4 extracts from 'I might actually have lost the Plot' by Sue Wald
BLUFFING
Years ago, when we packed our belongings and moved from bustling Tenerife to peaceful El Hierro, we wanted to bring on the plane with us an aloof 10-year-old cat whose previous owner had no use for anymore, and a boisterous canary whose flight to freedom had brought him straight to us (most of our belongings would follow us on a lorry a few days later),but the chap at the Binter check-in counter was adamant that we could only take one pet into the cabin with us, as our plane's contingent was full.
I asked if our cat could go in the cargo area. "Yes, but" was his annoying answer.
For the cargo area, you apparently need a hard transportation box, whereas ours was a soft one, as per cabin regulations.
We were stuck between a rock and a hard place.
Walking away from the check-in queues towards the safety-check area with my brain firing on all pots, I grabbed both Blancanieves the cat in her soft bag, and Caruso the canary in his tiny transit cage, told my slightly hysterical mum and my crest-fallen daughter not to worry, and went into one of the airport loos to spend a penny.
I came out a few minutes later, inconspicuously holding my pet carrier, and we trouped over to the safety inspection zone, where I was asked to let the cat out of the bag by a lady in black.
I refused, explaining that the cat was of a nervous disposition and would try to escape. I would put her on the conveyor belt instead, to be x-rayed.
She relented, and we walked through the dread portal one by one.
I told the girls to keep walking, while I stopped at the little booth where another guard, glued to his screen, was scrutinizing the bags coming through on the conveyor belt.
When Blanca came into view, he stopped and stared.
He turned to look at me.
Grinning as madly as the proverbial Cheshire Cat I informed him that the airline's pet policy allows to bring their lunch onto the plane.
He looked at the screen once more, and waved me through with a smirk.
Hallelujah.
MOVING HOUSE WITH THE TROUPE
It had taken us just two scouting trips to find the house which is now our home.
The first, unfruitful one, in September 2020, as soon as Covid19 prohibitions were turned into mere restrictions and we were allowed to travel from the Canaries to mainland Spain, and another, fruitful literally at the last minute, in June 2021.
Three more trips by plane quickly followed, to first ferry my ninety-five-year-old gran, my seventy-one-year-old mum and three large suitcases over to Galicia on the 1st of July, only to go back to fetch my daughter, by then going on seventeen, and our two elderly tom cats on the 4th, and make one last return to the Canaries to sell what still remained to be sold, hand over the keys, mail off the remaining boxes and bring our four elderly dogs and whatever couldn't be handily packed into boxes or suitcases over to mainland Spain in the car.
Organizing and coordinating everything single-handedly and in such a short time had been no mean feat, so by the time my troupe finally was settled into my single cabin on the second ferry, the one that would transport us to the port of Huelva in southern Spain, and the hooting of its powerful fog horn was announcing our departure as it was slowly leaving the port of Santa Cruz de Tenerife in the middle of the night on the 27th of July, the adrenaline that had been powering me for a month was slowly draining away, and I was running on empty.
On the 'dog deck' the next morning, the ship leaving the port of Las Palmas de Gran Canaria with the sun shining and a few seagulls circling overhead, I soon found a chatty ex-soldier and a friendly ex-policeman to hang out with for the next couple of days - don't ask me if it's a theme in my life, I'm wondering about that, too.
One of the first questions that I was asked as we were trying not to get our dogs' leashes too tangled up, was if I was travelling only in the company of my dogs.
To which I nonchalantly replied that I had my granddad in the car. Both were staring at me in disbelief until one of them - the copper - ventured to inform me that people weren't allowed to remain in the cars during the journey.
I calmly assured them that granddad was quite alright, hidden away under the passenger seat.
Their staring intensified.
“In his urn.“ When the penny dropped, the ensuing mirth caused quite a few heads to turn in our direction.
SAINT LUCIA´S EYES
I let both mum and Susie off the leash today, so to speak.
Mum requested I take them to a particular beach about 10 minutes´ drive away, so she could have a look around and maybe find one of the coveted mummified opercula locally known as 'Ojos de Santa Lucía'.
When my daughter first found one we were quite perplexed - in all the years of combing international beaches for sea shells, I'd never seen anything like it: one side polished, with the typical spiral pattern clearly visible on the completely smooth, cream-coloured surface, and the other, a rugged, cameo-like embryo shape in tones of orange.
What Saint Lucy's eyes should have to do with them remains a complete mystery to me, though. Not even when considering that supposedly her eyes, gouged out prior to her execution, were miraculously restored, can I find the remotest connection to these 'trapdoors' that have been discarded by their molluscs.
How do these beliefs come about? Before my inner eye I see a Monty-Pythonish devotee, maybe a little delirious from the sun pelting down on beach goers' heads, stumbling over two of these things on a hot, Syracusian beach, whereupon he rushes back into town, makes a bee-line for the Basilica, half falling over himself several times on the way and scaring the bejesus out of everyone with his frequent cries of "Lo and behold: I have found Santa Lucía's eyes. It's a miracle!"
Today, on this wind-swept beach, no eyes anywhere.
Instead, all ears: Iridescent abalone shells are in abundance, silvery white and lovely.
THE CAPTAIN´S FLAGS
Apart from a selection of magnificent beaches, our small town boasts an eye-catcher of a wall.
It marks the boundary of the large property of a factory of salted fish dating back to 1799 near the harbour, and has over a hundred flags of countries from all over the world painted on it.
I had the pleasure to meet its by then ninety-four-year-old creator two years back, at the residency where I was completing my training as a geriatric nurse, when I was sent to give 'Montero', as he was called by the nun responsible for the infirmary, his breakfast.
Going in, I checked the plaque outside his door, and it said 'Jose Montero'.
At first, all I could see of him was the upper half of his face, as - after the morning ritual of washing the patients who couldn't be taken into the shower for being too poorly, in their beds - he had been tucked in underneath a white sheet, a hospital issue blue blanket, and a pale blue throw.
He opened his also pale blue eyes when I greeted him and announced breakfast.
I had seen him parked in his wheelchair at the common room's window, facing the sea, a few times, but we had never been introduced, nor had we exchanged any words so far.
There were quite a few patients in the ward, who, just like my grandmother in the final stage of Alzheimer's, didn't speak anymore, so I wasn't taken aback when he didn't answer. I just continued to chat to him amicably - not answering doesn't imply that the person is completely shut off, in most of the cases they do hear you and would like to react but unfortunately are unable to - and with Jose I noticed that he made a point at looking at me, and blink.
So I let myself be guided by his blinking whenever I asked him something.
"Would you like some joghurt, Jose?" Blink blink, and a hardly noticeable affirmative nod.
"Jose, have you ever been to Germany?" Blink blink.
"In the South?" Jose scrunched up his mouth and tried to shake his head.
"In the North, then? Blink blink.
Hamburg? He almost managed a nod.
"I'm from Bavaria, you see, and I have never been to Hamburg, only to Helgoland and Oldenburg.
But quite a few of the people I have met in the hamlet where I now live, have told me that either they themselves, or a relative have spent a few years working in Germany, or Switzerland." He had become quite animated by then, so I continued on the same lines, asking him if he had been working in Hamburg. Shake of the head.
"Were you on holiday?" Pinched mouth.
"Let's see. Did you at one point emigrate? In the Canaries, many people had relatives who had emigrated, and some had even come back, mostly from Venezuela." His hand emerged from underneath the blanket, doing the 'not quite' sign.
"Oh. So you've been to Germany and Venezuela, but you didn't stay there."
I gave it some thought. "Maybe Argentina?" Puckered lips.
"The Caribbean?" The hand again.
"Hum. Was it somewhere in the Americas?" Smile, nod.
"Maybe Florida?" Enthusiastic blinking.
"Right. So you lived in Florida, Jose. Do you speak English? I'm really a language teacher, you know." He was struggling to tell me something, so I shifted, leaning forward and looking straight at him.
His lips were forming a closed circle, almost like he was going to blow me a kiss, and the word "boat" came out, perfectly understandable.
"You were working on a boat?" His face lit up.
"Where else did you go? Have you been to the Far East?" Blink blink.
"Australia?" Nod.
"Africa?" Thumbs up.
"Blimey, you've been everywhere. Were you in the Navy?" Shake.
"Merchant fleet?" Nod.
"You were a sailor." His eyes were trying to tell me something.
"Captain?" Huge smile, thumbs up.
"Yes, Captain", he said.
By then I had noticed a photo on a side board, so I went over to fetch it, and showed it to him, asking whether the girls and boys were his grandchildren. He nodded, holding up five fingers.
"You have five grandchildren? Do they live near here?" "Florida" he mouthed.
"Don't you have family here?" He nodded, and pointed at me.
"I'm not family, Jose." He smiled, amused, but kept pointing.
"What are you trying to say? Do you have family where I live? Blink blink.
"By the harbour?", I asked, fishing. Nod.
"I don't really know anyone who lives there, except one gentleman called Fito, who is married to a German lady from Bremerhaven." Jose went red in the face, and broke into a huge smile, nodding his head and touching his chest with his right hand.
"You're not trying to tell me that Fito is your son, are you?" I asked him, incredulous. The old man shook his head.
"Is he your nephew?" Blink blink. "It's a small world, my Captain." Smile.
By then, I had fed Capitán Jose Montero all of his breakfast, he had taken his medicines, and he had even managed to swallow all of his beverage without choking, so I left him with a smile and the promise to try and come back with his lunch, thinking how amazing it was that two perfect strangers can make each other happy with just a little genuine effort at communication.
