Read Online A Lizard In My Luggage by Anna Nicholas - Free Book Online

rocks, which give it the wry appearance of an old paisano, a country dweller, with a pot belly. On the other, there's a steep drop into a veritable Eden of neighbours' orchards, densely packed with fruit trees of every kind – orange, lemon, fig, pomegranate, plum, pear, apricot, peach and cherry. I pause to contemplate the sheer abundance and richness of colour of the ripening figs and pomegranates, fruit which in London I might fleetingly glimpse, pale and cellophane wrapped, and exorbitantly priced in some drab supermarket. The fruit's pungent, sweet aroma hangs in the warm air and I suddenly feel giddy and so alive it is as if my every pore has been awakened. Like an ecstatic and entranced Eve on a voyage of discovery, I peer up above the porch of my neighbour Rafael's house, overcome with an inexplicable joy when I see clumps of maturing avocados and fat ruby grapes ripe for the picking.
    Â Â We have four neighbours in the vicinity of our property but so far I have only met Rafael and had a friendly wave from the German owner next door. However, when we viewed our property for the very first time, an agitated, elderly senyora had hobbled from the chalet at the mouth of the track and blocked our path, waving her arms frantically and shaking her head. Toni, our agent, had spoken to her in local dialect and then explained to us with a nonchalant shrug that she had mistaken us for lost tourists. Although she stepped aside, like a border control guard she continued to gaze unsmilingly and suspiciously at our car as it heaved its way over the rocky terrain and up to our finca. Now as I reach the corner, I glance nervously at her porch, expecting the same small, bespectacled and matronly form to rush out like the troll under the bridge to challenge me. No one's about. I take a left and head for the town and the local computer shop. It is just off the main plaça with its gaudy Gaudiesque church and bustling outdoor cafés jam-packed with vociferous locals and small children squirming on their mothers laps as they try to grab at the tails of sly feral cats prowling beneath the tables. I decide to polish off my e-mails quickly, visit the market and hopefully have enough time to sneak a delicious iced coffee at Café Paris, my new favourite bar, on the way home.

    The heart of our local market beats in a modest, unprepossessing white building in the town centre and yet its arteries extend far into an adjacent car park and spill still further on to a broad terrace where the sellers of livestock – birds, hens and rabbits – vie for space on a Saturday morning. During the week, the vast interior of the building is awash with fresh fruit, luscious vegetables, flowers and plants and the smell of sweet, damp earth fills the air. From behind mounds of lettuces, cucumbers, plump tomatoes and oranges, the heads of stallholders bob up and down like expectant geese as they search out potential purchasers and old friends. Lining the walls of the hall are permanent stands and kiosks selling dried beans and nuts, meats, grains and fat red sausages, chorizo and huge rounds of milky white manchego cheese. A side hall betrays its briny contents from the street as the strong whiff of fish seeps out from under the market's swing doors and fills the front porch. At the weekend, the whole place is seething with sharp-eyed housewives, keen for bargains and the best, most delicious produce. Queuing at stalls is a lengthy and, at times, dispiriting experience if you are an estranger , a foreigner. The town's women enjoy a loud and raucous gossip with the various stallholders and as a matter of course jostle and forcefully elbow their way to the top of the queue ahead of timorous newcomers. Forging their way to the front, they arm themselves with anything green, voluminous, and preferably spiky with which to make a final assault on those who fail to scuttle out of their path. To stomp off in ill humour in order to offer your custom