Polly Evans - Its Not About the Tapas
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- Book:Its Not About the Tapas
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- Publisher:Transworld
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- Year:2009
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After working for four years at a leading London book publisher, Polly Evans moved to Hong Kong where she spent many happy hours as a senior editor on the citys biggest entertainment weekly. But fighting deadlines from a twizzly office chair and free use of the coffee machine seemed just too easy. So Polly exchanged the shiny red cabs of Hong Kong for a more demanding form of transport - a bicycle - and set off on a voyage of discovery around Spain.
From the thigh-burning ascents of the Pyrenees to the relentless olive groves of Andalusia, Polly found more adventures that she had bargained for. She survived a nail-biting encounter with a sprightly pig, escaped over-zealous suitors, had her morality questioned by the locals, encountered some dubious aficionados on the road and indulged her love of regional cooking. While she pedalled, Polly pondered some of the more lurid details of Spanish history - the king who collected pickled heads, the queen who toured the country with her husbands mouldering corpse, and the unfortunate duchess who lost her feet. And wherever she cycled, she ate and ate - and yet still she shrank out of her trousers.
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Polly Evans studied modern languages at Cambridge University before joining the editorial team at a leading London publisher. After four years she moved to Hong Kong where she worked as a journalist, before embarking on her epic journey around Spain. She now lives in London.
www.booksattransworld.co.uk
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
ISBN 9781409083405
Version 1.0
www.randomhouse.co.uk
IT'S NOT ABOUT THE TAPAS
A BANTAM BOOK
First publication in Great Britain
PRINTING HISTORY
Bantam edition published 2003
5 7 9 10 8 6
Copyright Polly Evans 2003
Map Neil Gower 2003
The right of Polly Evans to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Extract from The Basque History of the World by Mark Kurlansky published by Vintage. Used by permission of the Random House Group Limited.
Quote from Tour de France, Tour de Souffrance by Albert Londres 1996 Le Serpent a Plumes.
Extracts from Homage to Catalonia by George Orwell (copyright George Orwell 1937) by permission of Bill Hamilton as the Literary Executor of the Estate of the Late Sonia Brownell Orwell and Secker & Warburg Ltd.
Extract by Herbert R Southworth from Guernica! Guernica! A Study of Journalism,Propaganda and History, 1977 The Regents of the University of California.
Extracts from Barcelona by Robert Hughes published by Harvill. Used by permission of The Random House Group Limited.
The Letters of Private Wheeler/ed. B H Liddell Hart, Windrush Press used by permission of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd.
Extract from Dali, Un diari: 19191920, published by Barcelona, Ediciones 62, 1994.
Extract from Franco 1993 Paul Preston used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. Copyright in the customised version vests in Bantam (UK), Luitingh (Holland), Goldmann (Germany).
Extract from Life with Picasso by Franoise Gilot and Carlton Lake used by permission of Time Warner Books UK.
Extracts from South from Granada by Gerald Brenan used by permission of Penguin Books copyright Gerald Brenan 1963.
Quotations by Frederico Garca Lorca Herederos de Federico Garcia Lorca. All rights reserved. For information regarding rights and permissions, please contact lorca@artslaw.co.uk or William Peter Kosmas, Esq, 8 Franklin Square, London W14 9UU. Extract from The Story of Spain by Mark Williams used by permission of Santana Books.
Every effort has beern made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, and should there be any omissions in this respect we apologize and shall be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future editions.
Condition of Sale
This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
Set in 11/13pt Times New Roman by
Phoenix Typesetting, Burley-in-Wharfedale, West Yorkshire.
Bantam Books are published by Transworld Publishers,
6163 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA,
a division of The Random House Group Ltd,
in Australia by Random House Australia (Pty) Ltd,
20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, NSW 2061, Australia,
and in New Zealand by Random House New Zealand Ltd,
18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand
and in South Africa by Random House (Pty) Ltd,
Isle of Houghton, Corner of Boundary Road & Carse O'Gowrie,
Houghton 2198, South Africa.
ISBN: 9781409083405
Version 1.0
The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental
regulations of the country of origin.
To Mum and Dad
I'd like to thank Jane Gregory and Broo Doherty for their guidance, wisdom and good humour, Francesca Liversidge for teaching me pretty much everything I know about books, and everyone else at Transworld for teaching me the rest.
Thanks to Mum and Dad for the roof, food, drink and company, and Tim and Sophie for offering entirely opposing opinions on my first draft and so convincing me to call in the professionals.
Finally, thanks to Peter Record for encouraging me to take up writing in the first place and for listening sympathetically when I got cross with the computer.
Breaking the Chain
I had to get out of Hong Kong.
The city was going crazy, and it was taking me down with it. The second economic crisis in four years was looming. The property boom had bust; the stock market was plummeting and brokers without bonuses were hurling themselves from high windows and making a nasty mess on the streets below. On the pavements, the hordes scurried, shoved and elbowed their way through the summer smog, screeching into their mobile phones in high-volume Cantonese like slowly strangled turkeys. Over the border in big, bad China, the superannuated Party leaders looked on bemused at their new dominion, at this petulant beast called capitalism.
In the market place, fruit and vegetables festered. Fish flipped over the edges of their plastic washing-up bowls and writhed on the blistering tarmac. Tensions simmered and tempers boiled. The stallholders settled their arguments with Chinese kitchen knives, the chopper being the Hong Konger's second-favourite weapon after the pointy end of an elbow, while the triads nervously fingered their tattoos and lopped off the little fingers of those who annoyed them.
In the alleyway beneath my flat, my neighbours tried to improve their chances in these uncertain times by burning offerings on the bonfires of that summer's Hungry Ghost festival. The stock market could no longer be relied upon to provide riches so they turned to their ancestors instead. The smoke wisped its way past my windows and up to the spirit world carrying the charred remains of paper money, paper sports cars, paper Nike trainers, paper Big Macs and even paper Nokia 8310 phones, complete with paper batteries. Hong Kong is a material town, even in its spirit incarnation, and it doesn't do to antagonize the ghosts with last year's model.
Over in the office where I worked, tucked away among the antique shops of Hollywood Road, life was no less colourful. I was working as an editor on a weekly magazine. We covered the action-packed life of that non-stop, neon-flashing city; we tried to be incisive, quirky, offbeat, ahead of the curve. It didn't always work.
'This is the most fuckin', godawful PIECE OF SHIT that I have seen in ten years,' the publisher screamed at us one day, clutching that week's offering in his hand and shaking it violently as though he were trying to break its neck. The glass walls of his office shuddered; we editors looked sadly at our feet. Most of the men in our office were either gay or in therapy, in many cases both. They weren't afraid to find an outlet for their emotions, to clench their perfectly pert buttocks in indignation, to puff out their tightly T-shirted pecs, to squeal and stamp their cross little designer-shod feet. I was a straight woman; I couldn't afford a shrink. I dreamed of sitting, completely alone, under a solitary, leafy tree where nobody would raise their voice to so much as a whisper. One thing was clear: I needed a change of scene.
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