It was the fall. I had declined the teaching job. My life was in shambles. I needed the refuge of home. I thought I‘d visit my folks in Spain and then maybe think about seizing the opportunity to stay in Europe for a year, to improve my French. We’ll see about that later.
My parents seemed like they were living the life of Riley in a villa in Mijas, with a maid, a swimming pool, a vista to die for.
These were the days in Spain of General Francisco Franco, the communist dictator. He ruled with an iron fist and people were afraid of him. For example, any hint of drugs on your person and you’d be in jail for life, a Spanish jail. This would not be a picnic.
My sister Susan, a veritable hippy, a hoppy, happy, hippy hippy, had visited our parents on occasion through those years. With her brightly coloured long skirts and long frizzy hair , she fit the image of a marijuana smoking flower child. This is not what you wanted to look like in Spain during these times. She was always well behaved on her visits. At least she never got caught. But I strongly suspect the Guardia Seville (the police), had their eye on her.
They may have seen me in the same category, being a young person from North America, although I was anything but a hippy. Why else would they have come knocking? And how did they know I was there unless they were surveilling the place?
My mom and dad and I were sitting around enjoying a glass of wine and there was a loud rap on the door. My father got up to greet the visitor and who should be there but four Guardia Seville officers in full army regalia. They were polite, but obviously alert. My father offered them a drink. This wasn’t a crime, but they declined, since they weren’t to drink on duty. They shifted their interest from my father. They were more interested in what our activities might have been while we were there alone, visiting in the privacy of our home.
They walked slowly about, holding their hands behind their backs, their chins slightly in the air, their hats perched on their heads, darting their gaze this way and that, looking for any ‘evidence’ as they carried on a seemingly civil conversation.
The Guardia left when they were satisfied there were no drugs on site and not even a whiff to make them suspicious.
When they first walked in, I was stunned that they had the right to brazenly waltz into our home without even a warrant or a warning. My horror turned to indignation. Before I could protest, the penny dropped and I remembered where I was and I kept my mouth shut. It was a chilling experience.
It was fortunate for us that we hadn’t decided to try out some of Susan’s hash stash, which there wasn’t but could have been. There was the off chance looming over our heads that the scenario could have been very different. No, my parents didn’t try any drugs, but Susan had a way of making special cookies for them. One time Mom and Susan went shopping after cookies and tea. When Mom asked the clerk where the hash counter was… (meaning ‘meat counter’), Susan got her out of there and eased up on the cookies in the future.
Dad and his animals
Remember I mentioned that my father liked animals better than people? He always had a pet, normally a dog, but on occasion he also had stranger animals than would normally walk your streets.
During the war in India, Dad had a spider monkey. He had another one during his time in Spain, but it didn’t last long after it shat on his shoulder during a photo shoot. My mother was coaching my father to ‘Smile Ian!’ He replied, “I can’t, the little bugger just shat all over me!”. “Well, smile and we’ll take care of it later!”
Parrots. My father loved parrots. In Spain he had two McCaws and an African grey. He taught them to talk. I found it amazing that when you spoke to them, they would answer in your voice. So not only could they replicate words and sounds, they could imitate your voice exactly.
Could they squawk, much to the chagrin of my mother. One had to wonder if Dad owned them out of love for them, or if it was part of a master plan to scare Mom away because the noise drove her crazy. She eventually did leave Spain and returned to Canada to her daughters, leaving the zoo behind.
One day during my visit there, we were all sitting on the terrace overlooking the ocean and the forested valley below. The parrots were untethered and were flapping around our heads and on the floor. I asked my father if he might be a bit concerned that they’d fly away. ‘Oh no’ he said with all the confidence in the world, ‘I clipped their wings and they can’t fly’.
With that, one of them jumped on the railing and pushed himself off to soar down into the valley. They may not have been able to fly but they could sure soar.
With his mouth open and eyes agog, my father half stood up and froze in that position, staring at his beloved parrot as it floated to its inevitable doom, fading as a wee colourful dot against the backdrop of the forests below. As he disappeared into the trees, we eyeballed where he might be.
There were beasts that roamed these forests, hyenas, wild boar, large cats, coyotes. That parrot didn’t have a hope in Hades of making it. Dusk was descending. Nevertheless, we piled into the car and raced down the mountain to the supposed spot. We had to find him.
We walked the forest in the fading light and called his name over and over, ‘McGoo, McGoo!’. We could hardly see where we were going. I was the hero that day as I found the colourful bird walking around on the ground. My father picked him up and started patting and smooching with him. I’m sure he felt great relief in his heart. I felt very proud of myself and I was happy I could do something to please my father.
Switzerland ’73-‘74
After a few weeks in Spain with my parents, I was ready to look ahead and move on. I liked to remind myself once in a while, you don’t look back unless that’s the way you want to go.
Ideally, I would have liked to have lived in France for a year. Fate had different plans.
My parents brought me to the train station and there I caught a train heading north. As I clickety clacked my way to France, I really had no idea where I was going. I got off the train at one of the stops to stretch and look around. There were posters of all the top ski areas in Europe, one of which was Champery in French Switzerland. It was so lovely, it looked like a post card and I decided right then and there that that is where I wanted to be.
A few train stops later brought me to Lausanne, Switzerland, (near Geneva), where I had to get off and take the last train ride to the village of Champery which was situated in the mountains at the end of the train run.
A job at the Hotel Champery
The scenery was so stunning it hypnotized me. How could anything be so beautiful? I felt like I was in a travel brochure. The train was almost empty except for this studious looking man sitting across the aisle. I couldn’t contain my enthusiasm. I had to share this overflowing joy with someone and he was it.
He was a writer who lived in Champery, so he was used to the beauty around. We chatted and when he discovered that I was looking for a job, he said he would call his friend who owned the Hotel Champery to see if he needed any help for the winter.
When we got off the train, this gentleman headed for the pay phone. When he came back, he gave me instructions how to get to the hotel and that, yes, his friend would hire me. The pieces of this puzzle were falling into place rather nicely.
My quarters were in the hotel attic under an A-Framed roof. Shutters hung on windows with no screens. The fresh air didn’t seem cold as I snuggled under a duvet that was at least a foot thick. It was magic the way I could lie in bed and see the light of the moon reflect off the snow on the roof tops. This was heaven.
The owners fed me and put me up for the months of November and December. The clients weren't to arrive before late December for the ski season. This instilled in me an undying sense of loyalty for them. When the clients started coming, I started working in the bar, where I served and cleaned for the following four months.
One of the ironies was that everyone spoke English. The hired help came from England, Canada, US, Australia and New Zealand. The ski clients came from Denmark and their second language was English. My dream of improving my French died on the vine. However, I did meet Philippe, a charming French Swiss fellow, who encouraged me to speak as much French as possible.
Freddy the bar tender
The Hotel owner’s wife, Madame Defago, was an accomplished author and a lady want-to-be. Her husband was old and in failing health. She took her woes out at the bar drinking Gordon’s gin and tonic. One could find her there after six every night and sometimes into the wee hours of the morning. She was getting on in years herself and the beauty of youth was fading. This might have explained the underlying feeling of envy she had towards me, which I was to recognize only in retrospect.
I worked with Freddy, an Austrian bar tender who had issues with authority. He liked it. On New Year’s Eve there was a grand crowd at the bar and a handsome elderly gentleman from Italy was playing away at the piano. When everyone had their drinks, I would grab the maracas and play with him in-between my service for a couple of minutes and then jump back on the floor.
I guess Freddy thought I was having too good a time and called upon Monsieur Defago. When I saw him come into the bar with Madame on his arm, I approached him to greet him. It was very loud with the music and the noise of the crowd so we had trouble speaking. I’m pretty sure he was hard of hearing. He looked ‘hard’ of a lot of things. All of a sudden, he thwacked me in the arm! Although I never confirmed it, I believed that this was his way of saying, “Get to work, enough of this fun stuff.” I knew Freddy was behind this; lord knows what he said to him. I was so shocked I couldn’t even speak! I was very suspicious of Freddy after that and stayed out of his way as much as I could.
Caviar and Champagne
Late one night I was summoned out of bed to cater to Madame and her friends at the bar as they were sipping Champagne. I was to serve caviar along with lemon and toast. All this was laid out on a trolly which was placed beside them. I had never seen caviar before and didn’t have the faintest idea how to serve it. Madame took great pleasure in demeaning me in front of her guests and asking me if I had been brought up in a barn as she showed me how to do it properly.
Interestingly enough, I was never bothered by her remarks or antics. I think I understood it was coming from her deep rooted problems whatever they were. I had compassion for her rather than resentment.
Phillippe
Philippe sent me flowers on Valentine’s Day. Although this seemed innocent enough, I was to pay dearly for his attentions, or so Madame would have liked to believe.
Madame became like the wicked Queen in Snow White. “Mirror, Mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?” Well, it wasn’t she anymore. Her steely gaze was cast my way as she felt both her youth and beauty betraying her.
Madame would have luncheons in the dining room with her rich friends, like the Rothchilds and Rockefellers. She delighted in having me serve because she would have Philippe at the table as well, filling in as an escort for her lady friends who didn’t have partners.
The Defagos had an antique Bentley that was used to pick up guests at the train station. It sat regally by the front door of the Hotel. Madame would hire Philippe to dress like a chauffeur and drive it down to the station to fetch and attend to her special invitees. This pleased her to flaunt Philippe in front of me like this.
Philippe had an old clunker which he lent me one day to go to Lausanne, situated at the bottom of the mountain. I knew the brakes were mushy, but I didn’t know they almost didn’t work at all.
The only way to town was down. I started off with a bit of confidence in the car which didn’t last long, the confidence or the car.
The first thrill was when I was trying to brake for the train. The brakes responded but not completely, at which point I had to make the decision to go over the tracks before the train did. I decided to accelerate as I couldn’t count on the brakes. I did survive that one. But I was still going down the mountain on the winding road gaining speed and trying to slow down using these tired old brakes. There were a set of lights at the very bottom of the hill. Unfortunately, I was blinded by the sun shining directly into my eyes. I couldn’t see the lights or the big truck coming into the intersection.
After the impact, I found myself spinning towards the river which didn’t have any barriers. I thought I was pressing hard on the brakes, but realized at the last minute, in my shock, that I was on the accelerator. I stomped on the failing brakes and pulled the emergency and miraculously came to a stop within feet of the water’s edge.
Coincidentally, Philippe passed by in a car just as the tow truck hauled away his injured vehicle. I couldn’t quite understand why he lent it to me in the first place. It wasn’t fit for the road. It took me most of my wages to help repair it.
My parents visit from Spain
My parents came up from Spain to Champery for a couple of weeks on a ski holiday. They stayed in a little Condo just down from the Hotel. They met and enjoyed the Defagos, but aside from the odd meal in the hotel, they really didn’t see much of them.
Mom was called Nonna by the grand kids… Italian for ‘Gramma’. She has passed on to the family what Brandon calls, ‘The Nonna Gene’. What started out jokingly as an insult, it turned out to be our salvation, as whenever anyone in the family screwed up, they would just bleat out, ‘Oh it’s the Nonna gene!’ This would exonerate them from any responsibility of a terrible outcome of a situation, or of a stupid error of some kind.
The Nonna gene was healthy and well in my mother. After all she was the original. I guess you’d like to have an example. I have a few for you, and we’ll start with this one. Let me tell you about the day she was trying on ski jumpsuits in a boutique in Champery.
Keep in mind, I was establishing my good name in this small town as an ambassador to my fine country. Then along comes Mom. On this particular day she was window shopping on the main street. She stopped to admire a mannequin in a boutique window which was wearing a tight, fashionable jumpsuit. It looked pretty good on it and Mom was sure that she was about the same size as the mannequin and proceeded to go into the boutique and ask the sales girl if she could try one on in that exact size. She knew it would be a bit tight, but that is what she wanted.
The sales girl dutifully took the requested size off the rack and led my Mother into the fitting room.
So as not to take up any extra space in the jumpsuit, Mom tried it on without her ‘unawares’. Shortly, a helpless voice calls from the changing room, “Ian! Ian!” Dad darted to her aid. Unbeknownst to the innocent shoppers in the boutique, Mom has got the zipper stuck in her nether region and they could only guess what she was referring to as her desperate cries filled the boutique, “Oh! Ian! Oh my god! Not so fast! Easy! Ouch!”
Dad came out of the curtained cubicle and humbly asked the sales girl for a pair of scissors. Once he successfully cut her out of the suit, we left the shop empty handed, with me wondering when I could get them on the next flight to Spain.
My mother was definitely special.
Liliane
My dear friend Liliane came to see me in the spring at the end of my stay in Champery. After a couple of weeks of sight seeing and enjoying the lodge we were staying in, it was time to leave. We planned to take a boat from Monaco to Spain and see my parents on the way home.
The voyage was nondescript except that Liliane spent the whole time up on deck in the lounge as she was terrified to be below the water level where our cabin was situated. She smoked her nervousness away as we sailed across the sea.
I would always hold good memories of Champery and chalk up my experiences with Madame as, well, interesting.
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