Che-che's Boyfriend's Head and other half-tales

[smokingboot]

'And another thing,' said the bride-to-be in clear if heavily accented English, 'Nobody comment on Che-che's boyfriend's head, OK?. I know what you lot are like; no pointing, staring, joking or anything at all. Just ignore it.'
'What's wrong with Che-che's boyfriend's head?' larians and I waited while opinions flew through translation. Everybody in the family had something to add.
'It's huge!'
'It's odd!'
'It's shaped like a mushroom!'
'It's like a satellite-dish - '
'Or just a dish. '
'Or just a satellite.'
'It's different, that's all,' concluded my Aunt Fatima, a gentle and lovely lady I've not met in 20 years or more. I hadn't seen most of the family since I was 9 and my cousins were toddlers. The elders have shrunk, the younger are huge. Things have changed.


The bride was my cousin, Marie-Carmen, telling us that she knew how to deal with men. Apparently all you need are three phrases; 'Stand still. Shut up. Give me the money and I'll do it.'

Confident and happy, she smiles a lot these days. Her groom-to-be is a sparkling eyed young man from Guardaltaja, famous for its UFOs, and not for the regional eggwhite and asparagus soup, which causes great puzzlement among the wedding guests. The elders are chewing on their spoons in dismay and no-one can quite work out what this soup does apart from staple you to the floor, but it has been added to the menu as a gesture of respect for the groom's home town, and his strange culinary preferences are forgiven because he is very gallant. 'You are as beautiful as Andalucia herself,' he tells me, 'We are cousins now, so you must give me two kisses!' He says something similar to larians and they hug, but both concede the kisses are not quite the same. Everybody smiles, plays with the children, mucks around and gets laughed at. They like my boyfriend, and I am proud of his ability to fit in with my ever so Spanish mother's ever so Spanish family.


The day before the wedding, during which time we heard the warning about the head, the family gathered to celebrate my birthday, for which my uncle Pepe from the north made us all some kind of drink from a liquer called 'Arooba'* flavoured with coffee beans and god knows what else.

He told me that he was concocting a witches brew from Galicia, and if you knew the right incantation a witch would spring out of it, but he did not know the words so we were safe. Well, safe from the witch at least... He said this as he set fire to the liquid and it flared bright blue in the cauldron. The flames didn't go out, they just carried on dancing across the pot and up the ladle. After drinking a small glass of it I swear a whole coven could have leapt out together with Eliphas Levi, Aleister Crowley, the Goat of Mendez and Jacques De Molay, and I wouldn't have been surprised; Uncle Pepe is a bit of a scamp.


There is so much I could say about our visit to Granada. The city is much more cosmopolitan than it ever was, though it remains magical with the Alhambra at its heart. As excavations continue, the citadel reveals more, for it transpires that the Alhambra was a medina in itself, from fortress to palace surrounded by poetry and water music, gardens and legends. I fell in love with the Carrera Del Darro, a pretty old street perfect for wannabe bohemians, winding along the riverside just under the Moorish palace. That shrinking river has its own warning, as do the snowbare tops of the mountains looming above the city. 'We shall lack water this year' said my mother. Perhaps they lack water every summer. But the mountains grow more brown and the river has not reached its traditional banks in a very long while. It is not a good sign.



We had no time to worry about it. The birthday, the wedding, the barbeques punctuated by volleyball in the pool, the relentless hospitality...we're both knackered. The wedding saw the elegant Che-che turn up with her oddly headed beau, and though his haircut did indeed resemble the top of a ziggurat, the gaffs were less to do with staring at him than getting the swan-necked beauty's name wrong; Every now and then one of the Brits would accidently call her 'Chi-chi,' which she ignored with queenly forbearance considering that said endearment is Spanish slang for vagina.

All seemed well until an ancient wound re-opened. My brother came to find me, his expression aghast. He reminded me of a huge argument we had as children, when he accused me of deliberately vandalising his X-men comics. I knew nothing of it and said so, told him to go to hell, wandered off and forgot the whole thing. He never quite forgave me for the ruin of his beloved collection. Well, after nearly 3 decades, over a cigarette or two and an awful lot of booze the culprit has been found. I had indeed been nowhere near said comics; Genial cousin Juan Ramon, now distinguishable by his Moses beard, was not always divinely well behaved; as a yoof he found the comics, settled down to read them and masturbated into the lot.

I wish they hadn't told me while I was trying to eat the soup.


*Or something like that.

Comments

[smokingboot.livejournal.com]

Thank you, certainly it was more fun than I was expecting. Family issues are never easy for me, but they were a very kind and generous bunch of people, with hospitality that just won't quit.

What a strange land Spain is!