Blog post 64, 8 OCT 2026, Reijer Staats

Making the big seem small

Hombre, tío, primo. Meaning man, uncle, cousin. Or rather: mate, bloke, friend, buddy… Enthusiastic street slang used by everyone in Andalusia. You can say it to both men and women, I believe of all ages. When I arrive at my sports class, I say: "Cómo estáis?" (how are you all), but I also learn that "Cómo estamos?" (how are we) actually sounds even friendlier.

While pulling myself up on a palm tree with a rope during an exercise, I see over the wall along the Paseo an elderly man passing by with his home care nurse. He is visually impaired and holds a white cane with red markings in his hand; it moves from left to right over the pavement in front of him. After the sports class, on the way to the car, I see them sitting together on the wall. Both with their phones in front of their faces, the old man holding his phone close, reading the screen... "Hombreeee, eres mágico…"

I have an old colleague whom I call hombre. She is a regular companion for political and social matters, or just for a chat. She always asks spontaneous and disarming questions. After she read my draft blog post, I received feedback: "Gosh, actually I don't know much about you either… But a light bulb went on: you're not seriously going to put all this on your holiday rental website?"

Johan says the same. And yes, I agree with them, but I want to write! Not only about what amazes me about Spanish life, but also about everything else that occupies me. Making the big seem small. And so follows this blog post, already the 64th, heavily shortened after all the feedback, a follow-up to number 63: The road to unwinding in Andalusia.

Photo: Breakfast upgrade. Coffee, mango, kefir and una copa of freshly squeezed pomegranate! The harvest at Villa Merise grows each year. The pomegranate: the recurring symbol of life...

The front left wheel

Tuesday evening, nearly 7pm. Location: the car park next to the Policía Local. We're about to meet him: Mariano.

Before I decided to trade in the Renault 4, Johan was already avidly saving cars as favourites on Marketplace. A contact request to a certain Mariano was quickly answered with "disponible" and a mobile number. My WhatsApp message was immediately followed by a long voice note: a cracking high-pitched Andalusian dialect voice.

We're early. Johan recognises one after another of Mariano's second-hand cars from Marketplace in the car park and I stare at his index finger: this one, and that one, and that one, and that one... Oh, no wonder I never find a parking space here!

Then we see our future white Fiat van arrive. The driver, apparently borrowing the vehicle, flicks his cigarette out of the open window, parks in the last spot and hides the car key on the front left wheel.

Calling on the phone and with a swinging gait, our car dealer arrives. A paunch, shirt half untucked, cigarette in the corner of his mouth, a greasy quiff, a sweaty forehead and clearly visible wet armpits. His gaze scans the car park, then he grabs the key from the wheel. We shake hands and he cheerfully begins his sales pitch.

The test drive goes along the N340 to our house in Almuñécar with Johan at the wheel; all windows open and air conditioning on full blast. Okay, it's very warm, but that also masks any odd, unwanted noises. The conversation in the car is loud. This is clearly not a showroom model, neither cleaned inside nor out, and the air freshener at the mirror has long since stopped working.

At our home on the driveway, the trade-in value of the Renault 4 is assessed, and on the way back to the Policía Local, I drive. Not my car, I think. We get a one-year warranty and I see Johan get very enthusiastic; I light a cigarette first. From a nearly singing Mariano we get a small extra discount, provided the full amount is transferred to his bank account the next day. We immediately arrange an appointment for a major service in about two months.

Squeaking brakes, a whistling turbo, the ticking of the timing chain: we note everything down and Johan makes audio recordings.

Just three weeks after leaving the Fiat for the major service at the Policía Local (key on the front left wheel), Mariano messages "listo" and sends us a Google Maps pin of another location where we can pick up the car. Somewhere remote, in no-man's land between Motril and the beach, the gate to a shady fenced area is opened for us via an app. Mariano's instruction: "Look here for a Moroccan, he has the key."

The dust settles and among various foreign-registered cars we see our Fiat. On the left of the site stand two containers, which I imagine as torture containers. Johan spots a rat darting along one into the sugarcane. Behind the cars is a shed with two huge garage doors. That must be it, but all our hola's go unanswered. Then a weathered grey Mercedes from the 80s speeds into the yard, the man who gets out must be our Moroccan. I estimate him around sixty, his thin beard noticeably dirty, and in his right hand, it being close to lunchtime, a plastic bag from Coviran supermarket.

We receive the Fiat key and at first glance, everything under the thick layer of dust looks fine. However, Johan notices the oil warning light is on, so the Moroccan opens the bonnet with his left hand, places the Coviran bag on the bumper and pours a bottle of oil into the reservoir. Leaning over the engine, I look along with him.

Something under that bonnet isn't right, but my attention is immediately drawn when the Moroccan walks back to the garage. Do I see a transparent tube running from that Coviran bag under his clothing? "That bag contains not lunch but a condom," I whisper to Johan.

Then Johan points to the open boot and asks the Moroccan if we need to take all the car parts inside there to the dump ourselves. He remains silent and shrugs.

I sigh. Among the parts is also our floorpan, so that still needs to be fitted. That's why, when I leaned over the engine just now, I could see the ground beneath.

A call: "Well, Mariano, we'll leave the Fiat for another week."

When we finally pick it up, the site is deserted. The gate opens via the app, and yes, of course, we know where to find the key: on the front left wheel.

"Hasta luego, Mariano!" Until next time!

Photo: Back on the N340 between Almuñécar and Salobreña. My gaze is drawn to the wall.

Don Simon, a short story

At the end of July, my Swiss friend Simon passed away. On the funeral card, handwritten by his wife Diny: "Live today, no one promised you tomorrow," the title of a recent blog post, and it moves me. On the plane to Switzerland, I search for photos. There aren't many, as Simon didn't like posing. And I write the text below, in case you want to say something...

Photo: One of a series: "With Simon on a bench through the years." (26 March 2017)

Farewell, Don Simon. "When are you coming back?" you asked at the end of May when I was briefly in Switzerland. Well, now!

But this time without an "I'm looking forward to it," as you always said just before I set off.

And no "zum Wohl" later on the bench, with a glass in hand, overlooking the Bietschhorn.

Your voice: "And Mr Staats, how are you?" I already miss it.

A brief step back 25 years. My father called me over, his Parkinson's worsened: "Reijer, would you like to take over the chalet in Switzerland? Otherwise, I'll sell it." It was the place of my youth. I hadn't been there for years, and Arthur, my partner at the time, said: "It's an opportunity, you should do it!"

Soon after, I found myself in Kippel in the Swiss Lötschental, sharing a glass of wine with Simon and Diny, Brabanders who emigrated a generation before me. Simon became Abwart of the chalet and a dear friend, one you wouldn't have imagined beforehand.

Busy times. Arthur and I separated, I bought a 1920s fixer-upper in Amstelveen, promotion at work, training, caregiving for my father. Amidst that chaos, the stream behind the chalet flooded. Muddy water flowed in and the retaining wall became unstable. Simon called from Switzerland and was the final straw: he got the full brunt from me!

Yet he chose friendship just then and pulled me through all the trouble.

Simon then often travelled with a flower trader from Katwijk and was always my guest in Amstelveen. Whenever the truck crossed the border, I got a call: "Mr Staats. What I fancy tonight is a good steak. Tell me... What do you think?"

When I came home from work, there was always a huge bunch of roses in my largest vase, not very fresh, having just survived the journey from the Netherlands to Switzerland and back. A green salad with fruit, potato cubes already in the frying pan, and the steak ready to be placed on the grill. Simon liked to eat before six. In the cutlery tray, everything lay spoon to spoon and sometimes my fridge was cleaned. The way Simon and Diny folded the bed linen in our Swiss linen cupboard is how I still fold it now. They were secretly my role models for our Spanish adventure.

On Saturdays, Simon always went to the Bijenkorf for new jeans and a white Tommy Hilfiger shirt. And in the evenings, he faithfully joined for a drink (vodka lime) in the busy centre of Amsterdam.

Just as regularly, I went to Switzerland, and every time at the border my phone rang: "How much longer, Mr Staats? The food is ready." In Switzerland, he immediately told me what chores awaited, like replenishing the wood supply. From my father, I learned to work hard until the job was done. From Simon, I learned to start early, pay attention and the art of pausing. Usually, by 3pm the five was already in the clock and a bottle of white Johannisberg was uncorked.

The parties at Simon and Diny's were indulgent, an open house. New Year's Eve was a fixed event. Leading up to Sinterklaas, I would always hear with a soft g: "I'm already looking forward to your Gemeen Gedicht." To which followed: "Yes, yes, Mr Staats. Was sich neckt das liebt sich!"

When Johan came into my life, we regularly went to Switzerland together. How wonderful that Simon and Diny, our Swiss family, were present at our intimate wedding in Amsterdam. Simon and I drifted apart a little, but the glass was always ready and the table set. And oh, how often did I pop in secretly to share a friendly cigarette?

Selling the chalet felt too painful to discuss with Simon. The slate plaque with Little Switzerland 1978 now hangs on the facade of our Casita in the Spanish Lecrín Valley. Since then, at Simon and Diny's in Kippel in the Swiss Lötschental, besides the glass and set table, there has always been a made bed for me.

It is a short story passing me by now as I fly over the Alps, on my way from Málaga to Geneva for a final farewell to my very special friend Don Simon. Someone with whom, since that outburst at the start, I never again felt any irritation or discomfort.

Farewell, Don Simon.

You walked through life with me for a time, there is family you are born into, you were family you choose.

Thank you for 25 years of friendship.

Photo: Meeting each other, fooling around, ring on it and signing at the cross... Promising each other to sail in the same boat for another 70 years. Year after year on that special date dining out together. Happy 15th Anniversary Johan! The full photo series can be found on Instagram.

On the way to Lolapaluza

Now Johan's Fiat is in for a service again with Mariano, we drive in my car to the guest change at Ático Lolapaluza, up into the Casco Histórico of Salobreña, Johan driving, me beside him. We pass the viewpoint and in the middle of the street I see an empty Alhambra beer bottle lying. Missed the glass recycling bin, I think. Johan points left, to the rough sea, with Villa Merise in the distance in the background. "Look..." he says.

Right over the bottle. Crash!

"Look where you're going!", I sigh, irritated.

Johan parks the car in our garage, we start cleaning and meanwhile I message the new guests about their preferred arrival time the next day. Whether an early check-in at 12 noon is okay for me? Fine, the house is almost ready anyway. But as we walk to the car, and yes: a flat tyre. I immediately cut my hand on a shard of glass embedded in the tread.

Johan finds only a repair kit with a compressor and fluid in the car, but I really can't deal with it any more with my bleeding hand. A tow truck in these narrow streets is impossible and, it's almost 7pm, Google Maps shows all tyre specialists are about to close. Before 12 noon tomorrow the car must be out of our garage so the new guests can park! A still calm Johan and a frustrated me take a taxi home.

The plan for the next morning:

• First check if the repair kit, too modern for me, works. (No, of course not...)

• If not, borrow a jack from the earliest opening garage and take the Dyane into the Casco Histórico. Only now does Johan start to worry whether his classic Citroën can handle the steep hill.

• Wheel off, have the tyre replaced downstairs, and take the wheel back up to fit.

• Then at the garage also change the other tyre straight away, because in Spain it's compulsory to have two matching tyres on one axle.

• Finally, sweating and covered in black tar, shake hands with the new guests, sharp at 12 noon, because, well, German: "Willkommen in Salobreña!"

Meanwhile Johan has driven to Casa Larimar where another final clean awaited. Mid-afternoon he messages me. To come and pick him up. Followed by a photo: a thick cross-head screw deep in the Dyane's tyre.

When we later pick up the Fiat again from Mariano for the second time in a short while, we find his yard full of life. The holiday closure is clearly over: many cars with history, many Moroccan mechanics, and many echoing calls of "Hombreee!", "Tíooo!" and "Primooo!" from Mariano, as he sings his way through the workshop and charms his customers. I immediately ask him to mount the now redundant tyre from my car on a spare rim so I always have a spare with me in future.

Mariano has stolen my heart.

Photo: Trouble. Third time lucky. The front left wheel off. Oh dear, where do we put that car key now?

Mess from the drain

Johan and I feel at home here in Spain and merrily continue our Spanish profession: hosting guests, cleaning, putting out fires. Mess comes out of a shower drain after too much toilet paper in the bowl. Wet laundry from guests stuck solid in our top loader washing machine after they ran the drum with the lid open and then forced the handle. They're leaving tomorrow morning! Johan and I always quickly find a solution. And yes, the most common complaint of 2026? This invariably comes from the smaller female guest: the bathroom mirrors are hung too high.

The surroundings of our Villa Merise will get a huge upgrade with a park-like development on the mountain side. Johan hints about Villa Merise: "With a few small adjustments, actually quite a nice place for us to live one day." A mí me gusta la idea también!

I now fantasise about the era when we'll be free of the shared water tank and septic tank, and of the dents and potholes in the narrow street, as sewer, municipal water and the road are also improvements planned in the project. As a small urbanisation with seven houses, we won't need a fund for these shared facilities anymore. Finally, after all these years, the role of El Presidente will disappear, and I'll never again have to hear or solve neighbourly disputes.

But then it's time for the general homeowner association meeting of our own home in Almuñécar. At the last agenda item, La Presidenta, our strict neighbour Susana, announces that after two years in office she is stepping down. She proposes a vote for a successor and scans the circle with her eyes. It stays noticeably quiet. I look down, then at an unsuspecting Johan, but Susana's eyes stop on me. "Yo no!" I say, "Stress and all that, can't you just stay on for another year?"

Even Johan doesn't defend me. Susana triumphantly raises her finger: "Yo voto a Reijer…"

Susana always gets her way.

And so I'm involved in the first week already in a dispute with a neighbour just outside the urbanisation who always parks his car inconveniently in front of one of our shared access gates. Clearly a bit tipsy and with the French flag suddenly raised on his house, the connards and putains fly at us. I'm also bombarded with messages from mantenimiento about neighbours and guests who don't shower before entering the pool, and about all sorts of schedules, timekeeping, defects and faults. Susana's husband said it already: "Save them to your favourites." So now I'm the Presidente of a second urbanisation, but in a very different role. And actually, that's quite alright.

Photo: The park-like development on the mountain side of Villa Merise. Villa Merise, at the bottom, third house from the left. Source: Cumbre Villas.

As I finish this 64th blog post and think of a fitting title, I get tangled up. I message my hombre friend a little, and Diny and I send each other a photo of the memorial we set up for Simon. What a coincidence. Both photos show exactly the same: a portrait, a flower and a bottle of Don Simon.

I wonder where my wonder at everyday Spanish concerns in the here and now meets nostalgia, loss and worldly suffering that I get so worked up about. But then I come across an Instagram post I made on 24 August 2025, the fifth anniversary of my sister's death, and the text actually sums it all up:

"What light would Meris have shone in this time? I hear disarming words that look beyond the first thought, that make the big seem small, personal yet distant, close yet far, loving yet angry, soft yet hard.

Yes, I want!

Oh, how I sometimes miss laughing together out loud."

Mmm, making the big seem small? For me this 64th Andalusia blog post feels like a completed whole, and I can say: "Hasta luego!" Until the next blog, or until Spain, where Johan and I will gladly welcome you.

Reijer