Thankfully, none of the other locals in that packed plaza joined in. And to be fair, he looked unwell and was possibly homeless, rather than part of any coordinated anti-tourist campaign. But it wasn’t nice. I felt he’d picked up on a wider mood. And it was only the start of what turned into a very uncomfortable evening in the Andalusian city of Cadiz.
One that ended with the four of us retreating to the safety of our hotel room by 9pm to eat crisps and drink cola, instead of dining out as planned. Some holiday.
We’d travelled to Malaga for four nights, spent one in Ronda, and another four in Cadiz.
And overall, the trip was brilliant. There’s a reason more than 18 million Brits went to Spain last year, even if the numbers are now falling.
The sun, the beaches, the sangria, the tapas, the wandering around old towns stopping at whatever bar takes your fancy, it’s all still there.
I wouldn’t say we got an effusive welcome. With so many foreigners passing through, service in shops, bars and restaurants can be a little brusque. But mostly, people were fine. Until they weren’t.
You know how when one thing goes wrong, everything else starts to unravel? That was our second day in Cadiz.
It started the moment we left our Airbnb, a flat in a beautiful old square. A sudden through-draught slammed the door shut before my son could lock it – and brought out the neighbours. An elderly woman and her son stormed into the stairwell, shouting at us in broken English for “slamming doors”.
We fled downstairs as they continued shouting. We guessed they lived there and were sick of the constant coming and going of tourists. Which, to be fair, is a big issue with Airbnbs, and not just in Spain.
Outside, we walked straight into a demonstration. My partner and I stiffened. Was this an anti-tourist protest like the ones we’d read about?
We tried to slip through the crowd and that’s when the man in the wheelchair saw us.
He was just inches from my 20-year-old daughter and 14-year-old son and started bawling “Tourists go home! Tourists go home!”
I glared at him, which only made it worse. He knew he’d rattled us and was only getting started. We hurried off, unsettled. It was the experience we’d been dreading.
It didn’t end there.
Wandering through the narrow streets, we tried to find somewhere to eat but none of us felt in the mood.
Then two teenagers on an electric scooter drove straight at my son. Deliberately. He had to leap aside to avoid being hit. My son is blonde. Make of that what you will.
Then a creepy man stared too long at my daughter before we spotted the danger and hustled her away. That can happen anywhere, but by then we were done. We headed back.
We later found out the protest was about metalworkers. But with all the noise lately about anti-tourist demonstrations, we weren’t taking any chances. Nor are millions of other Brits.
Some of Spain’s top resorts have reportedly gone “completely dead” amid protests over overtourism. Protestors’ tactics in some regions are downright chilling.
That night, as my partner kissed our kids and whispered goodnight, the neighbours shouted out of their window, telling them to shut up. The perfect end to a rotten day.
The rest of the holiday passed without incident, aside from having to walk past graffiti saying “Guiri (tourists) Go Home”. But like a lot of Brits, I’ll think carefully before going back to Spain again. It’s a lot of money to spend just to get bawled at.
