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!
