Starstruck in Spain

The place? Marbella, Spain. The time? December, 1994.

Chris leaned to us after the three women had left and explained “The other woman was Sean Connery’s wife by the way”.

Long-term backpacking brings its share of highs and lows, excitement and boredom. The initial thrill of the trip can tend to fall into the grips of normalcy. You leave your choice of transport (bus, train, car); find your accommodation (hostel, campsite, construction site); navigate town for food and to visit tourist sites to photograph and study diligently for historical significance and/or beauty; and meet your fellow travelers and occasional friendly locals. Before you know it, you feel as though you have “experienced” the city, town or hamlet in question and are ready to take your next mode of transport to another destination. But that would be the cynic talking. That is the traveler who has managed to squeeze the potential novelty out of one of the most amazing experiences open to people – to see the world and other cultures and to throw oneself out of the comfort zone in order to do so. But therein is the crux of the matter. Traveling expands your horizons and fills in the comfort zone that has been pushed out by the initial act of just boarding that plane, train, boat, etc. You can adapt to the newness by developing strategies to cope with the new environments because the acts of reaching a new destination have common requirements. But then again these new environments always have the capacity to throw your new strategies to the wind and that is where the travel story is born.

Jamie, my good friend from Ontario, and I were now two months into our European backpacking trip. We had already had a run-in with dodgy Barcelonan police, been cursed by gypsy women in Granada (too late – that’s where we had had to spend the night in the construction site on our first night), and had a potentially worrying body search crossing into Gibraltar before Christmas. Nevertheless, we had come along by leaps and bounds in the art of backpacking. Two weeks in Morocco with little else but our daypacks and our first third-world country under our belt, we had spent a relaxing Yuletide living it up on the Rock (no, not Newfoundland – Gibraltar). It was Boxing Day and I was in the process of phoning Chris Haney and his girlfriend (now wife), Hiam. Chris is one of the owners and developers of Trivial Pursuit. When the autumn sets in and winter looms in Southwest Ontario, Chris and Hiam retire to the chi-chi resort of Marbella in Southern Spain to enjoy notably warmer weather. Fair enough. My father knew Chris through the golf course, “The Devil’s Pulpit”. Before Jamie and I set off for Paris to start our journey we were introduced to Chris at the 19th hole at the Pulpit. An offer of a phone number and an invitation to call “if you’re in Spain” was accepted with due appreciation and genuine puzzlement of whether this offer meant dinner one night or a round of golf in Andalucia. Nevertheless, I hoped to dispel our lack of knowledge with the phone call.

Man’s voice: “Hola! Es Pepe”.
Me: “Um, hello? Is Chris there, please”.
M.V.: “Que?”
Me: “Um, Chris? Chris Haney?”
M.V.: “Ah! Senor Chris. (Fast Spanish sentence). Uno momento, por favor!”
Woman’s voice: “Hello?”
Me: “Um. Hi. Is Chris there? It’s Jonathan, son of Michael Hodgson from the Devil’s Pulpit?!”
W.V.: (very quickly) “ Jonathan! This is Hiam! Where are you? When are you going to be here? How are you coming in?”
Me: (looking askance at Jamie) “Hmm. Well, we’re in Gibraltar right now. I suppose tomorrow? Maybe… 4:00? By bus?”
Hiam: Excellent! Call when you get in! I’ll have Pepe pick you up at the bus station!”
Me: “Pepe?”
Hiam: “Yes, Pepe! He’s our butler. See you tomorrow!”
(Dial tone)
Me: “So, Jamie… still no idea what’s up, but we’re being picked up tomorrow in Marbella by Pepe. At four. Let’s hope we can get a bus…”

So with no real idea of what to expect in Marbella, we arrived fortuitously at the bus station close enough to my proposed hour. Mediterranean time, be blessed. Our phone call caught Chris at home, sick with a cold rather than at the golf course, and he arrived at the bus station to shuttle us away in his Nissan Pathfinder to the closest waterside pub. Jamie and I looked at each other queasily. We had spent a rather celebratory time in Gibraltar enjoying British-style culinary delicacies and an inordinate amount of Guinness. After all, it had been our first Christmas away from home. Nevertheless, Chris insisted on buying the local cervezas for us: “Tres otros mas, por favor!” A few rounds into this and we greeted the arrival of three women obviously known to Chris. We were introduced to Hiam, her daughter Fifi (okay, really Fetoun, but she went by her nickname) and Micheline. We somewhat slurred our hellos, it being the fifth round in about an hour. The next part of the conversation involved what was to be done with the two travelers. Apparently we were being brought back to their “hacienda”. And Jamie and I had been wondering, in our current state, just what hostel we were going to have to find for the night. The logistics were discussed between Hiam and Chris and then the women departed while we finished up our lagers. We bade our goodbyes for the time being and that is when Chris swiveled around to explain that Micheline was also known as Mrs. Connery. Not for the first time, Jamie and I exchanged raised eyebrows during our stay in Marbella town.

So after a couple of weeks of backpacking in Morocco, being hassled by carpet salesmen, sleeping in $3 “hotel” rooms, and pushing our comfort zones in a completely new direction, we found our next several days catapulting the zone in the other direction. We were chauffeured back to the “modest” home of Chris and Hiam. And Pepe and Paula (the married employees). And Fifi. And “Speedy” (Hiam’s brother), the other current house guest. Jamie and I had our own room out back by the pool. We had our meals prepared for us by the Spanish-speaking P & P who shooed us out of the kitchen after our first attempts to go do the dishes. We hobnobbed with the rich elite youth of Marbella society who appeared to be of all nationalities, except Spanish. They in turn were astonished that we were hitchhiking, bussing, and rail-riding across Europe rather than jet-setting. We were taken on day trips to white-washed mountain towns in the heart of Andalucia. Face it – we were spoiled rotten. Nevertheless, our biggest surprise of the stay and, perhaps, the whole trip was yet to come.

After a particularly late night – hey, it’s Spain – of playing pool and frequenting the all-night bars of town, we crawled back to our home-away-from-home. A few hours later, Hiam came bursting into our room to announce that we had to get ready to go to lunch. There was hurry in her voice and we groaned as we had to get up to meet this unexpected twist in our day. Some twenty minutes later, Jamie and I, with noticeable lack of suitable attire, emerged and met Hiam at the Pathfinder. We got in and assessed Hiam’s fine apparel. Questioningly, I asked if the fading shorts and threadbare t-shirts that we were wearing were appropriate for this luncheon. Without even a glance Hiam assured us that it would be fine, “but first, we have to go pick up Sean”. Again, the raising of eyebrows and a flutter of nervousness was shared between the protagonists of the piece.

In due course, we arrived outside of a large, gated mansion. Hiam got out of the SUV and rang the buzzer at the gate. A minute or two went by and the gates opened as a white Jeep Cherokee with gold striping emerged from the compound. Indeed, Sean was behind the wheel, sporting a jaunty Turkish cap; Micheline was in the passenger seat; and two less discernible figures were in the back of the vehicle. With us in the lead and the Connerys’ following, we proceeded toward our lunch destination – yet another Marbella mansion hosting the event. As we parked the Nissan, we were met outside of the house by Mr. Connery, his son Jason, Micheline, and Micheline’s daughter from a previous marriage. In retrospect, I missed my opportunity to have a little bit of fun with the situation. There was an assumption made that we were somehow related to Chris (the Canadian accents, first and foremost). We dispelled that error. To think, I had had a chance to pull out a few quips to make it a more memorable experience. To whit: “Actually, we were just hitchhiking along and got picked up and here we are! And what do you do, sir?” Alas. We were star-struck in Spain. My minute claim to fame is that I had the former James Bond hold open the door for me when I had to run out to the SUV to retrieve Hiam’s purse and hurry back to the manor. We shared an afternoon with the upper-class of Marbella society at a buffet of 30 some-odd persons-of-influence, savouring delectable morsels, supping fine wine, and shooting billiards with the younger generations. Frankly, we missed our chance to chat with the former Edinburgh-milkman-turned-iconic-actor. I can vouch for the star presence and powerful voice however.

Our time in Marbella is now a surreal memory, diluted by time and the tendency to have one’s memories conform to the telling of the story rather than a completely accurate depiction of the events. I’m sure I was much more suave in real life… We played it out a few more days in our gilded hacienda. Promises of visiting the Connerys for photos went astray as the entire social circle seemed to come down with the vicious cold that Chris Haney was suffering from. Jamie and I spent the New Year with the Haneys’ and then the itchy feet became a bit too much. Portugal beckoned. We bade our goodbyes to Chris, Hiam, Fifi, Speedy, Pepe and Paola. Pepe drove us to the bus station. We set off for new destinations wondering what new wrinkles our travels would deal us. We figured not too much could beat our last week.

One of Chris’s parting explanations for their incredible hospitality was his travel background. He and the others who had gone on to develop Trivial Pursuit had spent a year in Spain and Morocco back in the late seventies. They had little money at the time and they were helped out extensively by the kindness of relative strangers. His only request for our stay was that we repay the favour to future travelers, a sound request I have done my best to continue. In retrospect, our time in both Morocco and Marbella were the products of the immense gap in the difference between the two. Traveling on $10 a day or less in Northern Africa in a place that pushed our comfort zone to the limit was juxtaposed by the time spent in luxury in Spain that pushed our comfort zone in the other direction. Low-budget freedom vs. luxurious restrictions, due to social and transport issues. It was a new set of rules and experiences that added to the whole nature of our travels. But in the end, I guess it makes for a great tale of name-dropping.

“Hodgson. Jon Hodgson. Signing off.”