All was going well in Santander. The school was great, I had lovely students on the whole, my colleagues were friendly too. All in all times were happy and the days went by with few trials.
There was a bar/café some of my colleagues and I would go to after work sometimes. As we did split shifts, we would often get there at about 9.30 in the evening or so. I’m afraid I don’t remember the name of the place but it was pretty non-descript. During the colder spring days it would be frequented by older ladies wearing fur coats is my abiding memory.
I would often order freshly squeezed orange juice there and the barman would duly cut some oranges and squeeze them by hand. He would then pour the squeezings into a glass using a funnel to filter out the orange pulp. Now I am a lover of orange pulp in my juice and was slightly puzzled that visit after visit, I would see that lovely pulp chucked away, leaving smooth orange juice.
So one evening – anticipating the wastage – in my gradually improving Spanish I found the courage to ask if I could have the pulp with my orange juice. This seemingly rational, reasoned request was met by a torrent of Spanish and gestures at the kitchen. I didn’t really understand what he was saying but it seemed the gist was ‘No you can’t have the pulp with your juice.’ Being English, I declined to inquire further and stoically accepted the disappointment that was my smooth orange juice.
On getting back to my colleagues at our table I explained this, to my mind, slightly bizarre episode and asked the question, ‘Is there some kind of law against orange juice pulp in this country?’. The barman had been pointing at the kitchen so I figured it was some kind of Health & Safety initiative. Puzzled, we continued the evening.
A few days later I was sitting drinking coffee on a sunny day with my Spanish conversation exchange, Oscar. After a while I asked him in Spanish, ‘What’s up with the laws in this country? Why can’t you have the pulp with orange juice?’. At this point, Oscar burst out laughing.
‘What?’, I asked, ‘Why are you laughing?’.
‘You asked for an octopus with your juice’, Oscar giggled.
‘What do you mean? I asked if I could have the pulpo in the glass? What’s wrong with the waiter?’
‘Exactly! You meant pulpa!’
‘Whoopsie!’
