Yeah, right! - Writings by Brian Murdock

Archive for the ‘Spain’ Category

Spain

August 25, 2016

Where do you think you’re going now señor Brian? 7

Just who exactly was Pedro Naharro is a matter of little debate: no one knows. Extensive research cannot be conducted on the subject because so little reliable information is available. There probably never was any in the first place, so scholars, if any really made an earnest effort to discover the truth to begin with, seem to have devoted little more than a coffee break to the finding the answer. To date, the first significant reference to the town did not come until the mid-16th Century with the “Relaciones Topográficas de Felipe II”, a kind of Domesday book of Spain. The most likely theory, based rather heavily on the man’s last name, was that the man in question was what they called a “repoblador”, that is, a settler from the north who had come after the Reconquest of those lands from the Muslims to help repopulate Castile. In this case, Pedro or his family would have come originally from Navarra, at least that is what we can surmise from his surname. And chances are he did so after being given the go ahead by King Alfonso VIII, who told members of the Knights of Santiago to resettle the land. But this may all sound rather new to you, so let me backtrack.

       You see, when the Muslims invaded the Iberian Peninsula in 711, after a sorely miscalculated tactic by the Spanish rival to the throne (he essentially invited the strongest and fiercest fighting force of the world at that time into the country), and after a fateful battle to check the encroachment (most historians called it a one-sided slaughter), they gobbled up the Visigoth kingdom in record time. By 719, nine tenths of modern Spain and Portugal was under Umayyad control, and six years later, more than half of what is modern-day France fell too. The situation could not have looked bleaker, but the tides were beginning to turn. On one hand, Charles Martel “The Hammer” of the Franks handed the Muslims their first major loss at the Battle of Poitiers, and in the northern region of Asturias, a rebel leader named Pelayo, later to be called the first of what would become centuries later modern Spain, checked the Islamic invaders advance in a small encounter with huge morale consequences.

       But the going was slow. What took the northern Africans a dozen years to conquer, Christians needed approximately five centuries to retake. Swift they weren’t, but certainly tenacious. The constant warring left the middle of the country with its endless open plains and limited natural protection a rather insensible place to make a permanent home. Never a particularly densely populated region, by the 10th Century, it must have been one of the loneliest spots on earth. The local kingdoms chipped away at the Muslim control and to ensure the invaders would not return, peppered the region with castles, so many in fact, that the territory became known as Castile, Land of the Castles. As I have said before, the Spanish from those parts weren’t prone to imagination, but they had a knack for getting to the point. The monarchs also encouraged their subjects to return to the center plains of the country. In this case it was Alfonso VIII who, after retaking the city of Cuenca, gave the order for people to resettle. Both policies met limited success at first, since the borders flexed back and forth for two hundred years before they began to see the fruit. But in the long run, they allowed Castile to establish itself in the heart of the Iberian Peninsula.

       So it was, supposedly, that Mr. Naharro at some point decided to build a permanent home near a natural spring whose supply was generally so reliable, a veritable treasure in those parts, that beasts and men alike could count on its flowing nearly year round. Just when that occurred is uncertain. The town website itself informs that little is known about its founding and devotes most of the section to talking about other subjects, which should give you an idea of the historical blackout any researcher is facing. But a fairly good educational guess dates it at around 1200, a fairly recent incorporation by Western European standards, but a good 148 years before the Black Death, 240 years before the printing press, 292 years before the official Discovery of America, and 440 years before my hometown of Greenwich, CT was founded…one of the oldest towns in the United States.

       Though there doesn’t appear to be a historical document indicating just what Pedro devoted his professional life to, legend has it he owned a “venta” or country inn. That’s how Javi described it when I first asked him. “Yeah. He was some guy who had an inn. There are a lot of them around here. Travelers needed a place to eat, sleep and shit.” From a scholarly standpoint, his assessment is lacking in weighty academic fundament, but he probably wasn’t far off. Ventas were common and necessary in those parts and they are still found today. There are even drawings depicting his home as a venta, so it seems entirely legitimate. The town continued to grow and became a part of the Order of Santiago network, I will tell you more about that a little later, and consolidated. Whatever it was Pedro dedicated his life to, eventually a small settlement grew nearby, and the town received the name by association with the spring. The reserves that were certainly abundant enough to earn him local fame seem at some point to have dried up and never come back. The town built a fountain dedicated to the woman who would walk ridiculous distances in order to fetch a pail of water. The monument was inaugurated in 1995 with several lively spouts of water bounding into the air. A month later, the water was cut off for an unspecified period of time. It’s now been twenty-one years. This is a very dry region, I tell you, which is why the olive tree, the grape vine and the Holmes’ oak are all so happy to grow and live here.

Spain

August 18, 2016

Where the hell do you think you’re going now señor Brian? 6

Buildings and houses in La Mancha (and for many parts of Castile for that matter) can be so wanting in style and elegance, so heavy on plainness to the point they border on utterly dull, that a visitor may reach the conclusion that Cervantes’ decision to have his main character lose his mind, burst out of town and seek thrills elsewhere, be they as disturbing as impaling windmills in full motion, was not a stroke of genius but rather an understandable and premeditated determination to seek mental relief taken by any half-reasoning human being from those parts. It can be just that stark.

        But it also makes it equally deceiving.

       For within the thick walls of many of those dwellings lie interiors which belie their austere shells. Take Javi’s family’s place, for instance. On the outside, it is actually a step up or two from the average, being a handsome stately home in the town, but little would suggest the beguiling settings on the other side. A respectable front hall which leads directly to a covered atrium, clad in marble, well populated with plants. And furnished with wicker chairs and a couch and plump cushions, a wrought iron table topped with glass. It’s also considerably cooler than the outside.

       This leads to a strategically dark living room, a perfect den for watching TV and taking refuge from the heat, with a fine wooden dining room, next to a large kitchen for Spanish standards, with a bead curtain in the door that takes you outside to a covered porch, equipped with a spray to chill the air and followed by a patio with a large pool, wood-fired oven for baking barbecues, and a grill. In short, a veritable luxury. Once inside the walls, there seems little need to go anywhere else.

         Jav’s place was by no means an exception to the rule.  Dozens of homes in that town boasted similarly impressive decors.  Nor was La Fuente special in that sense.  If you penetrate the town line of La Seca in Valladolid, your first inclination is to execute a three-point turn and depart as soon as possible.  On a Friday night it can appear so desolate that you might think that the place was three deaths away from becoming a ghost town.  What most newcomers don’t realize is that they are parked above one of the nation’s largest white wine reserves, and taking a jack hammer to the pavement would most likely provoke a golden-green tinted gusher a hundred feet high.  The town is practically floating on vino.  This is the home of the evermore popular Verdejo white wine of the Rueda region.  Here, many residents may give the appearance of modesty, they often look just a notch above a homesteader, but they are so filthy rich they don’t know what to do with their money.  The fact that their homes have a tendency to look like county jails rather than mansions has more to do with the fact that the Castilian mentality is not fond of ostentation.  A stroll around the El Escorial palace built at the height of Spain’s empire should help illustrate that.  It also helps keep everyone in the dark on just how much you have.

        In any event, in search of some bread as well as a little culture, Julia and I walked up to the tahona. The streets of La Fuente de Pedro Naharro, like so many of these towns, have little to offer the tourist aesthetically, at least on the surface. Yet, it is the very simplicity of the walls, entrances, windows, colors and pavements, it is their almost total lack of charm which, in my opinion, gives them a charming authenticity that is worth taking a second and third look at. I just find these town irresistable.  When I say these things, people sometimes look at me the way they do individuals who sit on street corners an bark like a dog, but I can’t help it.  La Mancha is so alluring it’s almost hypnotizing. Javi would later ask me why I take pictures of tired tobacco stores and weathered frameless windows, and I told him, “because this is the invisible Spain I love so much. These are the minor details that are so much a part of this culture that we, and especially you, see every day but no longer bother to see anymore.”

         That tahona as a business, on the other hand, may become truly invisible if things don’t change soon. Unfortunately, it may be the fact that they do change that makes the threat all that more real. A tahona, we may as well get to this point, is nothing more than a place with a large oven where goods are baked, especially, bread, which isn’t necessarily the place where they sell it, known as the panadería. That’s the technical difference, but in modern times, things have become vaguer. Many panaderías now use small electric ovens designed specifically to finish baking half-baked (if you’ll excuse the word) dough in order to serve warm and fresh loaves which have become so popular in Spain these days. Are these tahonas? Not really. There are also places where they actually prepare the bread from scratch and bake it on the premises, but owners call it a panadería, not a tahona. At least that’s what happens in a city or large town.

        The fact is, the term “tahona” appears to be slowly falling into disuse, but it’s in a village where things tend to be treated differently. Here they are almost like miniature factories, and the goods they produce may be dispatched directly from the shop itself or distributed to grocery stores, or other outlets.

       In keeping with the surroundings, the tahona in La Fuente is so unassuming you wouldn’t even know it’s there. A small stairway leads up to the ubiquitous bead curtains draping from every door in those towns. Inside on the left was a small room with a counter and empty shelves, as if I had just entered a market from a former soviet state.

       The two men at the looked uncannily like a comedy team. One short and, well, robust. The other taller and, while not thin, certainly lower in weight. And he wore glasses which gave home a distinguished air, no easy feat considering he was surrounded by glossy balls of dough. The tall one ably took the spheres and with one thumb managed to mold them into ribbed doughnuts, not unlike French crullers, with an ease and precision, it seems hardly possible that any machine could best him.

        The shorter man led me to the oven a kiln so large it sailed up to the ceiling. It was covered in white tile except for the mighty iron mouth which read “Juan Ferré Matheu”, the name of the manufacturer. The company started production in 1893, but it has since ceased to operate. Fired by wood, the baker swears “it’s been on continuously for fifty years.” I wasn’t sure if this was a bit of an exaggeration, but after a long look around the place it would seem that very little else had changed since 1966, so I could see no reason for their extinguishing the embers for the sake of novelty.

          “And we can’t turn it off.”

          “Why not?”

       “Too dangerous?”  That made me step back a little.  Why?  Had years of nonstop usage turned the kiln into a nuclear oven?  Would failure cause the grapes in the nearby vineyards to glow at night?

         “What would happen?”

         He shook his hand ominously.  “I don’t want to think of what would happen.”

       “Me neither.”

       In the meantime, they just kept on baking.  Behind us was a wooden shelf with a pile or two of French-bread style loaves which customers could walk up to, pick out and pay for. Next to that stood a tall cart, twenty or more levels high, stacked with black metal trays, all bent out of shape, laden with rows of oblong cookies.

        “So, you make those too?” The question was obvious.

       “Yeap. About 70 to 80 bags a day. The doughnuts too. Look.” He opened the door to the hearth and inside was a large plate which could be rotated to maximize space. “Then I use this wheel,” located on the outside, “to turn it. That’s all there is to it.”

      “I can make cookies, cakes, bread, even pizzas. Even roast, but we aren’t supposed to do it. Affects the flavor.”

       “He also cremates dead bodies for a cheap price,” joked a customer as he passed by.

         “Don’t listen to him! What a comment!”

      Everything about the bakery teams with craftsmanship, and technology appears to have very little place there, no matter how rudimentary it is. The thermometer to the left was busted and my guess it hadn’t been in operation since the days Franco was alive. Accurate temperature readings are normally vital to baked goods. How did they do it?

        “How? That’s easy. I just open the door to the oven, stick my hand in like this,” he demonstrated it personally in case I didn’t understand. There must have been something about the look on my face that suggested to him I needed visuals.

      “And I wait for a few seconds. If I have to pull it out, that means it’s very hot and less time.”

       Well, there was no argument that logic fully supported his technique. It also probably explained the wide range of toasted cookies. But that was the fun of homemade products.

      He took us around back to a room which served as little more than a playground for people who suffer from Diogenes syndrome. A solid two inches of myriad crap blanketed the floor, but there was one item of interest at the back…a projector.

       “This used to be the where we would hold community events,” the ‘used to’ part was self-evident. “This was the local movie theater. You can see where the holes for the projector came out of on the wall. They’ve been sealed since then. Can you see them?”

       I could, even though most people no longer did. “What will become of this place when you retire?” It didn’t take a lot to see that day was not far off for either of them.

       He shrugged his shoulders. “God knows.”

Spain

August 17, 2016

Where the hell do you think you’re going now señor Brian? 5

“Julia!” yelled back Javi to his wife before he left for the finca to prepare the country house for the next guests. “Take Brian to the tahona. He’s gonna love it.”

        “Javi, you’ve told me this 100 times. I will!”

        “Just wanna make sure. I know he’ll love it.”

        “Don’t worry. We’ll go see it.”

      “Brian!” he called up to me, but I was on the living room couch with bags under my eyes and begging for a little more rest. It was my second full night back from the United States and anyone who has been in my position knows that is when the effects of jetlag are at their most devastating. There is no reconciliation with slumber because there is no slumber at all. Unconsciousness departs and forces you to face the unforgiving drawbacks of prolonged lack of rest. It’s a form of torture that long-distance travelers must accept with dignity.

       In theory, country life often offers some measures to counter the problem. The climate in the center of Spain helps too. It is bone dry and that means temperature changes swing like a pendulum. The blistering daytime heat of a 105ºF can vanish once the sun goes down, and you may even find yourself reaching for a sweatshirt before the evening’s over. That’s also good for the grapes, by the way, so that they don’t stress out. In Madrid, by contrast, the heat is absorbed by the concrete throughout the hours of light and then radiated outward well into the early morning hours. The Spanish often compare it to an oven and after 25 years of on-the-job field work here, I can personally attest to the accuracy of the analogy. If I were a piece of dough, I might start swelling at any moment.

         And the absence of city life. The outdoor cafés in Madrid are filled with customers who feel the need to talk to each other from distances of two feet as if they all were used to living next to an airport runway. And I also have the fortune of having the city send a fleet of sanitation trucks to my corner to recreate the Battle of Britain every night. Not once, but twice. Then there is a third round at two in the morning, but I’m not sure what that’s for. All I know is that shatters your REM phase.

       Javi’s home was the perfect place to combat these problems.  The peace, quiet and coolness should have made nodding off a fairly straightforward proposal.

         I was sharing a room with Javi’s eight-year-old son, Alex, as his room had the only available extra bed. Our friendship had gone back a long way, as far back as the day he was born. I had spent some time in Javi’s apartment years before when Alex was just three and he was in the midst of his negative stage in life, a period when the answer to everything is an unequivocal “no”, for which I then baptized him as the one and only “Mr. No.” It’s basically stuck since then.

         To many of my friends’ kids, I am the “Tito” Brian, which sounds like I am a former dictator of a Balkan nation, but it’s generally just an affectionate name for a faux uncle (“tío” in Spanish) who is kind of a loser and a loner at the same time.
Lying on our backs on our respective beds with the light on, we discussed the general state of affairs in our lives. Actually, we focused more on his situation, since listening to mine would have run the risk of scarring him for life.

         “How is the summer going?”

         “Good.”

         “What have you been doing?”

       “Stuff.” That was a good sign. Kids who say “stuff” show promise. It’s a universal trait of noncommittal communication.

         “I hear you have camp tomorrow? Looking forward to it?”

         “Nope.”

         “Why not?”

         “Don’t know anything about it and I want to stay home.” A noncomformist, I thought. Good for him.

          “Well, give it a shot. You never know.”

          “I have no choice,” he admitted. A realist, I thought. Makes sense.

          “That’s a good point. Let’s try to get some sleep.”

          “Can we turn off the light? Mom wants it on because she thinks I’m afraid of the dark. But moms are always thinking we are afraid of everything.”

          A courageous kid. A sensible one too. “That’s fine with me. Night.”

        Alex wasn’t out like a light, he was out before the light went out. Kids are often like dogs. They can just click on and off like that. I can normally do the same these days because I’m getting older and don’t care about anything anymore. But this wasn’t going to happen that night. Every silver lining has a cloud.

         You see, making the most of the coolness of the night air requires opening a window which, in addition to letting the lower temperatures in, also allows for a lot of flying creatures in search of human blood. Mosquitos aren’t attracted to everyone, according to studies, so I guess I happen to be one of the unfortunate individuals they find irresistible. The Spanish like to say, “that’s because your blood is sweeter,” and while this certainly has nothing to do with anything – I tend to take any culture’s folkloric medicine with a great deal of suspicion, apparently there really are a number of scientific reasons why those bastards go after some people more than others and make lying in a bed at night about as pleasant as being buried up to your neck in sand.

         Here are some things that seem to contribute to this differentiation: blood type (O, is the classification of preference – mine is A+ and one of the least appealing, so you could scratch the “sweet blood” thing), carbon dioxide emission (generally larger people are greater producers, an overabundance of skin bacteria (that I could not measure, beer (certainly a probable contributor, but experts question this point for a lot of reasons – I just don’t know what they are), pregnancy (well that speaks for itself), clothing color (maybe), sweat and body odor (now we were getting closer) and, as usual, just plain genetics – the universal culprit of just about everything that goes on with us.

       Regardless, considering that just about any factor, save being knocked up, could have contributed to the invitation, the point is, word got around the insect neighborhood that I was in town, and before you knew it, the room had more airborne objects swirling around than Dubai International Airport. What’s more, the little peckers would hover right up to the ear and give me warning of the slaughter that was to come. They would say it with that high-pitched hum that induce a handful of ideas so violent and evil in nature the fact that any human could have conceived them would be enough to land them in jail. To avoid the bloodbath, I had to turn on the light, apologize to Alex, wait patiently while the bugs unwittingly alighted on a wall and SMACK! incrust them in the surface. Seven deaths later, I turned off the light, fell asleep only to be jolted awake by my hand smacking my own body. It seems that a second, and possibly a third, wave of squadrons had arrived and were taking advantage of the fact I had lowered my guard. Y closed the window to prevent any more intruders, but that just increased the temperature by some 20º in that many minutes. Jetlag did the rest. The flying vampires didn’t seem to find to find my roommate as tasty, so I left him to defend for himself and plodded downstairs to the couch, where it was cooler, the WIFI was within reach and I could listen to documentaries on YouTube until I faded off.

         “Yes, Javi,” I answered with a scruffy voice not yet oiled by its first coffee. “I definitely want to see the tahona.”

Spain

July 30, 2016

Where the hell do you think you’re going now señor Brian? 3

“¡Hombre!” Javi was next to the car before I had even gotten out. I stood up and we hugged. “Welcome to La Mancha! Land of the Quixote!”

Like any good man from this region, Javi was fiercely proud of his homeland and every time you went to his place he would greet you as if it were the first time.  “Take a deep breath,” he drew in an atmosphere of air and invited me to do the same. “Nothing like it,” he howled. “Have you seen the vineyards?”

“A million times.”

“I can never get tired of looking at them, can you?”

“No, never.” That was true, but even if it hadn’t been, I wouldn’t dare.

“And the zucchini. You wouldn’t believe how far it’s come along.”

“Actually I came to see your place. The new casa rural.”

“Haven’t you seen it yet?”

I sighed. “No, I haven’t. I was hoping to.”

“I could have sworn…coño…I’ll have to give you the grand tour. Come on!” He turned and walked through the new stone gate. “Mamá!! Brian’s here. Can you believe he’s never been to the place yet?”

“Well, if you’d invite your friends over from time to time, it would be nice,” she called back from inside the house. “Then they could see the place and recommend it to their friends.”

Oh, I don’t know. It certainly was a nice looking place after all. Two houses, not just one. I guess if they were going to get into construction, they might as well make the most of it and build a village. One was a handsome three-bedroom deal for the guests, with room for up to eleven people, I am told, if you squeeze everyone in Spanish style. It is ideal for couples or groups of friends.

The place looked pretty snazzy, with a porch that looks out over the vineyards giving everything a sort of Tuscany feel to it. Just the way I had told them to do. Good to see they listened to me every now and then. This house was connected by an overhead roof patio to another building almost identical in shape. It was for “eventos”, gatherings, parties, shindigs, bachelor weekends, hen weekends, even English classes. “I want you to teach the executives English. Who couldn’t learn English with Cencibel right next to you? I’ll even pay you. 100€ for the weekend sound good?”

“That’s about three or four hours of work. What about the rest of the weekend? Plus, I’ve got a job. I’d love to, but I’ve got a job already.”

“Let me show you the kitchen. Maybe that will change your mind.” Industrial. Plated, pleated, shod and sheeted with stainless steel and a battery of new appliances. Gas stoves….the only way to go. Now we’re talking.

I had to admit they had done a great job turning a one acre lot of land from something only a tractor or a dingo would love into a home away from home for the urban dweller with the cash to spend on getting out of town to look at some trees and eat and drink until they passed out. They even laid down a lawn, a rarity in those parts. I was impressed, absolutely, but by far the biggest surprise, and one which I am glad they went ahead with though I had been consulted, was the swimming pool, a welcome addition to any vineyard if you ask me, especially in La Mancha during the summer months. It’s the ideal way of keeping from withering away like a sunflower in August.

“It was my idea,” claimed Javi. “I knew otherwise the guests would be sizzling like overcooked pancetta if we didn’t. No one wants that to happen.”

You see, the decision to open a casa rural in those parts was a bit risky because no one really thinks of going to La Mancha for a weekend away unless their family is from there or they are following in the footsteps of Don Quixote, as some foreigners do, in which case, after about three days they begin to wonder just what the hell they are doing there. A pool was the saving grace. Javi was right on the mark. And it was in this watering hole that we could wallow and wade, discuss American and Spanish politics without breaking down into tears, sip a Spanish beer, and swat off an occasional insect which also wanted to share the refreshing atmosphere and somehow felt my head was the perfect runway.

Afterwards, Javier proudly showed me around the new premises. La Mancha always improves with the aging of the day. As the sun goes down, the reds become redder, the greens deeper, the browns and yellows richer. The sky starts to stretch out forever. They say, with an immense degree of certainty, that the universe is actually expanding at an ever-increasing rate. You get the sense you can actually see that happening before your very eyes right there and then.

Dinner was Mediterranean style, at least the way the Americans envision an outdoor Mediterranean dinner in the summer. Vegetables were picked straight from the garden, washed and carried to the kitchen. We grilled the zucchini and a couple of green peppers. We took an onion and a somewhat weary-looking head of lettuce and the reddest juiciest tomato you’ve ever seen or tasted. Outstanding.
Darkness came. We pulled the table from the deck out onto the lawn so we could feel the most of the fresh air and get the best view of the stars, which were out in legion. Javi was there with his wife and son, along with the grandmothers, a sister and brother, son inlaws, and a handful of cousins. All that was missing was for a few guards to be posted around the grounds shouldering shotguns to give it the full cosa nostra effect.

Javi gazed up into space after the final slivers of daylight had slipped away below the horizon. “Just look at that. Look at the Big Dipper. Big enough to carry a butt load of eggplants. You’ve never seen anything like that in…what’s the name of that state again?”

“Connecticut.”

“That’s right, ‘Connecticut’.” He did his best to replicate the sound so that it sounded somewhat like it came from the mouth of a native speaker and not a squirrel choking on acorns. “That’s a tough one, I tell you. Too soft too. You need something more macho like…”

“La Mancha,” I muttered to myself quietly.

“La Mancha! Yes. There’s a name for you. Rugged and mysterious. It’s no nonsense. No fucking around.”

I didn’t even bother to check for the look on Javi’s mother face or wait for a disapproving, “Javier, we don’t use that language at the dinner table.” It was never going to happen. Swearing has become such a standard part of everyday language here that unless you step right up to the queen and call her a slut to her face, you would be hard-pressed to find someone admonish “Hey, that’s taking things a little far.” Foul language has come to substitute all kinds of forms of speech: nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, comparisons, superlatives…even conjunctions.

I didn’t want to feel out of step with the others and agreed. “Absolutely. De puta madre. (the ‘mother’s whore’ – or basically ‘fucking great’”

“Amen,” sang out the grandmother.

Spain

July 28, 2016

Where the hell do you think you’re going now señor Brian? 2

If a fear of heights restricts your movements during your holidays, the La Mancha region is the place for you. Nothing about it suggests altitude will be an issue for the victims of vertigo. No driving off cliffs. No avalanches. No treacherous gorges. No terrifying edges of any kind. Suiciders will die of frustration trying to find a lofty ledge to plunge to their death from; it is simply not an option. They’ll be better off going for the knife, a gun or grab or a handful of pills. My home state of Connecticut, which boasts a hardly elevated Bear Mountain and its height of 700 meters and a prominence of a fearsome 100 meters, could be considered alpine by comparison.

     And yet despite this celebration of flatness, the land doesn’t always stretch out like a tightly fitted sheet over an army bunk bed. It kind of rolls here and there gently, allowing the traveler enough of a perspective to enjoy the orography without fear. You have the red clay earth providing miles of foundation for the vines and olive trees, the bales of straw firmly laid upon the golden fields, the deep green bushy heads of the miles of vineyards looking like a legion of Secondary Actor Bobs, shading the little creatures of the land, and the majestic Holmes oaks that emerge from the fields like solitary wise men. Or friendless losers. Those are the trees that produce the acorns that feed the pigs that get slaughtered, salted, aged, sold, sliced, and consumed by people like you and me. People often note the nutty flavor and many don’t know where it comes from. There you have it. A bit of mindless trivia.

     Each of those trees is registered in a bureaucratic log somewhere, penned into a leather bound volume of oddities or typed in snug into the memory of a hard drive or two. They cannot be touched without the permission of the regional government. If you were a dog, you’d be wary of peeing on one.  As a result, every time I walk by one, I poke it bark or snap off a twig as a sign of defiance. Rebellion against the establishment.

     It was my six thousandth time at the finca, more or less, where Javier and his family had their 150 acres of vineyards.   That may sound impressive, but when set against the some 400,000 acres of vines planted in all of La Mancha, it’s a mere patch for these parts.

      Before, the only real structure was a shed with no electricity or running water, a warehouse for storing agricultural machinery and whatnot, as well as a dozen farm animals or so. We used to broil our chorizos, chicken and steaks over the fireplace, and even whip up a delicious rice with rabbit dish in a deep iron pot, seasoned with thyme and rosemary stripped from their respective bushes nearby. I know it sounds Wyoming wild and all, but considering the Comanche were known to drink the stale water from a bison’s stomach to keep hydrated, I feel it was still fairly tame from that standpoint.

     This was my first time at the new finca, now a casa rural, a country house you can rent out, pay loads of money to enjoy rural life for just about long enough until you can’t stand it anymore.  Country house tourism is so popular in Spain it has become big business, enormous business, and it has managed to endure even the worst of the economic crisis.  Javi and his family actually built their own just the year before, with three bedrooms and a kitchen and living room. It’s called Montehigueras, Fig Tree Hill, which defies all logic because there are no hills in that part, and if there ever was a fig produced on that land it has been long since dispatched to some unknown stomach, or plucked from the soil by a bird with a sweet beak.   Apparently that’s the name of the land, so who am I to question it?

     As usual, I packed a little more than I really needed. For a person with a reputation for being a total disaster, I take certain pride in the fact I try to foresee any and every unforeseeable eventuality when it comes to short-term travel. You just never know when you might go for a swim or get caught in a blizzard. For an excursion of one day, I stuffed two pairs of shorts, a pair of jeans, two t-shirts, two pairs of underwear, docksiders, running shoes, flip-flops, three pairs of socks and a sweatshirt, in case it cooled off at night, which, in the 100º+ daily heat in the center of the Iberian peninsula was an unlikelihood, but you never knew. Ah, and I also added three bottles of wine, which Javi had asked me to bring along. Javi’s family owns two very large wineries in La Mancha, but the fact is, you can never drink enough of the stuff in this region. No one can. There is so much that much of it is burned and turned into industrial alcohol. I took along a chardonnay from Somontano, a rosé from Cigales and a red from Valdepeñas figuring that all three colors would collide by the end of the evening.

      I have to admit I was a little bummed about going to the finca. Kind of miffed. Somewhat snubbed. After all, I had grown up (Spain-speaking) honoring the simplicity of the land, eating with basic utensils, napping under pine trees, regarding the vineyards and saying, “don’t you think it would be a good idea build a real house here? One with a big kitchen for the grastronómica.”

     Yes, I like to say it was my idea. Then they took it, built it in record time, and not once did I get a call, nary a whatsapp, to get invited over to review the blueprints, survey the land, oversee the works. Not once. Then, before I knew it, it was up and running. “The place is great. Come and see it,” Javi ordered me.

     “I know,” I muttered and wanted to add, I told you so.

     “We put a big industrial kitchen in there. You’re gonna love it!”

     “All right, all right. Let me be the judge of that.”

Spain

July 24, 2016

Where the hell do you think you’re going now señor Brian? 1

Tags:

Boy, every year I get worse at this.  Some people, actually a lot ot people, call this blogger burnout.  I call it having a total lack of time to sit down and do one of things I like best: write…and write about Spain.  Writing takes time, just like any kind of exercise.  It requires dedication.  When I go running, when I plan on running, I can take months before I actually take that first step, but after about day three, I start craving the activity.  The same kind of happens with writing.  It is soooo easing to slip out of the habit, no matter how much you enjoy it, primarily because, if you take it seriously enough, you don’t want to post a piece of crap.  And to avoid that, you have to take the time to make it worthwhile.  Not that I haven’t been spending time writing on other things; I just haven’t bothered to share it with anyone.

     Plus, luckily for me, not much has been going on this year so far.  Spain voted for no party to run the country and seven months and another election later, the situation is still the same.  The Partido Popular has taken a slightly tighter grip on power, but it’s still a far cry from the majority it needs.  The Socialist party is totally adrift, and Podemos is finally learning what it’s like to me on the other side of the court.  Things were a lot easier when all it had to do was take pop shots at mainstream parties.  Ciudadanos, trying to be like another Podemos but better dressed and more appealing to the rich young Spaniards who like to feel they are being radical, has begun to come across as an absurd alternative altogether.  So, I get the feeling that there is a lot of meeting the new boss, the same as the old boss.

       A good scream by Roger Daltrey would be nice here.

       The seemingly little impact that this state of non-government, this legislative limbo, is both encouraging and disparaging.  The former because it means a stable country can continue to carry on with its duties despite no one really directing it.  The latter because it suggests how insignificant ruling parties really are.  And let’s not mention the fact the political stagnation means nothing is really getting done.  Try doing that at your place of work.

      Ok, I’m off to see some friends who have a new casa rural in La Mancha.  I’ll start a month long road trip…the way they used to to them.  With no place in mind, La Mancha is a perfect destination to start off with. It’s the place of dreaming the impossible the dreams.  Trust me, once you are out there, dreaming can get pretty wishful.  But, as the song goes, I could really use a wish right now.

Spain,Uncategorized

September 12, 2015

A Mal Tiempo, Buena Cara

Hace varios años yo pertenecía a un grupo de élite en el cuerpo de enseñanza al ser un profesor nativo de inglés con magisterio.  Vamos, estaba más solicitado que George Clooney en Alegoría un sábado por la noche.  Pero últimamente, con tanto extranjero consiguiendo el título universitario necesario pasar impartir clase, me he convertido en un chico del montón.  Para colmo, este año estoy dando lengua española a chicos nativos del español.  Hay que ver.

       En fin.  A veces pienso que más que instruir sobre morfemas deritativos, estoy enseñando morales delictivos.   Veamos el ejemplo del primer tema, que se titula igual que este post.  La unidad esta llena de referencias sobre cómo ver las cosas del lado positivo.  Y para ilustrar semejante idea, incluye un extracto de la novela “Tom Sawyer” que habla de la famosa escena de la valla en la que el niño travieso consigue que todos sus compañeros hagan el trabajo por él, con el añadido que le regalan algo para poder hacerlo.  En resumen, les estafaba, haciéndoles creer que estaban haciendo una cosa divertida (es decir, realizar una tarea que le correspondía a otro, sin cobrar) e incluso dar algo de propiedad a cambio.   ¡Joder!  Me dije.  Como la mismísima vida aquí en España.  Ya lo pillo.  Es que llevamos todos estos años educándolos así.

       Encima, Tom debería sentirse orgulloso de haber sido capaz de cambiar de actitud y convertir una situación desesperada, como puede ser tener que pintar una valla de treinta metros por dos metros de alto, en un éxito total, palabras textuales, mediante una genialidad llamada “la picardía”, española, añaden algunos con orgullo.  Solo al final se nos invita a reflexionar y decir si Tom lo podía haber hecho mejor.  ¿En qué sentido?  ¿Ayudar?    No me jodas.  ¿Qué te parece si cumple el castigo solito, en vez de conseguir que sus amigos lo realicen por él (con numerosos beneficios materiales)?  El problema es, la mayoría de las estafas, siempre que estén bien hechas por supuesto, son genialidades.

        Pues nada.  Dentro de 30 años cuando uno de mis alumnos se encuentra delante de un juez declarándose inocente ante las acusaciones de haber embolsado 33 mil millones de euros de los contribuyentes para comprarse un chalet en los alpes, un bungalo en Bora Bora, por no hablar del asunto de unos amigos que tienen una constructora que acaba de hacer un aeropuerto en Cáceres, alegando que será el perfecto lugar para turistas que pretenden viajar entre Portugal y Madrid.  Todos lo delitos han sido obras de arte, obras maestras, fruto de la imaginación y genialidad.  Antes no tenía ni un duro, y acabó teniendo una fortuna.  Antes de ser arrestado, por supuesto.

         Ese mismo hombre dirá, “Pero, señorilla, en mi clase de profe Brian, me dijo que Tom Sawyer supo poner buena cara a mal tiempo.”  A que reconocer que sería un alumno bien atento y aplicado.

Madrid,Spain

December 8, 2014

The 30 Days of Christmas – Gluttony in Times of Need

Tags: , , , ,

The Puente de Diciembre is a time for planning. Planning everything you have to do for the next five weeks, and survive.

     Got my long-distance Christmas cards out a week before for the first time in years. I did that right after throwing last year’s cards which I just happened upon underneath a pile of books and realized I had never sent out.

       Presents are on the way. I haven’t bought one, but they are on the way.

      But what I’m really concerned about is making sure I have all of my Christmas meals in order before they start, which is tomorrow. The take up a large part of any Madrid resident’s social life and budget, and now that everyone pretends the crisis is over for some reason, spirits are high. Unemployment is dipping below 25% (don’t worry, it never was that high to begin with, especially if remove the 18-25 year-old labor force, which never worked that much anyway) and word from abroad is that everyone is slowly pulling out of hole. The government is even going to return 25% of the 7.2% of my salary it took away from all teachers two years ago. Without interest, of course.
That’s why it is especially important to sort things out eating-wise. Here’s what I have line up so far:
Dec. 9 – Dinner with my gastronomic club
Dec. 12 – Dinner with other teachers
Dec. 16 – Dinner with the school teachers from the language school
Dec. 19 – Lunch with the entire school
Dec. 20 – Christmas party with the gastronomic club
Dec. 21 – Christmas dinner with friends
Dec. 24 – Christmas aperitivo with the gastronomic club
Dec. 24 – Christmas Eve dinner with my Spanish family
Dec. 25 – Christmas Day lunch with my other half’s family
Dec. 31 – New Year’s Eve Dinner with the other half’s family, if I behaved myself the first time.
Jan 1 – New Year’s Day lunch with my Spanish family, if I have behaved myself at Christmas
Jan 5 – Three Kings (The Twelfth Night) cocktail party
Jan 5 – Three Kings (The Twelfth Night) dinner
Jan 6 – Three Kings Day lunch
* Any last-minute celebrations have yet to appear on the agenda.

     On a number of accounts, this was cause for worry, not the least being my health. But this was Christmas in Spain, and years of training had made me a hardened veteran. A new war was about to be waged.

Spain

November 11, 2014

The Consulta

Tags: , , , ,

Well, it’s come and gone, and I can’t quite say where it’ll go from here.  It seems like little was settled, as both sides will not budge when it comes to admitting victory or defeat.  If anything, it’ll go on…and on…and on.

     Yesterday, Sunday, November 9, the Catalonians held a straw poll, which is a kind of makeshift unofficial referendum on whether or not the majority from the region wants to become independent, as the minority from the region have so arduously desired.  It was an act of defiance since the national government and the judicial branch had previously struck down Catalonia’s request to call on the will of the people to determine its future.  The hope to become a sovereign nation has been alive for decades, and the roots go back centuries, not unlike Scotland’s dilemma, but it has come on stronger over the past decade for reasons not easily summarized in so few lines.  Now those wanting to break away feel they have the right numbers to put it to the people, but Madrid keeps saying, “Uh, I don’t see this referendum thing happening.”

     While it’s understandable that the national government should want to put off the inevitable, the problem is it only aggravates the issue and it doesn’t make Spain look very good.  The United Kingdom established a peaceful and orderly referendum with the Scots, as did Canada with Quebec, to nationalist movements which failed, by the way.  Why can’t Spain do the same.

     So the pro-independence groups organized its now famous “consulta” and beckoned Catalans from home and abroad to put in their two cents.  The answers were short and sweet: “Yes” or “No”.  They did so in the name of democracy, calling it a show of civil disobedience for a just cause.  They even alluded to Martin Luther King Jr.  The national government called it a sham.

     Finally the numbers came in, with some 2,300,000 voters showing up at the polls, with about 80% demanding independence.  The international press has embraced these numbers as indicative of Catalonia’s overwhelming support for the initiative, but the stats belie reality.  The numbers that showed up only constituted about 35% of all potential voters, and if you remove the nay-sayers, then the independentistas only managed to muster up about 28% of the vote.

    If you take into account that the straw poll was promoted heavily by the Catalonian independence movement and it was supposed to their chance to corner the Madrid government into giving up more control to them, in my humble opinion, it didn’t do a very good job.  About two-thirds of the voters clearly didn’t see the necessity to cast a vote, and would have expected a higher turnout from those citizens if they were so adament about seeing secession through.  In short, from what I can tell, the numbers are there. I think they are higher then 28%, but probably still a far cry from the needed 51%.

    If the Spanish government had any skill with this issue, they would hold a real referendum as soon as possible, while they apparently have the vote on their side.  But I don’t see that happening either.

    Oh well.  Time to start the week.

Spain

January 24, 2014

Helping You Locate Barcelona

Tags: , ,

Everyone once in a while I dabble in a little nationalism-bashing, not because I am wholly against the idea of fighting for independence if that is what the collective feels and believes, nor do I dispute the historical justification for such a credence, or at least the right to defend it.  What gets my goat, ever so slightly, is the insistence on manipulating information for the sake of God knows what…because it really makes no sense to me.

            Just the other day I was looking up some information about a town outside Madrid called Villarejo de Salvanés, because I was in a café there studying the wildlife there and decided to rummage around the fee encyclopedia to see what it said about the town…in English, which wasn’t much, to be honest.  My eyes were distracted by the list of other languages that have decided to include entries on the subject.  I have become increasingly fascinated by the number of tongues that have joined to the club.  Personally I find it a celebration of that facet that sets us apart from so many other objects in this world, but I do get a kick out of how many of these languages actually make the effort to get on the record.  Latin appears in many.  Esperanto, too.  And regional tongues such as Asturian and Aragonese have joined the ranks.  I guess this is the ideal way to bring international attention to your otherwise unknown language, and that is fine with me, but it is interesting to study the sometimes subversive forces acting behind them. 

            Take Catalan, for example, a minor but healthy language in today’s world but one with a chip on its shoulder the size of a log.  Economic, dictatorial and natural, let’s not forget, forces led to the encroachment of Castilian Spanish for many decades, but this Romance tongue, which is a kind of blend of Spanish, French and Oc, I guess, has managed to persevere quite well, thanks. 

            Enter politics.  With Catalan nationalist sentiment continually on the rise, and the possibility of a referendum looming, the people who support this region, its language and culture, go to great lengths to pretend they don’t belong to the country they belong to. 

            So, I slipped over to Catalan to see what they had to say about the town, rather surprised that they had anything to say about it.  I looked at the summary on the right and noticed that they referred to the country of Spain as a state.   Most of you would not be familiar with the word games that are played in Spain, but the use of the term “state” instead of “country” implies almost a sense of control rather than belonging.  At least that is what I used to think, until I realized that the word was used for all political nations.  The entry refers to Catalonia as a “país” or “country”, due to its cultural and linguistic identity.  At least says it is located in Spain.  If you skip over to “Barcelona”, you notice that it is defined in the entry as a city located in the Iberian Peninsula!  Oh, that country thing is not important.   The extremes people will go to avoid the facts; and that’s considering it is printed in a website which should stick to the facts.  Manipulation of information?  Absolutely.  That happens a lot.  That happens a lot, I tell you.  Let’s pretend it doesn’t exist.  And if we don’t mention it, it won’t.  God help us!