Read Online No Place in the Sun by John Mulligan - Free Book Online
Authors: John Mulligan
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entrance, hidden in the shrubbery just inside the gates. Nice friendly people, he thought to himself, I’m starting to like it here.
The underpass was a clean white pedestrian tunnel that brought him into an upmarket residential area; large marble floored apartment buildings with doormen and a few fashionable clubs and restaurants. This looked like a hangout for the rich and famous, the place had the unmistakable stamp of wealth about it.
Puerto Banus was spectacular; a large yacht harbour had been created in the sheltered water that was enclosed by a long breakwater that curved around in a semicircle to end at a stone lighthouse. Every berth seemed to be occupied, with some serious pieces of the shipwright’s art moored along the quay wall. Tom had never seen such boats; these were floating palaces, most locked up but a few with groups of people sitting on deck, enjoying drinks or tucking into food. The parking spaces along the wall were filled with Porches and Ferraris and all kinds of luxury cars; this place seemed to attract some very rich people indeed.
It was also a magnet for lots of onlookers who strolled along the promenade, admiring the boats and the toys of the rich. It seemed to Tom as if there were two kinds of willing participants in the show; the wealthy were blatantly showing off their possessions, and the tourists were staring open-mouthed at this orgy of conspicuous consumption. Tom loved it immediately.
This place must be a salesman’s dream, he mused. So much money and so many people, I’d love to be selling boats, or anything. What a place to live! He wandered along the street to find something to eat. A lot of the places were expensive, but Picasso’s looked promising and he joined the short queue outside.
The menu prices seemed like great value, much better than at home. Some of the other diners were tucking into giant pizzas, or pasta dishes, but Tom felt the need for something more substantial. He plumped for what looked like a hamburger and chips.
‘I’ll have the hamburgesa con huevo con patatas fritas,’ he pointed the menu item out to the waiter. ‘And a beer,’ he added, ‘a big one please, por favour.’
‘Cerveza grande.’ The waiter wrote down the order.
‘Whatever.’ Tom shrugged, he felt sorry he hadn’t learned Spanish in school. He puzzled at the menu and the waiter’s conversation. Not sure what that was all about, the meal looks like a hamburger and fries, no idea what ‘con huevo’ means, maybe it’s a kind of sauce, sure we’ll find out soon enough.
‘It’s ‘amburgesa,’ that’s how you pronounce it. You never pronounce the ‘H’.’ The man at the next table leaned over to speak to him. ‘On holidays then?’ He sounded English.
‘Yes.’ Tom didn’t want to appear too friendly, you never knew what a fellow’s angle might be, but he didn’t want to be rude either. ‘My first time in Spain, not a clue of the lingo. What does....’ He opened the menu and looked at the item he had ordered… ‘what does ‘con huevo’ mean?’
The Englishman laughed. ‘It’s pronounced ‘wave-oh’, not ‘hoo-ay-voh’. It just means ‘with an egg.’ Huevos are eggs, ‘Jamon con huevos’ is bacon and eggs. You’ll get used to it quick enough. Irish?’
‘Yes.’ Tom laughed at his own innocence, of course ‘huevo’ was an egg, sounded like it when you pronounced it the way the Englishman had said it. ‘Are you on holidays yourself?’
The Englishman smiled, ‘no such luck, I live here, ten years here now, not likely to go back to the bloody rain.’
‘Looks like a nice place to live.’ Tom was warming to the helpful stranger, ‘but I suppose everywhere has its good points, and maybe its bad points too.’
‘You have to weigh it up, take the good and bad, but I prefer it here. Went back for a week after the first year and found it too bloody depressing, never looked back after that. They’ll take me out of here in a box.’
The food
The underpass was a clean white pedestrian tunnel that brought him into an upmarket residential area; large marble floored apartment buildings with doormen and a few fashionable clubs and restaurants. This looked like a hangout for the rich and famous, the place had the unmistakable stamp of wealth about it.
Puerto Banus was spectacular; a large yacht harbour had been created in the sheltered water that was enclosed by a long breakwater that curved around in a semicircle to end at a stone lighthouse. Every berth seemed to be occupied, with some serious pieces of the shipwright’s art moored along the quay wall. Tom had never seen such boats; these were floating palaces, most locked up but a few with groups of people sitting on deck, enjoying drinks or tucking into food. The parking spaces along the wall were filled with Porches and Ferraris and all kinds of luxury cars; this place seemed to attract some very rich people indeed.
It was also a magnet for lots of onlookers who strolled along the promenade, admiring the boats and the toys of the rich. It seemed to Tom as if there were two kinds of willing participants in the show; the wealthy were blatantly showing off their possessions, and the tourists were staring open-mouthed at this orgy of conspicuous consumption. Tom loved it immediately.
This place must be a salesman’s dream, he mused. So much money and so many people, I’d love to be selling boats, or anything. What a place to live! He wandered along the street to find something to eat. A lot of the places were expensive, but Picasso’s looked promising and he joined the short queue outside.
The menu prices seemed like great value, much better than at home. Some of the other diners were tucking into giant pizzas, or pasta dishes, but Tom felt the need for something more substantial. He plumped for what looked like a hamburger and chips.
‘I’ll have the hamburgesa con huevo con patatas fritas,’ he pointed the menu item out to the waiter. ‘And a beer,’ he added, ‘a big one please, por favour.’
‘Cerveza grande.’ The waiter wrote down the order.
‘Whatever.’ Tom shrugged, he felt sorry he hadn’t learned Spanish in school. He puzzled at the menu and the waiter’s conversation. Not sure what that was all about, the meal looks like a hamburger and fries, no idea what ‘con huevo’ means, maybe it’s a kind of sauce, sure we’ll find out soon enough.
‘It’s ‘amburgesa,’ that’s how you pronounce it. You never pronounce the ‘H’.’ The man at the next table leaned over to speak to him. ‘On holidays then?’ He sounded English.
‘Yes.’ Tom didn’t want to appear too friendly, you never knew what a fellow’s angle might be, but he didn’t want to be rude either. ‘My first time in Spain, not a clue of the lingo. What does....’ He opened the menu and looked at the item he had ordered… ‘what does ‘con huevo’ mean?’
The Englishman laughed. ‘It’s pronounced ‘wave-oh’, not ‘hoo-ay-voh’. It just means ‘with an egg.’ Huevos are eggs, ‘Jamon con huevos’ is bacon and eggs. You’ll get used to it quick enough. Irish?’
‘Yes.’ Tom laughed at his own innocence, of course ‘huevo’ was an egg, sounded like it when you pronounced it the way the Englishman had said it. ‘Are you on holidays yourself?’
The Englishman smiled, ‘no such luck, I live here, ten years here now, not likely to go back to the bloody rain.’
‘Looks like a nice place to live.’ Tom was warming to the helpful stranger, ‘but I suppose everywhere has its good points, and maybe its bad points too.’
‘You have to weigh it up, take the good and bad, but I prefer it here. Went back for a week after the first year and found it too bloody depressing, never looked back after that. They’ll take me out of here in a box.’
The food
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