Four Weddings and a Funeral

So, in all the time I have spent here in Spain I have attended 4 weddings - and now a funeral. All of them have been eventful in their own right, but this week's funeral was, both figuratively and literally, a trip down the road less traveled.

The Spanish have never been a people who beat around the bush, as demonstrated on Tuesday morning, when I was woken up by a text message that read: 'She's dead!' Still scraping the previous night's sleep off my congealed eyelashes to make sure I was reading correctly, I was greeted by another text that read: 'Tanatorio Tres Cantos 7pm' (Tres Cantos Mortuary 7pm). Considering myself to have been notified, as well as invited to the funeral, I set about making plans and preparations to get to this place as it's quite a way out of the city. A simple train journey, with three interchanges, would get me to my destination ... or so I thought. According to Google Maps, the mortuary in Tres Cantos was located behind the train station, but on the other side of the highway. But according to real life, as well as the people who live in Tres Cantos, there wasn't any mortuary in this town. After clarifying this fact with several people, I was eventually told that there was a cemetery outside of town, and the man working at the petrol station gestured that if I continued along 'this road', I would eventually get to it. Looking back, what I also should have clarified, was just how far out of town along 'this road' the cemetery was. 'This road' was, coincidentally, soon to become the on-ramp to the freeway, and in no time at all I found myself power walking in a black suit next to trucks, buses, cars and motorbikes. Four kilometers later, with no cemetery in sight on either side of the freeway, I reached the off-ramp to the next village and had to do an about turn to return to Tres Cantos singing 'I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more' all the way back. As a fool returns to his folly, and a dog returns to its vomit, so Linton returned to the same man, at the same petrol station, to ask the same question, to get to the same place as requested before, but this time the man said, 'Oh! It must be in the other direction then, down this road.' And again he gestured down the same road, but this time in the opposite direction. This time, after confirming the existence of my destination, I took a taxi.


The mortuary itself, I can only describe as being grandiose in every sense of the word, with seventeen venues for the memorial services. Just like in an airport, there is a screen in the entrance hall where you check the starting time and venue of the memorial service you will be attending. As I had now arrived late, I briefly glanced at the screen before dashing off to venue seventeen to attend the service, and this was where the drama began. With the service already underway, the doors to the venue were closed, so I tried pulling them to get in. Nothing. So, I tried pulling them a little harder. Still nothing. Well, if they're not pull doors then they must be push doors, so I tried pushing them open. Nothing. Always game for a second attempt, I tried pushing them a bit harder still, at which point I heard a person on the other side, and then the doors miraculously slid open sideways. Standing in front of me was a man dressed in air force uniform, but this didn't surprise me in the least, as the family to whom the deceased belonged, are highly influential in the Spanish government. The chapel was jam-packed with people, so, shrugging my shoulders and apologising profusely as I went, I pushed my way through the people standing at the back and settled into a free space in the third to last row. After about five minutes, a military colonel took the podium to do his eulogy, and began to comment about what a wonderful pilot the deceased was and what a huge loss his passing away is to the force. I sat dumbstruck and horrified at the realisation that I'd entered the wrong chapel, but that was soon overshadowed by the bombardment of thoughts as to how I was going to get out through the throng of people I'd just pushed my way through in order to get in. As this was a military funeral, I opted for a more discreet method of withdrawal and decided to practically leopard crawl my way out, and was almost past the last pew  when it happened, my cellphone rang. I receive on average two phone calls a month, normally from my mother, and now of all times my phone had to ring. To make matters worse, my ringtone is the chorus of Funky Town by Lipps Inc. So there, hobbling on my haunches, I broke the solemn silence with 'Won't you take me to ... funky town ... won't you take me to ... fuu  uu uunky town!' The rest was a blur to me. I have no recollection of how I got out of there, needless to say it was roughly at the speed of light.

The rest of the evening's events did proceed normally. I did manage to find the right venue in the end and sit through the last ten minutes of the funeral mass. I even managed to view the coffin. I also managed to eat a couple tuna mayonnaise sandwiches with the coffin a mere metre an a half away, although I did turn my back on the deceased out of respect. I don't know why these things always happen to me, but when I used to tell Ernestina (the student of mine whose funeral I was attending) stories of my life and travels, she used to give me a look that seemed to question whether or not I was exaggerating the events.

You see now Ernestina, it's all true. I'm really going to miss you but will always cherish the wonderful memories of our times together and your care and concern for my well-being here in Madrid.

God bless
Linton