Blogpost 64, 8-OCT 2026, Reijer Staats

Making a big thing small

Hombre, tío, primo. Literally: man, uncle, cousin. Or better: guy, mate, buddy, pal… Enthusiastic street slang that everyone in Andalusia uses. You can say it to both men and women, and I think to people of pretty much any age. When I walk up to my fitness class, I say: “Cómo estáis?” (how are you all?), but I have also learned that “Cómo estamos?” (how are we?) actually sounds even friendlier...

While pulling myself up a rope tied to a palm tree during an exercise, I spot an older man walking past with his home-care nurse on the other side of the low wall along the Paseo. He has trouble seeing and holds one of those white sticks with red markings, sweeping it from left to right across the pavement in front of him. After the workout, on my way to the car, I see them sitting together on the wall. Both have their phones right in front of their faces. The old man is holding his up close to his eyes, reading the screen... “Hombreeee, eres mágico…”

I have a former colleague whom I call hombre. She is my regular partner in conversations about political and social issues, or just everyday chit-chat. She always comes up with spontaneous, refreshing questions. She reads my latest blog post, which contains a lot of personal stuff that is not typically Spanish, and I get some feedback: “You know, there is actually still a lot I do not know about you... But one thing did occur to me: surely you are not going to put all this on your holiday rental website?”

Johan says the same thing. And yes, I have to agree with them, but I want to write! Not just about the things that surprise me about life in Spain, but also about all the other things on my mind. Making a big thing small. And so here comes this blog post, already number 64, heavily cut down after all the feedback, and continuing where number 63 left off: The Road to Slowing Down in Andalusia.

Photo: Breakfast upgrade. Coffee, mango, kefir and una copa of freshly squeezed pomegranate juice! The harvest at Villa Merise gets bigger every year. The pomegranate: an ever-recurring symbol of life...

The left front wheel

Tuesday evening, almost seven o’clock. Location: the car park next to the Policia Local. We are about to meet him: Mariano.

Before I had decided to trade in my Renault 4, Johan was already enthusiastically saving cars he liked on Marketplace. A contact request to a certain Mariano was quickly answered with “disponible” and a mobile number. My WhatsApp message was followed immediately by a long voice message: a high, slightly cracking, almost singing voice in dialecto andaluz.

We are early. Johan recognises one Marketplace car after another in the car park, while I stare at his index finger: this one, and that one, and that one, and that one... Oh, so that is why I can never find a parking space here!

Then we see our future white Fiat van coming towards us. The driver, who seems to have borrowed this car, flicks his cigarette through the open window, parks in the last available space and hides the car key on the left front wheel.

Talking on his phone and walking with a little swing, our car dealer arrives. A bit of a belly, shirt half hanging out of his trousers, cigarette in the corner of his mouth, slicked-back hair, a sweaty forehead and very visible wet patches under his arms. His eyes scan the car park, then he grabs the key from the tyre. We shake hands and, with a big smile, he starts his sales pitch.

The test drive takes us along the N340 towards our house in Almuñécar, with Johan behind the wheel, all the windows open and the air conditioning on full blast. Okay, it is very hot, but this also means that any strange or unwanted noises are impossible to hear. The conversation in the car is loud. This is clearly not a showroom model, neither inside nor out. It has not been cleaned, and the air freshener hanging from the mirror has long since stopped doing its job.

Back at our house, on the driveway, the trade-in value of my Renault 4 is determined. On the way back to the Policia Local, I am driving. Not my car, I think to myself. We get a one-year warranty, and I can see that Johan is very excited about that. I first ask for a cigarette. Almost singing, Mariano offers us a little extra discount, provided the full amount is transferred to his bank account the very next day. We immediately arrange an appointment for a major service, about two months later.

Squeaking brakes, a whistling turbo, a ticking noise from the engine: we write everything down and Johan makes sound recordings.

Only three weeks after we leave the Fiat for its major service at the Policia Local, with the key on the left front wheel, Mariano sends us a WhatsApp message: “listo”. He sends us a Google Maps pin showing where we can pick up the car. Somewhere out of the way, in no-man’s-land between Motril and the beach, a gate to a shady, fenced-off site is opened remotely for us through an app. Mariano’s instructions: “Look for a Moroccan guy. He has the key.”

The dust settles and, among all sorts of cars with foreign number plates, we see our Fiat. On the left side of the site are two shipping containers. Torture containers, I imagine. Johan sees a rat disappearing into the sugar cane next to one of them. Behind the cars is a large shed with two enormous garage doors. That must be where we need to go, but all our hola’s remain unanswered.

Then an old, battered grey Mercedes from the 1980s comes racing onto the site. The man who gets out must be the Moroccan guy. I guess he is around sixty. His thin beard is strikingly dirty, and in his right hand he is carrying a plastic Coviran supermarket bag. It is getting close to lunchtime, after all.

We are handed the key to the Fiat, and at first everything underneath the thick layer of dust seems to be fine. Johan notices, however, that the oil warning light is still on. The Moroccan man opens the hood with his left hand, puts the Coviran bag on the bumper and pours a bottle of oil into the reservoir. Bent over the engine, I watch him.

Something is not right under the hood, but my attention is immediately distracted when the Moroccan man walks back towards the garage. Is that a transparent tube running from the Coviran bag down under his clothes? “That bag is not his lunch. It is collecting his urine,” I whisper to Johan.

Then Johan points towards the open luggage compartment and asks the man if we are supposed to take all the car parts lying inside it to the dump ourselves. He says nothing and just lifts his shoulders.

I sigh. Among the parts is also the panel underneath the car, which still needs to be fitted back. That explains why, when I was just leaning over the engine, I could see the ground underneath it.

A quick call: “Well, Mariano, we are leaving the Fiat here for another week.”

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

“Hasta luego, Mariano!” See you next time!

Photo: There we are again, driving along the N340 between Almuñécar and Salobreña. My eye is drawn to the wall.

Don Simon, a little history

At the end of July, my Switzerland friend Simon passes away. On the funeral card, handwritten by his wife Diny, are the words: “Live today, tomorrow is not promised.” It is the title of a recent blog post of mine, and it touches me. On the plane to Switzerland, I look for photos. There are not many, because Simon did not like having his picture taken. And I write the story below, because, well, you might want to say a few words...

Photo: One of a series of photos: “On a bench with Simon through the years.” (26 March 2017)

Goodbye, Don Simon. “When are you coming back?” you asked at the end of May, when I was in Switzerland for a short visit. Well, here I am!

But this time, without an “I am looking forward to it,” as you always used to say just before I left.

And no “zum Wohl” in a moment, sitting on the bench with a glass in our hands, looking out towards the Bietschhorn.

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

Let us go back 25 years for a moment. My father called me over. His Parkinson’s had got worse. “Reijer, would you perhaps like to take over the chalet in Switzerland? Otherwise, I will sell it.” It was the place where I had spent my childhood. I had not been there for years, and Arthur, my partner at the time, said: “It is an opportunity. You should do it!”

Not long afterwards, I found myself in Kippel, in Switzerland’s Lötschental valley, sharing a glass of wine with Simon and Diny, a couple from the more easy-going, food-loving south of the Netherlands who had emigrated to Switzerland and were a generation older than me. Simon became the Abwart, the caretaker of the chalet, and a dear friend. The kind of friend you never see coming.

Hectic times. Arthur and I split up, I bought a house in Amsterdam dating from the 1920s that needed a lot of work, got promoted at work, started a course and cared for my father. In the middle of all that, the little stream behind the chalet flooded. Muddy water poured inside and the wall holding back the hillside became unstable. Simon called me from Switzerland and was the last straw: he got the full force of my frustration!

And yet, at that very moment, he chose friendship and pulled me through the whole mess.

After that, Simon regularly travelled along with a flower trader from Holland and always stayed with me in Amsterdam. As soon as the truck crossed the border, my phone would ring. “Mr Staats. What I fancy tonight is a nice steak. Tell me... What do you think?”

When I came home from work, there would invariably be a huge bunch of roses in my biggest vase. Not very fresh, mind you. They had only just survived the journey from the Netherlands to Switzerland and back. There would be a green salad with fruit, diced potatoes already sizzling in the frying pan, and the steak ready to go on the grill plate. Simon liked to eat before six. Suddenly, all the cutlery in the drawer would be lying spoon to spoon, and sometimes my fridge had been cleaned. The way Simon and Diny folded the bed linen in our Swiss linen cupboard is still the way I fold it today. Without them ever knowing it, they were my example for our Spanish adventure.

On Saturdays, Simon always had to go to the upmarket Dutch department store De Bijenkorf for a new pair of jeans and a white Tommy Hilfiger shirt. And in the evening, he would come along for a spot of bar-hopping (vodka lime) right in the heart of Amsterdam.

Just as regularly, I would head to Switzerland, and every time, my phone would ring as soon as I crossed the border. “How much longer, Mr Staats? Dinner is ready.” In Switzerland, he would immediately tell me which jobs were waiting to be done, such as replenishing the wood supply. My father taught me to work hard until the job was finished. Simon taught me to start early, stay focused and master the art of taking breaks. By three in the afternoon, it was usually five o’clock somewhere, and time to uncork a bottle of white Johannisberg.

Simon and Diny’s parties were generous, good-food-and-good-company affairs, with an open door for everyone. New Year’s Eve was a fixed date in the calendar. As Sinterklaas approached, the Dutch festive day on 5 December when children receive presents and adults exchange surprise gifts and write poems for each other, I would invariably hear Simon say, in his soft southern Dutch accent: “I am already looking forward to your Mean Poem,” referring to the teasing poem I wrote for him. To which he would reply: “Yes, yes, Mr Staats. Was sich neckt, das liebt sich!” (Those who tease each other love each other.)

When Johan came into my life, we regularly went to Switzerland together. How wonderful it was that Simon and Diny, our Swiss family, were there at our intimate wedding in Amsterdam. Simon and I gradually gave each other a little more space, but there was always a glass waiting and the table was always laid. And oh, how many times did I pop round just to cheekily cadge a cigarette and have a little chat?

Selling the chalet felt too painful to discuss with Simon. The slate plaque bearing the words “Klein Zwitserland 1978” (Little Switzerland, 1978) now hangs on the outside wall of our casita in Spain’s Lecrín Valley. Since then, at Simon and Diny’s home in Kippel, in Switzerland’s Lötschental valley, there has always been a made-up bed waiting for me, alongside the glass and the laid table.

It is a little history that passes through my mind as I fly over the Alps, on my way from Málaga to Geneva to say one last goodbye to my very special friend, Don Simon. Someone with whom, ever since that outburst of mine at the beginning, I never again felt the slightest irritation or discomfort.

Goodbye, Don Simon.

You walked alongside me for a while through life. There is the family you are born into, and then there is the family you choose.

Thank you for 25 years of friendship.

Photo: Meeting each other, fooling around, putting a ring on it and signing on the dotted line... Promising each other to sail in the same boat for another 70 years. Year after year, going out for dinner together on that special date. Happy 15th Anniversary, Johan! You can find the full photo series on Instagram.

On the way to Lolapaluza

Now that Johan’s Fiat is back at Mariano’s for another service, we take my car to Ático Lolapaluza for a changeover day. We drive up into Salobreña’s Casco Histórico, the old town, with Johan behind the wheel and me beside him. We pass the viewpoint and, right in the middle of the road, I spot an empty Alhambra beer bottle. Missed the recycling bin, I think. Meanwhile, Johan points to the left, towards the wild sea, with Villa Merise in the distance behind it. “Look...” he says.

Straight over the bottle. Bang!

“Watch where you’re going!” I sigh, irritated.

Johan parks the car in our garage, and we get started on the cleaning. Meanwhile, I am messaging our new guests about what time they would like to arrive the following day. Would a 12 noon early check-in be okay? Of course, the house is almost ready anyway. But then we walk towards the car and, sure enough, a flat tyre. I immediately cut my hand on a piece of glass stuck in the tyre.

Johan can only find a repair kit with a compressor and tyre repair fluid in the car, but with my hand bleeding, I really cannot face figuring out how it works. A tow truck is impossible in these narrow streets, and it is nearly 7 pm. Google Maps tells me that all the tyre shops are about to close. The car has to be out of our garage by noon tomorrow so the new guests can park there! A still-calm Johan and a frustrated me take a taxi home.

The plan for the following morning:

• First, try the repair kit, which looks far too modern for my liking. (No, of course it does not work...)

• If that fails, borrow a car jack from the earliest-opening garage and drive the Dyane up into the Casco Histórico. Only now does Johan start to worry. Will his clásico, his classic Citroën, actually make it up that steep hill?

• Remove the wheel, take it down to have the tyre replaced, then drive back up in the Dyane to put the wheel back on.

• Then have the other tyre replaced at the garage as well, because in Spain, the rule is that you must have two matching tyres on the same axle.

• Finally, sweaty and covered in black tyre grime, shake hands with the new guests, bang on time at noon. Because, well, German punctuallity: “Willkommen in Salobreña!”

Johan has meanwhile driven over to Casa Larimar, where another end-of-stay clean awaits us. Halfway through the afternoon, he sends me a message. Could I come and pick him up? A photo follows: a chunky screw, stuck deep in the Dyane’s tyre.

When we collect the Fiat from Mariano later, for the second time in a short while, his workshop is buzzing with life. The summer holidays are clearly over: cars with a history, plenty of Moroccan mechanics, and Mariano’s booming calls of “Hombreee!”, “Tíooo!” and “Primooo!” echoing around the place. He sings his way through the workshop, charming his customers as he goes. I immediately ask him to put the unused tyre from my car onto a spare rim, so that in future I really will have a spare wheel with me.

Mariano has stolen my heart.

Photo: Bad luck. Third time lucky. The front left wheel comes off. Oh dear, where shall we put the car key now?

Shit from the shower drain

Johan and I feel at home here in Spain, and we happily carry on with our Spanish profession: welcoming guests, cleaning and putting out fires. Shit comes bubbling up through a shower drain after someone has flushed too much toilet paper down the loo. A guest’s wet laundry gets firmly stuck in our top-loading washing machine after they start it with the drum flaps open and then force the handle. And they are checking out tomorrow morning! Johan and I always manage to sort out these little crises in no time. And what is the most common complaint of 2026? Without fail, it comes from our shorter female guests: the bathroom mirrors are hung too high.

The area around our Villa Merise is about to get a major upgrade, with a park-like housing development on the hillside. Johan is already dropping hints about Villa Merise: “With a few small changes, it would actually be a pretty good place for us to live one day.” A mí me gusta la idea también! I like the idea too!

I am already dreaming of the day when we will finally be free of the communal water reservoir and septic tank, and the bumps and potholes in our narrow street. The sewage system, municipal water supply and road are all on the list of improvements included in the project. With just seven houses in our little development, we will no longer need a shared fund for these communal facilities. Finally, after all these years, the role of El Presidente will be a thing of the past, and I will never have to listen to or sort out arguments between neighbours again.

But then it is time for the annual owners’ association meeting at our own home in Almuñécar. At the very last item on the agenda, La Presidenta, our no-nonsense neighbour Susana, announces that after two years in the job, she is stepping down. She proposes a vote for her successor and slowly scans everyone sitting around the table. There is a remarkably long silence. I look down, then at Johan, who has no idea of what is coming, but Susana’s eyes come to rest on me.

“Yo no!” I say. “Stress and all that... Surely you could not just stick it out for another year yourself?”

Even Johan does not come to my rescue. Susana triumphantly raises a finger. “Yo voto a Reijer...” I vote for Reijer.

Susana always gets her way.

And so, in my very first week, I find myself caught up in a dispute with a neighbour next door to our urbanization, who habitually parks his car awkwardly in front of one of our communal entrances. Clearly one drink too many under his belt, and with a French flag suddenly raised on the roof of his house, he lets loose a whole string of connards and putains in our direction. I am also bombarded with messages from mantenimiento, the maintenance team, about neighbours and guests who refuse to shower before entering the swimming pool, as well as all sorts of schedules, timesheets, faults and defects.

Susana’s husband had already told me: “Save them in your favourites.”

So now I am the Presidente in a second urbanization, but in a very different role. And actually, that is not so bad at all.

Photo: The park-like housing development on the hillside above Villa Merise. Villa Merise is at the bottom, the third house from the left. Source: Cumbre Villas.

As I come to the end of this 64th blog post and try to think of a fitting title, I get a little stuck. I exchange a few more messages with my hombre friend, and Diny and I send each other a photo of the little memorial we have created for Simon. What a coincidence. Both photos show exactly the same things: a portrait, a flower and a bottle of Don Simon.

I wonder how my fascination with the everyday goings-on of Spanish life, right here and now, fits together with nostalgia, loss and all the suffering in the world that I can get so worked up about. Then I come across an Instagram postI shared on 24 August 2025, the fifth anniversary of my sister’s death. The words say it all, really:

“What kind of light would Meris have brought to the world today? I can hear her disarming words, looking beyond the first thought, making a big thing small, distant things personal, faraway things close, anger softer, and hard things gentle.

Yes, I want that!

Oh, how I sometimes miss our fits of uncontrollable laughter.”

Hmm, making a big thing small? Somehow, this brings my 64th Andalusia blog post full circle. So I can say: ¡Hasta luego! Until the next blog, or until we meet in Spain, where Johan and I will be happy to welcome you.

Reijer