One of the true joys of living in Andalucía is the neighbours. Our Spanish neighbours, to be precise. Locals who have welcomed us into their wonderful little hillside community near Frigiliana and treat us like family. And like most families, it’s mostly fun, with the occasional moment of complete and utter chaos. Take last month, for instance. I got a WhatsApp from Paco. Now, Paco is a dashing 76-year-old widower with a smile that’s gotten him out of more scrapes than he deserves. A farmer his whole life, Paco discovered Airbnb a few summers ago and now rents out his two-bedroom casita to unsuspecting tourists who seem to require my unofficial concierge services. A lot.
Because Paco speaks even less English than I speak Spanish, Lord Muck and I are regularly recruited as emergency interpreters. Amusing enough when it’s Brits. Downright surreal when it’s a German family trying to operate the ancient aircon or a Japanese honeymooner confused about how the toilet flushes. But Paco insists all foreigners speak English. And so, we muddle through, with Google Translate and hand gestures doing most of the heavy lifting.
So, I popped over, expecting another crash course in Scandinavian BBQ vocabulary. But instead of tourists, I found Paco. Alone and grinning mischievously. Spotting his ancient iPad on the kitchen table, I braced myself. Had he discovered booking.com too? A confusing email from a Danish couple? No. Oh no. He was on Tinder. Yes, that Tinder. Apparently, Paco had been chatting with Miguel, his octogenarian brother, who had apparently been on Tinder for three months and was now something of a local legend. Especially among the ladies of Nerja, many of whom seemed to be Swedish, glamorous, and surprisingly enthusiastic about Miguel’s… charms.
So now Paco wanted in on the action. Cue me, trying not to burst into flames from embarrassment, as I attempted to explain dating app etiquette to a man who was like a grandfather to me.
“No, Paco, you can’t use that photo of you surfing in Tarifa. You’re in Speedos. And it’s from 1987.”
“No, you don’t speak fluent English. You can say ‘hello’ and ‘thank you.’ That’s not fluent.”
“No, you absolutely cannot assume every profile is real. Some of them are scammers. Some are bots. Some might be – how do I put this? – professionals.”
After an intense crash course in swiping, catfishing, and why he had to be extremely careful with his emojis, Paco was all set. And what a few weeks it’s been. I’ve been checking his messages before he sends them. Screening potential matches. Dropping by for emergency outfit consultations before dates. (He owns six shirts. Two have buttons. One features a large tiger.)
Then came his first date. Her name was Annika. A 70-year-old, recently widowed lady from Stockholm, staying in the area for the summer. Fluent in Spanish, according to her profile. Elegant, lovely, and – allegedly – a match made in Tinder heaven. Everything was going swimmingly… right up until I got an SOS text: “Urgent. Come. Now. Translator Needed.” Turns out Annika wasn’t quite as fluent as she claimed.
Unless “fluent” means knowing how to order sangria and say “muy caliente” while winking. So, now, as well as Paco, I have a matching Tinder grandma to help. Think I need to swipe left on the whole affair…
Postcards from Andalucía, Lady Muck Style
By Catherine Saunders / Read more at www.ladymuck.style
