Pepe,or the busdriver's philosophy

When we are on tour we use a bus company based in Melide called Gomserbus. I think the busdrivers add something special to the tours because they are local people with a distinctly local perspective: they open a door to the culture of everyday Galicia.

Pepe is the Spanish abbreviation of José. Pepe the busdriver is a short, round man with twinkly eyes and a Super Mario moustache. He stretches out his hand and says 'Hombre!' when we meet at the Posada Regia in Leon to start the tour. 'Me alegro de verte- pleased to see you.'

Pepe's alegria is not at all forced: it bubbles out of him irresistibly, a child-like enjoyment of food, wine, family and friends. When we stop at a bar or restaurant he will say, 'Ya me conocen aquí- they already know me here.' It doesn't take much to know Pepe and I like to think that his philosophy of life, if it were ever to be written down, could be encapsulated in three words: Y ya está which could be roughly translated as 'And that's all there is to it.' It sounds better in Spanish.

'Pepe,' I asked, 'how can you know everyone? They can't all be your friends.'
'Well,' he replied, 'maybe they don't actually know me, but I just have to go in and say hello and...pues...y ya está.'

He's right. There's something about that cheeky smile that makes you feel you know him even after a few words. I suppose the same is true of grumpy people as well: you only need a few minutes to realise you don't want to talk to a curmudgeon.

Last year we were eating at a parrillada or grillhouse near Palas de Rei. Everyone was sitting at the table waiting for the food and Alex asked, 'Where's Pepe?' Twenty minutes later he came in and sat down.
'Where've you been, Pepe?'
'Oh, well...'
'No, come on. Where've you been?'

As soon as he'd dropped us off at the resaurant he'd got back in the bus and driven back along the Camino. We'd all commented on a woman with her five young children walking the trail. We'd seen them all trudging along in the declining light. 'That's so irresponsible,' one of the ladies said. 'What are they going to do if they get to Palas and there is no room at the albergue?' There had been much tutting and comment, but Pepe,probably thinking much the same, had just turned the bus around, picked up the whole family and taken them to the hostel, making sure they were settled and comfortable before coming on to dinner. We jokingly dubbed him San José.

Palas de Rei is Pepe's local town although he lives in Pambre, a tiny village with a big medieval castle a few miles up the road. Like many Gallegos, Pepe feels that when you are in his territory he has an obligation to look after you. He invited Alex and me to dinner with his family swelling with a pride that went both ways: here is my family; here are my friends.

He goes through a typical ritual with Alex when we stop for coffee.
'Ya está!' he declares brandishing a five euro note.
'Put it away,' protests Alex and turns to the barmaid. 'Here. How much do I owe?'
'Don't take his money,' orders Pepe and snatches Alex's money out of the barmaid's hand to slide it back along the counter.
'I'll get angry,' Alex says with a frown.
'No, I'm paying y ya está!' responds Pepe. If I want to pay I've found the best way is to do it secretly while no one is looking. That doesn't avoid the pantomime of taking offence, but it cuts it shorter.

Pepe also helps me to understand married life in Spain. He says when your wife is complaining about where you have left your shoes or the work is getting her down your should give her a hug and caress her ears. He gives me a grin. 'Tell her you love her y ya está. No hay más- there's nothing else.' So I, with my English tendency to take things too seriously and to be irritated by what I see as criticisms, am learning to take things with a busdriver's philosophy: te quiero, y ya está.