blogpost 58, 25 Apr 2025, Reijer Staats
A good long one!
I'm sitting at the kitchen table, opening the laptop, taking a sip of red wine, sighing, and starting to type with my sleeves rolled up – a bit like Jessica Fletcher from Murder, She Wrote. That image just won't leave me. And now it's time. You probably know that feeling: something old is finished – or almost, but parked – and you feel rooted; you're looking forward to what's next!
After deciding to work towards a collection of weekly stories and flashbacks from sunny Andalusia, and writing The first Spanish chatter, The SEUR guy, and It's always sunny in Spain, plus Writings from Granada with the poems Strength and Woke, I realised that in short Spanish chatter I couldn't fully express myself. What I missed was my red thread.
Instead of combining those separate stories into one blogpost, number 57 – A fresh start would have been a fitting title – here comes Blogpost 58: A good long one! Written without a glass of wine, mind you, because contrary to my imagination, I've felt better for four months now without it.
Photo: the first full moon of spring, bringing new energy for a fresh start.
We could have just spoken English
At the bottom of the side street to our house, on the corner of the Rambla, we often see him busy around his Casa Nieves: a striking white villa – our house would fit in at least four times – with yellow accents, Roman plaster balustrades, surrounded by an orchard and a tall whitewashed wall. Two rows of stones with an open flower pattern adorn the top edge. I'm not sure what those stones are called, but when you see them, you immediately think: "Oh yes, that kind of wall, typical Spanish."
Our vecino is often working in his orchard. Like a trail of breadcrumbs from Tom Thumb, plant debris winds from the wrought-iron gate of Casa Nieves to the bins around the corner diagonally opposite. The tall decorative wall is kept bright white, although our vecino always forgets to cover the pavement and decorates it again with large white blobs of paint and spills from tipped paint pots. Johan always remarks: "There he goes again, the vecino, with his half-yearly painting job. Don't fall for it, or before you know it, you'll have a trail right to the promenade."
This morning, I'm by the bins and see him cross the street. In his hands, a large black rubber bucket full of avocado leaves. The man awkwardly opens the container's lid and lifts the bucket slowly up, above shoulder height. But before he gets there, the lid snaps shut again.
"Un momento, le ayudo!" I blurt out, and I hold the lid open for him. I take in his pale skin: slightly blotchy and flaky – a bead of sweat runs down his face. Dry, white hair – neatly cut – sits beneath the yellow-green flower buds of the avocado tree. His slow movements and slightly trembling hands remind me of the word parkinsonism and make me think briefly of my father. Or is it just his age?
We start talking. "Soy Reijer," I say, offering my hand.
"Encantado," he replies, introducing himself too.
Over the next quarter of an hour, I listen – a bit awkwardly squeezed between smelly bins and a wall – to the monotone life story of a Greek man from Crete, who first moved to Germany for work, then to Cleveland in the United States, where he lived for thirty years, until around the turn of the century when he came to Spain – in his own words: "...looking for good weather and free healthcare."
Peseta amounts fly around: from the purchase price of his Casa Nieves and the three apartments he rents out opposite ("For just €350 a month!") to what he got for the strip of land behind his house, which he sold to the neighbours – who live in a villa we call Southfork-Dallas.
"Tengo 86 años," his advanced age surprises me. He says that when he and his wife are no longer here, the children in the US will sell everything. And sure enough, the American clichés don't stop: I get a detailed account of encounters with celebrities from Cleveland – including, if I understood correctly, a huge black basketball player, though I've already forgotten his name.
Aside from a few questions, I don't have much to add to the conversation with this friendly vecino, and no, he's never heard of the country Holland. With a few others, known to him, riding old Puch mopeds, he exchanges a word or two. I excuse myself – I still need to take glass to the recycling centre a little further on – and say goodbye.
As I walk away, a piece of grey decorative wall catches my eye – and no white paint splatters on the pavement in front of it either. Could this be the strip sold to the neighbours, The Ewings? I also wonder about the vecino's name. I thought I heard Oratius. Or was it Horacio? I googled later, but that name doesn't seem common in Greece.
Of course, we could have just spoken English. But apparently, it didn't occur to me.
Photo: spring in the Swiss Lötschental, visiting friends twice.
What's going on?
After New Year, Johan and I enter the quiet winter period, with just a few guest changes, the odd spring clean or paint job, and the inevitable Spanish paperwork:
Registering our holiday homes in the new national safety system for tourist rentals, where every guest is recorded with passport and address details.
Applying for a national Número de Registro de Alquiler for each property, so we can continue advertising on Airbnb from 1 July – though in Almuñécar, the local registration office is sluggish compared to our experiences elsewhere.
Reviewing and switching home insurance and energy contracts, because yes, every penny counts.
With friends, we enjoy a beautiful spring walk under the Andalusian sun in La Alpujarra. Spring seems to have started, briefly, but from late February the weather becomes un-Spanishly unstable. March is wetter than we've ever experienced, even wetter than the spring of 2020 during the pandemic. On one rainy day, the Rambla – the street below our house – turns into a wild, cold mountain stream.
For the first time in Spain, Johan's birthday is celebrated indoors, but of course in true indulgent style, with local amigos at Restaurante El Maño – what a discovery! Johan and I take a fairly dry trip to the city of Almería and the Cabo de Gata nature park. He visits his familia briefly in the Netherlands, and I fly twice to friends in sunny Switzerland. Since that first return flight, I've learned: never board a plane with flu and an early ear infection! Because ever since, I've been plagued by a constant ringing in my left ear. Musings on that – and my visits to the Urgencias and a private clinic – could fill an entire Spanish Chatter.
With pleasure, I shoot videos of all the lovely moments and trips, which of course you can see again on Facebook and Instagram. We also select photos and write texts for the new webpage Local area on onthaasten.es and update the annual information brochure for each house with new tips for the region, all in three languages: Dutch, English and Spanish.
Meanwhile, we've reached Easter 2025!
Photo: Barrio de Taramay, the neighbourhood in Almuñécar where we live. Almuñécar brings happiness and is ranked 11th on the List of Happiest Towns in Spain in 2025, thanks to the climate, natural surroundings and the people.
Almuñécar comes alive
During Semana Santa, Almuñécar buzzes with activity! Like on the beautiful days at the beach: parasols in every colour are opened, bars we hadn't known before open their doors, and on the terraces we see familiar faces – owners who have by now earned nicknames from us: Frans Timmermans (the brother of...) and 't ratje. Not for their character, mind – it's that sharp face, the curious nose, the alert eyes... This spring, staff changes catch our attention again: the face of one bar suddenly becomes a regular at another – or returns to the old place.
In the week before Easter, despite the bustle, every day feels like the weekend. We visit several processions in the cascos históricos of Almuñécar and Salobreña, where todo el mundo is dressed in their Easter best. From street kids to caballeros and doñas, young and old encourage the familia, amigos and familiar faces who walk in the procession, chat with them, or share sweets. We also see a terminally ill townsman granted one last moment as a carrier, beneath the heavy paso with the statue of Christ.
In restaurants, tables are pushed together for 10, 12 or 16 people – large families. The youth gather, a madre with baby at her breast, and everyone is immersed in lively conversations that echo on the smooth stone floors. "Sorry," I call to Johan, who's just taken a bite of pizza. "But I'm really not going to try to understand you here!" Well, the acoustics in Spanish eateries aren't great, especially for a certain hombre with slightly diminishing hearing.
On the extra-large TV screen in the corner, we watch Carlos Alcaraz advance another round on the clay courts of Barcelona, and I study the text on the sugar packet by my coffee: Si un mono entra en un palacio, no se convierte en rey, convierte el palacio en un circo. Or: If a monkey enters a palace, he doesn't become king – he turns the palace into a circus. Hey, I've been reading that a lot lately... I wonder who this wisdom is really meant for.
Photo: a shot of the procession on Maundy Thursday in Almuñécar.
Listen up, handsome!
I hear it behind me on Maundy Thursday afternoon – I'm busy around Villa Merise waiting for new guests. It's the voice of Esther, our neighbour to the left if you're facing Villa Merise: shy in our early years here, but nowadays always up for a Spanish chat. I swallow, turn around and smile: "Qué pasa, vecina?"
Esther always has a remark, a request or a question for me, also due to my role as president of our little street with seven houses, but unlike the neighbour on the other side, she expresses herself more tactfully and moderately.
Sometimes it's about the huge conifer in our front garden, whose needles, twigs and pine cones often blow into the half-open vestibule of her house – through her decorative stone wall with an open flower pattern. Or whether I could arrange a new persiana? Later, she's standing herself with a roller blind at our door, secured with transparent cable ties – just how she likes them.
Another time, she shows me how sand and mud residues left on the street after recent rain have been pressed into the asphalt by neighbours' traffic, damaging it. When Esther then sees me struggling with my Spanish broom set, she pulls a street broom from her garage – one with a sturdy brush head and stiff, hard bristles that really pick up everything – sand, leaves, mud, twigs – and with a wooden handle marked Made in Germany.
Today she looks notably well-groomed. Her mouth utters a "Mira eso," and she points to the weeds in the development. Her tone is critical and her words make clear I had the gardener come too early this time. The weeds are back already. According to Esther, next time I'd better wait until June, when it stops raining and growth has ceased. And mowing once a year is really enough!
Then she mentions a few jobs her manitas has recently done for her. I look puzzled. "No sabes lo que es un manitas?" she laughs. "That's the person who does everything for me: the garden, painting, household jobs... all of it!" I'm invited inside to see it for myself. I want to excuse myself – I'm in a hurry – but she smiles: "Tranquilo. Soy una mujer sola. I just want to share it with someone."
And so Esther's house becomes the last of our comunidad that I get to admire inside. I recognise Villa Merise, but it's also so different: much more extended and thoughtfully adapted. The hardwood window frames with their rounded lines are beautiful. Her winter conservatory overlooks the sea, and she proudly points to the new kitchen her manitas installed. Esther nods kindly: "Now you may go again."
I ask Esther if her family is coming for Semana Santa. "No," she says. "They're busy."
I walk out speechless, with great sympathy for this lovely woman. And I remember how different and cosy Semana Santa was for Esther when her husband was still alive.
Rooted under the sun
Sitting at the kitchen table, I look out over the bay of Pozuelo and the renovated park with old olive trees where young families celebrate around picnic tables. It's busy at the BMX track, skatepark, playground and pétanque courts. The terrace of Chiringuito Asador Chambao slowly expands. What a lovely neighbourhood we live in – and how much it has changed and come alive over the past year.
The presence of the beautiful Swedish rehabilitation centre in the area, and the procession of patients – each accompanied by a partner, carer or, for the few younger ones, a parent – heading towards Hotel Bahía Tropical, makes me quiet. Progress is slow: with sticks or crutches, in braces, in wheelchairs or behind walkers. Probably as slow as recovery itself. You'll experience it: young and talented, you can be hit out of nowhere. Life can take an unexpected turn. We must be careful, look after each other – and always keep enjoying the here and now.
I feel rooted and happy here, and look forward to what's coming. Johan has tickets for a performance at the Casa de la Cultura and reports on observations during his run along the promenade: who, what and where. I'm still unsure how I'll find a cycling buddy – maybe one to have Spanish chatter with as we pedal away. In any case, Johan and I are preparing together for a busy season and a lively period, where we'll see many familiar faces again – or meet them for the first time in a long while.
So, I close my laptop again, take a sip of my coffee, see the clear blue sky outside and am ready for the next chapter under the Andalusian sun.
Hasta luego!
Johan & Reijer