When a stalker is not a stalker

It’s the little things that bring home the cultural differences between nations.

That’s because they affect our lives far more. For instance, Spain gives kids presents on Twelfth Night rather than Christmas Day. That makes some sense because it’s the anniversary of the arrival of the Three Kings to give presents to the infant Christ. In any case, sensible or not, the custom affects us once a year.

Similarly, the cult of machismo which infects a sadly large percentage of Spanish men, only really emerges as a problem when an offence is committed. That’s only a news item for us, though it’s something far worse for the victim (sometimes involving her death). 

Of course, it gets a far higher profile when it’s Luis Rubiales, the President of the Spanish Football Federation, kissing a world-cup-winning woman player on the lips, without her consent. Indeed, we can all then be caught up in the scandal and indignation (or in other people’s cases, in his defence), praying for him to be fired (or, for those others, vindicated). But it’s still remote from our daily lives.

On the other hand, unlike any of the other countries in which Danielle and I have lived – England, France and Germany – where council lorries call weekly or so to collect rubbish, and it gets taken as long as we’ve remembered to put our bins out on time, in Spain the system is different. There are large containers on the edges of pavements around the neighbourhood and our job is just to deposit our rubbish in them whenever our bins need emptying. That’s true of general waste as of recycling.

Since, for reasons that are not entirely clear to me, we seem to produce a huge amount of rubbish and, above all, of recycling even though there are only two of us, this difference really impacts on my life. I find myself popping down to the bins every other day, and sometimes – especially when the grandkids are with us – every day, so this is a difference that I truly feel in my own personal existence.

Not that it’s a bad thing. Gone is the need to remember when the bins have to be put out, and the terrible panic when you realise at midnight – or worse still, six in the morning – that you’ve forgotten to do so. You empty your bins when they need emptying, safe in the knowledge that the council lorries will be around within a day or so to empty the containers. You walk a little further than with the other system, but that’s not much of a hardship.

Now, one of the things I’m sure I’ve mentioned before is how having dogs helps you make friends. Walking dogs is like dropping kids off at school. It brings you into contact with people who are happy to chat to you, and some of them turn into something more than mere acquaintances.

Toffee and Luci out for a walk
A great hook for friendships, like dropping kids off at school

Miriam is a lovely lady, the first Miriam in her family after three generations of Marias on the female side. Of course, Miriam is only another form of Maria, so her parents didn’t stray far when they named her. And she and her equally appealing husband Alex made sure that the family would revert to norm quickly, when they named their own daughter Maria.

Our little orange dog Toffee gets on very well with theirs, and even the black one Luci seems OK about running into them. So whenever we meet, there’s a great deal of celebration, made all the more joyous by the fact that Miriam always carries dog treats with her, and always gives our two one or two of them, or more if she can get away with it.

The friendship that sprung up between the dogs and them quickly communicated itself to the humans, and we’ve even enjoyed having them around to dinner.

Recently, I took some recycling out quite late in the evening. I take the whole lot with me and then sort it out, putting the paper, the glass and the plastic or metal each in their appropriate receptacle. The containers all have their openings facing a fence which is pretty close to them, and once I was on that side of the containers, in the deepening darkness, I was out of sight of the road. 

When I came round the corner of one of the containers, therefore, and stepped out into the fading light, I was concerned to see a young woman right in front of me. My fear was that I might have scared her. A man appearing at night from what might seem to be a hiding place? It could be worrying. So I was quick to say ‘Hi’. 

Well, this being Spain, I said ‘Hola’.

She did look at me a little quizzically, but then smiled and said ‘Hola’ back before she got into a car that had stopped to pick her up with the little dog she was walking. No harm done, I felt. I obviously hadn’t upset her too much.

A day or two later, I ran into Miriam and Alex again, as we were walking our dogs.

“Hey,” Miriam told me, “Maria saw you the other night.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yes, you were by the containers, dumping some recycling. She was with the dog.”

Things clicked into place.

“That was Maria!”

“Yes,” Alex told me, “she thought you might not have recognised her. But she recognised you. And she told us, ‘Well, he said ‘hola’ to me, so I reckon he must have known who I was’. Apparently she said ‘hola’ back to you.”

Ah, well. There was I worried I might be taken for a stalker. Whereas, in fact, far from frightening the woman I more or less sprang out on, I’d merely had the bad manners to fail to recognise her as a friend.

Still, I suppose that’s a lot less serious. No one could take me for a follower of Luis Rubiales based on so little. 

Or, at any rate, I hope not.