When we arrived in Tenerife, we regarded ourselves as hikers. We carried life on our shoulders and made sure it was as light as possible. The backpacks never exceeded 10 kg at a time (except I was hungry and overpacked with food).
After living in the Canary Islands for 8 months, I still wore the same ragged clothes as on my 6500 km walk across Europe. They were like a second skin, only torn in pieces.
But over the months our small apartment grew in possessions. Teodora returned from a weekend trip to Madrid with a new suitcase, jammed with clothes and stuff. Her brother brought another suitcase full of food and miscellaneous equipment.
That said, we now owned 3 suitcases, 2 backpacks, and a purse full of laptops. And because this wasn’t enough, Teodora had a broken foot. The result of this little adventure: I had to carry everything.
Between bus rides, taxi rides, and airport transfers we arrived late at night in a hostel in Malaga. Our bed was occupied, the showers dirty and everything stank. The guy at the reception was stoned and a passed-out homeless man slept on the floor in the entrance hall. To be honest, it was the cheapest hostel we found in Malaga but still more expensive than any night I spent during the past year and a half.
In the morning we begged an Uber driver to get us out of there. By bus, we arrived in Granada and waited in the dry heat of Southern Spain to be picked up by our new hosts. They would show us their property, introduce us to their animals, and 2 days later leave for Dubai.
After being late for a couple of minutes a battered old Citroen stopped at the curb of the bus station. Although I had already forgotten how they looked, I immediately knew this had to be Charles and Camilla.
Brits are weird for a number of reasons and football is only one of them. Another one is they drive on the wrong side of the road and therefore build their cars with the steering wheel on the passenger’s seat side.
“Hey guys,” Charles said with a cheerful smile when he got out of the car.
“You brought your car from England?” I asked.
He looked back and shrugged. “Seemed the prudent thing to do.”
Getting to know the animals were simple. The walking mountain of snow-white fur was Blanco - named after its color.
“Hello Blanco,” I said and petted the monster. My hand looked like a caricature next to it. When I turned around and was glad it didn’t chew off my arm, the cat pissed at my leg. Thanks, mate. Later, when I started learning Spanish with Duolingo, I found out that the ending of certain words indicates gender. I remembered that during our initial call they said Blanco was the mother of Gingy, the other cat. Needless to say, our Whatsapp group chat was always good for interesting conversations.
Dennis: You know blanco is male in Spanish, right?
Charles: Thank you Dennis, I was aware of this. Yes.
Dennis: Then why didn’t you name your female cat Blanca?
Camilla: Teodora, is he joking again? I swear, I can’t never know if he’s joking.
Charles: Teodora, is the German drunk again?
Teodora: I have no idea what you’re all talking about.
Dennis: The pussy! I’m talking about the pussy!
Charles: Lift Blanco’s tail up. If you find a pussy, you have the wrong cat.
Camilla: Blanco got his balls chopped off when he was just a kitten. Can’t do that with the girls.
Dennis: Blanco is not Gingy’s mother?
Teodora: Oh oh. Someone’s world is about to crumble.
Camilla: :D :D :D
Charles: You got it all confused. Gingy is Blanco’s mother!
Gingy was a peculiar cat. In a spleen of creative thought, she was named after her color – a slightly sweeter-sounding version of ginger. She was a big cat and still only half the size of Blanco. Her belly was a flapping pendulum, swinging from side to side with every step she took. Which weren’t many.
She loved to talk and would cry the whole day if we wouldn’t give her food or sit down and pet her for hours. I seldom saw a more affectionate cat than her.
After a few days, I renamed her out of purely selfish reasons. Now she’s called Shinji. After Shinji Kagawa, the football player. Not that he is a ginger or yellow, but his name sounds cooler.
Tommy was just a kitten, adopted by the previous houssitters and still shy. He slept on the windowsill outside and only came in for food. I loved him from the first day.
His mother on the other hand, not so much. She was a fierce and feral feline. She lived the hard knock life and wouldn’t let anyone close. The dogs chased her relentlessly every time she came too close. But she taught little Tommy to hunt. He eventually set out to the task of eating every bird around the property and almost succeeded.
The Labrador’s name was Lilly. Her shiny black fur was so smooth, she could model for L'Oreal without raising questions about her origin. Which was quite unique. Lilly was born into the royal family of Qatar, which makes her a true princess. Through luck and coincidence, she was given to Charles and Camilla as a puppy. Lilly became what I can only refer to as the best dog in the world.
Then there was the small Jack Russel Terrier, Buster. I mention his size to advertise his personality. Or to quote his owner: “He has a small dog complex.” He was old and cute and just like Frank Sinatra did things his own way.
And now we were there in a tiny Andalusian mountain village called Valle Solo. Far off from everything, even the village itself.