There Is No Bus To Torremolinos: Journeys Through Life, Wine And Our World

Copyright © 2020 by D. Russell Smith

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed Attention: Permission at thereisnobus2@outlook.com.

This is a work of creative nonfiction. With a few minor exceptions, the events are portrayed to the best of D. Russell Smith’s memory. While all the stories in this book are true, some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of the people involved.

Print ISBN: 978-1-09832-524-4

eBook ISBN: 978-1-09832-525-1

Printed in the United States of America on SFI Certified paper.

First Edition

My, my, my. The things I get myself into.

Eddie ‘Rochester’ Anderson

From the film Topper Returns

Contents

FOREWORD

Section One

A PERFECT DAY

COOKIES

KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE ROAD AND YOUR HANDS UPON THE WHEEL

THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

A BIRTHDAY IN SICILY

AN HONORARY DEGREE

HOT TODAY, CHILE TOMORROW

TOO MUCH INFORMATION

WHAT I MEANT TO SAY WAS…

HELL’S BELLS

THERE IS NO BUS TO TORREMOLINOS

WHAT I DO IN SPAIN

POLITICAL SCIENCE

DON’T EAT IN THE RESTAURANT AT THE END OF THE WORLD

I CAN SEE BY YOUR OUTFIT THAT YOU ARE A COWBOY

SECTION TWO

ADVENTURES WITH A GOAT

THE BAD HIPPIES AND THE YELLOW HOUSE

BLACKIE AND BOBO

TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE

Section Three

TWO WORDS: WINE AND A THEORY OF RELATIVITY

HOW I GOT INTO THIS

WINE COLLECTING

THE CURIOUS CASE OF MISS DAYSHIFT

THE BTOA

WHAT’S A WINEMAKER?

Section Four

HERB

GET RUBY OFF THAT FARM

GRANDMA AND GRANDPA SMITH

Section Five:

COUNTRY LIVING

PASTOR

INFIDELITY: A MORALITY TALE FOR YOUNG MEN OF ALL AGES

OPERA IN AMERICA: THREAT OR MENACE?

THE LAST CLOSET

FEAR? NOT!

APPENDIX TO INFIDELITY

BIBLIOGRAPHY

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

FOREWORD

There are two kinds of people in this world. There are those who read Forewords, and then there’s everybody else. Thanks for joining me.

This book is formatted as a travelogue because I view life as a journey. As we hurtle through the universe, we travel through time as well. Travel is transformational, and we never return from a journey the same as we left. Most of this book involves experiences that occurred long ago and, for reasons that will become clear, are just now suitable to relate.

I write in a conversational style and speak in my own voice. The voice you’ll hear in these pages is that of a man who’s spent most of his long life in Texas. A number of vernacular expressions and turns of phrase may seem unfamiliar to those who’ve never lived in Texas or the South. You’re not likely to be too inconvenienced.

The events described in this book are true and correct to the best of my prodigious memory. A few stories have been lightly embellished in the name of Art, while much has been omitted in the name of Delicacy. The opinions and observations are my own. This book has been professionally edited but, as you’ll see, I frequently eschew good judgment. Any error or awkwardness in these pages is entirely my fault.

I’ve written this in such a way that I hope will be interesting, informative, and instructive. Probably no more than twenty people at large on our planet can read this book cover to cover without once consulting a reference. Don’t feel bad if you’re not one of them. I consulted numerous references while writing it.

While it’s composed of many short chapters, the book as a whole is intended to be a kind of morality tale. Sometimes the morals are plainly presented, while at others you’ll have to read carefully. It’s important to remember that a bad example is often more useful than a good one.

Some of the chapters have End Notes, which are marked in the text with a number like this(1) and written out at the end of the chapter. I’ve used them to include important information that would have interfered with the narrative. Please don’t ignore them.

WARNING: THIS BOOK CONTAINS ADULT THEMES AND SHOULD BE KEPT OUT OF THE REACH OF CHILDREN OR OTHER PERSONS OF DELICATE SENSIBILITIES.

These are my words.

Tu amigo,

D. Russell Smith

Dripping Springs, Texas

March 28, 2020

Section One

VIAJES

This first section of the book is devoted to travel stories. I made my first trip to Europe in 1977. I belonged to an international students’ association while attending the University of Houston. After graduating, I was awarded an internship with an American insurance company in Frankfurt. The internship lasted seven weeks. Afterwards, I was able to travel on my own. I was in Europe almost five months.

That first trip to Europe changed the trajectory of my life. I spent some time in Spain and fell in love with the country, culture, and people. After returning home, I resolved that one day I would return to Spain and spend at least part of my life there. It took many years to fulfill the vow I made to myself.

In 2012, I was able to buy two small vineyards in Catalunya. I now keep a small apartment in a town of four hundred people and spend four to five months a year there, tending my vines and making wine. I’ve enjoyed a truly blessed life and count my blessings every day.

I caught the travel bug on that first trip to Europe and, as you’ll see, have been lucky enough to visit many interesting places. I hope that, as you read these stories, you might be inspired to get out and explore our wonderful world yourself.

¡Buen viaje!

A PERFECT DAY

THE SETUP

Peter O’Connor was a horny dog. He was a Trinity lad, Dublin born and bred. He grew up in a time when birth control was officially proscribed in the Irish Republic and all the pretty girls said no. He surveyed the gratuitous copulation enjoyed by his peers in other countries and resolved to get even as soon as possible.

Peter developed a plan. He would learn to speak German and move to Germany in order to exercise his considerable sexual prowess. In the process, he joined Our Organization and landed an internship with Chase-Manhattan in Frankfurt. That’s how we met.

In addition to finding work for us, Our Organization arranged for lodging. Peter and I became flatmates. He had arrived a few weeks before and was already working his voodoo with the ladies when I got there. Peter’s German was excellent, and he spoke it with a light Irish accent. He was charming in a way only the Irish can be. Whether it was his roguey brogueishness or his broguey roguishness, it was having the desired effect.

The Frankfurt chapter of Our Organization was robust, and at least a dozen interns were there from all over the world. It was a co-ed group, so Peter was in his element. Frequent parties and field trips were arranged for us, and members from other chapters in Germany would visit from time to time.

That’s how Peter met Johanna. She was studying in Trier and dropped in one weekend for a party. Peter was smitten, although it didn’t keep him from continually hitting on every other woman who came within arm’s reach. Johanna invited Peter to come to Trier for a weekend but made it clear she had a friend so he would need to bring a friend, too.

Peter accepted the invitation and started looking for an accomplice. He put the hard sell on me, emphasizing Johanna’s great beauty and the fact that beautiful women tend to have beautiful friends. He insinuated we could both enjoy a weekend of wild-monkey sex in Trier. I was in.

AND THEN

Please don’t take this the wrong way. There’s nothing wrong with playing the amiable sidekick. Certain benefits can accrue. I’ve had some fun over the years surfing the wakes of serious players like Peter, Arby, and Mr. Molecule.

But Peter was a novice in those days and had a tendency to run his mouth, especially with members of Our Organization. He talked up our trip to Trier like it was the greatest thing since sliced bread. In fact, he couldn’t stop talking about it.

As you can imagine, the theme was generally taken up and became a topic for conversation at our frequent parties. A typical conversation would go like this:

German: Und so, Russellein, to Trier you go?(1)

DRS: Yep.

German: Und bis Johanna you fisit?

DRS: Yep.

German (concerned): Und Johanna a friend has?

DRS (smiling broadly): Yep!

If there was anyone in the Frankfurt metropolitan area who didn’t know about our trip to Trier, it certainly wasn’t Peter’s fault. The fact that people weren’t stopping me on the street to talk about it I put down to your average German’s natural reticence and respect for privacy. Nevertheless, I observed a number of knowing smiles and conspiratorial winks from occasional passersby.

Eventually, a date was set.

DER BUNDESBAHN

The appointed Saturday arrived, and we were at the train station before daybreak. Peter didn’t want to lose any time. In those days the trains were operated by the government. Arrivals and departures were punctual to the minute. The trains were clean. Everything was well organized. Every essential service was provided. There was no fooling around.

Particular attention was paid to first- and second-class tickets. I had a Eurail pass which was automatically first class. A couple of times I was extracted from a second-class compartment and the company of friends by the conductor. It was inconvenient, but I had the feeling of being taken care of. There was no fooling around.

One time I was traveling in a first-class compartment when this Little Old Guy came in carrying a dachshund and dragging a suitcase. I helped him put his thirty-kilo suitcase on the luggage rack. I didn’t know if he was smuggling bullion or what. He spoke a little English so we were able to visit, after a fashion.

The conductor came in to check our tickets. I handed over the Eurail pass and the LOG handed over two tickets. The conductor handed the pass back to me but continued looking at the LOG’s tickets. Then the following:

Conductor: One of these tickets is second class.

LOG: That’s the dog’s ticket.

Conductor: If your dog wanted to travel first class, then why did he buy a second-class ticket?

LOG: It’s the ticket agent’s fault. The dog mumbles.

You can guess what happened next. I almost threw my back out hauling down the suitcase. The dog and the LOG were unceremoniously escorted to a second-class compartment.

ON THE WAY

The dawn broke as pure and fresh and full of promise as a bottle of Bernkasteler Doctor. The train ran along the rivers most of the way. It was an early fall so there was color in the trees. The vineyards were beginning to change, too.

We had coffee and pastry. We watched castles and forests and mountains go by, the rivers curling lazily below. The train stopped in a few small, pristine, ancient towns. We slightly opened the window in order to catch the invigorating scent of autumn. It was enchanting.

SHE HAS A FRIEND

The trip took about four hours, so we arrived late morning. Waiting on the platform for us were:

Johanna: She was everything advertised. Petite with naturally curly, natural blonde hair down past her shoulders. Piercingly blue eyes and a radiant smile. Perfectly proportioned. She had a laugh that could only be described as musical, and she used it often. A sweet and gentle personality.

Brunhilda: Hildie was what my Kansas relatives used to call pioneer stock. She was the kind of woman they liked to have around to pull the plow when the mule went lame. Her manner was a little standoffish, but she had a pleasant face and a cute smile she pulled out very occasionally.

It’s always been my policy to avoid romantic entanglements with women who outweigh me by more than forty pounds. Hildie was crowding the legal limit. It’s never been so much a matter of personal taste as it is of personal safety. I decided to take a wait-and-see approach.

AROUND TRIER AND THE MOSEL

The ladies had an itinerary planned and we set off at once. They had borrowed a car. I became the designated driver for reasons that are still unclear.

Our first stop was the Roman ruins in Trier. I had no idea Trier was a Roman town, and this was the first Roman stuff I’d ever seen. Trier was once an imperial capital, and the ruins have been well preserved and restored. It’s difficult to convey the feeling of connection I had when looking at and touching those old walls. It was like seeing an old friend and a new love at the same time. And the marvel that those walls had somehow managed to stand the test of time and, even worse, the ravages of man.

Having at that point spent most of my life in the suburban wasteland of Houston, the permanence of those walls contrasted with the shamelessly disposable buildings with which I was familiar. I had a feeling of true reverence. We walked around the town for a while and had a light lunch. The weather was perfect: cloudless sky and just a hint of warmth.

During our ramble about town, I got to know the ladies a little better. It turned out that Johanna grew up in Chile. Her Dad was a mining engineer. The family spoke German at home so she was as German as lederhosen.

Hildie was a local girl. As we rambled about, she began to thaw a little. The four of us would walk arm in arm occasionally. In Europe, it’s not unusual to see men walking arm in arm or women doing the same. It’s not a sexual thing. They just have a different sense of personal space and public affection.

Germans are famous walkers and they have little walking games. It’s something like line dancing but in a forward direction; kind of like the Cotton-eyed Joe. The ladies liked one they called ein hut, ein stock, ein regenschirm. I never could figure it out, which amused them greatly.

As you can imagine, Peter was stuck to Johanna like the tar baby. Hildie and I had time to visit. She spoke very little English. However, we were able to determine she had a sister and brother and parents nearby. We were able to determine she was studying communications. Despite the language barrier, I determined she was what we call a big ol’, good ol’ girl. That’s good and you can’t ask for more.

Apparently, Peter had told Hildie and Johanna about my enthusiasm for German wine. They had some friends in the Mosel Valley who made wine. We drove out into the country, and I had another quasi-religious experience. The steep hillsides were completely covered with grapevines running right down to the river. Stunning!

And the towns: Graach, Piesport, Wehlen, Bernkastel. Names I’d seen on dozens of bottles. Names I’d tasted and knew well. All of them tiny towns swaddled in vines. Incredible. We stopped at a couple of wineries and tasted some wines. It was the stuff of dreams.

But this was mid-September and the days were getting shorter. We parked the car in Bernkastel. We strolled the old cobbled streets and popped into a gasthaus. There is a seasonal dish prepared at harvest time they call zwiebelkuchen. It’s a bacon-and-onion pie similar to a quiche but not as eggy. The ladies ordered one.

Please carefully consider this:

QUESTION: Can you think of anything better than bacon and onion pie to accompany a bracing glass of Wehlener Spätlese? Or vice versa?

ANSWER: You can’t. So please stop scratching your head and keep reading.

When we emerged from the gasthaus, it was black dark. As we were walking to the car, I looked up and saw a golden castle floating in the sky. My jaw went slack. My heart leapt. Tears came to my eyes. A golden castle in the sky!

I wondered if this might be some kind of LSD reoccurrence but, then again, everybody knows that’s baloney. I stopped dead in my tracks. Then the following:

DRS (mouth agape): What is that?

Johanna (giggling like the tinkling of wind chimes): It’s the castle, silly! Bernkastel means castle of Bern.

It all came into focus. The night was so dark the hillside was obscured. The castle was illuminated with floodlights that gave it a golden hue. Beautiful.

A wine festival was going on in a little village on the way back to Trier. We stopped in to check it out. It was one of those community-subsidized affairs where you could get a quarter liter of wine and a sausage for the equivalent of two dollars. We doubled down.

As usual, they had a traditional German band going. I asked Hildie if she wanted to dance. It was like driving a tractor. We headed home.

TROUBLE IN PARADISE

By this time, I was feeling pretty mellow. Johanna, Hildie, and Peter were talking in German. I was driving. Hildie was shotgun. Johanna was behind me. Peter’s got the valve wide open and he’s hosing them down with charm. They’re all laughing. Things couldn’t be better.

My name was mentioned a couple of times. I guessed Peter was trying to sort out sleeping arrangements. As we pulled into Trier, the general tone of their conversation began to change. Peter was beginning to get pissy and then full-on indignant. Hildie turned around and barked a few sharp words to him.

Peter let out a long, low moan. I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see him slump against the door as if he’d been shot. It didn’t look good.

Now, I’d seen Peter turned down before but never with such devastating effect. The temperature in the car, conversationally speaking, plummeted. There was just Hildie saying right and left as she directed me to what turned out to be an unused dormitory room on their campus. Formal goodnights were exchanged, and the ladies left.

It was obvious that Peter had somehow pissed them off. There was nothing to be done except wait for the other shoe to drop. In the meantime, Peter was pacing the dorm room and smoking and fuming and fuming and smoking and pacing. He powered down four Marlboros in about fifteen minutes. I