CHAPTER FOUR Animals!

CHAPTER FOUR
Animals!

About a ten minute walk from the hotel there was a parrot park or mini-zoo. On a Friday morning I walked groups down along the sea front and into the park. This was very interesting for the guests but after three weeks became very boring for me.
There were two emus, however, that I did find fascinating, Rod and Hull. The three us loved each other. After the guests paid their entrance I would take them straight away to meet my feathered friends. Introductions complete, I then walked across the road to await everybody in a local hostelry. On one particular occasion, whilst drinking my customary coffee and brandy, my Brits all came to join me on the patio. As we strolled back along the promenade I became aware that we were quickly gathering an audience. Unusual, as most people had become accustomed to the crocodile-file Brits on their guided walks. Turning around, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Rod and Hull had escaped their cage and were walking pleasantly in a line behind my group, heads held high.
Animals played a large part in the guest’s days at the hotel. Although there were signs displayed all around the outside of the building instructing not to feed the dogs, this never deterred anyone. Strays were somewhat of a pest around the town. Brits are known to have a soft heart for animals so it
wasn’t very surprising that, before long packs would convene on the patio awaiting their daily rations. This wasn’t too bad while they were quiet, but when nightfall came the same people with the tidbits were the complainers awoken by the barking.
Two of the dogs soon became the favorites. Patch, you can imagine why, was a small mongrel who would adopt one couple at a time as his surrogate mum and dad. He would stand sentry duty when they were inside and escort them on their walks playing the dutiful bodyguard. The strange thing about Patch was that he always seemed to know when his parents were going home and would arrive at the hotel, barking furiously just as they were getting on the coach. As soon as they left he would sit and wait for the next group of arrivals and the process would start over. What we did notice was that the surrogates always looked similar so the theory was put forward that they must resemble his original masters. He was really awaiting their return.
Hoppy was mine, or rather I was his. He ruled the pack and no other dog could come near me when he was around. A three-legged Alsatian, he wasn’t put off when I conducted my walks. Seeming to know all the routes, he would turn up at some point, and ride shotgun guaranteeing us safe passage through the wilderness.
By the end of my second month in resort all the dogs had shiny leather collars, the only way to ensure that the catcher didn’t reach his target, and another role had been added to my job description, that of dog doctor. The animals had their own standing account at the vets set up by the guests and this would be added to on each departure day. We even had people use a large amount of their hard earned savings in taking the animals back to the UK.
Staying on the subject of animals, I’m sure that Garth, wherever he is today, will still be thinking of Bluebeard the parrot. He loved that bird.
Every Tuesday it was Garth’s job to hijack the noddy train. You know the type, every Spanish resort has one. We would take it over and shuttle one hundred Brits along the seafront yelling “Choo, Choo” at every possible opportunity. At the end of the line we then fed them mountains of fresh sardines and copious amounts of rough red wine. Even the mildest mouse became a tiger on those mornings.
Garth’s pride and joy at the beach bar was Bluebeard, a green and blue African parrot who someone, we never did find out, had taught to tell the punch lines of dirty jokes. Just when you thought he’d finished he’d yell out, “Oggy! Oggy! Oggy!” It wasn’t long before he had us all responding, just as loud, “Oi! Oi! Oi!”
He used to let you tickle him under the chin, at the same time lowering his head, until it was level with his perch. Garth used to love showing off this party piece until one morning it all went wrong. Trick accomplished, Bluebeard didn’t get up again. Garth went into spasms of horror trying to work out how he’d explain this to the owner who wasn’t exactly a small man. The parrot was dead! Well, the sardines and wine
became a wake as we all watched the limp body clutching to the perch. As the silenced crawled on, we looked at our watches, working out how to pay the bill and leave without anyone noticing. “Ha! Ha! Ha!” Someone must have cracked, but no, it was Bluebird, stood upright and laughing loudly as he paced around his cage. That parrot had a sense of humor.
Earlier on I mentioned that the local bar owners made us feel very welcome. Of course, we used to recommend establishments and we were given the odd meal or drink in return. We all had our own favorites.
Mine was a jazz bar run by a beautiful English lady, rather strange for this part of Spain. She made us feel at home but we could never understand why her husband was always away on business. One evening I was to find out.
Harold was a rather large framed man who, if he said it was Friday on a Monday, you wouldn’t argue the point. He was friendly enough and always bought a beer. But there was that certain thing we couldn’t just put our finger on. Sharon was always a different person when he was around, not the happy go lucky cockney that we loved. She would stay behind the bar and just greet our entrance with a curt “Good Evening.” Harold seemed to be always accompanied by very large guys with bent noses. He watched Sharon as she worked, from a stool placed at the bar from where he could always see the door. There was a curtain behind him, which I later learned, led to a quick exit from the building.
One evening, in the hotel bar, I got into conversation with a guy. As a rep, you will talk to anyone and then look for the get out if things get too boring or heavy. He was not one of mine so the usual excuses were made,
but, before I left, he asked me where a good bar was to go in town. As Harold had asked me to send people down, and as a means of escape, I gave
him the address, didn’t think anymore of it, and went off to prepare for my own night out.
About three hours later I was walking past the jazz club when Sharon popped her head out of the door. Apparently she’d been waiting, hoping I would appear. She looked nervous as she spoke. “You’d better go in, He wants to see you. He’s in the back room!”
As I walked through I noticed the guy from the hotel at the bar passing the time with one of the locals. Not bothering to order a drink I swept aside the curtain and entered “the inner sanctum.” Glancing across Harold was sat on the other side drinking his usual gin and tonic. There was no smile, no welcome. Next to him stood a man mountain who appeared larger by the second. Something was definitely wrong. “You have ten minutes to get HIM out of here!” He left me in no way wondering whom he meant as I did an about turn and made friends once more with the guy from the hotel. A quick beer was all it took to persuade the now quite drunk guest that maybe the disco would be a more interesting place. “There’re lots of girls there!”
As we left the bar Sharon winked and whispered, “Come back later, love, I’ll explain.” A couple of hours and a few beers further on she smiled and said, “He was from the Met!” Harold was back to his normal smiling self and the incident was never mentioned again.
I’ve already mentioned that repping is a way of life. It’s also very incestuous. In that, I mean that reps almost always tend to mingle and socialize amongst themselves. The danger with this, of course, is that there is a tendency to become very insular, the “us and them” syndrome, guests and reps. It’s a cop out to stay within one’s peer group. They know the problems. They understand. It’s so easy to go out, get drunk, and just say, “I’ve had a bad day!” Everyone understands. On nights out the conversation always revolved around work. Mixing with other Companies became competitive as the alcohol took effect and this was then forgotten as members of the opposite sex were noticed. Next morning, usually a day off, we all met to compare hangovers, eat greasy breakfasts with the standard phrase “Never again!”
It didn’t take me long to get bored with this. I could, basically, have the same at home. Later, it was much more fun to go out and make a fool of myself with the locals, practicing the language and ordering the wrong dishes off a menu. It felt good when colleagues enquired what I was up to and, sometimes, I invited them along. I also realized that true friends are few and far between. Closeness does happen but that fades away as people move
resorts and countries. Contacts are kept but most fade away when other interests appear on the scene giving reps a fickle reputation in relationships.
Part of our briefing during training was not to make any statements to the Press under any circumstances. Any communiqués were to be made through a specialist office in the UK. We were always very wary, especially when any guest declared himself or herself to be members of the Third State. Any problem that could not be sorted out quickly was often met with a threat to contact a well-known consumer programme on TV. There was one guest who, when asked if he was enjoying himself, retorted, “Brilliant, but I’m going to complain!” He explained that out of twenty-nine brilliant holidays twenty-eight complaints had given him money back and part financed the next adventure. Little did he know that we then made our report.
Dating programmes on TV are big business and very popular. We had our share or these and claimed our fifteen minutes of fame.
One series, which usually specialized in young people, decided to film a “Special”, involving pensioners as the stars. Well, we had our brief. “Make the TV crew welcome and assist them in every way possible preparing for the arrival of the VIP Romantics!”
The Director showed us a film of the programme broadcast in the UK. The couple appeared witty and got on well together. They were a media match. It became my role to greet them at the airport and escort their limo back to Almunicar. All smiles for the cameras, things changed on route. Within ten minutes after leaving the car park they were at it, hammer and tongs. The cameras stopped; there was total silence as they sipped their champagne. The car was a “stretch” and our “loving couple” made sure that they were seated at separate ends. I was caught in the middle like some sort of marriage counselor. A minute of silence is a long time in conversation. Imagine an hour and a half, on what became the road to hell. All changed on the hotel forecourt. Cameras rolling, our couple stepped out of the car, ideal lovers as they checked in and went to their separate rooms.
They were never together, apart from filming. The romantic dinner, the moonlit beach walk, the “Choo, Choo” Sardine Train. All was lover’s paradise. Even Bluebeard had his fifteen minutes. For the rest, Doris was always surrounded by budding Lotharios and, as for Hugh, well he just went fishing. Since then, whenever I watch one of these shows, I don’t believe a word. It’s just for the ratings. TV magic. Were they real people or simply actors? We never did find out.
We had another media visitor. A well-known newspaper TV critic was assigned to us for a week for a Christmas travel special. “What were the senior citizens really like on holiday?” He arrived at Malaga, jeans and t-shirt clad with a young photographer who had a penchant for tea, a total non-alcoholic. Dave was a different story. Never without a whisky in his
hand, he adopted the policy of “get drunk and get to know the guests.” He became known, very quickly by the bar staff, as the “cigarette man” as the ashtray was never allowed to be changed. The empty packets were his memory note pads. Ian, his film man, carried him up to bed four out of the seven nights that he was with us. Saying this, his copy, when we received it, could only be described as sheer brilliance and very funny. He must have had an amazing memory, despite the scotch, or the extra case full of empty cigarette packets had definitely done the job.
Christmas was definitely different in Spain. For a start, they never really celebrate December 25th. For them, the big day is January 6th. All the children await the Three Kings and open their presents on Epiphany morning.
Christmas caused Julia, David, Garth and myself concern, not least the festive pudding. Our Company mailed puddings to every hotel in the world where they had guests, a little piece of home. Previously this had caused problems. No chef outside of Britain, apparently, knows how to cook this specialty. In Cyprus it was served with gravy and two veg and the Tunisians served a plate of plum pudding with various olives. This resulted in the four of us giving the chef a crash course in Brit gastronomy.
As things turned out Christmas day was a great success. Everyone wore their customary silly hat and sat down to a lunch that resulted in a mix of Spanish and British tradition. The chef did a great job with the pudding but we all accepted failure gracefully where the brandy sauce was concerned. The only hiccup was a summons to the Managers office half way through the meal. He had budgeted half a bottle of wine per person. We had two hundred and fifty guests at the tables. At the time of the call they had consumed five hundred bottles between them.
“What the hell!” Luis shrugged, “It’s Christmas! Fancy a cognac?”
The festivities came and went. People went home and new ones arrived. The year went on and day moved into day. The same questions were thrown at us as we learnt to answer them as if we’d never heard them before. We could cope with anything! Then the Americans arrived!
The power of the Press is amazing. The article from our Scottish friend had been mailed to a friend in the States and someone had deemed it a good idea to organize a trip across the Atlantic for a group of fifty Pennsylvanians. No worries, you might be thinking. Well! Americans are completely different from us Brits. We were in for a wide awakening. I had always thought of Americans as a totally different breed. That view would be confirmed over the next month. I had never met such a demanding group of people before. All things in the States are bigger and better and I added a new role to my job description, Babysitter.
Mrs. Winkle wanted to be told how to do everything. She would never start her day without her timetable. All things might be bigger and better but these people had no spirit of adventure, no initiative. They would not even go into town without a guide to take care of them. Convinced that they had come to a third world we all became mother and father to the group. My usual “start to the holiday” resort walk took four hours as individuals wandered away marked only with their “I’m Bill from Pennsylvania” badges. We used to have a “phrase of the week” board in the hotel reception. This was an amusing focal point, which anyone could add to. This rapidly changed to a ‘Quote of the Year Competition” as, whilst on an
excursion, Phyllis from Sashtucket enquired, “Why are all the Spanish towns named after American places?”
I must admit, I am over exaggerating just a tad. Amongst the group there were those who came across as being normal. We also had our fair share of eccentrics.
Gladys was lovely. Eight five years old, she originally came from Canada but had married a GI during the war. Widowed now, she was the quiet one of the group and would just wile away her days sitting on the terrace or strolling along the promenade.
One of the excursions was a typical Spanish night when we would take them into the hills for the customary paella and sangria. The last five hundred metres to the restaurant were inaccessible by coach so we had arranged donkey carts and mules to carry people the rest of the way. We thought it might be a bit of a novelty, especially for the Americans. On one particular evening a good time had been had by all. Never before in the history of sangria had such a quantity been consumed. As we were all preparing to leave and go down the hill Gladys swayed out of the door. She’d obviously had an enjoyable time. Walking up to one of the mules, she then persuaded an elderly Spaniard, who supposedly thought his luck was in,
to give her a leg up on to the animals back. This accomplished, she took hold of the mane, blowing her Romeo a kiss, and whacked the mule hard on its hindquarters. A sight to behold. “Yahoo!” Gladys roared and took off downhill at a rate of knots followed feebly by her Spaniard, in pursuit of his
mule.
With exhilaration she explained later, “I haven’t done that in years. Not since I rode the ’33 Calgary Stampede.”
I enjoyed having the Americans in the hotel. It gave a more international feel to my activities. I could have Inter-Continental Games, my own mini Olympics. Up to now I have given the impression that we were the only nationality in residence. That’s not true. There was a Belgian tour operator as well as the passing Spanish trade. That gave an interesting slant to the hotel entertainment. Officially I was only there for my own guests but it wasn’t long before it became obvious that this wasn’t feasible. They all wanted to join in. Company policy dictated that some items had to be exclusive but, in the main, it was a “free for all”. It helped with the “mix and mingle” as well. It wasn’t long before Country would sit with Country and conversations were multi-lingual with phrase books to the fore. To say that our guests were varied would be somewhat of an understatement. They certainly came from all walks of life. Over the years I have looked after every job description from road sweeper to merchant banker, brain surgeon to librarian. The holiday can certainly be classless as people mingle in strange environments. There was always a common denominator once the ice was broken. Maybe it’s because the guests were all retired from working life and didn’t need to compete or keep up with the Joneses. It made my life easier. Keeping them entertained, though, was a different matter.
Let me explain. Obviously, people have different senses of humour. To satisfy this is made harder when taking note that different nationalities have to be accommodated. There even exists a language gap between US English and UK English.
To give an example of this, I was introducing, one evening, a game contestant from across the ocean. In the “warm up” chat I asked her a question.
“What time do you like to be knocked up in the mornings Sylvia?”
A simple question, I thought, enquiring when her alarm call was each day. She glared at me and stormed off the stage.
“My sex life is nothing to do with you, young man!”
The Brits thought it was hilarious whilst the Spanish and Belgians simply looked on in puzzlement. Next morning I was summoned into Pancho’s office. Sylvia had made an official complaint. Later that day humble pie was eaten in the form of a huge box of chocolates. Sylvia accepted smilingly but she never appeared again to see any of my shows.
I did learn from this debacle. Afterwards, I only chose contestants for my games from those who took part in events during the day. I had time to learn their personalities, senses of humour, and gained an idea of how far I
could go without giving offence. I knew whom to use effectively, those who would join in the fun and make the entertainment for the rest, that were only happy to take part as an audience from a safe distance.
Certain guests in the hotel were regular visitors to the resort. “Doctor Daisy”, as the staff had nicknamed her, was one of those. A retired surgeon, she arrived every year, with her husband, on the same day, booked the same room and stayed for three months. When we first met I considered them to be a lovely couple, very refined, but it didn’t take me long to discover their eccentricities.
I soon realized that they were a typical “know it all” couple as they quite often used to stand at our information desk and issue suggestions and helpful tips. They weren’t always, however, correct and it was mostly Garth, David and myself who got the blame.
During one of the welcome meetings Garth was in mid spiel, giving pictorial descriptions of his excursions. On introducing the Jeep Safari, in my opinion the best fun filled trip ever devised, a loud cough was heard from the back of the room. This was then accompanied by an even louder,
“Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!”
All Garth could do was recognize the interruption as all heads turned.
“Can I help you?” He asked Dr Daisy.
“Haven’t you heard? They’re very dangerous, my Dear. Six people were killed in Turkey on one of those!”
Keeping his calm my colleague replied with a quiet, “Oh really and when was that?”
“Twenty five years ago, you must remember. It was terrible!”
Still not flummoxed, Garth replied, “How old do you think I am, Doctor?” and continued, “Does anyone know any Titanic stories before I tell you about the Boat Trip?”
My run in with the now infamous Doctor, whose husband I later learned was Edwin, happened about two weeks later.
Most evenings, after dinner, they would make an entrance into the bar and place themselves on the same high stools from where they had an excellent view of the entertainment. The seats should have had reserved signs on them, as they would get very annoyed if they were already taken. After the meeting Daisy had decided not to talk to Garth again and, not too good for me, that I was her golden boy.
The couples’ tipple was extremely large G&T’s and a quick drink never lasted less than four hours. On the night in question, after I had finished the “Mr. and Mrs. Show”, I was summoned to the bar.
“You were brilliant, Darling! Edwin and I loved the Show! Join us for a drink.” I had the feeling that to refuse would bring me greater wrath
and damnation than had been bestowed on Garth, so with trepidation, I accepted.
“We’re having a little cocktail party in our room tomorrow night, Darling!…. Only for Special people!…. You’re invited!…and you can bring your Boyfriend!” This was yelled rather than said as the entire bar staff collapsed in laughter and silence rang around as I dropped my vodka and coke and clinged to the nearest passing waitress. “Have you met my fiancé?” I stuttered.
As a rep I soon realized that no days were the same. Of course, a lot of the questions repeated themselves as guests came and went. There was always the routine paperwork that no one thinks we have to do. But we were always surprised on a daily basis. The Quote Board never lacked for suggestions.
The only time I met up with a question that might have been hard to answer was on a particular arrival day. As I stood on the “Meet and Greet” line, a seemingly aged happy couple walked out of Arrivals. Beaming with that now accomplished “Welcome to Spain” smile, I directed them towards the coach. As his wife tottered off, the husband was not so fast. Putting his hand on my shoulder, he whispered quietly, “Do you know the phone number of a private detective? I think my wife’s having an affair.” She was eighty-six. The astonishing thing is I knew the answer. Only that morning I had noticed an advertisement in the local British newspaper as I was awaiting their flight.
Airport duty was a part of the description that most of us did not look forward to. Flight delays were always a threat and it was with relief that we boarded our resort coaches on time. Company policy dictated that we must always help our guests with their luggage onto the check-in belt. There was
always the threat of physical injury, and hernias loomed as we lifted those cases. One morning a lady requested assistance and, lifting the case, my back almost cracked. With tongue between teeth, I hissed, “What the heck have you got in here?” Innocently she replied, “Not a lot. I’ve been collecting rocks for my grandson.” On another occasion a sweet couple decided they liked the Spanish bananas. “So much sweeter than back at home.” Imagine what was in the case!
I know that when I go away I like to travel light, just a few t shirts and shorts and maybe something smart but casual for the restaurant. Our guests, most of them staying for a month or more, arrived at Malaga with wardrobes fit for a movie star. It wasn’t unusual for them never to be seen in the same thing twice.
On the other hand, though, Alex and June arrived carrying only what they were wearing and a very small backpack apiece. They were always seen in a combination of the same things for twenty-eight days. They did buy a lot of washing powder though.
Alex and June can only be described as being something else. A lovely couple, but if you wanted to talk sensibly to them, it had to be done before eleven o’clock.
The hotel bar opened in the mornings at 8am. Usually the only customers at that time were locals calling in for their wake up “expresso”. Life for Manuel, the barman, changed dramatically with the arrival of Alex and June. From their first morning onwards they would be sat at the bar by 07.30, chain smoking their newly discovered Spanish cheroots and eagerly awaiting the first gin and tonic. Even before switching the coffee machine on Manuel’s first task was to change the ashtray. I presume that they did eat but, in a whole month, I never once saw them in the restaurant.
This actually leads on to one of my more perturbing medical cases. To explain, on my day off I tried never to go around the hotel. A guest, for something not important, would always collar me and a day became half a day.
I don’t know why but on that particular morning I’d decided to take a coffee in the bar whilst deciding what to do. Anyway, the place was empty. No locals, no Alex and June. Just as I was about to order there was a roar, “Thank God, I’ve found you!” Turning around, Alex was stood there in a
total state of dementia. “I can’t wake her, I think she’s dead!”
Grabbing a receptionist on the way, I raced up to the room to find June unconscious on a stained and soaked bed. The ambulance arrived quickly taking June and a sobbing Alex to the local clinic, as I promised that one of the team would be with them very quickly.
Several minutes of enquiries informed me that all of my colleagues were out of the hotel, so feeling resigned to missing my day off I taxied down to the Centro Salud.
“They won’t let me in son, she must have gone!” quietly muttered Alex as he met me on the steps. Trying to calm him down I explained that this was normal procedure in Spain, and that until a diagnosis was made no one could see the patient.
Entering the building I was immediately summoned to see the doctor. Now I knew that it serious.
“It’s too advanced for us to deal with here. We’ve stabilized her but she has to go to the main hospital for further treatment.”
So it wasn’t long before Alex and myself were speeding along, siren blaring, on the 40-minute journey to watch June trolleyed in and attached to
a multitude of monitors and drips. I don’t mind admitting that I was scared watching her unconscious form as the doors closed on the observation room.
Alex and myself shared two packets of cigarettes that afternoon. Strictly taboo Company wise, to smoke in uniform, but I didn’t care. Alex was mostly silent with an occasional “She’s a good girl. We’ve had 40 years together.” All I could manage was “Don’t give up hope yet” and light him another cigarette.
After what seemed like a week, but was really only six hours, June walked, smiling as though nothing had happened, out of the treatment room. “They’ve released me. Can we go home please?”
On the way back to the hotel June handed me an envelope. Inside was her diagnosis and recommendations. June explained that when she had woken up there was a wasp in the room. She had tried to kill it but was stung. Immediately taking an anti-histamine, this had reacted with the alcohol in her bloodstream causing her to go unconscious. In the letter the emergency doctor not only recommended but also ordered her not to drink any more alcohol. “It nearly killed her.” He wrote. I translated this but to no avail. Arriving back at the hotel, Alex and June thanked me profusely and then proceeded to the bar to celebrate her safe return. In addition, on their
departure day, they left a 5000-peseta note for me in reception, wrapped around a bottle of gin.