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.