Salamanca Stories

Salmanca is a post medieval walled city in the Northern, arid part of Spain, Don Quixote country. I spent one academic year there at the University, accompanied by my ex-wife, Jan. There was a active "foreign" community there that made things lively, mostly centered around a couple of University departments, a language institute run by an Irishman, Monohan, and his Spanish wife; plus a few watering holes frequented by the people who were so inclined. I would like to share a few stories that seem worth telling.

One of the English professors from Cambridge (GB) was a better than average story teller, sometimes seeming to embellish the truth, but always in a kind of improper raconteur style. One evening we talked of poetry and he told of the visit and reading of the Poet Laureate of England, at Cambridge. Well, the man started to read his poems and a few in a young man in the audience stood up in silence. The poet, Phillip Larkin, called upon him to explain himself, to which he said: "Sir, you are a great poet, but you can't read your own work." The poet had the sense to ask if he could read the poems any better and the young man said "yes." He was invited on stage, read the poems which were indicated by markers in the collected volume, and they received a standing ovation at the conclusion of the reading.

Monohan had served in India in the second world war, and had gained a liking for curry and gin. He held a yearly dinner which featured both, in part facilitated by his travels to Lisbon to acquire the proper ingredients. This legendary occasion was followed by his doctor assisted bed rest to deal with his ulcer. Everyone brought flowers and other tokens of appreciation, in a continuous toast his health with Bombay; and so he would gradually reenter the local society to take his helm with the intelligentsia and hangers on.

That year the visiting contingent of American would be "scholars" came from Yale. They were an active bunch in the bars, seemingly able to buy drinks and dinners at will, and didn't seem particularly keen about their studies. One of their haunts was a bar down on the Rio Tormes near where the Gypsies lived temporarily in wagons and tents, traded and sold horses and cattle (the women came to town be ask for donations on the street). The gypsies came to the bars to play and sing for drinks and meals. The Yalies decided to have a big party their last night there and invited the university community and hangers on to it. Everyone gathered and started to drink at their expense. The big problem was that the gypsies were paid to sing and play in advance, a big mistake, because they rode off into the sunset to be gone until the Yale men went to Madrid to fly back home. Most be a moral to the story someplace.