Andalucia: when it rains, the fish will appear 37, about strippers and nailed rabbits II

Door San Daniel gepubliceerd in Verhalen en Poëzie
"Good morning," I greeted Fernandez, who was already waiting right next to the van. It was a little before 8 o'clock in the morning. "Morning San," was the reply, "Are you ready for it?" "Yes, as ready as I'll ever be," I said, taking the keys. The white van started and we slowly left the village. I had to get used to the gearing and the width of the van. "How do we go about it," I asked, "because I have no idea where to go." "Leave that to me," my legal friend said, who would function as a baker for a few weeks, "consider me to be a human GPS."

"Go first to the city and then a bit past it" there is a cafe that is located near the hardwarestore  and the blacksmith. We'll go there first. " I knew that place well, not only was it the only one in the area but there was also a garden center next to it and an auction house for 2nd hand items. "That cafe is doing well," said Fernandez, "and they want the bread early, and we'll take a cup of coffee straight away. 'That sounded nice to me and I understood that the owner of the cafe wanted the bread early because not only do people drink early in Andalucia, but they never take breakfast at home.

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That breakfast was often a tostada, a freshly toasted piece of bread, soaked in olive oil with grated tomato and tuna. In addition, of course, a drink. Apart from the early drink, the Andalusian breakfast can be described as healthy. A tomato is bursting with antioxidants, tuna is about the healthiest fish there is and olive oil lowers your cholesterol levels. For the price you don't have to leave it, a tostada will costs you1 euro 20 on the average.

When we arrived at the cafe, Fernandez was greeted with joy and a glass of anis was placed in front of him. Not a just a normal sized glass, no a lemonade glass. "Who do you have with you," the bar owner asked? "That's my aprendiz panadero," said Fernandez, "my apprentice baker, he is only allowed to drive." "un placer conocerte," the man said, shaking my hand, "pleased to meet you, I hope you'll become just as good a baker as Fernandez." My mouth almost fell open, Fernandez had apparently presented himself everywhere as the baker. "I still learn a lot from and about my boss every day," I chuckled.

"Do you also want an anis," the man asked, while paying the bread to Fernandez. I'd rather have a café solo, "I replied," thank you, but I'm driving today and I don't want any problems. "

A little later we drove out of the parking lot. "That man knows your habits well," I teased my "bakers" friend. "He has your drink waiting for you"

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Coincidence, "said the new baker. "beware of anis del mono, anis of the monkey," I warned him, "if you drink enough of it, that is what you will be." "It's not an orujo," said my anis monkey drinking friend, that's 80%, this is only 40%. "That makes all the difference," I admonished him, "man, it's just poison, have a coffee instead." "You see the petrol station," Fernandez changed the subject, "you can stop there and I'll take some bread in."

"We'll stop at the bar of the Mudo, the deaf and dumb one," my human GPS told me when we had left the station "that bar hardly ever closes and is located in the gypsy quarter." "I understand why your sister is taking the other route," I said, "I had heard stories of stabbing and shootings in broad daylight. "We'll take a break there," he said. "Again," I asked in surprise, "why?" "Timetable," said my living GPS, "we go past the Moro, the halal store and they always take a few crates, then you have to help me because with my shoulder I really can't lift that, but they won't open until later and the Chinese won't open until 10 am to receive the bread. " So we take a coffee and then first do the Moro and then the old gypsy quarter and finally the Chinese. I understood that we were following a schedule, which can be seen as extraordinary in Andalucia.

The Chinese was a shop like so many 'peseta' shops that had opened in recent years, they wholesaled all kinds of plastic items, tools and household items of a particularly poor quality. You could use a screwdriver for just one day and then it was broken.

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A remarkable agreement had been concluded between the Spanish and Chinese governments, which resulted in the Chinese who started a trade in Spain being exempted from tax. That was disastrous for small Spanish village shops, which immediately went bankrupt and were then taken over by, yes, new Chinese. Spaniards in general considered these outlets as 'money laundering' outfits. They used to sell a lot of trash, so I asked in surprise, "Do they buy bread?"

"They are our best customers," Fernandez assured me. "They made a deal with my brother-in-law. They pay us 60 cents a loaf of bread and take 15 crates, that goes with in the refrigeration and after other stores close they become evening shops, other Chinese man the shift and they sell our bread at 1 euro 20. '

"That's 15 black money crates every day," I suggested. "I know that for sure," said my legal friend, who was conducting and preparing all sorts of lawsuits in his real life, 'but we are also benefitting from it, so yes, what are we supposed to do? " "That's how things go," I realized. Everyone knows but keeps quiet because there is a profit to be made.

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We drove through a maze of streets in the gypsy neighborhood and Fernandez made me stop next to a grubby bar. A black woman stood behind the bar. "Ha," she shouted loudly when we entered, "here are the bakers!" She knew Fernandez from previous days and I carried the bread, we were now clearly the bakers.

"Put it down there," she said, looking me over from head to toe and grabbing the anis bottle. Moments later, Fernandez was sitting behind a large glass of anis and I behind my 2nd café solo. A man came walking out of the toilets. He still had his fly open and looked like a bum.

He came to us and stopped at a table on which he leaned to find balance. "I'm the macho here," he roared suddenly, "who doesn't know that, damn it?" "Don't pay attention," Fernandez advised me, carefully focusing his gaze on the anis.

"I'm the fucking macho here and I'm strong, I'm fucking strong," he belted out. It became quiet and I slowly took a sip of my coffee. "24 hours," the man shrieked, "I have been hard for 24 hours, my bat is made of steel," and his right hand descended to his crotch.

"Good Lord," I said to Fernandez, "that man is crazy!"That's the owner of the joint, "my anis drinking friend replied," he can become very aggressive.  I actually found him very aggressive as he was. "He doesn't hear himself," Fernandez continued, "he's deaf and dumb." As if that explained everything. "He is crazy," I said again, "it is 8:20 and someone is shouting at us that he has a cock made of steel, that is not normal."

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"We all find you very macho," said the black lady behind the bar, "but 24 hours is a very long time."

With a quick movement, the mudo lowered his pants, "toca me, toca me, yo soy duro," come feel me, I'm hard, "the man now shouted and I must honestly say that I was fascinated by the huge member which triumphantly flipped up . "Coca," said Fernandez, "let's go, just leave your drink, if you don't touch him, he will become aggressive."

At that moment a giant of man came walking in with the typical gypsy look. Just everything was wrong about him, in terms of flashy clothing and lots of bling bling gold. "What did I just hear," he shouted as he stepped in, "there is a macho here that is strong and hard...  for the love of God and his frigging angels, "and he began to fiddle with his pants as he stepped up to the mudo," I am the macho here, who doesn't understand that, by the holy virgin, who doesn't know that, I'll pound bloody understanding into you.' "Yes, we are going," I agreed, and with great strides and avoiding the 'hard' men we walked to the exit.

"See you tomorrow," the Negro woman called after us. In the car I started talking about what I had just seen. "That was absurd," I said. "It was not too bad," Fernandez thought, "we have sold our loaves and those men were on cocaine and then you get this sort of behavior." I nodded, I had just experienced it from close by.

"I understand that your sister is going into the mountains past the farmers," I said, "you don't want her in bars like this." "That's right," my judicial friend replied, who was a baker for today. "Do you know la Parilla," he wanted to know, "that is where we are going now," he announced, "that is on the way to the casco antiguo, you really do not want to walk the old town in the evening."

We stopped at the end of the square where the market was always held, right in front of the hotel or bar la Parilla. When we came in with the bread, the girl reached for the anis bottle and waved cheerfully at Fernandez. "You have no secrets for these people," I laughed. "A man can have a copa, can't he" Fernandez thought and sat down, "it is still early." I began to realize that my friend had a problem, a problem he called "coincidence," but which revealed itself in multiple glasses of anis.

also read part 38

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11/09/2019 21:18

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