The business side of acquiring a PPL in Spain was astonishingly simple: I would be required to pay for the forty hours of flying up front. In cash.
It seems very trusting of me, but my log book shows that only eight weeks after arriving in town I had paid up and taken my first flight with them.
Things weren't quite as I had believed, though. Perhaps it was my highly-imperfect Spanish, but I could have sworn that I would make appointments to fly at Cuatro Vientos. It turned out that the PPL training was banished to another field called Sanchidrian, said to be "muy cercita". Well, I suppose it could have been defined as very close in astronomical terms, but it never took me less than two hours to drive there. Coming back took significantly longer because that road also led to a large number of weekend home developments that many Madrileños retreat to every weekend.
Appointments? "We don't need you to make an appointment, just turn up." Note that they did not say "turn up and fly in the foreseeable future". The result of that little scheduling quirk was that I spent a lot of time at Sanchidrian admiring miles and miles of sunflower fields.
So far this is sounding pretty terrible, but it actually worked reasonably well. The location on the map called Sanchidrian (not really a village, there was the airfield and a cantina) was pleasant enough, and I had The Can for accommodation. There was even an express bus from the city center (although, unlike most Spanish buses, the service turned out to be poor and the schedules fictional). It was even possible (just about) to get there using the train, although it was a little adventuresome and I only did it once: It started by taking the metro to the main station. Once there you had to solve the riddle of which platform (track) it would leave from. The ticket agent was positive of the platform, and said that I should ignore the main departure board, which he said was wrong. As I asked around a little more I found that everybody was sure, but they disagreed. Eventually my companion saw a cousin who worked for the railroad (family connections are important in getting things done) and he said to follow him to a platform that had not hitherto figured in the proceedings. "Are you sure?" "Yes, I'm driving it". Good person to believe, although I still wasn't one hundred percent sure (the train driver doesn't steer) until I saw the old medieval walls of Avila, where I would catch a bus for the last leg. It was a wonderful train journey, by the way, through roadless valleys with wonderful scenery. Highly recommended for anybody not in a hurry.
Once I arrived at Sanchidrian the hard part was over, all I had to do was wait, and then fly. The field was a little daunting for somebody whose conception of a runway was intended for heavy bombers, and had been accustomed to having three to choose from, depending on the wind. At Sanchidrian the single runway was short, narrow and bumpy, with trees at the ends. In truth, though, this made it a pretty good field to learn at, because other places tended to be easier. We had a (very) few light twins visit, but it looked like hard work -- they would drop it on like a load of coal right at the threshold and get busy on the brakes, presumably watching the trees at the other end with mounting interest. And their takeoff involved getting the wheels up quickly so they didn't get tangled in the fence. For a parachuting contest they somehow managed to borrow an Air Force CASA 212, a twin turboprop short takeoff utility. The pilot of the CASA ignored the runway and used the parallel taxiway because it was wider and flatter (albeit softer).
Parachuting? Oh, yes. They did a lot of parachuting there, and the students would look hot and tired by the time they had walked a few Km across the open sunflower fields to get back. It seemed to be a really good idea to land close to the field. I never felt any desire to join them.
Overall, I think that the flying and the ground studies were the easiest part of the whole experience. The aircraft were all low-wing, which was a new experience for me. A couple of Cherokee 140s, which were nominally four-seaters, although it was generally a matter of choosing between fuel and back seat passengers (Hint: Take the fuel) and a couple more with bigger engines. There were also a couple of two-seat Tomahawks, that looked as if they should be more interesting to fly than the Cherokees but weren't.
And then came my favorite of them all -- the Rallye Club. I've mentioned elsewhere that the French seem to have an unusual sense of humor ("Your Jerry Lewis, he is so funny!"), and this French-built aircraft is an excellent example. Take a pair of lovely cranked wings and put them on an elegant, slippery fuselage. Add a roll-back canopy that can be opened in flight and four comfortable, if not large, seats. Fit automatic leading edge slats so that it's almost impossible to stall this little gem and top it off by using a proper control stick instead of the automobile-style half wheel that the marketers decided was a good idea on most light aircraft. Make it light, with good control surfaces so that it responds instantly... And then fit a little 100HP engine so that this lovely aircraft has significant difficulty getting out of its own way. Once you're at cruising height it gets along fine, but oh, dear... It's an exercise in patience getting it off the ground at maximum weight. I really liked this airplane.
As I look at the log, I see a whole lot more cross-country flights than a student would normally make -- a result of the extra hours from the requirement to start from zero again in Spain without counting my English training. Several of these flights involved landing at locations ranging from a major airport to deserted ag-plane strips in the mountains and a Spanish Air Force base. I was lucky to be able to do that. The requirements for cross-country flight were somewhat looser than at Sleap (as was just about everything). They thought that I was unduly fussy for insisting on taking a road atlas with me ("you know where Avila and Segovia are -- why do you need a map?" and radio traffic was more likely to involve suggestions for dinner than aviation.
Finally, about a year after starting I was ready to take the check ride and the ground examination. The general opinion was that there would be no trouble with the check ride, but the ground examination would present significant difficulties because it was in Spanish, and my language skills were still not of the best. What they didn't know was that I was determined, and not only had I received special dispensation to have a translator available, but I spent a whole weekend with the official publication that listed all possible questions. By the end of that weekend, not only was I pumped, but I knew the Spanish for things like "Density Altitude" down cold. The result? Hah! I was the only one to get 100%, and about one third of the group failed! They were surprised (as was I).
So, what next?