A hole lot of trouble

There’s so much building work going on in Madrid at the moment that I barely batted an eyelid when my friend Fernando told me his neighbour was having a Metro station built in his back garden.

But then I realised that Fernando lives in Alcala de Henares, a small city to the north of Madrid famous for being Cervantes’ birthplace. A small city that is half-an-hour’s drive away from the nearest Metro station. Thinking I must’ve misunderstood, I gave Fernando my bewildered nod of agreement (if you nod slowly, while looking thoughtful, the speaker thinks you’ve understood what they’ve said and doesn’t know that your brain is desperately trying to work out how something that sounds like one word with fifty consonents - and most of them the letter “r” - could possibly be the answer to “A kilo of tomatoes, please”), but then had to admit defeat.

“A Metro station?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“I came home yesterday and saw half his garden had gone and now there’s a huge hole. He must be making a new Metro station - it’s the only explanation.”

He then laughed at my stunned face (Fernando and I tend to talk Spanglish, neither of us having sufficient confidence in speaking the other’s language fluently, and consequently conversations can become very surreal at times) and explained. Turned out his neighbour had decided to extend his house and so was digging out a new garage/basement in his garden. He also planned a new bedroom on top of the garage/basement – something that would completely destroy both the view and the light into Fernando’s house while knocking several thousands of euros off the price.

“How did he ever get planning permission for that?” I asked.

“Planning permission?” said Fernando, with an “oh you British” look. “He doesn’t have planning permission. He’s just digging.”

He went on to explain that although the council knew about the work, and although it was highly illegal, nothing could be done until somebody made a denuncia - a complaint. Until that happened, the neighbour could dig his way to Australia and no-one would stop him. I explained what would happen in Britain. Fernando just grunted. “Spain is different,” he said.

Over the next few weeks, the tale of the neighbour’s garden grew as much as the foundations he was laying. Fernando made the denucia, but nothing happened. Then he received news that an official was going to call. “Want to come and see my neighbour have to fill in his Metro hole?” asked Fernando, a smug grin on his face. He didn’t need to ask twice.

We waited at Fernando’s house - number 24, Calle XXX – with bated breath. And waited. And waited.

After a while, we heard a disturbance outside, And then saw the flashing light of a police car. Fernando went to investigate and came running back in.

“The man from the council is down the road, and the police are talking to him.”

True enough, a smartly-suited man from the council was stood inbetween two policemen and an old woman, who didn’t look happy. She was furious.

We joined the group of neighbours who’d also come out to see what was happening in this normally quiet street.

“Someone made a denuncia about the work in your house,” the man from the council was saying. “I have to investigate.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my house,” the woman was answering. “Who made the denuncia? Who of my neighbours would complain when I’ve done nothing wrong? Who would do this?”

Fernando gave a small groan.

“What is it?” I asked.

“This woman, she lives at 34. The man from the council went to the wrong house,” he answered.

He was right. When we got to talk to the council man, he’d been told to go to number 34, not 24, and, as fate would have it, the old woman who lived there was also having work done to her home. Work which had permission. And she didn’t like having some bureaucrat suddenly turning up and demanding that she stop. Which was why she had called the police.

I slunked away to the back of the crowd, leaving Fernando to sort things out. After a while, he motioned for us to go back to his house, alone.

“What about the council man?” I asked.

“He won’t come. He said they were told 34, not 24, and he won’t move without the right paperwork. I have to make the denuncia again.”

My jaw hit the ground.

“Do not worry, Liz,” continued Fernando. “My neighbour can do all the work he wants. He will just have to undo it all when it gets sorted. These things happen. Remember, Spain is different.”