Incognito???

I live in a small whitewashed village on the coast of Andalusia called Frigiliana. Quite a dear little thing it is with it’s winding cobbled streets, the hanging baskets overflowing with bright geraniums, the quaint hidden plazas and traditional bars.

But living in an Andalusian village isn’t all flamenco dancing and fiestas. There are also some inconveniences. Like the fact that gossip travels faster than “Fernandito” on his bike. And that is quite some feat, let me tell you!

Incognito? Excuse me! A who, what, when?

Suppose one day you fancy having a (wild) party, right? You’re inviting quite a crowd, but obviously there are some exceptions; a few people you prefer not to mingle with. “There's no need for them to know. I'll just keep quiet” you think. Dream on! You’ll be in the grocery shop buying a few bits of pieces and a friend (you didn't invite) will walk into the shop and stand behind you in the queue. She'll greet you and say “Good party, was it?” And then you just wish the floor could swallow you whole. You have to spend an agonizing five minutes desperately hoping Antonio (the shop owner) will hurry up so you can make a swift exit. And if you’re wondering, yes, that did actually happen to me.

The problem is that here, everyone knows everyone. The women seem to have some sort of telecommunication and numerous little gossip meetings at Antonio’s shop. Just the other week I decided to go out with a boy (blush). Don’t hold your breath. It turned out to be a MAJOR disaster. We’d both agreed on quiet meeting place. So I got ready and at five o´clock I made my way to the back street we were meeting in.

Now, I won’t lie. The first thought that went through my head was “He’s not as handsome as I thought.” Not a great start, really. And in five minutes I was already dying to leave. But I felt a bit mean, so I stuck around for a while to chat. Half an hour later, I practically fled, feeling relieved. Mummy was waiting at home for me after getting back from the hairdressers. She didn’t look amused, either.

“Where have you been?” she asked. “I, well, um… I was at the library. You know, finishing a project with Teresa.” I lied, not very smoothly.

Well, unfortunately for me, mummy knew better. Guess who had seen me with this boy? Maria, the cleaner. And where had Maria been heading to? You won’t believe this, the hairdressers. The rest is, quite obviously, history. And the moral is, there is no such thing as a “secret” meeting in a small town. ESPECIALLY, if it’s a small Andalusian village called Frigiliana we’re talking about.

But, even though the word “private” doesn’t exist here, I still love it. The sparkling, blue Mediterranean sea, the tropical palm trees swaying in the warm summer breeze and especially, the people. The fiery, good-hearted Andalusian people.