blogpost 60, 14-JUL 2025, Reijer Staats

Andalusia through colours and scents

I’m lying on the beach, writing, all my senses awake, for a long time now. Maybe it’s the heat? Or the smell of flor de noche, that jasmine-like flower some people love but I find awful. Or maybe it’s the summer rhythm? The sleepy afternoons in the aircon, dry, gritty eyes on waking, and the slow evenings strolling along the paseo.

“Salir de noche,” says the Andalusian. It’s too hot during daytime, so people go out late at night: “If you see me tonight with a refresco and a tapa on the terrace, wave, and we’ll have one together!”

At Restaurante La Roka, a landmark on this costa, it’s sweating time. I’m glad we are sitting inside by the aircon, not outside on the terrace where the characterful guests, señoras and hombres alike, eagerly use their hand fans, handed out in all the colors of the rainbow. The heat stays trapped under the parasols and shade screens. I sip my lemon soda again: cold, fresh, and sweet.

Suddenly, Pavarotti’s voice over the speakers rises above the Spanish chatter in the place. Just as the sun dips below the horizon. The hand fans are put away, or disappear into handbags; one hombre with a sweat-soaked shirt still holds his a little longer.

People move to the edge of the panoramic terrace to capture the moment. The result? Selfies with a backdrop just like the photo at the top of this blog post.

After these short nights, the familiar excuses come for the morning beach bootcamps: “He pasado mala noche.”

At home, coolness waits along with the mystical scent of incense with Almuñécar aromas: woody notes and azahar from the region, put together and gifted by Jorg and Froukje, new vecinos whose avocado farm we visited and got a sneak peek of their Almuñécar Aromas Tour.

The buzz of a ceiling fan hanging from a thick tree branch, the pleasant breeze it spreads, the cicadas chirping fill the orchard…

Sweat runs down my back. By midday, I’m usually on T-shirt number three; the first two already in the laundry basket.

Village scenes from a bird's-eye view

Taking it easy? Not at all. Johan and I are not holding back this summer! We drive from casa to casa, check in guests, clean the houses, take care of the plants, fix whatever goes wrong. Crystal-clear pool water? I love it! Everything’s running.

In the Lecrín Valley, right before our long-term summer guests arrive, we create shade on the roof terrace of our casita. While we’re securing the bamboo cover to the new pergola – built by local craftsman Emilio – our neighbour (nicknamed Oliver Twist, and yes, you might remember her from my blog post Fernando – sorry, Dutch only) suddenly pokes her head out the window into our patio, just before lowering her persianas against the midday sun. Like a shy street kid she waves up at me, eyes following as I (according to Johan “a bit camp”) hop across the terrace: waving wildly, then ducking from the angry wasps whose nest I had accidentally disturbed in the bamboo pergola cover. Oliver must have thought my waving and dramatic yelling were meant for her.

After that, Johan and I hang a new shade screen in the patio together, and Johan tells me about his chat with the vecina three doors down. As soon as he starts with “That old cow…”, I know who he means. This señora always looks grumpy, doing laundry is her biggest hobby, and she only shows her face outside when there’s something to gain. She fights for one of the two rare parking spots in front our doors, mind you, we are four vecinos with five cars in total. Or she borrows our vacuum cleaner (and our socket!) to clean her car properly. When Johan was loading one of our now-surplus parasols into my car just now, he says, “She immediately told me to think of her when getting rid of old stuff. ‘…por favor!’” I can see him thinking, “I don’t think so!!”

During the local feria this vecina once came outside in a red Spanish flamenco dress with white dots and red lipstick. I was stunned, my mouth dropped open, and I gave her an honest compliment. Since that last smile, though, she’s gone back to her usual self. You get a look, and if you’re lucky, a short and neutral “Mmm…” comes out of her mouth.

Two hombres heading to Salobreña

On our way to the ático, we always pass a few hombres playing dominoes in the shade of the big tree in front of Hostel María Tere. We turn left and head uphill into the Casco Histórico of Salobreña, up the dead-straight Calle Rosario. I give the car some gas, but nothing happens. Johan grumbles that I shifted up too soon. Again.

Halfway up, in the shade of a hairpin bend, he’s there again, watching everything that makes its way up the hill. Settled in a camping chair that's too low, legs spread wide, bushy moustache, bare round belly, manboobs and shorts – bright red today! – strapped tight just above the navel so his waist stays hidden. A white plastic bag with snacks hangs from the left armrest. In his right hand, a one-litre beer bottle. With the other, he scratches behind his ear. He nods in approval, so we may pass. Just before we would have driven straight between his legs, we turn right into the curve, the tyres rumbling over the cobblestones.

Then the rattling furgotneta in front of us comes to a stop. A loud voice blasts from a speaker through the window. The doors swing open. Señoras pour out of the houses and a queue forms around the van, and a traffic jam behind us. 2 kilos of cherries from Valle del Jerte: €5! This hombre (me) grabs two crates. Not all perfectly shaped or sized, but the taste, wow. We’ve been eating them for days!!

Connected in Andalusia

A family in Breton striped shirts steps aside as we pass. “Now that´s something to write about,” says Johan, “kids of different ages from the same family, all wearing the same outfits. Typically Spanish.” Sounds awful to me. Especially if you're the oldest! Before we can say more, we spot another sign of family connections at the Línea 2 bus stop: a father and his little boy, maybe four years old, both in light blue and white Argentina football shirts, with MESSI on the back.

Here and there, cables spoil the white façades of the Spanish pueblo. Where a fixing point comes loose, the wires hang halfway down the wall or dangle messily between old wooden poles and metal posts. Not exactly a pretty view.

Our neighbour at Villa Merise, Teresa, has looked out at five cables hanging down just above her terrace for decades. Sitting at the table in her comedor, your eyes go straight to the messy wires, not the sea view. Things look a lot better above Villa Merise´s terrace, towards the façade of our other neighbour Esther, where everything, as usual (you might remember from Spanish chit-chat A long one!), is neatly bundled and painted white.

By the way, these are old, unused Telefónica cables. All the neighbours switched to mobile phones and satellite internet years ago.

Then Pepe shows up, the sales guy from a local internet company. He walks around our little street, checking the situation. I talk to him, and soon he’s asked all the neighbours if they’re interested in fibre internet. A loud “SÍ” comes from everyone, except Esther, who’s happy with her smartphone and 4G, and Teresa, who’s selling her house anyway.

The installation date is set, and five técnicos line up to connect four homes to fibre. Pepe coordinates. But then Teresa digs in her heels: “No new cables over my garden! Basta!” A heated neighbour meeting follows in her comedor, and everyone leaves frustrated.

Half a year later, I call another meeting and suggest running the cables along the front of the houses and removing the old ones. Now, we all enjoy superfast internet, and Teresa will probably sell her house with unobstructed sea view in no time.

Only Esther, who didn’t need internet herself, complains about the new black cables, which hang a bit loosely on her white wall. I bundle them up, pull them tight, and paint them white in the blazing sun. “Eres genial, besos!” she texts gratefully.

Now the question is: what do we do with this empty pole?

Live your dreams

La mano de Fátima by Ildefonso Falcones, a novel I love to write about often because the Moorish symbols and the history of 16th-century Andalusia touched me. The scene where Fátima prepared for her wedding night with Hernando... I was there!! Scented amber oil, rosebuds on the bed, incense in the air, the soft glow of candlelight, the steam of the ritual bath. Love in a time of oppression and medieval horrors.

It´s 06:45 in the morning. I lie in bed and I´m turning over. I see Johan and myself walking through an unfamiliar house: concrete style, long hallways, black window frames. Where are we? We seem to be in a hurry, close the door behind us and suddenly stand in a Dutch residential neighborhood. Around the corner at a harbour front, we spot dolphins and when I zoom in on one, I see it looking at me and changing its shape. The dock, the fishermen, and the boats at sea; the scene suddenly feels typically Andalusian again.

We walk to the harbor building where a strange scene happens: three neatly groomed white poodle dogs stick their upper bodies above the water. There we see Francis (Johan’s sister, who recently visited) as a true activist, banner held high, looking for supporters, protesting against the fishermen serving French fries with mayonnaise to these animals. “Now you’re just like Brigitte Bardot protesting for animal rights,” I hear myself say to her just before Johan wakes me from my sleep: “It’s 09:15, time to get moving!”

A dream: a warning, a statement, a prediction? Is there something to work through, or is it just fantasy?

I have been alcohol-free for over six months now. Six months of good sleep, dreams, and amazement. Sometimes it is a little hard, without the sigh and the thought, "Alright, time for a glass of wine..." But then I breathe in and out and accept that everything is okay.

I have become much more aware of the colours and scents of Andalusia. So here I lie on the beach and write, and when I’m done, I close my eyes and stay here lying for a while…

Besos!

Johan & Reijer

Reijer Staats & Johan Pastoor  |  +31(0)6 - 28 27 1492  |  contact@villa-andalusia.com  |  www.onthaasten.es