These Days, Fun can be Expensive, Inconvenient and a Fraction Drawn-Out

 One of the questions now being asked, now the local fiestas, celebrations, concerts, rallies, expositions and sporting events are largely over, is this:

Who exactly do they benefit?

The apocryphal story from the mid-sixties is told of my mother stomping down to the main square from our apartment by the church wearing her slippers, dressing gown and a hand bag – with which she slugged the mayor shouting ‘turn the music down, I’m trying to sleep’. 

In those days, there’d be a few strings of bunting, a local pop band, the bar doing a brisk trade, and the old deaf-and-dumb lady, la muda, selling cigarettes (single, or a half- or full pack), along with Bazooka Joe bubble-gum and wax matches, cerillas from a tray hanging from her shoulders. The families would dance together – small children up to the oldest grannies, all holding hands and bobbing around. There were songs like La Chica Ye Ye or the grisly Las flechas del Amor…

Brandy was three cents a tot. A small glass of a kind of red wine which would make one’s teeth rot was even cheaper.

They were different times. The only visitors would be family who had emigrated to Barcelona or France or Germany. I remember a family known as los marseilleses, who would come for a few days around that time in their Citröen Ami, look down their noses at their country-cousins, and then disappear again.  

There’s the World Day of the Tourist coming up in late September (when they’ve all gone home again), but in our town, neither this nor the non-existent Day of the Foreign Resident are pencilled in. No celebration as such, even if we are here all year long putting money into the economy. Mind you – I think there’s another Saint’s day which pops up around then.

These days, as we’ve all seen (only too vividly) the fiestas are a joy for the shop-keepers who will obligingly stay open until late, but there’s not much pleasure for the locals. Even if one does attend, and has a pricey beer at the metal chiringuito raised in the square (next to the deafening dance-band), who ya gonna talk too? Who ya gonna dance with? So, what with the visitors all enjoying their last few days of the holidays, the instant traditions taking up the usual parking spaces (medieval market anyone?), the far-from cheap drinks and tapas or the ride on the roundabout, I’ll take vanilla.

They’ve even extended them an extra day or two, since one can never have enough fun.

In the old days, maybe a neighbour owned a black and white TV and would kindly leave his window open for the curious, at least for the football game, but now everyone has a huge flat-screen with a hundred channels and a fridge full of beer. Why go out, say the vecinos, when one can be dazzled at home for free?

It comes down to this – a local event can be for the local people, or, if it’s the summer and you are in one of Spain’s ‘Most Beautiful Villages’, then it’s for the business-folk and the tourists. The visitors will all have to sleep somewhere – and for that we have the Airbnb hosts and the hotels, all rubbing their hands.

The Residents don’t stay in them; and for that matter, they don’t buy souvenirs either – making us very disappointing as customers.

And if we do need to drive into the centre to join the festivities and see the fireworks, where can we park that's not a half-hour walk away?

So if something is a bit expensive, yet perceived as cheap by the tourists, then that’s the price of a fiesta without the people it is meant to be for (and, one way or another, who paid for the music and the bunting).

Or who knows? Perhaps we are just getting old.

Meanwhile, and sad to relate, there’s no one left prepared to stomp down to the fiesta at three in the morning, waving her handbag, to tell the mayor to go and pull the effing plug.

Editorial For Late August (the well was running dry)

Each week I write Business over Tapas and send it out to subscribers. It comes with plenty of useful news about life in Spain, and a well thought-out editorial. I've lived here for most of my life and edited and directed a number of newspapers, both in English and Spanish, between 1985 and 2008. 

But sometimes, there's not much to write about...

...

August has just about made its apologies and left, bringing us Welcome September – which is the best month of them all. The weather (should be) perfect, warm but not killer-hot. The sea will be just right and there’ll finally be some room on the beach.

The subject of la turismofobia will be dropped (at least until next year) and the children will all be back in school.

For journalists and hacks, there’s the renewed prospect of writing about Spanish politics – that effervescent mixture of insults, betrayals and some occasional improvements (or at least, changes) in our lives.

And then the autumn slowly creeps towards us, bringing a freshness to the air and the garden. We can go for walks once again in the campo or along the paseo marítimo. Maybe drop in somewhere for a beer, where the barman remembers our name and is once again pleased to see us.

September is a good moment to start new adventures, and maybe pause to see what the others are writing about:

So, here’s the intro over at that new costa magazine ‘Spain By Jingo’:

Welcome to our coolest month, September, where it’s blissfully hot and groovy.

We enjoyed the thrash during the summer, but now thankfully, they’ve all rushed home again, leaving us to enjoy the peace and pick up the pieces.

We hope you enjoyed our local fiesta last week. We had a go on the dodgem-cars, which reminded us a lot of the roundabout along the beach in front of the hotel.

Seriously though, here in Spain we drive on the right.

In this exciting edition, with some brand-new advertisers for you to meet, we have Beryl’s nail extensions on P.9 and also three and a half ways to cook a chicken with Gillie on the same page (Ok, Ok, the full-page advert from an offshore financial adviser that was going to go there fell through at the last moment – we think he got arrested. We pulled his article too, just in case…).

Peter Grubshall is back with the riveting story of his move to Spain with ‘From Gloucester to the Costa’.

With our fiendish quiz on P.14 (all about Your Favourite Country) and our guide to useful words in Spanish in the Back, we are sure you’ll have a fab month.

Andy and Lucía.

...

(I leave you wondering - what is your favourite country?)

The Best-Kept Secrets in Publishing Aren't Secrets At All

 

Churning through the media articles every day to find material for my weekly bulletin about Spain, I often find pieces which are designed to make the reader go past the title and into the text – surrounded as it is with advertisements, pop-ups and, of course, the EU’s insistence on asking us if it’s OK to place cookies on our phone or computer every bloody time.

Then along comes the text that says: ‘We notice you’re using an ad-blocker…’

Damn right I am.

But despite all this, yes, I have decided that I want to read about ‘We’ve Found the Best Village in Spain’. So, open the stupid link, already!

This is called click-bait, when they don’t tell you the very vital thing you wanted to see in the headline, which is why you have to click into the story. Usually, they’ll get around to the subject in hand in the third or fourth paragraph, after you have hurdled a long diatribe about Spain’s wonderful unknown and unspoiled pueblos, a couple of adverts for shoes, shirts, or a merry cruise to Norway and an insistent request to subscribe.

The problem often being that – I guess if enough people read the article – which may have started out life somewhere else (Google has an uncanny trait of rumbling unoriginal material) then when you take the plunge and finally arrive at the destination itself, at least for lunch and a look-see, it’s going to be full of fellow-readers and, well, sorry to tell you, but – thanks to the recent media-exposure – I’m Afraid You May Need to Book!

Annoying for those who bought a place there some years previously, precisely because it was off the beaten track.

These ‘beautiful’ or ‘best kept secret’ articles are easy to write (thanks Wikipedia!) and they fill a space. How many times have you seen a picture of that street covered by a huge rock in Setenil de las Bodegas (Cádiz) or that embarrassing pueblo in Málaga they painted blue?

Right now, there are endless stories of ‘a pretty village in Spain where they want to ban tourists’. Above all apparently, the ones who take ‘selfies’, according to one gloomy home-owner. Often called ‘The little Mykonos’ (by absolutely nobody except copy-editors, I suspect), the village – Binibeca Vell – is in fact a 1972 urbanisation on the edge of San Luís in Menorca. And it’s probably not looking its best after those heavy rains last week.

See, it gets full of visitors, which is no doubt a treat for the local souvenir shop, but it is kind of a nuisance for everybody else.

There may be lots of money in tourism, but it doesn’t get spread around as fairly as it might.

The alternative is to tell the locals to stay inside so as not to inconvenience the cruise-ship trippers (as happened on the Greek island of Santorini the other day), or close the local bar (as reported in a pueblo in Galicia – ‘We don’t want any Madrid tourists here giving themselves airs’, explained the owner in garbled Galician). A fellow from Barcelona says that in his city, ‘We don’t walk in a straight line any more, we dodge’. Over in Santiago de Compostela, the locals complain about the pilgrims – ‘it’s like Easter every day of the year’.

How about Peñiscola, in Castellón? Eight thousand people live there, and there are 25 visitors for every resident. ‘Excuse me, coming through…’ (My own Mojácar is in sixth place according to the media report).

No doubt the city fathers would prefer wealthy tourists – the ones who spend and tip lavishly – while not so much the other kind, who drink a few beers and are sick in the fabled village gardens. Or, worse still, the ones who spray-paint an esteemed foreign resident’s eleven million dollar home. But, sad to say, you can’t really have the one kind of visitor without the other, unless there’s a fellow in a uniform at the gate. Also – wealthy people don’t necessarily behave themselves better.

Tourism is either packing as many sights into a short vacation as one can (‘If this is Tuesday, this must be Belgium’) or spending the holiday in one single place, usually to relax and get pissed. Both have their merits and – evidently – their issues.

But, don’t we have a right to two holidays away each year? (We can except us foreign residents in this instance, with a car-trip across Spain or a weekend in a Parador. For one thing, we don’t tend to travel in packs).

The point is this: would Spanish tourists suddenly come to your town in the UK or Germany and behave in the same way – and if they (by some miracle) they did – how would you feel? A thousand drunken Spaniards in Hatfield (dubbed as ‘The Most Boring Town in England’) wearing Gibraltar Español tee-shirts and singing loudly and tunelessly as Henry over at The Red Lion gleefully fills them up with more drinks.  

So remember, as you scan the blogs and news-sites for fresh and interesting places to visit:

‘Your vacation spot is somebody else’s home’.

A Little Dab Will Do Ya

 Two things to know about me – I’m blind as a bat… and I like bats.Well, any critter really. 

The bats come from finding eleven of them stashed in my curtains in my bedroom early one morning while of a tender age and still living in Norfolk. Cute little things. None of them bit me as I shooed them outside.

Here, there are no curtains to speak of, and the usual critters hanging upside down from the rafters tend to be geckos. Nice and friendly – like the bats, they enjoy a fresh mosquito to munch on.

Now, this thing about being short-sighted. I got my first pair of specks when it became apparent I couldn’t see the writing on the blackboard. In fact, I couldn’t even see the blackboard.

I was given some horn-rimmed glasses (we call them glaffas in Spanglish) and thus equipped, I went through my formative years, leaving the school choir when my balls dropped (it was a mutual decision) and finding new and interesting pass-times, some of which involved my specks inappropriately steaming up.

Horrid things. Wandering around looking out of a pair of magnifying glasses from the wrong side while covered in spots - that, and being made to wear shorts. It's a part of my life which I try hard to forget.

When it came the time to cautiously making myself available to the Gentle Sex, I thought I would switch from my specs (now much scratched) and try out instead some fashionable blue-tinted bottle-bottomed contact lenses.

Which have stood me in remarkably good stead ever since.

The other day, while preparing myself for the evening’s adventures ahead, I was to be found taking a shower in the family hip-bath. My eyes, like the rest of me, were naked (and pink).

And what is that down near my feet, thrashing about and hoping to escape the water. I reached down to rescue it – it was a panicking gecko, poor little guy. But wait, let me just get a little closer to have a better look. I dropped onto all-fours and held my face a few inches away…

Before letting out a shriek and abruptly abandoning the tub.

Bloody thing was a giant centipede.