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! 

"High schoolers suspended for Tebowing"

you know you've made it when you a neologism is created by verbing you!

Vigorexia

It would only seem natural after months of obsessing over Viggo Mortensen, his movies, his physique, that scene in Eastern Promises, that I would be diagnosed with vigorexia.  But, it is not what you think!


Vigorexia is a condition that I have only here in Spain.  You see, the other day when I was leading a discussion on common addictions, such as caffeine or internet porn, I found that the classroom full of mature adults had absolutely nothing that they wanted to admit to!  This lackluster response was either due to an inherit inability to understand my American, a personal embarrassment or I had just happened upon a large group of seriously boring people.  Lackluster.  So, what?  I could keep repeating the ills of cigarettes.  Done.  Or the addictive powers of the internet.  Boring.  The horrendous repercussions of gambling.  Same old story.  Or, I could admit to my own addiction...  exercise.


If I don't go to the gym, hike a few miles, get outside and move around - I am a cranky bastard.  Not only that, I feel despondent, don't want to eat and generally don't want to interact with anyone.  If I feel a little soft in the middle or my legs aren't toned...  If I cannot lift my backpack with complete ease...  If I am embarrassed in my clothing...  these issues trigger the likes of Mr Hyde and need to correct myself fast!


But, isn't that normal?  It's not like I am addicted to adrenaline - I am not constantly jumping out of airplanes for goodness sake - it's just that my body is telling me that exercise is good for me and that I must maintain.  Good heart, good health, right?


No.  According to these Spaniards - I have vigorexia.  In English - bixorexia.  En serio?  Now, I realize that when I go to the gym and run for an hour that I have more muscular legs than the guys.  And I realize that when I walk around in shorts - I get stares from all of the old biddies on the park benches.  And I realize that I cannot wear the Liverpudlian stripper heals because I would look like a drag queen.  But mentally ill?  I think not.


Well, at least I now know why I look so different from everyone here - more foreign than Amazonia - and why only bomberos seem to ever think to ask me on dates.  I am a physical challenge - or someone in desperate need of rehab!

Salud? En Realidad?

I need to refocus – to push myself a bit – to try new things – to sharpen my observation.  Push myself to learn about our Health Care System before I can have an intelligent conversation with my students – adults – here in Spain.  So I asked.  There is a great program by Frontline that tells some pretty ugly realities but without the sensationalism of Michael Moore.  That is what I needed.  I needed to know why, while working as a professional – most of the problems people faced never effected me.  I learned and now I know why some things are broken.  But, I can also keep to my original theory that insurance companies that work for a profit – as any good businessman does – are really the problem.  That, and their lawyers. 

But what about in a system with quote un-quote universal coverage, with standardized pricing and access to the latest technology?  Where does it fail?  Or, does it?  It seems that given the choice, most Spaniards opt for private health care (at around 60 euros a month) because of convenience and quicker access to appointments and non-emergency surgeries.  (Two weeks for a hernia as opposed to six.)  When I asked my professional adults if they would be willing to take that same 60 euros and hand it over to the government to improve the State system – no one was.  This is the exact same parallel as America asking us to fork over more taxes to pay for a system that may or may not improve by throwing more money at it.  They understood and agreed.  Americans pay 16% of their GPD on Health Care.  So what gives?  It is obviously highly inefficient.  Or, the insurance companies have a nice take.  ( I just read El Cid and can draw all sorts of parallels there, too).

And what happens when you receive free Health Care in Spain?  Why, after three years of “coverage”, you decide to take advantage of the system and get those annual checkups that you’d been missing.  You call up for an appointment on a Monday.  The doctor can see you on Thursday.  Not bad.  No long queues, nothing messy.  They clinic is beautiful and clean.  The staff professional.  You get to see the inside of your uterus live for the first time in your life and you are free to go.  Drop off the sample for the lab on the way out the door.  Wow.  They didn’t weigh you, they didn’t take your height, or your blood pressure, or anything vital.  But, you got to see that there aren’t any cobwebs in your fallopian tubes, as you suspected, so you are happy.  Downstairs, the receptionist asks for 80 euros.  What?  I thought this was free.  Look, I have my insurance card.  Here.  Newly minted.  No, no.  Step over here.  We get charged for the lab and we use a private lab.  Fine.  Can I take it to the public lab?  Yes, it is well, over there.  Oh, I have a map.  Where is it?  Um, somewhere over here.  Right.  So once you have the results, mind you, you have to bring them back to this clinic.  Fine.  Here’s my insurance card.  Well, I don’t really want it, but I will scan it anyway.  And, remember, you cannot come back here ever, for anything, as long as you shall live.  Or something to that effect.  WHAT?  I got your name from the book for crying out loud.  This town is a freaking baby factory and this is the only freaking gynecologist in town.  WTF?

So, the next day, I venture to the dentist.  Same insurance card but this time they accept it.  All rosy smiles and welcoming.  Watch the news on the flat screen next to your head and your teeth are given a cursory review for cavities.  None.  Good.  Cleaned with raspberry paste and you are good to go.  At this point you are elated to have received better treatment than at the gyno's, so you proceed to checkout and are on your way. Wait.  I know you don't really speak Spanish or really know the system, but shouldn't there be an XRay or two?  Nope.  Fluoride?  Nope.  Recommendations of toothpaste or toothbrushes?  Nope.  Six month check-up?  Por supuesto no.  Do people even really clean their teeth in this country?  Well, I do see more missing and rotting teeth here than I should when 'everyone is covered'...

But, what about emergency care?  When you go out and about exploring the environs of this beautiful paisaje, you tend to run across a cold or two and if you are extremely lucky - it may either develop into or weaken you enough that a stomach flu comes along.   It's not actually called that here.  But I have finally come to find out that I do not indeed, have a Social Security Card.  Nice as it is that the Junta de Andalusia gave me private insurance by Mapfre on top of the 'universal coverage' - it doesn't really mean shit when the receptionist has no idea how to fill out the resulting forms or whether she needs to turn me away.  Fortunately, after waiting an hour for the doctor to return from siesta (in a clinic with presumably 20 doctors), he accepted my diagnosis, listened to my belly and gave a prescription.  He asked if I had the magic prescription paper from my doctor - uh, no, I have an emergency situation - if I had a doctor - I would have gone to him.  Sin magic paper - prescription is paid out of pocket until I find a doctor to provide it.  Hmm.  Wasn't the guy with the prescription a doctor?  Well, in the end, maybe not.  It seems I was just given a script for diarrhea.  Vamos a ver.

In the end, I prefer to be sick in America.  At least I have confidence that a temperature will be taken, blood pressure, weight - something that provides a baseline or an indication other than that I can pick up my head and speak in a halting second language.  Fighting the insurance companies has never compromised my faith in our doctors.  Here, that element's gone and I still ain't confident.   

The Importance of Laughter...

which brings me to the question my friend Diana asked me about what I was thankful for at T-Day.  I'd thought of something entirely sage, like laughter, but since it wasn't spontaneous, I figure it didn't count in my original response...

But, in reality, that is what I am thankful for.  People are so damn serious.  If you take a nation of people and tell them that they cannot have alcohol (even wine dammit) and that they have to live in constant filth and basically beg for money from any stray foreigner that wanders your streets looking for "that perfect picture", then you, too, would lack a serious freaking sense of humor.  

For a large portion of our stay in Morocco - I was missing entirely that.  Humor isn't translatable in a third language and I am just a rich tourist that refuses to buy your stink-cured leather products or buy you a bowl of couscous for taking us up and down the Medina.  Until you meet a Canadian named Geordan.  

A gorgeous blonde backpacker that we, okay I, descended upon in the Jewish Medina to help fend off not one, but two of our failing local guides for the morning.  Geordan speaks French, had been backpacking through Morocco for a few weeks and had picked up some Arabic and was totally comfortable interacting with the locals.  What a pleasure.  

Whereas my American friend thought it better to ignore or bark at the locals and I was trying to politely disengage from them, Geordan bought oranges to share with the kids and smiled at everyone.  Granted, being a boy is better than being a girl.  But man, he made Fes so much more palatable.  He was not a complaining Aussie, he was not an uneducated American, he was sweet and unassuming.  That night, when we went out 'after hours' (9 pm) to get a sandwich, he was freely joking with the locals about what condiments to use.  They do laugh.  Its at night.  When the tourists are in bed.  It was refreshing.  A day without laughter....  just sucks ;)

Hammam-in'

Across the street from our hostel was an honest to goodness local hamman.  Real women.  5 euros each.  Heck ya.

Since we do not speak French, we asked the concierge (for lack of a better title) to introduce us at the door and in we went.  the rest would have to be communicated by gesture.  

Take off your clothes and put them on the bench.  Check.  We had heard that these were all nude affairs and I'd convinced April that I was game for that, but as I'd started my regla unexpectadly, I went with bathing shorts.  She had pretty, scandalous undies... and kept them on.  Good thing as that turned out to be more apropos.  Okay, go in.  And, we did.  women were sitting on small stools sloshing themselves with water from large buckets on the ground.  their personal buckets had soap and oils and brushes and things.  

April and I just stood there like two total white foreigners looking around like meerkats and having not a clue what to do.  There were no free stools. No obviously unused buckets and noone would even look in our direction.  Shit.  Onto the next room.  Okay, more people.  Some kids.  more sloshing.  Warmer.  But, no progress.  Still standing the middle.  White and tattooed.  Onto the next room.  Okay, its the last room.  Women lined the walls washing themselves and buckets were being refreshed in the trough in the corner.  Warmer still.  Finally, we were gestured to the corner.  buckets were moved our pads were grabbed and placed on the floor and we were told to douse.  Done.  

still unsure, we proceeded to observe the rituals of the other women and suspected that the order was to wash our hair.  okay.  that could take some time. eventually, our guardian widow, aka arabian mamacita, came to our aide.  she slopped some paste soap on our legs and told us to rub it all over.  check.  then, i rinsed.  bad idea.  when AM came back - she had a black skin-removing glove and proceeded to rake my appendages like a lawn.  not too hard.  not uncomfortable, but ribbons of skin beading on my arms indicated that I was a dirty girl and though I'd previously felt clean - long overdue.  we got arms, legs, back.  and when we didn't remove our grundies, she pulled them open at the front like an abuela and splashed us down there, too.  

all quite humorous and all in good fun.  April and I were giggling throughout.  I'd heard AM mention that we were foreigners, duh, to the local women, and they were all respectfully inattentive to us.  I think I saw AM crack a smile, but I was not entirely sure until she smacked me on the ass to hustle me out.

Thanksgiving

An eclectic mix of ex-patriots 'down under' in Andalusia lends for a very festive if not eventful Turkey Day treat.  At the insistence of una Americana, we decided to pot-luck our favorite traditional dishes and drag them over to her rental ...

In preparations, flurries of FB messages earmarked which dishes to cook, beverages were purchased and a tree of thanks was created as inspiration for our minions.  Leaves of every shape and color.

let's just say, I am really glad my mother is an excellent cook and created more variety a la vegetables than the traditional American family.  There were four separate potato dishes!  The turkey was delish - even if it looked like a scorched cat - it had been basted in a honey glaze and initially fired too long.  But, of course, my Grammy-style sweet potatoes with marshmallows was the hit.  Cranberry sauce de dried cranberries was the definite coup de etat.   We were able to share with a few locals who bravely dipped into the strange casseroles and left feeling as bloated and stuffed as we did!

so, other than delicious Spanish wine and the generosity of spirit of the occasion, what can one actually be thankful for whilst living so far away from home?  just that.  generosity of spirit and good wine.  often they come hand in hand.  without one you likely lack the other...  Thank goodness for Spain!

and of course, for the American spirit of tradition... ;)

TG for the law!

As of January 1st, Spain is essentially smoke-free.  I hesitated to comment earlier because frankly, I didn't believe it would actually happen.  But happen it did!

There is not more smoke dodging in cafes or bars and I can actually partake in the nocturnal dance-hall activities.  Spaniards are even smoking less frequently on the streets.  Thank goodness for the inevitable result of the lethal combination of Spanish laziness and enforced fines!  Wahoo!

I predicted a good 20% decrease in cigarette smoking here.  I dunno, it may be more than that.  Also, because both of my smoker-roommates moved out, I no longer wake up to blocked nasal pasages and bloody tissues.

Oh my, how my life is improved.  Perhaps the Iron Lung isn't so inevitable after all...!

What I Want for Christmas...

Peace On Earth?  Nah.  My two front teeth?  Got ‘em.  White Snowfall?  I don’t think so.  Okay, what then could a woman, totally, okay, mostly removed from materialism, living in a complex and foreign culture, really want for this holiday season?  Why a caganer, of course!

As you may remember, last Navidad season, I was bewitched with the tradition of Caca-Tio.  Actually, I’d misheard the term Cagatio because this Tio is actually a log that shits presents for the children at Christmas.  Really?  Yup, you feed a log with a smiley face and two front legs every day for two weeks in hopes that you fatten him up to deliver.  Just in case, you proceed to whack him with sticks and sing him songs on Christmas Eve and lo’ and behold, you have glorious gift-wrapped presents the next day.

  

But, that’s not what I want.  I want a caganer.  

This little 7 cm icon is deftly placed inside the sacred Nativity Scene (pessebre), hidden, as a token of good luck for the kids to find.  I suspect that it had to be titillating so that the kids would spend the time actually observing the scene while they searched and well, that it had to be somewhat of an important representation of someone famous and/or respected in order to grace the manger.  But, a shitting nun?  A Pope?  Good night.  What they ended up with was an industry devoted to creating tiny little shitting figures.  Ones that pay homage to history and yet, expose their buttocks.  You can get Obama, Hillary or Castro.  Or Futbolistas.  But, unlike the USA, no actors.  Sorry Brangelina.

What is the Catalan obsession with poop?  Who knows.  They don’t even know, or question it, for that matter.  It doesn’t come up until a foreigner asks.  Or a Spaniard.  Who cares.  It is still damn funny.

Fortunately, if you look them up on the website, they are only down the street from me.  I am personally going for Messi, a nice gold-ball bearing Messi.  Let me know, and I will pick one up for you, too!

My friend Joe

He has got green eyes and short brown hair.  He has got a small mouth, sloping shoulders and no chin.  He likes to wear grey jumpers.  He has got a dog named Bob, a cat named Kate and some fish. 

He is British.  He does not know the difference between British food and Spanish food.  He cannot find the Cathedral or the river. But, he could count the six bridges in town.  He likes to read the train schedule and to text on his mobile. 

He has never heard the question:  “Is she hot?” 

He studies politics and Spanish in England and works at the university at home. Here, he teaches at a primary school.  He is extremely irritating.  He is not interesting, nor is he interested in anything.  I think he is afraid of Americans.  Likely, he is afraid of anything with a pulse.  I feel bad for the Catalans.

Spanish prostitutes ordered to wear reflective vests for their own safety

Prostitutes working on the street outside a town northern Spain have been ordered to wear reflective vests to make them visible to passing traffic and reduce the risk of accidents.

Women touting for customers on a rural highway outside Els Alamus near Lleida in Catalonia have been told to don the yellow fluorescent bibs or pay fines of 40 euros (£36) under road traffic laws.  hmm, my roommate is from Lleida.

Police claim the sex workers on the LL-11 road are not being specifically targeted because of what they do but because they posed a danger to drivers.

The prostitutes are in breach of 2004 law which states pedestrians on major highways and hard shoulders must wear the high visibility garments.  I think white plastic go-go boots are the more common solution.

A spokesman for the regional police force, the Mossos d'Esquadra said: "In the past couple of months the prostitutes have been fined for two reasons: for not wearing the reflective jacket and for creating danger on the public highway."

The move follows recent legislation introduced by Els Alamus town hall to ban prostitutes from offering sex for sale in public urban areas. The mayor Josep Maria Bea has been accused of mounting a campaign to drive the sex workers out of the area.  Mounting?

An estimated 300,000 women work as prostitutes in Spain where prostitution is not illegal but profiting from the sale of sex by another is.

Women wearing very little clothing and standing on roadsides outside towns and cities are a common sight across Spain. A recent survey found one in four Spanish men admitted to having paid for sex. And here I am willing to earn some extra money.  Que pena.

  

Who Will Pay for My Iron Lung?

As an American with a healthy locus of control when it comes to my health and my finances, I find it difficult to assume that anyone in my ripe old age will take care of me when I get thoroughly sick.  Sure, there are health care plans.  Psha.  Those won’t pay for me to go jogging or ensure that I get a steady diet of nutritious organic food.  They will likely skim my money to pay for someone else’s bi-pass surgery or diabetes medication.  But, that’s all in the numbers. 

What I worry about, though, is that I have become accustomed to the American Clean Air Act.   I don’t know all of the particulars, but I do remember the definite change when I could go out to dinner with my friends, or go to a bar and have a beer and I wouldn’t have to come home and wash the cigarette stink out of my hair.  No more smoking in public places, no more problems with finding smoke-free apartments.  It was wonderful!  Then, I moved to Spain.  France, the most notorious smokers on the planet passed their Clean Air Act in 2008.  Ireland, too.  Thank goodness the European Union saw the validity.  But, Spain?  Not Spain.  They have been pushing the ban on smoking back every six months for years.  It was supposed to pass in June and now supposedly in January.  I cannot even find a decent place for a café con leche without inhaling smoke.  It’s pervasive.  When I move seats, they give me a dirty look.  Urgh.  So my question is, when I get black lung, it won’t be due to American smokers, it won’t be the fault of the EU and Spain will be bankrupt.  Who will pay for my iron lung?

English Anyone?

When Sarah and I first returned back to Barcelona for our second take, we were taken by a song that we were hearing in every bar, restaurant and café and blasting from all the passing cars.  It has a really nice beat box sound and trumpets that resound of a French circus.  It was a bit tricky to figure out the lyrics as there aren’t many, and frankly, who can hear anything over Spaniards in a tapas bar.  Eventually, I heard something saying Americano while it was playing in the bus on the way to school.  Hmm.  As every other song is American, I was curious.  Fortunately, another ex-pat also heard, however incorrectly, Pa Pa Americano, and it gave me the root to the question.  The song is called We no Speak Americano.  It is an old Italian song from 1956.  Cannot say what Americano versus English could mean, but this was definitely before Bush.

Timely that it comes back as I am in Europe and am finding little resistance to America, let alone English.  Maybe it is a hark back to the Franco days when he resisted anyone’s use of Catalan or Basque or anything other than Castellano.  But now, he is gone and there are still blatant mistranslations.  Maybe it is part of the larger plot to confuse the world issues and keep the peeps from learning proper English.  Because I am pretty sure that Spanish companies, like Desigual, have had ample opportunity to hire well-educated Anglos, but are steadfastly determined to continue littering their clothing with poor grammar and misnomers in order to keep it real.  Sad part is my skirt with: Whay?  There is not one answer.  Working all together is more easy was sewn by a poor little Indian kid that likely speaks proper English, but was ignored.

Estoy aqui

So I have heard somewhere that when you are walking on the Ramblas and you are trying to power down the lane to get away from the mob and someone steps into your way, that you are at fault.  It seems like there is some kind of basketball analogy here, but I skipped that part of the rule book.  What I understand is the issue is that they were in that space and therefore, you shouldn’t have gone for it.  To be fair, most of the people in the street really do walk like caracoles so it shouldn’t be too darn hard to estimate their space and how to avoid them.  But sometimes, it isn’t a perfect science.  At first, I admit, when I bumped into someone, even if it was my fault or not, I would immediately be American and apologize.  Perdoname.  However, after living here for a few months, I noticed that not a single Spaniard ever apologized.  In fact, they never even glanced up from my apology.  Then, I heard this theory and how the Spaniards think that Americans are so silly for constantly apologizing for things.  So, I learned to carry on without apology.  I just hope I remember to be polite when I return home.

Dos Besos

A lovely European greeting, dos besos are given as a salutation when you encounter your friends on the street, or in their house, or generally at first face.  It’s surprisingly various across the continent, and I would like to question what the differences imply.  For instance, the Spaniards kiss twice.  Once on the right cheek-to-cheek, then on the left.  The Italians have the same number, but start with the left check.  Recklessly confusing when you are on the Camino by the way.  The French and the Swedish seem to relish the bisous so much that they go for three.  The English upper-crust have adopted it as an airkiss, and this has been closely followed up by any and every fashionable gay man in the world. 

What do we Americans do?  Why, we give a hearty handshake, of course.  This is the first will of power and it is most important to us how we shake hands.  But, to be fair, that is not the end of the story.  Cousins, friends, males on the street in Mediterranean countries are very quick to give loud cheerful kisses on each other’s cheeks, but try giving them an American bearhug and you will be surprised at their shock.  Though we don’t have a polite bon apetite or buen provecho at mealtimes, and though we don’t kiss kiss upon meeting a stranger, we are definitely more comfortable with showing our affection through full body contact.  I would trade that for all the kisses in Europe.

What is fauna?

Fauna are the uni-dimensional, sometimes bi-dimensional bi-pods that I have run across in my everyday life here in Spain.  Coined by my friend David to explain the collection of oddities that lived in my Barcelona apartment, this term is apropos to dealing with the various creatures on the streets as well.  Not all get monikers like Joder, the bedroom-eyed seductress, or Sabes, the near-illiterate, or Tio, who was constantly giving advice, but one must take time to cultivate the true prominent feature before the name can be justly exposed.  So far, in my new Girona environs, I suspect that I have a Como quieres, Myopia and Shedder.  We shall see.