I'm Staying Home This Time

I’ve always been a big fan of the United States of America. I’ve spent a total of at least three years there during my life so far and have been to most of the 50 states (the remaining ones are too cold, too small or too hard to reach).

Plus three months in Washington DC, which for some reason is its own territory.

I was married to a wonderful woman from California whose parents, like mine, settled in Spain in the sixties, and we had thirty years together before she died. We have three children – two of whom are now living in the American mid-west (the third one stayed home here in España).

I was brought up (until I was thirteen) in Norfolk UK, near an American airbase. My parents were friendly with some of the officers, and I would be gifted (sic) lots of comic books (I was one of the earliest British fans of Batman, Superman and Casper the Friendly Ghost). Then came books (with writers like Jack Schaefer, Zane Grey and O. Henry), peanut butter and Hershey Bars.

From the age of nine onwards, I knew that I wanted to spend as much time as I could in America. Those cars!

Studying in Seville when I was seventeen, I took college entrance exams, and was all ready to go, when some friends of my parents warned them (erroneously, I’m sure) that I would end up in Vietnam being shot at by fellows wearing black pyjamas.

I finally crossed ‘el charco’ in 1974, arriving in Florida to stay with the Franzen boys in Pompano Beach – a place with no pavements, bad colour television, beautiful girls and amazing cocktails. Gayne and Ted’s parents were neighbours of my family in Spain. I remember to this day consuming my first Whopper.

I love the opportunity that the USA offers, plus the enormous and sparsely populated hinterland. My two kids live in a state that is 40% larger than the whole of Spain.

I’m a huge fan of American culture: its writers, musicians and artists who have brought so much pleasure to the world. 

Nowadays, I tend to go every November and visit the grandchildren, the local Wal-Mart and the breathtaking countryside (when I can afford to) and to eat the Thanksgiving turkey, but I shan’t be going this year.

Sadly, the USA that I know and love is undergoing a Once in a Hundred Year collapse (think the October Revolution or Brexit) thanks to the insidious MAGA philosophy. I can put up (more or less) with the guns and the iced tea, but Donald Trump’s second term, surrounded as he is this time with people who are evidently even thicker and nastier that him (mostly fished from the water treatment plant of Fox News) is for me a step too far.

There’s Pete Hegseth with his alarming Christian tattoos and his alleged love for a bottle of scotch who runs the reassuringly renamed ‘Department of War’. The worm-brained Robert Kennedy: the ludicrous secretary of health who doesn’t believe (‘believe’!) in vaccinations. Kristi Noem is the Secretary for Homeland Security – she’s the one who wants to deport all the Latin farmworkers with her reprehensible (and masked) ICE goons (she’s best known for shooting her puppy because it wouldn’t ‘heel’). Then there’s the top two officials at the FBI, Kash Patel and Dan Bongino, who between them have no previous experience at the law enforcement agency (Bongino used to be a far-right radio host). The eccentric Christian extremist Mike Huckabee is Trump’s ambassador to Israel… and so on: a plethora of the inept and dangerously appointed. Then there’re the current purges against ‘the radical left’ Democrat party – a damp and strangely feeble group that could kindly be described in European terms as centre-right. The late Charlie Kirk said of them: ‘the Dems believe everything God hates’.

Such a young country run by such old-fashioned conservative values!

Of course, I can still visit the USA (after all, I’m tall and pink and have a nice anglo-sounding name, plus I’m too old to be much of a nuisance anyway). Just remember not to say anything silly and make a point of glaring sternly at anyone who looks even slightly Latin.  

Anyway, I’ve decided. I’ll be staying home this year. I wish to avoid the minor threat of ending up in Alligator Alley or Guantánamo.

I’m told that I’m not the only one who thinks like this.

On the bedside table I’ve got Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath to re-read.

All said, I’m pretty sure that I can manage just fine this year without a Hershey Bar.

The Property Ladder

Two points: there are a lot of people searching for a home – either to rent or to buy. Also, despite the apparent lack of available properties, Spain has more than 3.5 million vacant homes, representing some 14% of the total housing stock. Around half of these homes are in those smaller municipalities with fewer than 50,000 inhabitants.

I once shared an apartment in Seville with four other students, me and a British school-friend in bunks in what must have been a converted bathroom, with white tiles on the wall. The other three were studying at the university and came from Montefrío in Granada. The next term, I shared a three-bedroom 8,000 peseta apartment with two students.

It’s fine when you are young and running around the city all night - but not when that single room (share the kitchen and bathroom) costs 1,000€ a month.

We look at the problems of the renters and the buyers – but part of the whole must be the sellers, the landlords and the owners: having a property portfolio is good business.

This is partly why, following the covid when we all worked from home (often in a charming village two hours away from the city), they wanted us to return to the office: taxes, office blocks and city politics. My old mate Cheap Pete once told me (with his New Jersey accent) – for a million dollars you can buy a giant property in North Dacota or a parking lot in Washington DC. But you might wait a whole year to sell that beautiful mountain, or less than a day to sell the city plot.

Which one was the better investment? The second choice, but only if there’s a demand.

No wonder the property barons want to see a certain scarcity – prices (and profits) must go up. In Madrid, some old factories and warehouses, shops and abandoned outlets are now being switched to residential homes, or maybe into 1,000€ a bed-chamber with ‘coliving’ . There’s the advantage of city life, interesting flatmates and maybe a downstairs eatery, if your wallet can still manage the menu del día.

I live in a village on the coast. There’s a giant abandoned hotel taking up a chunk of the infrastructure. It was closed in 2008 and now belongs, for some reason, to the Madrid regional government. It could become fifty apartments. In the back of the next-door port of Garrucha, there’s a large unfinished block of flats, rotting in the sun and covered in graffiti. That’s another fifty potential homes. The scarcity then, is in the city – although there are still a fair number of empty residences even close to the Puerta del Sol.

Many of those who live in the city came from elsewhere, and they may still own a place in the country, a casa del pueblo they’ll visit during the summer or the local fiesta – maybe to show off their success, or perhaps just to take it easy for a while and share a noisy lunch with the cousin who stayed behind. Other people who own a couple of houses might leave one empty. One day the children will live there. Others still will rent, or sell, or turn it into an Airbnb, replace the sheets and towels, and create a cleaning job for Encarnación.

Digital nomads (doesn’t that sound fun?) will rent for a while, working from their laptop, while idly planning their next move to Khartoum or Bucharest. Foreigners will buy the house, and maybe the one next door, and try and put in a swimming pool. Others still will take the week-end option and then leave a cigarette burn in the mattress.

Maybe put in a security system (like it says on the telly) to defy the okupas.

Then there are the millions – apparently – of people who want to rent somewhere half decent for a little bit less than their entire salary, eating rusks and asking their parents for a few extra euros (until either the wage or the rent, whichever one comes first, is raised by a fraction). The Government talks of making (or building) more cheap homes or closing down illegal rentals, or helping the under-thirties buy a house in the smaller towns. Some local governments are considering forcing the sale of empty homes.

The Spanish Constitution Article 47 gives us all the right to una vivienda decente.

The influencers in their YouTube videos meanwhile are talking about investing in their wares (from their bases in low-tax Andorra), and one day soon, you too will be able to afford to buy and rent out houses out like the best robber landlords.

Gloomily, we read: Spain’s record housing market is far from peaking – ‘prices will reach unprecedented levels’. Hey, the higher the price, the happier the owner.

Maybe the foreign Vulture Funds will come and pick up another entire city block: they are here for the opportunities.

A left-wing politician sums up the problem: “People with money in this country invest in gold, the stock market, and real estate”. They buy in the city (Cheap Pete’s parking lot) or on the coast, leaving many thousands of Spanish municipalities by the wayside.

El País has a story about a thirty-year-old who has finally given up on Madrid and moved to the town of Ponferrada – in search of a quieter life, escaping job insecurity and housing prices. “Life moves on and priorities change,” he says blithely.

Then there any many people living in extreme poverty, or in shacks or under bridges. Local guiri Richard Gere may have the answer – he says in a TV interview that "My wife and I have set a goal to end homelessness in Spain within six years". I think that this may prove to be a larger challenge than he imagines. Caritas puts the number of the dispossessed at 37,000.

In all, there are 48 million people living in Spain and 27 million homes – which works out at a house for every 1.8 persons. That’s not so bad…

 

The Better Way to See Granada (is not to look)

A friend from Germany has been staying with me, and last Wednesday, along with my daughter and her husband (and my laptop), we drove up to Granada.

It’s just a couple of hours away, and it is without doubt Spain’s greatest city.

I’ve been many times over the years, but my son-in-law was born and raised there and knows all the oddest and most scenic spots – to say nothing of the best eateries and bars.

We started at a likely looking caff next to the Airbnb apartments we had reserved just off the city hall square. In many places in Granada, a drink comes with a tapa, but it will be something chosen by the house. We had three drinks (it’s thirsty work driving to Granada) and they came out with three plates – and if someone at the table doesn’t like baby octopus, then it’s all the more for me.

In the evening, we wandered down towards the river to admire a couple of fountains (my son-in-law assured me that, as a child, he had fallen into both of them on several occasions). Then, crossing vaguely south over the Río Geníl, we arrived at an outdoor café called ‘La Cuchara de Carmela (¿Donde mejor que aquí? they ask)’, which again decided what tapas we would be treated to. They also had a menu so we could add some more dishes to stand in for dinner.

We have all seen the sites over the years, gone to the flamenco shows in the Sacromonte and been approached by beggars outside the cathedral; indeed the first time I was in the Patio de los Leones in the Alhambra Palace, I was sixteen. I’ve even got the photo somewhere…

So, limited site-seeing this time, and maybe just a selfie or two.

There comes a time, after a few glasses of wine and a belly-full of food, when one must wander on to look for a jolly late-night joint for a schnapps or, um, a tequila!

We went to find an old mate called Sebastian, who used to run a place in Mojácar but has now moved to adventures new in the city. Seba, wearing a tatty-looking Mexican hat, greeted us with every sign of affection in his tiny bar, the Reina Linda. Margaritas and tacos ¡por favor!

The students are now returning to Granada, a university city, and the scruffy, cheaper places like this one do a good trade in the season. There’s nothing – I think you will agree – like writing your thesis or studying those heavy medical books armed with a lightly-chewed pencil and a cocktail.

The next morning, we dropped by to see the parents – mis consuegros – of my son in law. This time, in a residential and passingly more modern part of the city (there were plenty of blocks of apartments in the barrio with the arrows and yoke featured on the walls – that’s to say, built during the Franco years).

I’ll leave the parents in peace, save to note that the first bar, where we met the old dad, was the tiniest bar I have ever seen, crammed only with men, and with the shortest barman in the world. In fact, one has to lean over the counter to be sure that he is there at all.

Again, the tapas chosen by the kitchen were delicious.

And now, we are back in Mojácar, and my friend will soon be flying back to Germany for a few weeks before she returns.

Perhaps we shall do Córdoba then.

 

What's Your Poison?

 I was asking Google’s AI about religion:

In 2025, between 53% and 55% of Spaniards will identify as Catholics, although only a smaller percentage (around 17-19%) are practicing Catholics.

Evangelicals in Spain number one million - or 2%

Currently, almost two million Muslims live in Spain, representing 4% of the total population.

There are (only) 45,000 Spanish Jews.

According to recent data from 2025, the number of Spaniards who declare themselves atheists varies between 15.6% and 21.6%, although other studies combine atheists with non-believers and agnostics, placing the "non-religious" group at around 30-40%.

The Airport Run

Sat in the car at the airport, doing a swing past the guards every so and along so as not to get stuck in the expensive park and queue to pay and lug the suitcases across and up the steps. It’s worse inside with huge hangers full of marble and Germans. I park on the flowerbed for a piece. My old mate and his companion arrive. The girl looks nice. I help haul the suitcases. We leave with the windows down and papers blowing around and out. No air-con in this old car.

With friends staying you want to show them around and impress. That’s right. It’s too early though. I was once in the airport bar having a drink, you know as one does, and Dennis Hopper came in, so I pretended I didn’t know who he was then we bought each other beers and stuff, and laughed at the girls, then it turned out it wasn’t him anyway.

Right, come on, they’re a lot cheaper just down the road here than they are on the coast and, frankly, the company is nicer.

Sandwiched between a tour-bus and a cement truck, we pull off the road at the first opportunity. A few houses stand around, looking unconcerned. The car cools down over another flowerbed, this one rather tatty, as we enter a building through an enormous barn-door. We’ll have a couple of beers and tapas. I’m all knowing as the host; role-playing as a tour-guide with witty answers to all the queries. 

‘…That’s right, donkeys!’

Some blond fellow watches us from the far end of the bar. He probably works down at the nearby cowboy town film-set. A young girl with a bruised face works the beers and the customers. The blond looks like he wants to start something. The foreign residents here have an easy way to measure themselves against each other: how long you bin living here? You must watch their eyes when you face up for this one. It’s a kind of pissing contest where there can only be one winner.

After better than fifty years man and boy, I try and avoid this, as the loser can get sore.

My friends are looking at the sad range of pickled entrails lying under the glass counter.

‘Sí, una ronda de cañas. ¡Oiga!’ The little barmaid brings the drinks and goes ‘t’ree beer?’ and I’m deflating like a spare tyre on a Renault. Kinda place is this anyway? ‘Thank you, dear child. And where are you from?’

Rumania. Well, I’ll be buggered. All these years living here, trying to blend in with the locals and to pick up a few words of various languages as one does, and do you know, I couldn’t even say in her gibberish: ‘I am a secret policeman, where is your sister?’

A Russian friend had been telling me about his work permit and the paperwork he’d given in. He’d prepared and written up the document himself on a sheet from a Saint Petersburg cigarette company with fancy headed paper and had covered it with stamps made with ceiling wax and a melted metal top from a Chivas Regal bottle.

We need people like this in Spain.

By now, we’re into some of those beers that come in dark glass bottles and feeling the kick. The blond fellow has joined us. It’s too hot to take an attitude.

From the terrace you can see a piece of a wide, sandy riverbed. It was here that they shot the film Lawrence of Arabia in 1962. Well, a small piece of it. A Welshman, cashiered from the Horse Guards, once told me the story of how the producer, Sam Spiegel, had obtained a thousand horses and camels to attack the papier mâché town of Aqaba on the Carboneras coast. The Welshman led the charge dressed in suitable togs but for some reason, with no saddle. ‘One mistake and I would have been trampled to death’ said the Welshman sadly as I solicitously bought him another drink. It is told that, after the single take was successfully filmed, they asked Mr Spiegel what was to be done with the animals.

He answered laconically: ‘Give the horses to the gypsies and shoot all the camels.’

The whole bloody lot. Some reward for being in an Oscar film.

My friend notices that the bar has a sign to say that This Establishement has Complaining Sheets. We order a few to take away with us.

A man in a string vest comes through a door behind the bar. He’s scratching himself with a kind of reserved enthusiasm. ‘You boys look like you would fit in perfectly in Mojácar. You ever been there?’

It’s about an hour’s driving to get to my place. I reckon it’s going to take us a little longer. 

 ...

(I published an earlier version of this in 2009)