Karo had run out of pepper and pimento, so we smelled and sampled and stocked up, served by the nicest of vendors.
The market was as you'd expect, loads of women doing the shopping, loads of old boys doing their bits and bobs, happy to see familiar faces doing just the same as them. Here they were admiring a young boy's skill at dismembering the bananas in record speed.
I mentioned earlier that the Faulds have settled in admirably well in just 6 months. Well, much of the credit has to go to Karolina and, not just her ability with the language - she just uses it and talks and gets what she wants - but also how quickly she's picked up doing what the locals do.
She prepared me in advance. "Watch out, if you're not pushy, they don't serve you. You've just gotta get to the front and get the attention. The women are the worst, man!"
And it was so true. Above, Karolina jostled with the best of them, and below, the girls, returning triumphantly laden from their foray.
I mentioned that it started well enough. This is true. We were having a ball. But then, at the stall selling the Valdearcos cooking pots, I bought my cazuela redonda, helped the man restack the lot that I'd been pondering over, walked off with my 30cm dish, got back to the car and realised my purse was gone. This moment is not an unfamiliar one. It's that lull before the storm - plenty of rarely used expletives tempered with an unswerving sense that it'll be alright, this is NOT the end. It was Thursday, we were due to fly back on Saturday. We were in a small town. Misha's last words were "don't forget your passport". My purse was gone.
We dashed back to the cooking stall. Not there. We went to a shop run by Karolina and Rob's friends to see if someone could help us translate at the police station. One of their friends came with us and while the officer on duty was typing in all the details, the captain came in and declared that I'd have to "wait 48 hours, usually they turn up, it's a small town. You won't see the money again, but what else was in the purse? Usually, they throw it in the bin. Have you checked the garbage cans? Ah, passport. You fly back on Saturday?" Big sigh. All seemed doomed and yet I couldn't remember putting my passport in my purse. I looked in my bag again, of course it wasn't there.
We drove home, despondent, but hopeful at the same time. We met the husbands having tended the kids for what seemed like hours. Rob was already planning a drive to Madrid - they don't issue these new biometric ones at the consulates any longer. And for emergencies they fleece you. But then, miraculously, I picked out the piece of paper at the bottom of my bag and underneath was my dear old passport. I will not describe the look on Misha's face.
Later that day Rob got a call on his mobile. It was in Spanish, something about a Kati Watson, purse, my mother, meet at iglesia, police no. Rob's thinking, "WTF, how has someone got my number?" Karo kept reminding us what the Kapitan said "it's a small town". We joke that Rob's cover has finally been blown, and go the the pool to prepare for our rendezvous the following day: 1 o'clock, outside the church. No police.
The next day we steel ourselves with more cafe con leche at a nearby cafe, suspiciously watching everyone as we debate the essentials of espionage and drop-off points. We'd already sat on the bench and noone came. Rob tactfully left the vicinity with Veronika and after a while of waiting, I wandered, solitary and silent, and stood outside the church. It was 1.10 pm. Immediately, a car drew up "kati? Kati?" A delightful smiling man stops his car in full traffic, winds his window down and hands me MY PURSE. "Mama find in mercado....telefono here, it's okay, adios". He was showing the car hire form with Rob's number on it. I grin madly, take the purse and blurt out muchos gracias before the traffic forces him away. Quick look. No cash. Damn. Return to fellow agent. "Got it. Let's get outa here".
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