Up to date, nearly: crazy Valencians, Christmas, and a tooth fairy

We’re on our way back down through Spain now, but as the last entry was from southern Spain and there’s been Christmas in France in between, it’s all getting very confusing.  Here’s what we’ve been up to since putting our clothes back on in Cartagena:

We had to rush to get back to France in time for Christmas at my sister’s house near Agen (Spain IS bigger than it looks on the map, I don’t care what anyone says) and did a few long days of driving.  The van’s 1992-spec suspension really doesn’t help – one of my fillings even fell out, but more on that later.

The highlight of this part of the trip was supposed to be Barcelona, but we were very late by then and had to skirt the city and promise ourselves we’d go next time.  The only city we DID visit was Valencia, and that was by accident:  we’d relaxed into a kind of blind-obedience-to-satnav trance, and suddenly found ourselves heading for the city centre at 8pm on a Saturday night.  There were people dancing across roads, cars driving on pavements and motorbikes weaving everywhere, and there were SIX-lane roundabouts with no apparent rules at all.  Mike was soon cackling hysterically as he beeped the horn and zig-zagged in and out like a native – he absolutely loved it.  I had my eyes shut for most of it, but one thing I did see through my fingers was a rack of bicycles for public use.  The bikes looked all new and shiny under the Christmas lights, and the rack was completely full.  At last, evidence of some sanity in Valencia – you would, honestly, have to be nuts to ride a pushbike here.

Christmas with Lin and Brian was amazing.  It was strange to be in a house again, and also strange to be a guest rather than a host, but they were very entertaining company, very generous with their bath and laundry rooms, and they even let us win at cards!   Lin is also a fantastic cook, and although that caused a slight setback on the weight-loss front, it was worth it!

It was wonderful to see Nathan too, but I was very sad that Laura couldn’t make it.  Back in May last year when Mike and I started thinking about this trip, talking to the kids about it made it seem possible, and booking their flights over for Christmas made it real.   Given Laura’s work situation, staying in England was the only sensible decision, but she was very much missed, and the idea that I wouldn’t see her till May made me feel an uncomfortably long way from home.  It was really nice to see Lin and Brian getting to know Nathan better (they've lived in France since 1997 so haven't seen a lot of him, as we left in 1999), but I felt upset at the same time that Laura was missing out on their generosity. 

After Christmas it was time to wait for news on the old laptop (not good, as you know) and get an appointment with a dentist: the filling-less tooth had started to throb a bit.   I’d assumed I might have to wait a day or two, so I was quite taken aback when the first place I tried suggested the first week in April.  It hurts, I said.  They didn’t exactly shrug but it soon became clear that this was going to be harder than I’d thought.

One dentist did take pity on me, although not to the extent of giving me an appointment (mon dieu non, rien avant juin).  What he did do was make me a photocopy of the dentists page from the Agen phone book.  I almost cried – it was the nicest anyone had been to me all day.  It also made the search a lot easier, and for the next couple of days Mike patiently drove me round Agen and the surrounding towns and villages so I could call on each and every dentist listed.  There was no point ringing them, we discovered.  Very few have receptionists, and even the ones that do don’t answer their phones, so you just have to go round in person and try to look more desperate than the next would-be patient.

I got a lot better at it as time went on.  Instead of ‘on holiday in a camping car’ I was now ‘just moved into your town’, and instead of ‘it hurts’, I was clutching my face in my hands and shedding real tears.   The tears were genuine – not so much toothache as frustration – but still the earliest appointment I’d been offered was a fortnight away.  

We'd given up for the night and were on our way to back to our parking spot when we saw a dental surgery in the village we were passing through.  I almost didn’t have the energy to go and ask – there’s only so many times a person can stand being told to fuck off in one day, even if it’s very politely done in beautiful French – but we couldn’t just drive past either, so I plodded in wearily.    When the dentist said “Demain, treize heures et demi” I nearly fell over.  “Are you SURE?” I asked.  He repeated my appointment time very slowly and looked at me like I was some sort of idiot, but even so I really had to fight the urge to hug him.  According to Mike I actually skipped back to the van.   It was very odd to be delirious with happiness because I’d managed to book a dental appointment; in England I do my best to avoid them.

The next day, this wonderful man spent his lunch hour doing a really careful job on my tooth.  He took the time and trouble to explain, in simple French, what the problem was and what he would be doing, and made absolutely sure I understood how to tell him if anything he was doing was hurting.  It’s the smoothest, best-feeling filling I’ve ever had, and cost less than 30 euros.  He even used the remainder of the amalgam to fix a cracked filling somewhere else free of charge – it’ll only be temporary, he said, but it’s better than it was.

And best of all, fully equipped with new IT and teeth, we could start to ramble on again.