properties there. This was a stroke of luck for me because Marco had a flourishing clientele of wealthy women to whom he gave private tutelage in English. He had no idea how long he would be away - indeed, he never came back! - but he asked me to look after this highly successful money-spinner for the duration. It was a no-brainer. I swiftly bade farewell to my seventy-pesetas-an-hour job and eagerly embraced this new opportunity.
Marco was a tall, suave, silver-haired guy in his fifties. He sort of oozed class I guess. As a replacement, I represented a difference as dramatic as that between night and day. I was in a totally different league here and I feared that these rich, bored and sophisticated ladies would consider me gauche and unimpressive. Marco was a hard act to follow and I was concerned that I might decimate his clientele within a few weeks. My friend Carmen had suggested that Marco maybe did more than just teach English to these women and that worried me too. Anyway, he took me around and introduced me to each lady before he left - handed them over to me as it were - and thereafter I flew solo.
I need not have been concerned. Almost without exception, these ladies adopted a quasi-maternal attitude toward me. Sex never raised its ugly head. To be honest, English rarely raised its ugly head either. These were wealthy, bored women who battled ennui by employing language tutors, masseurs, interior decorators, dog walkers and personal shoppers. I am not denigrating these women. They were not vapid or self-obsessed or shallow. But they were bored and even lonely while their husbands were out making money and their children were away at schools and universities abroad. Rather than attempt to describe each one of them, I will relate my experiences with one of my favourites, a woman who will remain nameless but who exemplified the kind of students I now tutored.
The Senora lived in a beautiful apartment on the Paseo de Gracia. The door was always answered by a maid who led me through to one of the reception rooms. The Senora was an elegant woman, always immaculately groomed and with an air of calm dignity about her. On a table beside the armchair I would occupy, there was always whiskey, a jug of water and ice. The Senora's husband was involved in some way in the building of bridges and other complex structures and he was rarely in town. From the outset it was apparent that learning was not the top priority. She already spoke passable English anyway. No, the chief object was to converse - maybe even gossip - sometimes in French but usually in Spanish, and, over time, we came to know a great deal about each other.
The Senora talked to me about her children - now flown from the nest - her charity work, her annual visits to the Metropolitan Opera House in New York, her entitlement to sit in what I think she called "the Diamond Horseshoe" boxes at the opera, her travel experiences and a great deal else besides. But mostly she wanted to hear about me. She was fascinated by Australia and this young man she chatted with twice a week, a boy younger than her own son. Not having previously consumed alcohol, I was close to getting intoxicated on my first visit, She was a perfect hostess, continually rising to re-fill my glass. I thought it might be rude to refuse. In time I learned to ensure I ate heartily before each lessson, thus blotting up some of the booze. She loved to hear stories about my day-to-day life and I discovered she had a delightful giggle when amused.
At the height of summer, the Senora retreated to her finca - a sort of farm but in reality the family's country estate - and there were to be no lessons for two months. I had grown accustomed to the large sum of money she placed in my hand after each session, but was resigned to managing without it for a while. To my astonishment, at the conclusion of our last lesson for the summer she pressed into my hand payment for every session that would have occurred over the two-month period. Not only that, she twice sent her chauffeur to collect me that summer so I could lunch with her on a lovely terrace overlooking the swimming pool and clay tennis court.
I hope I'm doing this woman justice. She was not merely one of the idle rich - she was a cultured and civilised lady whose life, I believe, was circumscribed by rigid rules within her stratum of society, rules founded around marriage, religion and noblesse oblige. And she was not alone in this. Most of my new "students" resembled her in many ways. She was by far the nicest, however, though I did have a soft spot for one other woman whose idea of an English lesson was to take me to lunch. Having discovered how inadequate my wardrobe was for the grand places she patronised, she also regularly took me shopping for clothes. "Little gifts" she called them as she paid the bill. I can't recall ever speaking English with her beyond our initial session. If anyone was learning in this process it was me. My Spanish and French advanced in leaps and bounds and I even developed an appreciation, if not a liking, for fine wine and whiskey!
Years later, my wife had difficulty believing that none of these women ever "put the hard word on me". I was able to convince her that this was the case. The most intimate transaction until the end was a handshake. And, with me, the formal usted or vous was never used; it was always tu - the second person singular - the language one only employed with intimate friends or family. Thus, yet again - if in an up-market way - I was being mothered. Another reason I lingered so long in Spain.
I was in danger of staying too long at the fair. For my twentieth Birthday, my dear friends Nuria and Carmen gave me a collection of Spanish short stories. I have it to this day. On the fly-leaf Nuria wrote: "To our lovely, lazy friend. Time to get serious and go back to your studies". She was right. A few months later I said goodbye to my students and my many wonderful friends, my Spanish "family"; I walked my favourite walks one last time; and then I headed for home via England. This time I travelled by air.
I spent only a week in London. On a whim, I travelled to Tunbridge Wells, my mother's home town. I knew the address and found the house esily enough. I mounted some sort of pathetic stake-out for an entire afternoon, hovering behind trees, parked cars and the shopfront paraphernalia of a nearby store. I didn't see anyone enter or leave the house except for a lad around my own age. He was whistling and looked cheerful. I could see the resemblance. This was my brother. He walked by me and entered the store. I entered too and stood close by. I pretended to study a display of magazines whilst obliquely studying his profile. He bought a packet of cigarettes. So prosaic and yet I was fascinated. I wanted to reach out and touch his arm. I wanted to speak. I think I wanted to embrace him and hold him tight and say "I am your long-lost brother". I did none of these things - I just watched him walk back towards the house and I felt the trembling of tears on my eyelashes.
Soon afterwards, I was on a Qantas jet headed back to Australia. For the time being at least, my quest for a real family was over.