Sit up September

[Sweder]

Lots of memories in that one mate.

In 1995 we were official on the World Fishing Exhibition in Vigo, Spain. The event was held in a series of temporary structures set up on the end of the customs dock in the port. This was a stress-laden affair back in the day when European borders required that you show your papers and you had to get your T form or Carnet stamped on arrival before your exhibits could enter the halls.

We set up a series of porta-cabins at the entrance to the show site where customs installed the meanest, grumpiest woman for miles decked out in military-style uniform replete with big flat hat, the peak of which rested permanently on the bridge of her nose. I tried all my whiles and charms to communicate with her (so as to oil the wheels of beaurocracy and speed up the process of moving hundreds of tons of equipment into the halls) to no avail. Language was a barrier (my Spanish was/ is halting at best, her English restricted to 'no'). Comminucations, such as they were between us, were conducted through Juan, my trusted local customs agent. One afternoon, as we sat in the sun chomping on our boccadillo lomos, I expressed my frustration at not being able to bond with our resident Zollbeamter.

Juan looked at me quizzically before breaking out a broad grin.
'Is easy! Just take her to dinner, then go dancing'
Eh? You what?
Juan explained that, like most people in Vigo this lady hated work because it got in the way of every Spaniard's raison d'etre, all-night carousing in the bars and clubs of the town. She was, he assured me, a party animal. With his help we arranged an intimate dinner for two at a local place where, after ten o'clock, the tables were whisked away to allow a night of hot salsa to ensue. Despite a horribly painful first hour where we exchanged rehearsed pleasantries whilst picking over a variety of delicious tapas, the time came. My prowess on the dance floor jostles manfully with my linguistic abilities for the wooden spoon in the Social Skills stakes. I was terrified that I might crush one or more toes or dent the slightly hairy, well-tanned skin on those formidable shins. I shouldn't have worried. Out of unifiorm and wrapped in a deliciously spicy red salsa dress my customs officer whirled and twirled with lithe skill and grace, teaching me enough basic steps to allow me to shuffle around the packed dance floor without causing mayhem or starting a mass brawl. We danced and drank long into the night, our rehearsed pleasantries replaced by slightly sozzled 'ole!'s, increasingly knowing glances and open, beaming smiles. The need for language evapourated in the sizzling nightclub air as we danced towards dawn.



Next day I crawled onto showsite having bagged around three hours sleep, looking and feeling like death warmed up and in desparate need of a soda. I spied the customs lady through the bars of her porta-cabin window. She looked immaculate and, I'm bound to say, just as severe as ever. As I peered through squinting, bloodshot eyes she looked up and held my gaze. I swear I saw the tiniest flicker of a smile at the corner of her mouth before her face closed like a steel trap and she turned her icy glare to the pile of papers in front of her.

It's fair to say things did move a little easier after that, though we left the magic of that evening behind us, not wanting to taint the memories with a clumsy attempt at a repeat.

And the Foreigner reference? Sorry, as ever I digress.
Juan, whilst being an adept and honest broker, had something of the Scarlett Pimpernell about him close to the lunching hours (in Vigo that's anything from 12 noon to 4 pm). My colleagues and I would exchange frantic radio messages in an effort to keep tabs on him, usually to no avail. One afternoon, surrounded by a band of large, disgruntled Icelanders looking for their container, I held the radio button down and bellowed: 'I wanna know where Juan iiis!'

You can imagine what became the song du show in Vigo that year.