tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206578582024-03-18T03:59:40.019+01:00Spanish ShillingComments and essays about Life in Spain.Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.comBlogger866125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-65740009428059498382024-03-17T09:50:00.001+01:002024-03-17T09:50:21.399+01:00Sometimes, We Must Laugh at Ourselves<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> It's been a tough few months recently for the country - with protests of one sort or another receiving coverage in the national newspapers.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5hkNPyfczmCNjZSv7_4y3Qw-2DJrkJf1YIAzLJ4brcBUjS1q8dYwbgZLsWDM8mS2glGVG3oh-lf7pOmM3cpWzHemSNT9uQIcHKzQhaDGG54LkQrfZYMNIJUhyKR3GMiRJq6b_TxpRHAuB_cE10Xe2yrvAILnDJagHSYK_ZRPaZI6VVs7oxh4P_Q/s861/432434809_3720288321517649_6655683913611347643_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="861" data-original-width="710" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5hkNPyfczmCNjZSv7_4y3Qw-2DJrkJf1YIAzLJ4brcBUjS1q8dYwbgZLsWDM8mS2glGVG3oh-lf7pOmM3cpWzHemSNT9uQIcHKzQhaDGG54LkQrfZYMNIJUhyKR3GMiRJq6b_TxpRHAuB_cE10Xe2yrvAILnDJagHSYK_ZRPaZI6VVs7oxh4P_Q/s320/432434809_3720288321517649_6655683913611347643_n.jpg" width="264" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">A long-term protest is the one currently going on outside the head offices of the PSOE, the ruling government party which is the socialist party. Those to the right, the PP and the Vox, agree on one point, that everyone else in Spain is not only wrong, but shamefully so. <br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Thus inspired, they wrap themselves in the Spanish flag - it's odd how national flags these days only belong to the far-right - and get on down to the Calle Ferraz in Madrid for some good ol'-fashioned protestin'. Maybe burn the president in effigy or howl some appropriate insults. The police will likely turn a blind eye (Madrid is a conservative city) and the media will be there. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">What with the tractors all driving through the city, lovingly decorated once again with Spanish flags (the agricultural workers who really do all of the picking, wrapping and dodging work inspectors will have stayed home); the angry protests outside the headquarters of the smellysocks; the populists banging on in their heavily subsidised media (Madrid spends 27 million this year on 'institutional advertising' for friendly newspapers and TV channels) and the current issues with the regional president Isabel Díaz Ayuso, Madrid is as usual the centre of attention in Spain. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But let us move our attention to another city, usually (if not currently) in the hands of the left: Valencia. There, the fallas have just finished. The fallas are a week-long festival with lots of music, fireworks and a tradition of comic papier-mâché models which will be judged and them, with one saved for posterity, thrown into the flames. It's like we read it in Gormenghast, with the Hall of the Bright Carvers. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge827cFsoUfmUpN5IXs5IOsp2kXEC_hDcC5_0QS8yyUj0K85bMRbeirokBTLdsMUmXLCxaErTkEE4YHpuRN8letBiqqWaf1U2dR7v8jbJ13IYxkZBm5QmP1wWfR5g0Uq_G3AS8hT9CzwMSMJl1thlaLXeTtT-Gi0b7dewG-KEM6CNQwC5mmZ5OjQ/s1657/431230378_388174003977554_8230194347681470618_nm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1347" data-original-width="1657" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge827cFsoUfmUpN5IXs5IOsp2kXEC_hDcC5_0QS8yyUj0K85bMRbeirokBTLdsMUmXLCxaErTkEE4YHpuRN8letBiqqWaf1U2dR7v8jbJ13IYxkZBm5QmP1wWfR5g0Uq_G3AS8hT9CzwMSMJl1thlaLXeTtT-Gi0b7dewG-KEM6CNQwC5mmZ5OjQ/s320/431230378_388174003977554_8230194347681470618_nm.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">But not every model - they are called <i>ninots</i> - are destroyed, and one must be saved. My own favourite this year is the old lady with the sun-glasses and the Spanish flag.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Now, where have I seen her before? </span><br /></p>Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-86599835753295484362024-03-04T11:20:00.003+01:002024-03-04T11:20:49.155+01:00Dere's a Rat in Me Kitchen<p> <span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">There’s a major bookshop in
our local city, and I’ve dropped by there a few times – either to buy a novel
in Spanish (which I can read, if sometimes a bit slowly), or one in English from
their foreign-language nook downstairs. Three or four shelves in English, plus
a few books scattered in there in German – hey, it’s all foreign, right? </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">The spines on Spanish books
are always printed upside-down which means that the usual book-stocker
employee, unaware that this peculiar custom has yet to emigrate beyond the Pyrenees,
will put the English (and German) books on the shelf the wrong-side-up so as to
match the other shelves upstairs. Then along comes a Brit and pulls a few out
to scope the back-cover and before you know it, the foreign books are higgledy-piggledy,
which means, when I come along for a spot of browsing, I have to throw my head
from one side to the other, wrenching my neck, to glom the offers on display. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">At twelve euros a pop or
maybe more, they ain’t cheap, neither.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">So, in the Brit community
fifty miles to the north, there’s a few charity shops that sell books.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">The Brits will volunteer to
run these shops, collecting funds for some Noble Cause (dogs and cats, usually –
they haven’t yet run to helping the Palestinians). </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">The charity shops work on
stuff being brought around and kindly donated. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">Often after a local funeral.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">Books are considered as a filler,
I suppose, as they are usually sold at six for a shilling. Which is fine by me.
See the difference here? One book at twelve euros in the city, versus seventy
two charity books in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">guiriville</i> for
the same price. I mean, if I get half-way through and decide that it’s tripe, then
I’m down by fifteen cents. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">So the other night, I am lying
in bed in the place I’m looking after, a country-home. Nice, very quiet, lots
of trees and birdies. Reading some rubbish about a pretty detective who rides a
Ducati through the worst streets of Washington (I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do </i>love to travel), I was interrupted by a large rat galloping across
the bed and disappearing under the wardrobe. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">So the next day, I went to
buy some poison. A box with a dozen blue cubes of some dreadful stuff that
disagrees with rats and I leave one on the kitchen counter, and returned to my
detective, now in bed with her lawyer.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">The next day, the poison had gone.
But, you know, judging by some evidence in the fruit bowl, the rat hadn’t.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">Or maybe there were two rats.
I put another cube out.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEJTGjsdpNPRUVGAvbJ2nA6N1ybvB_VjEdR_gb1Abli9LqvyF_LX6TWue48o4Y39GBfmKYeGmZyxHKu3ci1zLxWMMSi2vqIo40HoBD1AJ2F_kHZ0lufQKaLOFaLAuE0ZQl04Pt4ir-Ewf4nmZaUGCxUg-VK-goG346jX1V1fSh3szu4bvMZ8oTTw/s224/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="224" data-original-width="224" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEJTGjsdpNPRUVGAvbJ2nA6N1ybvB_VjEdR_gb1Abli9LqvyF_LX6TWue48o4Y39GBfmKYeGmZyxHKu3ci1zLxWMMSi2vqIo40HoBD1AJ2F_kHZ0lufQKaLOFaLAuE0ZQl04Pt4ir-Ewf4nmZaUGCxUg-VK-goG346jX1V1fSh3szu4bvMZ8oTTw/s1600/images.jpg" width="224" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">The following day, the second
cube had gone, but someone had got into the rice crispies. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">I put out a third cube, put everything
edible in a steel case with a combination lock, and returned to my pile of
books.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">And so, Best Beloved, every
day and until the box was empty, the daily poison has been taken away from its
place in the kitchen. Seems I either had a very strong rat on my hands, or I
was doing the Devil’s Work and killing the babies living in some hitherto undiscovered
hole. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">I found one possible lair
under the wardrobe and wedged the detective and her motorbike in it. It was
about time she did something useful. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">Today, a friend gave me a humane
rat-trap. You leave a chunk of cheese within, the trapdoor goes *clunk* and you
take him outside and toss him out in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">campo</i>
a few kilometres from home. That’s the theory, anyhow. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">I also bought a box of strychnine
this morning, just in case. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-24427047972246505042024-02-17T21:35:00.001+01:002024-02-17T21:35:09.740+01:00The Bar Indalo<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span>In the old days - the sixties
through the early eighties - the Hotel Indalo, located in the Mojácar
Square, housed the Bar Indalo: the focal centre of the pueblo.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>It
was an ugly bar, dark and scruffy. They rarely managed any tapas and
the decoration was bleak. There were a couple of tables and a black and
white TV, switched on whenever there was a football game.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>As somebody says, the toilets were pretty grim as well.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Outside, there were a few tin tables and chairs.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>It was where we all met to catch up on the day's gossip.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>I
think it was a terrible shame when the hotel and its bar were
demolished, along with the Aquelarre theatre, to make room for the
'multicentro' - three stories of grim souvenir shops.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>In the picture, Antonio and Diego were for many years the two barmen.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkT6IydcOMym0aP0RR34FPLH29RIyRE2rvleGaDifue7JnZS5hQi2mAT5XZmNWjefvSHb6u91S298ZewtYfklhdRf60TChMHhSC_NPobPvuYbfh4W0Pw5MBv9NexWmOvMWjdoXAzMwrwmF15FI_LY9Iu1JhMDeR2A0Hw0C_EDLAXtZdd8lPoUJdoysE1ge/s1711/diego.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="969" data-original-width="1711" height="362" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkT6IydcOMym0aP0RR34FPLH29RIyRE2rvleGaDifue7JnZS5hQi2mAT5XZmNWjefvSHb6u91S298ZewtYfklhdRf60TChMHhSC_NPobPvuYbfh4W0Pw5MBv9NexWmOvMWjdoXAzMwrwmF15FI_LY9Iu1JhMDeR2A0Hw0C_EDLAXtZdd8lPoUJdoysE1ge/w640-h362/diego.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-20435524674891277182024-02-17T21:34:00.000+01:002024-02-17T21:34:01.277+01:00The Rudderless Island<p> <span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">Those of us who moved to
Spain from the United Kingdom will have our view about how the old country has
either prospered or gone to the dogs since the Brexit, or perhaps even before
that particular upset. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">My dad used to trace
Britain’s final decline to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Suez_Crisis">the
Suez Crisis</a> in 1956. Now, I think it was when <a href="https://www.reuters.com/article/idUSKBN29B00I/">they arrested</a> Julian
Assange in 2010 on a trumped-up rape charge (oh look, I’ve gone and used the t-word!).
</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">But we all have opinions.
Those of us Brits who are living in Spain have other things to think about –
unless we are among those unfortunates who find themselves enmeshed in the
90/180 Schengen Trap – then it’s a daily and anxious look at the calendar and
the doubt about who to look after the house for the next three months. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">Another way to look at the UK
comes from a Spanish journalist who works at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">El País</i> called Ana Carbajosa, who after travelling extensively
across Britain has written a book called ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Una
Isla a la Deriva’</i>: the drifting (or rudderless) island. <a href="https://www.planetadelibros.com/libro-una-isla-a-la-deriva/390102">The
write-up</a> provided by the printers, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Península</i>,
says, ‘When did the United Kingdom collapse? How is it possible that the empire
in which the sun never set has ended up becoming an increasingly isolated,
fragmented and unequal place? How much has Brexit contributed to deepening
cracks that had been opening for decades? How were unscrupulous politicians
like Boris Johnson or Liz Truss able to end up running the country?’ </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">elDiario.es</span></i><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;"> <a href="https://www.eldiario.es/internacional/ana-carbajosa-periodista-espana-no-conscientes-nivel-declive-reino-unido_128_10924990.html">interviews</a>
Ms Carbajosa. Their first question is: ‘What misconceptions are there in Spain
about the United Kingdom?’</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">She answers, ‘We probably
think that the United Kingdom is a unit and that the United Kingdom is the
English (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">los ingleses</i>). In truth, the
United Kingdom is a very complex and diverse country due to the geographical
and regional differences that, as the experts I spoke with for the book explained
to me, are the most noteworthy in all of Europe. In all European countries
there are differences between rich and poor regions, but the poor ones are not
as poor as those in the United Kingdom, which is (by the way) also the sixth
largest economy in the world. There is a brutal regional inequality that we are
not aware of and that has contributed to Brexit and other political phenomena’.
</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3YCUp16xpG1wUS6aXorNZ8lW8Lw2wh3013SZi0ae2z-QRnhegYYTz5rGiGx_-gaGuy0pHDXqdqJsEONarL2qNcQgIBbipmdIllGv35I2QQcPT1c1hsp3SBGSNphabJlRwDaeeXie1ChK-a22WvK1bh-CNXp1p6YCryNxRK_aVR-nM_B9hQv3gYw/s868/forges.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="868" data-original-width="712" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3YCUp16xpG1wUS6aXorNZ8lW8Lw2wh3013SZi0ae2z-QRnhegYYTz5rGiGx_-gaGuy0pHDXqdqJsEONarL2qNcQgIBbipmdIllGv35I2QQcPT1c1hsp3SBGSNphabJlRwDaeeXie1ChK-a22WvK1bh-CNXp1p6YCryNxRK_aVR-nM_B9hQv3gYw/s320/forges.jpg" width="262" /></a><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;"> </span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">She tells us that the media
and politicians who she meets there talk of ‘<a href="https://www.spectator.co.uk/magazine/09-09-2023/columnists/">Broken
Britain’</a>. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">But that’s all happening
elsewhere. We live in Spain, with its own triumphs and failures (of which, if
we stick to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Euro Weekly</i> and other
low-shooting English-language media, we are blissfully unaware of). </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">Perhaps we can stay here – or
perhaps some hostile currents in Iberian politics or the media (<a href="https://es.euronews.com/2024/01/08/deportada-una-espanola-con-derecho-a-trabajar-en-el-reino-unido-tras-volver-de-vacaciones">chucking
Spaniards</a> out of the UK needs some retaliation, maybe) may send us abruptly
home. There are 5,700 Spaniards currently living in the UK <a href="https://www.eldiario.es/internacional/limbo-brexit-5-700-espanoles-arriesgan-expulsion-reino-unido-esperan-resuelva-estatus_1_10820835.html">under
threat</a> of deportation.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">After all, as we fail to
concern ourselves about Rishi Sunak’s <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/world/2023/dec/16/sunak-accused-toxic-rhetoric-after-warning-overwhelming-migration-europe">hostility</a>
towards the immigrants, it’s not like we have the ear of the Spanish
legislators.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">Most unlikely, of course, but
there you go. We live in unlikely times. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-50969555920030240222024-01-26T10:04:00.002+01:002024-01-26T10:04:46.597+01:00Now, They'll Let Us Vote... (in the UK)<p>It was a shame
that those of us Brits who back then in 2016 had lived abroad for
fifteen years couldn’t vote in the famous referendum over leaving the
European Union. The Brexit as it became known: the one where the UK
would steer a new course all by itself.</p><p>As to where it was going, who could be sure? Glory, success and
ennoblement of course, but maybe only for those few millionaires who had
wisely moved their funds offshore beforehand.</p><div style="overflow: auto; padding-right: 10px; width: 620px;">
<p>But that’s the problem for the United Kingdom and its inhabitants to
face. Brexit will bring some benefits perhaps, along with some
unpleasant realisations and lessons. <img alt="" height="175" src="https://www.eyeonspain.com/userfiles/image/lenox/Untitled - Copy 2.jpg" style="float: right;" width="312" /></p>
<p>Over here in the remains of the European Union, things appear to be
moving along. We are managing quite well in the absence of the British,
and wish them well with their straight bananas and trade deals with
Timbuktu.</p>
<p>We couldn’t vote, us lot. Normally, voting for a candidate to become
either a member of parliament or to crash and burn might be useful
enough for those who live there – a good candidate will have ideas and
energy to spruce things up locally – with the benevolent support and
indulgence of his party – but we live, and have lived for a long time –
in foreign parts.</p>
<p>The French have long had a group within their parliament which represents Frenchmen abroad. They <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Constituencies_for_French_residents_overseas" rel="nofollow">have eleven seats</a> in the National Assembly. Nice.</p>
<p>The referendum, of course, was different. Instead of discussing the
pros and cons of increasing the acreage of sugar-beet (I’m from a
bucolic part of East Anglia: left for Spain when I was thirteen), it was
about a subject which would enormously affect us expats – traitors and
malingers as we might have been considered back in Henley – in many
ways.</p>
<p>Sugar-beet, by the way, is a kind of turnipy-thing that you can either get sugar from, or can feed to the cows.</p>
<p>Yet we couldn’t vote in the one thing that would have affected us.</p>
<p>Back then, I doubt even the British media bothered to ask us our views, despite there being 1,300,000 of us <a href="https://ukandeu.ac.uk/the-facts/how-many-british-citizens-live-in-the-eu/" rel="nofollow">living</a> in the EU and another 4,200,000 <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/British_diaspora" rel="nofollow">living</a> elsewhere in the world.</p>
<p>Regardless of the usefulness or otherwise of swelling my North Norfolk constituency by one person; and <a href="https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=786490286582647" rel="nofollow">following a change</a>
in the law, we Brits abroad (fifteen years and up) are now encouraged
to register (every three years) and to call for our postal vote. This
register of Brits abroad may not be huge (although they endearingly
estimate three million potential voters – spread of course across 650
polls), but it might attract a few <a href="https://inews.co.uk/opinion/brexit-regret-ex-pat-tories-election-punish-2862628" rel="nofollow">extra donations</a> to one party or another which will no doubt be welcomed (if criticised elsewhere).</p>
<p>Right now, I’m <a href="https://www.gov.uk/overseas-passports" rel="nofollow">renewing my passport</a> (they do this these days in Belfast). My current one has ‘European Union’ stamped in gold on the cover. My new one won’t.</p>
<p>I suppose you are right – I should be looking for Spanish citizenship
after all these years here. After all, I speak Spanish and know my way
around – even if I do happen to look extremely and pinkly Nordic.</p>
<p>All I wanted, really, was to be a European.</p>
<p>Anyway, it boils down to this: either get myself a Spanish passport,
or find out more about the fascinating politics of sugar-beet.</p>
</div>
Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-43409306298138624002023-12-25T06:28:00.003+01:002023-12-25T12:40:02.661+01:00Put some Brits Together, and They'll Start a Newspaper<p> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]--><span style="font-size: 13pt;">It’s a funny world – the expat
press. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Over here in Spain, there are
a small number of both Brit free-sheets and paid newspapers, all solemnly ignored
by the national advertisers. The free-sheets have more locally-sourced adverts
(they have to cover their costs somehow, and the printed copy is about a euro a
pop these days). Does anyone read those adverts, or simply gloss over and past
them? </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">The pay-for newspapers can probably
spend a bit more on copy and rely a bit less on promotions. I also don’t doubt
but that their print-run is far smaller. One of them, the weekly <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Costa Blanca News</b>, has a copy price (August 2022) of 2,70€. It’s
been going since 1973. Another one, the daily <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Majorca Daily Bulletin</b>, as the ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Iberian
Daily Sun’</i>, was going <a href="https://biblioteca.ucm.es/inf/madrid"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;">as far back as</span></a> 1969. The oldest of them all is the monthly <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Guidepost</b> (since February 1958) out of
Madrid <a href="https://www.guidepost.es/about/"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;">and still</span></a> ‘published
continuously and unfailingly from then onward’. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">I ran a weekly for a while called <i>The Entertainer</i> during the eighties and nineties, eventually learning that there is no honor among thieves and that it's hard to pay off a large mortgage (for printers bills) when there's nothing coming in. <br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">An English-language daily started in Madrid called <i>The Standard</i> back in 1992. It was a serious 'European' kind of newspaper, priced I think at 50ptas. The paper, once again ignored by the national advertisers (they seem to prefer to go through media-buyers who then take an annual cash return called <i>un rappel</i> from their chosen publications), folded after just forty days. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Indeed, not only do the larger advertisers stick to the tried-and-true (did you ever see an advert for a leading car company in an expat newspaper?), the so-called <i>institutional advertising</i> - propaganda bought and paid for by the provincial, regional and national governments (to keep everybody in line) - never appears in the foreign-owned newspapers - English, German or Dutch. The few smaller agencies that <i>will</i> deal with the foreign press like to pay out typically on 120 days (the printer likes his money after 30 days). <br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">There are quite a few of these newspapers and magazines about - some large with others being a spot more modest. On the Costa del Sol, there’s
the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Sur in English</b>, a Spanish-owned
freebie in operation since 1986 (it began as a couple of pages once a week in
the local Spanish version, to later expand into its current dominant position).
Two others of note are the biweekly free newspaper called <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Olive Press</b> which at least uses journalists and professional
writers and produces some investigative journalism; and finally the downmarket <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Euro Weekly News</b> (which self-importantly
claims that it is known to its readers as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
People’s Paper</i>, although it’s more often referred to as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Weenie</i>). This particular free-sheet has
featured Leapy Lee among its columnists for the last twenty years or so. The
notorious Mr Lee pumps out a far-right tirade about the United Kingdom each
week, evidently to the approval of the publication’s readers. This paper
appears to mix up its content without much attention to where or what it is on
about, rarely providing much useful news about Spain, preferring to entertain the
readers with a fruit-salad of filler, dogs, puzzles and lottery winners. Perhaps
you read it: perhaps you wrap the fish in it. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Put it this way - you are not going to pass the <a href="https://cervantes.org/">current affairs test</a> put out by the <i>Instituto Cervantes</i> as a step towards gaining Spanish nationality if you only source of information on this great country is <i>The Weenie</i>. <br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">There are some glossy Costa magazines
past and present (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lookout</i> 1964 – 1986
was the best I think) and various what’s-on guides, plus a couple of
English-language radio stations and, of course, lots of Internet news and help-pages,
blogs, vlogs (video-blogs) and other sites.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">All, with the exception of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Business over Tapas </b>and a few of my
fellow bloggers, decorated with endless and aggressive advertising. At least one has to patiently sit through an advert on the radio. In print, you merely skip past it. <br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">It’s certainly true that, these
days, it’s a hell of a lot cheaper putting out one’s copy there on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">World Wide Web</i> than it is taking it down
to the printers, so – I dunno – perhaps at least on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Facebook</i> we could forego the click-bait? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-49384306058896657382023-12-18T10:05:00.008+01:002023-12-18T10:10:12.500+01:00Good Cheer, and Watch Those Polverones!<p> <span style="font-size: 13pt;">Christmas in Spain. At least
down where I live, it doesn’t quite ring true like the old traditions in
England. There’s no holly or mistletoe (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">acebo</i>
and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">muérdago</i>) to leave on the shelf
or kiss the maid under. Come to think of it, there’s no maid either. The tree
looks a bit out of place as well, and some of us settle for the dried flower
from a century plant, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">una pita</i>, bedecked
with a ribbon or two.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">I just have the one Christmas
card this year to put on the – well, the chimney-piece if there was one. It’s
from my old nanny from when I was a child in Norfolk (it’s almost sixty years
since I’ve last seen her). It has a snow-scene and a short poem in a rather wonky
metre. It was posted in late October and I gather that it must have travelled
about fifty kilometres a day to reach me in Almería a mere seven weeks later. Well
done our friends at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Correos</i>, and don’t
forget the seasonal tip for Mr Postie! </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">The thing is, the old traditions
don’t really have the same thrust over here. For me, Deep and Crisp and Eeeven
only works with Domino’s Pizza! I suppose one can buy Christmas Pud at the
English shop in our local market town, and douse it with brandy, but I’ll pass
on that, thanks. The turkey is fine, although my Spanish family prefers plates
of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">jamón serrano</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gambas</i>. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">I think they may have a
point.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhARBdCy432TGJVjtLQxOEykjh8bol4cILulawuwL4iVX6lEX-aunrUr4nzqq1hoZ_VYhJ3B4OG5eGTFV-DUFPi84z6KpN575YC9rz_Bh3Ey94pqS7xv83v3D670R9MXGNZB314_yVOQRfXx-gXbjDUWLb96xtyZDZwpiKF72E78ZIDmNjh3mPjRA/s701/25358476_1626721897366296_2206849449159782837_o.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="701" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhARBdCy432TGJVjtLQxOEykjh8bol4cILulawuwL4iVX6lEX-aunrUr4nzqq1hoZ_VYhJ3B4OG5eGTFV-DUFPi84z6KpN575YC9rz_Bh3Ey94pqS7xv83v3D670R9MXGNZB314_yVOQRfXx-gXbjDUWLb96xtyZDZwpiKF72E78ZIDmNjh3mPjRA/s320/25358476_1626721897366296_2206849449159782837_o.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 13pt;">We have plenty of cakes here
though. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Roscón de Reyes</i> is as
delicious as the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">polverones</i> are
terrible. These floury morsels are quite impossible to swallow, even with a
seasonable glass of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anís</i>. I wonder -
do the banks still offer this interesting combination to its customers (usually
consumed before one see one's balance)? I will have to go down and look…</span><p></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Carol singing in England for
me as a child was a quick couple of verses of ‘The First Noel’ followed by
mince pies and some warming toddy. Then off to the mansion at the other end of
the lane for a repeat. Here we are regaled ceaselessly throughout the entire season
by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">villancicos</i>: horrible songs pumped
out all day long through the Nation’s municipal and supermarket loudspeakers as
performed by cute little choristers and their noisome piping voices. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Dressing up as Santa Claus is
just silly. He wears a heavy red outfit with cap and mittens, while our local
temperature is in the high twenties thanks to Global Scorching. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">I think just a red tee-shirt would
be quite enough to go with the ho ho ho. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">There’s no Christmas stocking
here, and indeed the whole presents-under-the-tree thing is another foreign
import. I suppose that, reeling as we are (or will be) from not winning the
Christmas lottery, something in gaudy paper to unwrap on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Noche Buena</i> – Christmas Eve – might be a good idea. A kind of
consolation gift. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">The small presents given out by the Spanish for
January 6th, the Feast of Epiphany – usually falling on the day before school
begins – don’t quite hit the spot. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">I was once one of the Three Kings
– the blond one of course. All went well as we arrived in the town square in a
dumper truck but when the first, rather fat child sat on my knee to receive a
dinky-toy, he spotted that under the heavy makeup lurked a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">guiri</i>. He let out a quite improper shriek, even though I explained
that all three of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Reyes</i> were
indeed foreigners. From afar.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">The best thing about our
Christmas season, and you will notice it in the photos we send to our families
and friends in far-off England, is the fact that we are all wearing tee-shirts
under a warm blue sky. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Could there be a better gift
than that? </span></p>
Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-24403292363012419772023-12-07T03:15:00.001+01:002023-12-07T03:20:05.986+01:00Madrid's Barajas Airport<p> <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">My own experience of galloping through the Madrid
airport with my wheelie-suitcase last week, with eighty minutes to disembark at
the international end of the huge installation, go through immigration (as a
non-EU foreigner), take the underground train-link, the security inspection and
then the race through the garish duty-free corridor and onward for the local flight at the other - furthest - end just in time to join the
back of the queue as they boarded the Almería flight, makes me anything other than a fan of that dreadful
airport. </span></span></p><p><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">It seems that I’m not the only one</span></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">: From <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">El Español</b> <a href="https://www.elespanol.com/madrid/sociedad/20231205/barajas-dejado-mejor-aeropuerto-europa-solo-ano-bajado-puestos/814918575_0.html">here</a>: ‘How the Aeropuerto Adolfo Suárez Madrid-Barajas is no longer <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the best airport in
Europe</span> in just one year: it has dropped 30 places’. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: 13pt;">I remember the first time I landed in Barajas, back in the sixties. I had arrived on a flight from London on a BEA Comet. The airport was - of course - much smaller then, and certainly friendlier. They had a free cinema to while away the time before one's next flight. I shouldn't be surprised to learn that more than a few travelers, enveloped in the comforting arms of Disney, consequently missed their connection to Rio.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Those who didn't fancy the cinema could sit on a sofa rather than a metal bench, sturdily designed with arm rests to stop one from stretching out for a time-consuming zizz. Not many of us carry a book any more, and one can only stare at a mobile phone for a limited period. No wonder we untidily lie on the floor with our suitcase for a head-rest. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: 13pt;">They even had large paintings on the walls in those times to lull away our anxiety. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 13pt;">The bar was cheaper too - with prices only twice what they should have been. And you paid the waiter, not a machine. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Security didn't exist, beyond the odd bored-looking cop. Now, and this happens in all airports, we must waddle through a metal detector while holding up our trousers: our diminutive suitcase pitifully opened by some creature with rubber gloves asking what's in this lead-lined box? It's me teef mister. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: 13pt;">As for flying with a proper suitcase which can hold more than a single change of clothes, well they charge extra these days don't they? </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFHN0ap-UdQOXerVIovKQpn5c4NIJDPZzTmVgfO71H3Un7tD-dUphUECBjseXqkQphOgZtMRDy_s-RDheKgZWxmQzdqTnGpq2bIcA5IA7VFIJOqyGcaRdRoxM1bcX19wzF_JO7zLP8VhIoSMQgjPGpReFYcKMVrQWe7Js-4A7h_Ss27Axhgs-IeQ/s711/10731060_1558503664362803_3220519079541713010_n.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="711" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFHN0ap-UdQOXerVIovKQpn5c4NIJDPZzTmVgfO71H3Un7tD-dUphUECBjseXqkQphOgZtMRDy_s-RDheKgZWxmQzdqTnGpq2bIcA5IA7VFIJOqyGcaRdRoxM1bcX19wzF_JO7zLP8VhIoSMQgjPGpReFYcKMVrQWe7Js-4A7h_Ss27Axhgs-IeQ/s320/10731060_1558503664362803_3220519079541713010_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: 13pt;">But times change, and airports grow as they must cater to evermore clients. The Barajas airport now handles some 50,600,000 passengers every year besides me, and probably couldn't care less how happy or otherwise their customers may feel. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: 13pt;">So, here I am. The plane has stopped and the seat-belt light is off. Everyone has stood up, stretching after the cramped nine-hour flight and now they are now taking their cases down from the overhead lockers and standing around in that narrow walk-way looking impatient. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Naturally, I'm at the way-back of the airplane - and there's just one hour and twenty minutes to go before my connecting flight. <br /></span></p>
Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-4091391371202729372023-11-17T21:27:00.001+01:002023-11-17T21:30:26.120+01:00More Fast Cars, Some Good Food and Plenty of Jesus: American Travels<p>I am still in Oklahoma for a couple of weeks to come, staying with my son who runs the local water company. He is fond of fast cars, when he has the chance, and we have just been for the Porsche Weekend in Arkansas, with a side trip to Missouri. </p><p>We drove there - three of us - in three separate vehicles: an old red souped-up Corvette, a 2023 Corvette, and my son's Dodge Hell-Cat (fast on the straights, terrifying on the corners). There were around five-hundred Porsches at the hotel in the small resort of Eureka Springs, displayed with their proud owners. Later, they would drive slowly and noisily through the streets in caterpillar style. One of the cars exhibited at the fayre and for sale was a Porsche GT4: I had driven it up there last year in another adventure. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg_JCTIqQRt9wbAK4m41yFHqMkjTO1FDVAJwK3jbMjw94TDuK8ymJBu09EBlbZxRRTjU-_LD6AvmstpRtRi-A9p27ciWpzlEwDTgx2HmJwjAXwNFPhd2uXjcz5u5or5HJ8u0EHYN1joq4FmRUlZ7DfxTf3JSoLs1omBpAujeRMkbgae9HgAPt7Vg/s3366/received_364430903009595%20(1).jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1760" data-original-width="3366" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg_JCTIqQRt9wbAK4m41yFHqMkjTO1FDVAJwK3jbMjw94TDuK8ymJBu09EBlbZxRRTjU-_LD6AvmstpRtRi-A9p27ciWpzlEwDTgx2HmJwjAXwNFPhd2uXjcz5u5or5HJ8u0EHYN1joq4FmRUlZ7DfxTf3JSoLs1omBpAujeRMkbgae9HgAPt7Vg/s320/received_364430903009595%20(1).jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>We carried on, that second day, to a peculiar resort in Missouri (me now driving the modern black Corvette: its elderly owner, a splendid character who once invented a system to clean oil from impurities and has not drawn a sober breath from that day forward). Our destination was a place called Top of the Rock, a large and peculiar castle high in the Ozark Mountains. There's a golf course apparently, but we had parked and were bussed straight to a massive building which is built in huge rough-stone blocks. Inside there are terraces, several restaurants, a whisky bar, a museum and other wonders too. After refreshing ourselves - we are now eight - with a scotch or two, we went to a private room for our dinner. </p><p>And so we come to food in America. Or at least, in the Mid-West. It's usually very good, huge and generous proportions, talkative waitpersons (ours was called Dan), although it ain't cheap no more like it used to be. Plus that tip, now twenty or even twenty-five percent.</p><p>I've always eaten well over in America, and will need to go on my regular crash diet when I get home again to Spain. </p><p>The next morning, now once again in Eureka Springs, we tramped down the road from the motel to an eatery for breakfast in a nod to the Stop Oil people. The idea of sidewalks and even bicycle lanes here are still in the future: in most of America, everyone drives. </p><p>Our drinking friend wanted to break his fast with a Bloody Mary with a bit of bacon sticking out of it (this is America folks, they've never heard of celery), while I ordered something rather more modest, along with several cups of cawfee. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRaZWIVzDdmf_I3Vg4S4ssZ9w6YeV35m47vczHBwSFfXSYh1tkHdriNGOyCpVOaHH47k4WHf_vWl3ZAjg0KqwU_snzvdi2Y0FWpo0-zxz_ISZAMFJf4G1a27Up71iv2MSUKz27mG9Gi2uXjXPH8Bmnkt-CaDejnVbHQFCImYKySf_fyj6f3aVqUA/s2744/20231114_192742.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2066" data-original-width="2744" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRaZWIVzDdmf_I3Vg4S4ssZ9w6YeV35m47vczHBwSFfXSYh1tkHdriNGOyCpVOaHH47k4WHf_vWl3ZAjg0KqwU_snzvdi2Y0FWpo0-zxz_ISZAMFJf4G1a27Up71iv2MSUKz27mG9Gi2uXjXPH8Bmnkt-CaDejnVbHQFCImYKySf_fyj6f3aVqUA/s320/20231114_192742.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>At the next table, a lone diner was seated with his back to us. Here and there, a staff-member would sit with him for a minute or two in conversation. I learned that he was travelling around the country on foot, carrying an eight-foot tall wooden cross. As he left, I went outside to speak with him. He called me 'Brother' and told me that he left his job and gave away his house and car almost four years before. Since then, he has walked across fourteen states with his cross and the clothes he stands up in (refreshed here and there by admirers). He looked good for another twenty states or so. And talking of the Lord's Work, a few nights later, back in Oklahoma, I was invited around to an old Cherokee's house for an evening of Inspirational Songs (two guitars, a drum box and a pair of singers - it reminded me in that respect of a flamenco evening back home). My daughter in law is a member of this admirable tribe. We thus joined in with some of the neighbours, singing for an hour or so - songs in both English and Cherokee. <p></p><p>And let's end where we began: Driving fast cars around the countryside. I even got stopped the other day and interviewed by the local TV as, er, 'President of the Tulsa Porsche Club' (standing in temporarily for my son, who is camera-shy), explaining why we were all driving domestic muscle-cars ('Porsche-owners have to work all week to pay for them' I explained). </p><p>As above- there are two more weeks to go... </p>Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-34307395972667410342023-11-03T22:39:00.011+01:002023-11-04T13:29:11.777+01:00Fast Cars in Oklahoma<p>Right now, I'm in Oklahoma staying with my son Daniel. I'll be here for the month of November, including a few days trip to Colorado in his muscle-car, and also to Porsche Weekend in Eureka Springs to the east, in Arkansas. Daniel likes his cars, and knows people who like to race them.</p><p>That first day, we were driving up the forested hill from the local town, rounded a bend, and found a double-wide house on the back of a truck coming in the other direction and occupying the entire width of the road. In America, they usually build their houses out of wood and then haul them to wherever they are needed. Preceded along the route - at least as a rule - by a van with a light on top and a sign saying 'Caution: Wide-load'. </p><p>This one didn't. We had to swerve off the road into the ditch. Otherwise it might have been a case not so much of a car driving into the side of a house as a house driving into the side of a car.</p><p>My boy's car is a cobalt-blue Dodge Challenger 'Hell-Cat' which has a powerful acceleration and has over seven hundred horsepower. He picked it up second-hand, and in its favour, it can be used as a sober vehicle for taking granddad for a ride, or for some volume-shopping down at Walmart. The boot ('trunk') is massive. </p><p>And thus it came to pass that, on my second day in Daniel's town (an hour north of Tulsa), we drove down to the track at <a href="http://www.hallettracing.net">Hallett</a>, a circuit somewhere south of Tulsa. We were going racing. </p><p>They give you a talk at the race-track. Drive with your window open (in case you need to be rescued). Wear a racing-car helmet. Empty the trunk of anything loose. Watch the flags. Don't do this, don't do that. There were around twenty drivers (and one passenger) taking this all in. Anyone have an electric car? No? Good. We hope no one's been silly enough to bring a Hell-Cat? (Laughs). </p><p>There are several groups of five who will drive for fifteen minutes - the first time for practice and getting to know the track - no passengers. So I went over to the stand to watch them go.</p><p>Later, it was time for my ride. I put on the helmet in the enclosed space - it's not easy - and we drove down to the chequered flag and then, away...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT4iwy0-OLqNC7B9c7_xyLdQnVjj9hdV9iZq5eQE1khgAuqKLEH9M_QOfMb6VePZ45tQuddpcwEi1p4bCGU5CYA53fv6TlkGqFjjSN4AIj2fjMQwoDJZHBjcCoRoA4zsxz_7-1qg_3HnX2RjwoxXp_ug3LrPAL0WHu1fkAHNqhAeEYtRZ6TPJeug/s960/FB_IMG_1698927769744.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="684" data-original-width="960" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT4iwy0-OLqNC7B9c7_xyLdQnVjj9hdV9iZq5eQE1khgAuqKLEH9M_QOfMb6VePZ45tQuddpcwEi1p4bCGU5CYA53fv6TlkGqFjjSN4AIj2fjMQwoDJZHBjcCoRoA4zsxz_7-1qg_3HnX2RjwoxXp_ug3LrPAL0WHu1fkAHNqhAeEYtRZ6TPJeug/s320/FB_IMG_1698927769744.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Daniel is a good driver, but the Dodge weighs a lot and, as happens with American cars anyway, it doesn't do corners very well. It has excellent acceleration, but we had to slow down long before any corner to get around it. There are a couple of nasty corners at Hallett. All went well, although after the session was over, we found we had burned the brake-pads - perhaps not surprisingly. </p><p>We stayed for lunch and talked shop with the others. I told them about my Citroen back in Spain. I don't think they were very impressed.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeVH5U1-rfJot-wyoug8yxhkIQS-FsGk7HfMhESFQWcFg_I0VixTbqWf5oFm1a-8mHfn__BJ5IvFaUx8_qSNLrp7UAqW_vWO3l5BukaYy95xbxBSTFNmS_5GKn1SwaJvm_DJuUUkvRXMumgcDJN6Ub51PNdcw-TigvJk6Y7qZmW78ZYcXW-qFF5A/s4032/received_715032970050501.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeVH5U1-rfJot-wyoug8yxhkIQS-FsGk7HfMhESFQWcFg_I0VixTbqWf5oFm1a-8mHfn__BJ5IvFaUx8_qSNLrp7UAqW_vWO3l5BukaYy95xbxBSTFNmS_5GKn1SwaJvm_DJuUUkvRXMumgcDJN6Ub51PNdcw-TigvJk6Y7qZmW78ZYcXW-qFF5A/s320/received_715032970050501.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>After lunch, Eddie invited me to ride in his new Lamborghini STO. Eddie is a great driver and once I had crawled into the car and somehow managed to put on my helmet after putting the back of the seat down to *flat*, we took off. </p><p>A car like this holds the road and is so much lighter that the Dodge that it zipped around the corners with incredible grip. Gosh, it was fast. An amazing experience and my thanks to Eddie for the ride. </p><p>I shall be asking Santa for one of those. </p>Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-45313692471256721192023-10-15T16:25:00.006+02:002023-10-16T10:03:23.654+02:00Take the Train<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span>The best thing about the
train is that it will take you into the centre of the city. You won’t be dumped
in some stainless steel and marble airport half an hour or more – by taxi - from
the downtown. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Living in Almería – one of
the cities that has waited patiently for about twenty years for a high-speed
train to take us somewhere, indeed anywhere… we have either had to get in the
car, or on a very uncomfortable and slow bus, or take the trouble to buy an
air-ticket, or climb aboard the one existing slow train – there's only one train station in the entire province, and that's in
Almería City: a line which meanders across the landscape before eventually hooking up
with civilization in Linares (Jaén) and so on northwards or alternatively west to Seville. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>The problem with arriving by car at your city destination is increasingly - where to leave it? <br /></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>There never was much in the
way of railways in Almería, beyond a few mining routes built with foreign
investment in around 1900 – now all since lost beyond the elevated rail-head in Almería
City (now restored and converted into a tourist attraction) known as el Cable Inglés. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Trains are the best, because
one can wander around in them – pop into the bar for a brandy and to read the
paper. Even seated, one can stretch one’s legs. There’s no baggage issues
either. Bring along a full suitcase, why don’t you.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Many years ago, taking the
Sleeper to Madrid was, if you’ll forgive the pun, just the ticket. The carriage,
built in Birmingham in 1948, was sturdy and comfortable, and one was delivered
on Platform One in Madrid’s Atocha railway station at seven in the morning – the
perfect time for a coffee and a bun before taking a taxi to one’s appointments.
</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYGXgkFJO0LBkET3D9BpNuULL7FF78MbpKjzbqkHYfnvkYLkMRrkfaSy-4D4AtEi9vRehdzvXLn_MbJJjw3ljVSEvWL-hl0fJ0QnWPuMtwtxUe7y4INOjFaDGle2b184d0he2Q-OME6hiUP8e6Os2KAxjfwWipZ4s-yqgn2XLIcTkjrO7kbbZ4Xw/s320/82f9256013960aa4b9e19a7ab7ffd371.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYGXgkFJO0LBkET3D9BpNuULL7FF78MbpKjzbqkHYfnvkYLkMRrkfaSy-4D4AtEi9vRehdzvXLn_MbJJjw3ljVSEvWL-hl0fJ0QnWPuMtwtxUe7y4INOjFaDGle2b184d0he2Q-OME6hiUP8e6Os2KAxjfwWipZ4s-yqgn2XLIcTkjrO7kbbZ4Xw/s1600/82f9256013960aa4b9e19a7ab7ffd371.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Trains are better than
airplanes, and if they are fast, then there’s little more to be said. Downtown
to downtown without taxi rides to and from the airport – plus one is doing one’s
bit for the struggle against Global Warming and one's Carbon Footprint production. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>(A pop singer called Taylor Swift
who leads the pack in air-rides with almost 8,300 tons of CO2 emissions in 2022
might want to take note. Take the train, Child, we’ll wait).</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Trains then, will deliver one
feeling refreshed while other forms of transport lean towards leaving one
nervous, washed-out and irritable. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>They say that Almería – poor forgotten
province in the south East of Spain – should finally have its AVE (<i>tren de alta velocidad española</i>) by
2026. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Until then, By Jove, I shall
be staying home on the couch and reading some well-illustrated travelers’ guides. <span> </span></span></span></p>
Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-6002368241195537812023-10-07T16:56:00.007+02:002023-10-07T17:18:59.280+02:00Walt Was Here<br /><p><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]--><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>I first came to Mojácar in
1966 with my parents who bought two apartments here (I’ve just found the <i>escritura</i>) for – apparently – 90,000 pesetas:
that works out at just 260 euros per apartment.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>We lived in the one upstairs with
the three bedrooms and a roof terrace and rented the downstairs one to Michel
for 1,000 pesetas a month, which he could never afford, and he would generally stay
for dinner on rent-night instead. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>One of the stories I heard
(when not in school in the UK, polishing my Latin) was that a local woman had
fallen into disgrace around 1899 and had taken ship to the Americas to hide her
shame. She ended up in Chicago and found employment with the Disney family and
after she died giving birth, the child was adopted by them.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZF9S11VeAMpXRYabTwz0TX89DWxQujwqNbO0y6bLbBuMNPqbpOMJN1TIwNEAGsBSph0yKGAQNjravQt90DpitKj_95NkfbJt1nYB4wYXFf3jMIXk6wbDlQ0yhz9GOFUxrSgRdOb-AfnjTXIYQ10FHBe0cNEx15_It0cC1QRI954tKsACevZllSg/s1280/walt-disney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZF9S11VeAMpXRYabTwz0TX89DWxQujwqNbO0y6bLbBuMNPqbpOMJN1TIwNEAGsBSph0yKGAQNjravQt90DpitKj_95NkfbJt1nYB4wYXFf3jMIXk6wbDlQ0yhz9GOFUxrSgRdOb-AfnjTXIYQ10FHBe0cNEx15_It0cC1QRI954tKsACevZllSg/s320/walt-disney.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>A mere 25 years later, Walt
Disney’s climb to fame began. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>This seems unlikely as she
wouldn’t have written home saying – I’m about to give birth to Walter (not an
easy name to say), who will one day be a household name. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Furthermore, the <i>Mojaquero</i>
version has it that the child was called José Guirao Zamora and that his dad
was the Mojácar doctor of that period – who also apparently suffered from
prescience. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Not that the family hasn’t
always strenuously denied the tale.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>We would tell of the two FBI
agents asking to see the Church Registry sometime in the fifties, so as to keep
the matter secret (why we would think that they must have come for Disney if it
was a secret, is a secret). The twist is that all the documents were destroyed
in the Civil War so no one could prove anything one way or the other.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>It was all a good story, and
while the Disney Corporation would tremble in outrage at the suggestion of their
Founder being a <i>Mojaquero</i>, there wasn’t anything much to prove that he wasn’t.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Well, except for a birth
certificate (which has never been found) or a Certificate of Baptism currently on display in the San
Francisco Disney museum (‘Walter Elias Disney: 5 December 1901).</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>The old mayor of Mojácar
Jacinto Alarcón once told me the story of Walt Disney. In his version, he and
Diego Carillo (the village doctor) were once reading a magazine which had a
picture of Walt Disney in it. ‘Coo’, said Jacinto, politely dropping the <i>ñ</i>, ‘he’s the spitting
image of you. I bet you’re related to him’. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Thus, after another round of <i>Anis del Mono</i>, was a legend born. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>All Good Stuff, one might
say, and we can’t dine out on Gordon Goodie the Train Robber (he had a beach-bar
in Mojácar) for ever. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>When asked if he was from
Mojácar – so the story goes – Walt himself replied ‘Who knows…?’</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Despite the fact that if he
was, he certainly never came back – unless he was one of those FBI agents, of
course.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDADkiu3kOxShiWqdCP2g_h1Lw25gSS4mVnG3wZpij_DVdDfQDSPoScuRGeWaI8JF35rTXsb4ZEiic3Is1lW5BIGlx9qgFj9hASmQPo3c9O5WYYHFbsocprLUnAAuNsfKJG9lF7M-Mhi1Xb34XyU_B94oswhzjI4cLqdIQh9SboYIDNAh2lNLeig/s1107/FB_IMG_1696576758708.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1107" data-original-width="833" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDADkiu3kOxShiWqdCP2g_h1Lw25gSS4mVnG3wZpij_DVdDfQDSPoScuRGeWaI8JF35rTXsb4ZEiic3Is1lW5BIGlx9qgFj9hASmQPo3c9O5WYYHFbsocprLUnAAuNsfKJG9lF7M-Mhi1Xb34XyU_B94oswhzjI4cLqdIQh9SboYIDNAh2lNLeig/w280-h372/FB_IMG_1696576758708.jpg" width="280" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>So, fifty or sixty, or probably
seventy years later, the Mojácar City Fathers have decided that, well, yes:
Walt Was Here. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>So now we have two enormous
murals in the village, vast wall paintings of Mickey Mouse welcoming the
tourists to come and buy some souvenirs. There’s to be a Plaza de Walt Disney
and even a Walt Disney festival to be held in late November (unless they hear
about it in San Francisco). </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>One little town in Andalucía has
painted itself blue to accommodate the Smurfs, and now another has grown a pair
of huge mousey ears – to please the shopkeepers. </span></span></p>
Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-65959278536132779302023-10-02T22:03:00.003+02:002023-10-02T22:03:45.277+02:00The Curious New Laws Regarding Pets<p> <br />
</p><div style="overflow: auto; padding-right: 10px; width: 620px;">
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I imagine that most of us have had a pet in the house since we were of the tenderest age all those years ago.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I certainly did.<img alt="" height="304" src="https://www.eyeonspain.com/userfiles/image/lenox/100_4945.JPG" style="float: right;" width="399" /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">What was yours called?</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">No, don’t tell me, or I’ll have your password figured out.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Now we read that, while some of the <em>Animal Welfare Law</em>
hasn’t yet been ratified thanks to a conspicuous lack of government,
other bits of it have. We don’t need to take lessons in how to entertain
a pooch (which we have done, as above, since we started. After all, one
is pretty much there with Walkies, Din-dins and Down Boy!).</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">But, let’s see – one can no longer take the dog out to go shopping and leave him tied to a post outside while <a href="https://www.noticiasgalicia.com/articulo/vigo/primera-multa-500-euros-vigo-dejar-atado-perro/20231001104339150281.html" rel="nofollow">we pick up</a> a box of milk, some chocolates, a tin of dog-food and a free English-language paper (to wrap it all up in).</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">There’s <a href="https://www.20minutos.es/noticia/5177245/0/policia-avisa-actuar-ley-bienestar-animal/" rel="nofollow">anything up to</a> a ten thousand euro fine if you are caught. More, probably, if your <em>mascota</em> (the Spanish name for pet) bites the nice policeman during the inevitable altercation.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">To cure this problem, supermarkets have beggars which sit, slumped,
outside the entrance. For a small consideration, they’ll be happy to
look after Fido and you will be able to shop at your leisure.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Maybe throw in an extra tin of Chum for the hobo’s dog, or indeed a frosty can of beer for the deadbeat himself.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">We must now take more care and not leave our dogs in the house alone for long – or chained up outside either.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Felines have a bit more liberty, as is only proper, but run the risk
of returning home through the upstairs window a few grams lighter that
when they left having been caught by one of those peculiar
catch-neuter-release people that are always leaving food out for the
feral cats.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">There is also a list of pets which we just flatly aren’t allowed to
keep. It’s easier just to note the few one can – which pretty much comes
down to dog, cat, ferret (who on earth keeps a ferret for a pet?),
tropical fish and that thing you shouldn’t get wet or feed after
midnight.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">All this, plus the looming dog insurance at around twenty-five euros a
pop (while a very good idea as any postman will tell you), which may be
beneficial to our furry (or scaly) friends as the legislators provided;
although I rather think that there will be <a href="https://www.lavanguardia.com/mascotas/20230929/9262343/alud-renuncias-mascotas-mallorca-previo-entrada-vigor-ley-bienestar-animal-pmv.html" rel="nofollow">more than a few</a> accidents or inexplicable losses of surplus critters of one sort or another reported in the inside pages.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Some causes in Spain <a href="https://revistajaraysedal.es/ley-animalista-entra-hoy-en-vigor-no-afectara-a-la-caza/" rel="nofollow">remain sacred</a>, and hunting dogs and fighting bulls, of course, need not apply. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">…</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><strong>El Comercio</strong> has an exhaustive list of the new <em>Animal Welfare Law</em> do’s and don’ts <a href="https://www.elcomercio.es/sociedad/ley-bienestar-animal-detalle-guia-completa-prohibido-obligatorio-perros-gatos-dudas-norma-infracciones-sanciones-20230927182340-nt.html" rel="nofollow">here</a>.</span></p>
</div>Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-88572485051945733392023-09-23T18:55:00.010+02:002023-09-25T09:35:52.560+02:00Not Facebook Prison this time, not yet<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I haven't posted anything - purposefully - on Facebook for the past week. You see, there's nothing I wanted to say or show of particular interest. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">However, the Facebook dweebs have wisely not dropped their vigilance and today I was warned that my comment didn't meet Facebook community standards. The message read: 'We removed your content. See why'<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Which happens now and again (the Facebook censors are evidently poorly-paid foolish creatures with no better prospects in life than reading other people's opinions). </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Only, you see, I hadn't posted anything.</span></p><p> <img alt="" 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" /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As is - vaguely - shown here (the exact notification is unavailable), I have taken one over the knuckles. However, the particular post I allegedly made has not been shown as 'Exhibit A' by the Thought-Police for my edification, so I can't share it with the Gentle Reader. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Indeed, I have no idea what it was that offended these idiots, unless not posting anything in a week is itself an offense. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I think sticking something on Facebook is an enjoyable enough pastime: showing points of view or a funny joke or a picture of one's pet: and these days, God knows, one needs all the endorphins one can get. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Or wait, could it have been a post last week I made complaining about the adverts that Facebook keeps showing - hats (in particular), and tee-shirts and leather jackets. All on special one-day-only going-out-of-business sale, adorned with thousands of 'likes'?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">If you check these 'sponsored' advertisers up on <a href="https://www.scamwatcher.com/">Scamwatcher</a>, it will likely say something like - this company is very dodgy. Try it for yourself and see... </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">(No - it wasn't that - I just looked and my post about the rogue fashion-outlets is still there...).<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So what could it have been that tipped them again? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Anyway, and once again: fuggem. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> ...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Later</b>. The message over at 'Notifications' has now been replaced with 'Your account looks good! Thanks for sticking to the rules and making Facebook a better place'. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It's the only apology I'll get... </span><br /></p>Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-1051151526997376552023-09-14T19:51:00.004+02:002023-09-14T19:55:21.199+02:00A Short Break in Foreign Parts<p> <span style="font-size: medium;">Well, there's an experience: I’ve just been to the UK for a few days.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Since almost everyone who reads my <b>Business over Tapas</b> (a <a href="http://businessovertapas.com/">weekly review </a>of Spanish news) will
know the United Kingdom better than I do with my modest current score of just thirty days there in
the last forty years, there’s probably not much I can add about the
place, beyond noting that I never saw a single electric scooter in the
local towns and villages in West Sussex - although I did notice that there
are lots of expensive cars around, if not enough road for them all to
share. I spent much of our time with my host on the country lanes stuck
in long and tedious traffic jams.</span></p><div style="overflow: auto; padding-right: 10px; width: 620px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That’s Conservatism for you, I thought. A fancy car in a queue.</span>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I was staying in a place near Chichester: a genteel sea-village with a
pebbled beach and a few fishermen dotted about selling dressed crab,
and where some batty old dear knits woolen cosies and puts them on the
lids of the letter boxes. To keep them warm, I suppose. The photograph
of me posting a letter into one of these wholesome treasures
unfortunately didn’t come out (due to the ill-placing of my chum’s
thumb).</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I did, however, pick up a joke:</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>A high court judge and his wife are returning from a very jolly dinner-party when they are stopped by the police.</i></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>‘Who are you, sir, and where are you from?’</i></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>‘I’m a high-court judge and I’m from Bognor’ said that worthy gentleman.</i></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>The policeman let them continue on their way.</i></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>‘But darling, we live in Chichester’ said his wife.</i></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>‘I know’, he answered, ‘but try and say <u>that</u> when you’re pissed’</i>.<img alt="" height="235" src="https://www.eyeonspain.com/userfiles/image/lenox/376288892_3592078167671999_2731560691013655420_n.jpg" style="float: right;" width="350" /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">My old school friend and I had some distant memories to recall, a few
local sites to explore, a decent curry to enjoy and a pint or two of
local brew to quaff. Apparently, they hadn’t had any summer this year
until I showed up. I expect they were glad to see me arrive. The
temperature was high and the sky was sunny the five days I was there,
but now it’s gone back to overcast with a chance of hail.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">There are things about Blighty, you know, that never change.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Some <i>travellers</i> – the non-aggressive British word for
gypsies, and I believe that’s now out-of-date as well – were occupying a
field by the beach in the village and the local bars had all promptly
closed with ‘gas-leaks’ and other tiresome issues, no doubt to remain
firmly shuttered until the group had been moved on to pastures new by
the local constabulary. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">They do like their doggies, the Brits. We had a meal in a Turkish tapa-bar (<i>sic!</i>),
with the next table’s two customers in charge of no less than three
dogs, the table behind with two more dogs and another table nearby with
yet another pooch. All fulsomely excited, as only the canine-race can
be, to meet new friends.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">That wouldn’t happen in Spain – but then I suppose, neither would a Turkish tapa-bar. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Of course, I had a good time munching pork pies and once a scotch egg
in an otherwise rather boring art museum and, now returned home and
suitably refreshed, I’m quite ready for <i>una caña de cerveza</i> and a decent <i>tapa</i>.</span></p>
</div>
<br />
Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-74716216607869524882023-09-02T18:46:00.004+02:002023-09-02T18:48:43.820+02:00The Pueblo Home<p> <span style="font-size: 13pt;">During the fiesta in the
small <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pueblo</i> of Tahal in Almería,
which falls in the early part of October, many local people who have moved away
over the years to the City in search of jobs, wealth, comforts, distraction and
a decent restaurant will return to the family home for a few days. They will be
a bit better dressed, probably not wearing those ubiquitous carpet slippers,
and will politely park their Mercedes down near the fountain to not unduly upset
the locals with their old Renaults. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3sWKWb_a9I6mbOz1hJikLk7PVWhdChEdeZpMUr-itAM0wRnAykCt5R0JdjlayTmadda-PT_nhysT-1hQwZ7w-M6gK5DLZ_u5zgiPzFsy6yt3_MYHbYve_hPCZf1p-YxIvuHTRPmQS8pz4LWWJPhDS0gWE_F15kfuPOUIEmVGYUlYtJNm3XCPWRw/s2627/DSC01002.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1643" data-original-width="2627" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3sWKWb_a9I6mbOz1hJikLk7PVWhdChEdeZpMUr-itAM0wRnAykCt5R0JdjlayTmadda-PT_nhysT-1hQwZ7w-M6gK5DLZ_u5zgiPzFsy6yt3_MYHbYve_hPCZf1p-YxIvuHTRPmQS8pz4LWWJPhDS0gWE_F15kfuPOUIEmVGYUlYtJNm3XCPWRw/s320/DSC01002.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pueblerinos</i> will feel a little uncomfortable by their richer
cousins but then they will reflect that – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bueno</i>,
they’ll <a href="https://news.airbnb.com/es/la-casa-del-pueblo-o-de-la-playa-el-principal-recurso-economico-de-muchas-familias-espanolas-ante-el-incremento-del-coste-de-la-vida/"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;">soon be gone</span></a> once again. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">And so it is. Those villages
more than an hour away from nowhere will have a small population, but a far
larger number of maintained homes. The folk who moved to the city will keep an
eye on the old property, fix the roof maybe, put in a proper cooker and a TV,
and <a href="https://lossantosdemaimona.hoy.es/gente-cercana/jose-garay-madre-nunca-quiso-vender-casa-20230815115112-nt.html"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;">will visit</span></a> once or twice a year (probably bring a hamper with
them). There will be no tourism and the shop, if there is one, will be in the
back of the bar. A van will regularly drive up the hill and honk its horn – the
fish-man is here! </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">These villages are
technically moribund, and there should be <a href="https://spanishshilling.blogspot.com/2019/11/on-road-to-la-matanza.html"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;">houses for sale there</span></a> for those who crave a quiet and lonely
life. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">But few people want to buy,
and the <a href="https://www.lagacetadesalamanca.es/provincia/me-vuelvo-al-pueblo-la-demanda-de-casas-en-la-zona-rural-sigue-al-alza-BB13741990"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;">villages stay quiet</span></a> – except for the annual fiesta with its enthusiastic
band, its tin bar with tapas and draft beer set up in the square and the
fireworks to round things off.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Those in the City will tell
you of their home in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pueblo</i> and
enthuse about the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tomates</i> or the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">higos</i> which can be found there. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">The prettier <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pueblos</i> nearer to the coast may count on
foreigners buying property there, but again won’t see much tourism. A couple of
shops and a bar or two, but most of the remaining Spanish population will be
living on pensions. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Other <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pueblos</i>, happily located nearer to Civilization, will have become
dormer-towns and Goodness knows, they might have become perhaps a little funky
over the years, but they’ll be full nonetheless. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">The Covid evidently brought
about a modest renaissance in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pueblos</i>,
after all no one wants to get sick and if one owns a place to keep one’s head
down, then why not – but that’s over with for now. Maybe, to extend that
thought, they’ve been joined – in the harder to reach ones – by a few
survivalists turning their backs on modern life. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">But when you can’t get decent
coverage on your Internet, then being a hermit begins to lose its shine. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-67140749424010732172023-09-01T11:38:00.001+02:002023-09-01T11:38:12.549+02:00The Snails of Palomares (reworked)<p> </p><div style="overflow: auto; padding-right: 10px; width: 620px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A USAF B52 was
taking on fuel from a flying tanker somewhere over Vera (Almería) on
January 21st 1966 when something went wrong – the two aircraft touched,
and exploded. Debris rained down on the fields and coastline below,
including four unarmed nuclear bombs.
</span><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I mean, ‘four bombs which hadn’t been armed’, rather than ‘four defenceless bombs’. That would have been cruel.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The gerfuffle as the remains of the aircraft, blobs of raw plutonium
and the four bombs were re-secured by the Americans are well known. Two
bombs landed on the ground in Palomares (‘falling open and melting
everything in their path’ according to unverifiable reports) and the
other two fell in the sea, where one was soon found while the forth was
finally located in a deep trench off the coast several months later by
Alvin, that cute little mini-sub that starred in the National Geographic
magazines of the period. Antonio the wise old fisherman with the
150-metre ice-blue stare suggesting fully-fledged insanity may have
helped. He was certainly cheaper to fuel.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Franco was on board the Fifth Fleet American destroyer for a brief
visit and toying with a complimentary Easter bunny as the bomb was
fortuitously hauled aboard.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">A suggestion from the time was that the last bomb was in a very deep
hole in the sea and was impossible to extract, so a plastic reproduction
had been lowered off the other side of the ship to be triumphantly
raised in front of the mad Caudillo to cheer him up.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Fraga Irribarne the Minister of Tourism, perhaps unaware of this
sleight of hand, famously took a dip in the sea with the American
ambassador at the time to show there was no radiation. On the other
hand, they carefully enjoyed their frolic in front of the Mojácar
Parador, some ten kilometres down the coast.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The Marines removed 800,000 tons of topsoil, fertile and safe, and
took it to South Carolina, because, you see, there was no radiation.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">It's now used to grow terbacca.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Roberto Puig, an eccentric architect, was meanwhile putting the
finishing touches to his Hotel Mojácar located in the village of the
same name (many, many years later, Pedro Sánchez, the future president,
bought an apartment within the since-converted hotel). Roberto hired a
van and drove over to Palomares and managed to secure part of a wing
from the bomber, which he proudly affixed to the wall in the cave-bar
under his hotel. The local wags said it had an unearthly glow.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">A small desalination plant was built in Palomares by the Americans
for thirty million dollars as a kind gesture (it was quickly closed down
after the resident engineer moved to Mojácar to open a beach bar and,
seeing that he wasn't coming back, the Catalan caretaker sold the guts
of the building for scrap). A few rusting Geiger counters were left to
record the ambient radiation level – if there was any – and new
construction extending from Vera Playa into Palomares and Villaricos was
given the go-ahead by forward thinking planners (see, I could have
written ‘greedy capitalists’).</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">A recent test on Palomares snails (please pay attention here if you
count gastropods in your carefully balanced diet) has shown a higher
than normal level of radiation. Their stomach is their foot, so what
they walk on, so to speak, they eat. Snail poop, we read somewhere,
might spread radioactive dust.<img alt="" height="227" src="https://www.eyeonspain.com/userfiles/image/lenox/Screenshot 2023-08-26 at 21-17-27 The Forgotten Element of Strategy.jpeg" style="float: left;" width="256" /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Of course, a light wind, common in that corner of dusty Spain, will spread a lot more dust, radioactive or otherwise.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">But one has to start somewhere.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The American Department of Energy, together with the CIEMAT Spanish
atomic agency, eventually bought ten hectares of land which had been
previously cleared by speculators ready for some building, although the
dust already raised and blown to the heavens by the tractors and… no,
I’m not going there.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Local ecologists have reacted to the news by saying that a much larger area needs to be sanitised.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The half-life of plutonium is a lot longer than ours.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">For the meantime, my advice is, don’t eat the snails.</span></p>
</div>Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-53571363962952878102023-08-18T21:12:00.002+02:002023-08-18T21:12:33.230+02:00The Quiet Life, Free from Tourism<p> </p><div style="overflow: auto; padding-right: 10px; width: 620px;">
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I always wanted to go to visit Machu Picchu. <img alt="" height="280" src="https://www.eyeonspain.com/userfiles/image/lenox/IMG_20190903_082247-EFFECTS.jpg" style="float: right;" width="374" /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">And just stand on that hill.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The famous picture, rendered for once in black and white, occupied a
wall in a Peruvian restaurant in Madrid that I used to go to.
Unfortunately, the Pisco Sours were so damn good, that it was hard,
after enjoying two or three of them, to remember if one had eaten yet.
The crestfallen face of the owner as we asked for the bill just as the <em>chupe de camarones</em> was arriving… </span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">While I didn’t remember eating much there, I still remember that
photo – the one of the bent mountain high in the Andes, with the
abandoned Inca settlement tumbled down below.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I travelled a lot as a young ’un in the seventies, at dollar-a-night
places in Mexico and Central America, a few bucks more in the USA, and
so on, as one could. The Americas, unlike Spain, hadn’t quite caught on
to the idea of foreign money (except Yankee-green) in those far-off
times and it was hard switching a ten pound note or a thousand pesetas
into the local currency.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The thing was, there weren’t many travellers, or tourists, much
beyond the crowds heading for Disneyland, Chichen Itza and Key West.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Now, of course, there are.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I missed my chance to visit Machu Picchu and now I'm told that it’s
so full of visitors that I couldn’t imagine going there. Like the
inspiring Mezquita in Córdoba or the Alhambra in Granada, their time as
places to visit has passed. Santiago de Compostela or the Sagrada
Familia in Barcelona. Don’t go. They are done; cooked; crammed;
despoiled.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">There are too many of us, all wanting to take a picture as we
finally, after a long and impatient queue, make it through the doors. We
talk, we crowd, we flash, we hold our souvenir pamphlet and we smile at
the Japanese tourists with their extendable selfie-sticks.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Next time, try Jaén or Ciudad Real. They may not be much, but they’ll be more enjoyable. By far.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">In Mallorca, the locals have put up signs in English saying ‘Don’t
bathe here, it’s dangerous’ and underneath, in the local tongue: ‘Don’t
worry, we’re just fooling the <em>guiris</em>’.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Well fine, don’t live in a place with lots of tourists, why don’t you?</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Forget Florence, or Venice, or Barcelona, or Benidorm, or Marbella or
Mojácar – buy a house somewhere quiet, with little or no tourist
potential.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Because if there is one, the temptation is high: rack up those rents and open a souvenir shop.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Now my town is on the coast, it’s a suburb of Almería City. It’s ugly
and has no tourism whatsoever – frankly, there’s nothing to see and the
beaches aren’t worth visiting. Which means that I rarely have to take a
picture, except once a year when the local saint, looking a little
pale, is hauled along the main drag on a waggon pulled by a pair of
bulls (relieved, no doubt to be spared other more onerous duties).</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">So, I was lucky. I got my travelling in early. Nowadays, I can see
the world for a few pennies, from the comfort of my own armchair and
with a pile of second-hand books from the charity store. </span></p>
</div>Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-15468687435693587942023-08-02T17:23:00.001+02:002023-08-02T17:23:04.420+02:00Pop Goes the Walter<p><span id="DataList1"><span></span></span></p><div style="overflow: auto; width: 620px;">
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">It was a
hot and steamy night - they always are, aren't they? - and I was
wondering where the Jack in the Box came from. Perhaps I was asleep
after all. Maybe I'll look it up when I get up in the morning.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><em>Google</em> was a trifle disappointing, as it only seemed to know
about a cheap American fast-food chain operating under that name.
Perhaps your hamburger is delivered to the table within a box, and when
you unfasten the lid, the whole thing is abruptly lifted, bun, tomaydo
and patty, to all go flying across the joint with a satisfying <em>¡Splatt!</em></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I do like a novelty meal.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I later find, and thanks to <em>The Cambridge Dictionary</em>, that
this artifice is defined as ‘a children's toy consisting of a box with a
model of a person inside it that jumps out and gives you a surprise
when the top of the box is raised’.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Which reminds me of a birthday I once attended in Dallas, where the
figure inside the cake was not only real, but was found to be wearing
just half of a bikini.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">No doubt the top bit had gotten caught in the icing during her dramatic entrance.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s bound to be a popular thing, surprise visits from somebody are
invariably interesting – if refined a bit by my fellow countrymen, who
have ingeniously taken the concept one step further, as <em>Facebook</em> regularly tells us.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">See, the Brits are always 'popping' into some place or other.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I imagine we are all sat around a table, chugging a beer, when, <em>de repente</em>, a small bubble appears on the floor to expand quickly and then, '<em>pop!</em>', there's a Brit standing there, just like something out of Harry Potter.<img alt="" height="317" src="https://www.eyeonspain.com/userfiles/image/lenox/Pop-Goes-The-Weasel-1.jpg" style="float: right;" width="273" /></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">We popped into Joe’s, they write, and we had a sandwich.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">The half a pound of tupenny rice doggerel ends with ‘pop goes the weasel’, which, on further application to <em>Google</em>,
tells me that the meaning of this Cockney song is to ‘pop’ (pawn)
granddad’s ‘whistle and flute’ (suit) to pay for the groceries.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Which is what will allegedly happen to some of the Brits here if they
don’t pull out their finger in Westminster and put up the pensions.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Those imported Bakewells don't grow on trees you know.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">In Spain, the nearest thing to a Jack in the Box is a <em>Caja Sorpresa</em>,
a similarly explosive receptacle, if only to be used once, to fire
confetti into the air. Which sounds like we're at a wedding.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Maybe they could put someone inside the cake, make it even more of an event to remember.</span></p>
</div>
<br />
<p></p>Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-29102850200932312072023-07-21T21:18:00.004+02:002023-07-21T21:18:41.141+02:00Everything That’s Runny Contains Water (except my wife’s gravy)<p> <span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">I saw a billboard today while
driving along the main road towards the playa on my way for a swim – it was the
local ice-cube company advertising its product and it said: ‘Probably the best
ice-cubes in the world’. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">I’m pretty sure that a couple
of examples from Señor Freezer are rattling around in my iced-tea right now,
gently melting and turning my beverage into watery-iced-tea.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">Which is doubly refreshing. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">Come to think of it, I
suppose all the drinks we enjoy are made pretty much from water. Which they are
always telling us we must drink lots of. So, are all drinks, essentially, just
water with flavouring?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Starting of course with water
itself (flavoured with salts and minerals), and finishing, by a circuitous
route, with beer, which is after all merely bubbly water with some boiled hops
and barley along with a judicious squirt of alcohol (don’t tell the Germans I wrote
that). Indeed, the <a href="https://www.unknownbrewing.com/how-much-water-is-in-beer/"><span>sober answer</span></a> is this:</span> ‘<span>According
to <i>The Brewer's Handbook</i>, most beer
contains about 95% water, and the remaining 5% is alcohol. Beer, in short, is mostly
water but this is barely noticeable because of the flavour of other ingredients’.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTuGBacwvKIXMW5I5fFcKJrPoBeysQ3Xr_TfE_h7QqftUuDpnITGSFtLhxy74MI4Myc-wvSFf5lALo_7ubk1D0P4BxOeR9D1YiQ3cPp8EGiBLqnhJEQvtFvKZWbVopAHab0MN8_AhEyps8Ahybp-DXyTiqGc9XzWeqf2wEWVnZh7h47Utq0-0xA/s3720/IMG_20210924_113239.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2652" data-original-width="3720" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTuGBacwvKIXMW5I5fFcKJrPoBeysQ3Xr_TfE_h7QqftUuDpnITGSFtLhxy74MI4Myc-wvSFf5lALo_7ubk1D0P4BxOeR9D1YiQ3cPp8EGiBLqnhJEQvtFvKZWbVopAHab0MN8_AhEyps8Ahybp-DXyTiqGc9XzWeqf2wEWVnZh7h47Utq0-0xA/s320/IMG_20210924_113239.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>The taste though, whether in beer
or in whisky, depends on the water, so a distilled H2O won’t give much taste to
the finished product, whereas a nice ‘fresh mountain stream’ might be just the
ticket. <span> </span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Let’s see. Sweet sticky soda
drinks are 90% water (we know what most of the rest is). Milk is about the
same. Tomato ketchup is about 70%. Wine has 85% water and soda water is 90%,
while sparkling water is 99% made up of our old friend <i>agua</i>, with a bubble or two added to help make us burp.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>With all of the above, it’s
clear that whatever one drinks (or sloshes on one’s chips), it’s all mainly
down to water. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>So, and sorry for asking, but
why is beer cheaper than water in most bars? And with a free tapa thrown in for
good measure!</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Of all of these endless libations,
only the stuff commercialised by the plastic water-bottle companies has a
breakdown of the water and its minerals and salts printed on the label. No beer
ever said ‘this brew has calcium, magnesium and sulphates’. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>So, what is water? </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Well, lessee, it takes two
haitches and one oh, or two molecules of hydrogen and one of oxygen. A simple
formula we all learned in school. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>But with all of the free
hydrogen and endless amount of oxygen in gas filling up the space around us –
why doesn’t it <a href="https://www.quora.com/If-hydrogen-and-oxygen-forms-water-then-why-don%E2%80%99t-we-use-it-to-make-water-for-our-use"><span>all club together</span></a> and turn into water? It’s no doubt just as
well that it doesn’t, otherwise I’d be writing this piece while wearing some
manly-looking water-wings. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>The reason, apparently, is
that most of the hydrogen around is already in the water anyway. The other
reason is <i>metastability</i> (<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Metastability"><span>here if you insist</span></a>),
but I’m sorry I asked now. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Another puzzler about water –
if it’s made up of inflammable oxygen and explosive hydrogen – why doesn’t it
detonate every now and then? </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>It would certainly keep us on
our toes if it did. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Mind you, you can always nuke
it for <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_the_steam_engine"><span>an interesting</span></a> reaction. Of course, rather than playing with
steam-engines, I boil mine for a nice cup of tea twice a day. Boiling your water
is a good idea as it kills anything that shouldn’t be there anyway. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Which I suspect is how we did
so well in India. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Returning to the plastic-water-bottling
industry (Motto: <i>We do Our Bit for Pollution</i>),
an estimated 6,500 million emptied litre water-bottles will be obligingly cast
into dustbins or chucked out of car windows or left on the beach or in the
countryside this year in Spain (up 3% from last year, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Metastability"><span>says</span></a> the <i>pwbi</i> proudly). I don’t know how much of
that is recycled, the plastic I mean (don’t worry about the water, it will
return all by itself).</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>The good thing about beer (and
the reason I drink it) is that it comes in either cans or in bottles made of
glass, never plastic. Or better still, on draught.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Although I suppose it’s a
pity that they can’t make beer-bottles out of cardboard.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>The ice has now dissolved in
my drink, adding its own secret chemical make-up to my beverage. I think I’ll
chuck the dregs and go and get a brewski from the fridge. </span></span></p>
Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-91180145896079961982023-07-14T21:21:00.002+02:002023-07-19T16:26:29.304+02:00It's Not Unusual<p> Have you noticed how many people have taken to recording every scene with their telephone-camera? I suppose it's one thing taking a video of your baby to send to your family, or a short of you on your horse, or your new bicycle, but to record Tom Jones live... when you're there at the concert-arena... having just paid eighty euros? </p><p>C'mon, you know you are not going to watch it later, curled up in bed with the squinty picture and tinny sound from your phone.</p><p>What would be the point of not enjoying it at the time, in full and glorious presence-vision, when you are part of the gigantic crowd of fans? Where's the drama, where's the excitement?<br /></p><p>Many of your fellow concert-goers, admittedly, are spoiling your view of the event by waving their blasted iPhones in the air in front of you. </p><p>You know (don't you?) that no one is going to watch your amateur and wobbly twenty-second cut on Facebook, and if you want to tell us about how marvelous is Tom Jones or whoever, then send us to YouTube (I've chosen Tom Jones here, because I have no idea what most of today's pop singers are called).</p><p>I could have written instead about Córdoba and its astonishing mosque (converted into a Catholic church a number of centuries ago). It's full of people all taking pictures with their phones - instead of feeling, for just a moment, the majesty of The Creator. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-DNIGJGjKWJMbWpidgPLYr2EtvllG1ra3MgMTyHnO2V_DQ7ba2mDgIJXJT8RDSifAG4MkIUitEqxgDnnt2WZUJ6bwS4wwQCz-k5AkUFlFsXiprpq6VuvM6N3TixfO5JbJkMfcqjGRHOnMcBMbxc9Pu_nhFCKP78G3WS6tHMaB8VnbQth_3GM8uQ/s764/meneame-media-link-3834507.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="764" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-DNIGJGjKWJMbWpidgPLYr2EtvllG1ra3MgMTyHnO2V_DQ7ba2mDgIJXJT8RDSifAG4MkIUitEqxgDnnt2WZUJ6bwS4wwQCz-k5AkUFlFsXiprpq6VuvM6N3TixfO5JbJkMfcqjGRHOnMcBMbxc9Pu_nhFCKP78G3WS6tHMaB8VnbQth_3GM8uQ/s320/meneame-media-link-3834507.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>I travelled a lot at a tender age, and have a few boxes of slides from here and there to show for it; and even went to a few pop-concerts (not Tom Jones, thankfully), but I was lucky: there was no social media (or mobile phones, or even a land-line at home in Spain) in those times. In fact, no one besides me knew where I was unless they happened to receive a surprise post-card out of the blue.</p><p>Dear Mum and Dad, having a wonderful time. Send money. Besos. <br /></p><p>A good memory should be treasured, not peered at over the years. Besides which, how many photos, clips, archives and scrap-books have been lost or mislaid since they came back from the camera-shop, or since I moved digs? Yes, I know I've forgotten lots of things I've seen or done, but I'm all the richer for still having the memories (I think) of the important events. <br /></p><p>And anyway, life is about collecting experiences, not 'likes'. <br /></p>Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-79277311849069669132023-06-20T12:44:00.005+02:002023-06-20T12:58:38.962+02:00The Usual<span style="font-size: 13pt;">It’s always nice to see when
a new café opens near where I live. Sometimes, I even make an effort to visit
there and have a coffee or a beer and a tapa, depending on the hour. </span>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">I live in a working-class
neighbourhood, so the cafés are open early, five o’clock early, and generally
call it a day by one in the afternoon. The bars will last a little longer,
perhaps closing around five – after the lunch trade, or even staying awake
until the wee hours of ten thirty or eleven at night on the weekends. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwZ89ZRlxFoixzwa9vTnTNE6tHiPcbxhFI5dZz3pgBqpHrdpXyuQ-OVg5EeXn42jgbwZiXCMFAy7UHi22pzp1vLPNnaitqjeMvwFG0BxvuIuTUCkwUcEB8e-R2Fj8u6PqjwseJGZSG6Pp254eVd_X-4HCGwDv8GF4Yv5wdZNe5K6mRBY_bP9tUnw/s800/ingrediente-aceite-oliva-2.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwZ89ZRlxFoixzwa9vTnTNE6tHiPcbxhFI5dZz3pgBqpHrdpXyuQ-OVg5EeXn42jgbwZiXCMFAy7UHi22pzp1vLPNnaitqjeMvwFG0BxvuIuTUCkwUcEB8e-R2Fj8u6PqjwseJGZSG6Pp254eVd_X-4HCGwDv8GF4Yv5wdZNe5K6mRBY_bP9tUnw/w282-h282/ingrediente-aceite-oliva-2.jpg" width="282" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">My tap-room habits aren’t
what they were, and I tend these days to stay home and raid the fridge or put
on the kettle according to my inclination. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">In the morning, I might drop
in at the café opposite and have a coffee and a tostada. Since this order never
varies, the girl will smile when she sees me and shout through to her
partner<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> who will cut a small loaf length-ways in half and put my bit in the toaster. He'll then cover it with shredded tomato and I'll round it off with salt, pepper and lots of olive oil. Good stuff. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Of course, if I wanted something else, maybe a tostada with <i>tomate y jamón</i> on it, or with butter and jam (locally called '<i>un mixto</i>'), then it's easier to go to one of the two other nearby establishments, who will know exactly what I want, because I always have the same when I'm there. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">It saves on the conversation.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">It used to work the same way when I was younger - <i>that</i> place for gin & tonic, <i>that one</i> for a beer and, oh my, <i>that one</i> for a beer as well. Well, sometimes you have to order, but with training, they'll just plonk down the right drink in front of you. <br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">I remember Diana, an elderly and eccentric British lady, coming into the Sartén (a famous bar in Mojácar) one evening and arranging herself on a bar-stool. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">'The usual?' asked Simon, by way of greeting. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">'Oh yes, rather', answered Diane. 'By the way', she said after a short pause, 'what is my usual?'</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">'Creme de mente you silly old cow', said Simon, reaching for the bottle.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">So today, I crossed the road for my breakfast coffee and tostada, to find a new girl behind the bar. '<i>Café con leche</i>', I said, '<i>y una media con tomate</i>'. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">'You want that in a glass or a cup?'</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">'Warm or hot milk?'</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">'What sort of bread do you want?' <br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">So many questions. I wonder if she'll charge me the same as the usual girl does - which is just 1,20€ plus the few bits of straw from the stables that have collected in my pockets during the morning. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Brenda Lee keeps giving me a mental nudge as I write this. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">But Brenda, it's <i>As Usual</i>! <br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">I think I've got <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=betdwCEL1Vc">the record</a> somewhere. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">It beats watching the television. </span></span></p>
<p></p>Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-59327208387048590272023-05-20T22:48:00.001+02:002023-05-21T08:43:21.403+02:00Smoke 'Em if You've Got 'Em<p><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>As Colin over at his <a href="https://thoughtsfromgalicia.com/blog-2/"><span>blog</span></a> 'Thoughts
from Galicia' will tell you, our friends the Spanish sometimes fail to tune in
to what is happening around them, which explains their approach to roundabouts,
queuing and indeed smoking. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>And, I suppose, feeling any embarrassment. <br /></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>I was in the pharmacy for
what was probably just a few minutes, locked in a queue behind some customers,
one of whom was loudly telling the rest of us about her aches and ailments. The one at
the head of the queue was taking a long time and, I confess, I lost patience, gave up and
left. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>There’s another chemist just
around the corner and, well, nobody was there. I got my packet of aspirins from them and
felt that some progress had been made after all.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>The printers, the main reason
I had come all the way downtown, was closed. It apparently shuts on Saturdays. Bloody
thing – I needed to get some photocopies made. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>But, come to think of it,
back near the house, there’s an <i>estanco</i>,
a cigarette shop – and they have a printer which would do the trick (kind of, I
would need to aim a little lower and just print up a few photos). </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqEz0PUsV2eOhkTjn0IQvL63DHPx5LewusSTzrZHKMQEDxeS3D3M16Da_-UJaBHl9SzFTjOfO8N-W6PSWKegetm7JVyV4UU2LrOTH4DcfsSUVR83-_GL7orFdmiCXSBJ6BamGoveZEma1kFwHOEE7ay9-b59Dgr1OcTlyup-NsxSRqFFhE-Sg/s1000/5948e3183c87b.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="661" data-original-width="1000" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqEz0PUsV2eOhkTjn0IQvL63DHPx5LewusSTzrZHKMQEDxeS3D3M16Da_-UJaBHl9SzFTjOfO8N-W6PSWKegetm7JVyV4UU2LrOTH4DcfsSUVR83-_GL7orFdmiCXSBJ6BamGoveZEma1kFwHOEE7ay9-b59Dgr1OcTlyup-NsxSRqFFhE-Sg/s320/5948e3183c87b.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Another queue, this time
outside as I stood behind a couple of elderly ladies – one of them without much
of a voice: more of a shrill pant than anything else. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Makes me glad I gave up the
gaspers a long while back. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>We finally boiled into the
shop, the two old girls and me. There, things suddenly slowed down as the inarticulate
lady wanted some smokes, but wasn’t sure which ones she was after.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span>‘Marlboro</span></i><span>… <i>Nobel</i>… <i>Ducados</i>…?’ asked the stringy-looking attendant.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>‘No’, she managed, ‘the
pic-picture’.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>‘Let’s see. I’ve got a fellow
with his throat out; a rotting leg; no teeth and a dead baby’ said the
shop-keeper checking through her stock of fags, ‘oh and one here of a collapsed
eye’. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>The two customers conferred as
I wondered which one they’d choose. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>‘The gentleman with his
throat out’, they decided, passing across a 20€ bill. </span></span></p>
<p></p>Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-77312378715354523922023-05-13T13:15:00.008+02:002023-05-13T21:15:59.139+02:00Bathies<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>We have an old shower downstairs,
just the thing for a quick wash, and when the gas-heater works, why
maybe a shave as well. Otherwise, we could go to the bijou apartment upstairs and knock on
granny's door to ask if we could maybe use hers. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Not much chance of that, I reckon. I'm not certain she approves of me.<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>One thing and another, and not that it matters much during the summer months, but we live in a cold-water house, more or less. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>The water itself comes from a well. It's pumped into a tank below the sitting room (sometimes called <i>the floating room</i>
when I forget to turn the pump off). From there, a second and
needlessly noisy pump on the roof sends the water to the kitchen sink,
lavatory and bathroom. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>And, of course, upstairs to <i>la abuela</i>: the irascible granny. <br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>A
gas-heater used to warm the downstairs shower, until it choked
irredeemably to death early last year. The water, you see, comes from
somewhere far underground (the River Styx, I suspect) and is heavily
full of <i>cal</i>, apparently called <i>lime</i> in English. The <i>cal</i>
clogs up the pipes and tubes, so we sometimes don't have water in the
kitchen, or available for refreshing the toilet, or maybe it'll fail to
go thrumming through the gas-heater, as explained above.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>My
wife's brother is a plumber, and he sometimes drops by to siphon the
pipes with some dreadful product he gets from the cooperative. Vinegar,
maybe. The gas-heater though, he told us while stroking his chin, was
unquestionably fucked. <br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>So, we bought a new one. Now, the new ones don't just run on <i>butano</i>,
because that would be too easy. These ones need an electric socket as
well (to light the display). Furthermore, they need a drafty chimney presumably to dispel any leaked gas; or, mind you, one could nail it to the wall outside until one of the
neighbours (we live in an interesting <i>barrio</i>) happened to notice it. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>An inspector came by. Your chimney is too tall, he said, so I can't give you a special green Government-approved tick. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Long
story short, granny abruptly went to Her Reward last October (no doubt forgetting to send us a
postcard once she'd crossed the River Styx, although one can never be
too sure with the state of the <i>Correos</i> around here) and I thought
- why not swap the small electric heater from her vacated rooms, and then buy a
proper bath we could put in her quarters upstairs (now open to the rest
of the household), to be fed by the brand new gas/electric heater
previously introduced? We even have a short upstairs kitchen-chimney for it to
blissfully sit under.<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>The inspector, we knew in our bones, would approve. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>My
brother in law enthusiastically set up the tubing, as we erected the
bath within a wooden frame in what used to be the upstairs larder
(easier than putting it into the bathroom. For one thing, it would have
had to have been installed vertically). </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>I
was a bit dubious. An old house with a bath upstairs sitting astride a
pair of beams. But the first time I got in, the bath full to the brim
with steaming hot water, I thought to myself, well this is a fine thing.
The concrete beams won't give way and </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Crack! </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>The
bath, at least the end of it entertaining my head and shoulders, suddenly fell a couple of
inches. I got out a lot faster than I had gotten in and went off to go
and read my book about whales.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>I like
having a good soak, so the following morning I took the side-panels off and
had a look to see what had happened. It was because we had put a small
bit of wood in the wrong place and the bath had settled. No probs. </span><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNbbOJja9NhPfiRRE2ZzSxkR_-wvh5R-C_qaqoMUwTe3G73_yjKA5nGTvG7o0zQY56GPMV8Y1cIoLzwBTITukjZQjt3V4yuhE4vGO6RYPdYhHu9KEiTNBXT178GJmv57hHuzhaob034-B2HUtDktse0nxyxBcHrIlIkmqLyQjNSGImX7B2pwZ09yp4/s1536/Bath.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNbbOJja9NhPfiRRE2ZzSxkR_-wvh5R-C_qaqoMUwTe3G73_yjKA5nGTvG7o0zQY56GPMV8Y1cIoLzwBTITukjZQjt3V4yuhE4vGO6RYPdYhHu9KEiTNBXT178GJmv57hHuzhaob034-B2HUtDktse0nxyxBcHrIlIkmqLyQjNSGImX7B2pwZ09yp4/s320/Bath.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>The
next bath-night, a few evenings later, the water-supply abruptly ran out. The tank under the
sitting room was empty (it might have been my fault: I think I left the
garden-hose running).</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>The following time for bathies, it was the <i>butano</i>-bottle we had brought up from downstairs. Empty, Blast it! <br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Then, the taps wouldn't work at all, they'd filled up with <i>cal</i>. I had to unscrew them and soak them in vinegar. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>The plumber <i>cuñado</i>
then dropped by one day and told me I shouldn't run it very hot as the
plastic pipes he had put in would melt. I said, what's the point of a
tepid bath? So, now I use a kettle to, as it were, top it up. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>But the <i>duende</i>,
the spirit of old granny, still wasn't finished with me. Yesterday,
the bath full and steaming, I lowered myself in with a merry splash,
my bottom catching on my way down a full and opened bottle of shampoo, which had
been balanced on the bit of wood next to the tub, which reaching the
bath-water just before I did, found me then firmly sitting on it.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>To say I enjoyed a soapy bubble bath last night would be an understatement. </span></span>Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20657858.post-82812072726493640652023-04-24T21:45:00.002+02:002023-04-24T21:45:06.271+02:00I’ve been Dubbed, Subtitled and Translated into Sign-language (Re-boot)<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div style="overflow: auto; padding-right: 10px; width: 620px;">
<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-6720680498419106787" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid4E0ckuvTFD-ABf02GQnFcu3q0uf3v3zvjW6pQ7IOeuI_CYonBK_nBHQ3wFDVJ3PG2v3kQ52oGn1XPBqC1fvzUjcmwHO1JnSC5R8fNEN-iWaaskTQDAuByD_fRoCvKNScXRANbQ/s1600-h/aaw.bmp" rel="nofollow"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329619883897451410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid4E0ckuvTFD-ABf02GQnFcu3q0uf3v3zvjW6pQ7IOeuI_CYonBK_nBHQ3wFDVJ3PG2v3kQ52oGn1XPBqC1fvzUjcmwHO1JnSC5R8fNEN-iWaaskTQDAuByD_fRoCvKNScXRANbQ/s320/aaw.bmp" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 320px;" /></a>It
seems that we can blame that old sod Franco for the size of the Spanish
dubbing industry. Where other countries tamely put subtitles on their
cinema or television screens, the Spanish are much more partial to James
Dean’s mouth making a ‘hi’ movement as a strange and gravely
Madrid-accented voice says ‘<em>hola, ¿que tal?</em>’</span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;">There are
those who are surprised to discover how their favourite star really
sounded - think of Humphrey Bogart or Homer Simpson.</span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sometimes,
they don’t even remove the original soundtrack – just turn it down with
the Spanish version bellowed out on top. There’s David Attenborough
telling us about snakes in his whispery voice – which at least this
viewer can – or at least <em>could</em> understand – if it wasn’t for the same bloke from Madrid thundering out something about <em>serpientes venenosas</em> rendering the whole thing impossible to understand in any language.</span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;">Franco
didn’t approve of foreign languages – Basque and Catalonian of course –
but anything else either. They might be saying something untoward,
immoral or revolutionary. So he banned them. No one was to speak
anything but Spanish – including the nation’s deaf, who were not allowed
to use sign-language (and even today they sign in a rather furtive sort
of way, as if they are still on the look out for a Guardia Civil).</span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;">So, forget
subtitles, everything imported had to be dubbed. Except, come to think
of it, pop music. It would have been a stretch having our friend from
Madrid crooning ‘she loves yer ya ya ya’ in <em>castellano</em> over the Beatles. I can’t see many people buying the record either.</span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;">Anyway, in
some cases, films were translated away from their original meaning – if
immoral or faintly subversive – and represented in a more acceptable
light. ‘<em>She’s my girlfriend</em>’, for example, might safely become ‘<em>she’s my fiancée</em>’.
Of course, if the film strayed to far from the Catholic Church’s view
of morality, or the Government’s view of political propriety, it would
never be shown here anyway. Which is why everyone had to drive up to
Perpignan to see Marlon Brando’s ‘Last Tango in Paris’ and why, between
the death of Franco and the arrival of the Internet, they sold porn
films by the lorry-load out of the Spanish gas stations.</span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;"><em>Dubbed</em> porn films, if you can imagine such a thing.</span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;">Televisions now have this special button for those who wish to see something in its ‘<em>versión original’</em>. Press it and – whoops – up’ll come the show in all its glory. My Spanish step-son, who is learning English and is fond of <em>Bob Esponja</em>,
inexplicably refuses to avail himself of this useful service of
switching him into SpongeBob SquarePants. Perhaps he doesn't want me to
get the joke.</span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;">Of course,
humour don't always translate, which makes watching Friends or Frasier a
bit hit or miss when enjoying the Spanish version. And anyway, Niles
was funny because of his voice!</span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;">The dubbers,
there must be a small coterie of them working out of a cellar
underneath a multiplex in Madrid, are usually unknown - until one of
them ups and dies. Then the media will tell us that Paco Orbera was the
beloved voice of Errol Flynn, Fred Flintstone, The fellow with the big
chin in Gunsmoke and Bruce Willis.</span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
In the City, there will be a few cinemas that show films in ‘V.O.’ with
subtitles, usually lowbrow romantic comedies. They do well with the
American students.</span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
Now, for all I go on about the desecration of Die Hard ('<em>Jungla de Crista</em>l'
for some reason) by the dubbers - who I think must have some kind of
cast-iron contract - at least the Continentals are prepared to look at
foreign cinema, as well as their own (and the Spanish make quite
respectable movies). In Britain, we think that everything good, if not
ours, comes from Hollywood. When was the last time you saw a French
film, an Italian TV show or a Spanish documentary? Bloody Americans – if
there’s a decent European film out there, they’ll churn out a re-make
(gotta have that Tom Cruise as the Good German who wants to murder
Hitler).</span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;">In Greece or
Portugal or Denmark or Poland (well, I’m guessing about Poland to be
frank), you’ll sit down with the local version of popcorn and watch the
movie in its original language, the subtitles wobbling there at the
bottom of the screen and – in the Mediterranean cinemas at least – with
the entire audience talking at once. It's just Spain that's being
contrary over this.</span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;">I suppose
dubbing can be useful. The first thing I learnt in Spanish was ‘Hands
up’, which I have to admit that I’ve still yet to use in my private
capacity. A German friend once told me that he’d learnt English from
listening to pop music. Apart from coming out with some odd expressions
occasionally ‘(‘Baby, light my fire’, ‘you’re my Rockafella’ and so on),
he managed a certain fluency without, apparently, an undue amount of
effort. Perhaps some of my readers might want to follow his example and
start practicing singing along to Miguel Ríos or Camilo Sesto (If I were
you, I’d save the Flamenco until a bit later).</span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;">And thus the
dubbing industry, started and encouraged by Franco, had, by the time of
his death, become so powerful (in a relatively small field) that it has
managed to continue on into modern times.</span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;">One rare
occasion when subtitles are used outside of entertainment is when a
Catalonian politician holds forth on the TV, and his <em>pronuncios</em>
are posted below: usually too briefly to be read. Curiously though,
when a Catalonian politician wants to appeal to the larger public about
something other than politics, why, he’ll address us in Spanish. This
does not happen in the Basque County, however, where all declarations,
political or otherwise, are made in Spanish.</span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="articleBody"><span style="font-size: medium;">Perhaps they don’t have a good subtitling service there…</span></div>
</div>
<p> </p>Lenoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933569673776013122noreply@blogger.com1