I Can't Complain. Not Really

 

I drove up to Granada this weekend: surely one of the most beautiful cities of them all. My passenger commented on the evident kindness of the people there (she’s from Germany, where, apparently, life is much more serious).

We ate well, and stayed in a converted palace just up from the ayuntamiento. From there, we walked up the hill to overlook the city from the lush comfort of a large private estate open to the public.

One bar we found in the Sacromonte district had developed the tapa theme into bringing out a plate of ‘Número Uno’ or perhaps ‘Número Dos’ with the understanding that whatever came, it would be fresh, delicious, and newly prepared.

Spain is so full of pleasant surprises, as readers will know well enough. It’s a good life.

At the same time, there are also some trivial disadvantages to living here as we are also aware. A post on Facebook from Expats in Spain highlights a few of these:

*The paperwork. Oh, goodness yes – the bureaucracy can be a pain. So complicated and often silly. We suppose that it’s because that vast army of public servants must find something to do to fill their days.

*The traffic police and their parking and speeding fines. I don’t notice this much in the south, but my friend Colin from Pontevedra appears to rarely enjoy a peaceful day without finding a multa lying malevolently in his letterbox.

*The number of Walter Mitty clones. This refers to a book by James Thurber about a man who claims a false history of his life before he moved over to Spain. We have all met plenty of these characters, and we know to always take anything they say with a pinch of salt.

*Then there was an answer I gave to the Expats post which reads: ‘To be wary of your fellow countrymen abroad’. Indeed, another well-visited page on Facebook called ‘Named and Shamed, Costa Blanca’, with over 41,000 members, deals with exactly this subject.  

My post above has received (so far) sixty one ‘likes’, showing that many of us have been taken by a glib ‘I speak the lingo’, or ‘let me help, I can get it for you cheaply’ and so on.

In my own case, I’ve been caught out innumerable times over the years, almost always by fellow-Brits. I’ve written a piece about it which I shall publish someday.

During my time, I’ve been ripped off by burglars, thieves, con-men, carpet-baggers, scoundrels, drunkards and dopers; and to keep a balance, also by cantamañanas (fantasizers) here and there and of course leguleyos (dodgy lawyers).  

I think there are three basic ways for a foreigner to survive in Spain: either by having an income from abroad, or from working here, or by living on his wits (at the inevitable expense of others).

But these are experiences – and each person will collect their own. I certainly don’t regret one moment of my life in this splendid country.  

A Brief Flirt with Bureaucracy

I’m just back from a month’s holiday in the USA, after staying with two of my kids (they live close to each other in Oklahoma). Very nice and I am now rather overweight.

They don’t skimp on their portions over there.

Among other matters claiming my attention on my return was an email from the provincial government asking me to pay something.

I’m running on empty at the moment, but what (and why) would they like me to cough up, and how would they like it – in cash, bank transfer, blood or promises?

Let me see. The letter is a long one, with an important looking title, and it's got the date and even the time (!) sent: 05/12/2024 at precisely 21:59:27 - half a minute to ten at night.

It’s a fascinating world where the bureaucrats dwell.

The missive comes with a ‘don’t answer’ address. See, I have to click on the underlined bit which will take me straight to the page to tell me how much and what for.

Simple.

OK, they want my NIF number. You would think, having sent me the email, they would know that it was me answering it – and if someone else wanted to pay, some confused hacker I suppose, then whatthehell, hey?

Anyway, now they want another number, the one on the top of my Residence Card, so I give them that.

Then, to another page, this time from Hacienda, the tax authority, which says I need ‘un clave’.

Fine, well give me a clave then, why don’t you.

You can’t pay without a clave. Like a password they give you.

I try again.

It sends me this time to a page which says that ‘it doesn’t exist, try again later’.

Do you want the money or not I ask my computer screen. I’m kind of guessing it’s for the annual car tax, but… who knows?

The original email – they sent it twice – says that if I don’t answer, they’ll send me a letter instead. Well, that sounds like a plan I think.

Then I remember, there are some webpages that don’t like Firefox, so I try everything again with Edge, or whatever the Microsoft web-browser is called – sometimes that works.

For some reason, it has switched to English by this stage – must have been something I said. It sent me this:

‘Goes him to him to send a letter by mail postcard to its domicile for tax purposes. When receives this letter again will be able to access to the Record Cl@ve and to register’.

Anyway, how was your day?

What's in a Name?

 If I am faced with a word or name I'm not familiar with, I copy it out carefully.

 I expect most of us do. 

However, foreign names are considered to be slightly frightening for many Spaniards. There are either too many letters or not enough. The easiest way is to re-name them something easier to deal with. King Charles of the UK becomes El Rey Carlos tercero. Elizabeth was Isabel. Harry is Enrique. William is Guillermo. 

It's a favour we don't always return - their Royals are still Juan Carlos and Felipe. 

However, this adjustment by the Spanish twitches slightly when it comes to us commoners.

In today's newspaper, Helen Prior becomes Hellen. A simple John becomes Jhon or perhaps even Jhonathan - but never Juan. Come to think of it, there was once a brand of Spanish denims called Jhon Jeans. I may have an old pair somewhere. 

My dad was called William, or rather more often, at least in print, Willian. He was known by us as Bill and by his closer Spanish friends as Napia (our last name Napier causes joy to the Spaniards, as Napia, the name of a long-dead governor of Gibraltar blessed with a large nose, has joined the Spanish language as 'hooter' or 'schnozz'). 

Using one's last name here is a mark of respect by the way (as long as it's pronounceable Mr Cholmondeley). 

Hospitals and other public agencies, confused by our two first names and single surname (the Spanish have two last names, but only usually use the more interesting-sounding one), will often call us by our middle-name, which brings confusion when we hear Señor Robert being called for - a man we know as Ken.

After all, how many people's middle name are you familiar with?

All the above, and then we can be a bit forgetful - foreign names can be hard to remember, right Priscilla?

A Spanish friend has the answer - call all women to their face Guapa and all men León.

My own name is pretty simple, but even after being here for a lifetime, people can still bungle it. There's a mention of me in a book published by the diputación de Almería, about how I ran a newspaper in this province during fifteen years. 

So much for posterity, they've spelled my name wrong. 

As you can see, the local supermarket hasn't done much better, and nor for that matter has the taxman (who regularly sends me very proper emails addressed to Señor Scott).

Perhaps this explains why everyone is called Pepe or Paco. It's just a lot easier for the priest that way. Later, they'll get an interesting nick-name anyway.

 

In fact, when I was a kid, the local people used to call me Pipo. 

 

I guess it's all to do with concern over the spelling.

 

...

(Comment - which I erroneously deleted): 
A very interesting blog especially as my Mother decided to bestow on me three Christian names and of course here in Spain the third name becomes my first surname or family name. So, what’s in a name??

Never a Dull Moment in Oklahoma

I'm having lots of fun on my visit to northeastern Oklahoma - staying with my son and visiting my daughter and her brood, all of them living in the same Cherokee town.

So far, I've visited Eureka Springs in next-door Arkansas, where the largest hotel there had organised a 'Porsche Weekend' with over 400 of them parked in and around the venue. My son, a car enthusiast, drove us over in his tricked-out VW Golf, which was so loud (and supercharged) that conversation was impossible. 

On Sunday, we went off-roading in Disney in a Jeep with wide wheels: it's a place about an hour and a half away from home. The town is the usual gas station, shop and sheriff's department, but outside, under a huge dam which holds back a gigantic lake (everything in America is larger than we are used to in Europe), is a 2,000 acre park with rivers, rocks, trees and muddy slides: just the thing for some off-road adventures. 

In Spain, it would be impossible - banned by the ecologists - but here, it's not only a feature, it's un-policed and free to use. We saw purpose-built rigs, 'four-wheelers' and lots of jeeps. 

Anyway, following the endless bangs, thuds, splashes and bumps, my back hurts.

I went down to see the Veteran's Parade today. A couple of marching bands plus a number of cadets, veterans and some military vehicles and fire engines. Like Spain, they throw out candy to the onlookers (I got a Tootsie Roll). 

The weather remains nice and sunny (as Almería gets some flooding). The food is good, but there's some genie living in the weighing scales - I've put on almost three pounds (over a kilo) in one week.

Most people here seem to be Trump supporters. There are still plenty of remaining posters about (even outside the churches). 

I think they may live to regret it, but I'm not talking politics on this trip.

 

The Results Could Have Been Better

Following the floods in Spain (which last week lost me my flight over the Atlantic) and a tornado that landed a few miles away from where I am currently staying in Oklahoma, the election results for the 47th president are in - and it's Trump.

The Doomsday Clock, between one thing and another, has certainly edged a few seconds further towards midnight.

I went to the local polling station yesterday - a bit worried as there were certain to be gangs of motorcyclist heavies wearing MAGA caps and tapping stainless-steel baseball bats off their thighs waiting for anyone who looked a trifle liberal, but the reality was quite different. 

It couldn't have been more peaceful.

One queues for a bit, arrives at the desk run by two elderly volunteers, is checked for a voter's registration and then a large sheet of paper is given (and a pen lent) to go mark one's choices.

There were five available alternatives for president and vice-president (I can safely say that, like you, I have never heard of the other three) and then a collection of other choices - local judges, sheriffs and street-cleaner, and then a couple of 'propositions' which one can vote for or against.

The completed paper is then fed into a machine, and away you go, with a sticker on your chest that says 'I Voted'. 

Will Trump act on his threats - to deport those who don't fulfil the current idea of Free, Patriotic American Citizen, once he is sworn in on January 20th next year?

Most probably.

I will be back in Europe long before then.

 

Spanish Floods

Right now, on Friday afternoon, the TV is warning people not to use the roads in Huelva, Cádiz and Seville because of the fierce rains there. It also warns of looting. Over in Mallorca, too, there are reports of major flooding.

Previously, as we know, the terrible storms had assailed Valencia last Tuesday, with a reported 205 dead (so far). Sad to say, the warnings had arrived late and the regional government carries the blame. The Guardian quoting a local resident of Paiporta where 62 died: 'it was a trap'. 'Timely advice would have doubtlessly saved many lives' says a climatologist. 'I got a warning on my mobile-phone while I was seated in my car, with the water already up to my neck' says a motorist. 

The AEMAT official weather agency had previously given the warnings, but the President of the Valencian region Carlos Mazón had failed to issue the appropriate order - leading understandably to security issues and political fallout.  Pedro Sánchez has sent help from Madrid and has ordered three days of mourning. The leader of the Partido Popular Alberto Núñez Feijóo is critical (for political ends) but as elDiario.es says - criticising the labour of the AEMAT is not in the best interest of society, especially with the experience of this past storm, said to be the most lethal since a flood back in Barcelona in 1962. 

“Criticizing AEMET and the meteorologists after a major tragedy is not only very clumsy, it denotes a worrying lack of knowledge when the criticism comes from people whose role is precisely the management of risky meteorological situations”, says an official. 

There's criticism too towards the larger companies operating in Valencia for not sending their staff home and closing operations for the day. The message being - making money is more important than saving people's lives. 

Meanwhile, on Thursday it was reported that only two of the 28 regional fire-fighting services had been called to help in life-saving labours.

Besides the looting, there were the inevitable bulos - fake information on social media maliciously designed to create extra panic, such as the dams upriver were bursting and so on. 

The appalling ultra-group Manos Limpias (yes, them!) did their bit - by denouncing the weather forecasters at the AEMAT for - and let's be frank here - doing their job.

Oddly, the recently elected PP/Vox alliance for the Valencian region had disbanded the  autonomous emergency service installed by the previous government. 

Vox insists that Global Warming is a chimera. 

A protest in Valencia has been called for November 9 for Mazón's resignation. 

A talking-head on LaSexta TV says - we are the only animal that merrily marches forward towards its own extinction.  

Odd, that. 

 

The cartoon says 'The DANA?', 'No, the mud'. Feijóo says 'the fault lays with the weather forecasters'.  

The Last Gargle

Right, I’ve had my tea, sorted out the list of chores for tomorrow and eaten a doughnut for a balanced diet. It’s now time to get into the car and drive across the town to my favourite bar to get sloshed.

But what is this?

They’re lowering the drink/drive limit from January to one glass of fortified raspberry juice!

The fellow who came up with that one must be chuckling into his telephone as he is whisked across Madrid by his long-suffering chauffeur.

–Diego, Old Sport, you haven’t filled up the decanter.

The new limit – to be five times lower than most European countries – will be 0.10mg/l once the traffic law is modified (early next year says N332).

Spain's 264,000 bars and restaurants are not going to be happy. 

Now, this is fine and dandy for the gentlefolk who live in the city where there's a bar downstairs and a restaurant across the street. One can take the metro or a bus or even a cab for anything further away. Pop into the disco and stagger home at 4.00am with a song on one's lips.

But me, I live in the country and my nearest bar is 45 minutes away if I walk - or I suppose I could take a taxi, have my beer and waggle my eyebrows at the new barmaid and then another taxi home for an expensive night out.

Unless the barmaid has a car.

The bar in question is part of our local petrol station, so one can assume a certain amount of vehicular traffic. It's a fully licenced bar, in case a non-alcoholic beer doesn't appeal to the discerning patron. 

How could Spain sink so low, I wonder? Isn’t this the Party Capital of Europe?

Will I still be able to have a beer with my curry?

In the UK, where they must drink without a sobering tapa, and everybody needs to get a ‘round in’, the limit is 0,80mg/l – which is eight times higher than what we will be suffering here.

Yes, I know, drunk driving causes untold misery – but so does drinking at home, which is what I shall have to be doing from now on.

The Guardians of Spanish Morality

 

Behind the scenes, there are several far-right pressure groups besides some (but not all) of the leading judiciary. The key word these days to those far-right legal efforts is ‘lawfare’ (previously known as guerra jurídica). Many cases are taken on just to put pressure on certain groups – maybe pro-abortion agencies, or comedians or even puppeteers, or Podemos and their splinters (the Caso Neurona was finally binned last week after three years of gratuitous headlines about corruption in the halls of Podemos, the Pablo Iglesias PISA fake commission scandal and some twenty other creative claims against the party sometimes took years to be put to sleep).

In the shadows, there are various nefarious organisations ready to throw trumped-up accusations, which will provide newspaper space, extra (remunerative) work for the courts and perhaps notoriety for the judge (depending on his – we might say – common sense). Most of these groups are joined at the hip with Mother Church. There’s the Opus Dei of course (the Banco Popular was one of theirs), the divine Movimiento Católico Español (it sells Francoist and Nazi memorabilia to survive), the Sinister Mexican-headed El Yunque, the Hazte Oir (it drives buses around with pictures of children on the sides illustrating the difference between their two sexes, so that you know), the litigious anti-Gay Manos Limpias and then there’s the oxymoron which calls itself the Abogados Cristianos – the Christian Lawyers.

They all know that democracy inevitably has its cracks and its loopholes, and they can sometimes play their extreme politics in the courts – to try to erode the system from within.

Fronting them all are Vox and, when it suits them, the Partido Popular.

Right now, indeed, the PP is busy with its latest broadside on Pedro Sánchez and the presumed ‘high-street of corruption’ of his party (occurring now possibly because they inadvertently lost a political opportunity in their vote to allow prisoners, including ETA prisoners, to be released after a maximum of thirty years). There will be blood.

The Inquisition may have gone centuries ago, but the Church, the Army, the Bankers and the Establishment still hold on to power as they must.

While we patiently wait for the agonising inquiries, fake news, inventions and other material to be waded through in the peculiar case against the President’s wife (whatever it may be… give us time and we’ll find something), or the Caso Koldo and its relation of Pedro Sánchez, or the slightly unlikely story of bags of cash being left by senior PSOE members at head office, or the simmering stories of the President’s brother (dear me, we have been busy); let’s examine another case, which turns on the almost sacred status of a past president of Spain, José Maria Aznar.

A famous TV comedian called El Gran Wyoming put on a priestly outfit the other evening on his comedy show and produced a skit about how he is the pope of the Holy Aznariana Sect – which offended our friends over at the Christian Lawyers (they should technically have been in bed by then), so much so that they have produced a lawsuit against the comic. Wyoming was evidently surprised by this idiocy and he repeated his ‘High Mass’, with some extra flourishes, the following night. Wyoming also had a word for Judge Peinado (the judge in the case against Pedro Sánchez’ wife): ‘Get yourself ready, there’s another juicy case coming down the line…’

The comic could get as much as four years clink for offending the sensibilities of followers of the Christian faith – at least, the Old Testament ones.

Perhaps it’s time to put some of these more eccentric organisations out to dry.

Dieu et mon Fromage

My daughter and her companion went to France for a few days to stay in a château and stomp grapes with a few friends (apparently, while a neighbour attended the event, playing a harp). 

Cor, I said, bring back some fromage while you're there.

On the way home to the south of Spain, she made a small detour and passed through Oporto in that small but agreeable country over to the left of us. 

And here we are, enjoying a very ripe lunch of various different cheeses (that thing that looks like bread in the middle of the photo was the runniest and most pungent of the lot - I swear it winked at me once).

And with a bottle of port to help wash it down, the three of us had a very jolly lunch.