blogpost 61, 16-DEC 2025, Reijer Staats
Loose
Summer has come and gone. No more triple-parked cars, no Andalusian hustle, and none of the noise and superlatives from sun-browned bodies with tattoos at the gitanó beach around the corner.
We no longer need to ask for permiso to pass familias lost in their charla, blocking the pavement as they do in summer. Every now and then, we might hear a polite pardon or an entschuldigung from a grey-haired couple in shorts, white socks in squeaky sandals, tapping along with their Nordic poles.
Yes, that peculiar, slightly stiff, sporty Northern European has returned to the coast!
Campervans are back too, claiming free parking spots by the beach facilities. After all, it’s more satisfying to spend money on your home on wheels than on a campsite pitch.
This autumn, we will be walking together for the fifteenth year as a married couple. Without Nordic poles, of course. Ten years ago we first turned the key in the front door of our first Spanish Casa Una Más, and for almost six years we have been living and working in Andalusia. What a gift it is: slowing down here, surrounded by amigos and vecinos, in such a beautiful, authentic, and open-minded country.
Superlatives
“Niñita pequeñita!!”
It’s the male voice of Txetxo, our bootcamp coach from northern Spain. His shout makes me curious, so I turn around in my squat and see him leaning toward one of our compis on the beach. Yes, he is also still often surprised by the southern Andalusian joie de vivre.
He lowers the corners of his mouth, raises a finger, and moves it in time with the syllables as he repeats his shout. This time it is sharper and louder, in dialecto andalú:
“NÍ - ÑI - TA - PE - QUE - ÑI - TA!”
Amused, he continues imitating a typical local madre: here, what people love is often made as tiny as possible and softened with words rather than volume. It is not just niña (girl), but niñita (little girl). And instead of pequeña (small), pequeñita. Even smaller than small.
Then I watch him bring the thumbs and forefingers of both hands together and move them toward his mouth. He lifts his shoulders and makes himself as small as possible. He exclaims that, according to him, it is like the madre is talking about a niña microscópica!
Meanwhile, the compi everyone calls Nike brings up a problem with her noisy temporary summer vecinos. She says she did not sleep at all that night, and her words echo across the group:
“No es un problema. Es un problemÓ! Un problemo GÓRDO!”
For Nike, the neighbours’ noise is not just a problem. It is a problemóóó. A huge, mega problem.
Here in Andalusia, things are often said in the superlative: loud and expressive, but playful too, and full of humour. I watch, entertained. Sometimes I laugh quietly, because every time a strong story is being told, everyone talks all at once, and I usually have no clue what it is about.
In the chair at Jesús’ barbershop, guiri Reijer learns how to use Andalusian superlatives as a foreigner himself. For example, when I complain about the summer heat, I should express it with words like La Virgen, cojones, or Dios (the Virgin, damn it, or God):
“Cojones! Qué calor!”
But now summer has finally gone with the poniente. An autumn storm from the west temporarily turns our street into a river, dragging a few trash bins along. Two beaches away, one is eventually found all alone. (📸 Susanne Bund on Instagram).
Off to Jaén!
Johan and I leave the coast behind for a while, as well as the valley where we stop along the way at our casita to give the winter guests an extra set of keys.
Oh no, on the narrow street: a run-over kitten. And from behind her persianas, the face of our vecina appears – she who always seems busy with the laundry and invariably ignores me. If I could clear the kitten’s dead body from her doorstep? I take a wide turn around it.
Thus begins our autumn break to the Andalusian province of Jaén, which annually produces nearly as much olive oil as Italy, Greece, and France combined. Speaking of superlatives.
After a two-hour drive, we check into our Airbnb in the UNESCO town of Baeza: for the first time in months, several days in a row wearing long trousers (brrrr). We are prepared with driving and walking routes from the website Jaén, an inland paradise, along with an essential culinary tip: on every terrace, bread awaits with premium olive oil.
The Renaissance architecture of Baeza catches the eye as we happen to pass by, whether going to our parking spot, shopping for bread and olive oil, or going for a coffee.
Everything here is very neat and prosperous: from the proud jiennenses (as the locals call themselves), the pavements, bars and restaurants, to the gently rolling olive groves laid out in straight lines, stretching endlessly as far as the eye can see, for hundreds of kilometres!
We continue through the beautiful town of Úbeda all the way to Cazorla, a mountain village on the border of the olive fields and several mountain ranges that together form the largest natural park in Spain (the second largest in Europe, after Swedish Lapland).
It feels as if we’ve landed in an Italian town: with little squares, churches, and castles. We walk out of the town and into nature: fresh air prickles the nose, the sound of rushing water fills the ears, and we wander through autumn colours of green, yellow, and red, along with the scent and bleating of grazing flocks of sheep. Our bodies warm. High above the peaks, we see vultures circling.
“Let’s have lunch here,” says Johan, on a sunlit square named Balcón de Zabaleta (see the next photo). We explore the story behind the square’s name, a fascinating modernist artist from the region, gaze over the mountains we just walked through, and enjoy the local specialities: bread with olive oil, grilled asparagus with sun-dried tomato, tempura courgette with cheese sauce, spinach with pine nuts and egg, and fresh cheese whipped with cream on cookie crumbs and berries. What a treat!
A small detour into the mountains to discover the source of the Guadalquivir, Andalusia’s river that flows all the way through Córdoba and Sevilla to the Atlantic. And there it was…
But a gasping, wild-boar-like sound makes me decide to climb a rock with Mèlo. Johan bravely throws pieces of wood toward the bushes, shakes his head, showing it was just an irregularly spurting, broken irrigation pipe.
We’re in a hurry: driver Johan wants to be out of the wilderness before dark. So we continue, arguing and chatting like the two ravens high above us on a rock. I point to them in the distance.
“Really, what am I supposed to be seeing!?”
What a view, back in the car, driving along the ridge, wild nature to the right, and endless olive groves to the left in the light of the setting sun.
I wonder if these olive groves would have been so neatly arranged during the Renaissance too.
Well, there’s another superlative added to our travel videos!
Barney from the Flintstones
Anyone who lives in or often passes through the Lecrín Valley knows the shortcut to Mercadona and Lidl. A long, straight, gently rising stretch of road. On either side, large industrial buildings stand, full of car-related businesses: garages, car repair shops, and second-hand dealers.
Five years ago, when our Renault 4 was parked outside our house for the very first time and started leaking oil, our neighbour at the time, Juan Antonio, immediately sent us to one of these garages.
“Es un amigo mío,” he said.
The small, square build of this amigo in overalls moves around like a wind-up toy. Johan says he reminds him of Barney from the Flintstones: also a friendly guy with a kind face and small dark eyes. The only difference is the hair colour.
Barney’s garage sits on a large fenced plot, mostly a dark, chaotic workshop, with the rest taken up by office space: a large echoing room with a shiny floor and a big desk. Outside, just a single car waits for a service.
When you have to pay, Barney writes an old-fashioned A6 receipt by hand. His big, grubby hands press the pen almost through the paper, and you stand there waiting for the slip to be torn off, quietly admiring the glass cabinet full of model cars and whispering to each other because of the loud acoustics.
Barney cannot say no, which becomes obvious when Johan asks him to collect his Citroën Dyane and get it ready for the road after two and a half years in storage. Johan adds, “No hay prisa,” but the Dyane could be picked up the very next day, with status updates promised via WhatsApp.
Yet nothing happens; Barney stays silent. On the way to Mercadona, we keep looking at the garage, where more and more cars arrive, but the Dyane stays untouched in the same spot, gradually fading a shade lighter in the bright Andalusian sun.
Then friends Sebastian and Perry arrive with car trouble and are immediately helped. Johan decides to put some pressure on Barney. After several visits to the garage, things finally start moving.
After four months, Johans Dyane is finally ready to be collected. Parking is outside the fence because the plot is now full. Johan hits the gas, and as the Dyane rolls away, I see a white pickup from the last century appear, and Barney, grinning, seems pleased as he closes a deal and hands the keys to the buyers.
Do I understand correctly? Is Barney now in the car trade too?
We drive on to the ITV inspection.
The still-red 1983 Dyane sits on the trailer.
And our 1981 Renault 4 is heading into its fifth winter with us.
Writer’s Urge
As things slow down, the itch to write begins again. A new Spanish chit-chat takes shape as memories float by in my mind. I feel the urge to continue La gente de la media haba, 36 encounters around the Lecrín Valley (my e-book, sorry, available in Dutch only). To my own surprise, a parked draft document already contains 99 encounters! A new winter begins to continue writing.
Sometimes a small moment brings back a period that had already ended, like on a trip to the valley, where I give former vecino Salvador un abrazo, we have a charla with the Professor, and run into our amigo we named Chappy: from his tractor with a trailer full of firewood, he invites us for a beer. And Juan from the bar? He’s still just as grumpy. Without a single word, let alone eye contact, he throws a reservado sign onto the table we just sat at. The message is clear, and we go to drink somewhere else, not at his bar.
On a Monday evening, Johan and I head to our regular spot in Granada, Bar Patio Braserito, to catch up with a co-worker from my years at Amsterdam Schiphol Airport, back when I worked there in a previous life.
“You are loose,” my ex-colleague sums up what I just told her about the bits and pieces of my recent life story.
Later, I keep turning that word over in my mind: loose. The urge to loosen myself, my need for connection, the loose stories on paper not tied together by a common thread, and how that lack of connection feels lonely for now.
Loose: perhaps it could serve as the title for a short poem?
The small painting Summer by Johan from 2006, recently posted with a poem titled Living and Letting Live facebook and instagram
Manitas
Once again, the usual dramas around our casas call us: a leaking air conditioner, damp in a wall, an electrical problem in the pool pump, a bathroom fan that stopped working, the annual maintenance of the pellet stoves. We’re busy.
Johan stretches once more, very early on the rain-soaked morning of the trash bins that were dragged along: “Hey, do you hear dripping too?” Still sleepy and unsuspecting, I roll my eyes – yes, it’s raining outside – and get out of bed to get us some coffee: my bare feet step into a patch of water. A leak in the bedroom ceiling, right above my side of the bed… No stress: nowadays we call our manitas who can do almost anything and who can fix problems in no time.
At home, we have some projects planned as well: installing a solar water heater, renovating the bathroom, plastering a living-room wall, and putting in a new floor upstairs. There’s work going on in every room. Two days of work, according to the project coordinator from Do It Yourselve store Leroy Merlin. All cupboards emptied and removed from the walls, our small patio crammed with furniture and boxes, glassware displayed on our mosaic table, and the wine stock baking in the sun on the balcony.
And suddenly the house is filled with Colombian workers: all air conditioners set to 18 °C, but windows and doors wide open, banging, sawing, laughing, singing, and dancing to loud Colombian reggaeton from the speakers of these cheerful chicos.
Johan and I are forced to sit outside at the patio table, full of glassware, throwing looks at each other from behind our smartphones: sigh. Between 08:00 and 15:00, we literally can’t go anywhere together, for two weeks straight, never sure if the Colombianos will ever finish the work.
Slowing down along the fishermen’s path between Almuñécar and La Herradura: el Camino de los Pescadores.
The 100th Encounter
The thorough house sweep brings us the idea to organise a garage sale, and I post an ad on Facebook. Within ten minutes, I get the first response from someone named Inma. She wants to reserve the bathroom mirror and an Arabic decorating fabric behind glass, and plans to come by the next morning at 10:00, as it’s exactly on her way home from work.
“Rai-cher? Soy Inma.”
In front of the garage at Villa Merise, our rental for guests, stands a tall, slender woman with fair skin, messy hair, large round metal glasses on her nose, and an outstretched hand. The vibe is immediately friendly and very spontaneous. I ask about her work, and she tells me she is a Profesora de Biología y Física at the Colegio in Motril. She lives in the campo and is on her way home after two morning classes.
While we load the items, Inma explains that she has taken over a cortijo from her English neighbour and is renovating it to rent out. She’s looking for second-hand items with character to furnish it. When she picks up the worn, oxidised frame around the old mirror, her face lights up.
I really enjoy the connection and, as a regalo, give Inma a wooden carving that hadn’t been reserved. She immediately knows where it will hang and what new colour it will get. And perhaps as thanks, she offers me some avocados from her own orchard in return. Well, I’m not going to say no, since our own avocado trees still aren’t producing. I see her looking thoughtfully, clearly intrigued by the state of our avocado trees:
“Vamos a ver!”
La profesora Biológica walks ahead into our Villa Merise orchard and inspects our sixteen fruit trees one by one. Every identified pest receives a remedy. The sprays are, of course, biológico — for example, water with a spoonful of jabón blanco, a special soap from Mercadona, or if that doesn’t work, a product based on olive oil. I learn which trees need fertilising, which need more or less water, and which won’t make it and need to be replaced.
Inma makes each explanation from a carefully chosen strip of shade, protecting her fair skin from the sun.
Only an hour later, after this campesero masterclass, I’m back home in Almuñécar, telling Johan enthusiastically about my 100th encounter: with a Spanish person I would have really liked to become friends with.
The fresh pomegranates in autumn from our Villa Merise orchard.
It’s the last one that matters most
Finishing this Spanish chit-chat feels to be a struggle. I get stuck in a sum-up of loose short stories with no common thread. But, as Johan reminded Barney earlier:
“No hay prisa!”
When I slow down, everything usually begins to fall into place. I put this chit-chat aside and revisit one of my previous blog posts, number 59, To Share is to Heal. I hear the whispering voice of a mentor from the past again, this time offering a gentle reminder to my unstructured, endless sum-ups:
“It’s the last one that matters most.”
Through these loose stories, I come closer to what I truly want to write: that I have slowly begun to accept my mother’s mental illness and her passing. Writing about her before opened the door to e-mail contact with her lifelong childhood friend, who sent me the kindest words: “How beautiful, what you wrote. She loved you. At least your writing didn’t come from a stranger.”
And then there was The Last Letter: a long, precious document tracing a lifetime of correspondence between them.
Instead of just loose, I finally feel connected to my mother again. I catch myself smiling during bootcamp burpees on the beach. On her 75th, she was still doing them too, every morning as part of her routine—until she overheard neighbours complaining about an unexplained banging that echoed through their apartment building each morning. Only my mother knew its cause.
On the beach, I feel her right there beside me: squat, jump, plank, push, jump, stand…
Genesis: an audiovisual performance in the chapel of the Sacred Heart College in Granada.
Madre
I’m heading to the underground car park beneath the Leroy Merlin Do It Yourself store in Motril.
Because the small plastic yoghurt cups at our fruit breakfast were starting to bother me more and more, I began looking into kefir: its endless benefits for the digestive flora and how surprisingly easy it is to make at home. A kefir starter, madre in Spanish, a sort of rice-pudding-like mix full of bacteria, is added to milk, left to ferment overnight, strained, and ready. What remains in the strainer is the madre, which can be reused over and over again.
I like the sound of that!
During my search, I come across a Facebook group where people share and exchange madres. From the list of providers, I pick Mercedes, a señora from around. I message her that she can recognise me in the car park by a white-and-green Renault 4.
A full-bodied, somewhat chaotic type, wearing large eco-friendly jewellery, approaches me in a long, layered dress. A smear of lipstick circles her mouth, a lock of greasy blond hair falls out of place, and I can’t help but think of Bridget Jones in one of her off phases.
“Rai-cher?” she asks, a little out of breath.
Following the Facebook group protocol, we exchange glass jars: I receive the madre, and she takes my empty marmalade jar. Enthusiastically, she explains the many uses of kefir and proudly shows photos of her favourite dairy recipes. One photo shows cream cheese, or rather, kefir in a cheesecloth, and I ask what she does with the liquid that drains off.
Bridget laughs as she says: “Oh, I massage it into my hair every morning!” I haven’t tried that myself.
Nowadays, we just enjoy Johan’s kefir cheesecake and carrot cake.
We slice off another piece and say, “Hasta luego!”
Until next time!
Johan & Reijer