Today was my final opportunity to do nothing before I start a new job next week. I’m by myself in La Mata, Spain, for a couple of days of relaxation with little to do except enjoy the daylight — a rarity in wet Stockholm Novembers — and the freedom of not having to be anywhere at any particular time. Simple and fabulous.
But instead of doing nothing, this morning I decided to do something touristy. Something I 
probably wouldn’t do when we come down here during the summer. I chose to go on the local tour of the salt flats of Torrevieja, which is carried out in true tourist style, on one of those excruciating choo-choo trains. As we age, we learn to appreciate the things, which in our youth, we regarded as sad, boring, or naff. The tourist choo-choo (along with cheese in a tube) remains on my list of highly-uncool-things this planet has to offer. I don’t think I’ll ever enjoy them.
That said, many years ago, Charlie was about five, me and the rest of my family (I won’t name them for fear of lawsuits), hopped on the local choo-choo and paid a fortune to get a ride home. Much to Charlie’s amusement and my nieces’ chagrin, we, the adults (:-)), sang along to the tunes piped over the loudspeaker, despite the fact that none of us could speak a word of Spanish, let alone the words of the songs. We just made it up as we went, roaring in the appropriate places, and falling apart with laughter. Charlie loved it.
Hilarity was perhaps not the word I would use to describe today’s choice of tourism, but it was interesting and offbeat – characteristics that appeal to me, so the trip was worth the effort of breaking the rule of not having to be anywhere at a given time.
The trip around the salt flats takes about an hour and I was in good spirits when we returned to Torrevieja. I decided that a cup of coffee on the strand, or maybe even lunch, would be a perfect way to complete the morning. So, I ambled along the seafront until I found one of those outdoor cafes with ocean-facing sofas. It doesn’t get any better than this: I don’t have to be anywhere, I don’t have to cater for anyone else’s tastes, I have only myself to please. So, I plonked myself down on a vacant sofa and started to people gaze as I asked the waiter to bring me a menu.
I’m in karma heaven. I’ve satisfied my cultural curiosity. I’ve learnt something, and I have a new experience to share with my family and friends.
Sitting in the sofa in the row in front of me are three people. Jordies by the sound of it. I didn’t pay much attention to them at first, until it happened. A waft of cheap tobacco smoke caught me off guard and I coughed. I say coughed because there’s no English word for the sound I involuntarily emit when I ingest someone else’s cigarette smoke. It’s somewhere in-between a cough, a belch, and a cat with fur balls. Not attractive, but in my defense, I don’t appear to have any control over my reaction. And today, the geezer sitting in front of me was smoking some cheap nasty shit. I didn’t think I was that loud.
My reaction removes me from my reveries and I come crashing back into the scene around me. I start to take notice of the people sitting in the sofa in front of me. There’s three of them, they have their backs to me. They are all smoking. The old man with the smelly tobacco, a younger woman, probably in her late thirties, peroxide hair and an abundance of puppy fat, and another man who I’m guessing is probably the same age as her, but he looks about 70. It’s windy and I find myself wondering if she’s cold in her summer top and shorts.
It’s an onshore wind, which unfortunately for me, carries their cigarette smoke right in my direction. I start scouting for somewhere else to sit, but all the sofas are taken, at least for the moment.
To avoid getting smoke in her face, the peroxide lady turns around, toward me, to smoke her cigarette. She is now glaring right at me, with all the glory of her nicotine adventure belching right into my face. I politely ask her to turn back around, which she does without hesitation and that, I hoped, would be the end of it.
The waiter comes with the menu and I check out my options. The smell and tension have made me lose my appetite. I’m thinking about ordering a coffee, and perhaps a pain-au-chocolat to keep me going. I narrowly missed the opportunity to move seats and I am contemplating going home but am reluctant because this is such a good spot and I feel good. The midday sun is warm and the view of the Mediterranean incomparable.
And then it happens again. The waft of cheap nasty tobacco catches me off guard, and I make that noise again. Fuck, what the fuck is wrong with me!
Ms. Peroxide turns to face me again, glaring down at me:
Her (Jordie drawl): Ya, can sit sum-ware else y’ know, it’s a free country, laik.
Me (surprised that another human being would speak to me because I coughed): Yes, I know, it’s just that the smoke is disgusting.
Her (now aggravated): well things you do might disgust me, y’know
Bloke on the right (massive sarcasm): It’s the wind ya know, it’s the direction of the wind, I’d change it if I could.
I think to myself. Three bullies. And I don’t need an explanation of the current meteorological conditions to know that I’m not going to get out of this situation with my dignity intact, unless I bugger off.
I get up to leave.
Bloke on right (more sarcasm): If ya want me t’change direction of wind, I would.
And he says this twice. It appears I haven’t heard him the first time despite the fact I am standing less than a meter away.
Me: I don’t appreciate the sarcasm, you’re being rude and inconsiderate, just like your prime minister!
As I walk away, I hear the blonde saying in a slightly meeker tone, “just like your prime minister!”
I want to be even ruder. I know they detest Boris Johnson up North, so what I’ve already said is probably enough. I want to turn around and tell them that Europe will be a healthier place without pommie gits like them in it. Get Brexit done FFS! I want them and their disgusting habit to move. I want to tell them I don’t want to die from secondary smoke inhalation. I want to yell at them, “where I come from, we don’t have a Prime Minister”. But all that would be wasted. I feel hot tears at the back of my eyes, the reminder of childhood bullies. I am sad and distraught that my karma could be blown apart in the space of five minutes by three strangers.
I keep my head high, walk to my car, and drive home.
While driving, I remind myself of that mantra, the one that advises us to not allow other people to ruin our day, and I think bugger it. My moment was ruined. Cheap, nasty-smelling smoke ruined my moment – it’s just a fact. The moment was gone. I decided that the mantra’s message is perhaps not to dwell, to avoid becoming the victim, and somehow rise above the comfort that is offered by laying down in the gutter – easier said than done my friends!
Once home, I’m now starving. I have two choices: eat the dodgy packet soup that’s been in the cupboard since who-knows-when or walk 20 minutes to one of the locals. I chose the better option and took a stroll down the beach to one of the seafront restaurants. It was quiet, I ate an absolutely fabulous lunch while I watched a family brave the cold of the November sea, the surfers battle the waves, all while people around me smoked like troupers. I was upwind.
In retrospect, I’d say I had a better lunch and a better afternoon owing to the bullies on the beach.
dpdoyle 
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