MI CASA ES…

Since moving to Spain my popularity has soared.  For the first time in my life, I have a social circle that seems to increase exponentially on a weekly basis.  If I was a politician, I would be calling elections on a monthly basis to ogle at my share of the approving electorate.  Indeed, my popularity ratings would make Mugabe or Kim Ill Sung’s look puny by comparison and I would quickly turn into the egotistic dictator I have always wanted to be.

Of course, it has not always been like this.  Indeed, in the UK I was the person everyone avoided at the bar.  No-one sent me invitations to parties and even double-glazing salesmen avoided our home, notwithstanding the decaying windows perilously balanced on their rotten frames.  Perhaps even more indicative was the response of the normally sociable people at Jehovas Witness - who back-tracked rapidly as they saw me approaching for a pleasant chat.

And yet, here I am, at the height of my popularity.  And not just popularity but international popularity.  The pleasant Valencian air has clearly transformed me into a person renowned for his scintillating company: a positively seductive elegance of wit and stunning repartee.  Clearly, I am more handsome than I ever imagined and now possess a charismatic personality that makes me irrisistible.

I feel good!  I do.  Well, at least, I did until recently when a comment from my wife finally gave me pause for thought.

Being male, I have a tendency to ignore what my wife says.  There is something about the female voice that makes a man instinctively feel that he knows best.  This is understandable, frankly.  Women do tend to go on a bit and have a habit of dissecting things into their most distilled form, whilst probing at length into complicated emotional matters best left alone.  This is all very well - and just about bearable when one is post-coital.  However, I am an alpha male with a line of battling genes going back ten thousand years, with instincts finely honed to block out female advice.

After all, deep in my psyche are the wars for survival fought by my forefathers during the dinosaur era.  On the whole, facing a creature in those days with a long piece of sharpened wood was not the occasion for detailed discusssions.  It was a time for decisive action and, more importantly, for grabbing dinner whilst it presented itself.  Certainly, rambling feminine probes into exactly how one felt and whether it was really the right thing to do were not constructive.

I am not suggesting that a sharp sighted female pointing out that one´s intended prey was not, in fact, a tasty deer but the half-concealed rear end of a Tyrannosaurus Rex was unhelpful.  It´s just that, as a guy, you need to be told these things pretty simply – and preferably well before you throw the spear.  The trouble is that normally the deed is done before you have worked out the endless psychobabble the advice is wrapped up in.

I explain this, as it took some time before the full import of my wife’s comments percolated through my dinosaur-wired brain.  “The reason that you are suddenly so popular,” she had enunciated, as if talking to a simple child, “is because we now live in Spain.”  

I seem to remember looking at her blankly, whilst feeling somewhat offended and more than a little puzzled by her oddly oblique reference to Spain.  Reacting like most men, my brain ran through a billion computations within milli-seconds, whilst trying to fathom out the key to this new code.  Had I forgotten to tell her I loved her... that her hair looked great...she had lost weight?  Was the rubbish still at the front door or the socket for her hair dryer not working again?  Or was she referring to a comment I had made about her gorgeous best friend or whether we should go on holiday in Ibiza?  Or did ‘Spain’ mean we had run out of cat food?  A hard one to call, frankly.

“Our many ‘friends’, she had sighed heavily, “come because we are beside the Mediterreanean sea in one of the most beautiful and desirable parts of the world.  Not,” she said, rather too emphatically, “because they want to see you again.”

“Rubbish!” I recall saying, haughtily.

“We are a cheap holiday destination,” pronounced my wife, dismissively.

It was not until a few weeks later that the significance of her remarks hit home.  A coven of Jehovas Witness’ from the UK rang me up to see if they could pop over for a week to see us.  It was enough to alert even my instincts and to ensure that I refused outright.

I have to say that my ego is a little bruised.  It is bad enough returning to my previous unpopularity - but the indignity of finding that my wife was right yet again is always far, far worse.  I wonder if my ancestors suffered from the same problem whilst trudging around Neanderthal Europe with a trail of unwelcome guests.  Probably!  Or at least the few that survived attacking the wrong dinosaur!

Copyright Nick Snelling (www.nicholassnelling.com) author of three books on Spain including ‘How to Move Safely to Spain’ (www.movesafelytospain.com)