So, I ventured outside again and took photos of the many bullet casings lying around.
Also, I noticed someone following me with a drone.
And then, most cunning of all the attempts on my life, I have narrowly avoided such holes, again and again. They are dug on the paths that I normally walk along, dangerously also at night. They are so deep that it’s impossible to see all the way to the bottom. The walls are so steep that there wouldn’t be any chance of climbing out. And, of course, nobody would ever find me there.
I am dreading the thought of how many skeletons are down there.
Why anyone would want me dead or disappeared so badly, I really have no idea. Maybe it’s just like John Steinbeck wrote in The Pastures of Heaven:
It is a difficult thing and one requiring great tact quickly to become accepted in a rural community.
I had gone to Huéscar for market day, thinking I might as well look for my favorite Spanish newspaper, El Pais. It would find it at the tobacco shop, I was told.
As I entered the store, just around the corner from the cathedral of Santa María la Mayor, the old owner, in a plaid shirt with a few buttons too many unbuttoned, didn’t bother to look up from his own newspaper. But the cigar which he held between his lips, early in the morning, gave me another idea.
“Sir,” I announced my presence, “you wouldn’t happen to have any Toscano cigars?”
He raised his head slowly and squinted at me, as if trying to ascertain if I had spoken in earnest or in jest. “What?”, he asked.
“Toscano cigars. The ones from Italy.”
“From Italy?”, he repeated, his expression unchanged, as if we were playing a game of high-stakes poker. “Well, what do they look like, son?”
“They are about 10 cm long and you break them into two parts.”
While this may sound strange to anyone not familiar with cigars, it spurred the old man into slow motion. “Wait here,” he commanded with a pointed finger, stepping down the stairs below his shop. Something was creaking terribly, and I couldn’t make out if it was the wooden planks or his bones.
After what seemed like eternity, he came back up with an old cardboard box. I could see that he had just removed the dust of decades, for cobwebs clung to his right sleeve.
“When you spoke about breaking them into two parts, I remembered something,” he said, clinging to the closed treasure chest. “We used to have one customer, just that one, who ordered large quantities of these cigars. He came up once a month and bought whatever stock we had.”
The gentleman was still puffing on his cigar, throwing the ash on the ground, as he continued: “He was a tall, handsome fellow, like you. I was only a boy back then, working with my father, so it must have been in the 60s.”
“So, do you still have some?”, I inquired.
When he opened the box, there were six packages of the finest Toscano cigars, untouched. “He didn’t pick up the last order and I never saw him again. Got no idea who the fellow was and what became of him.”
Sensing the opportunity of a bargain, I proposed to buy the whole lot.
After the transaction was completed and I was just one step away from entering in to the fresh air, which I could now pollute with pleasure, the owner called after me: “You know, I seem to remember that the fellow had a hat just like yours.”
As I got home to Venta Micena, I stepped out of the house (we house-sitters never smoke inside) to enjoy one of the cigars, and I felt like I was traveling back in time. Or maybe the cigars had somehow gotten stronger while stowed away for half a century.
I was a bit shocked because I didn’t know there were still bullfights. After all, Pope Pius V had already banned them in 1567. Since then, we call the Pope’s edicts “papal bulls”.
Now, I am in two minds.
On the one hand, I detest spectacles like that and don’t want to support them. Also, I am really worried that I would get sick or faint. (I fainted in the first-aid course and I can’t even watch horror movies, and by that, I mean those with a PG-13 rating.)
On the other hand, as a blogger, I am your eyes and ears in this world. My own feelings and my subsequent nightmares are less important than your right to first-hand reporting.
So, I am asking for your opinion on this matter. Just write “yes” or “no” in the comment field below, with an explanation if you want. As the whole thing costs a whopping 18 €, with no student discount given (although there is one for children under the age of 14, and am I the only one who finds that sick?), I am also thankful for any donation to my blog. You will receive a personal postcard, probably splattered with blood.
My next house- and cat-sitting job will take me to Calgary in Canada during the deepest winter, from December to March. I knew that it would be cold and full of snow, of course, and it’s actually what I have been looking forward to. Because cold winters are good for productivity, as I can’t go for long walks and sit in the park all day. So, you, dear readers, should expect many more articles this winter.
But then, a friend from Cochrane, close to Calgary, sent this photo taken on October 2nd and I got slightly worried.
If this is the beginning of autumn, I wonder what real winter will look – and feel – like in Canada.
Why are there chimneys and antennas rising from the ground?
That’s simple. Because people are living under the ground. Like hobbits.
I shall attempt to get acquainted with someone living in such a cave and to obtain an invitation, so that I can report on how the Flintstones live. It doesn’t even seem to be so unusual here, because the real estate agents in the region advertise caves just like houses.
Sure, World War II had some bad sides to it.
But at least it got the Oktoberfest suspended between 1939 and 1945.
Many times as I entered Israel, I was questioned thoroughly about the origin of my last name by the border guards. I never understood what was so special or suspicious about it. Until now.
Vegemite fans all over Europe are rooting for the free-trade agreement between the EU and Australia.
– Turkey: The lira is falling because of an international conspiracy.
– Venezuela: We only have inflation because of an international conspiracy.
– Russia: The drop of the ruble is due to an international conspiracy.
=> I think I have figured out who is to blame for my empty bank account.
John le Carré: “If I had known that most anglophone people pronounce it like ‘curry’, I would have chosen a different pen name.”
Thanks to Edith Lorena Banda Cardona for Playing Dead by Elizabeth Greenwood. This book is giving me some ideas…
For fellow history students or anyone with an interest in historical maps, the whole History of Cartography is online and searchable. A treasure trove!
Oops, I booked a flight from Canada to the UK in April 2019, not considering that’s after the effective date of Brexit. Let’s see if I will need a visa by then.
“He explained in great detail that in Romania, the best deals could be made with the public administration, and that if one wanted to save time and possible bribes, it was advisable to become a member of the public administration oneself.”
I am rather surprised that people are still surprised by revelations of Catholic child abuse. It’s long been known as a systemic problem, also in a parish near you.
People keep saying that flights have gotten cheaper. But in 1992, I flew to Australia, which I couldn’t afford today. So something ain’t right.
I don’t like flies, and I am not a big fan of butter.
But I love butterflies.
(How to short-circuit “artificial intelligence”.)
For my birthday party, I want a show like this. Nothing less will do.
The Happy Hermit 