We took the bus into Alaior this morning. Alaior is the third most important village on the island and is an industrial centre for milk products and footwear. I wanted to buy a pair of Menorcan flat, slipper-like sandals called Abarcas. Apparently worn by peasants for centuries (not the same pair obviously) so Alaior, famous for its footwear, seemed the only place to go then!
Alaior turned out to be a lovely old village, very quiet and surprisingly non-touristy. There were lots of small shops tucked away down side streets but not all grouped together, maybe one or two in each street you came across. We found quite a few shoe shops but none seemed to sell the sandals that Alaior was so famous for. They can’t just make them for the fun of it and then throw them away. They must sell them somewhere mustn’t they?
We had about four hours before the bus left at 2.15 pm and by midday we hadn’t found a single shop anywhere selling these damn sandals. Pauline even took the guide book into a shoe shop and pointed to the word Abarcas but the soppy girl in the shop just shrugged her shoulders. What’s going on? Something that they’re so famous for making just didn’t seem to exist. Perhaps they made it all up to get silly tourists like me running around in circles trying to find them.
Feeling hot and tired we eventually sat down in a tree-shaded square and thought about what we should do next. We decided that it might be worth trying to ask one of the many groups of locals who were gathered in little groups on various benches scattered around the square. The trouble was most of the people were quite old and Pauline thought that it might be better if we asked a younger person as they might speak a little more English than the old folk. She suddenly approached a youngish looking bloke who was strolling through the square in some sort of uniform and carrying a clipboard. He looks like he’ll know what we’re talking about I thought. He turned out to be a postman and as Pauline pointed to the description of the sandals in the guidebook (in Spanish I might add); he looked puzzled and scratched his head. I don’t know why you’re looking so puzzled mate, I thought, you make the bloody things here don’t you?
He pondered, then he turned to three or four old people on a bench. They all shouted away in Spanish for a while when all of a sudden one of the elderly men came over to us and said, “Speak Espanola?”
Pauline said, “A little.”
The old chap said, “A leetle? OK.”
He then proceeded to tell us exactly where to go to get these sandals in perfect Spanish. It was a joy to listen to him and we nodded and said Si in all the right places and didn’t understand a word. Well I didn’t, Pauline thought he’d indicated that we had to go outside the village to an industrial estate somewhere but she got no further than that.
We said, “Gracias” and made to walk away in the general direction that he had been pointing in when he suddenly got to his feet again and started to tell us in perfect Spanish about what seemed to be a shortcut. He was describing an archway with his hands and telling us to go under it but we didn’t really know where this archway was or even how far away we were talking about. We thanked him again and started to wander aimlessly out of the square.
“I expect they’ll talk about this for years to come,” I said, “it may even be passed down by word of mouth into Menorcan folklore about the crazy band of foreign people on a quest for the Golden Sandals of Menorca and how one old man succeeded in diverting them away from the Sandal’s source by telling them to look for the Silver Archway of Leather Goods which of course did not exist.”
As we left the square, an old dear suddenly popped up in front of me and said, “Bocadillos, café.”
It was so sudden I stopped, looked at her for a second or two, completely bemused.
Why was she saying “Sandwiches, coffee” to me?
Should I reply with “Spanish omelette, brandy”?
Was she giving me a code?
Was she a loony?
Had she seen us talking or more to the point, listening to that old Spanish bloke about sandals and made the enormous leap of judgement to assume we were looking for somewhere to eat? Pauline just showed her the guide book with the magic word Abarcas but the old dear just peered at it and shrugged like every other bugger had done since we’d got here.
“No, helados a la casa,” she said.
Ice cream at her house? What the hell is she going on about? “OK, gracias,” we said and moved away as quickly as we could without hurting her feelings.
Was she lonely and just wanted us to go round her house for tea? We’ll never know will we?
Time was, by now, flying by. It was about 12.30 pm and I still wanted to buy those damn sandals but we were all getting hungry and thirsty. The shops would be closing at 1 pm and the bus would be leaving at 2.15 pm so it was one last desperate search for the sandals and then something to eat. We started to look for the Silver Archway of Leather Goods, down one street, up the next. I still couldn’t quite believe that they would make these bloody sandals and then make it virtually impossible to buy them but it was certainly beginning to look like it. By this time we’d stopped outside yet another shoe shop that didn’t sell them and didn’t know what the hell we wanted when we suddenly noticed that the walkway beside the shop rose up in steps under, you’ll never guess, a sort of arch. It was at this point that, if it had been a film, we would have all looked up at the archway with benign smiles on our faces while the Hallelujah Chorus played in the background.
But it wasn’t and we didn’t and it didn’t.
“Let’s just go up here and see where it goes,” Pauline said, “the shops will be shutting soon anyway.” The steps led up to a very attractive courtyard and fountain and then down again the other side into another maze of little streets. Across the road from the steps we’d just walked down was a tiny leather goods shop and in the window amongst all the handbags, belts and shoes were The Sandals. I bought a pair and whether we’d actually stumbled onto the very shop, through the very arch that the old chap was trying to tell us about before, we’ll never know. But it’s nice to think that the crazy foreign people did end their quest for the Golden Sandals of Menorca by discovering the Silver Archway of Leather Goods in the end and ended up paying through the nose for the privilege.
It was now past 1 pm so we decided to go back and eat in a restaurant/café by the bus stop so we could take a bit more time over our meal. The only menu was displayed outside and in Spanish. No concessions to tourists here and quite right too. We all decided on a snack, there wasn’t any time for the meal of the day – two courses including wine and bread for 9 Euros – and ordered some bocadillos. The place was quite empty and seemed even emptier because there was a very large bar area and an even larger restaurant area where the tables were all laid up for any meal of the day customers. Our bocadillos were served up, basically half a French loaf with appropriate fillings, and we settled down. About fifteen minutes later, all of a sudden, men started bursting through the front doors laughing, chattering and shouting and made their way straight through the bar and into the restaurant.
More men arrived and then more. It was just as if they’d locked the restaurant doors until all these people were milling around outside and the were allowed in, a bit like the January sales. The men were all obviously from some work place nearby and they all bustled in, had their meal of the day, crammed back into the bar for their coffees and then burst back out and were gone again. I noticed a lot of them wearing the ‘sandals’ so where on earth were they buying theirs from?
We finished our snacks and went outside to sit at the bus stop. Across the road from us a lady with her daughter got into their car which had been completely boxed in. There were literally only a few inches front and back of her. She obviously wouldn’t be able to get out. The lady got out of the car, checked the vehicles front and back to see if they were locked, looked at their number plates and got back in and started her car. She reversed into the car behind and rolled forward into the car in front but after repeating this a few times she gave up. She got out, walked the short distance to the café we’d just left, went in and then came out again. As she reached her car a man appeared. I thought he was going to move his car but he just started to try and help the lady manoeuvre out of her space. She started the car again. Forward bump, reverse bump, full lock forward bump, full lock reverse bump. This went on and on with the man standing there waving her forward and backwards. He needn’t have bothered as all she was doing was driving backwards and forwards until she hit the cars anyway. After a while it was becoming obvious to both the man and the woman that they weren’t really getting anywhere like this but by this time there were now three or four other men standing around the car just watching the poor woman struggling. All of a sudden, one of these other men said something and they all bent down and lifted the front of the woman’s car clear of the car in front and stood back laughing. The people at the bus stop, including us, burst into a spontaneous round of applause, the lady smiled and waved at us, the men laughed some more and the lady drove off with her daughter smiling and waving at us from the back of the car.
I will be wearing my authentic ancient peasant’s sandals tonight.
The peasant’s not too happy about it though.
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