la gatita gringa

Reincarnation Cat-Style x 2 and 3 and 4

2009-02-16T20:54:00.001+01:00

I've been asked to update this, my de facto defunct blog with a link to my most recent and hopefully permanent reincarnation. I've amalgamated this blog as well as my subsequent blogs from Morocco and Slovakia to the Mother of All Blogs thanks to my supreme technological knowledge.

Cat in Rabat, La Gatita Gringa, Mačka in Slovak can all be found here.

Ciao babies.

Reincarnation Gatita-Style

2008-09-02T20:17:00.005+02:00

Once again - and rather inexplicably - I have been asked for more, so rather than ¡hola! from Spain, I offer you ahoy (it'll have to do) from Bratislava.

I present: Mačka in Slovak.

My apologies in advance.

The 9 Lives of Gatita Gringa: Life the 8th

2008-08-29T12:04:00.015+02:00

I'm not terribly adept at ending blogs - not that I have much experience as this is only my second one but the tickets have been bought, a new Lonely Planet purchased, and the suitcases crammed to beyond capacity, so the time is nigh.

Nonetheless, saying adios - or more accurately, since I'm in southern Spain, adiohhhhh - is not easy.

So rather than saying adiohhhhh, I'll say gracias - or more accurately, since I'm in southern Spain, grathiahhhhh - to this country for such a fabulous year. Thank you (in random order) for:

1) Olive oil & tomato toast and cañas of beer for breakfast.

2) Manzanilla and cream sherries and ponche caballero (a heavenly concoction of brandy, Andalucían oranges, plums, raisins, nuts, and cinnamon).

3) Sangria and tinto de verano because, often, the weather demands it. And I never argue with the weather.

4) Cold Spanish lager; notable inclusions being Alhambra, Mezquita (okay, it's not a lager), Mahou and Cruzcampo (goodness, I detect a theme).

5) Tortilla - especially the tortilla baguettes served at the Europa 2 bar in Granada.

6) Andalucía's weather: 10 months of flip-flop weather (12 if you don't mind getting your feet wet) warms the cockles of my heart.

7) Gibraltar (okay, not Spanish but our drink-soddened Fridays at the Clipper very much coloured our experience here).

8) Allowing the Moors to wreck havoc from 711 until 1492 (mas o menos), but not destroying their architecture after showing them the door. After all, nothing screams 'church belfry' like a minaret.

9) Developing an anti-bull~~killing~~ fighting ethos - albeit slowly. But kudos to you for fighting the tough fight - some day, a couple of hundred thousand bulls will thank you.

10) Cervecería 100 Montaditos for having vegetarian tapas options (high praise indeed went to the blue cheese and walnut mini baguette which has since been inexplicably struck from their menu).

11) Potato chips - notably Santa Ana. Sadly, my chip-eating experiences will never be the same.

12) Saint Days. What's there not to like about a day (or 2 or 3) away from work, a copious amount of alcohol, and a borderline medieval procession or two?

13) Ferias - notably Málaga's. Not that I remember very much of it. A drunken nod goes to the especially incorrect ones like the festival de Moros y Cristianos in Alcoy - a costumed re-enactment which commemorates a particularly heated battle between Moorish and Christian soldiers in the 13th century. The Moors always seem to lose. Funny, that.

14) The Osborne Bull. I saw my first bull-on-the-horizon 8 years ago and I still thrill to see el toro atop a hill or standing right-in-your-face by the side of the road. Honourable mention goes to the roadside Tío Pepe bottle.

15) Kukuxumusu designs. Mr. Testes balls always make me howl, not to mention all those trans-species copulators.

16) Flamenco. How will our Camarón de la Isla cds fair outside of Spain? Will the duende still be there? And the burning question: will Señor Gato Gringo ever learn to play the box?

17) Every Spaniard who couldn't understand a word I said but still tried to make sense of what I was trying to say. An exception being the chica who works in our local pizzeria - how I ever got served a Coca Light after asking - twice - for an agua con gas still defies logic.

18) Madrid. Yeah, yeah, I know: Barcelona, Barcelona, Barcelona. Gaudí Schmaudí. Madrid is - well, Madrid is Madrid. (How obtuse is that?). And Madrid has a bear. Bears rock.

19) Fans. The corollary to 10 months of flip-flop weather (12 if you don't mind getting your feet wet) is having a fan. My favourite has pterodactyls on it. Fans are pretty. Fans work. Why ever don't men use them? - oh right, because men are stupid.

20) Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Martyr Patricio Clito Ruíz y Picasso. Love him or hate him - and I know more people who hate him than love him - Picasso was indisputably the most influential artist in the history of the crayon, paint brush or lump of coal. Born in Málaga, he vowed not to return to Spain while General Franco was in power. Alas, Picasso predeceased Franco by 2 years and never returned to the ¡hola!-land.

Note: a nod to Ms. and Mr. runners-up Penélope Cruz (Señor G.G.'s choice) and Antonio Banderas (mine). Or Javier Bardem (damn!).

Anyway, adiohhhhh and grathiahhhhh. Better yet, rather than saying goodbye, I offer an hasta luego - or more accurately, since I'm in southern Spain, 'uegohhhhh. Because it is 'uegohhhhh not adiohhhhh.

p.s. Be kind to stray animals. And because this is Spain, be nice to donkeys too.

19 Survivors

2008-08-21T12:05:00.006+02:00

I've never seen Madrid's oso crying before.
Descanse en paz.
Rest in peace.

The Sacred & the Sacred Profane

2008-08-19T11:14:00.023+02:00

This past Feast of the Assumption-long weekend I found myself - possibly like many Spaniards - dangling from the horns of a very Spanish dilemma. Do I sing hosannas to the Virgin Mary or not do much of anything at all? Look skyward envisioning Our Lady ascending to the heavens or offer up a prayer of thanksgiving to the night sky that it's still bright out at 10:00? Sit quietly in church fumbling with my rosary or lie on the beach with a very cold tinto de verano in my hand? Decisions, decisions.

Spain being a secular country and the Virgin Mary purportedly being nice and all, I think she probably didn't condemn me for the fact that I eschewed the dreariness of church for the sparkling water of the pool ... although I'm pretty sure I did raise a glass to her. Always good to hedge your bets.

In truth, like myself, Spaniards seem to have few problems distinguishing the sacred from the profane - at least when it comes to long weekends in August. Sociologist Émile Durkheim once postulated that what is deemed sacred in the world is not necessarily good and what is profane is equally not necessarily evil. Ergo, there are no hard and fast rules - and nowhere is this more evident than in Spain.

Permit me to illustrate:

I mentioned in my previous post that Señor Gato Gringo and I recently visited Sanlúcar de Barrameda in order to consolidate our positions as World Class Sherry Aficionados. While ~~waiting for the bodeda to open~~ beetling about the town, we popped into the 16th century iglesia of San Francisco, built by Henry VIII as a hospital for English sailors. One can only imagine that funding for the church took a serious tumble after he banished his then-wife Catherine of Aragon from court but that's for another blog, a historical romance and possibly a mini series.

It was very pretty although the articulated statue of Christ on the Cross was a little over-the-top.

Nevertheless, just outside the church, celebrating the glory of God and the ingenuity of humankind, is a resplendent pyramid of manzanilla barrels from the Bodegas Pedro Romero. This is the sacred and the sacred! How clever is that? So how is it that I've never seen beer kegs arranged o-so-prettily outside any church back home? Have the Spaniards figured out something that we in North America have yet to? (~~Yes~~).

Later that day, while ~~waiting for the Mexican restaurant to open~~ beetling about Spain's windy city Tarifa (yes, the t-shirts are right: Tarifa does blow) we popped into the iglesia San Mateo. And although I could have spent a little more time admiring the 16th century Gothic architecture of the church's interior, it was its 17th century Baroque facade set off to full advantage by the lottery ticket vendor at its entrance that caught my eye.

After all, it's never to early to buy my El Gordo lottery ticket - the draw, after all, is only 4 months away.

And although I appreciate the fact that bingo has long been ~~a popular source of revenue for the Catholic Church~~ deemed a morally acceptable alternative to gambling (why exactly I've yet to figure out), I've never noticed lottery ticket hawkers at church doors before. Perhaps I'm not terribly observant or perhaps the fact that San Mateo is the patron saint of bankers has something to do with it ...

Let me quickly add that a portion of my ticket will go to church renovations, so by financially assisting a historical church, my big fat el gordo win is a shoe in. (Of course, Tarifa's 20,000-some inhabitants probably feel much the same way). After all, nothing in Spain goes together better than religion, booze and gambling. And to that I say amen - or better yet, olé.

The Triple Crown of Thoroughbred Racing

2008-08-12T10:34:00.029+02:00

It's not like I expected the heavens to open up and hosts of seraphim and cherubim to descend, placing a golden crown upon my brow. Although that would have been nice.

It's not like I expected a mighty sceptre to be placed in my hands and a satin sash tied about my person by no less than the King of Spain himself. Although that would have been nice too.

It's not like I expected a t-shirt that said "I did the Sherry Triangle and All I Got Was a Lousy T-shirt" slipped over my head. But I would probably have settled for that.

Just about anything would have sufficed ...

This weekend, marked by a visit to Sanlúcar de Barrameda, Señor Gato Gringo and I made good on a vow we made back in December: to complete Cádiz' Triple Crown of bodegas before we left Spain. Now I suspect that there are equally laudable goals a visitor to Spain can set for him or herself - although truthfully, no examples spring immediately to mind - but surely this is one that merits some sort of official recognition. Perhaps if Franco were still alive ...

As I expounded upon oh so many months ago, for sherry to be sherry it must be fermented and fortified in one of these three towns in Cádiz: Jerez de la Frontera, Sanlúcar and El Puerto de Santa María. Of the three, Sanlúcar is probably best known for my not-very-secret vice - its manzanilla: a fino wine rendered slightly salty by the winds which blow off the sea estuary of the Guadalquivir river. Needless to say, on Saturday Señor G.G. and I made a sizeable dent first in Pedro Romero's sampling room and then in its shop. How we haven't been banned for life from any of Spain's bodegas defies logic and good business sense.

Having now toured many of Cádiz' bodegas in English, Spanish and more recently, as a self-guided Sherry savant, I can safely say that a Bodega Tour Guide is a career opportunity I would like to explore further. In fact, I would be a Bodega Tour Guide Extraordinario. Wouldn't my family be proud! Didn't the bodega-istas (I just made that word up) at the Pedro Romero bodega invite me to autograph one of their sherry barrels? Well not so much invite, but allow me to scribble my name in a darkened corner. In secret. Well not so much allow because no one was actually around to stop me ... but I'm confident that my signature is still there.

In fact, it is only modesty that prevents me from stating that I believe myself to be the Most Knowledgeable Person in the Entire World on the Subject of Spain's Sherries. I am a resource that demands to be exploited!

As the Most Knowledgeable Person in the Entire World on the Subject of Spain's Sherries and a future Bodega Tour Guide Extraordinario, I would insist that there be some sort of acknowledgment for completing the Sherry Triangle. I mean, Pythagoras had busts chiseled in his honour for his lousy triangle. And I bet survivors of the Bermuda Triangle get to appear on the Tonight Show. In fact, this will be my first order of business. Just after the sampling.

I Scream

2008-08-06T12:46:00.013+02:00

I love ice cream.

I come by this passion honestly as my family is a family of ice cream eaters. And with the exception of my mother's aberrant penchant for grapenut flavoured ice cream - and by aberrant I really mean beastly - our tastes run rather conservatively. (Although I do get a craving for a nice peanut butter & chocolate cone every once in a while).

Enter Neapolitan - that most perfect of ice cream flavours. A glorious marriage of chocolate, strawberry and vanilla - the Triple Crown of flavours - it is perfection in a bowl (or cone) for it removes or at least minimizes the agony of choice when faced with a gazillion other varieties. Best served in a brick - where the strict delineations of flavours can be faithfully respected - it can be eaten ~~anally~~ meticulously colour by colour or mixed into a soupy amalgam of flavours. There's probably a doctoral thesis buried in how people eat Neapolitan ice cream.

Now I know you're thinking that this is the obligatory we're-in-the-throes-of-summer post, and, after all, what says summer better than ice cream? Well, Señor Gato Gringo might suggest beer and, in the darkest corners of my heart I might argue that a glass of tinto de verano or sangria really hits the spot. But you'd be wrong.

No, dear reader ... my thoughts turned to ice cream - specifically Neapolitan ice cream - not to cool my feverish self in La Línea's steaming temperatures but rather I was reminded of it in the grocery store. Not in the frozen food aisle mind you, but in the dairy case. Yes, in the dairy case where - a veritable peacock among pigeons - a tricolour container of pink, white & brown margarine sat rather gaily next to the butter and the aioli, putting their pale spreads to shame.

Neapolitan margarine? - although I have no idea (or burning desire to know) what the actual flavour is like, the list of ingredients did indicate a high percentage of sugar. Perhaps I'll just stick with the ice cream.

Bad Mail Karma

2008-07-28T11:08:00.018+02:00

I come from a family encumbered with the pain and suffering of Bad Mail Karma although fortunately, for the most part, I have been spared many of the horrors which have been visited upon my mother and her sisters. In Spain - contrary to the experiences of my fellow-bloggers - I have experienced nothing less than stellar service from the Post Office. In fact, the only pieces of mail I have failed to receive have been letters sent by my mother and her sisters. But that's their Bad Mail Karma, not mine.

Last week a notice was crammed into our mailbox indicating that either a registered letter or a package - for the little descriptive box remained unticked - was awaiting me or Señor Gato Gringo- for the name in the little address box was illegible - at La Línea's Correos. Huzzah! - a parcel! Or a letter! Is it even for us? asked Señor G.G. who had clearly and rather maliciously just donned his buzzkill hat. You can't read the name on the pick-up notice. It behooved me to remind him that, unlike my family, I don't suffer from Bad Mail Karma.

Now because this is the summer and because this is Spain, many of the country's services have pared back their hours of operation. The post office in La Línea is no exception. In the realm of I-want-to-work-for-the-Spanish-post-office-when-I-grow-up, the Correos here is open from 8:30 a.m. to 1:00 p.m. for the duration of the summer. Which makes for very long line-ups from 8:00 a.m. to 12:59 p.m. After several abortive and admittedly half-hearted attempts to wait patiently in line, I finally capitulated last Thursday, and not only joined the line but stood in it ~~not very patiently~~ while those in front of me remortgaged their homes and set up trust funds for their grandchildren and mailed boxes of sherry to Uruguay. All requiring vast numbers of forms and a multitude of stamps.

Thirty-ish minutes later, I eagerly thrust my notice and my passport under the glass partition which separated me and a Frazzled Postal Worker, sending him off to the parcel shelf on what I hoped would not be a wild goose chase. Would it be a package? A prezzie?!! I asked Señor G.G. who, upon close inspection, was not only still wearing his buzzkill hat but had also adopted a don't-get-your-hopes-up expression. Husbands can be so tiresome.

Much to my disappointment - although I think I detected an I-told-you-so humpfff from Señor G.G. - the Frazzled Postal Worker quickly abandoned the parcel shelf and began rooting through the registered mail file, from which he pulled out a rather dull but official-looking letter. I offered Señor G.G a you-can-take-your-I-told-you-so humpfff and ram-it-up-your-ass-humpfff of my own. Amidst the humpfffing the Frazzled Postal Worker shoved my pick-up notice and a pen under the glass partition and asked me (I think) to sign for it. I duly signed the notice and shoved it and the pen back under the glass partition. He then shoved the letter and my original pick-up notice back under under the glass partition.

It wasn't for me.

Not only was it not for me but the recipient's name clearly indicated that he was of the y-chromosome persuasion. Perhaps a quick shufti at my passport - or my double-D secondary sexual characteristics - would have satisfied the Frazzled Postal Worker that I could not be anyone by the name of Francisco or Javier.

I confess that I left the Correos a little disappointed and a whole lot perplexed; after all, I had just been handed a registered letter which clearly belonged to an individual of the opposite sex as well as the original pick-up notice which bore his name and my signature. Indeed, there would be no record that Francisco Javier had picked the letter up. I could rip it up unto a thousand little pieces and cackle in malevolent delight as his electricity is turned off. Hope he's not showering at the time. So it would seem that, like my mother and aunts, Francisco Javier too suffers from Bad Mail Karma.

All's Not Fair

2008-07-22T12:54:00.033+02:00

L.P. Hartley once wrote that the past is like a foreign country because they do things differently there. As a corollary to that, I would add that foreign countries are like foreign countries because they also do things differently there. Profound, no?

How so? you ask.

I offer, by way of illustration of the aforementioned profound observation, the innocuous county fair. As a child I spent much of the summer pining for the fairs which, like cotton candied mushrooms, sprung up in southern Ontario towards the end of August. Fairs which, I would add, for kids were also dark harbingers of the End of Time as they normally closed on Labour Day (the first Monday of September). School began on the following day. Such was the bitterest irony of childhood.

For the past few weeks, harbinger-free ferias have been popping up everywhere in Spain and so, having temporarily exchanged my Publicity Truck Anthropologist hat for a Spanish Fairground Anthropologist hat, I would like to offer a few observations/comparisons between the fair that Señor Gato Gringo and I visited in modest, unprepossessing, nondescript La Línea and that of the Canadian National Exhibition (CNE), Canada's mega fall fair extravaganza held in Toronto.

1) Admission
La Línea: free
CNE: $10

2) Beer
La Línea: a major brewery is a corporate sponsor, so expect to be able to buy a can of Cruzcampo at every vendor's stall, including ice cream stands. Because this is a fair, you can also expect to pay the exorbitant price of €1.50 for a beer. You may, however, walk about the fair grounds - and throughout the city for that matter - with an open can. Salud!

CNE: a major brewery is a corporate sponsor, but don't expect to be able to buy a can of Labatt's Blue at any vendor's stall, including ice cream stands. You will have to purchase your brew at licensed bars, beer halls, and restaurants. Because this is a fair, you can also expect to pay the exorbitant price of $4.00 upwards for a beer. You may not walk about the fair grounds - and throughout the city for that matter - with an open can. Cheers!

3) Midway Games
La Línea: yes, you can while away the hours demonstrating your shooting skills with an air rifle and target. Boring no? Ahhhh, but your prize isn't a mirror printed with a Rollings Stone album cover but a glass (or two) of regional wine or sherry. This is Shooting for Shots (as seen right). Uh-oh! - won too much and having difficulty aiming your rifle? No problem! - apparently everyone is a winner at this game and lack of accuracy is no impediment to being handed a shot of manzanilla. Goodness, even the people who run the games are tippling!

CNE: Shooting for Shots ... bwahahahahahaha. No.

4) Midway Barkers
La Línea: barkers here don't bark which leads me to consider renaming them. Perhaps we can call them mute-ers. Although you can find barkers along the midway and behind the stalls of their games of chance, they will leave you alone. Often, when they're not having a shot of wine, they appear rather bored. If you suffer from feelings of low self-esteem, better to avoid the midway.

CNE: barkers here are worse than their bark (apologies for the skewed metaphor) and it is best to abstain from making eye contact with one of their ilk, lest your manhood be impugned and you end up spending $55 just to win a $3 Shrek doll.

4) Portrait Studios
La Línea: likely to jump at the opportunity to dress up in costumes from the Old West and have your photo taken in front of a backdrop of a real ~~sort-of~~ bona fide ~~bogus~~ saloon? Well, you can't do that here but you can send your kiddies off to dress up in traditional Spanish costumes and sit at a table replete with a bottle of sherry and awaiting glasses.

CNE: Taking photographs of your children holding wine glasses aloft is not encouraged but you can dress up in costumes from the Old West and have your photo taken in front of a backdrop of a real ~~sort-of~~ bona fide ~~bogus~~ saloon.

5) The Virgin Mary
La Línea: blessings from the Virgin are actively sought among midway barkers and vendors, and it is not uncommon to find photos of her displayed among prize lots of stuffed dogs and penises (see right: virgin on the bottom shelf, penises on the top ... whatever would the Pope think?).

CNE: the Virgin is conspicuously absent.

6) Closing Time
La Línea: the word flexible jumps to mind. The feria closes when people go home. Throughout the week, midway lights were turned off between 5 and 6 a.m. On the final night - or morning - we joined fair-goers on our bus to work. At 8:30 a.m. The fair had just closed. If you're not much of a night hawk, the kind people who organized raffles considerately selected 2:30 a.m. for the drawing of winning tickets.

CNE: closes sensibly at midnight (exhibition buildings at 10:00).

I could continue - in between beer and homemade potato chips I did take extensive albeit illegible and greasy notes - but I think I've made my point rather impressively. And the point, in case you've lost track of it, is that foreign countries are like foreign countries because they also do things differently there. And by differently, I mean very differently. Olé.

Un Mosaico de Mí

2008-07-18T09:17:00.015+02:00

Once again, work has become rather burdensome and has cast its noisome shadow over the those things most important in my life; namely, over my vast leisure activities. Because of my current Reduced Blogging Capabilities (RBC) - which I hope will be temporary - I'm going to take a short cut this morning by brazenly stealing an idea from fellow blogger My Blue Streak. Like her, I seldom bore readers with exhibitionist indulgences (an obvious exception being the search for my peculiar aristocratic name which, not surprisingly, is Baroness La Gatita the Ceaseless of Midhoop St Giggleswich), but this one was rather fun.

Create a Mosaic of You-ness

a. Go to Mosaic Maker and open a free account.
b. Go to Flickr Search and type your answer to each of the questions below.
c. Choosing from images which appear on the first page only (no cheating), choose one.
d. Copy and paste each of the URLs for the images into Mosaic Maker. And the questions are ...

1. What is your first name?
2. What is your favourite food?
3. What high school did you go to?
4. What is your favourite colour?
5. Who is your celebrity crush?
6. Favourite drink?
7. Dream vacation?
8. Favourite dessert?
9. What you want to be when you grow up?
10. What do you love most in life?
11. One word to describe you.
12. Where do you live?

This is mine - I'm sure the ancient Romans would be green with envy:

I have few explanations for #10's photo (What do you love most in life?) but rest assured, the words ape, primate, simian and/or monkey did not figure into the equation.

My Life as a Publicity Truck Anthropologist

2008-07-15T13:09:00.024+02:00

Spanish neighbourhoods are seldom quiet and, yes, I've accepted the fact that people here don't need a phone or be face-to-face to conduct lengthy conversations. Half a city block is hardly an impediment to having a nice roaring chat.

But one day last spring the street was louder than usual. It was squawkier than usual.

In fact I thought it was a car stereo blaring at the usual eardrum-popping decibels favoured by most young Spaniards. But the second time it happened, I realized that even by Spanish standards this was ear-bleedingly loud. The third time, I actually grabbed my Nancy Drew magnifying glass and looked out the window. And by grabbed my Nancy Drew magnifying glass and looked out the window I really mean that I asked Señor Gato Gringo to look out the window and to promptly report back. Which he did.

It was a publicity truck.

I confess that upon hearing this ~~I sprung from the sofa and rushed over to the window~~ my curiosity was piqued. What was this? - 1953? Industrialized countries still used publicity vehicles? Why? To advise us all to grab a bible and head for our bomb shelters? Should I duck and cover? Will they sound an all-clear? Even for La Línea, this was bizarre.

Of course, this was only the beginning. Over the course of the last seven months we would encounter many many very loud publicity vehicles in La Línea as well as in other parts of Andalucía. If the promoter is savvy and plasters a poster to the side of his vehicle, we can with great erudition figure out what is being advertised - for instance a bullfight or a concert - otherwise we are completely in the dark.

And having carefully observed said vehicles over these past months and taken meticulously detailed notes, I can safely say (in my role as Publicity Truck Anthropologist) that I've spotted marked similarities within this herd of seemingly disparate creatures; namely:

1) Their message is not only tinny but entirely incomprehensible - not just to me I suspect but to those who share the speaker's mother tongue. Presumably this is because their audio system dates from the Spanish Civil War. Franco called and he wants his loudspeakers back.

2) They are very very loud. Given that most streets in our town are one-way and extremely narrow (pedestrians or motorized vehicles were clearly an afterthought to La Línea's road planners), the already deafening racket bounces up up up into the windows of us those unfortunate enough to be living on the top floor of their apartment buildings.

3) A natural corollary to featuring an unintelligible voice-over and an unreasonably loud sound system is to add a soundtrack. In fact, I suspect that it is de rigueur to select music best suited for - and probably plucked from - a 'mental hygiene' classroom film from 1964.

4) The vehicles are ~~clunkers~~ seldom pretty. Sometimes they are vans, other times trucks, and often a station wagon. Being that I didn't think station wagons still existed pretty much guarantees that, in the evolutionary world of cars, they are firmly idling in the Middle Pleistocene period.

All in all, I have to wonder about the efficacy of advertising in such a Fred Flintstone-like manner. I mean, Spain is hardly an illiterate country and Spaniards are voracious readers. And to be honest, these publicity cars scare the crap out of me. Not just because they're really loud (which they are) but I keep wondering if there's a really important message that I'm missing. Are they closing the border with Gib again? Are terrorist pinheads targeting sites in La Línea (God, I had to wipe the tears from my eyes as I typed that), or has someone thrown dead water buffaloes into the town's water supply?

Or maybe they are mental hygiene tips blaring through the streets of La Línea. That might explain why Señor G.G. has been building that bomb shelter on the roof and washing his hands a great deal and rereading his driver's manual. His Spanish must be a lot better that I thought.

How Not to Do Córdoba.

2008-07-09T10:45:00.029+02:00

Hot on the heels of vowing never to complain about the heat, Señor Gato Gringo and I decided to escape the heat that I'm not complaining about and take a junket out of town this past weekend. And what better way to escape the heat that I'm not complaining about than by visiting a city 10 degrees hotter! Not that I'm complaining. But it is disconcerting to watch the colour of your pee turn darker and darker (a nice yellow ochre jumps to mind) in spite of the fact that you're imbibing 2 litres of ~~beer, sangria~~ water an hour.

So to make amends to the weather gods whom I've clearly offended, I offer an albeit brief but heartfelt Travel Advisory for the City of Córdoba. So without further ado ...

How Not to Do Córdoba

1) Don't be seduced by July/August rates. There is a perfectly rational reason why hotel rates plummet during the dogs days of summer - which by some astronomical anomaly are about 75 days long rather than a week. In short, it's hot (not that I'm complaining). If you really had your heart set on traipsing about labyrinthine alleys which admit no breeze and watching the ice melt in your sangria as the waiter crosses a shadeless plaza to serve you, ignore Rule #1; otherwise, spring for an extra 10 euros and come any other time of the year.

2) Don't even bother coming on Sundays and Mondays. Pretty much everything of a cultural and historical nature closes at 2:00 on Sunday and reopens Tuesday morning. To me this seems a somewhat uppity slap in the face to the Unwritten Rule in Europe that everything of a cultural and historical nature is closed on Tuesday. If shopping and drinking is your thing, ignore Rule #2; otherwise, if you really had your heart set on seeing the Mezquita, see you on Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Or Thursday. You get the drift.

3) Don't accept a "gift" from the "persistent ladies" around the Mezquita. I trust everyone caught the wickedly clever subtleties in my choice of vocabulary, because by "gift" I mean not a gift at all, and by "persistent ladies" I really mean gypsies. In any case, don't even think of touching, let alone expelling carbon dioxide on their regalo, their "gift" of a sprig of rosemary because it is not a regalo but an opportunity to separate a fool (you) from his/her (your) money. If you really had your heart set on having your wallet snatched out of your hand by the "persistent lady's" accomplice, ignore Rule #3; otherwise, choose to make eye contact with the cobblestones and/or adopt a callous sneer as you walk the city's streets.

4) Don't look for a drink after 11:00. Defying every law of physics, Córdoba's sidewalks have the preternatural ability to roll up with no human or mechanical assistance or contrivance around 11:00 at night. Although theoretically an intellectually stimulating phenomenon to witness, this is truly not a wondrous event to experience when it's, say, 11:01 and you really want a beer and because it's 11:01, the temperature has probably plummeted to 35° which, as everyone knows, is a doable climate in which to sit out of doors with a cold beer. In a word: find an after hours bar. If you really had your heart set on ending your evening at 11:01 ignore Rule #4; otherwise, when the clock hits 10:59, give chase to any thirsty-looking local.

5) Don't trust any guidebook or, for that matter, this Travel Advisory for the City of Córdoba. The Tourism Poobahs of the City of Córdoba are notorious for changing the hours of operation for monuments and museums. Why they do this to unsuspecting visitors is not clear to me - I have generously eliminated gratuitous evil as a likely motivation - but I do I suspect that toga-wearing augers with freshly sacrificed birds in one hand and greasy entrails in the other are involved in selecting the hours and dates slated to be changed. After all, Córdoba was once the capital of the Roman province of Hispania Baetica and I'm sure that old habits die hard. If you really had your heart set on spending the evening in the gardens of the Alcázar because your guidebook told you it would be open, ignore Rule #5; otherwise, verify all times at the nearest Punto de Información Turística.

6) Don't trust the Punto de Información Turística. It's not that they intentionally lie - again, I've generously eliminated gratuitous evil as a likely motivation for their dispensing of misinformation - but take everything with a grain of sal. Córdoba is vying with Łódź in Poland for the title of ~~Miss~~ Cultural Capital of Europe for the year 2016 and consequently, 93% of the old city is under renovation. In a word: Spain is a country ensnared in red tape, and as we all know, in every bureaucratic system, right hands and left hands seldom have martini lunches over which to catch up on news - notably, what's currently cocooned in scaffolding and therefore closed to the public. If you really had your heart set on only viewing the Convent of Santa Fill-in-the-blank from the outside, ignore Rule #6; otherwise, ~~verify all times at the nearest Punto de Información Turística~~ ... there is no otherwise.

You're welcome.

Walking Sweating in a Winter Summer Wonderland

2008-07-03T15:08:00.018+02:00

I swore when I left Canada for balmier climes three years ago that I would never - on pain of death - complain about the heat. And although I came dangerously close to forfeiting my life by a rogue weather commentary in the blog I maintained during my former incarnation, I have remained true to my word. Somehow biting on my tongue and grinning like an imbecile while perspiration collects in a tepid lagoon between my cleavage is still more favourable to having your friends hold you down and shove forks into your eye sockets.

Having said that, it's hot out. Really hot. Not that I'm complaining.

For the past week or so, Andalucía has been ~~cursed~~ blessed with 60% humidity and temperatures in the high 30's to the mid 40's which, if Spain were ~~cursed~~ blessed with a Humidex, would be more accurately represented by readings in the mid 40's to low 50's. It is so hot that Señor Gato Gringo and I have been pricing the inflatable kiddie pools at Carrefour with an eye on the almost shady (not really) corner of our roof terrace. Unfortunately, we can't choose between the high-spirited dolphins or the chilled penguin motifs but until we can, I'm not complaining.

So yes, it would seem that once again the Leveche or the Sirocco or the Chergui (call it what you will) is in town - the furnace-like winds which blast up through North Africa from the Sahara. In Morocco, life pretty much comes to a complete standstill when the Chergui blows in on its noxious winds. Not that I ever complained. Not surprisingly, Spain isn't much different. Only the beer is more plentiful and cheaper. And the sangria - did I mention that?

So I have bought a fan. And I use it. It seems that they're not totally decorative after all although mine is awfully pretty. What's there not to like about polka dots and bulls?

Having now experienced the Levanter winds of winter and now the blistering blasts of the Leveche, I feel like our stay in the south has been nicely bookended, meteorologically speaking. Personally, I'm just relieved that we won't have to endure Spain's northerly wind, the Matacabras - the "goat-killer wind". Not that I would complain if we had to. Although the goats probably do.

PODEMOS!

2008-06-30T08:57:00.009+02:00

Podemos! = we can!
Spain:1
Germany:0

Who thought football can be as fabby as hockey? Or maybe it had to with the fact that yesterday, I personally drank every drop of sangria in the country ...

A Brief Digression Inspired by the Light Bulb

2008-06-26T11:21:00.033+02:00

It is simple in design - although I've never been able to figure out how it works - and has been around forever. Or at least for about two hundred years which, since my projected life span is less than half of that, is forever. At least 22 different individuals - who were probably able to figure out how it works - have laid claim to its invention prior to Joseph Swan and Thomas Edison, but unfortunately, nobody really gives a rat's ass about them. I am, of course, talking about the light bulb.

But in Spain, the incandescent bulb - which consumes 3% of the energy produced here - will soon be having its filament broken forever: in 3 years time it will be no more. By replacing the incandescent bulb with a low consumption colleague, it's estimated that 6.5 tons of CO2 will be saved each year. So huzzah!

Naturally, when I read that it was lights out for the incandescent bulb, it got me thinking about toilets. How so? you ask.

First let me say that I am rather partial to the motion detector bulbs that for the past several years many Spaniards have screwed into their sockets. They are cost and energy efficient, and have kindly provided me with a remember when story that never fails to make Señor Gato Gringo cringe. And making your husband cringe is what marriage is all about. I'm pretty sure that my mother told me this on my wedding night.

Our first visit to Spain, many years ago, saw a greatly vexed Señor G.G. experiencing his first motion detector light bulb in a roach infested bathroom in Algeciras. A roach infested bathroom, I might add, which was equipped with a Turkish style toilet (which sounds fairly exotic) or a simple squat (which does not). This is a visual you probably don't want to dwell on, but imagine squatting over a hole in a ~~presumably~~ soiled and sticky floor, clutching with one hand at your trousers, when the light - sensing no movement - goes out. Much hilarity ensures as you desperately try to flail your arms about to re-trigger the motion sensor, all the while trying to keep your pants from falling on a ~~presumably~~ soiled and sticky floor and maintaining your balance. I keep telling Señor G.G. he should practise yoga.

Needless to say, his evacuation was not a happy experience although, with practice, Señor G.G. almost/sort-of came to like the squattie. After all, if - and depending where you're travelling this can be an awfully big 'if' - the floor area is clean enough, you can spread the newspaper out and take a shufti at the sports section while answering the call of nature. Oddly enough, this is ~~seldom~~ never given as an argument in favour of adopting the squattie as your loo of choice. But if you're one of the millions of people who have problems relaxing your puborectalis muscle - and modesty prevents me from broaching this subject with Señor G.G - I invite you to click here. If you require a wheelchair to beetle about, never mind.

To recap for those who require a flow chart:

Incandescent bulbs → low consumption bulbs → motion detector bulbs → Algeciras → squat toilets → fun for the whole family.

Logical, no?

Los Pájaros

2008-06-23T14:13:00.042+02:00

It all began in a pet shop in San Francisco with a mynah bird, a couple of lovebirds, a lawyer, and a socialite. Forty-five years later - unlikely though this may seem - it has come to its diabolical climax here in La Línea de la Concepción sans the mynah bird, a couple of lovebirds, a lawyer, and a socialite. But birds there are.

It is "Los Pájaros (2008)".

For the past week or so, La Línea has borne witness to unsettling patterns in natural phenomena, marked by changes in the behaviour of its seagulls. But let me digress for a moment and say that the gulls who call La Línea home are no ordinary birds. They are masters of mimicry - if indeed mimicry is what it is - and can parrot all sorts of creatures: cats, crying infants, screaming children and donkeys. Donkeys.

And although I have lived on my fair share of coastlines, I confess that I've never before encountered seagulls like these, let alone knew that they could do impersonations. I don't know if I should be booking them into gigs at local hotels or be spooked. (The latter! The latter!) In fact, there's something about these particular birds that's a bit disquieting. I'm pretty sure that the ones who roost on our rooftop - which I might add is 97% of the birds in question - have learned to "do" Señor Gato Gringo, albeit with a lisp-y Andalucían accent. I was tipped off when I heard "him" calling out for a thpoon for his cereal the other morning. I foresee weeks of either hilarity or marital strife.

Now it's all coming to a seething head. As if flaunting their complex methods of communication, for the past few days the birds have responded to some sort of universal gull call and have convened in La Línea in huge avian mobs. They are spending hours - most of which are pretty ungodly as our visiting friend and fellow g~~in & tonic~~ poker-aficionado Mr. N. can attest - screaming and screeching and squawking and barking from their catalogue of voices, careening about rooftops, and generally being humungous pains in the ass. Well not so much humungous but creepy pains in the ass.

I fear they are enlisting the swallows.

Señor G.G. saw one perched level with our bedroom window at 4:00 this morning, trying to decide if it wanted to come in. I suspect that it did want in.

Why are they here? Where is this all going? When will it end? How will it end? Are they here principally to elect the new Gull King? Was La Línea chosen to host the 2008 Convention of Laridae Charadriiformes? Long noted to be avid football fans, are they here to cheer on Spain in Euro 2008? - they were eerily euphoric last night when Spain ended their 88-year "Italian" curse by finally eliminating Italy and moving on to the semifinals. Or are they receiving instructions? Orders? Should I be searching the skies for a mothership? Is something nefarious - something truly dark and deadly - afoot?? (The latter! The latter!) Will we all be found dead one morning, with our eyes pecked out and a clutch of rotting sardines at the foot of our beds?

O the horror!

Addendum: there' s talk of remaking the Hitchcock classic with Naomi Watts in the role of Melanie Daniels made famous by Tippi Hedren. I can only hope it's as good as the remake of Psycho.

O the horror!

Floating Tangerines

2008-06-16T15:48:00.027+02:00

I'm not certain how Bib the Michelin Man would feel about the story I am about to relate but I suspect that he wouldn't be too pleased because it involves the flagrant misuse - or abuse - of tires. I believe that car tires are rather sacrosanct in his mind and shouldn't be used for crossing bodies of water larger than a stream.

It seems that weekend before last, much to the presumed consternation of Bib, two Moroccans - Tangerines (natives of Tangier not the citrus fruit) to be exact - crossed the Strait of Gibraltar on an inflated inner tube. (I so wanted to make a Bib & Gib joke here but the moment just never felt right.)

To resume: taking every necessary precaution, the two ~~would-be illegal immigrants~~ hapless wayfarers prudently equipped themselves with one bottle of water and a bag of peanuts for a trip which would take them 3 days to make. I might add that I need more than a bottle of water and a bag of peanuts just to take the bus to Malaga - but this story isn't about me. Nonetheless, with flippers on their feet, they kicked and bobbed their way across the Strait and landed in Marbella (with presumably chilled backsides) into the welcoming arms of the Guardia Civil.

Incidentally, three men were originally supposed to make the illegal voyage across international waters but one ~~wisely~~ opted out, fortuitously leaving more peanuts and water for his compatriots.

Although I'm tempted to bestow upon these two ~~would-be illegal immigrants~~ hapless wayfarers the Pinhead of the Year Award, I am drawn to the case last autumn in which three Moroccans were rescued by a ferry which was just 10 minutes outside of Tangier. The three equally ~~would-be illegal immigrants~~ hapless wayfarers had left Rabat 11 hours earlier, and had reached Tangier by paddling on a surfboard. Of these equally ~~would-be illegal immigrant~~s hapless wayfarers, one especially ~~would-be illegal immigrant~~ hapless wayfarer had fallen into the water and was hanging onto the board as fish nibbled at his feet and human refuse floated by. It's safe to say that the cold (it was November) and 3-metre high waves squashed the travel bug in them. And they hadn't even entered the Strait proper yet.

After much consideration and deliberation, it behooves me to give the Pinhead of the Year Award to the surfing Rabatians. In the end, although all ~~would-be illegal immigrants~~ hapless wayfarers would be repatriated to Morocco, the peanut-munchers on the inner tube did make it to Spain. But then again, they did have an advantage: everyone knows that both tangerines (the citrus fruit) and Tangerines (natives of Tangier) can float.

A Tudor King, A Spanish Queen, and a Fresh Cucumber

2008-06-11T11:50:00.019+02:00

Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard,
To fetch her poor dog a bone.
But when she got there,
The cupboard was bare,
And so the poor dog had none.

Even as a child, I found this nursery rhyme problematic. Why would Ms. Hubbard keep a bone in her cupboard? Even in days of pre-refrigeration, were there not better places to store animal parts than in an enclosed cupboard? No wonder the poor dog had none - perhaps she should have checked the stew pot.

Of course, the Ms. Hubbard of the rhyme was a thinly disguised Cardinal Wolsey who had the occasion to greatly annoy Henry VIII by refusing to endorse the latter's divorce from Katherine of Aragón. To complete our Nursery Rhyme 101 class, the "bone" was the much sought after annulment/divorce requested by the Tudor king or "doggie". And the cupboard? - no less than the Catholic Church.

Wolsey would eventually be accused of treason but would die on his way to London where he was to stand trial. Henry's marriage to Katherine of Aragón was declared null and void, and the Spanish Queen spent her remaining years banished from court, denied the right to see her own daughter, the future Queen Mary.

So where am I going with this? It seems that Aragón is seeing its fair share of empty cupboards today. As are Castilla y León , Murcia, and Galicia. As is the entire country.

Señor Gato Gringo and I popped into a grocery store on the way to work this morning to pick up some fresh vegetables. As it turned out, our shopping experience was but a brief one because the cupboards were bare. And by cupboards I mean shelves and not the Catholic Church. The same was true in the bread aisle - ditto in the cheese and meat department. There was no fresh fish. The grocery store looked like it had been looted after some post-apocalyptic event. Except for the liquor, potato chips and cereal aisles - thank the gods they were still stocked! And because we are rather thick people by nature, it took us about 3 minutes before we figured it out: the truck strike.

Today is Day 3 of the "indefinite" truck strike that's gripped Spain and parts of Europe. Protesting the soaring cost of fuel, truckers are shutting down the country: gumming up traffic by travelling the highways at a snail's pace, causing gas stations to run dry and grocery stores from restocking their shelves with produce. Petrol tankers are now under police escort. Some factories - notably Mercedes - have closed their doors because parts cannot be delivered. Ferry companies have cancelled routes; work at 60% of the construction sites in the province of Málaga has come to a standstill. One picketer was killed in Granada and another in Portugal, which somehow puts my inability to buy a fresh cucumber into perspective.

Yesterday, the Government and the National Commission for Road Transport (which represents the majority of Spain's truck drivers) reached an agreement on 54 measures to improve the current situation but this doesn't mean that the strike is over as two other trucking organizations have already rejected its terms.

Which brings me back to Ms. Hubbard. It seems to me that it wouldn't be a huge abuse of artistic licence to reinterpret the rhyme given the current political climate. You know, the dog would be consumers, the bone would be affordable petrol, the cupboard ... you get the picture. I can only hope that the next time I venture outside, I'm not reminded of any other nursery rhymes - say, Ring Around the Rosie which many believe refers to the Black Death.

Ten Simple Rules for 'Doing the Bull'

2008-06-09T09:04:00.042+02:00

One of the advantages of not having been raised Protestant is that neither Señor Gato Gringo nor I have any sort of work ethic. So, it was with great ease and no strain on our consciences that we ditched work on Friday, borrowed a car, and sped up the coast to El Puerto de Santa María to visit the Osborne winery. Having already graced the González-Byass and Domecq wineries with our presence, it was high time we extended the courtesy to Osborne.

This being our third bodega - and I don't mind saying that our not having yet visited the manzanilla bodegas of Sanlúcar de Barrameda weighs heavily on my mind - and being self-acclaimed Veterans of the Bodega Tour Experience, I have compiled a simple Do-list for visiting the Osborne (or any, for that matter) bodega.

Ten Simple Rules for 'Doing the Bull'

1) Do allow yourself plenty of time for your trip. This being summer, you will find your progress impeded both by road construction and the one Spaniard in the entire country who drives 15 kilometres under the speed limit on the single no-passing lane hairpin roads to the Jerez area.

2) Do try to time your visit with a group of Dutch tourists. Sherry consumption is not a part of their cultural genetics and they will either refrain from drinking altogether or have a sip or two out of politeness, leaving several full bottles for your enjoyment. Never visit a bodega with Brits.

3) Do pay attention to the how-sherry-is-made video as the tour guides at Osborne will quiz you during the tour. As we had ignored Rule #1 and arrived late - half-way through the video - we missed the final Jeopardy(!) question which would be later posed to us. But so did everyone else and they had seen the entire video. Being Veterans of the Bodega Tour Experience, we naturally knew the answer but were reluctant to flaunt the depth of our knowledge at the expense of the others on the tour. After a very uncomfortable and very pregnant pause of about 55 seconds, we piped up with the correct answer, earning us paeans of praise from our guide and filthy looks from the Dutch ~~who I thought were supposed to be nice people~~. In any case, it would be exceptionally useful to memorize the following terms before you embark on a tour at Osborne as these are the most likely correct responses to any final Jeopardy(!) question posed by a guide.

* flor
* chalk
* humidity
* palomino
* soleras
* North American oak
* canoa

Don't worry that you don't even know what these terms signify or that you may blurt out the incorrect answer - you will impress your guide with your retention of this extensive and highly technical sherry vocabulary.

4) Do eat breakfast beforehand if your tour is in the morning. At Osborne, the English-language tour is at the ungodly hour of 10:30 so there is the very real possibility that - like Señor G.G. and I - you will be three sheets to the wind by 11:30 a.m. Especially if you have followed Rule #2.

5) Don't panic if you skipped Rule #4. If you are unable to have breakfast before attending a tour and you find yourself three sheets to the wind by 11:30 a.m., know that the chips and olives provided by the bodega are an excellent source of protein and easily fulfils your daily requirements of vitamins and minerals.

6) Do leave all politeness at the door. You are expected to refill your glass and encouraged to crack the seal on unopened bottles left on the table. Don't be shy - just because the tour guide has slipped out to have a cigarette doesn't mean that the sampling has ended. Odds are you will be berated if she returns to full bottles. We were.

7) Do realize that Rule #8 is predicated on adherence to Rule #6. Which leads me to ...

8) Do prepare to mortgage your house before entering the gift shop. This is especially true if you have followed Rule #5. It's astounding what you suddenly realize you can't live without after a bracing breakfast of potato chips, olives, and the better part of five bottles of sherry. Who doesn't need a bottle of Solera Gran Reserva designed by Salvador Dalí or an umbrella splattered with dozens of Osborne bulls?

9) Do have your photo taken with a bull. Since clambering up the sides of the AP-series of highways just to have your picture taken with an Osborne bull can be a bit foolhardy and besides, you are probably three sheets to the wind, you should take advantage of the smaller stationary bulls in the bodega's courtyard. Your mother will thank you.

10) Do realize that your day is now shot. If you have taken a morning tour, by the time you have finished, sampled every available bottle, and spent your children's inheritance in the gift shop, everything in town will be on the verge of closing for the siesta. Since you are already three sheets to the wind and there is nothing you can do about Time, you might as well find a bar and patiently wait it out until 5:00.

Strict adherence to these 10 Simple Rules will guarantee a worry-free and happily sodden visit to any of Spain's bodegas. Of course, I will be happy to make any necessary amendments after completing the Sherry Triangle with our next road trip to Sanlúcar de Barrameda. It is truly gratifying to be helpful. In fact, I feel so good about compiling this list that I can ~~totally~~ almost deal with the Catholic guilt of skipping work on Friday. Perhaps I should buy a plenary indulgence from the Church - isn't that what they're there for? Or better yet, just open that bottle of Solera Gran Reserva designed by Salvador Dalí. After all, Spain is a secular country.

Squirrelly Thoughts

2008-06-03T19:04:00.015+02:00

They can be a high level imperative/OO programming computer language or a common rodent. Among the latter - because I know zippo about scripting tools - they have names like Fox and Douglas, American Red and Eastern Grey. They come in red and grey, black and albino. They Some fly although most don't. A very famous one comes from Frostbite Falls although most don't. They are omnivores but cannot digest cellulose. Their brains are the size of a walnut which is interesting because they eat walnuts. Until 1975, they appeared in The Joy of Cooking.

And they now appear in the window of a local pet store.

Yes, it seems that squirrels - and chipmunks - are among La Línea's pet of choice. The squirrels in question are of the red variety which is good news for kids since The Joy of Cooking suggests that red squirrels taste quite gamey and should be passed over in favour of grey squirrels, so there's no fear that Mr. Nutty's cage will be culled near dinner time.

Chipmunks apparently taste rather nasty.

I confess that I can't quite get my head around this one. Perhaps denizens of whichever country(ies) hedgehogs call home felt the same thing when those spiny little creatures became all the rage in North America.

But squirrels? Chipmunks? How much fun can they be? Do they purr? Do they fetch? Beyond teaching them to eat out of your hand - which even my goldfish learned to do (and they played chase and hide & seek) - the best you can expect is to have the power lines in your backyard chewed to bits.

Of course, I'm just wilfully contrary because a squirrel that I once tried to tame bit me - this after my mother told me to stay away from it. She was right. My hand hurt. And I didn't have the nerve to tell her and I spent weeks feverishly vigilant for signs of rabies. Fortunately, irritability, bizarre thoughts, and abnormal postures are among its symptoms so my parents were none the wiser.

Presumably the fellows in the pet store window don't have rabies, and in their honour I raise my voice in song:

How much is that ~~doggie~~ rodent in the window? ~~(arf! arf!)~~ (squeak! squeak!)
The one with the ~~waggley~~ bushy tail
How much is that ~~doggie~~ rodent in the window? ~~(arf! arf!)~~ (squeak! squeak!)
I do hope that ~~doggie's~~ rodent 's for sale

Not.

Two for the Bulls

2008-05-29T12:02:00.020+02:00

What better way to honour the memory of a saint - in this instance, San Isidro, than to ritually torture and kill a couple of hundred bulls? After all, San Isidro is the saint of agriculture and animals, and what farmer wouldn't want a couple of hundred bulls to be ritually tortured and killed in his name? I used to have an aquarium and it always amazed me that no one ever harpooned a sperm whale for the glory of Me. Not once.

A madrileño and not surprisingly Madrid's patron saint, San Isidro was often chastised by his coworkers for eschewing his plowing duties in favour of attending daily mass. One day, his master - intent on catching him off the job - found angels plowing the fields in his place. Or possibly found an angel plowing with him - it's all very confusing. People were so slipshod when it came to accurately recording the lives of peasants in the 11th century.

The performer of graveside miracles and cures, his body remains - miraculously, because he is a saint after all - incorruptible. And just because he was such a swell guy, the most internationally recognized "celebration" - 30 ~~fun-~~blood-filled days of ~~bullfighting~~ bull-killing - is celebrated in Madrid in his name. Like now.

This week, two bulls weighed in with their opinion on the why-should-we-have-to-die-to-extol-the-virtues-of-a-dead-farmer question - an opinion they best expressed by goring two ~~bullfighters~~ bull-killers. On Sunday, 59-year old ~~bullfighting~~ bull-killer veteran Carlos Escolar Frascuelo - who perhaps should be passing his golden years gardening - was gored by his first bull, Toro "the Fair" (yes, I made that up). And by severe goring I mean a 20-centimetre tear in each thigh and several crushed vertebrae.

On Monday, the banderillero El Ruso - the one who preps the bull for the ~~matador~~ bull-killers by ramming "decorative" metal spikes (banderillas) into its neck and shoulders - received 15- and 20-centimetre rips to the anus and a broken coccyx from his bull, Toro "the Righteous" (yes, I made that up). That's him in all his glory on the left. Guess he'll be reducing his intake of roughage over the next few weeks.

Too bad, instead of torturing and killing bulls, Madrid doesn't hold medieval swap meets and mechanical displays like they do in the Canary Islands during the fiestas of San Isidro. Perhaps that's for the next generation to fix. In the meantime ... Toro "the Fair" and Toro "the Righteous", I salute you. Job well done. Too bad you're not around to enjoy your accolades. .

Human Rights Abuses? Really?

2008-05-28T15:57:00.005+02:00

The Hola-Land has been suspended by Amnesty International in its annual report, saying that human rights are not respected here. Really? Not respected? How so? you ask.

Reports of human rights violations by law enforcement officers and subsequent impunity continued to be widespread.

Well, AI makes note of the plight of illegal immigrants in Spain.

The report highlights the use of restraining belts in the transfer of immigrants here, and mentions the case of the Nigerian, Osamuyia Akpitake who died from asphyxiation last June on a flight taking him back to Lagos, and when accompanied by two Spanish immigration agents.

... and also cites the resurrection of really nasty activities perpetrated by the ETA.

AI highlights the ill-treatment in some cases of immigrant women, and also notes in its annual report the resumption of terrorist activity on the part of Basque Terrorists ETA.

... and throws in the torture of those ETA suspects detained in custody. Oh - and it mentions the high level of spousal abuse here and violence against women in general and immigrant women in particular.

The report also attacks the high levels of domestic violence in Spain, noting that 71 women died at the hands of their partners here last year, and that 48 of the victims were foreigners.

... and that the law passed last winter which addressed reparation to the victims of Francoism and the 1936-39 civil war and for the victims of gross human rights violations were laudatory but fell short of the mark.

The good news is that life expectancy in Spain has been set at 80 1/2 years. Presumably not for immigrants, asylum-seekers and women.

La Gatita Gringa With a Whip

2008-05-26T13:28:00.026+02:00

This past weekend - as ~~Señor Gato Gringo and I and most other~~ movie ~~geeks~~ enthusiasts can tell you - the newly released and humongously anticipated Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull opened, raking in some $269 million worldwide.

Of that $269 million, I would estimate that $316.87 - and it's possible that I'm being generous - came from Gibraltar alone. How do I know? you ask. I was there.

Yes, movie ~~geeks~~ enthusiasts that we are, Señor Gato Gringo and I went to have our Indy fix in Gibraltar on Friday. And by Friday, I mean The Very First Showing on Opening Day. This would be our first experience of cinema-going in Gib and we were not a little excited. Or since Señor G.G. hates double negatives, we were really excited.

But more than that, we were concerned about line-ups. This, after all was Friday. And by Friday, I mean The Very First Showing on Opening Day. The movie started at 5:30 and the box office opened at 4:45 - how early should we be in line? One o'clock? One thirty? Both of us - Initiated Adepts in the arcane arts of lining up for Indiana Jones movies for The Very First Showing on Opening Day - have spent many an hour in queues that coiled and slithered around long city blocks. We decided to take up positions on our hotel balcony - a room having been reserved for that very purpose - open a beer and watch.

The afternoon wore by sluggishly and from our vantage point at the Rock hotel we drank and from time to time, checked the line-up forming below. But there was no no line-up forming below. We checked our watches. Two thirty, three o'clock .... We leaned over the railing and saw ... no one. Was this not The Very First Showing on Opening Day? (It was.) Was this not Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull? (It was.) Has it not been 19 freaking years since the last Indy film? (It has.) Was not the Queen's Cinema the only venue in town? (It was.) Was not the Queen's Cinema the only venue this side of Málaga? (It was.)

Where was everyone? To paraphrase (and really, I just changed the verb tense) Indiana Jones and Han Solo, I had a bad feeling about this.

Finally, shortly before 4:45, Señor G.G. and I left the alcohol-imbued comfort of our balcony and walked down the hill to the theatre before which stood one other movie-goer. The doors were locked - laying to rest any rumours that the box office opened at 4:45 - and there was no sign of life from within. To kill time we walked around the block where by rights a queue of movie-goers should have been coiling and slithering. Three minutes later we were sitting on the curb, waiting. Around 5:00, a car pulled over, expelling what appeared to be the cinema's manager. She opened the door and the sole other movie-goer slipped in behind her. He was the usher. We were now alone.

But not for long. Huzzah! Within moments - for clearly, our bona fide movie-going companions had been hiding in the bushes awaiting the arrival of the cinema's manager - the theatre opened to a queue of 12 movie-goers coiling and slithering in front of the the cinema. We purchased our tickets from a tiny exterior window about 1 meter from the ground causing Señor G.G. to herniate a disc in the process and entered the lobby where I began my pursuit for popcorn.

There was no popcorn. Well, there was but it wasn't real popcorn. It was a bag of pre-packaged caramel corn. And not very caramelly. It's not like I was expecting a glass of Amstel beer like you can get in the movie theatres in Madrid (although that would have been nice) but I did rather have my heart set on a gi-normous box of salted popcorn. And a separate box for Señor G.G..

By show time, there were at least two dozen movie-goers sitting with us on the main floor and a gaggle of ~~Barbary apes~~ kids in the balcony. By show time, the gaggle of ~~Barbary apes~~ kids who should have been sitting in the balcony were still rollerblading up and down the aisle of the main floor. By show-time my bag of pre-packaged caramel corn had been history for the better part of a quarter of an hour. By show time, I didn't care because the film was about to start because, in spite of everything, it was still The Very First Showing on Opening Day and this was Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.

That's how I know that $316.87 - and it's possible that I'm being generous - of the worldwide $269 million take this weekend came from Gibraltar. How do I know? you ask. I was there. As were another 31 people and a few Barbary apes.

Hell Freezes Over

2008-05-22T10:34:00.006+02:00

... or with a more positive spin, perhaps there is a god after all.

Yes, Baila El Chiki Chiki is in the Eurovision Song Contest finals. Señor Gato Gringo and I can hardly contain our excitement. Needless to say, when Saturday evening rolls around, you know where we'll be: glued to our seats ~~watching Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull in Gib~~ in front of our television set.

We are ~~smugly~~ confident that Rodolfo's chances of winning are excellent. How can you not love any song with lyrics:

"my mulatta dances it (El Chiki Chiki) with her panties in her hand..."

After all, if Abba can win why not him?

¡Perrea! ¡Perrea!

Time and Flamenco Wait for No Man

2008-05-20T11:27:00.023+02:00

It is a scientific fact that Spaniards have internal clocks that run on some whacked out Iberian quartz crystals that cannot be found in North America. This is not necessarily a bad thing but it is a force to be reckoned with if you are one of those time-constricted/restricted anal butt-clenching clock-watchers who like meetings and people to be punctual and for things to happen in a timely manner. Like me.

The reality is that quite simply, things tend to happen late here. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. And we try. We try hard. We try not to get too freaked out that dinner hour here in most restaurants is closer to 9:30 p.m. than 6. And even then you may be the only people in the restaurant. Yup - breakfast, lunch, dinner, and flamenco.

Flamenco? Sí. A few weeks ago Señor Gato Gringo and I, in an effort to experience something of Andalucían culture which did not come in a bottle, went to a flamenco festival in honour of virtuoso flamenco guitarist Quino (Cinchona) Román here in La Línea. We bought our tickets well over a week in advance and were told that these were the last tickets. That didn't auger well. I made a mental note to bring my glasses.

The show was slated to begin at 10:00 - so the poster had assured us - but remarkably when 10:00 came and we were still on our way to the concert hall, we were neither concerned or frantic. Had we finally kicked the Spanish time gremlin? A little after 10:00, we arrived at the Palacio de Congresos and joined the several hundred people still milling about the bar - a bar, I might add that served beer for a euro. That I was able to extricate Señor G.G. from the bar was, in itself, a minor miracle.

Eventually, an Official Looking Woman advised us all to finish our drinks and take our seats. Señor G.G. and I, oxygen tanks in tow, began the long labourious ascent to our seats ~~on top of Mount Everest~~ in the final row of the theatre. Shortly after 10:30, Román took his seat on stage and played. Olés were tossed at his feet like roses from the audience.

Román quietly slipped away and a Long Winded Man took the stage and haltingly read something from a 25-page document which, although completely incomprehensible to us, even made the locals fidget in their seats. He rolled up his prodigious scroll and people applauded politely.

During the course of the evening and early morning, we would be plagued with more recitations from the Long Winded Man - and what may have been an awards ceremony, we're not really sure - but there would be other artists: singers who often erupted into bursts of spontaneous dance and musicians - my favourite of which are the box (cajón) players. I believe they are called "boxists" (I made that up - they are actually called cajónistas which means "boxists") and represent the only musical instrument I could probably master - although the constant threat of splinters turns me off of it somewhat.

For the record, a serious "boxist" (not me) can actually buy a Flamenco Percussion Box for several hundred euros. From our ~~snow-capped~~ seats ~~on top of Mount Everest~~ in the final row of the theatre, they looked like orange crates. I suspect that the first musicians to start thumping a box didn't have the luxury of choosing between beech and walnut wood for their instruments.

During the entire show, three enlarged photos of Ramon flickered across the screen on the stage. Three. One of which was a blow-up of his hand. I made a mental note to have a word with the producers after the show.

Time passed and we were enthralled/electrified/enraptured by the evening's frenetic soleás, alegrías, bulerías, and fandangos. Señor G.G. and I even tossed out a few olés and remarkably, we didn't feel like complete knobs in the process. Boxes were thumped, hands clapped, feet stomped, guitars strummed, and pudgy men in sombre suits sprang from their chairs and danced a contortionist's St. Vitus day dance with flowing handkerchiefs in hand.

Then the lights came on.

Was it over? - everyone was getting up. Where were the dancers? There were supposed to be dancers - so the poster had assured us. We joined the several hundred people milling about the bar - a bar, I might add that served beer for a euro - where we came across a few colleagues. Was it over? we asked. No, no, they assured us. This is only the intermission. We looked at our watches. It was 1:30. Señor G.G and I were nursing nasty colds and we were exhausted. But we wanted to see the dancers. Really we did. But we were sick. And we were oh so tired.

Reader, we caved. Any credibility we gained with our unrestrained olés vanished the moment we left the Palacio and beetled on home. Spanish time had once again bested us.

The concert ended at 4:30 a.m. We suspect that we missed a very great deal.

ETA = Death

2008-05-15T15:46:00.012+02:00

In the wee hours of yesterday morning, a Citroen was parked outside the Civil Guard barracks at Legutiano, Álava. Inside the barracks were 40 people. Inside the van was a bomb which would kill one Civil Guard and injure four others. The terrorists behind this killing - 2 members of the ETA - escaped into the pre-dawn darkness.

No warning was given for the impending attack.

This morning, the funeral was held for husband and father of one, 41-year old José Manuel Piñuel. He had just been stationed in the Basque region two months ago.

I hate pinheads. I especially hate pinheads with bombs. And blowing up young parents doesn't make pinhead ideology any more worthy. Or persuasive.

The Little Town That Isn't Much of Anything

2008-05-13T14:27:00.047+02:00

Historically, the not very picturesque town of La Línea de la Concepción (LLC), which is connected to Gib by the slimmest of umbilical cords (the eastern isthmus of the Bay of Gibraltar) has had its fair share of shit to deal with.

Almost 40 years ago, during his "siege" of the British colony, a particular Spanish dictator - whom I will call The Particularly Rotten Spanish dictator - closed the border between LLC and Gib which had the unarguably immediate effect of ruining the town. In the blink of an eye. Jobs, most of which were on the other end of the 1.6 kilometre-long isthmus, were unaccessible and consequently, one third of the population vanished overnight.

In 1975, the Particularly Rotten Spanish dictator ~~finally~~ died and was buried in a tomb built by a convict labour force of 20,000 Republican prisoners. Half a dozen years later (mas o menos), the border was reopened and the daily comings and goings across the land spit resumed. Linenses (those from LLC) still cross over to buy cheap cigarettes and to fill up their tanks - but now the flow has reversed and Gibraltarians are making the trek to the mainland to find significantly cheaper housing, a lower cost of living and churro stands. Why are there no churro stands in Gib? Oh! - and to play an awful lot of golf. Perhaps that should have been number one.

The transplanting of Gibraltarians has had a rather ugly trickle down effect in LLC. Real estate prices have gone through the roof and many locals cannot afford to buy or rent apartments in their own town. The building boom which has violated the Costa del Sol has spread its noxious tentacles along the coast of La Costa de la Luz, leaving construction cranes and unaffordable and/or unfinished villas and housing estates in its wake. Prices are going up up up.

LLC is a fishing village whose population is now swelling but for whom there are few jobs. Some work along the rather ugly industrialized strip on the Bay of Algeciras; others have returned to the smuggling trade of many of their forebears: smuggling. Now the drug of choice is nicotine and LLC provides warehousing for cheap cigarettes coming out of Gib. The town is suffering from an economic schizophrenia: on the same street you can find luxury homes being slapped up and low-cost subsidized housing whose residents walk the streets and take the bus wearing slippers and housecoats. And ~~hopefully~~ presumably, pajamas underneath. Can't wait for the new villa owners to buy up and move in. That shouldn't be too tense.

Linenses are already feeling resentful. Little wonder.

The Powers That Be in the City Council are in a quandary. LLC needs money, investment, and visitors who spend money in-town. The problem is that no one wants to come to LLC - they want to go to Gib. And there is a logical reason for this: there is nothing to do or see in LLC; in fact, LLC is pretty much a parking lot for Gib. This is not so much LLC's fault - clearly the blame lies at the mouldering feet of The Particularly Rotten Spanish dictator who devastated the town with a misguided whim and the flourish of a pen.

So this past winter, the Powers That Be in the city council ordered that a garden/park be built - a Leafy Little Thing complete with statuary and a fountain and a peacock. Work began before I arrived in January and was finished just last month. Señor Gato Gringo and I have investigated this Leafy Little Thing and have put great thought into whether this Leafy Little Thing will help put LLC on the touristic map. Our thoughts ran in the direction of ~~definitely~~ probably not. Why?

The Statuary: generic almost to the point of unrecognizable Greek gods and goddesses? Please. I have a Classics degree and I can't even recognize who these statues are supposed to be. The Goddess of Ambiguity? The statues of the three flamenco dancers, the Gibraltar day-worker, and that of flamenco legend Camarón de la Isla we've seen around town tell us you can do much much better. Work on that. Better yet, just move those ones into the Leafy Little Thing. The God of Who-The-Hell-Am-I won't care.

The fountain: the fountain's prancing fluids - which spurt out of the mouths of two ceramic dolphins - only seem to prance on weekends. A non-prancing-fluid fountain is depressing. Turn the damn tap on.

The Indian Blue peacock: an excellent idea that, but perhaps two peacocks should have been acquired for the Leafy Little Thing rather than one. Better yet, a peahen. If the peacock and peahen get busy, and the resultant gazillion peafowl begin to overrun LLC, a petting pea-zoo would be a huge tourist draw. Who in their right mind would prefer (illegally) feeding thieving self-gratifying Macaque apes when they can pet a peafowl? Did I mention that the Resident Peacock seems a trifle lonely?

Now, Señor G.G. and I would like to offer a few words of advice to The Powers That Be in the City Council. If you want to make LLC a destination point rather than a parking lot for Gib, try
developing the waterfront. Especially developed ones. People like waterfronts. And putting up real estate kiosks along the esplanade doesn't count as developed. And open more churro stands. You can never have too many churro stands.

Olé!

2008-05-05T19:37:00.010+02:00

Spring is different things to different people. For e. e. cummings, it was a time when "the world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful." It's when, according to Tennyson that "a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love." For many of Spain's bulls, it is a time to die in very unpleasant circumstances.

~~Bullfighting~~ Bull-killing season is in full bloom. Posters for upcoming corridas are everywhere: shellacked to buildings, taped in store windows, stapled to notice boards. They are pasted onto placards which are dug deeply into the ground, and sprout from the ground like noxious weeds around traffic circles and near highway exit ramps.

The ~~matadors~~ bull-killers are here.

But on Saturday, there was an unwelcomed addition to the ~~bullfighting~~ bull-killing team at Madrid's Las Ventas bullring: animal rights protesters.

Olé!

Six most brave banner-waving anti-~~bullfighting~~ bull-killing protestors leapt into the ring protesting the ritualised torture and execution of Spain's bulls and then staged a brief sit-in in the centre of the killing field. By infiltrating the inner sanctum of the arena, animal activists have succeeded in upping the ante. Until last Saturday, protests have been confined to outside the rings. No more!

Olé!

Unfortunately that particular corrida's ~~matador~~ bull-killer could not be swayed by the tremendously persuasive arguments of those most brave of protesters, and gave voice to his position by grabbing the placards from their hands and ripping them up. Men in pink hose certainly can be intimidating. Naturally, they were booed by the crowd and then gently escorted out of the arena by security.

Those most brave of protesters, the men in tights and the gentle security guards can be viewed here.

Olé!

Presumably those most brave of protesters had no serious expectation of turning the tide of Spanish opinion vis-à-vis ~~bullfighting~~ bull-killing in one fell swoop. And by writing this post, neither do I. I would, however, add that ~~bullfighting~~ bull-killing officials have been known to not only stop the ears of the horses with cotton wool so they can't hear the shrieks of a bull in pain but also cut their vocal cords to prevent them from screaming with fear. That might upset the crowd who are there, after all, to see the courage of the matador tested.

cinco de mayo, schminco de mayo

2008-05-02T18:31:00.015+02:00

Or, Yes, I Can Read a Calendar

My, my - how time flies. It was just 200 years ago - 200 years today to be exact - that Spaniards decided that Napoleon Bonaparte's occupying forces had overstayed their welcome. After all, they had been there since the 3rd week of March, and you know what they say about houseguests and fish - how they both start to smell after 3 days ...

So, 200 years ago - 200 years today to be exact - poorly-armed Madrileños took to the streets in order to ask the occupying army to leave por favor. Several hundred dead Madrileños later, the French regained control. On the following day - not today - when cooler heads prevailed, the French ~~retaliated~~ established a commision to deal with the uprising and summarily executed anyone who had been unfortunate enough to be captured bearing any kind of weapon. One can only imagine that the definition of 'weapon' was fairly loose if not completely arbitrary. Potato peelers were probably included.

Hundreds of Madrileños who were fortunate enough not to be killed in the May 2nd rebellion were executed on May 3rd.

Much of what we know - at least visually - about the Dos de Mayo Uprising is due to the efforts of Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes. Or Goya as he is known to history. And although by rights I should be illustrating this post with El dos de mayo de 1808 en Madrid, I have instead chosen El tres de mayo de 1808 en Madrid, only because ~~I like it better~~ when I finally saw this painting in the flesh (or oil & canvas, depending on your perspective), I stared at it for 26 minutes, ingesting its palpable fear and trying not to throw up on the parquet floor of the Prado. And since I have the attention span of a mayfly and a questionable digestive system, that's no mean feat.

So, 200 years - 200 years today to be exact - after the uprising (whose commemorative painting I have elected not to show you), Madrid is on holiday. And how best to honour the memories of the May 2nd rebels and the man who chronicled their fates? If the re-enactments, exhibitions, dance, street theatre and the giant puzzle depicting the events of May 3 aren't enough - and apparently they're not - there's what I like to call 'Goya On Parade'. At 6:00 this evening, six of Goya's cuadros or paintings were 'received' by Madrid's mayor Alberto Ruiz-Gallardón from the Prado and then distributed them by caravan throughout the city. Among the 6 were both El Dos and El tres de mayo de 1808 en Madrid.

For some reason, Goya's Burial of the Sardine wasn't included. Pity. I'm rather fond of that one.

And as much as I love living in Andalucía, I would give my eye teeth to be in Madrid right now. Somehow watching Goya sailing along the streets of Madrid on the evening news just didn't cut it. But being here in the south does have its perks. I did buy a new pair of flip-flops today. They have little fabric roses and sequins. I have great faith that if Goya had seen them, he would have asked me - or at least my feet - to sit for a portrait. But without the firing squad.

How to Eat a Toasted Bread Product in Spain

2008-04-28T14:10:00.012+02:00

Firstly, let me be very clear on this point. I do not hate forks ...

You step into a café, bar or restaurant and order tostada, a plate of toast. And because you are in Spain - a necessary part of this narrative - and it is breakfast time, you will probably order a coffee and/or a caña of beer and/or a glass of brandy as well. Because nothing - nothing - goes better with a slice of buttered toast than a crisp lager. And yes, Señor Gato Gringo and I speak from experience.

But because you are in Spain - a necessary part of this narrative - the waiter of the café, bar or restaurant where you have ordered your toast will bring to your table a plate with either 2 slices of toasted bread or 2 halves of a large, often hard toasted bread roll. Sometimes you will be asked if you want the former, pan de molde (or mouldy bread, as Señor G.G. ~~rather puerilely~~ calls it), a croissant, or tostada - a toasted bread roll or a baguette or whatever bread product is on hand. If you are not asked to specify your request - which is the norm - then that is a sign that you will get whatever bread product they have on hand. (And 99.9% of the time - if you have asked for jam, or mermelada - it will be peach. Do not bother asking for any other flavour. Hopefully, you like peach.) But whether your bread looks like Wonder Bread or a smallish football, it is always served with a knife and fork.

A fork?

Yes, a fork. The knife I get - there's that troublesomely ubiquitous peach jam to contend with or, if you've gone native, olive oil and puréed tomato. But a fork? Yes, for this is how to eat a toasted bread product in Spain.

Everyone agrees that some things - namely, prepared foods - are best eaten without forks. It is commonly accepted that you may eat barbecue chicken and pizza with your fingers and, of course, if you eat finger foods with utensils you'll look like a bit of a knob. Everything else, as they don't say - but imply - can be termed as knife-and-fork foods. Which would include toast. I confess that when my breakfast is nothing but a distant memory of crumbs and globs of oily tomato, my useless-as-tits-on-a-bull fork is still untouched.

It should not come as a surprise then that ...

"... Italy and Spain led the world in the adoption of forks. Initially, the French considered forks foppish, but later they co-opted the instrument and became quite vociferous about the varying flavors that different metals could lend to fish, fruit and salads. Thomas Doryat, an Englishman, adopted the fork in 1611, at least for carving, 'seeing all men's fingers are not alike cleane,' cleanliness and consideration of others being recurring themes in the drama of table manners."

But while I'll acknowledge that Spain comes by this fork-mania honestly, I still refuse to cut my toast into little pieces, spear a square with my fork and feed myself like an invalid. It's simply not going to happen.

Yesterday, Señor G.G and I spent the afternoon in the ~~leisurely~~ arduous pursuit of doing absolutely nothing, and we capped off our labours by indulging in a 5-star culinary feast of cheese sandwiches and cañas of beer at one of La Linéa's ~~gazillion~~ nine Okay pastelerias bakeries. Lo and behold! - we didn't receive a plain-jane bocadillo de queso (cheese on a baguette) but honest-to-goodness greasy grilled cheese sandwiches. Honest-to-goodness greasy grilled cheese sandwiches like Mom used to make (although I don't know if they used the bottom of the tea kettle to flatten them out like she did). And low and behold! - we were served them with a knife and fork (see photo above).

This is what we learned: sometimes a bocadillo is not a baguette with cheese but an honest-to-goodness greasy grilled cheese sandwich (- the corollary of which is that honest-to-goodness greasy grilled cheese sandwiches actually exist in Spain). Secondly, that lunch - at least at the nine Okay pastelerias in La Linéa - are no longer safe from fork-shunners like us. If there is a fork out there - and it is - it will find you.

An Andalucían Haiku: Requiem for a Mosquito(written at 5 a.m. this morning)

2008-04-24T13:11:00.012+02:00

Drone, drone, drone!

Vile thing flew through our window;
Took away my sleep.

Drone, drone, drone!
I have to work tomorrow.
Don't you ever sleep?

Drone, drone, drone!
Thwack! My slipper hits the wall.
Now you're just a stain.

Cheeky-Cheeky

2008-04-22T12:50:00.026+02:00

There are some things - and some people - in life that defy logic. A case in point is Rodolfo Chikilicuatre, the foxy cantante you see to the left. Or more accurately, a case in point is the character of Rodolfo Chikilicuatre created by Spanish comedian David Fernández Ortiz.

Among his other talents, Ortiz is credited with the invention of the vibrator-guitar. I have no clue what that is exactly.

It is pretty much impossible to watch TV here for more than 22 minutes without seeing his smooth moves grace the screen. "Rodolfo" has become a household name in Spain after he performed a little ditty called the Baila el Chiki-Chiki (Dance the Chiki-Chiki) on a Spanish late night television show. The appeal of the song - a politically-charged parody of reggaeton, a Latin American type of urban music - is astounding on several levels. First of all, look at him. Now wait until you hear the song. The host of the late night show - so smitten with the song - nominated it for Spain's official entry for the Eurovision Song Contest 2008 which will be held in the 3rd week of May.

Unlike other countries, Spain attempted to level the playing field for Eurovision hopefuls this year by creating a MySpace page from which anyone could vote for their favourite song. The site logged in over 8 million hits and rather inexplicably Baila el Chiki-Chiki bitch-slapped the other 530 entries, winning hands down.

It's status as official Eurovision entry has caused a bit of a scandal in these parts - highbrows in the music biz are ~~rightfully~~ appalled that such a gimicky song could beat out presumably more worthy selections. Compared to the Macarena - and people have drawn comparisons - the Chiki-Chiki is downright cerebral. It is a veritable Bach chorale. But Spain has voted and the Chiki-Chiki it is. To make it more palatable to the Eurovision judges, some contentious and obscure allusions - to the King, for example and the Prime Minister - were removed and replaced with references to Javier Bardem, Antonio Banderas, and Pedro Almodóvar.

The Baila el Chiki-Chiki is currently the number 1 downloaded song in Spain.

Now remember when I said that some things defy logic? I invite you to experience the song here (with English subtitles and partly in English) or here (the extended official Eurovision entry). Truly you have to watch the video to get the full effect.

The greatest shame in this of course, is that I can't stop singing the freaking thing - or the few Spanish words of it I know and/or understand. Odds are that if I don't stop walking around the house singing "Baila el chikichiki, baila el chikichiki", Chris will call an attorney who specializes in divorce. Having said that, I have no doubt in my mind that you'll be doing el brikindans (breakdancing) or the maiquelyason (the Michael Jackson) in no time at all. Of course I'm just saying that so I won't feel like such a loser.

Going Apeshit

2008-04-17T13:24:00.016+02:00

I don't much like monkeys. And by monkey, I mean anything that even remotely looks like one, so that would include apes, chimps, Mandrills, gibbons, Jerry Lewis and the Olson twins. A few weeks ago I vented my spleen against the thieving little self-gratifiers in Gib and during the passing of those few weeks my opinion hasn't changed much. I still hate them.

Having said that, I don't want to see them dead either.

Dead? you ask. Indeed. Gib's government has just announced its intention to "cull" about 25 of Gibraltar's barbary apes which have made their home on the east side of the rock at Catalan Bay. Homeowners in Catalan Bay, which is seeing a flurry of building activity (namely villas in the half a million pound range) are none too pleased to see the thieving little self-gratifiers in their backyards. And on their terraces. And rummaging through their garbage cans.

Homeowners are probably thrilled to bits but others are not so happy. Conservationists, including the International Primate Protection League (IPPL), have been noticeably vocal in their condemnation of the ape-genocide. Killing the apes will not solve the problem of population mismanagement. As primatologist Robert Martin - who boycotted the last cull in 2003 - says in regard to the current situation: "It is quite disgraceful that, despite receiving sound advice in 1997, the people in charge of the macaques have taken no effective action to manage the population in a way that would benefit all concerned."

While I don't doubt that the thieving little self-gratifiers are a humongous pain in the ass - scrounging through garbage, entering & ransacking hotel rooms, and biting those who venture too close to them, and just being butt-ugly - putting the lot down seems a bit extreme. And will Gib's gunslingers stop there? Slippery slope, my friend!

An online petition has been created by the IPPL to draw the public's attention to this crise des apes. Should you want to help save the thieving little self-gratifiers, click here. They will undoubtedly thank you ... long enough to distract you from that picnic basket you're carrying.

Those "Other" Beached Whales

2008-04-15T13:32:00.024+02:00

The other day, in a ~~not very~~ rare moment of snarkdom, Señor Gatito Gringo pointed out a rather flabby, flaccid and pasty individual on the beach at Catalan Bay and mumbled to me, "Look! A beached whale." After I averted my eyes from the blinding glare, I put on my sunglasses and saw that Señor G.G. was in fact correct. Flabby, flaccid and pasty, he was spread out on the sand for all to ~~recoil in horror~~ admire, soaking up every degree of the day's soaring temperature.

He was not a pretty sight.

Now, I have a certain amount of sympathy for the Beached Whales (BW's) we see shored up along Andalucía's coastline - although I do wish that those BW's whose body mass index exceeds 25 kg/m2 would refrain from sunbathing topless or strutting about in speedos. There is enough gratuitous evil in this world as it is. Like me, many of these BW's are escaping winter or winter-like climes and just want to experience more than 6 hours of sunlight a day and feel the sun penetrating their skins. After all, that's why I came to Spain. And after all, that's why I left Madrid for the Costa de la Luz.

But the reality is that these BW's - many of whom have snatched up relatively cheap real estate in the south - have become a bit of a liability on the Spanish health care system. These "residential tourists", as they are now called, account for 33% of the skin cancer operations conducted in the Costa del Sol alone. Mostly Brits and Germans, they are more prone to the sun's harmful rays because of their age, lifestyle and their natural fair skins (i.e., flabby, flaccid and pasty) and a natural propensity for eating sausage. (I lied about the last one - that would be colorectal cancer).

Truth be told, I am a wee bit jealous. I don't wish myself skin cancer of course (because I don't)but I often wonder what it would be like to enjoy the BW-lifestyle: owning a fabulous townhouse or villa unaffordable back home, being able to draw on your pensions far removed from any snowblowers or salt trucks, lying on the beach or on one's private terrace all day until you have to meet other BW-expats at the club for drinks, a few rounds of golf, having jars of marmite flown into Spain, never having to learn the native language ...

Of course the downside includes looking like a veritable beached whale until one develops that orangey-yellow crusty hide that passes for a "healthy" tan among BW-expats. And incurring the resentment of the locals who can't possibly afford the homes they're building at break-neck speed. And incurring the resentment of the locals because the extent of one's Spanish is hola and gracias. And incurring the resentment of the locals for having driven up the cost of health care because you have developed skin cancer.

Perhaps there's a happy medium in all of this. If I promise not to microwave myself so that I look like a desiccated tangerine, promise to work on my Spanish (I already have a vocabulary of plus 2 words), and forego the membership at the marina, can I have the townhouse?

A Beer by Any Other Name ...

2008-04-07T19:22:00.024+02:00

Imagine you have a brewery (I now have Señor Gato Gringo's attention) and your master brewer has just developed a new beer. Maybe it's a lager, maybe it's an ale. And arguably the only thing better than drinking your new beer - assuming it isn't totally crap - is christening it. For surely naming a beer is tantamount to naming your child - although arguably, if you give your child a crap name (like Enid or Troy), s/he can change it later on. But for weal or woe, your beer is stuck with it.

The Beerosphere is awash with fabulously bizarre beer names. Dead Guy Ale, Alimony Ale, Mort Subite (Sudden Death), Snowblower Ale, Seriously Bad Elf, Moose Drool and Arrogant Bastard all promise to quench the seeker's thirst with varying degrees of success (and good taste).

My favourite beer name is Mezquita - mezquita being Spanish for mosque - brewed by the Grupo Cervezas Alhambra. The unofficial official story is that the brewery, based in Granada, came up with the name in homage to its neighbouring city of Córdoba. At least that's one version.

One can't help but wonder if it was an agent provocateur of sorts to Spain's Muslim community. A community that has strong historical ties to Andalucía in so much as Moors from North Africa had invaded the region and ruled here on again/off again (although mainly on) for almost 800 years. And Córdoba was its jewel in the crown. Surpassing those poseurs Cairo and Baghdad in its scientific innovations, education, arts, and culture, Córdoba was the first city in the world to boast indoor plumbing and street lights.

In 997, Moorish ruler Mohammed ibn Abu-Amir al-Mansur led a raiding party as far north as Santiago de Compostela. After his horse drank holy water from the church fountain, al-Mansur ordered that the church's bells be strapped to the backs of those Christians unlucky enough to be standing around with their thumbs up their asses and carry them back to Córdoba - a bracing 800 kilometre walk. Then he had the bells melted down to make lamps for the city's grand mosque.

A bit of a slap in the face.

But in 1236, Ferdinand III and his Christian forces retook the city. F-3 ordered that the mosque's lamps be strapped to the backs of those Muslims unlucky enough to be standing around with their thumbs up their asses and carry them back to Santiago de Compostela - a bracing 800 kilometre walk. Then he had the lamps melted down to make bells for the church.

A bit of a slap in the face.

So "Mosque" Beer ... a bit of a slap in the face? Hard not to think so. Naming a beer - even an amber beauty like Mezquita - after Islam's primary place of worship is a bit ...well ... cheeky. You can get away with stuff like that with the Catholic church. After all, monks were history's first master brewers and brewed the world's best beer. In one of Señor G.G.'s previous incarnations he was undoubtedly a Trappist Monk. A very happy one.

I don't know what Islam's response - official or unofficial - was to the brewing - or more accurately, the naming of Mezquita. I can't imagine that they were overly thrilled. But perhaps the best revenge is knowing that Islam has finally ousted Roman Catholicism as the largest religion in the world. Revenge, as they say, is a dish best served cold. And a glass of Mezquita is best served at 4-7 ºC.

Frosty Thoughts

2008-04-01T10:56:00.010+02:00

I have to remind myself that I need to cultivate tolerance. Yes, tolerance. Perhaps even some understanding ... dare I say compassion too? Tolerance and understanding and compassion. Tolerance and understanding and compassion for the poor souls whom I watched on their way to work this morning, all bundled up in their parkas, hats and scarves. They did look cold.

At 10:30 this morning, it was 21◦ C and will probably climb to about 26. Where I come from, that's not exactly winter outerwear weather and the Old Me - the one who has yet to begin cultivating tolerance and understanding and compassion - would probably make some snarky comment at the expense of those poor souls. Something along the lines of "cold enough for ya?" But not the New Me.

Because I know that if I were to spend next winter at home, all of my friends and family would delight in mocking me as I shiver through wind chills and snow storms and plummeting temperatures.

Oh. Except that it's not winter. It's spring. And it's 21 freaking degrees today and will probably climb to about 26. So much for the New Me.

Eine Klein Fernsehenmusik

2008-03-27T12:02:00.019+01:00

It's really too bad that the German word for television is Fernsehen rather than some variant of television, because Eine Klein Televisionmusik would have worked much much better than the one that the Germanic tongue hoisted upon me. But there it is. Eine Klein Fernsehenmusik. Intrigued? Didn't think so.

Nonetheless, since Señor Gato Gringo and I have been living in the south of Spain, enduring bone shattering winds and an apartment which can produce mould like that house in Amityville produces horrors, we have had unhindered recourse to our furnished apartment's television. Our flat in Madrid didn't have one - well it did, but it elected not to work and our landwhore elected not to replace it - so we went 6 months bereft of a box that showed moving pictures and spoke in many languages.

Now that we have access to a box that shows moving pictures and speaks in many languages - and by many I mean one and one-eighth as Gib TV rarely honours us with a tolerable reception - we watch it. And the operative word is watch rather than listen, or better yet, comprehend because at any given time - save for when Gib TV honours us with a tolerable reception - our programming is all in Spanish, a language that we at best can rarely barely hardly and - if we're really lucky and they speak slowly - kind of understand. It is exhausting watching television with a dictionary in hand.

Spanish television is curious for a number of reasons. It's not just our one and only video station which on the stroke of midnight turns into a hardcore multiple-partnered multi-orificed porn channel - although the first time the clock hit twelve it did cause for some frenzied grabbing of the remote control. Like TV everywhere, the days and nights are littered with talk shows, insipid game shows, American sitcoms (dubbed), Spanish sitcoms (not dubbed), soaps & serials and endless news programmes: soft (with cooking segments and tricks around the house) and hard (with news). I was going to say soft and hard just like the porn but thus far, the porn has been anything but soft.

But the curious thing? you ask. It's the music. With the exception of the news (hard), producers here feel it incumbent upon themselves to put a musical soundtrack to everything. And when I say everything, I mean everything. For example, on España Directo, a soft news programme on TVE1, you can be as sure as God made little green apples that an animal story will be accompanied by the Tokens' The Lion Sleeps Tonight and just about any human interest story will either feature REM's Shiny Happy People (if it's really upbeat) or the Proclaimers' I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles) (if there's a family reunion) or Henry Mancini's Baby Elephant Walk (if it's really banal).

Nor have television commercials been spared by these inane soundtracks. There is the store here in La Linea which sells frozen prepared foods - frozen prepared foods made more enticing by Kansas' Dust in the Wind. Or the commercial for recycling accompanied by Coldplay. I know that Coldplay always makes me want to separate my plastics from my corrugated cardboard. Of course the recycling ad in question has nothing to do with separating waste but what time of the day you're allowed to throw your garbage into the bins.

It's all so annoying, especially since this background music is usually played at a volume which almost completely drowns out the individual(s) speaking and may be causing permanent damage to my eardrums. Chronic hearing loss notwithstanding, this is a problem for linguatards like me who have to watch TV with a Spanish-English dictionary in hand. So any given evening when we're watching the news (soft) or checking out the local ads, you can be as sure as God made little green apples that either Señor GG or I will be be flipping furiously through our dictionary saying Damn it! - what did he say? Was that pera or perro? But fortunately because this is a cooking show and because this is Madrid rather than Beijing, it's usually pear rather than dog.

And just in case you can't remember Henry Mancini's Baby Elephant Walk, here it is in all of its trunk-trumpeting glory. Be forewarned that you'll be humming it for the next 5 days straight.

(I warned you)

Tears & Toros: An Easter Retrospective

2008-03-25T13:56:00.026+01:00

It's over. Not unlike the elation-cum-relief experienced at the conclusion of those Ramadans Past, I am also sorely tempted to hum a few bars of Roy Orbison's It's Over. Only it's not Ramadan, it's Easter. Clearly not the same thing but in many ways similar enough.

I am pointy-hatted out. No more coneheads. No more pasos (processions). No more mournful dirge-like saetas. No more wailing and flailing. No more, no more ...

And I for one say yippee!

I think, in retrospect, it was the tears that did me in. The weeping of the faithful as trono after trono of doleful virgins and bleeding Jesuses passed by? The old ladies crying because that's what they do best during the pasos? The scared shitless kids? Nooooooo ... it was the tears of the costaleros - the "sack men" who carry the floats - upon learning that their processions were to be cancelled. You see, it rained much of last week. And although it's perfectly acceptable to "walk" a procession on your knees or in bare feet, it just won't do to get wet.

In all of Semana Santa, we had 2 dry days. Which meant for a lot of rain delays which turned into cancellations. And the most visibly affected were those float-carrying costaleros. They unabashedly wept like babies and in huge numbers. Imagine roomfuls of sobbing sack men. Now I appreciate the fact that to carry a trono is a tremendous honour and that these men put a lot of stock and hours of training and hard work into carrying them. But to see them weep and gnash their teeth ... well, that's just disturbing. Get a grip: there's always next year.

Mother Nature:1; Costaleros: 0.

So how to console oneself after nature cruelly washes away your moment of glory with a few torrential rainfalls and winds up to 70 km/hour? You can watch last year's Semana Santa processions which were televised every freaking night it rained but chances are if you're that interested you already own the DVD or you can go to the bullring. Fortunately, in many towns in Andalucia, any one with a pair of cajones can hie himself to the bullring and, if not run with the bulls, taunt them. Fun no? Indeed! Señor Gato Gringo & I spent the better part of this weekend (the cold & rainy parts) glued to the television, watching in car-accident fascination as men (young & old alike) climbed into the bullring in the nearby town of Los Barrios to, if not run with the bulls, taunt them.

Now, imagine a bullring with a lot of testosterone-engorged ~~knobs~~ males. Release a young-ish but nonetheless fierce bull into the arena. Watch as these testosterone-engorged ~~knobs~~ males wave their arms about to draw the bull's attention, use their windbreakers as a muleta or cape, reach to pull the bull's tail, try to touch the bull as it approaches, and then run for cover like the cowards they are when the bull actually does charge.

Such fun! It's fun to watch the testosterone-engorged ~~knobs~~ males posture about!

Watch as the young-ish but nonetheless fierce bull gets really annoyed. Watch as the young-ish but nonetheless fierce bull charges and lifts the testosterone-engorged ~~knobs~~ males up up up, tossing them into the air and stomping on them.

Such fun! It's fun to cheer for the bulls!

Apparently over 60 such bull-taunters were injured in bullrings this weekend. To the best of my knowledge none were killed but those 60 certainly got a thrashing. A thrashing they deserved.

Young-ish but nonetheless fierce bulls:60; Testosterone-engorged ~~knobs~~ males: 0.

The Planet of the Macacae Sylvani

2008-03-19T14:12:00.018+01:00

Anyone who knows me even superficially (which is how I prefer it) will know that I hate 2 things:

1) monkeys, and
2) clowns

In fact, I would be hard pressed to admit which of the two I hate the more but because I was in Gibraltar last weekend and because Gib is plagued with Barbary apes rather than Ringling Brothers' clowns, today monkeys it is. I hate monkeys.

Given my general loathing of monkeys, the attentive reader might ask why Señor Gato Gringo and I decided to spend a glorious March afternoon cable car-ing it to the Upper Rock and then walking down through its nature park. Excellent question. I wish I had an equally excellent answer but I don't. Except that there are some excellent pubs at the base of the Upper Rock although, admittedly, none of these necessitated a cable car ride to the top and a walk back through the Planet of the Apes. I guess we figured that it was something we had to do - and once done, would never have to be addressed again.

And Gib's apes - Macaques to be exact and macacae sylvani to be even more exact - are indeed heinous creatures. They are thieving beasts that will grab for anything that suggests that there might be food inside. It is therefore unwise to carry unconcealed plastic bags or Kentucky Fried chicken whilst visiting the Upper Rock. When not snatching KFC snack packs and bundles of small infants, they like to pick vermin off each other and chow down on the fruits of their preening efforts. They also like to manipulate their genitals. Because they are accustomed to people (and their bags of food and bundles of small infants), they will often climb on top of gawking tourists, which apparently many gawking tourists find amusing.

Why, I have no idea.

Such close contact to humans is having a deleterious affect on the apes' social groups which are, in fact, beginning to disintegrate. The new alpha males in the ape community have less body hair and carry digital cameras (but still manipulate their genitals). People-friendly and potato chip-jonesing apes are also expanding their territory and are beginning to move down the Rock - some have been spotted ambling down Main Street in town. And if that isn't reason enough to leave them be, let me add that having an ape sitting on your head is just plain icky. Have you seen their asses?

Of course, the Upper Rock is peppered with signs which warn visitors not to feed the apes and that those who do face a £500 fine. I am happy to report that I required no such counseling; our bag of Marks & Spencer seed bread would not make its way into the digestive system of any monkey. Of course, the Upper Rock is peppered with tourists who disregard the signs which warn visitors not to feed the apes and that those who do face a £500 fine.

Like the foolish young man we watched who dug a plastic bag of food and water bottle out of his knapsack to feed an ape which was pretty much in his face with its grubby little clawed hand and opposable thumbs out demanding its lunch. I hope it takes a bite out of his face, I ~~shouted~~ said none too quietly to Señor G.G. The fact that he was 1 meter from one of those signs which warn visitors not to feed the apes and that those who do face a £500 fine didn't help much. Go for his nose! Chew on his ears! I ~~shouted~~ said none too quietly to Señor G.G. In 2004, doctors at St Bernard’s Hospital treated 168 people for ape-related injuries.

Huzzah! I say.

So should you ever find yourself on the Upper Rock, heed those signs. Hearken to the words of Gibraltar's tourist office: "If you let them, the monkeys will be their captivating selves and show you aspects of their everyday lives." Like picking vermin off each other and chowing down on the fruits of their preening efforts, and manipulating their genitals. If that's not fun for the whole family, I don't know what is.

He's Here ...

2008-03-17T13:14:00.037+01:00

Elvis may have left the building but Jesus has just arrived. In fact, he arrived in La Línea last night at 7:45. Exactly. How do I know? Because I watched his arrival on TV last night.

Yes, yesterday was Domingo de Ramos, Palm Sunday - the official kick-off for Semana Santa (Holy week) - when the country (but especially Andalucía) revels in a weeklong celebration of wailing and flailing. And as of today, Jesus has four more days to go ...

Quite simply, Semana Santa is a really big deal in Spain, bigger-than-Christmas big (but especially Andalucía) and its traditions are thought to date back to the Counter Reformation, if not earlier. For some reason - perhaps it's the weather - people in the south don't just commemorate the passion of Christ but empathize with it - actually feel it. This is a week of weeping and gnashing of teeth (in Old Testament proportions). I would not be remiss to say that it's a little scary (in Spanish Inquisition proportions).

Since yesterday was Palm Sunday, Jesus made his triumphal entrance into Jerusalem - or in this case La Línea - on a donkey. Who doesn't love a donkey? And doesn't Jesus look - well - if not happy then at least not in excruciating and tortuous pain? But wait! - our Jesus-entering-the city is being followed by Jesus-being-whipped. Just so we don't forget why we're all here.

The week is marked by a series of pasos, or long processions, during which the town's various religious fraternities and brotherhoods bear ornate and oft times gaudy tronos or "floats"- some of which date back to the 16th century - from its local church, through the neighbourhood, and back to its originating church. These massive wooden platforms (some weigh as much as 5,000 kilos) are topped with statues of the saints (the local virgin is very popular) or dioramas of biblical scenes and can be seen swaying like heavily laden camels through the barrios on their way to neighbourhood churches or cathedrals. As many as three thousand members of any given brotherhood may participate in the processions of Semana Santa and, depending on their seniority, may carry candles, staves or banners.

Hierarchy (and pageantry) isn't dead in the Catholic Church.

Often a tinny brass band marches and plays on, succeeding in cheapening and enhancing the mood at the same time.

Beneath each float are hidden 24-48 costaleros or "sack men" (although up to 250 for the more massive tronos) and it goes without saying that to break your back during Semana Santa is a profound honour. The costaleros are protected from their ponderous loads by the thinnest of neck pads which probably lose all efficacy in the first 2 minutes of marching. Long-time bearers often have a permanent "float bump" - a raised bunion-like swelling on their shoulders - not unlike a prayer bump on a devout Muslim's forehead. This will undoubtedly ease their entry into heaven.

If the wailing and the flailing isn't lugubrious and unsettling enough, the marchers - penitentes - who march in front of the pasos and make the "Stations of Penance" are often barefoot and wear costumes a little too reminiscent of the Ku Klux Klan. These outfits - the colours and emblems of which are determined by the brotherhood they represent - are intended to depict the Nazareños (or people from Nazareth, although the Nazarenes in the Child's Illustrated Bible in my dentist's office never looked like this). Probably the most disturbing feature of this already disturbing costume is the capirote, the tall conical hood which conceals the face; its intention is to evoke the conduit of the penitente to the heaven.

It invokes fear in me. Of course, the slow rhythmic beating of the drums, the swaying paces of the float bearers, and the continual lamenting of the flamenco-like saeta, ("arrow") by choirs and onlookers help. In a word, it's all very mediaeval. The only thing missing is a trussed up witch and a few bundles of twigs.

In some places and on specific days, a town will host two pasos a day. Maundy Thursday and Good Friday will mark the zenith of the week's most funereal aspects. Señor Gato Gringo and I must decide which "festivities" to attend. Seville's - hands down Spain's most elaborate - with its 58-some pasos, is out of the question. So popular is it that hotels are sold out months and months (sometimes as much as a year) in advance and private individuals have already rented out space on their balconies from which to view the pasos. Malaga is the next best thing to Seville but requires an almost 3-hour bus trip and, I know that Christ is said to have died on a cross and all that, but a 3-hour bus trip? Seriously! And coming in at number 3 are the celebrations in Cádiz and although the bus ride is shorter, requires a transfer. I mean, please ...

So it will probably be La Línea or nearby San Roque. San Roque - although still requiring a bus trip (10 minutes) - has the advantage of being a more typical white-pueblo-type Andalucian town. Never underestimate ambience. No disrespect to La Línea but watching the float of the "Virgin of the Joy" pause and then pass by the Okay! Pastelleria on her way to the church was a little incongruent. Unless it's a Station of the Cross that I just don't remember: The Virgin Stops For a Coffee and a Croissant.

Addendum: Señor G.G. has just informed me that Antonio Banderas participated in the Semana Santa festivities in his hometown of Málaga on Sunday where, complete with pointy hat, he served at the mayordomo of the Virgen de Lágrimas y Favores (the Virgin of Tears and Favours). I must confess that Málaga is looking pretty good right now.

A Country In Mourning (Still)

2008-03-13T14:34:00.025+01:00

On Tuesday, I felt compelled to talk about the disappearance and death of Mari Luz Cortés because I couldn't erase from my mind the images of her grieving family - and over 1,000 fellow townspeople - accompanying that tiny white coffin through the streets of Huelva. I was so fixated on her that I didn't even notice the date on the calendar. It was Señor Gato Gringo who snapped me out of my stupour with this scintillating verbal exchange:

"It's March 11th"

"Huh?"

"It's March 11th."

"So?

"It's March 11th!"
"Oh, shit - you're right!"

The United States has 9/11, this is 11/M; and of course Tuesday was the 4th anniversary of Madrid's horrific train bombings. On that spring day in 2004, 191 commuters were killed and 1800 injured when 10 bombs were successfully detonated (another 3 were not) at three train stations at rush hour. Killed simply because they were going to work. Killed because of the hatred and cowardice of their misguided murderers.

Tuesday's official ceremony - no speeches, just the laying of flowers to the accompaniment of an orchestra and choir - was held at Atocha, Madrid's busiest downtown station, the station which saw the heaviest casualties. There are now permanent monuments to the victims both within the train station (the above photo is Atocha's art deco clock) and outside, and there is also the Bosque de los Ausentes (the Forest of the Departed) - a labyrinthine hill planted with 191 olive trees & cypresses - in Madrid's Retiro Park. All three monuments, although very different, share a simplicity of line and colour and rhetoric that draws the visitor deep within to his or her own thoughts.

There has been too much this week for the country to mourn.

This year's remembrance seemed especially poignant for Madrileños as 11/M fell just days after Sunday's federal election. In 2004, a federal election was held 3 days after the bombings. During that election, José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero and his socialist party toppling the favoured ruling government - a government that sought to blame the bombings on the ETA rather than consider other groups (such as an al-Qaeda inspired terrorist cell) - and were swept into office in a wave of protest.

Now Madrid is not the first city that I've visited or lived in with a history of terrorist attacks. I spent time in Middle Egypt in the early 90's shortly after fundamentalist groups there began to target tourist-laden trains and cafés; Morocco too has been terrorized by extremists. Just last year, bombs went off near an English-language school in Casa. As an English teacher, this brought the possibility of being blown up into tiny bits closer to home. But just closer.

But I didn't feel particularly threatened: not in Egypt, Sudan, Morocco, not anywhere - until Madrid. And I love Madrid. Absolutely love it. But the fact is that Señor G.G. and I took the Cercanías (commuter trains) or subway pretty much very day. And as I was stuffing myself into a train during rush hour like one of a million like-minded pimentos into a single olive, my mind invariably began to entertain dark thoughts. It could happen again. What if today is the day? ~~Did I remember to wear clean underwear?~~

Maybe I felt, if not nervous, then acutely aware of my own impermanence in this world every time I rode on Madrid's trains because commuting is something that you normally don't question. You just do. You get on a train with millions of other people who are just rushing to work or rushing to get home. There's no suicidal pilot. No Twin Towers. No box cutters. Riding a train is unexceptional. Something you can do in your sleep. Not out of the ordinary but in the ordinary. Perhaps that's it - perhaps because in Madrid, the ordinary was attacked, and that somehow changed things. Even for someone like me who schlepped to work every day, without having to think too much about it, on a train - just like everyone else.

El Último Adiós

2008-03-11T14:11:00.014+01:00

My yesterday was bookmarked by death. Not the best way to begin a week but at least I can say that there was nothing personal going on between the Grim Reaper and me. In the morning it was the nameless body under the sheet by the side of the road. Last night it was Mari Luz Cortés, the little 5-year old girl who went missing on January 13th after she had gone to a neighbourhood kiosk to buy a bag of potato chips. Her last recorded words were to the two friends who had accompanied her part way: wait for me.

Her body was discovered on Friday floating in the Ría de Huelva estuary and her funeral was yesterday. The whole town - a town which has declared 3 days of mourning - attended. The country's flags are flying at half-mast.

Initially, Mari Luz' disappearance received short shrift in the Spanish media which still gave (and gives) seemingly unlimited coverage to the case of Madeleine McCann, who went missing in May of 2007. Some alleged that this was because Mari Luz was a gitana - a gypsy - and was a child of a tough neighbourhood of Huelva, a city plagued by crime and drugs. There were even rumours that Mari Luz' disappearance was linked to the settling of a feud between two warring families. After all, this is, some people whispered, what gypsies do. In any case, her family certainly couldn't afford to launch the media blitz that the McCanns did:

"There have certainly been no high-profile visits to the US First Lady, Laura Bush, or TV adverts with footballers David Beckham and Cristiano Ronaldo calling for Mari Luz's safe return. The McCanns flew to Rome for a special audience with the Pope ..."

Others suggest that the perceived drama surrounding the Madeleine case - that the family was vacationing at the time, that these seemingly perfect parents not only showed little public emotion but were even suspects - made the story more newsworthy, even freakish from a Spanish perspective. But whatever the reason (or combination thereof), the 5-year old's photo was eventually seen on bus shelters, in shop windows, and affixed to electrical polls through Spain. A website was created. A bank account was opened to accept donations. Marches were conducted. Balloons released. Private detectives were hired. There were alleged sightings. A bogus ransom demand was made.

But all for naught. Mari Luz was found in the same clothes that she was wearing when she went missing. Has she been dead all this time?

Thousands of people lined the streets of Huelva yesterday to bid Mari Luz an último adiós and to escort the tiny white coffin on its final journey. So sad. How do you find meaning or solace in such a terrible thing? That at least the parents have closure? Perhaps. Or that her death will rekindle public awareness to the fact that there are some 200 children still missing in Spain. Hopefully.

A Letter to a Stiff

2008-03-10T11:24:00.005+01:00

Dear Stiff,

I must confess that seeing you lying there on the sidewalk this morning - a human lump covered with a white sheet - was a bit disconcerting. One doesn't really want to see a dead body on their way to work. Especially on a Monday morning. I suppose that's a bit selfish since all I had to do was look at you while you are, in fact, dead. Perhaps this shouldn't be all about me. I must say that you were well attended by the half dozen or so local police officers and the ambulance attendant. Were they waiting for the coroner? A detective? A body bag?

We couldn't see any signs of a car accident and because it was already 10:30 in the morning, we can only presume that you weren't a homicide. So what happened to you dear Stiff? Were you an elderly person who just keeled over? A rummy whose body just stopped functioning? Did you hear that Rodríguez Zapatero's socialist party won last night's election and the shock killed you?

I hope you have people who love you and will mourn for you. It seems an awfully lonely way to go. I must say that seeing you there - a human lump covered with a white sheet - with your elbows sticking out from under the sheet akimbo and your toes turned inwards saddened me. But your passing certainly seems to have enlivened the half dozen or so local police officers who were milling about, chewing the fat and laughing. Watching over you sure as hell beats yesterday's assignment: providing security for yesterday's Miss San Roque Beauty Contest. Having watched the contest and having seen the 40 contestants, I'd rather hang out with a stiff too.

Have a nice afterlife.

Yours sincerely,

La Gatita Gringa

A Lovely Bookshelf on the Wall

2008-03-06T19:54:00.010+01:00

"So please, oh PLEASE, we beg, we pray, Go throw your TV set away, And in its place you can install, A lovely bookshelf on the wall."

— Roald Dahl, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

If you live in the UK (which I don't) today is World Book Day. If you live in Spain (which I do) it falls on April 23rd - so chosen some 85 years ago by Catalonian book lovers to honour the love of reading on the day Miguel Cervantes died. And since April 23rd is also the date that Vladimir Nabokov was born, that Inca Garcilaso de la Vega died and that William Shakespeare was born and died (and undoubtedly countless others), UNESCO threw in its weight and dubbed it World Book and Copyright Day, or alternately International Day of the Book or, if you prefer, World Book Day.

But because I live about 500 metres away from the UK and the fact the tip of Gib wasn't obscured by clouds this morning - an excellent omen - I am going to get a head start on the April festivities and give the UK World Book Day a nod. By way of thanks.

Emilie Buchwald was correct in saying that "children are made readers on the laps of their parents," so on this day I'd like to thank you Mom and Dad. Thanks a million. But I'd also like to thank you Dr. Seuss. And thank you Oscar Wilde. Thank you Roald Dahl. Thank you Sir Walter Scott. Thank you Kenneth Grahame. Thank you Beatrix Potter. Thank you Rudyard Kipling. Thank you Lucy Maud Montgomery. Thank you Brothers Grimm. Thank you Charles Perrault. Thank you Robert Louis Stevenson. Thank you Laura Ingalls Wilder. Thank you Louisa May Alcott. Thank you J. M.Barrie. Thank you L. Frank Baum. Thank you Lewis Carroll. Thank you Arthur Conan Doyle. Thank you Margery Williams. Thank you Carolyn Keene (who never existed) ...

(I used to practise my acceptance speech for my Oscar for Best Actress in a Leading Role in front of the mirror when I was a teenager).

... and thank you to everyone I'm forgetting. Since I can't hug any of you, I'll go hug a book. Do the same.

Help Me Ronda (sic)

2008-03-04T10:18:00.008+01:00

Ernest Hemingway is credited with saying - and I say credited because I cannot find the source - that the Andalucían town of Ronda is the best place 'to spend your honeymoon or to see a bullfight for the first time". And presumably, the 4-time wedded bullfighting aficionado would know.

It is widely believed that Ronda - the home of modern bullfighting (wheeeee!) and arguably one of Spain's most picturesque spots (wheeeee! without the sarcasm) - is the otherwise unnamed Castillian village in Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls, in which Nationalist sympathizers are tossed from the town's vertiginous cliffs. Whether or not Republican forces actually hurled Nationalists from the cliffs of the El Tajo canyon which Ronda teeters precipitously upon, is now immaterial; the damage has been done. Hemingway made reference to it and that is enough. I suspect that his honeymooning comment did little to undo the damage - hard to find the romance in bodies catapulting into the gorge below, unless you're Generalísimo Francisco Franco. Or his fiancée.

And although I could wax poetically about Ronda's natural beauty (a natural beauty less warmly appreciated by those hurling Nationalists) or about its neoclassical bullring (the oldest operating ring in Spain), its Roman roots, its Moorish past, the Sufi poets it gave birth to, or its winding warren of streets which yields mysteries at every turn, I won't. I'd rather discuss its cuisine. Or more accurately, my breakfast.

It is about 11:30. Señor Gato Gringo, La Madre Gatita, and I have just alighted from the bus in search of coffee. The three of us have unanimously agreed that Ronda's natural beauty (a natural beauty less warmly appreciated by those hurling Nationalists), its neoclassical bullring (the oldest operating ring in Spain), its Roman roots, its Moorish past, the Sufi poets it gave birth to, and its warren of winding streets which yields mysteries at every turn would just have to wait until caffeine was located.

It was located. Kitty-corner to the bus station, La Madre Gatita espied a small café with a churros sign. Coffee and breakfast! - huzzah! We hied ourselves to the café and as the owner, la Patrona, wiped the table crumbs into our collective laps, swiftly ordered 3 coffees, 2 plates of churros, and for me, toast with tomato and olive oil. La Patrona shook her head and said many things in Spanish, many things which included to my untrained ear: no tomato and olive oil. (No tomato and olive oil? Is this not Spain?). I suggested jam and butter and receive a nod of assent.

She returned with our coffee. And a jar of strawberry jam - or at least a jar whose label suggested that it once contained strawberry jam. A moment later, she plonked a much used tub of margarine on the table. Next she dropped off my toast and a knife and said many things in Spanish, many things which included to my untrained ear: Fill your boots. A few moments later the two orders of churros appeared. On one plate. In response to our look of confusion la Patrona looked at Señor G.G. and La Madre and said many things in Spanish, many things which included to our untrained ears: you two can share.

Dear reader, I am ashamed to admit that I experienced Order Envy. The margarine which refused to melt into my toast and the little jam that I could scrape from the jar paled - congealed - in comparison to those hot golden deep-fried donuty confections. Why did I order the toast? What was I thinking? This is Spain! - I could have had churros for Christ's sake! This is Spain! - the toast sucks here! (Actually it doesn't, I was just really cranky).

Crap.

While Señor G.G. and La Madre licked the sugar off their churros, and in the hopes that my margarine would melt in my absence and the jam jar would spontaneously reproduce, I paid a visit to the loo. A loo without benefit of a lock. And a mirror. And soap. And paper towels. And toilet paper. And a toilet seat. But its flushing mechanism worked so who am I to play Princess and the Pee?

I returned to our table and was summarily commanded to give a full report of the state of the Ladies' Room. Amazingly - and this is a twist I bet you didn't see coming - La Madre elected to risk renal failure rather than experience the bathroom's hidden delights. During my report, we couldn't help but notice that la Patrona was turning off the café's lights. Closing the door. Shutting the windows. And omigod - this is serious! - she's turning off the slot machine that sits in the middle of the cafe. Apparently 11:45 is closing time in an establishment that specializes in breakfast. Of course, this is Spain and the lunch shift probably doesn't start until 3:00.

We paid our bill and tried not to let the door hit our asses on the way out.

By way of a peroration, I'd like to add that Hemingway later confessed to having fabricating the entire Nationalist human-vaulting scene but in reality, in 1936, some 500 'fascist sympathizers' were lobbed from a cliffside house in Ronda by a frenzied mob. No doubt the frenzied mob had just visited the same café kitty-corner to the bus station. And they had ordered the toast.

Dial "Z" (or Th) or "R" (Rrrrrrrr) for Election

2008-02-26T10:37:00.028+01:00

My mother frequently complains that the only thing on CNN - one of the few English-language television channels she receives at her "winter residence" here in Spain - is coverage of the US election. As annoying as that may be - our only English-language television channel is from Gibraltar which despite the fact that it's about 1000 metres from our home has crap transmission - one has to concede that it is a rather important election. But the US isn't the only country in a state of electoral flux: Spain too is facing a national election in about 2 weeks. An election which has put the country on a high terrorist alert. Yeah!

The contenders: José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero (or Thapatero), Spain's current Prime Minister and leader of the socialist party (The Left) and Mariano Rajoy (Rrrrrrrrrahoy), pinhead and leader of the Partido Popular (The Right). Not that these are the only 2 political parties in Spain - they are just the 2 political parties deemed worthy enough to participate in this debate. Undoubtedly Gaspar Llamazares, leader of the IU left wing, is a little miffed these days.

Rodríguez Zapatero (Thapatero) is most notable for a prodigious pair of eyebrows which appear to be on the verge of taking flight from his forehead. He was elected 4 years ago on a wave of governmental mistrust after the PP bungled the investigation of the May 4th Madrid train bombings in which they blamed the ETA rather than Moroccan-al Qaida operatives. Rajoy (Rrrrrrrrrahoy) is a dead ringer for everyone's high school biology teacher (a negative in my books), and is notable for disliking people who are not Spanish yet choose to live in Spain and speak their own languages, and people who like to do the nasty with members of the same sex.

The election campaign officially began last Thursday, in spite of the fact that both parties had been vigorously campaigning - complete with billboards and signage everywhere - for the past 7 or 8 weeks. Last night, for the first time in 15 years, some 12 million Spaniards watched both party leaders drop their gloves of courtesy in a televised debate. In fact, this historic debate proved to be the 4th most viewed show in Spanish history, following closely on the heels of the 2002 Eurovision Song Contest and Real Madrid winning their 7th European Cup. Just so you know where Spanish priorities lie ...

Señor Gato Gringo and I tuned in to watch the mudslinging (you're a liar! no you're a liar!) but because we could, at best, understand 5% of what was actually being said, we watched for about 15 minutes before calling it a day. But 15 minutes was more than ample time. This is what we observed:

1) Mr. Rajoy (Rrrrrrrrrahoy) never blinks. In the 15 minutes we watched, the man didn't blink once. Not once. It was singularly creepy. Mr. Rodríguez Zapatero (Thapatero), on the other hand, made ample use of his blinking reflex. How can you trust a man who has no physiological need to blink?

2) Mr. Rajoy (Rrrrrrrrrahoy) didn't button the jacket of his suit. I'm sorry, but this was a formal affair - the first freaking televised debate in 15 years. How can you trust a man who couldn't be bothered to button his jacket? He also has bad taste in suits. How can you trust a man whose colour palette is grey, blue-grey, and blueish-blue grey?

3) Mr. Rajoy (Rrrrrrrrrahoy) used cardboard charts to illustrate his points. These were worthy of a grade 5 student before the advent of personal computers. Mr. Rodríguez Zapatero (Thapatero) just raised one of his prodigious eyebrows at these. How can you trust a man who couldn't be bothered to learn how to use a personal computer?

Ergo, based on our close and careful scrutiny, Mr. Rodríguez Zapatero (Thapatero) clearly won the debate. Most polls agree as well. Unfortunately, we missed - or possibly heard but just didn't understand - the following gem:

"Rajoy (Rrrrrrrrrahoy) called on Zapatero (Thapatero) to control immigration, and Zapatero pulled out documents to show that under the previous PP administration an immigrant obtained his papers by giving a bus pass as proof of residence."

A bus pass! How rich!

The truth is, should Mr. Rajoy (Rrrrrrrrrahoy) win the election, life for immigrants will become a wee bit harder. He has actively flogged a campaign promise in which all non-EU immigrants (i.e., swarthy people) will be compelled to sign a "Contract of Integration" which includes learning Spanish and undertaking "to adapt to Spanish customs". Where that leaves illegal immigrants is anyone's guess. As an individual who enjoys an "independent" immigrant status, such changes could spell trouble for me.

In a nutshell, should Mr. Rajoy (Rrrrrrrrrahoy) win the election on March 9th rather than Mr. Rodríguez Zapatero (Thapatero), it is highly likely that this blog will be relocated and renamed to 타이페이안에 고양이 (Cat in Taipei) or possibly кот в kiev (Cat in Kiev).

In Search of Marvels on a Blustery day

2008-02-22T11:32:00.007+01:00

It's another rainy day with winds howling at 52 km/hour and I'm seriously considering enlisting the aid of some Marvel Comic superhero to get rid of this freaking Levanter wind. Surely one of them - Wind Warrior? - has the superhuman power to destroy or at least divert this "strong easterly wind of the Mediterranean, especially in the Strait of Gibraltar, attended by cloudy, foggy, and sometimes rainy weather especially in winter".

And incapacitated by a Mighty Headache (thanks to the barometric pressure which has been going up and down for the past 3 weeks like my self-esteem), I cannot find the will to blog today. I'm seriously considering enlisting the aid of some Marvel Comic superhero to get rid of this incessant wind-driven pounding in my head. Surely one of them - Hammerhead? - has the superhuman power to destroy or at least divert this Mighty Headache.

So in place of my normal wit and erudition, I offer you the opportunity to discover your Peculiar Aristocratic Title. Marvel at mine! I trust that you will all be jealous.

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is:
Baroness La Gatita the Ceaseless of Midhoop St Giggleswich
Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

The Music on the Bus Goes Boom! Boom! Boom!

2008-02-20T11:09:00.015+01:00

Radio Ga Ga? I asked Señor Gatito Gringo. Yup, he nodded.

It's not too often that you find your bus driver singing Queen tunes while driving his bus but then again, Radio Ga Ga had just finished playing on the radio. That would be the in-bus radio - for city buses in La Línea are equipped with radios, and use them they do. Often at a volume which causes my ears to bleed.

Buses (or at least the ones in La Línea), if you will forgive the pun, are a bit of a trip. And because Señor G.G. and I are usually 3 decades younger than the average rider, these junkets to and from work have become a great source of amusement. Except for the ear bleeding.

A quick word about the buses: they have very few seats - the norm is 16 on the entire bus. I counted. In the middle of the bus, where you would except to find, say seats, is a wide open space where people leave their handcarts and baby strollers completely unattended so they (their handcarts and baby strollers) can roll back and forth as the bus lurches around corners.

Nor are they terribly environmentally friendly for every fare is acknowledged by a freshly printed ticket. In theory you can be asked at any time to show your ticket and if you fail to produce one, you will be fined € 5. Not such an exorbitant fine since the price of a ticket is 90 cents. Nonetheless, in the 4 short weeks I've been here, I've accumulated enough tickets to wallpaper a small bungalow. My fellow passengers, who have been riding the La Línea bus much longer than I, and who have clearly run out of small bungalows to wallpaper, have elected to toss their tickets on the bus floor. The buses' wastepaper baskets are sadly ignored.

Because La Línea is a fairly small city and perhaps because ~~its seniors are by nature ornery~~ you can't teach old dogs new tricks, and in spite of signs advising passengers to exit by the rear door, passengers routinely deboard the bus from the front, gumming things up for those ~~of us~~ trying to get on.

Because La Línea is a fairly small city and perhaps because ~~its seniors are by nature ornery~~ you can't teach old dogs new tricks , exact change is not a requirement. Bus drivers not only make change but the change box sits in plain view for all to ~~steal from~~ admire. Even if they brought an exact change policy into effect, it would be ignored. Just like the "all passengers must exit from the rear of the bus sign".

Because La Línea is a fairly small city, bus drivers know their passengers. Conversations are normally struck up during the course of the trip and, because this is Spain, most people engage in conversation with the driver from as many seats away from him as possible. It is not uncommon for someone in the back of the bus to conduct a lengthy chin wag with the driver. How do they do it? you ask. They yell. Quite simply, Spaniards are loud people. Two people sitting beside each other will calmly have a conversation at deafening volumes. Why? Because Spaniards are loud.

Because La Línea is a fairly small city and bus drivers know their passengers, it is not necessary to ring the bell to signal your intended point of departure. The driver knows where you get off and will just pull over. This morning, our driver - who was listening to the news rather than Queen - pulled over and shouted at the man behind us, something to the effect of are you getting off or what?

Because La Línea is a fairly small city and bus drivers know their passengers, it is not necessary to ring the bell to signal your intended point of departure at a designated bus stop. It is not considered inappropriate behaviour to shout out a request. Drivers will cheerfully pull over anywhere.

Because La Línea is a fairly small city and bus drivers know their passengers, it is not necessary to ring the bell to signal your intended point of departure at a designated bus stop on your side of the street. Bus drivers will happily pull over at stops that mirror those across the street.

Because La Línea is a fairly small city and passengers know their bus drivers, certain conduct is considered acceptable. Bus drivers, who are already behind schedule, are not criticized for going for a coffee while we wait. Yesterday afternoon, our Radio Ga Ga driver pulled over mid-route at a lottery kiosk to buy a lottery ticket. Did anyone say anything? Of course not. Besides, if they did it would have been something like, Pepe, will you pick one up for me too? No, not that one - the shamrock scratch ticket!

A Brief Account of the Pining Pachyderm

2008-02-14T12:10:00.030+01:00

A Valentine's Day Tale

Draw near gentle reader - gentle lovelorn reader - on this, the day of Saint Valentine, the most lugubrious day of your year, and listen to the edifying tale of Petita the Pining Pachyderm. Heed my words and hearken unto them that you may find succour and draw strength from them on this most cruel of days.

Cast your eyes upon the likeness of Petita the Elephant - denizen of the zoo of Benidorm, a no great distance. Is she not fair of countenance? Yet hers is a melancholy tale, for Petita has been most unfortunate in love and now a spinster, remains pure and chaste. It pains me, gentle reader, to admit that she has been repeatedly rejected - and once most sorely attacked - by her would-be suitors for "failing to meet their aesthetic standards."

Rogues! Vile creatures! Is not the pale moon envious of her feminine charms?

Forsaken and alone, she sought relief from Kaioso, an elephant of the gentler sex who became Petita's fierce protectress. Through Kaioso's gentle and continuous ministrations, Petita, ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards her new confidant, began to recover from the grievous wrongs perpetrated upon her.

Yet three days ago - still in the dark days of winter - as the fulsome winds began to blow from the Musselman's land in the Orient, Cupid's dart succeeded in finding its target and pierced the skin of Luca, a dashing 5 ton gentleman-elephant with an income of at least £10,000 a year. Luca, intoxicated by Cupid's sweet poison, neither spurned nor assaulted his new lady-love, and has begun to court the comely Petita.

Let us pray, gentle reader, that Luca's intentions and ardour will remain constant and true.

Gentle reader - gentle lovelorn reader - take heart on this, the day of Saint Valentine, the most lugubrious day of your year. Look to Petita for your inspiration. You are but an arrow away from true love.

And Now, the Weather ...

2008-02-13T12:40:00.015+01:00

Last night we were able to pull in a partial signal from GBC (Gibraltar) TV - a momentously thrilling feat because this English-language intruder not only snatched the linguistic monopoly away from our Spanish stations but also meant that we could watch TV without a dictionary in hand.

We tuned in just in time for the weather. This is a fairly exciting time for weather people: the Levanter, which has been blasting us for over a week now, offers all sorts of possibilities for commentaries, the inclusion of ~~inane~~ arcane historical weather facts, and meteorologists get to oooh and ahhh about how strong the wind is blowing. Given that there's an airport 50 meters from the town, you'd think that Gib's meteorologists would have a ready & presumably accurate source of data for their evening reports. So one might have thought that Gib's weather forecast for tomorrow (now today) would have included information like:

Temperature: 15° (high), 12° (low)
Humidity: 77%
Visibility: 9 km, mostly cloudy
Wind: E 72 km/h
Sunrise: 8:12 am, Sunset:7:00 pm
Barometer: 0 mb and falling.

Well you'd be wrong. (Although the above forecast is accurate).

This was last night's weather report: "Tomorrow it will be grey and windy."

I can't argue with its succinctness and I suppose that in a world of excessive verbosity I should be lauding and/or applauding this meteorologist's economy of words but, frankly, I am at a loss as to why she just didn't show the above photo - a photo, I might add, that they could have used for the last 10 nights - in lieu of a report. Why bother with words at all? Surely a picture is worth a thousand words. Or at the very least seven, i.e., "tomorrow it will be grey and windy".

Ten Things to Do in Gib When Levanter's in Town

2008-02-11T11:02:00.002+01:00

Although Levanter sounds like the character from an American sitcom from the 70's, he (or it) is anything like the ~~village idiot~~ neighbourhood savant who sits on the stairs of the apartment building stoop and dispenses homespun wisdom. In fact, in scientific terms, Levanter is a strong easterly wind of the Mediterranean, especially in the Strait of Gibraltar, attended by cloudy, foggy, and sometimes rainy weather especially in winter. Cloudy, foggy, and sometimes rainy weather that, I might add, can completely obscure Gib. No small feat, that.

Or in less scientific terms, my Just Desserts. My Comeuppance. As punishment for my hubris committed against the meteorological gods - a character flaw best exemplified by uprooting our home from cold wintery Madrid for the warmer climes of Andalucía - the Viento de Levante (so named because its origins are fabled to be in Lebanon) is my Nemesis. So yes, its windy and frankly, all those negative ions are bumming me out and the incessant gusts are messing up my hair and this is all becoming a bit tiresome.

This became more than apparent this past weekend when Señor Gato Gringo and I ~~stupidly~~ decided to make the 20-minute hike from our flat in La Línea to Gibraltar, that massive chunk of limestone which dominates the horizon. The weather was less than perfect Friday afternoon but the Sirens of cheap ale and Marks & Spencer beckoned us through the shifting mist and drew us in like the rubes we were. As Friday afternoon eclipsed into Friday night and Saturday morning, that strong easterly wind of the Mediterranean, especially in the Strait of Gibraltar, attended by cloudy, foggy, and sometimes rainy weather especially in winter compelled those in the know to shut down the cable cars which run from the base of the Rock to its summit. No cable cars, no Barbary apes. No great loss.

Still, looking out of our incredibly overpriced hotel window Saturday morning - where $76 Canadian doesn't bag you a private bath or a TV in your room - and casting my gaze above Solly's Salt Beef Parlour, the strong easterly wind of the Mediterranean, especially in the Strait of Gibraltar, attended by cloudy, foggy, and sometimes rainy weather especially in winter was nonetheless disheartening. What to do?

So should you find yourself on one leg of the Pillars of Hercules and the monkeys et al. are out of your reach - probably not a bad thing in retrospect - I have generously compiled a list to make your stay more enjoyable. So with no further ado, I present:

Ten Things to Do in Gib When Levanter's in Town

1) Go to a pub - where Señor G.G. and I discovered that the price of a pint is less than a tomato sandwich and where we experienced - this after after several years overseas - the euphoria of toilets with actual flush handles rather than knobs that you pull or push. (Just reading that last sentence makes me want to shoot myself).

2) Take a spin on bus #3, to "Both Worlds". How often do you have the opportunity of visiting Both Worlds? True, the name is evocative of a cheesy Disney theme song and the bus just putters about town but your friends and family won't be any the wiser.

3) Buy cheap crap. Gib is one of the few remaining VAT free destinations in Europe and day trippers abound with bags of said crap. If you're looking for a cheap bottle of Bombay Sapphire, I recommend Booze & Co only because it has the best name hands down. If you smoke, buy cartons of dirt cheap cigarettes. If you drive, fill up on gas. A thorough search of Gib did not render any examples of Fags & Co or Gas & Go. Nothing at Marks & Spencer qualifies as cheap crap.

4) If you're of a certain age and tend to hit the sack by 9:30 (after falling asleep in front of the television at 8:30), take heart! Gib's prostitutes hit the streets by 8:00 Friday nights. In geriatric-friendly Gib you can have a quick shag and still have time for a nice cup of Ovaltine before lights out.

5) Go to Morrisons. When was the last time you went to a grocery store with an entire section devoted to cole slaw? Where you can buy a tin of "hot balls and sausage"? Where bags of chips include wine recommendations? - as in the case of our chili crisps: We think the subtle heat and delicate sweetness in this pack are divine with the ripe cherry and raspberry bouquet of a lively summery rosé. An excellent choice, no doubt. We stocked up on Bushy's Gibraltar Barbary Beer.

6) The Gibraltar Museum which houses, among other things, the oldest human skull excavated on the Rock and was, at the time, the first 100,000-year old+ skull to be unearthed in the world. Not recognized for what it was, it was tucked away and forgotten until a skull of the same age was found in the Neander Valley in Germany. There but for the grace of the gods, we would be talking about Gibraltarian man. But we don't. Boo hoo hoo, always a bridesmaid never a bride.

7) The Gibraltar Cemetery. A visit to the tiny graveyard is de rigueur if only to see the gravestone of William Grave, Master of HMS Caesar, "who fell while conspicuously exerting himself in the battle of Algeciras on 6th July 1801, aged 38 years." What better exhortation to a life of sloth & indolence than the absolute likelihood of dying by conspicuously exerting oneself? No one has to tell me twice.

8) Avoid the crazy Moroccan lady in the motorized wheelchair. This battery-propelled harpy barrels down Gib's narrow meandering streets like she's looking for a Formula One race and leaves no one standing in her wake. Defying all laws of logic and civic planning, she will pass you - or more accurately cut you off - on the left and then pass you - or more accurately cut you off - from the same direction 2 minutes later. She dogged my every step and in no time at all I was consumed with a burning desire to stick a broom handle in the spokes of her wheels.

9) Listen to the locals. Albeit not a stellar activity, this should probably be done in conjunction with Item #1 (Go to a pub). Gib is a melting pot of polyglot Anglophones, many of whom are of East Indian descent, Spaniards and North Africans whose accents and vocabularies have distinctly evolved over the years. It is curious hearing a Moroccan call you love while handing back your change and wishing you ta as you leave the store.

10) See how many times you have to pass through Passport Control - either the Spanish or Gib side - before anyone asks to see your passport, holds it in his/her hands, opens it, and actually does something with it. Like stamp it. So far as the EU is concerned, we never left Spain this weekend. Considering that 20 years ago, British agents gunned down 3 IRA suspects near a gas station on the border, I thought that security might be a little tighter. I was wrong.

Honourable Mention: The airport runway. In order to enter Gib you must cross the airport landing strip that physically divides the border area from the town proper. If a plane is landing, you obviously have to wait. If you are given the green light, you are instructed to proceed as quickly as possible across the runway. This is made especially problematic when the Levanter is blowing. My advice is to never essay this crossing alone when Levanter is in town unless you have a death wish or are mentally feeble. I was compelled to anchor myself to Señor G.G. - and in retrospect I should have taken the extra precaution of stashing large stones in my pockets for additional ballast - who prevented me from blowing across the isthmus ass over kettle. Depending on your IQ level, this too could be perceived as a fun activity.

Of course, the truly intrepid traveller will plan his or her trip to Gib in fair weather, when there is no strong easterly wind of the Mediterranean, especially in the Strait of Gibraltar, attended by cloudy, foggy, and sometimes rainy weather especially in winter. Not that I regret visiting the wind-swept Rock this weekend for how else would I have compiled such a stellar list of things to do. Should you not take my advice and go while the east wind is howling, bring along my list. You will thank me. And the broom handle. That broad will drive you nuts.

Why The World Sucks

2008-02-06T10:42:00.000+01:00

Señor Gato Gringo and I watched our television last night in hopeful horror as volunteers and experts tried to unbeach a 30-ton, 15 metre-long finback whale which had beached itself on La Petunia beach in nearby Marbella. With each subsequent news report, we couldn't help but notice that the surf was becoming redder and redder with the injured whale's blood. Some 3,000 individuals (2,997 more people than shown in the above photo) came to offer assistance with buckets of water or small sailing vessels, or just view this, the largest whale to ever to find its way to the Costa del Sol.

The whale died.

In this region of the world, finbacks - second only to the blue whale in size and weight - normally ply the waters of the Alborán Sea, the westernmost portion of the Mediterranean Sea which lies between Spain and Morocco. Perhaps the gazillion construction cranes that ~~mar~~ dot the coast of Marbella interfered with the whale's sonar & lured it off course. They are rather mesmerizing.

Poor whale.

Snippets Overheard in a Rental Car

2008-02-05T12:01:00.000+01:00

Señor Gato Gringo and I belong to a generation whose childhood family holidays were usually characterized by an overpacked car, one or more incorrectly folded accordion road maps, several pillows in the back seat, and a large leaking thermos of grape Kool Aid. After endless summers of enduring/surviving/enjoying these road trips, we pride ourselves (hubris! hubris!) as being experts in the field of travelling from Point A to Point B in a fast-moving vehicle of self-contained chaos.

As road trip aficionados, we know that in the perfect road trip, the getting there always eclipses the actual destination. This was especially true for Señor G.G. who, as a child, ~~was dragged kicking and screaming to~~ visited every historical fort in Ontario and upstate New York.

This past weekend was no exception. Señor Gato Gringo and I indulged in a mini road trip of sorts: we rented a car so that we could schlep our possessions - boxes and suitcases and bags of shit - which had temporarily taken refuge in Madre Gata's (my mother's) apartment in Nerja to our flat in La Línea de Concepción. In a nutshell, we bussed it to Málaga (3 hours), picked up the car from the agency, drove to Nerja (30 minutes), packed everything up (30 minutes), drove to La Línea (2 hours), unpacked the car from a convenient spot 2 blocks away from the flat (45 minutes), drove back to Nerja (2 hours), spent the night with Madre Gata, returned the car to the agency in Málaga (30 minutes), and then bussed it back to La Línea (3 hours). Fun fun fun.

What can possibly be blogworthy about such an uncomplicated & relaxing weekend? you ask. Absolutely nothing. So as a consolation - and because I have time on my hands - I offer you Snippets Overheard in a Rental Car. Now for this to make any sense at all, you must bear in mind 3 fundamental facts:

1) Spain accounts for 13% of the world's almond production
2) In much of Andalucía, the almond trees are flowering
3) Almond trees are a novelty to me. So much a novelty that I didn't even recognize them until Madre Gata said, "Have you seen all the almond trees? They're flowering now." So much a novelty that even now I wouldn't be able to recognize them unless they're in bloom.

~~This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.~~ Sorry, wrong tale. So with no further ado, I present:

Snippets Overheard in a Rental Car

Where are the turn signals on this freaking car?
Look, an almond tree.
Uhuh.
Did you see it?
Yup.

I'm doing 140 in a 100 zone and getting passed!
Look, an almond tree.
Uhuh.
Did you see it?
Uhuh.

Fuck! It's 80 here and I'm doing 120 and still getting passed!
Look, another almond tree.
Uhuh.
Did you see it?
Yes.

What's this guy doing? He's doing the speed limit in the passing lane!
Look, another almond tree.
Uhuh.
Did you see it?
Get out of the way asshole!

Another traffic circle. Can't they just use traffic lights?
Look, another almond tree.
Uhuh.
Did you see it?
Yeah - can you tell me if I'm clear?

I find it hard to believe that ATV's are legal on the highway here.
Look, another almond tree.
Uhuh.
Did you see it?
Yes, I saw the freaking almond tree.

How in God's name do you open the air vent in this thing?
Look, another almond tree.
Uhuh.
Did you see it?
Can you just find the knob for the air vent?

Fuck, another toll road. What do you want to do?
Look, another almond tree.
Uhuh.
Did you see it?
Okay, we're taking the toll road.

Another traffic circle. Can't they just use exit ramps?
Look, another almond tree.
Uhuh.
Did you see it?
Can you tell me if I'm clear?

Perhaps, in retrospect, this wasn't such a blogworthy post after all. But the almond trees were certainly pretty. Did I mention that they were flowering? You can even see them from the highway. Did I mention that?

Hostal Thoughts

2008-01-31T12:37:00.000+01:00

Tick tick tick ... twenty-four hours and Señor Gato Gringo and I will be checking out of ~~the Bates Motel~~ the Hostal Campana. I confess that I will hardly miss its nefarious cucarochas. Nor will I weep hot tears of regret at no longer being able to hear the hoards of Russians the hotel seems to attract - Russians whose idea of being quiet must start when the lids of their coffins are nailed into place because it certainly doesn't begin at 12:00, 1:00, or 2:00.

I will not lose sleep at being denied access to its restaurant's cuisine: a hearty fare of meat appetizers, meat as a first course, and meat as a second. Although their desserts appear to be meat-free, this is the country where 'lard cookies' are a delicacy so I make no assumptions. I briefly considered cramming a suggestion into the hotel's suggestion box - of serving breakfast before 8:00 when most people (or more importantly me) are astir rather than after - but for the fact that there is no suggestion box and the breakfast would probably be meat with a plate of meat on the side. And a glass of freshly squeezed meat juice.

But the most vivid image I will take with me of ~~the Bates Motel~~ the Hostal Campana will be the nicotine-stained sign affixed to the back of the door which reminds its ~~unlucky~~ guests that smoking is prohibited - not in the room - but in bed. If I were ~~the Bates Motel's~~ Hostal Campana's management - or the town's fire chief - I might chew over the possibility of upping the campaign against smoking, considering the number of cigarette burns on:

1) the bedspread
2) the bedsheets
3) the pillowcase
4) the drapes
5) the walls
and my favourite ....
6) the shower curtain (inside and out)

At least in Room ~~101~~ 306. In fact, it would not be an exaggeration to say that our hotel room appears to be suffering from a rather nasty & virulent case of ringworm. Pretty much the only thing missing are visible signs that a previous guest had spontaneously combusted during his or her stay - although that might explain some rather curious marks in the bathtub.

The only thing not afflicted with cigarette burns are the cockroaches and that's not for lack of trying on my part. So it's tick tick tick until hasta luego, or 'sta luego, or 'ta luego, or 'a luego or just 'luego to ~~the Bates Motel~~ Hostal Compana!

Room 306 101

2008-01-29T12:40:00.000+01:00

You asked me once, what was in Room 101. I told you that you knew the answer already. Everyone knows it. The thing that is in Room 101 is the worst thing in the world.

God love George Orwell. Such brilliance to personalize hell. Because life isn't tough enough.

I used to think that My Room 101, My Personal Hell, assuming that there is one and that I'm going there - and I've been assured that the weather and company are infinitely better than the alternative - would be an eternity of searching for apartments, packing up boxes, and moving. Preferably in snow, sleet, or a stultifying heatwave. This is a Personal Hell of Classical proportions and ranks, in my estimation, along with having to roll big stones up hills and being denied food and drink ad aeternum.

Not to put too fine a point on it, I've moved a lot in my life. Most of my friends and family justifiably don't even bother entering my address(es) into their address books any more because I'll probably/likely/undoubtedly be moving within 6 months. Some just cover up older addresses in their books with liquid paper, creating a mountain of hardened white stuff that yields a stratigraphy of my life for the archaeologist with too much time on his/her hands.

Moving is again on my mind. Six months in Madrid (Move #424), three weeks in a hotel in La Linea(Move #425) , and then another move on Friday (Move #426). An apartment secured for another 5 or 6 months.

But in spite of the fact that Move #426 looms on the horizon, I have to concede that being forced to move until the cows come home (and then some) might not actually be my Room 101. This was brought home to me last week when, in the wee hours of the morning when I had to take a wee, I encountered 2 cockroaches in my hotel bathroom. They were nonplussed at my presence; I was suicidal.

I hate cockroaches. I really hate them. I verb-stronger-than-hate cockroaches. And I'm a little afraid of them too.

Some people can live with them. I cannot. I had never even seen a roach until I took possession of my 2nd apartment in Toronto (Move #279) only to find that an extended family of cockroaches were inhabiting the oven. Every time I turned on the heat, a gazillion of the little fuckers came pouring out of the sides of the appliance. Eventually some would leave the family fold to take up residence in my toaster. I stopped eating toast.

In every apartment I lived in Toronto, there were roaches. Roaches in the bathroom, in the cupboards, and there was that pair of roaches that spent the night in the fridge, trapped in a hermetically sealed can of cat food, which crawled out no worse for the wear the next morning as I popped the lid. Cockroaches can live up to three months without food, a month without water and are cold intolerant. There is no god. Then there was the documentary on the Discovery Channel I stupidly watched in which roaches were filmed climbing into the cribs of sleeping infants in Florida, where they nibbled on the children's soft and pliant fingernails. After vomiting my grilled cheese, I turned the channel to the 2004 World Snooker Championships. That felt marginally safer.

Then there was a hiatus. No roaches in Halifax and remarkably none in Morocco - although some of my colleagues were plagued by them and squashed palmettos were a common sight on Rabat's sidewalks. And now there is the bathroom of Room 306. My Room 101 where the two inch & a half-long blighters considered me with ill-hidden disdain and didn't even have the courtesy to swing their massive ~~antlers~~ antennae about to register my presence, let alone scatter in the light.

I returned to bed but not to sleep. How could I sleep knowing that there were two cockroaches in the bathroom and another 2,453 procreating within the walls? I got up to make sure that all my possessions were properly zipped up and stood vigil against an assault.

And now, with Move #426 only days away, I have just had a sickening thought. For the first time in almost 20 years, I have viewed and selected an apartment without checking for cockroaches, for their telltale signs in cupboards and drawers. What the hell was I thinking of? Somewhere, perhaps from the hell of his own Room 101, George Orwell is laughing at me. And, sadly, rightly so.

'uego Madrid

2008-01-13T21:39:00.000+01:00

The niceties of coming and going are a complicated business in Spain. If it wasn't enough having to get used to Spain's ubiquitous hola - even hollered up from underneath toilet stalls - additional pressure is exerted by employing the correct delivery of hasta luego. Hola is easy - but hasta luego? One doesn't say hasta luego, but 'sta luego, or 'ta luego, or 'a luego or just 'luego. I even heard a 'go once. Christ. Perhaps these variations can be explained as regional differences or as an indicator of the sincerity (or insincerity) of the 'see ya later' but if there is a code, I have yet to decipher it.

Tomorrow I'm off to the south of Spain. Not for good probably but for a bit. Señor Gato Gringo and I are starting new jobs, essentially doing the same crap job for the same crap money but - and this is the important part - in the sunnier warmer climes of Andalucía. I firmly believe that the meteorologically motivated lateral job shift is a phenomenon grossly under-studied. But one which I readily embrace and endorse.

I hate winter. Yes, I'm Canadian. I still hate winter. I even hate Madrid's winter which isn't very wintery but is still winter because I cannot wear flip flops in January. I hate winter.

In conjunction with higher temperatures and brilliant blue skies, I anticipate the emergence of an erratic blogging pattern. I have no idea if my hotel has wifi but my vast and worldly travel experience tells me that where there is no mini bar, there is no wifi. I may have to blog in internet cafés. O the shame! ~~Hubris! Hubris!~~ I may have to drink in the hotel bar. O the shame! ~~Hubris! Hubris!~~

So until things are settled, posts may be a little non-existent. Or not. Who knows? Perhaps I'll just text message my posts to Señor G.G.. Since he is ~~unwilling~~ unable to join me until the end of the month, transcribing my texts into insightful blogs will be a challenging experience and a much needed diversion from his pain and loneliness. Expect very short blogs. Or none at all.

I will miss Madrid. 'uego Madrid! - see you in September! I will miss Señor G.G, even more. 'uego Señor G.G.! - don't drink too much. See you in 12 very long interminable days.

xxx
G.G.

Sherry Baby*

2008-01-09T10:55:00.001+01:00

Last year - or rather 2006 - Madrid's talking heads passed an ordinance which sought to save energy, reduce light pollution, and present to ~~tourists~~ the world a more sophisticated cosmopolitan city by pulling the plug on its neon signs. Madrileños apparently are rather partial to neon lights and the overall effect was a very bright city out of control. Or so they say. I first came to Madrid after the dimmer switch was turned so, remarkably, I can offer no opinion. Although I could probably try.

Of Madrid's some 120,000 neon signs, one marquee - the city's oldest - was given a reprieve: the iconic Tío Pepe sherry sign which watches over the geographical centre and metaphorical heart of the city at the Puerta del Sol. I draw great comfort knowing that a humongous bolero-jacketed, guitar-wielding bottle with cocked rider hat - the mascot and namesake of the González-Byass winery's bestselling fino palomino sherry - is standing guard over the city.

It is, as the sign says, "the sun of Andalucía in a bottle".

So for this reason - and our love for ~~the sun of Andalucía~~ anything in a bottle - this year Señor Gato Gringo and I (with mi madre in tow) decided to spend part of our Christmas holidays in Jerez, one corner of Spain's so-called sherry producing triangle which it shares with Sanlúcar de Barrameda and El Puerto de Santa María. In Spain the fortified wine that we know as sherry is called vino de Jerez, or simply Jerez or Xérès.

Although Spaniards have been producing wine for over 3,000 years, it was ironically those Marauding Moors who introduced them to the art of distillation and, soon thereafter, a tipple of fortified wine blended with brandy was created. Although the Qur'an prohibited the Muslim invaders, for whom present-day Jerez was Sherish (or شريش) from imbibing the eponymous wine (so again Sherish or شريش) that little dogmatic wrinkle didn't stop them from producing the wine even after the Caliph of Cordoba threw a holier-than-thou conniption and threatened to close them down.

Today, under EU law, any bottle sold as 'sherry' must come from Andalucía's sherry triangle, much like 'champagne' must come from the Champagne region in France.

I had my first glass of sherry - Harvey's Bristol Cream, if memory serves - as a rather green undergrad at a university reception which I attended with my father for no less than the Prime Minister of Ireland. A tray of amber-filled glasses and only amber-filled glasses was deftly tilted in my direction and I experienced a brief moment of panic. This clearly wasn't wine. Take one, my father whispered. I did.

We spent the rest of the evening flagging down the waiter with the amber-filled glasses. I don't remember much about the Prime Minister of Ireland.

So off to Jerez where the city's Mayor McCheese is none other than Tío Pepe. Tío Pepe is everywhere. And when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere and then some more. He appears on sidewalk umbrellas and in store windows, sits atop weather vanes and on display shelves and, of course, figures larger than life at the González-Byass bodega.

It was of course, de rigueur, that we go on a bodega tour. In fact, we went on more than one. One should never pass up the opportunity of going on a distillery/winery/brewery tour unless one knows for a fact that there is no sampling after the tour guide's spiel about 600-litre North American oak casks and the chalk content of soil and flor yeast. And although it is all well and good to know that when Magellan prepared to sail around the world, he spent more cash on sherry than weapons, if there is no free and preferably unlimited booze at the end of the educational rainbow, don't go. I can't be more plain than that.

Fortunately, at the end of the González-Byass tour - for which the highlight, notwithstanding the sloshed sherry-drinking cellar mice (click here to watch the sodden little rodents), was brushing my fingertips across Pablo Picasso's hand signed sherry cask - bottles of their bestsellers (and a basket of potato chips) were plonked on our table. What joy. With a nod toward the gift shop, our tour guide disappeared. Does it get more professional than that?

A tad sauced, a nonetheless incensed Señor G.G. (he was miffed because the people at table next to us left the sampling area with their bottles untouched and I wouldn't let him nick them) and a somewhat peeved Gatita (I was miffed because the people at the table next to us left the sampling area with their basket of potato chips untouched and he wouldn't let me nick them) weaved our way through the gift shop. There the Tío-palooza continues where there is nothing made by human hands doesn't have the jaunty little black bottle on it. And for the kids (you can never be too young to acquire a taste for fermented wine) there are even plush-toy sherry bottles which only a complete imbecile would waste good money on (that's mine on the left).

Such genius to coordinate the trip to the gift shop only after guests have consumed several bottles of 15% proof. I bet the people at the table next to us who left the sampling area with their bottles and chips untouched bought nothing. How shallow and empty and without purpose their lives must be.
________________________________________________

*Apologies if you have the Frankie Valli tune looping through your head now. Annoying, isn't it?

Kings, Camels and a Baboon

2008-01-07T10:45:00.001+01:00

Yesterday morning, after a fitful night's sleep, I awoke to find a coffee mug in my running shoe. Well not so much a coffee mug - although it was a coffee mug - but a small gift-wrapped box. And strategically placed next to it was Señor Gato Gringo's right dress shoe, it too the proud receptacle of a seasonally accoutered prezzie.

Against the odds, for Señor G.G. and I are not always the best behaved, Balthasar, Gaspar and Melchior - the Three Kings, Wisemen, or Magi or whatever - had visited us during the night. No wonder I had slept so poorly - it must have been the gurgling and percolating and farting sounds emanating from their camels that kept me up.

And I doubt that I was the only one tossed upon troubled waves of tangled bedsheets the night of the 5/6th. Every child in Spain - and I have this on good authority, namely their parents - not completely knackered out by watching the Three Kings parade extravaganza, waited in sleepless anticipation for the visit of the Los Reyes Magos. For in Spain children receive their Christmas gifts on January 6th - the Epiphany - rather than the morning of December 25th. There is a certain logic to it: the Namesake of the Celebration didn't receive anything (except arguably the gift of life and even then he squandered it) - not so much as a rattle or a receiving blanket - on the day of his birth until those Inscrutable Ones from the East came bearing gold, frankincense and myrrh.

So like Christ, Spanish kids just have to wait. But unlike Christ, they write letters to the Three Kings itemizing what they want. It's unlikely that baby Jesus was hankering for a casket of myrrh - a gift which, as the intoxicant offered to him while nailed to the cross, presaged his death. It would be like offering a newborn a carton of Marlboros with Extra Tar. Perhaps a wind-up duckie would have done the trick.

And rather than stockings, children leave out a very clean shoe (perhaps a milksop to the olfactory sensitivities of the magi) which awaits the largesse of los Reyes who enter, not through a chimney - because how stunned is that? - but through a window. I can only hope that, while en route, none of the We Three Kings from Orient Are try to smoke a rubber cigar. Especially a loaded one because otherwise, it could explode (BOOM!) and send them travelling far.

Kings and camels are sustained during the long night of travel by offerings of nuts, cognac and a pail of water (the latter presumably for the camels) left out by bed-bound children although one parent I spoke with said that in their house, a bottle of cava (Spanish sparkling wine) is left for the Kings. And do you know what? she asked. In the morning, that bottle is empty!

No kidding?

So yesterday there was much mirth in Spain amidst an unwrapping feeding-frenzy, fueled by massive portions of roscón de reyes, a ring-shaped (which cheerfully resembles Christ's crown of thorns) candied fruit-topped doughy confection which, to my mind, is about as appetizing as fruit cake. In it has been baked a bean or a small figurine, and the lucky individual who finds the bean not only risks breaking a tooth but has to pay the roscón provider the value of the cake. Fun that.

In our home, it was Special K and coffee. And the prezzies left by los Reyes. We elected not to dwell on the fact the two gifts they left in our shoes strongly resembled the 'secret Santa' gifts we bought for the office Christmas party which had been cancelled at the last minute. It was enough to know that real live honest-to-goodness flatulating camels stood outside our window that night bearing on humps ladened with gifts for the world's Spanish-speaking children two coffee mugs: one of which - and more importantly mine - is emblazoned with a camera-wielding baboon taking a photograph of his technicolour bottom ... marrying my fear of monkeys with my fear of cameras. However did the Wise Men know? Truly these Orientals are inscrutable.

El Gordo: Or My Big Fat Losing Spanish Lottery Ticket

2008-01-04T14:11:00.001+01:00

In the world of lottery tickets, there are winning tickets and losing tickets and the ticket you see on the left, dear reader, is a losing ticket. But not just any losing ticket but My Big Fat Losing Spanish Lottery Ticket. For it is - or was - my attempt at winning this season's top prize, el Gordo ("the Fat One") although it was in reality my contribution to the holder of ticket number 06381, a number which bears little resemblance to my own. Ticket holder 06381 is 3 million euros richer while I am 20 euros poorer. I could be consoled by the fact that the average Spaniard spends around 80 € annually buying and contributing to the Christmas tickets purchased by friends, family, business associates and little league teams - as it is considered extremely unlucky to refuse - but I don't. I wanted to win.

To say that buying a ticket - or into a ticket - for the Christmas lottery is a ~~obsession~~ tradition in Spain is an understatement. The Sorteo de Navidad lottery has been around since 1812 and, based on its total prize payout - none of which came my way - is said to be the biggest lottery in the world. To my pea-sized brain, the system of generating tickets is as comprehensible as splitting at atom so allow me the indulgence of cutting & pasting that which is beyond my intellectual reach:

The Christmas Lottery is based on tickets which have 5-digit numbers, just like the regular drawing of the Spanish national lottery. Due to the enormous popularity of the game, each set of numbers on each of the tickets is sold multiple times, in several so-called "series". Moreover, since an entire ticket (called billete) is quite expensive, the tickets are usually sold as tenths (called décimos). On a private basis, or through associations and other organizations, it is also possible to buy or be given even smaller participations of one ticket.

Confused? My Big Fat Losing Spanish Lottery Ticket is - or was - a decimo, which I purchased for 20 € - or 1/10th of the 200 € ticket. It is quite possible that I won something but I can no more figure out the official prize breakdowns containing the winning numbers than the rules. With a selection of some 85,000 different numbers to chose from, loterias often sell tickets with the same number (or two), so it isn't unusual that holders of the winning numbers are neighbours. In 2005, the inhabitants of the Catalonian city of Vic won some 500 million euros - 500 million euros more than I did. One of the jackpot winners of last week's draw lives in Vic as well. Bastard.

For many Spaniards, el Gordo's draw - which always falls on December 22nd - marks the beginning of the Christmas season - whereas in North America, it begins around Labour Day. Since time immemorial (or to be more precise, December 12th, 1812) the numbers and corresponding prizes have been drawn from two large spherical hamster-ball-like cages. The balls can be inspected by the public in advance by submitting a letter to the lottery's president (Dear Sir, I'd like to see your balls ...) In days of yore (in and around December 12th, 1812) orphans called out the winning numbers but now pupils from the San Ildefonso school have taken over the weighty responsibility of singing out the numbers. Yes, singing. In truth, you haven't really lived until you've heard the otherworldly eerie chanting of these youngsters for the 3+ stultifying hours of the draw.

Having said that, I haven't really lived either because I only heard about 10 minutes of it - at a truck stop somewhere outside Granada where the fearsome incantations warbled from the bar's television set - but that was enough. I swear those kids had glowing eyes. And possibly tails.

I was encouraged, then urged, then finally shamed by my students into buying a ticket. How could I possibly live in Spain and not buy a ticket? they all argued. Indeed. But where to buy one? Because of past wins, certain lottery sellers enjoy long line-ups which snake around city blocks with ~~die-hard superstitious gamblers~~ hopeful Spaniards braving the cold and clutching 20 € bills. In 2006, a kiosk in Madrid's Puerta del Sol sold all the winning numbers and in spite of the fact that it was a 5-minute walk from my home, spoil-sport that I am, I declined to stand in line for 4 hours and instead bought My Big Fat Losing Spanish Lottery Ticket from a vendor 3 minutes from my home. Although I could have bought one from the seller 2 minutes from my home. Only pharmacies outnumber lottery kiosks in Spain and even then, I may have it backwards.

I suspect that queues in Vic were rather lengthy too.

And unlike many many Spaniards, I wasn't glued, ticket in sweating hand, to the radio or the television set that fateful Saturday morning. And not just because I don't own a television set or a radio or that I was on a bus at the time. This in itself should press home the urgency of my winning el Gordo. In spite of the odds of winning - which my students assured me were in my favour - it was yet another day in a life wallpapered with losing lottery tickets. To be honest, I had held out little hope.

Not surprisingly, the day of el Gordo's draw is also known as el día de la salud or "health day". As in "Mother of God, we just blew 120 € on lottery tickets and lost it all, but at least we have our health". Big freaking consolation. This year a priest in San Lorenzo de Zamora dreamt that the winning number would be 06380, so he purchased 30 series of that number which he then sold to his fellow townspeople. The winning number was 06381. At least the inhabitants of San Lorenzo de Zamora all have their health.

Not that I'm completely sworn off of lotteries. The El Niño draw - the first gordo-like lottery of 2008 - will be held this Sunday and offers 770,000,000 € in prize money. Since the day coincides with the Epiphany, or the Visitation of the Three Magi to the wee one in the manger, this may be a good omen. After all, they were bearing gifts. Gifts like gold, frankincense and myrrh. And in my version of the story, those inscrutable Wise Men from the East brought euros. 770,000,000 euros to be exact.

Ticket sales ~~for my second My Big Fat Losing Spanish Lottery Ticket~~ end at noon tomorrow.

A Perilous Affair: A Very Personal History of the Pomegranate

2007-12-21T21:31:00.000+01:00

This afternoon I stopped by El Corte Inglés and asked for a pomegranate at the fruit counter. It was the first time that I ever asked for one - a granada - in Spanish, and just articulating it made me smile. There is something a little more than magical about the pomegranate - but then again, I'm biased.

Tomorrow Señor Gato and I are off on our Christmas holidays and I won't be able to blog until the New Year. So my Christmas offering then is a story that I wrote several years ago shortly after the Christmas holidays which was published by All Rights Reserved. Because I haven't yet packed and have no time to be creative - and I've had 3 too many glasses of rioja - I'll reproduce it here in its entirety. Yes it's long. And very self indulgent. But please, no need to thank me.

Happy Holidays!

***

Now that the bedlam of the holidays is but an awful memory, I can indulge myself by taking the time to honour and admire my annual yuletide pomegranate in silent and reverent awe. This year’s offering, a deviation from the traditional crimson pomegranate, is a small but robust yellow-ochre fruit speckled and freckled and slightly puckered by the Andalusian sun; it is a thing of wondrous beauty. But before I pop the slippery seeds into my mouth, suck on the pulp and feel each pip explode on my tongue, I am compelled to ruminate upon the fruit’s role in my life, the evolution or germination of our relationship. In the spirit of personal reflection which this season demands, I put aside my knife and stave off the sweetness that tempts me. In any case, this brief retrospection is far preferable to vows of dieting, exercising and calling my mother more often; in truth, I have gotten off easily.

Over the years, my experiences with the fruit have been diverse, but my earliest memories of the pomegranate were shaped by Greek mythology; as it turns out, not the most auspicious of beginnings. Horrified yet entranced, I read and reread the tale of Persephone and her abduction by Hades into hell where she reigned, unwillingly, as Queen of the Underworld. Her consumption of a handful of pomegranate seeds in a fit of hunger (perhaps a veiled allusion to the world’s first eating disorder) sealed her fate below ground; the number of months she was confined in the netherworld corresponded with the number of seeds she ate. The myth also served to explain the passing of the seasons: her captivity initiated winter while her return to the world of the living heralded the advent of spring. This tale of kidnapping, sexual assault, temptation, and marital strife undeservedly molded my earliest feelings about pomegranates. I stayed shy of them for many years; clearly, they were dangerous.

Little did I know that the “Punic apple” (as the Romans called it, hinting at a Carthaginian ancestry) was believed to be among the first fruits cultivated by humankind, probably in northern Iran or Turkey some six thousand years ago. A versatile fruit, the ancient Romans tanned its rind – a precursor of “pleather”, while its juice and seeds were rendered into ink and dye. A downright sexy fruit, it was utilized as a cosmetic (Cleopatra is rumoured to have used its seeds to render her ruby lips even rubier), the Greeks considered it a potent aphrodisiac and the ancient Egyptians and Hebrews (notably in the Song of Songs) used it allegorically in their love poetry. Its healing properties are well-documented across the ancient world: the buds, seeds, juice and rind of the pomegranate were boiled, pounded, mashed or brewed to treat, among other ailments, jaundice, inflamed eyes, dysentery, tapeworms, indigestion, diarrhea, bronchitis, and even nose bleeds. Today, scientists are considering it as a treatment for skin cancer.

For the ancient Egyptians and Assyrians, the pomegranate tree was the quintessential “Tree of Life” and scholars have reasonably argued that this sinfully suggestive fruit was Eve’s offering to Adam in the Garden of Eden, not the Granny Smith. Because of its swollen pods (granata means ‘full of seeds’), it was considered a symbol of fertility, eternal life and healing, not only in the ancient world, but well into Renaissance times, and its image came to permeate the iconography of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Buddhists consider the pomegranate one of three blessed fruits. Its dual appearance, a desiccated dead-like exterior and moist fecund interior of blood-red seeds, emphasizes the fruit’s ying and yan temperament. It is a union of opposites: life and death, male and female, seed and womb – it is no wonder that my relationship with the fruit was never one-dimensional. In medieval representations, pomegranate seeds bled from the horns of unicorns, who in turn symbolized Christ, and the fruit was often included in portraits of the holy family – think Botticelli’s Madonna of the Pomegranate. But the pomegranate was not the prerogative of weighty religious propagandists: its dual nature is attested by its inclusion in the works of more “populist” writers and artists, the likes of Aesop, Homer, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Rossetti, William Morris, Cezanne and Matisse.

Because of their protective hide-like skin, the fruit made excellent travelers; both pomegranates and their popularity spread swiftly along ancient caravan routes while the Conquistadors would bring them (along with smallpox and measles) to the New World. In China, pomegranates were thrown under the nuptial bed of newlyweds to vouchsafe a fruitful union, while Berber women in Morocco would prophecy the number of their offspring by dropping the fruit and counting the number of ejected seeds. Already possessing a crown (as the blossom end of the orb is known) it is understandable then that the pomegranate attained royal status after it was introduced into Spain by the Moors. Pomegranates would eventually grace the coat of arms of Catherine of Aragon, Henry the Eight’s Spanish wife. The city of Granada, the fruit’s namesake, boasts a regal avenue of pomegranate trees which the invaders planted and throughout the city, pomegranate finials top much of what can be topped with a finial.

La granada, le grenade, de granaatappel, der Granatapfel, il melograno – in any language the word rolls on the tongue as sweetly as a pomegranate seed. But the fruit’s dualism can be reflected in words as well as in imagery. The semi-precious stone “garnet” is a cognate of the Latin punica granatum because of its resemblance to the pomegranate seed. On a more sinister note, the French would lend its name (le grenade) to the eponymous explosive because it mirrored the fruit’s shape and was likewise filled with “seeds”, albeit a more lethal nature. This only confirms my childhood instincts that pomegranates are dangerous creatures.

Now, did I know any of this? – hardly. I was eight.

The pomegranate and I mutually kept our distance for the next few years until a rather questionable cocktail intervened and reintroduced the fruit into my life. When I was about eleven years old, I was deemed sufficiently adept in the kitchen to be honoured with the task of mixing a particular cocktail which my mother had recently ‘discovered’ – the Pink Lady. The Pink Lady has fallen out of favour from today’s compendia of cocktails and I am inclined to understand why – how can something so rosy and frothy and virginal compete with the likes of a Snake in the Pants or a Screaming Orgasm? But I digress. Although I still struggled with long division, I could, with skill and aplomb, shake gin (2 parts), lemon juice (1 part), heavy cream (1 part), grenadine (1 part) and ice in her Tupperware gravy maker, strain it into a cocktail glass and garnish it with a maraschino cherry. During these potable tutorials, my father explained to me that grenadine syrup was originally made from pomegranates although, sadly, most syrups now contain little or no fruit at all. O mores, o tempores! – why are the foamy pink cocktails always the ones to suffer most?

I reluctantly left childhood. I weighed the pros and cons of being a little less self-centred and became more aware of the physical world around me. This was especially so at Christmas when I came to realize that it wasn’t all about me – my parents received gifts as well. I began to notice the presence of a lumpy scarlet pomegranate in my mother’s Christmas stocking, a holiday offering from a very hip and urbane Santa Claus. The presence of fruit in Christmas stockings has lost its impact for most of us, but for my parents, who were born between the wars, the inclusion of oranges and other tropical fruits was an extravagance that we simply cannot appreciate. The pomegranate – no longer completely maligned in my mind – finally made an appearance in our household. No longer the stuff of legends or processed sugary syrups, but finally the real thing, an honest-to-goodness pomegranate: a swelling, dented, dappled globe with the leather weather-beaten face of an octogenarian. Neither pretty nor ugly, it was interesting-looking. Learning the secrets of the pomegranate requires effort but like everything else in life, the seeker who is pure of heart is ultimately rewarded. My father showed me how to open this seed-laden orb, how to score the sides of the fruit with a small paring knife, how not to cut too deeply into the “honeycombs”, how to remove the cone-shaped crown and pluck out the seeds which you eat. Over the years, my collective labours with a paring knife have caused more damage to my hands than to the fruit. I wonder now if, unconsciously, I was seeking to emulate the split and bloody flesh of the fruit with my self-inflicted gashes and slashes. Fortunately, my carving skills have improved (marginally) with age. It is an interesting theory and more appealing than admitting that either I am a spasmodic with cutlery or that pomegranates are capable of committing acts of vengeance upon those who cut them.

By the time I was an adult, we had established a truce, and I was more at ease with this enigmatic fruit (each pomegranate has exactly 840 seeds– why is fruit required to be so precise?). Pomegranates began to appear in my life outside of the holiday season and so I acknowledged their presence as permanent. When I was a graduate student working on an excavation in Upper Egypt, our dig house had invited over for cocktails colleagues from Chicago House – the residence and research centre for Egyptologists from the University of Chicago’s Oriental Institute. For many of us, this was akin to inviting well-to-do relatives over for Christmas dinner; they boasted gracious air-conditioned living quarters, reception rooms and a well-stocked library. We didn’t have flush toilets. Although crates of beer were sourced from a speakeasy in Luxor, it was decided that we should offer an alternative – perhaps cocktails or aperitifs. The local hard liquor was unanimously deemed awful and pricey, and the only alternative was the indigenous (and equally awful and pricey) wine. I suggested a faux-sangria. Fruits were harvested from the souk and, atop the dighouse roof, we concocted a heady brew of a non-vintage Omar Khayyam (red) and the juices of pomegranates (the seeds squished by hand), tangerines, grapes, blood oranges, and grapefruit. Later that evening, under a bejeweled canopy of stars, our sangria was greedily quaffed as if it were the nectar of the gods. Pshaw – it was nectar.

Although the pomegranate and I got off on rather shaky ground, it has taken root, insinuated itself into my life for weal or woe; at the risk of anthropomorphizing a piece of fruit, it has gotten under my skin like a persistent but perhaps flawed suitor, its dual nature making it less than perfect in my eyes. They are no longer interesting-looking but objects of undeniable beauty. Recently, I have been harbouring a fantasy about pomegranates, perhaps representing the climax of our life-long affair; the tables have finally turned and now I pursue it. I want to embrace the fruit completely, to grow my own pomegranate tree so that, each morning, I can open my sun-bleached azure shutters (this is a fantasy), lean outside my geranium-trimmed window and pluck a fruit for breakfast. Surely this is every Canadian’s secret desire? In this reverie, my pomegranate tree is planted on the near side of my olive grove but close to the orange, lemon and almond trees. In order to realize this delusion, I have purchased from the Internet seeds for a Dwarf pomegranate tree. This takes some level of commitment, no? Sadly, it ends there; I am a poor lover. I have read the accompanying instructions and remain too dense to understand phrases like “breaking the dormancy of the seeds” – why does gardening sounds so violent? – or the term “gibberelic”, which I do not believe is really a word anyway.

It is now the dead of winter so I must excavate deep into my yellow pomegranate to find life. Ying and yan. I know that I will not grow a pomegranate tree this year; I am still too intimidated by the process and even if I am successful, our northerly climes guarantee that it will be nothing but a sun-starved house plant. A dwarf of a Dwarf. But I will take solace where I can find it: I have wandered the halls of hell with Persephone in my imagination, drunk the juice of the pomegranate in the quickening shadows of an Egyptian temple, found shade under its branches in Morocco, gaped at its image on medieval tapestries in Paris and delighted in its whimsical form on pottery in Granada. I know that next year there will be another pomegranate at Christmas, as does my mother; long after my father’s death, pomegranates still appear in her stockings. In the meantime, I have my own granada, perhaps plucked near the royal city of pomegranates, to savour. Did Eve offer Adam a pomegranate? I hope so. Was he wrong in taking it? Hell no.

Culture Culinary Shock 101

2007-12-20T11:58:00.000+01:00

"Egg Nog. Egg nog." I repeated. "Egg nog?" When I had finished repeating, I mused a bit ... "There are two types of egg nog: good nog and bad nog. Well, just like the little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead, when egg nog is good, it is very very good and when it is bad it is horrid."

Now if I had recorded this class and were to replay the tape before a college of pedagogical pundits, they would have had no difficulty or hesitation in identifying my piss-poor attempt at defining egg nog as the precise moment when I had lost the class.

Which was too bad because as far as classes go, this was an assemblage of rather brainy and hip individuals, and I had - rather erroneously - laboured under the assumption that it would take more than egg nog to ruffle their feathers.

Just moments before we were engrossed with José 's all-too graphic recounting of the one and only time he attended a pig-killing while visiting family in Galicia, in Spain's windswept northwest. This is an impeccably attired city-dweller who is not only blessed with an incredibly dry sense of humour but from whose pores oozes a razor-sharp sardonic wit. A meteorological marvel - wet or dry - Jose's a funny guy but not the type to revel in pig sticking. And he didn't. But he finished his anecdote by adding that after the pig was no more, everyone enjoyed a nice feed of blood pancakes.

"Blood pancakes?" I asked.
"More like crepes."
"Blood crêpes?" I asked.
"They're a speciality of the area."
"And they're red?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Are they sweet or savoury?" I asked.
"The ones I had were sweet."
"I'll bear that in mind next time I'm in Galicia and I see crêpes on the menu."
"They're really delicious."
"~~Sounds gross~~ ... I'm sure they are, but being a vegetarian and all."

Fast forward to egg nog.

"... and when it is bad it is horrid."
"Yes, but what is it?" asked José - he whose feathers were least ruffled.
"It's a drink that we traditionally have at Christmas and New Year's although my father often made it for us as children throughout the year."
"Yes, but what's in it?" asked José.
"There are regional differences, but the staples are eggs, milk, cream, and sometimes sugar, vanilla and nutmeg. Spiked versions usually see the welcomed addition of rum, brandy or whisky. When I make it, I use Kentucky bourbon."
"Are the eggs cooked?" asked José.
"In more contemporary recipes, eggs are partially cooked or heated through because of health concerns. This is bush league stuff. These are the same people who wash their hands after they handle chicken and routinely wipe down their countertops. As an Egg Nog Purist, I would never consider using anything but raw eggs."
"And do you actually drink it?" asked José.
"It's really delicious."
"It sounds gross."
"Gross? No, not at all ... ~~hope you choke on a blood cr~~ê~~pe José~~."

Christmas Snail Mail

2007-12-17T16:36:00.001+01:00

I was raised in a household which harboured an unconcealed disdain and utter contempt for our country's postal system for the simple reason that it sucks. Or perhaps sucked; I've been out of touch with Canada Post for the past 2 1/2 years so perhaps they've finally - if not improved upon their service - at least learned what service is. This is a postal service which once delivered a letter with the postal code T0K 0E0 (an admittedly negligible town in the foothills of Alberta) to Tokyo before it was rediverted to Canada. I suspect I have Japan Post to thank for realizing that T0K 0E0 is not one of the 47 prefectures of Japan - so it behoves me to send them a heartfelt ありがとう.

In start contrast to Canada Post, Spain's Correos must send out their mail on the heels of Mercury rather than on the slime trails of snails. Letters from Madrid to an admittedly negligible town on the shores of the Mediterranean take about 24 hours. Letters I have sent to Canada and the U.S. have taken 2 to 3 days. It is quite humbling/refreshing/astounding to be on the receiving end of such service until I remember that there's no reason for mail delivery to take any longer. The only parcel to mar this almost perfect record was the month it took for one parcel from Canada to arrive - but given the fact that the sender neglected to include the apartment number in the address, they can be forgiven.

And displaying a wealth of confidence in the stellar service offered by the Correos, our friends and family from back home have inundated us with Christmas cards this year. We are stepping over bags of mail and sliding down the mountains of still unopened mail accumulating in our living room. Yes, we have received four (four!) cards this season. This represents a dramatic 100% increase from last year's faring in which two stragglers arrived in Morocco some time in mid-February - one of which was 14 months late.

But for the past few days, I've been frantically checking my mailbox - by Madrid standards, The Card should have arrived by now. Yes, last week King Juan Carlos and Queen Sofia sent out their annual Christmas card with a not terribly imaginative photo of the royal family (see right). At least not terribly imaginative compared to 2005, when their yuletide offering was photoshopped to include members of the family not actually present. Now, not to put too fine a point on it, my card has yet to arrive and I'm peeved. I'm trying not to take this too personally but I do feel somewhat slighted. I don't wish to cast aspersions toward the Palacio Real and, in my heart of hearts, I know that I can't blame the Correos, so what gives?

In the meantime, I'll just have to remain patient - a quality which is sorely lacking from my genetic makeup. And hope that the card wasn't sent to Tokyo. No, that was Canada Post wasn't it? Perhaps King J-C just neglected to include my apartment number. Perhaps it'll arrive in January. Perhaps pigs fly. Oh right, this is Spain - they do!