Operation CAC

Yea, yea, yea, I know that I was supposed to be on some kind of find-yourself epic journey when I embarked on my adventure across Spain.  And yea, I know that from the outside, my stress levels due to a crappy economy, a relationship bombing out and no clear directions of where I wanted to go in my career or where I wanted to live - led one of my friends to predict that I would be on an EatPrayLove adventure...

I just didn't want to believe it.  And FFS, that is where I seem to have ended up.  Not that I did any praying, let's just get that straight.  But, I did sort of find the core pieces of my happiness and can now appreciate the quirkiness of a boy who refuses to impulse shop.  I would have to call it love.  If for nothing else than I find his idiosyncrasies amusing.

For one, he who grew up in austere DDR, has no problem with saving a euro, or a sit-down shower is the same man who plunked down thousands of euros in cash on a BMW sedan.  When the deal was good.  He dresses in sport clothing everyday.  Black pants, black socks and black or grey or red tshirt and cop shoes.  It's because he bikes to work, see?  Everyday. Come winter or rain.  Because it is through the park.

And, he wants to keep it that way.  So, even if we both work on the east (or northeast) part of town, we will be living on the west side of town because we can then bike through the park to and fro work.  And, well, it is the up-and-coming neighborhood on the west side.  It has been for awhile.  Likely, it won't get there anytime too soon as I doubt the hippy-posers and the punk-dyed post teens are still gripping onto their rebellion.  In the gentrified neighborhoods, the yuppies are trolling their perfect little offspring in REI style'd bicycle trolleys and buying overly expensive organic vegs and fairtrade clothing.  Likely it is the same clothing from the goths or Emos, but without the frilled lace and washed until the black has faded out to emu color.  It's recycled, hello!

So I spend my days trying to justify activity when it doesn't involve A) survival; as I have a comfortable place to crash B) getting a good cup of coffee; as after Spain I cannot justify three times the cost for inferiority C) finding something yummy to eat; as that doesn't really exist except the bratwursts and one can only do that so often or D) shopping; when there isn't any space to collect things or anything justifiable to purchase that hadn't been purchased and purged in my former life.  Except books.  But, that's an addiction.

Okay, so sans shopping, sans cafes, sans wandering, all I can really do is question why I am here.  Yes, Germany does have a good economy.  The people are hard-working (ish) and they care to read to the bottom of my CV instead of insisting that I teach la infancia.  This is good.  But, they are so damn serious.  Waiters don't smile.  People aren't laughing on the streets.  Botellons are only in the park for the homeless.  The local fauna is boring (Dumpfplauderer), quivering in their corners (Hausmaus) or sloth-like (Faultier, Koala).  I miss Spain and its color and its energy.  But this is where he is and he is something special.

Therefore, I believe I am duty-bound to add some spirit here.  Or at least open up a good tapas restaurant with a good wine selection, loud televisions, and real tapas.  And it will be a hit.  And, then I'll walk down the streets with a small paintbrush and swipe all of the earth-tone buggies with purple or dayglo or something.  Oh, how my evil plan will shape up.

Any ideas, let me know.  EPL is now Operation CAC - Camino Absorb Color.

Bullfighting follow-up...

not only are the Spaniards greatly divided about the 'sport' of bullfighting, they respond to its existence with cultish voracity.  I have since found out that the horse's armor is a modern addition and that before the 20's or so, several horses were killed in each event, that noone really knows if the origins are Roman or Greek and that fighting lions or each other like the Gladiators would be more sporting.  And, there's a shitload of money involved.  A regular matador fetches 10,000 euros.  A magnificent one, 200,000.

So, of the two sides, one vehemently argues that bullfighting is a cultural tradition, that it is a dance and that this particular breed of bull is preserved if only for its participation in the bullfighting sport.  Besides, it is eaten.  The other side finds the outfits and the manner of sweeping a cape a bit ridiculous and the cruelty of continually stabbing your food before the kill to be unsupportable.  I wish I could have filmed this debate in class.  She, a conservative Andaluz often rolls her eyes and tuts in class and is the one who said that 'Franco did what had to be done' (starting the Civil War).  He is a tall effeminate Spaniard with gloriously expressive hand gestures.  She was leaning back rather relaxed in her seat, feet crossed, hand on her cheek.  He was erectly leaning forward with fire spitting out of his eyes.  

So I asked him, if you don't agree with it, how was the chicken killed that you ate last night?  Well, if you want to say that I have to kill my food in this manner, than I would put on the stupid outfit and I would coax the the chickens with an abanico instead of a cape.  Oh, the vision!  I think I am going to paint that.  And put it in the museum next to Velasquez's buffons.

Spanish NASCAR

whether you go to watch a well-executed pass or the tail-in-the-air collisions, bullfighting is quite spectacular.  i knew that when I'd signed up to stay in Andalusia that I could not deny going to a bullfight based upon the typical American reaction to watching an animal tortured and bested for show.  and I also could not deny going to a traditional Spanish sport on any humane grounds once I found out that the bull is actually eaten afterwards.  i mean, for goodness sake, I rely on slaughterhouses for my meat and have never been to one of places to see the chickens or cows herded between grates and smacked in the heads.  I think that might be a bit more disturbing to watch.  

so, here's the thing.  Anglos.  If you want to watch a bullfight in Sevilla.  A) likely, you will find no other Anglos interested in going with you.  fortunately, I like to do shit alone.  B) there are a ton of websites aimed at the unsuspecting Anglo who will fork over 3-4 times the cost just to find a ticket through a broker whose website is in English.  those seats looked fairly empty by the way.  C) don't pay the extra 10 euros to have the ticket mailed to your house.  Instead, be confused by the cryptic 'you will be given a pager number' message at the bottom of the page.  Is this the 80's?  no, better to enjoy the cloak-and-dagger adventure of trying to find Angelo at the bar at 2 o'clock to collect your ticket in person.  really.  fortunately, my guiri accent pegged me well and he knew exactly who I was when I walked up.  Next, D), get to the match early.  This way you can stick out just that slightly bit more as a foreigner and as a sad sight as the only solo person there.  No, there were definitely other solo people.  But they were old men that had been in those same seats for years.  Don't worry, if you make it through a few kills without vom'ing or leaving, they will come talk to you and explain some things.

Like, this is a special breed of bull.  Not like those bulls in North America.  No, these guys have been bred for this. They're strong.  They literally feel no pain. ?  And, like any decent military thought - if they aren't strong enough - we don't use them??  Because it is a fucking sport.  

Let me put it this way.  It can be disturbing.  But really only when the matador completely sucks at his job.  Otherwise, you don't spend much time contemplating why a bull was chosen for this act of gladi-ation.  They're stupid. Here's a skinny little man, a featherweight, dressed in a mickey mouse hat, pink socks and sequins.  He stands perfectly concave, puckering his anus, dangling his pee-pee out and the bull is 'tricked' into rushing for the pink and yellow cape that he is swooping.  Really?  You can't see who is holding the freakin' spears and capes?  Your damn sure they aren't using a decent pitbull for this 'fights'.  Trust me, that would last about a nano-second.  So, this is a big, black pile of food on four legs.  Check.

Now the score.  You enter the arena.  The audience is chock full of old men and strangely, little girls with their grandparents.  Disproportionately more girls than boys.  Not sure why.  You hope not to get wedged between two overly large men on the concrete bench, but are grateful when there are alternate seats.  You presumably rent a hemorrhoid cushion, if you are a local, but for 2 hours, no pasa nada.  Then, the band starts up.  The music was fantastic by the way.  A bugler announces the beginning of the show and a bull trots out into the arena.  Five or six rodeo clowns, dressed as matadors, jump out from behind the guard gates and coax the bad boy over to the shady side of the arena.  (It took me a long time to figure out it wasn't the shade they wanted, but the side of the arena without the cheap seats.)  Okay, a dance begins.  Over here bully.  Over here bully.  Let's tire him out a bit.  He's panting.  His fringed pee-pee (thinking this is the whole macho we're-going-to-dangle-our- pee-pee,-too, thing comes from) is bobbing on a string.  Then, toot-toot-te-toot, the horses come out.  Two, though only one seems to get action at a time.  Atop the slightly armoured horse is another skinny Spaniard, but this time in less rhinestonery.  Because he has a big spear.  They coax blacky into ramming the horse (truly the horse is who I felt the worst for) whilst the rider tries to puncture the fatty area behind the beast's neck.  Remember, no pain.  Then, when that is satisfactory, the horses leave and the clowns come out with banded toothpick looking things.  Two at a time.  Those get pricked into the same necky region and eventually lose their color to red with the blood.  I think these must be used as indicators to assess how much blood is actually lost.  Surprisingly, not very much.

Okay, then, our dear old matador comes out.  He makes a big show.  He coaxs a charge and sweeps the beast majestically past his hip.  OLE! If he is lucky.  And thus he needs to draw it out for a good little while.  Why?  because we only have 6 bulls and have to fill 2 hours dammit.  So, tire, tire, tire him out some more and if you are slow the bugler will remind you and you have to artfully jab a long spear behind the neck and into the lungs.  This likely hurts a little, but isn't instantaneous.  Bully can still rally and horn the matador a few more times.  And, that he did.  Of the three, only one was a truly good matador.  The other two got good and flipped and one I thought was totally down for the count.  Anyway, so once the beast is truly lulling, the wait is for him to just collapse.  Yea!  Man in Tights won!  Our friend El Picadero then prances over and thrusts the final ice-pick-like blow at the base of the skull and it is done.  The absolutely most retching part is his.  He doesn't just jab.  He jiggles for a bit, too.  That guys a psycho-path.  The others at least dance and sally and run away at times.  That one's the opportunist.

Done.  Dead bull.  A team of zookeepers comes out.  Chains around the horns, attach him to a team of horses and pull him around the sand to the exit.  Showy.  If the matador was good, white hankies are waved, some feathery Shakespearean looking character comes out and cuts off the ear for the matador and the matador takes a slow victory lap around the arena.  Flowers, if thrown, are gladly accepted.  Hats and jackets?  Goodness knows why, were also thrown to him.  But, they didn't match his outfit, so he threw them back.

I've tried to give you as complete of a description of this event as possible.  I know that it is unlikely that any of you will book a flight just to see a bullfight and I am hoping to have saved you a few euros.  Well, it only cost 12 euros, but you know what I mean.  I found it fascinating.  Likely I will never feel compelled to repeat the experience.  But with a good matador, it isn't as disturbing as you may imagine.  It's just getting to that good one that's the trick.  

Hope you getting to enjoy a lovely sunny Sunday afternoon.  And remember, next time you eat your beef, someone had to do it.  I just hope he got to flip someone first.

Head Scratchers

In southern Spain you feel that you are in contact with the real Spain, the traditional Spain, the living embodiment of all things Spanish and yet when you live within the alternate universe – you find some strange and often head scratching occurrences.

Sure, the rules are the same everywhere – when you meet an over-eager local who wants to befriend you and tell you all that is good and wonderful about the locality – it is either because they’ve been hired as the local ambassador or it is because they are looney tunes and have no living or local friends.  Bingo. 

I don’t need to hear that this is the best olive oil in the world or that these are the best oranges in the world or that we hate Catalunya just because they want to separate – even though we’ve never visited – and especially that I have to pronounce my c’s and z’s with an Andaluz lisp.  I really don’t want to sound like a retard when I travel and I am certainly not going to adopt the Andaluz dread of the letter S. 

So what does this Stepford town show me?  First, there’s a uniform.  The women wear leggings with boots and shorts or skirts and a very long (butt covering) plain top with a high neckline.  No matter their hairstyle, faux pearl studs are the norm.  The men all wear jackets and nice cardigans over a collared shirt and chinos.  Upon a certain age – the cardigan must be an olive drab. 

Then, there’s the cold.  Constant complaints of cold weather, cold rooms, cold streets.  So, you would suspect people bundle up like Eskimos and light their fireplaces as soon as they get home.  Well, no.  No one really has fireplaces.  In fact, there are no heaters save space heaters and the incredibly stupid brasserie under the dining room table.  Stupid because the local population would rather plug in a heater under the dining room table, shove their legs under the heavy tablecloth and sit around the table all night than heat their bedrooms.  So you have tiled rooms, drafty doors, windows that leak like sieves and yet, only a shit heating solution that sweats your legs and not the rest of your torso?  What gives?  Are we in the coldest winter in absolute history?  No, actually, it gets this cold every year.  Remarkably, the locals forget that winter shows up every year.  Like every year and totally forget that winter equals cold.  I could understand if it happened every 10 years, but every year?  Why, you ask, do they continue the cycle of freezing their asses off only to complain?  Because, they apparently forget when the hot of summer hits.  That, they remember.  Thus, the houses are tiled.  Urgh.  I have extracted promises of a campaign to save the American and future visitors from utter freezation by implementing a community wide heating installation plan.

Above all, though,  I have definitely learned to respect their attitude towards wine and football (soccer to you Americans).  There is a definite fan base going, but no one seems to be going to crazy about it.  There are no rally cries in the pubs, no back-pounding celebrations or vom’ing drunks after a rivalrous match – just plain entertained fans.  Why?  I believe it is because, unlike American football and our expensive wine, both are readily available and that has led to complete moderation.  And as a fan of both, it makes me quite happy to be here!