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Saharan dust, sardine trams & the sacred nap

Early to bed, they say, means early to rise. What they neglect to mention is that this cheerful proverb applies to everyone in the household except the person who went to bed earliest. I arose at what I can only describe as a dignified hour, to discover that all other members of the party had long since risen, made coffee, and were pointedly looking at me with the smug expressions of people who have been vertical for some time. No matter. Dignity is portable.

The morning offered little urgency, which suited everyone admirably. The weather outside could best be described as “aggressively ambiguous.” Cloud? Mist? General atmospheric sulking? A closer inspection of the parked cars provided a clue: a thin but unmistakable film of reddish powder had settled on every bonnet and boot. The Sahara, it transpired, had sent its regards. Apparently a rather substantial red cloud was making its stately progress northward, dusting the Spanish coastline as it went, like some enormous and dramatically overcommitted pastry chef. One does not see that on the tin when booking an Alicante holiday. Saharan dust coating: complimentary.

“The ticket machine was not working. Naturally. The universe, as ever, had sensed that I was attempting something straightforward.”

Late morning, a party of six — four adults of varying energy levels, two kiddies of boundless energy — boarded the familiar tram toward Alicante town centre. The tram was, as is its tradition, packed to a degree that would concern a fire marshal. One ticket machine at our end of the carriage had taken the day off. The other machine, clearly flourishing in its monopoly, was located at the far end of the tram. I spent the better part of the journey performing a slow, apologetic, lateral shuffle through a dense thicket of fellow passengers, muttering “perdón” at approximately three-second intervals, until I reached the front and purchased the requisite tickets. By the time I returned, we were nearly at our stop. Transportation: conquered.

Despite the Saharan ambience overhead, the warmth was most agreeable, and strolling through the old town toward the port is a genuinely lovely thing to do.

Our mission: pizza, outdoors, and with an appropriate view. The Esplanada de España delivered on all counts, and I — having clearly not yet tired of the research — ordered paella. Reader, it was the best of the holiday. Crisp on the bottom, properly golden, fragrant with saffron, and containing actual seafood rather than its memory. A triumph. The children had pizza and were equally satisfied, which is the important thing and says nothing about the relative sophistication of our orders.

A gentle post-lunch promenade along the harbour front followed, then a venture back into the old town in pursuit of ice cream. The kiddies, who had maintained an admirable diplomatic silence about the matter throughout lunch, were by this point sending very clear signals that ice cream was not optional. An excellent parlour was located without undue difficulty. Joy was distributed. The return tram journey was — and this felt almost transgressive — nearly empty. We sat down. All of us. Simultaneously. I don’t wish to be dramatic, but it was marvellous.

We arrived home well past four o’clock, which is, as any serious student of Spanish life will confirm, precisely nap o’clock. I executed the nap with my customary efficiency. Post-aperitif, a changing of the guard: our son and his spouse, it being their final evening, had made dinner plans. We assumed grandparental command — no alcohol, a light supper, an entirely responsible evening featuring several rounds of whatever game the small people deemed appropriate. They retired with minimal negotiation, which felt like an administrative victory of considerable magnitude. When the parents returned, I permitted myself a large whisky — the international symbol of a job well done — and was, predictably and without apology, the first adult to bed.

Day 19: red dust, excellent paella, sardine-tin tram, glorious nap, and whisky nightcap.

Another day of profound suffering in the Mediterranean sun.

Someone has to do it.

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