RICH'S NOTES-PARENTAL TOURISMApril 27, 1999
Huerta Santa Maria, Near Galaroza
First Taste of Spain
The phone rings on the way to the airport. I now know we're late.
"Hello Richard, are you on your way?" It's my mother, Gail.
I wanted to be there when they arrived. I wanted to be the friendly face waiting at the
end of their first trans-continental journey. "We're two minutes away Mom. Traffic
has been bad."
Not to worry. In typical Toronto fashion, my mother has already completed the car rental
process and my father, Dick, is impatiently off to collect the car - with the keys but
without the ticket to exit the unattended parking lot. With a hug and a kiss, Mom, Sara
and I are off to find my father.
Dad has fallen into the first driving trap for many Canadians in Europe - unattended,
pay before you get in your car parking lots. The car is stopped in front of the exit gate,
blocking others. He is standing outside, glasses on forehead, trying to decipher the
Spanish instructions.
"I would move the car but I can't get it into reverse." He's blocking
traffic. Lesson number two for Canadian's in Europe - modern manual gear shifts have a
safety collar that must be lifted before getting into reverse.
I insert the exit card, Dad drives forward, reluctantly but wearily gives up the
driver's seat and we are off to Santa Maria.
The tour begins in earnest as I identify the initial landmarks of Seville and the
surrounding rolling hills. I'm not sure how much is sinking in at the end of my parents'
twenty-four hour journey, but they appear to begin to understand why Sara and I have spent
the last four months in Andalusia.
Santa Maria is alive with Spring. Javier has tilled a new garden, with plenty of room
for potatoes and all around it the pansies smile in the shade of lavender and baby roses.
Javier is delighted with the next wave of Canadians. He has prepared his favourite
vegetarian pizza -- one he learned to make from scratch when he lived in the Balearic
Islands. He takes Sara by the arm. It seems that since January Santa Maria has gained some
notoriety among some historically happy and aesthetically exuberant northern Europeans.
Javier has taken the profits from his select guests and added some more unique touches to
the retreat. There is an Andalusian quilt with a religious effigy stitched into it. One of
Sara's small pastels is mounted and hung in "our" room. He and his guests are
contributing to a small foreign language library. The place is teaming with new books --
classics and Sierra guides -- and a dozens more classical CDs. And there is a vacuum
cleaner. Our bedrooms are paintings with vases of wild, fuschia peonies, lavender, mint
and roses.
My parents miss the tour -- they are busy filling the fridge with our groceries and
unpacking their suitcases. I interrupt their landing and turn their attention from what
they have brought to where they have arrived.
Exhausted but settled in, they begin to communicate again. We feast on the roasted red
pepper pizza, jamon, manchego, last year's peaches and a bottle of 1995 Rioja.
My parents are remarkably alert after many hours and time zones. My dad is taking
things in with the richness of the Rioja on his tongue. He's a meat and potatoes kind of
guy, but he scoops in the pizza and carries on a dual-language-no-comprehension-I'm
translating-conversation with Javier. He devours the Mallorcan pizza. "This is
good."
