I'm a hispanophile, or an iberophile. Either way, I have a passion for Spain, and almost all things Spanish. It's a country that I love to visit because it's blessed with some of the best examples of everything. Hugely varied, but always breath-taking countryside, exciting cities and sleepy villages, dripping with centuries of history and culture. A true gastronomic paradise; meats, and fruits, and vegetables, accompanied by fantastic wines. And warm, friendly (if rather noisy) people who typify the vibrancy and warmth of southern Europe.
This weekend, I visited a friend living temporarily (thankfully) in Benalmadena (the stress is on the third syllable, not the fourth).
Although the name is Moorish, meaning 'Children of the Mines, the town dates back to long before that, and has been settled waves of invaders and migrants; Phoenicians, Greeks, Romans, Vandals, Moors, and early Christians, all of whom have left their mark. Sadly, having flourished under waves of settlers, Benalmadena seems to have met its nemesis.....................the British ex-pat community, supported by their conquering seasonal army of British tourists, and bolstered by a smattering of Dutch, German, and Irish holiday-making mercenaries.
Benalmadena has turned in the genetic equivalent of a badly-made horror film. Imagine a place almost entirely populated with all those people you would normally cross the road, or even move home, to avoid. Only there, you can't cross the road to avoid them because they're on the other side too! It's the Invasion of the Calorie Snatchers, The Cultural Black Hole, The Day Fashion Stood Still, or the 'All-Day Breakfast Club'.
The standing army is an 'ex-pat' community of flabby or pinched-looking, aging northern couples (combined ages 125 years), who have never been further from Benalmadena than a bus trip to the shopping centre in Fuengirola. They claim to 'know a lot about the area', and to 'love all things Spanish', but can barely speak 10 words of the language (badly), and can't tell you who the Prime Minister is (of Spain or Britain). They shuffle mutely along the seafront in their sandals and comfortable seasonal outfits, fleeces in the winter, shorts, beer-bellies and elasticated skirts in summer, occasionally tut-tutting about the dog shit which coats the pavements, and moaning about the Spanish and how unfriendly they are. Then, they slink miserably and silently back to their badly-decorated 'piece of home' set back from the noise if the seafront, to cook up yet another 'piece of home'. They 'really do love all things Spanish', but can't bring themselves to eat 'foreign food', which excludes anything that can't be found on the shelves of Sainsbury or Iceland, and can't be microwaved, or boiled in the bag. Spanish food is too greasy, heavy, acidic, salty, fishy, bony................................the list goes on. Just the thought of it sends them rushing for the Andrew's Salts.
Why these whingeing old wind-bags don't just move to somewhere less foreign, like Torquay or Bournemouth, is anyone's guess. Property prices? The opportunity to feel more interesting than drying paint? Or maybe just to surround themselves with an identical group of geriatric dullards so that they don't feel quite so insignificant. But, unfortunately, Spain drew the shortest straw in the global ex-pat lottery, and was awarded a lifetime's supply of moaning human cuckoos.
