WORDS IN MALAGA
by K. Lang-Slattery
Some marriages last too long, and so do some honeymoons. Mine had already lasted seven months, and we were again in the midst of an argument that left me sitting alone watching the road go by. Tom drove, the back of his head all I could see from the rear seat of the van. Outside the air sparkled and hundreds of olive trees shook their silver-gray leaves in the breeze. Inside the van, gloom prevailed.
Both in our late twenties, we had married the previous summer. Now it was March of 1972, and Spain surrounded us. It was the seventh country and the second continent on our extended honeymoon, living in a Volkswagen van we had nicknamed “Turtle” because of its green color and slow progress.
Less than twenty-four hours before our argument, we stood together under a night sky peppered with stars. Tom’s arms encircled me as we gazed at the shapes of the Moorish Alhambra palace and the snow-dusted mountains beyond. “Time to sleep, sweetheart.” His breath tickled my ear. “We need an early start tomorrow if we want to make it to Malaga before the post office closes for siesta.”
In those days, in Europe, if travelers didn’t have an American Express card, and we didn’t, it was necessary to pick up mail at a central post office’s general delivery. A mailstop was a much-anticipated event, and this would be our first since Barcelona, more than two months before. Surely mail from our family back in California would be waiting in Malaga.
When we entered the city, the late morning traffic engulfed us. We were surrounded by cars, narrow streets, and hurrying pedestrians. Navigation was my job. Tom, as driver, had to maneuver through the bedlam while I attempted to get us to the post office. The only map we had was a city plan in our Michelin Green Guide of Spain. This tiny map of Malaga showed the direction of countless one-way streets with miniscule arrows. I soon realized that few of the arrows were correct, and I became completely disoriented.
“No, not here. Go another block. No, it’s one way the wrong way . . . maybe go around the block.”
Tom, stressed by the heavy traffic, became impatient, swearing angrily. “Damn. Judas Priest!” And then, directed at a man who walked in front of our van, “Asshole.” I was already frustrated, and his words made me feel worse.
Finally, we found the post office but parking in front was impossible. Tom pulled the van into a loading zone a block away. “Go in and get the mail,” he told me, his voice harsh.
I didn’t like being ordered around and remained firmly in my seat. My mind seethed. My Spanish was almost nonexistent. Tom’s was passable. I was shy in new situations. Tom was not. “No,” I said. “You go in.”
“Are you crazy? I can’t leave the car. A Guardia Civil could come by any moment and make me move.”
I was on the edge of tears. I dreaded the idea of trying to find general delivery in that imposing stone building flying the Spanish flag. What was general delivery in Spanish, anyway? I couldn’t remember. “Please, you go,” I said. “If a policeman comes, I’m capable of driving around the block!”
A burst of breath exploded from Tom. “F*ck it! Get inside and get our mail, or we’re leaving without it.”
I could not conceive of missing our mail from home. I slammed the van door behind me and stalked up the sidewalk and into the building. I don’t remember if I had trouble finding general delivery or even if there were any letters waiting. I realize now, I was being stubbornly unreasonable. But on that spring day in Malaga, I hated Tom for making me go into the post office by myself. But mostly, I hated that he had used the F-word.
As we left the city, I was ensconced on the back seat, turned inward by my anger. I would not navigate Tom safely out of the city. He could find his way by himself. On the outskirts, the traffic thinned. I gazed out the window and watched the countryside stream by. The dry hills, striped with the undulating rows of brown, twisted grapevines, waited for their first green leaves of spring. Then there was a sign I could translate: Aeroporto—5 Kilometers.
Why not tell Tom to take me to the airport? Why not simply go home? I needed time by myself. The close quarters of a VW van did not allow me space to weep or think my own thoughts. I hesitated. What of the wonderful times? Were they worth nothing? Each day of our travels, even the difficult days, had been a singular experience. Showering under a waterfall in Costa Rica. The friends we made in Panama. Driving through snow in the Pyrenees. If I left now, I would miss the exotic delights of Morocco. I would not see Rome or Venice, London or New Delhi.
And, yes, we were married. We were no longer simply lovers; we were husband and wife. I had sworn to love and support this man. I loved the way he could fix anything and that he encouraged my artistic spirit. Silently, I watched the airport entrance slip away behind us. Somehow that quiet act was a stronger commitment to our marriage than I had promised on our wedding day.
Before we reached Gibraltar, I returned to my place up front with Tom.
The close living conditions of the van made it impossibly awkward to stay angry with each other for long. During dinner that evening, I could not maintain my silence. “I hate the way I feel when you swear at me,” I said. “You know I hate the F-word. I hate that a word about making love is a swear word.”
“Aw, come on, sweetheart. I didn’t say, ‘Fuck-you.’ I wasn’t swearing at you. Just swearing.”
“Well, it pisses me off. I don’t mind some bad words . . . obviously. I just can’t stand the F-word.”
“Sorry. When I’m frustrated, it slips out,” he said.
I stood and put the water pot on the stove to heat for washing up, then sat down next to Tom. “We’re together 24/7, and our Turtle is way too small for us to stay angry at each other and survive.” I clasped his warm hand. “Our travels are unbelievable. I love our grand adventure together, but today, when we passed the airport, I thought seriously about going home.
Tom enclosed me in the circle of his arms and kissed my forehead. “I’m glad you stayed.” His voice was low. “We’re perfect together. Besides, I love you.” He leaned in and kissed me gently on the lips. “I’ll never stay angry with you, I promise,” he murmured as our kiss deepened. I dissolved into the warmth of my husband’s body. The dishes could wait until the morning.
K. (KATHRYN) LANG-SLATTERY is an author who writes WWII historical fiction, memoir, essays, and books for young people. Besides writing, her main interests are international travel, cooking, reading, and painting.
