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Showing posts from 2014

One Giraffe and a Movie, Rota, Spain, 1972

You never know how an evening will turn out. You can start off alone watching a movie, then all of a sudden, boom, things change. It happened a lot in Rota. Things simply evolved, right before your very eyes. If you lived in Rota long enough you soon learned that an evening wasn't complete without a visit to the outdoor movie theater. It was a popular place for teenagers, children, grannies, old aunties, for anyone just wanting something different to do rather than sit on their balcony or patio. It was always hot at night. Even with all the windows opened in your apartment, the heat never really dissipated. You might as well be out and about for it was difficult to sleep what with mosquitoes biting you just when you would be about to doze off, and the blaring of  "Baby, don't get hooked on me" emanating from nearby bars. The American sailors frequented these bars. You could see them strolling along, tossing their Vantage or Winston cigarette butts onto the dirt r

Ole to the ban on bullfighting

The following is one of several of my articles published at Powder Room Graffiti, an online magazine. This has since been taken over by different people and the name has changed to In the Powder Room.  They seem to have done away with the original articles, unfortunately. The articles were to be short, around 500 words, which was a challenge, as well as a good learning experience. Ole to Banning Bullfighting What honor? What choice? by Sandra Staas (Mon Aug 02, 2010) The recent ban on bullfighting in Catalonia was based on animal welfare grounds. However, those against the ban state that the reasons are actually political. They believe that the ban on bullfighting is simply a means for Catalonia to show Spain how different it is, and how one day they may actually acquire full independence from Spain. Catalonia does indeed consider itself separate from the rest of Spain as can be witnessed from the tendency of the people to insist on speaking in Catalan to Spaniards from diff

All Dressed up and Nowhere to go -1973, Cadiz, Spain

I was really lucky for it had  been so easy to get private students in the city of Cadiz.   I had no idea English was such an important language. Word of mouth got  out that a native speaker of English was available to tutor and before you knee it, I was trying to decipher spidery hand writing written by yet someone else who wanted to learn English. The notes were always signed and duly underlined with a flourish. Everyone seemed to know someone who wanted to learn English. Walk into the corner bar and Julio who would be preparing his famous pinchitos with just the right amount of paprika and garlic would tell  you about someone from down the road whose cousin's best friend's brother really, really wanted to learn English.  "He wrote his address for you." Julio handed me a transparent, crumpled paper serviette. "There, there’s his signature.”  He pointed to something that looks like an abstract painting.  “You can do the lessons here, if you’d like."

'Lo', that Playboy of the Spanish Language - Learning Spanish, Part 5

At times, learning Spanish makes you feel as if you're in some odd planet where 'lo','le', and 'la' make no sense. You mumble the words hoping that nobody really hears them, and you even cover your mouth pretending to cough. It's enough to make you sneeze and scratch your forehead in utter confusion! Let's check out a little bit of the mysterious world of 'lo'. ¿Tienes el libro?  Sí, lo tengo.   What does the 'lo' refer to? Here 'lo' is being used as a masculine singular direct object pronoun. Do you have the book? Yes, I have it . Here's another example of 'lo' being used as a masculine singular direct object pronoun . ¿Conoces a Pedro? Sí, lo conozco.  Do you know Pedro? Yes, I know him . Want to know a funny thing about 'lo' in the above sentence? You can also use 'le'. Le conozco. In actual fact, what I learned way, way back in the seventies was the use of 'le' refer

'Se', the Anti-Hero. Learning Spanish.

One day in the autumn of 1980, when I was living in Talavera de la Reina I spent a morning in Madrid. Keen to learn more Spanish, I browsed around a shop selling just about every text book you could think of.  Amongst this array of books, one caught my eye. It was a teeny tiny, skinny minny paperback which looked completely innocuous. However, as I flicked through the pages the contents were enough to make my skinny minny brain puzzled and perplexed. The only subject of the book was the Spanish word, ‘se’.  Can’t be that bad, can it?  I can hear you mutter. And you’d be correct. He’s just a wee word is this ‘se’.   But, gollee wollee, he certainly does change the meaning of sentences. He evolves and revolves, slipping and sliding just like any elusive anti-hero we all love to hate. Let’s look at some uses of ‘se’. El niño se llama Juan.     (The boy calls himself Juan.  The boy is called Juan.) Ella se llama Ana .   (She calls herself Ana. She’s called Ana.)

Needing Wits and Getting Diddled - Talavera de la Reina, Spain, 1980

My neighbour across the hall,  the Lady from Leon,  rushes over to  inspect my purchases from the Simago supermarket as I step out of the lift. My arms are yanked almost out of their sockets with heavy loads of potatoes, onions, apples, tomatoes, garlic, bottles of gaseosa , and even a rotisserie chicken. Her head disappeared into my net bags as she  poked and squeezed, examined everything carefully for freshness. With huge grunts and groans she then glanced up at me and announced,  “Why pay high prices at Simago for vegetables that aren’t even fresh?! Next week, you and I will go together to the market.  I’ll show you how to really shop.” I guessed she was right. The merchandise at the weekly market was indeed probably fresher, so I decided that I might as well agree to go with her.  The following week arrived and The Lady from Leon rang my doorbell.  Before we could even say an  'Hola' the lift unexpectedly arrived. Many times you had to wait for ages on one, so

Dreadful Dentist and the Grouping of Blood - Cadiz, Spain, 1973

One thing I've always hated to do is to visit a dentist. Bad luck would linger around my mouth like a mass murderer about to pounce.  So many odd things and mistakes had happened any time I was in the clutches of a dentist. Therefore, it was with butterflies in my stomach and sweaty palms that I ended up at a dentist in Cadiz. It's not that I had actual toothache, it was more a dreadful feeling that something was not quite right with a tooth on the upper jaw. "Open your mouth."  The dentist looked like a band leader conducting his orchestra, or a lion tamer goading his long-suffering animal to perform. Now, opening my mouth wasn't the problem. It's what happened next that caused me great consternation. He picked up long, thin, pointed instruments and proceeded to poke and probe. "Aha. Senorita, you need to have the tooth pulled." "I do?"  I'm surprised, for I'm not in too much pain at all. "I can pull it now, if yo

The Secret Police and the Striptease - El Puerto de Santa Maria, Spain, 1973

When people found out that I was moving to El Puerto de Santa Maria in the Province of Cadiz, a region of Spain where 'nobody ever goes', they were more than surprised. Advice flourished as they warned me about the fact that Spain was ruled by a dictator with the name of Francisco Franco, and that it would be far, far better to go to Torremolinos or Lloret de Mar where you get a nice suntan as well as fish and chips. "Where did you say you are going?!  Never heard of it!"  People's nostrils would flare open when they asked this. It's as if they were chastising me, as if they were utterly appalled. "You're giving up your teaching job?!" At this stage of the conversation not only did people's nostrils flare open, their eyes opened wide too. I think even their ears burst open. With the flick of the wrist they would increase the volume on their hifi as if to add to the admonishment. "I hear there's the Secret Police!" The peo