tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74329011644505432482024-03-05T09:24:04.002-08:00Aventuras in SpainA Memoir of Spain during the 70s and 80s. Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger56125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-6084078695878093992016-03-06T13:16:00.000-08:002019-10-09T13:43:15.150-07:00Learning and Forgetting Spanish <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When I first moved to Spain I taught English privately. Since most of my students were complete beginners I had to translate into Spanish many of the concepts and grammatical rules I was endeavouring to teach.<br />
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Now, this was a grand way for me to learn Spanish, especially when I pronounced the words incorrectly. My students would invariably repeat what I had just said, only with the superb, crisp diction that only a native speaker can possess. I hadn't intended to learn Spanish when I was teaching English. It's just the way things worked out.<br />
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I had my trusted teeny tiny English/Spanish dictionary snuggled deeply inside a pocket and I'd pull it out any time a student didn't understand an English vocabulary word. I learned an awful lot of new words this way!<br />
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Fast forward to when I moved away from Spain to live in the United States. I still wanted to maintain my Spanish. All that work and energy I had expended in order to memorise vocabulary words and those pesky irregular verb conjugations, I did not want to have been in vain.<br />
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But, there I was, and here I still am, living in an English speaking country.<br />
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I remember years ago being so surprised and annoyed with myself when I couldn't recall the word for 'sleeve'. It's '<i>manga</i>', by the way. I had to look it up. The only word I remembered for counter top was '<i>mostrador</i>', but I did learn '<i>encimera</i>' after watching a video on Youtube. I don't think I ever had heard of '<i>encimera</i>' before. Or, maybe it's one of those words that fell by the wayside deep within the convoluted wires of my brain. Now I feel I should be out and about saying '<i>encimera</i>', '<i>encimera</i>' to anyone who might care to listen. The word for 'hem' I have a problem remembering. It's '<i>dobdladillo</i>'. I don't think I've ever said this word, never ever. I've heard it, but not spoken it, so that's a good excuse for not remembering it.<br />
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In the United States it's mainly Latin American Spanish that you hear. You should see the looks on people's faces any time I'd use '<i>vosotro</i>s'! They'd gaze at me in amazement and yell, "You speak Spanish like don Quixote!"<br />
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Oh dear. Now, after all these years, since I don't know anyone from Spain, I rarely ever use the '<i>vosotro</i>s' form of the verbs. When I was teaching Spanish I always included it in the lessons, much to the chagrin of my students who pointed out that it's usually Latin American Spanish that is taught in the United States. "<i>Tougho lucko</i>", is what I'd be muttering to myself.<br />
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See? I soon learned to speak Spanglish! It's something that you hear a lot in the United States. Here's an example. The word for 'lipstick' is '<i>lapiz de labios'</i>, at least that's what I learned. One day I was teaching Spanish when a Chicano student corrected me. Guess what he said? I still laugh each time I think of it. He said, "<i>Senora, no es lapiz de labios. Es lippysticky</i>." (pronounced, leepysteeky) For a second I thought I had really forgotten the Spanish for lipstick. Lol.<br />
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In actual fact, Spanglish is really easy to learn, don't you think? How about saying '<i>lonche</i>' for 'lunch'?! And how about using the word 'nice' to describe someone who is, well, in fact nice? <i>La chica es alta, delgada, bonita y muy nice. </i>Really. I rest my case.<br />
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In the end, when you're learning a foreign language you have to go with the flow. Communication is what is important, even if you find yourself waving your arms about and making funny faces. And if you find yourself forgetting what you took so long to learn? Don't worry, the verb conjugations will never leave you, certainly not completely. You'll be constantly pleasantly surprised at the words you do remember.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-87923694978824069212016-01-23T12:08:00.001-08:002016-01-23T12:08:34.029-08:00New Website<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Please check out:'<a href="http://www.spanishinterludes.wordpress.com/">Spanish Interludes</a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-5079431771329530782015-08-23T13:04:00.000-07:002016-07-31T13:08:07.012-07:00Jumping to Conclusions <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
During the years that I lived in Spain I think many were the occasions that I jumped to conclusions. Jumping to conclusions, or assuming things, can certainly cause one's life to become both colourful and full of adventure.<br />
When I first moved to the Province of Cadiz, Spain in 1972, at the ripe old age of 23, I assumed that I'd go back home after possibly one year. Although I didn't have a job to go to, I had been assured that something would turn up, especially at the local bilingual school. I guess at the back of my mind I had the vision of possibly spending a school year in Spain, but not longer. Regardless of how long I'd remain in Spain I did assume that at one point I'd go back to Scotland and continue teaching there.<br />
How wrong was I?! I ended up staying for four years in Cadiz. Not only that, I married, had a child and moved to Virginia. I subsequently returned to Spain in 1980 where I lived for yet another 4 years.<br />
I knew very little about the person who had offered to put me up when I first arrived in Spain. A colleague of mine had friends who knew this person. Since my colleague and her friends were all teachers, I simply assumed that the kind person who was willing to let me stay with her for a few days was also a teacher. It didn't occur to me to ask questions. I was actually too excited about moving to Spain to even consider that what I was doing was possibly just plain daft. I did get frowned upon a lot when I gave up my secure position as a Primary School Teacher. People even warned me about Franco, about gypsies, etcetera. Many things crossed my mind as I made my decision to leave Scotland and jazz off to Spain, but I simply didn't consider the possibility that the person with whom I was going to live was a prostitute. Ha ha. Surprise! I had jumped to the conclusion that she would be a schoolteacher, however, everything did work out well. It was very kind of her to allow me, a complete stranger, to move in with her until I found other accommodation.<br />
When I lived with two teachers from the bilingual school where I managed to get a position, I just assumed that I could leave a container of yogurt on the windowsill in the kitchen. That's what I had done in Scotland and there had never been a problem. Absolutely not. However, no wonder my roommate stared at me in disbelief. I think I appalled her completely. Nobody in their right mind would leave a yogurt on a windowsill in Southern Spain, certainly not when the temperatures are in the 80's. You can well imagine the stench that I caused.<br />
Years later, when I was living in Miami Playa, Tarragona I assumed I had remembered correctly the Spanish word for chickenpox. I had recently looked it up in a huge, heavy dictionary with the tiniest of print. When I told the new neighbors that our son had chickenpox I used the word '<i>viruela</i>'. They became so upset spluttering how terrible, how awful, then fled inside their house and closed their windows. Oh my! Surely chickenpox wasn't all that bad of a disease? I later discovered my error. Smarty pants me who prided herself in her good Spanish had got mixed up. The word for chickenpox is actually '<i>varicela</i>'. And just what does 'viruela' mean? It means smallpox! No wonder the neighbours were so perturbed.<br />
From assuming the fire that was burning way far away over the other the side of the mountains couldn't possibly reach our house to assuming there would be running water after I lathered up in the shower, this jumping to conclusions had me jumping up and down so many times during the years that I lived in Spain.<br />
Here I was living in Pittsburgh, and still jumping to conclusions. It's not right, I know, but, as you can see, there was a pattern already etched out.<br />
I assumed when I went to the local supermarket to purchase bread that it would be an easy task. Not so. You'd think I had learned that there were so many choices of bread after having lived in Virginia. Nope. Somehow, I had forgotten about the vast array of breads that would be eagerly gazing at me. Where to begin? What exactly was Pumpernickel bread anyway?! I picked it up and stared at it, hoping it would talk, tell me what it tasted like. Replaced it. Picked up a different type of bread, squeezed it, just like what you do in Spain, and put it back down too. Oh dear. Just a nice crispy, crunchy bread is all I wanted. A French baguette is what I was looking for, but back in 1984, I didn't see any. In the end, I think it was Wonder bread that I bought, only because it looked like Pan Bimbo, the soft bread that you got in Spain.<br />
I assumed when I enrolled in graduate classes that I would be taught. I really did. I also assumed that I would have to study, work hard, and complete all assignments on time. I was ready to do my part and I naively assumed that the professors would do theirs. Granted, not all the professors were lazy lumps who thought by quoting others that somehow this made them appear to be wise and oh so knowledgeable, superior, and God's gift to the University of Pittsburgh. <i>God help those who have the wit to quote themselves, that they may reap the harvest of their ideas. </i><br />
Do feel free to quote me on that last sentence! After all, once you get quoted that means you have been ordained into the gathering of Truth and Fiction where surprise and disbelief are sketched into the collective memory.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-74385113232168860002015-03-27T20:01:00.001-07:002015-04-23T13:13:56.569-07:00Musical Notes - Cadiz, 1972<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="mceItemHidden" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">During the week I entered the world of the rich with their antique framed tapestries, oil paintings, cooks and maids. It seemed a stiff, cold existence, regardless of how perfect everything was. Some of my students were wealthy children who lived in fancy apartments with fancy furniture. Everything was perfect in their lives. They were all handsome and beautiful, and they had every material item you could wish for, from the tiny <span class="hiddenGrammarError" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">leather bound</span> dictionary and the gold chain around their necks, to the expensive clothes purchased in boutiques. They floated about serenely, with not a care in the world. They spoke Spanish with the crisp Castilian accent that revealed their breeding and pride and the fact that they were not your typical <span class="hiddenSpellError" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Andaluz</span> who was renowned for not finishing the endings of words. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> At the weekends I’d meet with different people who didn’t seem to be overflowing with riches and who weren’t dressed up in the latest fashion from some expensive boutique. Most of them were Americans who were easy to get along with and who wore whatever they wanted, including casual clothes. Yes, it was quite common to see even professional people wearing blue jeans. We marvelled at how exotic everything was in Spain. How the people were so dramatic, as if they are acting in some</span><span style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span class="hiddenSpellError" style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">tragicomedia</span><span style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">. The Americans called the ‘peseta’ a ‘patata’ and didn’t seem to care that it was wrong. Come to think on it, quite possibly they didn’t even know that it was wrong! At least they had good pronunciation of the letter A. It’s not so easy for English-speaking people to pronounce the letter A in Spanish</span></div>
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<span style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> In the evenings when you strolled about you sometimes could hear piano music through the open window of some apartment. It could have been a young student practising the scales over and over again. The sound of the piano would stand out above the cacophony of women’s voices speaking loudly, of radios blaring forth long advertisements interspersed with occasional long-winded monologues about something that seemed so important. In reality it was just announcements of upcoming programmes, but everything in Spanish sounded impressive to my ears. </span></div>
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<span style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> Listening to the piano music reminded me of my brother who used to practise the scales, his tongue doubled over in concentration as he willed his fingers to press the correct keys. He’d stare downwards, his shoulders hunched over making him look like an old man. Music is the international language. It transports all who listen and all who play an instrument to a supreme fertile land where musical notes communicate our thoughts, feelings and desires. Perhaps we should all stop talking and simply listen, play a musical instrument and smile.</span></div>
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<span style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> In the early 1970’s you could be out until 4 a.m. and not feel threatened nor be afraid of being mugged. There was no fear, not even if you heard footsteps running behind you. </span><span style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">You could stroll through the streets following the aroma of fresh-baked bread that piled out on to the street like a welcoming embrace. The closer you got to the ovens the closer you got to the bars which served that thick nectar of hot chocolate. I’d stick my spoon in the hot chocolate to watch it stay upright. People had told me to do this, to prove how thick the hot chocolate was.</span></div>
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<span style="background: transparent; border: 0px; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> One night, instead of using a spoon, I dipped a finger into the cup of hot of chocolate and licked the delicious nectar, slowly savouring its richness. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed, half expecting someone to stare at me the way people did when I first arrived. I had always been regarded as the extranjera, the foreigner who even had a sunburned nose and who spoke funny Spanish. For the first time it seemed to me nobody so much as glanced in my direction. The clanging noise of the pinball machines ringing out shrilly and the pitch of animated voices sounded like musical notes. For the first time I felt as if all that I saw and heard around me was normal, that I was no longer some awkward foreigner.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-64698407661465591482015-02-10T19:12:00.001-08:002015-02-12T11:20:44.567-08:00Ever had a fabulous surprise?! Rota, Spain, 1974<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> What could the surprise be? We had recently returned from the long and arduous trip to Gibraltar where we had got married. You see, since Franco was in the huff the border between Spain and Gibraltar was closed. The only way to get to Gibraltar was to catch the ferry from Algeciras to Tangiers, then turn right round and take another ferry to Gibraltar. Maybe he had got the photos developed?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "What's the surprise?" I asked, mouth watering, thinking about a lovely tasty treat of milk chocolate that he had perhaps got me from the Naval Base in Rota where the choices of food seemed endless. There, even the selections of bread were spread out over rows and rows, and many a time I'd stand transfixed trying to figure out which bread to buy. I had been more accustomed to purchasing only either a </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">barra de pan de un duro (</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">5 pesetas</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">) </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">or Pan Bimbo in the local shops, so limited was the choice. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Come with me." He led me outside to his car, a white Fiat that was normally always dirty unless I gave it a good, thorough bath. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "You finally washed the car, is that the surprise?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;">He opened the car door and picked up a black furry creature which uttered, "Miaow". </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "I got him free, on the Base." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I should have added to the list of things you could get at the Naval Base in Rota: poor little kittens who were in need of a home. Some lady was giving away kittens free, and since my husband really liked cats, he couldn't resist. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "I'll call him Tibby." My husband beamed proudly at me and then the kitten before carefully carrying it inside the house. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> The wee dog I had found inside a box on the pavement was king of our house and perfectly content to be spoiled rotten. He was therefore, not amused one bit when he saw this little furry intruder. He stood up with a startle and started to sniff the cat, then ran around it tapping it with his paw. Growling and moaning he gazed up at me in dismay, as if to say, "Mama, what on earth have you brought into my house?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I will say this of my dog, he was a gentleman. He never bit the cat, nor did he bark at him, well not too loudly, at any rate. What he loved to do was chase Tibby all throughout the house. I think the cat quite liked this. He'd run upstairs and then back downstairs, dive underneath the dining room table with the dog lunging behind him. Whenever the dog actually 'caught' Tibby, by placing his paws on him, the game would commence all over again. The cat would turn round and run the other way. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> This all sounds like some Norman Rockwell painting where domestic bliss had painted rosy cheeks and golden smiles. However, although our cat and dog were indeed fortunate in that they got a good home, outside on the streets, life was not so kind to animals. You'd come across dead cats or dogs who had been run over by irresponsible drivers. I don't think there was any respect for animals back then in the early seventies in Andalucia. I saw drivers go out of their way to swerve towards a dog or a cat. Perhaps they were just trying to frighten them. I don't know why they'd want to do that, though. I used to see teenagers throw stones at stray dogs. Many is the time that I'd speak sharply to them, tell them not to harm the animals. I'd be met with surprised stares, and for a second they would cease, only to start once again hurting the animals.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Tibby was an indoor cat whose adventures outside amounted to a fast run around the walled in back yard and a leap back inside the security of our house. We were therefore puzzled one day when we were out for a walk down to the supermarket and found a cat that looked just like Tibby lying dead at the side of the road.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "Tibby!" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "He must have got run over by some idiotic driver." My husband's voice was flat as the realisation that Tibby was dead sunk in. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "He didn't normally go so far from the house. Poor Tibby." I looked around to see if there was some hooligan lurking around on his moped. If there had been I think I might have punched him on the nose. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "We can't leave him here. I'll get a towel and carry him home. We can bury him out back."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.38; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> It seemed an awfully long walk to our house. I was thinking of Tibby and how much fun he had been, of how he had got on so well with our dog. What a shame he had got run over. </span></div>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-6eba4693-769f-72c1-0bdf-2acccd2eec01" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> We entered the house and were greeted with huge licks from our dog. I was about to relate to him the dreadful news about his buddy, Tibby the Cat, when, what did I hear but a loud "miaow". It couldn't be! Yes, there was Tibby curling himself around my legs just like he always did. We had made a mistake believing the dead cat on the road to be ours.</span></span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> My husband picked him up, hugged him tightly and blurted out, "What a fabulous surprise to see you, Tibby!"</span></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-3477422522312904712014-12-02T13:17:00.001-08:002020-01-31T08:27:00.291-08:00One Giraffe and a Movie, Rota, Spain, 1972 <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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 </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Baby, don't get hooked on me" </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">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 road. Some of them could be models for the Malboro Man, wide as their shoulders were.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It's was such a foreign experience meeting military personnel, hearing about people being killed in Vietnam. Since I never drank beer for breakfast, and I wasn't counting the days to when I went it seemed to me that I didn't have much in common with the Americans at all. Well, maybe I did have one thing in common with the Americans. We both liked to discover new places to get cheap wine. In fact, I used to know a place where you could get a litre of wine for 25 pesetas. I'll drink to that!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Any time I turned up at the local outdoor theater the place would be teeming with excited teenagers and children all yelling and giggling. The small boys' short trousers were so long that they met their knees, and their shirts looked like girls' blouses. The girls wore these really long dresses that ended around their ankles. Their dainty crocheted socks seemed to cry out "I'm loved! Everyone loves me!" The adults sat patiently on uncomfortable, wobbly seats, smoking Ducados, chattering loudly all at the same time as they waited for the movie to begin. Americans didn't generally go to the local outdoor movie theater. They had their own movie theater on the Naval Base where they had the luxury of watching films in English, and where they would eat huge amounts of buttered popcorn, or so I'm told.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It just so happened that the place where I was staying was located adjacent to the outdoor movie theater. Now, I didn't object at all to paying my entry fee, buying bags of </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">cacahuetes</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">pipas</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, and sitting on a hard metal chair. I didn't even mind when people stared at me. They could never figure me out, that's why. I wasn't American, nor Spanish, nor, by the way, in case you're wondering, was I a whore. Not that I mind whores. I just never wanted to ever be considered one.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What I've always liked to do is multi-task. I like to watch a movie and do other things at the same time, something you can't really do if you're sitting in the middle of a crowd of people all staring with big eyes at the large screen. I was fair chuffed when I discovered that if I climbed up on the tiny kitchen counter and carefully positioned a nice comfortable wee stool, and if I sat up as straight as straight can be on the wee stool, lengthened my neck like a giraffe and peeked out the top of the window, I was able to see the movie! Ha ha. "Fiddler on the Roof" was a great </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> movie to watch when multi-tasking. Topol, who played the main character, was constantly bursting into song and dancing around as if he had something stuck up his rear end. So, when I got fed -up with him I clambered down off the kitchen counter to check the toilet. Yes, it was important to see how much water was in the cistern. Many times the water just simply stopped running for no reason, so you had to be careful when considering all things plumbing. If there was actually water, then it was best to avail yourself of the toilet whether you needed to or not.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I usually checked the taps as well. It was always a delight to turn on a tap and see water trickling. It was a constant surprise. I splashed my face and neck, trying to cool down. Whilst Topol was singing "If I were a Rich Man" with all his little hear, a tape of "Everybody Plays the Fool" cheered up the rowdy crowd in the bar across the road and echoed in the hot evening air.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Midst the rabble and cacophony of loud voices singing at the top of their lungs I figured I had time to make myself a </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>bocadillo</i></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> before Topol's next scene. I always liked doing several things at the same time. Busy hands are happy hands, or something like that. Then I climbed back on the kitchen counter, plonked myself down on the wee stool and peered out the window at "Fiddler on the Roof". As I steadied myself by placing one foot in the sink, I felt as if I was on the brink of a new adventure. Somehow my crunchy </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">bocadillo de jamón york</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> tasted even better than normal. It was like being on a picnic in some exotic location. Maybe I was a giraffe in a former life? That's why I was so good at stretching my neck to peer out the window at the movie. Gosh, then who knew what awaited behind the next palm tree, or even the next sand dune?!</span></div>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bang, bang, bang!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Someone was at the door? Just when I was all comfy and enjoying myself I had to jump down off the kitchen counter and answered the door. Who could it be?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Hi!" </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> He had to be an American. Short blond hair, large white teeth and chewing gum, he was certainly not Spanish. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Do I know you?" If I did, I didn't remember him.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Yeah. We met at a party last week-end." </span></div>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Okay." I met loads of people at the party last week-end. Hmm.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"You said you lived next to the outdoor movie theater. And, well, here I am."</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Here you are." I took another bite of my delicious bocadillo and chewed it rapidly.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Are you ready? For the movies? I got a pass for you to go on the Base."</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oops. Now I remembered. His name was John, or Jim, or James, something like that. And he had talked about how he could get me a pass to go to the movies on the Base. A movie in English! Not bad. I must have sounded really enthusiastic, for here he was, complete with pass. Not only that, his face was so shiny clean, and it looked as if he was wearing a brand new shirt.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"I'll be ready in a tick." I figured I ought to pay a visit to the toilet to check if there was still water. Force of habit. There again, maybe there wasn't a problem with water on the Base. That would be great to use the bathroom whenever, to turn on a tap and have constant running water. I had even heard that there was air conditioning on the Base. I bet you people didn't have to sleep at night with their windows wide open, with mosquitoes zooming around.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">"What movie?"</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“They’re showing “Fiddler on the Roof”."</span></div>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I tried not to choke. "Em. I was just watching it when you came. It's almost finished."</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"You've seen it then?"</span></div>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh, John, Jim, or James, or whatever you name is...sorry.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He looked disappointed, shuffled his feet and played with the long lapel of his shirt.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"But only in Spanish. It will be lovely to watch it in English." I reassured him.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Constant running water, cisterns that flush, air conditioning, things were looking good. Plus, he did seem a really nice person. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">"My name is Shawn, by the way, in case you don’t remember." He stretched out his hand as if to shake mine. "We can go bowling after the movie, if you'd like, then get a bite to eat."</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"I've never bowled before."</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"It's easy. You won't have any problem." It was his turn to reassure me.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I said, you never know what's going to happen next, how an evening will turn out. I wonder what else might evolve? Ha ha. Stay tuned!</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-66207701446092888582014-10-27T17:41:00.001-07:002014-10-27T17:41:39.765-07:00Ole to the ban on bullfighting<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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.<br />
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Ole to Banning Bullfighting<br />
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What honor? What choice?<br />
by Sandra Staas (Mon Aug 02, 2010)<br />
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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.<br />
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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 different regions and even to foreigners. Speak in Spanish to a Catalan and the chances are that he'll reply in his own language. I know because I spent three years in Catalonia.<br />
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Regional pride is, well, pride, that‘s all. Retaining one's own regional language or dialect, is understandable, but to insist that others speak this regional language is simply not acceptable. The fact that Catalonia is indeed 'different' from the rest of Spain is undeniable, but to therefore assume that the ban on bullfighting is political, is erroneous.<br />
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I remember watching debates on Spanish television when I was living near Madrid. They were heated arguments over whether the bullfight should be banned. One argument that came shining forth, through yelling to the point of hysteria, and arms waving like madmen, was that the bullfight proved that man is superior to beast. Let's assume that this is true. Just how many times do you have to prove that man is superior to beast? Does anyone really need or want to prove this, anyway?<br />
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Those against the ban cite the fact that the bulls are bred for bullfighting, that it is an honor for the bull to die in the bullring. Bloody hell. I don't think the bull knows this. Whilst the bull is being stabbed by the picador's lance, whilst the blood is spilling out of him, are we supposed to actually believe that he feels a sense of honor? When the matador fails to kill the bull with one single lunge of the sword, and the bull bellows in pain as its legs crumble to the ground, are we to believe that he's feeling even more honor? When the matador gets gored we're expected to feel compassion for him. But, nobody forced the matador to go into the bullring. It's his choice to do so. The bull, on the other hand, has no choice.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-69642796417288914742014-09-11T11:25:00.001-07:002020-01-31T08:37:36.993-08:00All Dressed up and Nowhere to go -1973, Cadiz, Spain <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I was really lucky for it had been so easy to get private students in the city of Cadiz. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> 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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">"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." Julio grinned. "I
can listen in and learn English for free! Ha ha ha!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">"Why do you want to
learn English?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">"I could get a good
job as a waiter in Torremolinos. Make more money. Make love to the Swedish
girls. Ha ha ha!" Julio was always laughing. He used to even laugh when
there was nothing funny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Businessmen and other
professionals had their own ritual of writing their signatures. They would pull out a fountain pen from the inside pocket of their jacket and would write their full
name which consisted of four, maybe even six words, with flair and conviction. They
underlined this work of art once, sometimes twice with a zigzag design, then
beamed at me, as they twirled their black moustache thoughtfully and provocatively.
They lowered their head, and with extreme care and precision gently would blot
dry the ink. I was always duly impressed and intrigued by the drama I witnessed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">One of my </span><span style="color: blue; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 13.5pt;">students was </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">a sullen person, about my age, who sat with his head down and
said nothing of any consequence most of the time. We met at his fancy, expensive
flat. Behind him on the wall were dark, ugly paintings with ornate frames. The
table we sat at was opulent as were the chairs. Everything was large, formal and
cold. I couldn't smell anything, not even garlic and olive oil, not even cologne,
nor chlorine, nor sunflower seeds. The air had no character nor warmth of any
kind. There was just a ray of sunshine that pierced the table, almost cutting it
in half.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Any time the sullen
student opened his mouth he talked about Alice in Wonderland. Occasionally he
even asked me out. I didn't bother responding when he invited me out for I got the impression that he was crazy. He loved Alice and even said he could see her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">When I told my friends
about his invitations to go out with him, they implored me to do so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">"How many times will
you ever be invited out by an aristocrat?!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">"You've got to say
'yes' to him!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I explained that the guy was off his head, that he had conversations with Alice of Alice in Wonderland.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">"Who cares?!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">"He'll probably
take you somewhere nice."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">"You'll meet his
friends. Then you can introduce us to them."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">In the end, I decided that I'd go out with this distant cousin of the Grimaldis of Monaco, even if
he was crazy. Why not? My friends were probably correct. I could have a nice time,
and going out with a <i>conde </i>certainly<i> </i>didn't happen to me every day. I reckoned I'd go out with him just the once. No harm in that. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">For the next lesson I
decided to wear my brand new fitted pink blouse with pointed lapels and my brand
new tight red trousers with huge wide flairs that I could hardly button, let
alone zip up. I actually paid full price for both these garments in a local
boutique. Normally, I waited for the sales before purchasing clothes, but I
really liked the combination of the blouse and trousers. I thought a blouse was more formal than a smock, more ladylike. And, if I was going to be wooed by a
hoity toity fellow, I might as well look really nice. I sprayed myself with Shalimar perfume, something I very rarely did. Feeling fashionable
and elegant, I was all set to be invited out by the <i>conde</i> boy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">At the next lesson he sat </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> opposite me with
his head down as usual. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">"What did you do yesterday?"
That's always a good question to get people using the preterite.
He was supposed to know English and my job was just to help him increase his
conversational skills.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Out of the blue, he
looked up at me and started talking about Alice, about mirrors and how drugs helped him see things that other people didn't. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">"I love Alice. I
really love Alice. I love her." He turned round and gazed at the
mirror behind him "Do you see her? I can."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I listened and I listened,
all the while expecting him to get around to asking me out. Instead, he
kept talking about Alice in Wonderland and jerking his head to stare at the
mirror. I don't think he even noticed my nice clothes nor the fact that I had a seductive aroma emanating from behind my ears. Much as I liked Shalimar, it tended to make me sneeze, so I only used it on special occasions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Before you knew it our
time was up. Well, really.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I couldn't believe it! The
very time I was about to say 'yes' to him if he invited me out, he didn't?!
What bad luck! And on top of it all, I felt a sneeze coming on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">So much for being wined
and dined by a count.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The more I thought on it,
I believed it was really for the best. I didn't even like him. And he<i> was </i>so
weird. He was a poor, pathetic, pitiful, portrait of a person. His
title, the luxury apartment complete with live-in maids, the rich lifestyle
meant nothing. He was really just another drug addict. Don't you agree?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-85340883684318336082014-08-31T14:39:00.001-07:002014-08-31T19:51:17.654-07:00'Lo', that Playboy of the Spanish Language - Learning Spanish, Part 5<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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!</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-e9558ded-2dfd-917d-7abc-92058bd91d85" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Let's check out a little bit of the mysterious world of 'lo'.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">¿Tienes el libro? Sí, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">lo</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> tengo. What does the 'lo' refer to? Here 'lo' is being used as </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">a masculine singular direct object pronoun. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Do you have the book? Yes, I have </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">it</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Here's another example of 'lo' being used as a </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">masculine singular direct object pronoun</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. ¿Conoces a Pedro? Sí, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">lo</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> conozco. Do you know Pedro? Yes, I know </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">him</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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' referring to both the direct and indirect masculine singular object pronoun. That made life a little bit easier. Lol. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I just knew you'd find that intriguing! It's possibly a regional difference. Here's a nice wee link that goes into the concepts of loísmo and leísmo in more depth in case you fancy a trip deep into the wild world of 'le' and 'lo'. </span><a href="http://blogs.transparent.com/spanish/problems-using-la-le-lo-laismo-leismo-loismo/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">http://blogs.transparent.com/spanish/problems-using-la-le-lo-laismo-leismo-loismo/</span></a></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Here is Mr. 'lo' being used as the</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> neuter direct object pronoun.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> ¡Yo sé que tú </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">lo</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> sabes! I know that you know it. No, yo no</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> lo</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> sé. No, I don't know it.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Here's another example. Nosotros </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">lo</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> comprendemos. We understand it. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hmm. That sentence could also mean 'we understand him', couldn't it? If you use 'lo' for both him and it, then context becomes very important. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, what's going on with this 'lo'? </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lo que </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">a mí me interesa hacer hoy es ir de compras. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He's gone and got himself a buddy. Amigo 'que' has wandered in, and he's not about to leave. How annoying. In English we don't need this 'lo'. Nope. We can say, "What I'm interested in doing today is to go shopping." You just know things are more complicated in Spanish! Think of '</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">lo que</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">' as meaning 'that which'. </span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Here's another example of </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">lo que</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">''. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lo que</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> pasó es que Ana se despertó muy tarde. What happened is that Ana woke up very late. ( I wonder what else happened? Was she late for work? Did she miss her flight? Pobre Ana.)</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">'Lo' can have other buddies besides 'que'. Here he is with 'bueno'.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lo bueno</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> de estudiar mucho es que sacarás buenas notas. The good thing about studying a lot is that you'll get good grades.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And here he is with 'malo'</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lo malo</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> de no ahorrar dinero es que no podré comprarme una casa bonita. Can you guess what '</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">lo malo</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">' means in English?</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As you can see 'lo' is not only the masculine singular direct object pronoun for 'it', 'lo' is also the neuter definite object. But who really cares what he’s called?! </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Here is 'lo' sneaking into the land of discussions and beliefs.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lo de</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Ana es que siempre se preocupa demasiado. The thing about Ana is she always worries too much.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lo de</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> las guerras es que nadie en realidad gana. The thing about wars is that in reality nobody wins.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This 'lo' fellow certainly is very fit as he creeps around ready to pounce and surprise you. Here he comes again in different expressions. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Por lo visto </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Apparently</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Por lo pronto </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For now</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A lo mejor </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Probably</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">T</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">hey simply just use 'lo'. End of that story. Golleee. I'm happy that I don't have to think and wonder too much about the use of 'lo' with these expressions. </span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; padding: 0px;">
<span id="docs-internal-guid-e9558ded-2e07-4faa-77b3-3c5cda843c98" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Regardless, if you want my opinion, t</span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">his Mr. lo would be considered a hussy, a complete trollop, if he were a 'la' and not a 'lo'. He just keeps on popping up here, there and everywhere. What a playboy! Is there no loyalty in words? Can't a word just be, just simply mean what it ought to mean? Is there nothing a word will stoop to in order to be used? I rest my case, ladies and gentlemen of the jury.</span></div>
</div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">TAREA (Homework)</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finish the following in complete sentences. Imagination is required!</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lo bueno de vivir en España_____________________________________</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lo malo de no saber cocinar_____________________________________</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lo de Pedro es que ____________________________________________</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A lo mejor yo__________________________________________________</span></div>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Can you guess what </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">‘sabelotodo’</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> means?</span></div>
<br />
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-44727263079023899732014-07-28T07:21:00.002-07:002020-01-31T08:38:07.947-08:00'Se', the Anti-Hero. Learning Spanish. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The only subject of the book was the Spanish word,
‘se’. <i>Can’t be that bad, can it? </i>I
can hear you mutter. And you’d be correct. He’s just a wee word is this ‘se’. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let’s look at some uses of ‘se’.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>El niño</b> <b>se</b> <b>llama</b>
<b>Juan.</b> (The boy calls himself Juan. The boy is called Juan.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Ella</b> <b>se</b> <b>llama</b>
<b>Ana</b>. (She calls herself Ana. She’s called Ana.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>¿Cómo</b> <b>se</b> <b>llama
usted</b>? (How do you call yourself? What are you called?)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>¿Cómo</b> <b>se</b> <b>llaman ustedes</b>? (How
do you call yourselves? What are you called?)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Ellos se llaman
Miguel y Juan</b>. (They call themselves Miguel and Juan. They’re called Miguel
and Juan.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Ellas se llaman Marta
y Josefina</b>. (They call themselves Marta
and Josefina. They’re called Marta and Josefina.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As you see from the above sentences ‘se’ can mean himself,
herself, yourself, yourselves, themselves. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here are other examples of sentences using ‘se’: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Ella se baña</b>. She bathes (herself).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Ellos se levantan a
las ocho</b>. They get up at eight o’clock. (They lift or raise themselves)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m sure you already have read about reflexive verbs and
their reflexive pronouns, so maybe this is a bit too easy, but it’s always good
to review things. Let’s look at another use of ‘se’.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sentences that I love are the ones where you say
something along the lines of “I give it to you”. What is the word for ‘it’,
and, what is the word for ‘to you’, assuming we are using the formal singular
or plural? This is when you have to
really think hard. Or, at least I always used to have to. Hmm. Where to begin?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What does ‘it’ refer to? Let’s assume it’s a book. That’s
masculine, singular. ‘Lo’ in Spanish.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sure would be nice if we just had to say “Doy lo a usted.”
Gosh, doesn’t that look weird! It sounds weird too. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ‘lo’ (it) goes in front of the verb. Most annoying, I
know, but you do get used to it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<b>Lo doy</b>.” I give it.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So far so good. But what about the ‘to you’? Remember, we’ll use the formal ‘you’ here,
singular and plural.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Roll of drums….. I wonder what teeny tiny word you need? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s ‘se’! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Se</b> <b>lo doy</b>. To you it I give. In other words, I give it
to you. The indirect object pronoun ‘se’
is placed first.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, wait a minute. That pesky little ‘se’ can also mean ‘to
her’, ‘to him’, ‘to them’. He is a pesky little thing, isn’t he?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What are all the possible meanings of “<b>Se lo doy</b>”? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I give it to him. I give it to her. I give it to you
(singular and plural, formal). I give it to them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh my!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let’s clarify things.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Se lo doy a él. Se lo doy a ella. Se lo doy a usted. Se lo doy a ustedes. Se lo doy a ellos/ellas. </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yep. Welcome to the
exquisite expansion of sentences simply to clarify the meaning brigade. Not to worry. With a bit of luck the context
will let people know what the ‘se’ refers to. That would be good! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What does this mean? <b>Se lo doy a Paco</b>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Not going to tell. It’s a secret! Ha ha.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have you seen funny things like, “<b>Se habla español</b>”, “<b>Se
prohibe fumar</b>” “<b>Se vende casa</b>”?
That’s that ‘se’ again just popping up everywhere. Here it can mean “Spanish is
spoken”, “Smoking is prohibited”, “House for sale”. It’s the passive voice. Who
really cares what it’s called? I know. Life is tough enough without having to
get all dramatic over a silly little mannequin called ‘se’.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here are some other examples of where ‘se’ is used.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Se puede</b> comprar muchas
cosas en el supermercado. You can buy lots
of things in the supermarket. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Se</b> <b>conduce</b> muy rápido en España. People
drive very fast in Spain.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
¿<b>Cómo se dice</b>
‘table’ en español? How do you say ‘table’ in Spanish?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s basically the impersonal use. In English one
translation is to use ‘one’. One drives
very fast in Spain. Does one? Yes, one does. (Just don’t forget that when you
brake, your car doesn’t stop immediately. I don’t think people knew that way
back in the seventies and eighties.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I bet you think that that’s all there is to ‘se’. Nope. It isn’t.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s more. (Yikes!)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ellos <b>se conocieron</b>
en una fiesta. They met one another at a
party.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ellos <b>se enamoraron</b>.
They fell in love with one another.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ellos <b>se escribieron</b>.
They wrote to one another.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ellos <b>se pelearon</b>.
They fought with one another.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Y ahora <b>no se hablan</b>.
And now they don’t speak to one another.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, ‘se’ can also mean “one another”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is just some of the numerous meanings for this wee
smout of a word. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Se usa muchísimo esta palabra ‘se’ en español, ¿verdad? This word ‘se’ is used a great deal in
Spanish, isn’t it? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, how do you say ‘se’ in English?! Well…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-72031640628132693582014-06-11T09:26:00.000-07:002015-04-18T12:47:44.689-07:00Needing Wits and Getting Diddled - Talavera de la Reina, Spain, 1980<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #454545; line-height: 18pt;">My neighbour across the hall, the Lady from Leon, </span><span style="color: #454545; line-height: 18pt;">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 <i>gaseosa</i>, and even a rotisserie chicken.</span></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">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.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">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 I rushed over and held the door open for her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #454545; line-height: 18pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #454545; line-height: 18pt;">“Are you ready? Now, you have to be alert.” She sounded as if she were scolding me.</span></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We made our way downstairs and outside onto the busy streets. A woman was holding a little girl who was urinating at the curb. I was always surprised to see things like that, but the
Lady from Leon didn't comment, so maybe it was quite normal. There were gypsies wandering around with their hands outstretched. I never knew whether to give them money or not.
I had heard that if you din't give them a few pesetas that they would put a curse on
you, but the Lady from Leon ignored them. So, I did too. I really never did like how one of the gypsies would look at me. She would always be standing at the entrance to the apartment complex, always seeing me leave, and she'd be there whenever I returned. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">“You need your wits about you at the market. Don’t let them
diddle you.” The Lady from Leon warned me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">“I won’t. I mean, I will… try to be alert.” I felt el as if I were going on a field trip. Maybe I should have been taking notes?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The Lady from Leon was well-prepared for shopping with the tools of the trade. A huge basket dangled from one arm and
inside the basket were net bags. All would be be filled by the time we got back to
the apartment, of that I was sure. Shopping at the market was serious business and I had seen her come back laden with kilos of fruits and vegetable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">“You don’t have a bag with you?!” The Lady from Leon looks
appalled. “Here, take one of my net bags. How else are you going to carry your
things back?!” She handed me one of her bags.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">“I wasn’t planning on buying much.” I guessed I needed to acquire
more wits about me if I’m going to succeed in this excursion. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The Lady from Leon marches down the road as if she were on a
mission. We were soldiers, protectors of
the non-diddling group who would never, ever be diddled, and we walked in step
towards the market. She waved at
acquaintances with the flick of her wrist and a loud “<i>Buenos dias</i>!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">“Want to know how to get free food?” Her eyes were twinkling at me mischievously. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I nodded, even although I didn't really want any, especially
food that had been lying outside under the sun with dozens of people coughing or blowing
their nose over it, never mind all the flies buzzing about. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">“You ask to sample whatever it is that they’re selling. After
going round different stalls, your belly will be full!” The Lady from Leon
laughed heartily.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">People are pushing and shoving, and the vendors are calling out,
trying to get everyone’s attention. The pungent smell of strong cheese fills
the air. The chirping of budgies and other small birds add to the noise.
Children chase one another and squeal loudly. There’s a strong stench of body
odour emanating all around me. Flies squat on the bread and pastries and gaze up at us defiantly.
People are sipping on coffee, some are slapping back Anis or brandy, others
are spitting seeds onto the ground, or picking their teeth with toothpicks.
I feel as if I’m entering a play being performed on stage. Everyone seems to
know his or her role, including the stray dogs prowling around looking for
scraps to eat. I think I'm the sole member of the audience, but that's still a role, isn't it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I spy a vegetable vendor. His tomatoes are enormous and covered
in dirt. The Lady from Leon picks some
up and squeezes them. She shoves them to her nostrils and sniffs loudly, then
places them down and starts the process all over again with other tomatoes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">“There. These are good ones. Very fresh. Fresher than the ones at Simago! Clean them with vinegar. They’ll be fine.”
The Lady from Leon assures me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">“I think I’ll get myself a kilo.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">“Watch the scale. The people here could diddle you. ”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">“I will. Don’t worry.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">“I’m going to look at the table covers. The women in the small villages make them. Meet me over there
when you’re done.” The Lady from Leon weaves her way through the crowd
towards the stall selling table covers and napkins.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I hand the vendor the pile of tomatoes that the Lady from Leon
has chosen for me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He places them on the scale. Guess what else he does? </span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He
places his elbow on the scale, too!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #454545; padding: 0in;">Now, he wasn’t even surreptitious about this. I mean, he stands
there right in front of me complete with his elbow on the scale. Does he think
I don’t notice?</span><span style="color: #454545;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #454545; padding: 0in;">“Senor, your elbow is on the scale.”</span><span style="color: #454545;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; padding: 0in;">“No it isn’t.” He quickly removes his elbow. Then, guess what he
does? </span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; padding: 0in;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; padding: 0in;">He places his hand on the scale!</span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I need to do some quick thinking to prevent an escalation
of this potential tomato battle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; padding: 0in;">I stare at his hand, then stare at him, making eye to eye contact.
I’m trying to embarrass him into removing his hand from the scale. Does it
work? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #454545; padding: 0in;">Nope!</span><span style="color: #454545;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I calculate that he’s possibly only diddling me out of one
tomato, but who’s counting?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I quickly pay him, place the tomatoes in the net bag, and
rush over to meet the Lady from Leon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: #454545; padding: 0in;">“Ah, you got your tomatoes! Did he try to diddle you?”</span><span style="color: #454545;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">“Em. Well, no. Not too
much.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The Lady from Leon chides me with the look she gives the milkman
any time he tries to diddle her out of a few pesetas. She has very expressive eyes, without a doubt.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #454545;">“You’ll learn. Don’t
worry. Just look at the lovely table covers! Hand embroidered. I think I’ll buy one to take to my sister in Leon.”</span><span style="color: #454545; line-height: 18pt;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="background: white; line-height: 18.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I’m relieved that her attention is now taken up with the hand embroidered
linens. She is right, however. I
do need to have my wits about me. I should have insisted that the vendor remove
his hand from the scale.
Oh well. On top of it all, I have
to lug around two pounds of tomatoes all through the market. I always get mixed
up thinking that a kilo is a pound. It never fails. <span style="font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="color: #454545;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-42145424661493978662014-05-14T10:20:00.001-07:002020-01-31T08:38:25.804-08:00Dreadful Dentist and the Grouping of Blood - Cadiz, Spain, 1973 <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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.<br />
<br />
"Open your mouth." The dentist looked like a band leader conducting his orchestra, or a lion tamer goading his long-suffering animal to perform.<br />
<br />
Now, opening my mouth wasn't the problem. It's what happened next that caused me great consternation.<br />
<br />
He picked up long, thin, pointed instruments and proceeded to poke and probe.<br />
<br />
"Aha. Senorita, you need to have the tooth pulled."<br />
<br />
"I do?" I'm surprised, for I'm not in too much pain at all.<br />
<br />
"I can pull it now, if you like." He grinned down at me.<br />
<br />
Before I could nod or shake my head he injeced the tooth, presumably with anaesthetic. In fact, he injected all around the tooth maybe three or four times.<br />
<br />
Guess what? He was injecting the wrong tooth! He was sticking the needle into a tooth on the lower jaw, not the upper jaw.<br />
<br />
He placed the needle down, picked up the pliers and pulled and pulled. The pain was beyond any pain that anybody had ever experienced in the whole of the whole world's life. Believe me. There was no time for the anaesthetic to work.<br />
<br />
I heard a crack.<br />
<br />
"The tooth has broken, senorita. Don't worry I'll get it out."<br />
<br />
He then yanked on a drill and drilled deeply to duly remove the remainder of the tooth.<br />
<br />
<i>I'm dead. I have to be dead. I can no longer feel the pain.</i> When there is so much pain, you reach a point where everything goes numb.<br />
<br />
Or, maybe it was the anaesthetic finally kicking in.<br />
<br />
"Here, take this." He offered me some cotton wool and added, "Goodbye,senorita." <br />
<br />
He was dismissing me.<br />
<br />
I couldn't even think of any Spanish. Not a single word came to mind as I nursed my bleeding mouth. I wanted to yell at him for pulling the wrong tooth. I waned to kick him in his fat ugly face. <br />
<br />
He grinned widely at me as he ushered me to the door and played with his moustache.<br />
<br />
"If you have any more teeth problems, just come back, any time. Ah, one moment. Do you want to take your tooth with you? A little keepsake?"<br />
<br />
<i>I would love to take my tooth with me! I would love to still have it, you idiot of idiots!</i><br />
<br />
I had to tutor two nurses at the local hospital, the Residencia Zamacola. They were beginners who were really keen to learn English and I didn't want to disappoint them.<br />
<br />
I arrived in pain, sharp, searing pain.<br />
<br />
"What's wrong? You look pale."<br />
<br />
Both nurses looked at me with concern.<br />
<br />
"Sit down and relax. Tell us what happened."<br />
<br />
I related to them the best I could about the inept, unprofessional, stupid, moronic, dreadful dentist. I don't think I made much sense as I struggled to speak in Spanish, all the while, spitting blood onto the cotton wool. The best evidence was in my mouth which they both gazed into with huge eyes.<br />
<br />
"You need to be careful when it comes to dentists. Some of them are doctors who have only done six months of dentistry."<br />
<br />
"The pain will go away. Do you know your blood group?"<br />
<br />
I stared at them both, not believing for a second that the pain would go away. I had never ever thought about my blood group, and I didn't really care what it was.<br />
<br />
"We can test your blood group, if you'd like."<br />
<br />
I don't know why they offered this. But they did, and I got my blood group tested.<br />
<br />
It's AB positive.<br />
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<br />
"It's quite a rare blood group. That makes you special."<br />
<br />
Both nurses smiled down at me.<br />
<br />
I didn't know how to smile. The pain was too deep. I still, to this day, don't understand why doctors could do just six months of dentistry and become a dentist. It's simply was not right.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-14208280135830913132014-05-08T12:16:00.002-07:002020-01-31T08:40:06.508-08:00The Secret Police and the Striptease - El Puerto de Santa Maria, Spain, 1973<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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.<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
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"I hear there's the Secret Police!" The people who said this aren't the same ones whose nostrils flared open. No. The people who mentioned the Secret Police are the ones who know that I'm up for adventure. It's really a major character flaw of mine, to feel bored easily. Secret Police? What do they do? Why are they secret? Who are they? I wonder what they look like?<br />
<br />
Now, I must confess that I have been wondering of late about these Secret Police People. I think I've seen one, at least one. I could be wrong, but there again...<br />
<br />
There's a man I've noticed in the Bar Central. He wears a cape, and looks very dapper and dramatic. He could easily be one of the Three Musketeers. Any time his garment slips off, even a teeny tiny bit, he grabs it then, with the flick of his wrists places it back on his shoulders. He certainly is in control of his cape. He has a long pointed nose, thick dark hair that seems to float over his ears, and he wears black leather gloves.<br />
<br />
I find it quite a performance each time he removes said gloves. It's like a striptease act. He pulls on each finger of the gloves and slowly, seductively reveals naked hands. He then smacks the gloves together and slaps them on the counter.<br />
<br />
One of the barmen rushes over to serve him obediently, head bowed, even although it's my turn. <br />
<br />
<i>Oye, sunshine. I was here first!</i> I feel like yelling, but the Secret Police Man who just performed the striptease with his gloves might lock me up in jail, or something.<br />
<br />
I've learned to say 'oye' just like the locals do. Then, when nobody pays me any attention, I call out, "Oiga!" I haven't quite mastered snapping my fingers as it does seem a bit rude. Anyhow, usually the barmen pay me too much attention. They love to flirt and leer at me as they lick their lips. They say things that I don't understand. But, as long as I get my cafe solo and bocadillo de jamon york, then I can put up with their preposterous antics.<br />
<br />
I glare at the Secret Police Man who's getting served even although it's my turn. I think I'm good at glaring. I glare and glare and try to convey to him that I know he's a Secret Police Man.<br />
<br />
Really, doesn't he realise that everyone knows who he is ? Even if he hadn't performed this ritualistic striptease dance with his gloves, the very fact that a barman practically kisses his feet is a dead giveaway. His naked hands are pale compared to his tanned face and neck. That's another giveaway, I have deduced.<br />
<br />
There's another man I've noticed hanging around the bars. He's the matador <a href="http://www.mundotoro.com/torero/jose-luis-galloso-espana-/407">Galloso</a>. He's very dramatic, too. But, you can tell he'd never be accepted into the Secret Police, for he wears his hair in a little ponytail at the back. Ponytails are quite possibly simply not accepted in the secret world of the Secret Police. They're just too ostentatious.<br />
<br />
The barmen grin like buffoons any time Galloso swaggers in and glides on to the bar stool. They welcome him with a huge embrace. Galloso's hands are always naked, so they're brown, brown like his eyes. He's never alone. Rather he's always surrounded by a group of people any time he enters the bar. They're the hangers-on, I suppose. I guess he can't manage to order a coffee or sherry on his own? He can kill bulls, but sipping on a drink all by himself is just too scary a thought?!<br />
<br />
I think the Secret Police Man with naked hands and I have some things in common.<br />
<br />
We are both independent. We can both go into a bar on our own. We don't need to be in a group. Absolutely not. We both stand when we could sit down, and we both observe everyone and everything. His eyes squint as he gazes around him, just like mine as I inhale the strong odours of garlic, olive oil, stale wine, black coffee and that je ne sais pas aroma of something clean, yet festering.<br />
<br />
Gosh, maybe I could become a Secret Police Person? Wouldn't Franco welcome me to his coterie of spies and sycophants?<br />
<br />
I'm certain I could master the art of stripping my hands of black leather gloves. And, I don't mind wearing my coat like a cape. Hmm. It's quite possible that Franco would buy me a real cape! There's probably a budget that he's set aside for his Secret Police. I wouldn't say no to a trip to Madrid to get myself a cape made of the very best of materials and a pair of soft black leather gloves. I'm one hundred per cent sure that I can learn the skill of removing them seductively.<br />
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I think, after all, like many things, it's all in the wrist. Ha ha.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-51597437731459811182014-04-24T12:04:00.000-07:002015-01-09T14:19:38.552-08:00Stand and be Happy or Give Me a Bush! - Rota, Spain, 1974 FOR E BOOK<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There was one thing that I did not like at all about living in Spain. Guess what that was?!<br />
<br />
The public toilet! No only was it a question of dealing with the oddest of odd toilets which tended to be a hole in the ground, but it was also the extreme lack of said public toilet. Beggars can't be choosers, and I guess a hole in the ground, if you were lucky enough to come across it, was better than the rear end of a bush. As for the toilet paper, well, don't get me started. It was like brown wrapping paper.<br />
<br />
One day, I was driving along a narrow country road going towards Rota. Maybe I should have used a rest room before setting out, but, who would think that there wouldn't be any toilets ANYWHERE?! Rather than hide behind a bush, I stopped at a teeny tiny bar at the side of the road hoping there would be a public toilet. <i>Please, show me the hole in the ground so that I may stand and be happy!</i><br />
<br />
"Can I help you, senorita?" What a pleasant man. He smiled at me, pleased that he had a customer.<br />
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Desperate as I was, before I even ordered a sherry or gaseosa, I blurt out, "Is there a toilet here?"<br />
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"Of course, of course. Senorita, of course." He seemed pretty definite that there was a toilet. Good news.<br />
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"My aunt will escort you."<br />
<br />
<i>What? His aunt will escort me? Why?</i><br />
<br />
"I'll be able to find it. Thank you, anyway." I was trying to be nice and polite. <i>Just tell me where the bloody toilet is so that I can end my misery.</i><br />
<br />
A woman appeared from behind the beaded curtain at the back of the bar. She was short and chubby and was wiping her hands on her dress. She looked like a nun, dressed completely in black. She was wearing a long gold chain and hanging from it were a medallion and a crucifix. In the medallion was the photo of someone. I wondered whose photo it was?<br />
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"Senorita, you want to use the bano?"<br />
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I was practically jumping up and down at this stage, but I managed to blurt out, "Yes, could you tell me where the toilet is?"<br />
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"I'll escort you." She extended her arm as if to show me outside.<br />
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Gosh, where was the toilet? Outside? I didn't see any toilet when I parked my car.<br />
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"Come with me, senorita." <br />
<br />
She beckoned me to follow her outside into the late afternoon sun. Where were we going?<br />
<br />
Next to the bar was a shack, for want of a better word.<br />
<br />
"Come, come with me." She's grinned, revealing really ugly teeth. Her face was like the land, all dried up and lined, and she smelled of garlic and strong cheese.<br />
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Now, I wasn't sure what was going on, but my bladder was in dire distress, so I had no choice but to follow her.<br />
<br />
"In you go." She indicated the shack.<br />
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Oh, the toilet was in the shack? Odd.<br />
<br />
It was dark inside and there were no windows. After fumbling for a switch I began to think that perhaps the electricity has been turned off? Or worse, maybe there wasn't any electricity. I hoped the old woman wasn't going to mug me, I really did.<br />
<br />
I had to strain and strain my eyes in order to see. It was worse than being inside a picture house.<br />
<br />
Guess what I saw?<br />
<br />
A bucket!<br />
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I wasn't sure if the bucket was empty. While weird images flashed around in my mind the man's aunt announced, "I'll stand guard. In case my nephew or any of the other men come in."<br />
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I felt so very rude and ungrateful when I declined the use of the bucket. I mumbled something that even I didn't understand and started to back out of the shack. I don't know what shocked me more, doing the toilet in a bucket that others may have used and whose bodily excretions could very well be still lurking around. Yikes! Or, having the woman stand guard as I emptied my bladder.<br />
<br />
The human body is strong. Its fortitude knows no boundaries. Somehow I clenched my bladder with every muscle and convinced myself that relieving myself behind a bush was much, much better for my health, my sanity, even my modesty.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-78558620521941453712014-04-14T17:12:00.001-07:002014-04-18T18:40:07.404-07:00In the Playground - Miami Playa, Tarragona, Spain, 1981<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's the summer of 1981. The school year is over. No more driving up to Salou for several weeks to my five year old son's school, El Colegio Elizabeth. Instead, my days are now busy with taking him to different activities. Down by the main coastal road there's a swing park that we frequent. It's a pleasure to watch him smile as he runs about and interacts with children from different places. Being a foreigner isn't so important here in the playground.<br />
<br />
You can hear French, Spanish, English, and Catalan ringing out in between squeals of giggles and loud laughter. But, it's the giggling that is the common language. It binds the children together and supersedes all adult concerns about politics, prejudices and the latest shocking events in the news.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgD2i-x7PI1v6cz1Cd6mVBRRSNHAsuWQ_MM7ujOEeB5tLJdupAEn2k9PWA37qkggK_yymODlIGco_BYRUvfxkc_-N8DHB6eK8u-d1MMX5kYzebnGT5g3ceLVBVzJ1g8qnk9WL5K_2Wa0LT/s1600/colegioelizabethjune1982.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgD2i-x7PI1v6cz1Cd6mVBRRSNHAsuWQ_MM7ujOEeB5tLJdupAEn2k9PWA37qkggK_yymODlIGco_BYRUvfxkc_-N8DHB6eK8u-d1MMX5kYzebnGT5g3ceLVBVzJ1g8qnk9WL5K_2Wa0LT/s1600/colegioelizabethjune1982.jpg" height="168" width="200" /></a>For example, here in Catalunya, Catalan is being used more and more. It's become a scandal almost. People say that in order to get into the university at Tarragona you need to speak Catalan. Too bad if you're from Madrid, or some other part of Spain, for the chances are that you won't know Catalan. At the end of last term at El Colegio Elizabeth, some parents got angry at meetings. They had asked a question in Spanish but the headmaster responded in Catalan.<br />
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<i>"Catalunya is part of Spain! Spanish is the language of Spain. How dare you answer us in Catalan!"</i><br />
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Even at the weekly market, from one week to the other, all of a sudden everyone is speaking in Catalan. Normally they speak it among themselves, certainly not to foreigners.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"If you're going to live here in Catalunya, you better learn Catalan!" </i> Yikes. What happened to the normally cheery woman whose oranges I buy?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr53iHuyW5Dn27rvO7a79ISbb89ZEK8-FKheqkZYgq54XrvleMLbw_S8_WU4vHuq4Sy12RtH7w6ZEkJVRNZWkqWQyvTRb_QYd3Ib1SlFDeqXMmb3fqYfoPtOWgc2rbyJomqriqFJG7g6G-/s1600/cambrilsmarket1980s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr53iHuyW5Dn27rvO7a79ISbb89ZEK8-FKheqkZYgq54XrvleMLbw_S8_WU4vHuq4Sy12RtH7w6ZEkJVRNZWkqWQyvTRb_QYd3Ib1SlFDeqXMmb3fqYfoPtOWgc2rbyJomqriqFJG7g6G-/s1600/cambrilsmarket1980s.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
I've already learned Spanish, what more do they want? If Catalan people were to live in Scotland, nobody in Scotland would expect them to speak Gaelic or even any words remotely related to the Scottish dialect. Stuff that up your jumper.<br />
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All around me young children communicate with one another. It doesn't matter if they're talking in French, Spanish, English or Catalan. They offer toys, they offer smiles, they chase one another and run zig-zag in make-believe worlds where everyone is accepted; where even the baddies and the goodies change roles.<br />
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I keep thinking about the actress, Romy Schneider who has just lost her son in a freak accident. It's been in the news a lot. He was climbing over a metal fence and got impaled. I can't get the image of her son being impaled out of my mind and of how she, his mother must be feeling. I wonder how many other parents are right now overly-protective, fearful that something similar could happen to their children?<br />
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When my son runs over to the swings with another little boy I shout out to him, "You be careful! Hang on tight. You could fall and hurt your head!" But I don't think he hears me due to the laughter of the children in the playground, and the music coming from the bar close by. It's Julio Iglesias who's singing away,"Hey" followed immediately by "De Nina a Mujer". <br />
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My son swings back and forth, going higher and higher, then he jumps off, landing perfectly on his two feet. He looks up in my direction me as if to say, "See? There's nothing to worry about."<br />
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I give a sigh of relief.<br />
<br />
"Hi, how are you?" It's my Flemish friend who has just arrived with her two boys. "What are you thinking about?"<br />
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"Julio Iglesias! If he were to ask me to dinner, I would not refuse!"<br />
<br />
Her boys run over to where my son is and the three play together.<br />
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"Gosh, it's hot today. I made cold soup. Come by later and have some." She's smiling at me, her long dark hair glistening in the late afternoon sun.<br />
<br />
"Sounds good."<br />
<br />
I enjoy being with my Flemish friend. I help her with her Spanish and English, and she helps me with my French. Occasionally we'll even come up with a Catalan word. Ha ha. We glide from one language to another without a thought. I believe it's because we just like to talk to each other that makes us able to use different languages even mid-sentence.<br />
<br />
I'm not familiar with the Flemish culture. I only know that my Flemish friend keeps to herself, doesn't mix much with anyone. Perhaps she and I would not ever have become friends if it hadn't been for our sons. They brought us together. It's as if the simplicity of how children play and laugh so easily has made us less cynical, less prejudicial and more accepting.<br />
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And so the frustrations about life in Cataluyna and concerns over shocking events in the news dissipate as we sit on a wooden bench, converse about recipes and watch our children play in the playground.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-4863479352456555862014-03-31T17:48:00.000-07:002014-03-31T19:29:25.359-07:00Curious Questions and the Magical Magic - Talavera de la Reina, 1981<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's 1981 and I'm living in an apartment on the Calle del Prado, Talavera de la Reina.<br />
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Based on what I can understand of discussions on the transistor radio about the assassination attempt on President Reagan, it sounds as if a Mr. Brady has a serious brain injury. I wonder who Mr. Brady is? I get busy with tidying up and washing dishes, all the time wondering about the significance of the shootings. Why would anyone be shooting at the President and this Mr. Brady? I don't have an answer. If the people on the radio do, then they're talking just too rapidly for me to comprehend. Might as well get on with my day.<br />
<br />
I plan on going to my exercise class, something I really look forward to. In fact, I just bought a new leotard and tights and can't wait to wear them. On the way to the gym I always stop off for a few minutes at my Cuban friend's apartment located close by. She's a poet who smokes endlessly. Any time you see her she's puffing dramatically and seductively on her cigarette holder that she grasps as if it were a pipe.<br />
<br />
"Here comes the little girl." That's how she always greets me.<br />
<br />
She looks at me over her shoulder and marches down the hallway, all the time inhaling her cigarette. She takes for ever to exhale, and I'm amazed that she doesn't choke in the interim.<br />
<br />
"Want some brandy?" It's become a habit of hers to ask this same question.<br />
<br />
I don't even drink brandy, ever. Well, maybe once in a while, but only in the evening. And she knows it.<br />
<br />
She sits down on the leather sofa and tops up her brandy glass.<br />
<br />
"Are you coming with me to the gym today?" I think carefully before I speak, making sure my Spanish is perfect.<br />
<br />
She rarely accompanies me to the gym. We just somehow have got into this routine of me always ringing her doorbell as I make my way to exercise class, of her offering me a brandy, and of me inviting her to join me.<br />
<br />
"Come by on your way back and tell me all about it." She laughs hollowly. "Anyhow, I need to figure out this new washing machine. It's supposed to be automatic. How about that?" She tips her cigarette ash into the tall ashtray standing next to the sofa.<br />
<br />
"Did you hear the news about Reagan? I wonder why someone would try to kill him?" <br />
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"The United States is a fucked-up country, that's why. We were screwed in Cuba, then we were screwed in Miami. We thought we would have a wonderful, magical life in the United States." She gulps down the brandy and pours herself another. "It sure as hell wasn't. Have I ever told you about the time I spent in Miami?"<br />
<br />
I forgot that she can talk for hours about Castro and Cuba, so I hate to get her started on Reagan and her 'magical' life in the United States.<br />
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"Better go, or I'll be late for my class. I always look forward to it."<br />
<br />
I walk quickly down the road and notice a group of three women standing next to one of those photo booths that you sit inside to get your photos taken. The women stick their fingers in the slot where the photos come out. They even crouch down and try to peek up inside the slot.<br />
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"How does the machine work?!"<br />
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"It's magic."<br />
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They stand up and stare at me.<br />
<i><br /></i>
"Do you want to use the machine?" One of them asks me rather curtly.<br />
<i><br /></i>
"No. No, I don't"<br />
<i><br /></i>
"Thank goodness," she replies. "Our photos are being developed. And if you get your photos taken at the same time, the machine may not work properly."<br />
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Why on earth would she think that? I'm so surprised at her logic.<br />
<br />
Their photos appear and they rush like crazy folk to grab them. They almost tear the photos yanking them out of the slot.<br />
<i><br /></i>
"They really look just like us!"<br />
<br />
They seem so totally amazed that I almost say to them, "Who else would the photos look like?" Gosh, surely it's not the first time they've used a photo booth?! No wonder they thought it was magic!<br />
<br />
At the gym the owner turns up the volume on his radio. His small black and white television is already blaring forth as well. Through the cacophony of raised voices I try to understand what he's saying to me.<br />
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What? My exercise class has been cancelled? How could that be?!<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-25087892096836041662014-03-24T11:02:00.001-07:002014-03-24T11:25:53.460-07:00How to Learn a Foreign Language - Talavera de la Reina, 1980<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm living here in Talavera de la Reina, on the Calle del Prado. There aren't many people who speak English, which is good. I want to improve my Spanish, and I want to get to know the Spaniards. I lived in Andalucia for four years and learned a lot. Later, I also studied Spanish at Mary Washington College in Fredericksburg, Virginia. I should be well-equipped to at least get by here in Talavera de la Reina. Right? Hmm. Hope so.<br />
<br />
People talk of being immersed in a foreign language, of thinking, eating, drinking, even sleeping with the foreign language. That's how you learn. You need to become obsessed. You need to memorize vocabulary lists, and you need to write and re-write verb conjugations until you get them completely correct. Never, ever forget that accent mark. And, never, ever place an accent mark where it doesn't belong!<br />
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That subjunctive? We all know of it. It's one of the hardest parts of Spanish grammar. How do we forge through it? <br />
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I love the 'if' clause. When I was learning it, I came up with all sorts of strange sentences just to practise formulating a complicated sentence. "If I had only gone to the dentist more often, I wouldn't have so many problems with my teeth." Yes, try saying that in Spanish. It's fun, and I've always loved thinking up ways to practise my Spanish.<br />
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So what? I hear you thinking.<br />
<br />
You know what's what?<br />
<br />
My mother's visiting me right now. It's her first time here in Talavera de la Reina. There are no menus in English, no signs in English, and there's nobody around here she's liable to meet who speaks English, except for me, my husband and our four year old son.<br />
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Guess what?<br />
<br />
My mother has already made friends with the <a href="http://seventiesandeighties.blogspot.com/2013/08/the-lady-from-leon.html">Lady from Leon</a> who lives on the same floor. The Lady from Leon doesn't know any English and my mother doesn't know any Spanish. Yet, they communicate. They have a laugh and they each talk in their own language. Somehow it works!<br />
<br />
There are so many different ways of communicating. You don't always need to know the grammar, the syntax, the vocabulary. You just need to have a desire to communicate, to learn about how other people think, how they live.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-18999268991295249122014-03-18T14:48:00.000-07:002014-03-18T14:07:03.149-07:00The Woman with just one Maid - Talavera de la Reina, 1980<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's 1980 and I'm living on the Calle del Prado, Talavera de la Reina.<br />
<br />
I seem to be constantly chastising my young son for leaving his room in a mess.<br />
<br />
"<i>Pick up your toys and put them away."</i><br />
<i>" Make your bed."</i><br />
<i>" Put your books back on the shelf</i>." <br />
<br />
It's usually a rush to get him dressed and out the door in time for school. The school bus stops in front of the Simago supermarket across the road. Many times I just wear really casual clothes, figuring that I'll dress nicer later when I venture out to the gym or shops. I usually manage to brush my teeth and splash water on my face before venturing out, but that's about all.<br />
<br />
There's this other mother I meet every morning at the bus stop who is the exact opposite, even first thing in the morning. She always looks as if she's going out to some fancy restaurant, or to a cocktail party. She tends to wear stiletto heels, a beautifully tailored suit with shoulder padding, and a frilly blouse. Her hair is always arranged as if she's come from getting it professionally styled, and her skin looks flawless with its soft, expensive make-up carefully applied just so. She loves to talk.<br />
<br />
"I can't wait until my husband gets transferred back to Madrid. It's so difficult living here in Talavera. In Madrid we had THREE maids, and here we only have one." She moves her shoulders back and forth as if to emphasise how cruel life is here in Talavera.<br />
<br />
How to respond? I find it easier to say nothing. The madrilenos. the people from Madrid, really do tend to look down their noses at the talaveranos.<br />
<br />
"Of course, I can't blame my maids for not wanting to come to Talavera." She snorts and adds, "My husband has a very important position in his company. He's very highly thought of." She nods her head vehemently, then sighs loudly.<br />
<br />
The bus comes and the children climb aboard. We wave fare thee well, and I proceed to think about all the things I need to do. The 'cursi' lady doesn't move.<br />
<br />
I don't really know the meaning of 'cursi', but I've heard it used to describe women who are always dressed up in fancy, expensive clothes. I like the sound of it, and I'm afraid I might call the cursi woman 'cursi' thinking that that's her name.<br />
<br />
"<i>Hola, Cursi</i>!" Imagine if I called that out to her!<br />
<br />
"Would you like to bring your son to our apartment after school? The boys could play together."<br />
<br />
Her question sounds more like an order. Before I can come up with some excuse, she announces, "Great! I'll have something for the merienda." She places her arm in mine, escorts me across the road to my apartment and speaks confidentially to me. "I'm so glad that we have met. You're not anything whatsoever like the locals." <br />
<br />
Later that day my son and I are ensconced in the cursi lady's fancy apartment. The boys are having fun with all the toys spread out on the floor, and playing Twister. The cursi lady is telling me about her life in Madrid where everything is more civilized. Her voice drones on and on, but it is nice to hear Castilian Spanish.<br />
<br />
It's time to leave, so I tell my son to pick up the toys and put them back where he got them.<br />
<br />
"What?!" The cursi woman screams like a gypsy at the weekly market. "Absolutely not! My son never picks up after himself, and your son shouldn't either!"<br />
<br />
I'm dumbfounded. Her eyes stare at me in shock, appalled that I expect my son to pick up the toys.<br />
<br />
"That's what maids are for. They clear away things. Didn't you know that?" She talks to me as if she's addressing an inferior.<br />
<br />
She calls on her maid who then enters the room, head down, and immediately clears away all the toys.<br />
<br />
"Mummy, can we get a maid?" My son gazes up at me with eager expectations.<br />
<br />
"You don't have a maid?" The cursi lady sounds puzzled. "I can't imagine how you possibly manage. I certainly couldn't."<br />
<br />
"I want my son to be independent, to respect his belongings, and to have responsibility." I feel I should say more, but I stop at the expression of disdain on her face.<br />
<br />
She looks disappointed in me. She's probably thinking that I'm no more sophisticated than a typical talaverana. She'd be correct. I'm not the slightest sophisticated when it comes to having a maid, never mind three. Even if I had a maid, I'd still expect my son to pick up after himself.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-11099598860455143562014-03-11T06:02:00.001-07:002015-04-11T13:09:08.076-07:00Sensory Pleasures – Rota, 1972 E BOOK<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
From Monday to Friday I was busy teaching at the bilingual school in El Puerto de Santa Maria. When I wasn't teaching I was studying Spanish and practising new vocabulary and verb tenses with the two Spanish teachers I lived with.<br />
<br />
Week-ends were completely different for that's when I got out and about and mixed with other foreigners. On Saturday afternoons I made my way to Rota, to hang out with the Americans who worked on the Naval Base. There were also people from Australia, Great Britain, New Zealand, and Scandinavia who were travelling the world, just drifting around. It was bit like meeting characters from James Michener's book,'The Drifters', and I felt intrigued as if my nose and ears were tingling with sensory pleasures.<br />
<br />
There was the smell of Brut after-shave, Head and Shoulders shampoo and Dial soap as well-showered faces greeted guests, ready to entertain and be entertained.<br />
<br />
I couldn't tell the difference in accents between the Australians and the New Zealanders, and the Americans all sound the same to me. They laughed loudly, even although most of them weren't happy to be in the navy, nor in Spain. They only signed up so that they wouldn't be drafted to go to Vietnam. I loved the delicious aroma of charcoal being fired up as they got ready for a great barbecue of huge thick steaks. Midst grilled meat, cold beer and Mateuse wine we thought only of what was happening right now. We didn't talk of the Vietnam War nor of Generalisimo Franco. I guess we were all drifters, just passing through, getting along despite hangovers and dirt roads.<br />
<br />
It was a pleasure to converse in English with adults, instead of children. It was thrilling to meet people from so many different places. I felt as if I've stepped inside a play or a novel and I was part of a journey that was going around and around, with no destination in mind. I was reminded of Joni Mitchell's song, 'The Circle Game', and I marvelled how it seemed as if Time had slowed down, that all that mattered was who and what was in front of me.<br />
<br />
On the radio blaring forth from an open window some woman constantly told anyone listening to take a 'navy shower' in order to preserve water. Her voice sounded soothing, seductive, even, as she explained that you should lather up and then turn the water off until you were ready to rinse.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Take a navy shower..."</i><br />
<br />
Parts of Rota seemed more American than Spanish. There were streets where all you heard was English and where the bars were endless. Benny's Bar, The American Bar, The Sangria Shack, were just a few that the Americans frequented. Not everyone was pleased with the American influence. Some of the local people were quite vocal in their appraisal of the American presence and they discussed loudly their thoughts whilst playing games of dominoes.<br />
<br />
<i>"The Yanks cause trouble!"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"I certainly don't want <b>my</b> daughters mixing with them!"</i><br />
<br />
The car rental dealers, however, were happy with the influx of American sailors, as were the landlords who rented out their flats. The bar owners were over the moon. <br />
<br />
<i>"The Yanks bring in lots of money!"</i><br />
<br />
Since apparently the American government paid Spain tons of money for the privilege of using the Base, I guess then, those who were annoyed with the presence of the Americans should have taken it up with Generalisimo Franco? But, do you really think that a few locals in Rota could have influenced a dictator? After all, in the United States people were demonstrating, protesting the war in Vietnam, yet still the war continued.<br />
<br />
Sometimes you have to wait and let events sort themselves out, allow for the vagaries beyond our reality to settle into a peaceful routine.<br />
<br />
Regardless of the influx of American sailors, Rota still managed to retain its charm and authenticity.<br />
In the evening, when the Rotenos strolled about hand in hand down to the harbour, when children squealed and darted in and out as they chased one another, you'd never have knowb there were so many foreigners living there.<br />
<br />
The Spanish routines of the <i>paseo</i>, (stroll) of children being up late, of whole families sitting outside talking, of lovers gazing at the stars and the fishing boats, all continued. You could still hear the dripping of water on tiled balconies as the geraniums were watered, and you could still smell that comforting aroma of garlic and olive as it trickled up your nostrils.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-2077311406347142742014-02-25T17:52:00.001-08:002015-03-29T10:27:10.041-07:00The Large Penguin at the Swimming Pool - Summer,1980, Talavera de la Reina<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Summer in Talavera de la Reina was hot and dusty. The stench of body odour was putrid, so much so that each time I went to the Simago supermarket just across the road I'd use all my will-power to hold my breath long enough to prevent the ripe aromas from corrupting my nasal passages. There was no air conditioning in the apartment, and the only way to get cooler air was to open the windows, but that gave carte blanche to mosquitoes and flies, and who knows what else.<br />
The local people used to bathe in the Tagus, the river that runs through Talavera, and ended up getting sick due to raw sewage that made its way from Toledo. Somehow, they didn't appreciate the significance of the contaminated water, so they'd keep splashing about in the river, even bringing small children with them. Their theory was that your body gets used to the water, builds up resistance to any germs lurking about. Hadn't they been swimming in the river for generations? And weren't they still alive to tell the tales? An American girl I knew back then told me how her husband who was a doctor at the local hospital was constantly treating people for gastrointestinal diseases. They both would warn me about paddling around in the river.<br />
Fortunately, there was a large swimming pool on the outskirts of Talavera where you could cool off, escape the summer heat. Nice as it was, what was even nicer and even luxurious was the private club located just outside Talavera. There the pool, the tennis courts, and the landscaping were of the highest quality. How did I know all this? Well, the Lady from Leon was a member.<br />
"I'm off to the club," she announced one afternoon. "You'd like it. The pool is huge, almost like an Olympic pool. There are umpteen tennis courts. You can even barbecue, if you'd like to. I don't barbecue. Who wants to eat burnt food?" She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head.<br />
"Have fun. Sounds like a great place."<br />
"Maybe one day you can come with me to the club. You could be my guest."<br />
"Sure, sounds good."<br />
I didn't think anything more about her invitation, assuming that she was just being polite and that she'd never actually take me as her guest. Lo and behold just a few days later the Lady from Leon<br />
opened her door as usual just as I was exiting the elevator.<br />
"Where were you? What did you do? Did you buy anything?" She really did take an active interest in my life. Whenever she'd open her door as I stood waiting on the elevator she'd always ask where I was going, what I was going to do. I had no idea that my activities were so fascinating. Before I could answer, she added, "I'm going to the club in an hour or so. I want you to be my guest."<br />
I hesitated before responding.<br />
"You do have a swimsuit, don't you? If not, you can borrow one of mine." She sounded eager to have me accompany her. I could just imagine myself in one of her swimsuits. It would have fallen off me before even dipping my big toe into the water.<br />
"I do have a swimsuit, but I hardly ever wear it."<br />
"Good. Then you'll wear it this afternoon. We can take the bus. See you later." The Lady from Leon grinned as if she were offering me a large palmera pastry with jam on it.<br />
I should have been thrilled. Right? There was I moaning and groaning every day about the heat and there I was being invited to a fancy private club where I could splash about in the gorgeous swimming pool. I wasn't thrilled, however. Want to know why?<br />
Because I'm afraid of the water. I can't swim. I can't even walk in water, unless I'm grabbing on to the wall. I can hardly stand up in water, my legs tremble so much. Yes, to this day I can't swim and to this day I'm afraid of the water. I don't like people knowing this for they always end up splashing me on the face or giving me a lecture on how there's nothing to be afraid of.<br />
And there I was getting ready for the fancy private pool where probably everyone could swim. They probably had really nice swimsuits, too. All I had was a hideous, ancient garment that I bought ten years ago on sale in the middle of winter. I hated to confess to the Lady from Leon that not only was I a non-swimmer, but that I was really scared of the water. She was doing me such a nice favour by inviting me to her club, that I didn't want to spoil it. Far better to go along with the invitation. After all, as long as I stood close enough to the wall that I could have at least one hand on it then I'd be fine. Of course, this would be in the shallow end! Anywhere above 4 feet simply never ever entered my vocabulary even with my hand placed firmly on the wall.<br />
Stomach full of butterflies, palms sweating, I plonked myself next to the Lady from Leon on the dilapidated bus that took the meandering scenic route to get to the private club. She had a huge bag on her lap that was bursting at the seams. I noticed a large yellow towel peeking out, also goggles. She must be a serious swimmer, I surmised. I mean, she even had goggles.<br />
She stripped off her shapeless dress that woman of a certain age in Spain tended to wear and revealed her swimming suit hidden underneath. I was surprised to see how ugly it was. It looked a bit like a sack, and the best I can say about the colour is that it was on the dark side. I was expecting her to be wearing a really expensive swimming suit from one of the local boutiques. I didn't feel so bad then about my sorry swimming suit.<br />
"You look nice. You do." The Lady from Leon observed, staring at me. I thought she was just being polite. Then she continued, "Do you want to go on the diving board? People love it!"<br />
"No, no. I'm not a divey type." The thought of being on a diving board made me shudder with fear.<br />
"Well, let's go in the water." She placed her big toe in the water. "Not too cold. Just nice. It's always nice here. I hope you'll like it."<br />
I squirmed, thinking of excuses not to go in at the deep end which is where the Lady from Leon's big toe was. I didn't believe that she'd tease me about being afraid, but I didn't want to take the chance, and I certainly didn't want to be subjected to the usual lecture I always got from bossy swimmers who wanted to impress on non-swimmers how there's nothing to be afraid of.<br />
Temperature of the water checked, she then opened her large bag, and pulled out the goggles followed by a bathing cap. I was so impressed. I've never worn goggles, nor a cap. I've never needed either as my hair absolutely never got wet the times I had been in a pool. How could it? You don't really think I'd ever put my face in the water?! You'll never guess what else she pulled out?!<br />
She pulled out a safety ring, a flat plastic ring that she brought up to her mouth and which she began blowing really hard. The ring became bigger and bigger and I thought it might burst. Then, she shoved her hand once more into the bag and pulled out arm bands which she also proceeded to blow up. She was like a conjurer. I wondered what else she had stashed in her big bag. She placed the safety ring over her head and down to her waist. Then she slipped the armbands over both her arms. I was astounded. Next she struggled with the goggles, but finally got them over her eyes. She offered me the cap.<br />
"Oh. Thank you, but my hair never gets wet in pools." That was the understatement of the year.<br />
"You're probably a really good swimmer." She remarked. "I'm not. I'm afraid of the water. But, with all this gear, I can swim up and down and across the pool!"<br />
I was thinking that maybe I should get myself the same gear as we strolled down to the shallow end and we each very carefully made our way into the water.<br />
"Oh. I forgot. I have flippers with me too." She clambered out and went back to her big bag then pulled out a pair of flippers. My mouth opened wide in amazement.<br />
"I have another pair of flippers, if you'd like." She called out to me before waddling back down to the shallow end. She reminded me of a penguin.<br />
"No, that's okay. I'll be fine." I was trying not to laugh at her.<br />
My hands held on to the wall and my legs relaxed. The water was refreshing and I felt encouraged. I was so happy that I wasn't the only one afraid of the water. I admired the Lady from Leon for not caring one bit what others might think, even although she did look really funny!<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-64233276206534774192014-02-11T12:27:00.000-08:002014-12-13T11:09:13.104-08:00The White Slave Trade, Anyone? El Puerto de Santa Maria/ Tangiers 1973<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Ever since I moved here to El Puerto de Santa Maria, I've been warned about the white slave trade. Apparently white girls — meaning Anglo Saxons — disappear any time they go to Tangiers. They just simply never return. Yikes! The story is that they're sold into a harem. Of course, Mandy, my new Canadian friend and I don't believe any of this, and, since we're out for adventure and excitement, we simply dismiss the stories.<br />
<br />
You can't be living so close to an exotic city like Tangiers and not visit it. That's just the way it is.<br />
<br />
We hitch-hike up to Algeciras. The slimy guy who picks us up no sooner has accelerated his car when he opens his glove compartment to show us his contraceptives. Is he serious?! We tell him to stop the car and let us out. He stares at us in the rear view mirror.<br />
<br />
"You wanna f...y f...y?"<br />
<br />
"NO!" We scream at him.<br />
<br />
"Okay. Okay. Just asking. You Swedish girls, you never know."<br />
<br />
"We're not Swedish." I snap at him with all the gusto of the schoolteacher that I am.<br />
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Mandy is taller than me, so I'm sure between the two of us we can deal with any dirty- minded sleaze.<br />
<br />
There's silence in the car as he continues to drive.<br />
<br />
"I take you to Algeciras. Okay? No problem."<br />
<br />
We relax and are chauffeured to Algeciras where we're to catch the ferry to Tangiers.<br />
<br />
Nothing has prepared us for Tangiers. No sooner do our toes touch land than we're surrounded by urchins all yelling at us, hands outstretched. We can't move. Maybe the stories about the white slave trade are true, after all? We could be murdered here, and nobody would find our bodies among so many people. They're mainly boys. Some look to be teenagers, and they're all very strong and intent on getting something. We can't figure out what it is that they want. What we want, however, is to be able to walk down the pier and get to the hotel. We try to ignore the crowd, to no avail. They follow us closely and start pushing and shoving us. Some have stones which they throw at our ankles.<br />
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"F...y! F...y!" <br />
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Whoever taught them English did a really bad job, if you want my opinion. These two words seem to be getting used a lot today between the driver we hitch-hiked a lift from, and now these wild looking boys. I make a mental note to look up how you say 'f...y f...y' in Spanish. <br />
<br />
We try to get away, but it's impossible. They form a circle around us, all the while shoving their hands up in the air. A man arrives.<br />
<br />
"Do you need any help?" He's a smooth talking guy, with a flashy grin. He wears cheap-looking clothes that are crushed, and his skin seems dirty. "Pay me, and I'll see to it that you have a safe time in Tangiers."<br />
<br />
Much as we hate to hand over cash we figure it's probably the best thing to do. Like magic the crowd of boys and teenagers disappear and we're left in peace. <br />
<br />
"Welcome to Tangiers. I will be your guide." <br />
<br />
He escorts us to our hotel. Meanwhile, the boys are already mingling around other unsuspecting travellers. It's a relief not to have to deal with people badgering us with their hands outstretched.<br />
<br />
"I'll come by tomorrow and give you a tour of the city. Until then." Just as miraculously as he appeared at the pier, our guide now disappears down a narrow road teeming with people wearing long gowns.<br />
<br />
I smell orange and mint and hear odd sounds of a man calling out loudly. He seems to be saying the same words over and over.<br />
<br />
We enter the hotel. I guess that's what it is. I don't think it has even one star. It's maybe got half a star, at the most. Our room is located way down a long corridor, far from the bathroom, but the price is cheap. There are two lumpy beds in the room and a tiny window. I suddenly get the overwhelming desire to march down to the pier and get on another ferry back to Spain.<br />
<br />
"Ready for dinner? Where shall be eat?" Mandy loves her food. After looking at the expression on my face, she tries to placate me by saying, "Come on, it will be an adventure! That's what we came for! Isn't it?"<br />
<br />
"I guess. What do they eat here, I wonder?"<br />
<br />
Before she can answer, a man barges into the bedroom. How on earth did he get in? The lock on the door doesn't work! Who is this person?! He looks dazed, as he offers us something hard. It's a small, rectangular object. Then he sits on one of the beds and practically passes out.<br />
<br />
Yikes! Who is he? And what is he offering us? How do we get rid of him?<br />
<br />
He comes to and stands up, then wanders out and disappears completely.<br />
<br />
"Do you think that was some drug he had in his hand?" I ask Mandy.<br />
<br />
"Could be. We should have taken it. Probably could have sold it in Spain for thousands of pesetas!"<br />
<br />
I stare at her in disbelief.<br />
<br />
"Only kidding! Really, I am." She starts laughing. "Let's go out and find some food."<br />
<br />
"But the lock doesn't work." I hate to be such a whiner, but I'm getting nervous as stories of the white slave trade roll around in my mind.<br />
<br />
"We'll put a chair against the door tonight. For now, we'll take our passports and cash with us. Gosh, am I hungry!" Mandy laughs loudly as she nudges me out the door. Then she turns to speak to me, her lips trembling, "Heck, you don't think these stories about the white slave trade are correct?"<br />
<br />
"No. At least, I hope not. Do you think they're correct?" I look up at Mandy, hoping that she isn't too concerned, despite her lips trembling.<br />
<br />
"We'll find out! We don't have a choice, anyway. Let the adventures begin!" <br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-86940336175496550722014-02-02T06:27:00.001-08:002015-05-29T13:45:29.300-07:00FORSEQUELLanny and the Luscious, Languid, Listless Life - Vilafortuny, Tarragona, 1981<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;">The Belgian man puffs intensely on a
Marlboro cigarette as he shows off his brand new camcorder. He struggles with the clumsy machine and hoists it onto his shoulder,
then tells us all to look natural. We immediately stop what we're doing, becoming
like images frozen in time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;"><br />
He grunts and groans, muttering, "How does this damn thing work?!"
He waves his hands at us as if directing an orchestra. "Got it!
Pretend I'm not here!" Then he walks around the edge of his swimming pool
pointing the camcorder at everyone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;"><br />
He’s the only person we know who has a camcorder, and it’s quite a thrill to be
filmed. We smile and wave, whilst others laugh and tell him to get lost or
they'll throw him in the pool. His girlfriend, the sexy Brazilian, skips
in front of him, teasing him, before diving into the pool. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;">Not everyone is so content.
Lately, Lanny rarely leaves the confines of her back garden in
Vilafortuny. She loathes hearing people talk of their
parties, or anything to do with their social life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;">"You wouldn't like it if you
had to listen to so-called friends brag about what they get up to!" Lanny
pouts as she sits slumped in a chair. Her white halter top and
shorts accentuate her beautiful tanned skin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;">She smells of yellow flowers and
coconut. She offers me some luscious-looking red cherries. "I never wanted
to come to Spain. We're only here because of my husband's job. And I think that
that Jane's purple lip liner is absolutely awful!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;">Lanny picks through the bowl of
cherries perched on her lap. She spits out the seeds into her hand and tosses
them. She does this with great finesse, looking every bit the lady with good
taste that she is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;">"I'm seriously contemplating
going back home. My husband is always working. And I don't have any
friends here." She bites on another cherry, then, after licking the juice
from her lips adds, "At least I have a tan." She stretches out her
arms to show how brown they are.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;">The way folk go on about tans is
something that I've never comprehended. I've even met tourists who don't
believe that I live here.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;">"But you don't have a tan!
How could you have lived here all this time and not get a tan?"</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;">Their eyes practically pop out of
their heads as they stare at me in amazement. I've never had a tan in my life.
I go red, then I go redder, then I get a rash, and then I go even redder still.
People love to stand close to me, for, even if they have a really pale tan,
they still look superb next to my beetroot skin. I could hire myself out as a
booster of people's self-confidence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;">"At least my tan is real.
I'm sure that Jane's tan comes out of a bottle. She's simply too orange."
Lanny licks her lips as she scoffs down the remaining luscious - looking red
cherries. "My husband has a university degree. I'm almost certain that
most of these other husbands don't. Maybe that's why they're always having
barbecues together and why they never invite us."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;">The late afternoon sun spreads
it's golden hue over the roof tops, over Lanny's tanned body. Suddenly an idea
comes to me. She would make a good model for the Belgian man as he practices
using his camcorder. He knows lots of people and would introduce her to his
friends and acquaintances.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;"><br />
Lanny slides her large, circular sunglasses up over her forehead and squints her eyes as
if she's seeing me for the first time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;">“Gosh , you’re all red. I’d hate
to look like you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;">Fortunately, I don’t take what
Lanny says personally. At least, I don’t think I do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;">Lanny places her sunglasses back over her eyes and stretches her legs out in front of her. Her long fingers fumble with the cassette player on the little table next to her. She finds the play button and presses it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Fax', serif;">"You're so quiet.
Thank God for that! By the way, there's more cherries in the
kitchen. Could you get me them? There's a cassette tape on the kitchen table. Could you bring me it as well? I’m exhausted."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-17764885535474499212014-01-23T12:26:00.002-08:002014-02-05T07:00:12.705-08:00Canny Connie and the Piano - 1972, El Puerto de Santa Maria<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Connie, the headmistress of the bilingual school where I teach is a canny businesswoman. When you first enter the school you see large framed posters of Oxford and Cambridge universities on the wall. They give the impression that she has graduated from one of these establishments. The oh, so wealthy Terrys and Osbornes who send their children to her school are quite impressed by the headmistress being a a posh English person with a fancy university degree. If only they knew!<br />
<br />
Connie doesn't have even an O level to her name. On top of that, she's not English. She's Welsh.<br />
<br />
Connie is absolutely brilliant at getting whatever she wants at a reduced price, or even for free. <br />
<br />
"It would be so lovely to have a piano. I wonder how expensive it would be to buy one?" She announces one day with a wistful smile. "We could offer piano lessons to the students. The parents would jump at the chance." Her eyes are twinkling as she calculates how much money she can make if she offers piano lessons.<br />
<br />
Say what you want about Connie, she is indeed a canny business woman who works hard and whose one wish is for her school to develop and flourish. Therefore it is no surprise that things somehow tend to work out for her. It's as if the Gods themselves are working in aiding and abetting her.<br />
<br />
You see, a group of Americans stops by. The leader is a stout man with a huge belly and huge teeth. He fumbles with his tie, playing with the knot, as he speaks.<br />
<br />
"Maam. We are a close-knit group of Christians who want to meet and worship the Lord. We're in need of a place to hold our meetings."<br />
<br />
"Oh?" Connie smiles, her eyes looking up at the ceiling as if thanking the Lord for bringing these Americans to her humble establishment.<br />
<br />
"Could we use one of your rooms for our meetings? Please? We'd pay you of course."<br />
<br />
Connie is now beaming. This is wonderful!<br />
<br />
"It'd just be twice a week that we'd meet, in the evening. Would that be okay?"<br />
<br />
"Absolutely." Connie can hardly believe her luck. Out of the blue she's going to be bringing in more money in the way of rent.<br />
<br />
"One thing. I hope it's not a problem. But, we have a piano. We'd need to leave it in the room. We use it when we sing, when we praise the Lord."<br />
<br />
Connie says nothing. I think I actually hear her brain plotting quickly what her next move will be.<br />
<br />
"Not a problem at all. Not at all." Connie grins back before adding very sweetly, "There would, of course, be a tiny extra charge for storing your piano."<br />
<br />
"Of course. Praise the Lord. Maam, you have made us all very happy and grateful." He turns to the rest of his group and hugs them.<br />
<br />
Connie's eyes sparkle as she gets ready to use her trump card.<br />
<br />
"Would it be all right if we play the piano from time to time?" she inquires in her best and poshest English accent.<br />
<br />
"Feel free! We're just so happy and thrilled that you're allowing us the use of a room for our meetings! Praise the Lord!"<br />
<br />
I feel like muttering, "Amen!"<br />
<br />
Connie has got her way again. Who would have thought that in a matter of minutes she's got herself the use of a piano? Not only that, she doesn't have to pay a penny for it, and, in addition, she's charging rent for the piano?! And, don't forget the money she'll bring in from the piano lessons!<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-3065932313174706342014-01-14T06:44:00.001-08:002016-07-05T15:28:40.568-07:00The San Ferminer Gentleman, Pamplona, 1973<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"You wanna go to Pamplona?"<br />
"I'm meeting up with some Australian friends there." It was 1973 and I was hoping to somehow make it to Pamplona to see the Running of the Bulls. The American boy stationed at the Naval Base in Rota was a friend of a friend, someone I really didn't know very well. He was going to be driving to Pamplona as part of some grand tour of Spain and France he had planned.<br />
"I can give you a lift." That poor guy with the big grin probably never thought that he'd come to regret his generous offer.<br />
"I'll stay with my friends. They're camping. And they'll bring me back to Cadiz."<br />
"Great! After Pamplona, I'm going over the border to France."<br />
Sounded like a plan!<br />
When the American boy and I arrived in Pamplona people were sleeping on the streets, the bars were full and there was a general air of party time gone wild. We climbed over people and looked for the places that became so famous because Ernest Hemingway had hung out there. Obligatory touristy thing accomplished, we started looking for the Australians. Yes, where were they? I had been assured they'd be downtown at the bars, or on the outskirts of Pamplona where there Winnabago would be camped. How to find them? We drove everywhere looking for them. Guess what? They were nowhere to be seen! Where was I to stay? How would I get back down to Andalucia?<br />
"Gee. What a bummer. But don't worry, you can come with me to France."<br />
What a nice, pleasant and generous person he was. Slight problem was I didn't have much at all in the way of money. Nor, did I have my passport with me.<br />
"I can't leave you stranded in Pamplona." <br />
I must have looked awfully pathetic, for he added, "I don't have to go to France. It'll be there for along time, anyway. Why don't I just hang around Pamplona with you? We can always sleep in my car if need be."<br />
Gosh, what a noble gesture!<br />
"I'll still see the sights of Spain. We can go back a different route." He smiled broadly.<br />
Okay. What the heck? Even although I hardly knew this American boy, he did seem polite and quite unassuming. One might even have described him as a gentleman.<br />
Now, gentlemen do lie. And words are cheap. That's what I had always heard. But still.<br />
That night, we were dancing on the streets with all the crazy people who were boozing it up and singing away as if this was their last day on earth. All the hotels were fully booked, so we just knew that we'd be sleeping in his car, or on the street. No rush, the night was still young. We kept dancing along one street and then another. People were hugging us, complete strangers were grabbing our arms and walked with us, laughing hysterically.<br />
The American boy called out to me, "I'm gonna run with the bulls!" He didn't seem the type who would run with bulls. In fact, he didn't seem the type who did any running at all, chubby as he was. "Did you hear me? I'm gonna run with the bulls!"<br />
"Really? It's dangerous! And, you don't have the red hat and scarf thing, do you?"<br />
"I'll figure it out!." He cackled loudly like a dog about to throw up or someone who had accidently got beer up their nose. Come to think on it, he wasn't just a chubby fellow, he was also quite ungainly and very clumsy. Whilst calling out about how he'd run with the bulls he stepped off the narrow pavement, tripped over someone's feet and fell down with a thud. His lovely grin was no longer visible as he writhed in pain,<br />
"Ouch! Oh! The pain! It's awful! It's like childbirth!"<br />
Well, really. A slight exaggeration to say the least.<br />
"Are you okay? For heaven's sake, what happened?" It's so obvious what happened, but I asked anyway. He looked like a such poor soul lying there on the street in Pamplona. And if it hadn't been for me he wouldn't have been dancing and falling.<br />
"My ankle hurts! Ohhh!" He managed to stand and then hopped over to the pavement where he plonked down. "Ohhh, my ankle! My ankle. It really hurts! I don't think I can walk!"<br />
Well, all those new-found friends we had just met disappeared down the road all the while skipping and dancing. They probably didn't even know that we were lagging behind, so intent were they on making merriment. I suddenly got a headache. All this Pamplona stuff was becoming one big nuisance. No Australians with their camper, no hotel rooms, and now this, the American boy damaging his ankle, unable to walk.<br />
"I need a hospital." He whined, his head held between two hands. "I think my ankle is broken."<br />
"I'll go get help." I ran into a bar and asked the barman where the nearest hospital was. Turned out it wasn't not too far.<br />
"Can you make it to the hospital? It's close by."<br />
"I'll try. I sure will." He really did seem in a great deal of pain.<br />
He hopped along, hanging on to my shoulder, and somehow we made it down the road.<br />
"One thing. Can you do me a favour?" He stopped hopping and stared at me as if what he was about to ask would change the course of human history, or be a dreadful imposition. We hardly knew one another, but there again he had done me the grand favour of driving me to Pamplona and then accompanying me when I had no place to go. So, it was only fair that he asked me a favour in return.<br />
I froze. What could he possibly be about to ask? I hoped it wasn't that he had to do the toilet and that he wanted me to help him. Gosh, I hoped not!<br />
"Promise that you won't tell anybody what happened here tonight."<br />
"Okay." What a relief. He didn't want me to help him do the toilet.<br />
"I'm going to tell people that I hurt my ankle running with the bulls." He grimaced, obviously in pain. "You keep quiet about it. Okay?"<br />
"Yes, yes. I promise."<br />
"Everyone sure will be impressed when I tell them I got injured in Pamplona, running with the bulls." His eyes glazed over as if he were imagining the praise and admiration of his friends.<br />
Now, maybe it was just me, but I felt he'd be lying if he were to tell this story. And here was I thinking he was an unassuming gentleman. I wonder who else related tall stories about running with the bulls in Pamplona?<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7432901164450543248.post-84635078363834022752014-01-08T13:49:00.001-08:002015-04-12T14:15:24.695-07:00for short story collection in spain The Crazy Lady and the Mama Dog<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In 1981 my husband, small son and I were living in Urbanización El Casalot, Miami Playa, Tarragona located some 3 kilometres from the Mediterranean. It was quite common to see stray cats and dogs meandering throughout the urbanizacion. They'd simply turn up on the road in front of the house and continue meandering deep into the woods. Most of them were like migrant workers who went about their own business, never staying too long in any one spot.<br />
Two dogs, however, did remain and I got to know them quite well. This is their story.<br />
<br />
Urbanizacion El Casalot was a brand new development where there was still ongoing construction. Across the road from our house workmen yelled and babbled among themselves, in between peeing on the street, spitting and blowing their nose on the ground. Their transistor radio would be blaring forth loud advertisements for Galerías Preciados, condensed milk and Camel cigarettes - 'El sabor de la Aventura!'. Occasionally the workmen would burst into song, imitating Julio Iglesias singing "De Niña a Mujer" and "Hey". They were actually pretty good singers, not that I'm an expert, but Julio Iglesias himself would have been happy, I'm sure, to be listening to this open-air concert.<br />
<br />
There was something else the workmen got up to besides hammer and bang and make lots of noise. They would play with a puppy. He looked like an Alsation or a German Shepherd pup, based on his colouring as he frolicked about and had lots of fun playing with the workmen. They played rough with him, forcing him to the ground, preventing him from standing. They'd toss left over bocadillos to him then tap his hind legs with their feet as if telling him to go away. It was difficult to see if they were actually kicking him but since the dog didn't yelp, I can only assume they never did hurt him. All seemed well until they stopped work for the day and went home. Guess what they did with the pup?<br />
<br />
They hid him inside the house they were constructing. They basically bricked him up so that he couldn't get out. How did I know all this, you might be wondering? At night I heard him howl his little head off. He was a poor wee soul. I couldn't stand it any more, so one Sunday when I knew the men wouldn't turn up I searched for him inside the house. The howling was coming from a corner where there were bricks stacked up. I pulled the bricks away scraping and scratching my fingers in the process. Lo and behold, there he was! He jumped up and down, his tail wagging, his tongue hanging out. He was absolutely filthy, covered in dust and cement and who knows what else.<br />
<br />
I picked him up and took him across the road to my house and gave him a lovely bath. I fed him and offered him water. I really wanted to keep him, but reluctantly I decided that that wasn't practical. We didn't know for how long we'd continue living in the area, and anyhow, presumably he belonged to one of the workmen. I had no choice but to take him back across the road, place him in the corner and pile the bricks up around him so that he couldn't escape.<br />
<br />
That night as I heard him whine and howl I wanted to rush over and cuddle him. I couldn't wait until morning when the workmen would be back for at least then he'd have company. On Monday morning the workmen arrived, making as much noise as a herd of elephants stomping around. I spied on them from behind the lace curtains to see if they would let the pup out. They did, thank goodness. Out he came, leaping up and down, his tail wagging furiously. He looked over at our house as if ready to visit me and have another bath, maybe some tasty food.<br />
<br />
The workmen stared perplexedly at him, scratching their foreheads. How did the pup get so clean?!<br />
Did someone give him a bath?! I think my secret was out for the workmen turned and gazed over at our house.<br />
<br />
"Señora loca! Crazy lady!" they called out and laughed loudly.<br />
<br />
Thank goodness they were laughing and weren't annoyed that I had removed the pup. Maybe they really did care for the dog after all?<br />
<br />
The other dog that I got to know I met when we first arrived in Urbanizacion Casalot, when the whole place was abuzz with cheery tourists laughing and drinking until the wee small hours. People would walk about with towels around their shoulders as they made their way to the swimming pools. You could sit on your front porch and listen to live music at the restaurant just down the road. It was one long holiday all summer long.<br />
<br />
But, come the month of October, and the place became deserted. Even the German tourists disappeared. From one day to the next, the 30th of September to the 1st of October, everything changed as the mass exodus took place. Shops and restaurants that were bustling in the summer close down for the winter. All that remained was an eerie silence as I rode my bike or went for a walk. I so looked forward to the week-ends when the Spanish from Reus and Tarragona would come back and spend Friday and Saturday nights in their holiday homes.<br />
<br />
There was a visitor, however, who had stopped by every day. It was a large friendly dog who seemed to be constantly pregnant. I had seen her many times meandering about with her pups. But then, the next time I'd see her she would be all alone. Before you knew it she would be pregnant again and then the cycle would keep on repeating itself. I would feed her, give her water and pat her on the head before she'd plod off slowly.<br />
<br />
One cool autumn day I was walking briskly when three dogs started to follow me. I always found it best to ignore stray dogs for you never knew how they would react. I continued walking, hoping that my uneasiness wasn't sensed by them. They caught up with me and walked by my side. All the while I tried to keep my eyes focused on the horizon as I hastened my pace. The largest of the three dogs began to bark at me and I glanced over it growled and snarled, showing its teeth. The other two dogs were watching closely as if to see what I would do.<br />
<br />
I was scared. With all the tourists gone, there was nobody nearby to help me. This was before the days of cellular phones which meant I couldn't telephone anyone either. I could have been attacked, mauled even. Just then, a fourth dog turned up. Now what was going to happen?<br />
<br />
You'll never guess what the fourth dog did.<br />
<br />
She whacked the dog barking and growling at me with her front paw, placed her teeth on its neck and pushed it down to the ground. I was astonished. She whacked the other two dogs as well as if to tell them not to even considering growling and snarling.<br />
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Guess who the dog was? It was the friendly one who visited me each day! I believe that the the three dogs may have been from one of her many litters. She was chastising them for she recognized me as the one fed her and gave her water.<br />
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