New blogpost, 3-MAR 2025, Reijer Staats
A first Spanish chit-chat
At the writing nook of our new ático Lolapaluza: the sliding door to the rooftop terrace is open, Paradise by Sade is playing from Johan’s phone, and a spring breeze carries the scent of wood stain inside. I call out to Johan, who is high up on the pergola, paintbrush in hand: “Un café más?”
My gaze drifts past the watercolors of Salobreña and Almuñécar on the wall and over the bookshelves filled with memories: art photography books from the Netherlands, curiosities from Africa, and our own holy Maria in a wooden wine crate from Pinos del Valle. In 2015, we succeeded in finding our first holiday home there. Over five years ago, we emigrated, stepping into an unknown future—through periods of sorrow and wonder, through beautiful projects, new encounters, and amusing Spanish chit-chat. I’ve documented it all extensively in my Andalusia blog. The one-liners of los vecinos—Chappy, the Professor, and Salvador, our sociable neighbor and collector of scrap metal—are etched into my memory.
It’s about time for a new story!
The first spark comes to me at the beach, during boot camp. Txetxu—our trainer, whom I stubbornly keep calling José, though my workout buddies consistently address him as Txetxu—has already made me fluent in Spanish names for body parts. My next challenge is to fully tune in and take part in Andalusian group conversations.
I break into a sweat after the last squat of the round and hear a sigh and groan from across at the shoulder press, followed by the shout of a raspy female voice: “No decimos pollo!”
I get the meaning explained to me. Literally, it means “We don’t say chicken,” but in this case: “You won’t hear us complain.” The Friday vibes are in the air, and my easy joke follows: “Pollo (chicken) o polla (dick)?”
Txetxu then points to two elderly señoras chatting while resting on a low stone ledge along the beach promenade—one leaning on her walker, the other on a shiny cane. From his explanation, I understand that such a ledge is called poyo—coincidentally pronounced exactly the same as pollo, but not derived from it, even though these elders are clucking away like chickens.
Back at the writing nook in Lolapaluza, I realize how much I enjoy putting Spanish chit-chat on paper, and hey: no damos una paliza! At boot camp, I learned that these words mean you shouldn’t make things too hard for yourself, although the literal translation is “We don’t give a beating.”
Therefore, no more long epistles, but from now on, a short story every week in a new blog, Spanish chit-chat, where recent posts and flashbacks alternate, building up to a future collection of stories from sunny Andalusia.
The first Spanish chit-chat posts are now online. Enjoy reading!