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AT THE STATUE OF DON QUIXOTE



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THE PESETA



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THE MADRID NEWSPAPER ARTICLE



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ROSA AND CONSUELA




My Story

# 27

Madrid -- 5K
The sign said.

We had almost arrived back in civilization!
“Feels different, doesn’t it?” I yelled to Rudi as we drove through what might be called the suburbs.
He nodded and managed a smile. I sensed through his goggles he was worried that we might run out of gas. At least now there were human beings around. Even a truck or two, some bicycles and a motor scooter or two.
The Vespa sputtered, faltered, and lost power. I let it coast onto a grassy plot along the street.

“What happened?” I said.

“Nothing a good drink of gasoline won’t fix,” he said, as he peered seriously into the empty tank. It was bone dry as the saying goes.

Rudi continued, “I was hoping we would be able to fill it before this happened. There’s always some sediment in the tank from the dust and grit from the roads here in Spain that can get sucked through the gas line into the carburetor. Then we’d have trouble.
He took hold of the handlebars and steered it back onto the street and started pushing. “What’re you doing?” I asked.

“Which way is Madrid?” He asked.
“That way” I pointed.
“Let’s go, then, start pushing.”

He was right. We couldn’t just sit there and wait for something to happen. We had to attract attention and something would happen.
Trucks and buses and cars and people on bicycles and motor scooters were passing us. Bystanders on the street would stop and watch us pass by. One yelled, “Guitar!” when he spotted the guitar strapped on my sweating back.
After about a mile of this, a Vespa motor scooter swerved in front of us and stopped our progress. Other vehicles swerved around it, honking as they passed. Two girls were on the Vespa. The driver yelled in the traffic, “I saw your American flag on your suitcase. Are you Americans,?”
I pulled over to the side. “Pull up to that parking place and we’ll tell you all about us.”

It turned out the driver, Rosa, and her rider, Consuela, lived nearby. Rosa was a former foreign exchange student (1955) in Milwukee and spoke good English. Both were good-looking Spanish girls in their early twenties.
“Touring the world?” Rosa asked.
Rudi became his charming self again. It always happened when girls were involved.
“And you’re pushing the Vespa around the world,?” Consuela joined in smiling.
“Only to the next gas station.” Rudi said.
“We can help with that!” Consuela said. “My brother works at a gas station down about a kilometer. “We’ll get some for you.”
“Thanks!.” I said.
“Here, take this gas can,” Rudi said.
Rosa drove off with Consuela holding the gas can.
“Hope we didn’t just lose a gas can,” Rudi snickered.
But the girls were back in a few minutes.
We filled the tank with the mixture of gas and oil that our two-cycle motor needed.
“How much do we owe you?” I asked.
“Nothing, nothing, de nada, Rosa said.”
Jeeze, that was close, because we didn’t have one peseta, nothing, to give her.
“I’m just repaying you for all the help you Americans gave me when I was a high school student in Milwaukee, ” Rosa said.
Rudi asked her, “Where’s the camping place in Madrid for tourists? We heard there was a good one on the west side of town.”
“Come!” We’ll show you,” Rosa said. She was a very friendly girl. You ride with me, Rudi, and Consuela can ride with you, Rohn.”
We switched passengers. It was a new world suddenly. Only an hour ago we were out on the arid wastelands of Spain, fighting grit and gravel, trying to protect ourselves from the tortuous Spanish sun, hoping our gasoline would hold out.

Now we were driving down the wide boulevards of Madrid, the regal capital of Spain, past its massive neo-classic administrative buildings, baroque monuments, and spacious gardens. Wow! And as co-travelers we had two lovely senoritas.
I think Rosa was taking the long route to the camping grounds, just to show off her beautiful city to these foreign boys.

There’s something about entering a new town or city on a trip like this world trip. I don’t know about Rudi, but for me, there’s always a feeling of loneliness that comes over me whenever we entered any new town. It’s the unfamiliar faces and strange street names and signs and buildings. So much to learn! But today, with Consuela hugging my waist and other places as we drove along, I felt comfortable, and in good hands, especially her hands.

“Is that the Madrid main Post Office?” I shouted back to Consuela, pointing to a large white granite building.
“Yes,” she said and I rode ahead to Rosa and shouted that I wanted to stop at the Post Office.

“O.K.” she said, as we turned back around.
I was anxious to learn if my articles about our trip had pleased the editors of the Baltimore Sun. If they had, maybe the newspaper had sent a check! And we would be able to eat again! And maybe even take the girls out to lunch!
Rudi entertained the girls on the Post Office steps and I went inside.
Sure enough, a banner of Franco was hanging on the wall behind the clerk, watching his every operation. It must’ve been two yards long. The clerk was issuing a customer a stamp with Franco’s picture on it. It was 2” long.
“Yes, we have one letter for you, young man. That will be a charge of one peseta please.” the clerk said.
“One peseta?” I pleaded. “I don’t even have one centime.” I looked at the return address of the letter; it was from the Sun. A cent and a half, and I didn’t have it to pay for a general delivery letter that might contain a check for twenty-five dollars!
I went over to a group of middle-aged men and asked the first man I saw for the peseta. Maybe it was my expression, or maybe my intensity. He could see I looked like an American and by my faulty Spanish accent was sure. American tourists are always rich, he probably thought. “What’s this all about?” Some kind of trick?? He thought. He looked at his friends, reached in his pocket and parceled out in his hand the equivalent of a peseta in coins and dumped them into my cupped hands.

“Thank you, sir, if you wait right there I’ll pay you back ten-fold!” and I went over and waited in line at the window again. I got the letter. I nervously tore open the thick envelope. My five installments that I had written for them fell to the floor along with a letter that ended, “- - and furthermore, Mr. Engh, our office does not feel at present that your trip has taken on the flavor of a travelogue necessary to please our readers. We welcome correspondence from you at such time that you feel your trip has progressed to a point where it will appeal to our reader interest.”
There are no back doors to Post Offices worldwide; otherwise I sure would’ve taken one that day. The man from whom I had borrowed the peseta was still waiting for me with his friends.
“I’m sorry, mister; I made a mistake.” I felt like giving him the letter; it was of no more use to me - - besides, he had paid for it. He just looked at me as if I had played a good joke on him. He and his friends turned and walked off without saying a thing, just shaking their heads.

I went outside and took Rudi aside and whispered, “It’s no go, Rudi, they don’t want to buy anything right now. I guess you and I haven’t seen enough of the world.”
“Did they say they like your work?”
“They said it would do.”
“Well, keep trying. ”
“Ah, the hell with it! I’m not going to write for anybody anymore. You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to wire home and tell my folks to send me some emergency money. I’ll stay right here in Madrid at the American Express office and wait for it. This is no way to live. I feel like a dog. And besides, we’re not having the good time like we used to have back in France when everything was going our way.”
“Well, what the hell did you bargain for when you started out on this trip?” Rudi challenged me.
“I didn’t think it was going to end up anything like this!” I said.
“That’s the easy way out, Engh! You’re just yielding to the temptation of writing home for money. Even if it’s your own money. Anybody could do that!”

But I was hoping we could take the girls out to dinner.” Rudi shouted, “No! Engh! We don’t take anyone out to dinner. We’d never survive taking people out to dinner. In a couple of days, you’ll think of something. You always have. Now turn around and smile at the girls. We don’t want to let them know the predicament we’re in.
He slapped his hand on my drooped shoulder. “Let’s see what happens. We’ve got a good thing going here. Two nice girls to show us around the city. What could be better?
My stomach started to growl. I was hungry!
“I feel lucky,” Rudi said.

“O.K.” I said. “There you go! If Rudi feels lucky, everything’s going to go our way!”
I think Rudi was trying to pep me up. I followed his decree. It made me feel good again. I waved at the girls, smiling. They probably thought we were cooking up something to do with then, like a movie or something. With no money, we couldn’t do anything. It was hard to smile.
I felt a little ashamed that I had to show Rudi I was unconfident, even frightened, but hunger does strange things to men, and the thought that I could have the money just for the asking had weakened me. I thought over his proposition, and decided he was right. “You’re right, pal. Let’s try it and see what comes up. I’ll think of something!”
The girls were relieved when I told them everything was fine and tucking the letter into my saddlebag, I told them I received a contract from a travel promotion syndicate in the USA and they were going to publish my travel story when I got back home, even make a movie out of it.
“Do they have a television station here in Madrid?” I asked Rosa.
She shrugged her shoulders
“I know what it is, TV they call it.” Consuela said. “No we don’t have TV. But they have it in France and broadcast it from the Eiffel Tower. But no one has the TV sets here in Spain. They’re expensive. But it’s coming to Portugal. They’re getting it before us!”
Now there was an idea. Maybe they’ll have it set up before we get to Portugal.
We arrived at the Casa de Campo, a large park at the west end of Madrid. “Can we help you set up your tent?” Rosa asked.
“Sure,” I said. “Help us set up our beds.”

We had learned to always accept help from people. It made them feel good that they were part of what we were doing. Their help usually resulted in taking twice as much time to do it. But it was always worth it. Especially if they were two nice girls like Rosa and Consuela. Gosh! It was fun being with them. They were always smiling. They really brightened up our spirits. Especially since they were making our beds for us,- so to speak.

“Gotta go!” Rosa smiled. Consuela agreed.
“When will we see you again?” I asked.
“We know where you live,” Rosa laughed. “Here’s our phone number. We both live together in our own apartment. How long will you be in Madrid.?”

“Don’t know,” Rudi said. “Depends on if we like Madrid.”
“We like it,” I said, looking over at Consuela. “We’ll be here for awhile.
We waved goodbye to the girls and set about finalizing our space at the camping site registration office. We still didn’t have any money. Luckily, you were allowed to leave your passports if you didn’t immediately have the money or didn’t know how long you would be staying. We learned later on the trip that’s not a good idea. The thieves like passports, especially American passports.
After we had gotten settled, Rudi suggested, “Let’s go into town and see if they have one of those Vespa clubs like we found in Avignon.”
“Good idea! Maybe we’ll find someone who’ll want to repair our Vespa after that dusty trip his morning,” I said.
“Or take us to dinner!” Rudi chimed in.

After asking a few taxi drivers, we located the Vespa club in the center of town. “This looks more like a cocktail lounge than a motor scooter clubhouse,” I mentioned to Rudi as we parked our scooter in front of a landscaped building.

The Vespa motor scooter seems to be the most popular in Madrid. The Spanish people don’t have money to buy cars so they ride around in motor scooters. Lambretta, Eagle, and Vespa seemed to be the most popular. For every car in Madrid there are about 8 Vespas, and for every Vespa, it seemed there are 100 bicycles.

The wealthy have cars, the business people have little trucks, the millionaires have airplanes.
We went into the lavish Vespa clubhouse, and inside, when our eyes grew accustomed to the dim lighting, we saw a group of well-dressed businessmen lounging at a split-level bar. A small dance floor separated us from the manager, who noticed us from his seat at the bar. As he came over to question us, Rudi whispered to me, “This isn’t any place for us. They’ll just laugh at us when we tell them what we’re doing!”
It was too late to make any decisions; the manager was upon us.
“Buenos Dias,” the manager said, standing back about ten feet as though he would catch a disease. We were still wearing our dusty clothing. His nameplate on his lapel said, Alberto Moreno, manager, Vespa Club of Spain. “Can I help you boys?” He asked in French, recognizing we weren’t Spanish.
“Yes,” I answered him, extending my hand to him, “We’d like to speak to the president of the Vespa Club. Is he in today?
He stepped back another ten feet and didn’t grasp my hand. “Well, yes, he is. But he’s with a client.”
This was not a good time in Spain. It was much like the 30’s in America when wandering hobos were drifting around the country.
“Can I ask why?” Senor Moreno said.
I stumbled in my speech.
“Do you have a business card?”
“No.” I said

“Look, if you’re asking for money, or free repairs, you’ve come to the wrong place. I suggest you leave.”

Rudi grabbed the sleeve of my shirt and pulled me towards the door.
“Stop that!” I shouted at Rudi.
\“Forget it, Senor,” Rudi said. We walked out.
I went to the scooter and opened the saddlebag.
“What are you doing now?” Rudi was impatient with me.
“I’m going to show that bastard what they thought about us in Barcelona, and Lyon, and Paris. I got out my trip book with all the sketches, and photos and newspaper articles and walked back in with Rudi.
Senor Moreno was waiting for us at the front door. This time he was the one to grab my shoulder sleeve, suggesting again that we leave. Another assistant manager came up alongside Moreno in case he might need some bouncer help. I reached over Moreno’s shoulder and said to the assistant guy, “Here, this is our businesses card. Please give it to your president.”

Moreno turned around and took the book from his assistant and started flipping through it.
He looked up to see if we were the same persons in the newspaper photographs.
“Thank you. Come in and have a seat,” Moreno said formally, clicking his heels and he left with my book
“Careful!” I shouted. “That’s the only copy I have!”
As Moreno passed the table of businessmen having cocktails they asked what the commotion was all about. Moreno showed them the book and then disappeared into an office door with it.
We didn’t feel like taking a seat. We just stood there hoping Moreno would return soon with a response. Patrons were coming in the door and seemed to give us critical glances. We felt awkward just having come in off the road - - dusty, sunburned, bearded, and wearing our wind-faded traveling clothes. They must have thought we were rogues. A waiter approached us.
“Did you want to order something?” his expression seemed to continue his sentence: “If not, please leave.” But it changed when a businessman man came through the front door and walked over to us. He interrupted the waiter to speak to us.
“I saw your scooter outside; I’m a newspaper reporter from The Pueblo, one of the newspapers here in the city. Are you the two who are making the tour of the world on a motor scooter?” He must’ve read about us from the Barcelona and Zaragoza newspapers. They said you’d be in Madrid. My name’s Raul.”
Before we could answer, the club president came out from his office carrying my book. He extended his hand. “Greetings! And thank you for stopping in Madrid! My name’s Pepe Ibarra; I’m president of the Vespa Club of Spain.”
Moreno had faded into the kitchen area, looking over his shoulder as we talked with the president.
Ibarra spoke to us in perfect English. He was fashionably dressed in a three-buttoned, narrow-collared navy-blue New York-looking suit and tie, polished leather shoes. A professional smile came to his face. “Won’t you all have a drink with me?” And we and the reporter made for the bar.
And that’s how it always would be for us—one minute no identity, the next a celebrity, and the next a stranger again. Every new situation, every new experience, we had to begin from the very beginning. We didn’t have that enviable privilege of an established name in the community, --of relying onnotoriety to sell ourselves. And we never allowed ourselves to fall into that complacency of a routine that allows a person to rely more on reputation than genuine personality. We worked at it. Rudi heard me repeating “our story” so many times that he was able to say it flawlessly in English, French, Spanish, and, of course, German.

We sat around talking about our trip, filling ourselves with hors d’oeurves and canapés, and whatever we chose to drink.
“Where do you go from here?” Señor Ibarra asked.
I had forgotten my former disillusionment at the Post Office that afternoon. “From here, we go to Lisbon, Gibraltar, and then Africa!” I said, toasting the president and Raul, the newspaper reporter.
“How long will you be in Madrid?” the president asked.
“It all depends,” Rudi interrupted, “Probably two or three days.”
“Good,” Señor Ibarra said. “A visiting Vespa Club is having a dinner at the Hotel Emperador tomorrow night, and I want you two to be my guest.”
And then he paused, “But,” he said slapping me on the shoulder in a friendly gesture and leaning over grinning, “I hope you have a coat and tie; it’ll be a bit formal…”

“We’ll manage something,” I said, and the president motioned for the bartender to bring us another round of drinks.
“Sorry, I have to leave, but my secretary is motioning that I have some calls. This is my card, and I’ll meet you here at the club tomorrow night at seven, before we go over to the hotel.” He handed us a small white card and bid Raul the reporter goodbye. “Be sure to spell Vespa correctly in your story!”
We sat around discussing our trip some more with Raul who was taking notes as we talked.
“How about if I get a picture of you fellows with the motor scooter?” he said.
“That’ll be fine,” we answered, each taking a pocketful of appetizers as we left the bar.
“I think the best place would be where you are camped out, and with you playing your guitars,” Raul said. We followed him in his car to the Casa de Campo.
The photo finished, Raul thanked us for our time, and said we would see our pictures in the morning edition.

“Well, you guys must be some kind of celebrities!” a tall American young man came up to us.
“How’s that?” I said.
“Having your picture taken and all.”
“We’re just novel,” I answered, “Nothing special.”
“Is that sign really true, World Tour?” he asked, pointing to the motor scooter windshield.
“We hope so!” Rudi said, arranging things inside the tent.
“How about yourself?” I asked, “You touring also?”
“No, I’m just here in Madrid with my wife on a vacation. I’m in the army, stationed in Germany.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Munich. Ever been there?”
“Many times,” I answered. I started my trip from Wuerzburg and met Rudi in Rotterdam. My name is Rohn Engh, and Rudi’s from Germany, the northern part.”
Rudi stuck his head out of the tent. “Hello!”
“Pleased to meet you both, Tom Gary’s mine. I’m from Johnstown, PA. Why don’t you come over and meet my wife, Sarah. She’s just getting our dinner ready and we’ll see if we can squeeze two more places out of it.”
“How does that Spanish saying go?” I said as we walked over to meet Mrs. Gary. “Add a lot of water to the soup so there’ll be enough, and a lot of salt so they won’t want too much!”
“Mrs. Gary was a charming gal, and glad to have us for dinner. I hope we didn’t look like animals to her. She had to open another loaf of bread, and break out some more sausages. We stayed clear into the evening with them and others about the camp who had come over to listen to our folk songs. By the end of the evening we had enough promises from the men residents of the camping site to supply coats and ties for everyone at the Hotel Emperador dinner the next night, and enough dinner invitations from the campers to last the next two weeks.
We spent most of the next day preparing for our big engagement that night, taking a shower, washing out our socks and trousers, finding someone to iron our shirts, trimming our beards. One fellow brought us a mirror. “Well, Mr. Thurau, you look mighty handsome with your beard trimmed.”
“Likewise, Mr. Engh, with your hair combed for once!”
We slept well that night.

“Hey, you guys! Did you see your pictures in this morning’s paper? Look at this!” Tom Gary came running over to us in the morning..
“They sure gave us a nice write-up,” I said.
“And look at the big picture! You guys are famous!” Tom shouted. “You gotta autograph it for me!”
“What are you talking about?” I laughed.
“Sure, autograph it for me. I’ll surprise Sarah. It’ll be a good souvenir from our trip to Madrid!”
“O.k.,” I said, “And don’t forget, you’re going to let me wear your tie to dinner tonight.”
“What are you talking about? Sure you can wear the tie. Hell, you can keep it as a souvenir from me!”
“No! I laughed. “Thanks, but I don’t think we have room for ties in our luggage,” I smiled.
Rudi and I both autographed the clipping and then went about making the rounds, collecting our clothes for the dinner. Rudi got a coat from Antonio Corro, an Italian who was on vacation and camping out with his entire family, and a tie from René Boullard, a French fellow who was biking through Europe. Tom gave me his tie, and I borrowed a dark coat from a German professor who was touring Spain in a Volswagen camper. They all came to make their approvals when we were ready to leave for the Vespa Club banquet at the Hotel Emperador.

“You boys are leaving sort of early, aren’t you?” Dr. Brechter, the German Professor said. “It’s only six o’clock.”
“We want to make sure to be there on time,” I said, hopping on the Vespa. They all wished us well. “Hals und bein broch,” someone yelled.

NEXT: One thing leads to another

Note about “My Story” by Rohn Engh. The travel years were 1957 to 1959. The first draft was written between 1960-’61 in Afton, MN but never published. The author has revived the manuscript. Drawings, sketches, and photos (Rolleicord/B&W) are by the author. For other stories and books by Rohn Engh:
“A Simple Garden Book” (1976) Look for it on E-Bay or Amazon Books
“Somethingness” (2002) Horse Creek Press Look for it at LuLu.com
“PhotoSourceBOOK” (2000-2008) Look for it on Amazon
“Sell & ReSell Your Photos” (1982) Writers Digest Books (five editions)
“sellphotos.com” (1999) Writer’s Digest Books, (F&W Publishing)
Rohn Engh is the publisher of The PhotoLetter,
PhotoDaily, and PhotoStockNOTES.
Autographed 8x10 photos and drawings by the author are available
. Phone 715 248 3800, x21. Ask for Bruce Swenson.