I Got That 'Christmas Spirit' [DECEMBER 26, 2005]

My girlfriend and I never go to church – we’re both atheists – but we have developed a kind of Christmas tradition whilst here in Spain. For the past two Christmas Eves, we’ve stuffed our faces with a feast and, after the plates have been cleared and a few drinks had, headed off to this one local church that has a wonderful female choir, accompanied by three Spanish guitars, that chant and sing carols throughout Midnight Mass. This Christmas Eve was no different and last night we found ourselves sitting in the pews of that same ancient church on a dimly lit side street of Cádiz.


Christmastime in Cádiz!!!

"I forgot how lovely they sound," my girlfriend whispered in my ear as the priests sat down in their thrones and the choir embarked upon the first carol of the evening.
"Yeah, just like last year I guess. And the guitar... I love it. It’s just so... so... Spanish," I whispered back.
We fell silent and soon realized this would be another Merry Christmas together as the cheerful melody bounced off the old stone masonry and its harmony filled the near empty nave. (Most Spanish people never step foot in a church unless it’s for a baptism, confirmation, wedding, or funeral – and Christmas is no exception.)
"What’s that smell?" she broke the silence a minute or so later.
"What do you mean? The incense?"
"No, no, no..."
"Well then... Maybe it’s some frankincense or myrrh? After all, it is Christmas!"
"Yeah, I’ll show you Christmas. It’s you, isn’t it? You pig!"
"I got that ‘Christmas Spirit’, baby. The Holy Spirit! The Lord has filled me with His grace. Testify!"
"Disgusting..."
"Besides, it’s your fault... all that potato salad you stuffed me with at dinner... Testify!" as some more of the Holy Ghost escaped my temple from below and entered the Lord’s.

The moment may have now passed, but I still stand by my accusations. The reason why I had that ‘Christmas Spirit’ on the night of the 24th was because of my girlfriend’s insistence on having a Czech Christmas. She was homesick and, seeing as she kindly obliged me last year and made that delicious roast bird with stuffing, mash, and loads of gravy, we decided to do it her way this time around in 2005.

That’s where the potato salad comes in. While our neighbors and Spaniards all over the Iberian Peninsula were gathering with family and friends for a traditional turkey, lamb, or rabbit feast, I was sitting down to a traditional fried chicken fillet and potato salad feast. And I was lucky to have the fried chicken too – Czechs usually have fried carp for Christmas. That’s right. Carp. The crappiest of bottom-feeding fish. We tried to find some of the wretched creature here in Cádiz but, when we asked at the fish market, we were greeted with shock and surprise as the fishmongers answered our question with a question of their own: Why on Earth would anyone want to eat carp?


A Christmas Feast awaits! Behold: potato salad, fried chicken, and square pumpkin pie!

But I tell you what, that fried chicken and Czech potato salad weren’t half bad. In fact, I ate so much of it the other night that I even had to loosen my belt one notch mid-meal. And by the time dessert came round – my girlfriend made pumpkin pie for the first time in her life yesterday and, I dare say, it was the best damn pumpkin pie I’ve ever eaten – by the time dessert came round, my belt had come off completely.

When the meal was over and the last glass of wine had been poured, we got down to business and opened our presents. That, for your information, is another Czech Christmas tradition. The kids open their presents on the night of the 24th after the last person at the dinner table has finished their meal. Oh, and Santa doesn’t deliver the loot either. That’s Baby Jesus’ job. He flies through the living room window while everyone is eating Christmas Eve dinner in the other room and places those eagerly-awaited presents under the decorated, glowing tree. And He doesn’t even need Rudolph... Baby Jesus can find His way around town and fly on His own, thank you very much.


Unlike Santa Claus, Baby Jesus doesn't forget anyone

Well, after my girlfriend found out that Baby Jesus got her some of her favorite perfume and a gift certificate, I found out what the little rascal had brought me. He sent me this hilarious t-shirt I’ve been asking for (with the words "Pedophiles are fucking immature assholes" written across the front) and an all-in-one mechanical shave-o-matic. I can shave my beard, nose-hair, unibrow, and any unsightly growth behind, or inside for that matter, the ear all in one go. (The only thing is I got a little carried away with my new deluxe shave-o-matic on Christmas morning and, well, let’s just leave it at I’ve been scratching my groin every ten seconds as I type up this article.) Wherever you are, thank you Baby Jesus! You really know how to make a lonely expat smile at Christmastime!


NO COMMENT

And so, as the gifts were exchanged and our digestive juices got started on the long work ahead, my girlfriend and I buttoned up and headed out to church for the first time since last Christmas. We even did our good deed of the evening on the way there and gave a homeless man some left over pumpkin pie, potato salad, wine, and a few cigarettes. As we wished him a Merry Christmas, we walked through the deserted streets of Cádiz and entered our little church. There were only about ten other people in there.

There was one thing that really struck me when we left the church. It must have been at about half past one in the morning. When we had entered at midnight, there wasn’t a soul on the streets. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. When we left an hour and a half later, the streets were absolutely thronged with people. Most of them were either older teenagers or people in their twenties or early thirties like us. They must have had the obligatory Christmas meal at home and, seeing as it was still a Saturday night, quickly made for the streets and clubs. The booze was flowing freely and the girls were wearing ridiculously short miniskirts just like any other Saturday night.


2:00 AM, the morning of the 25th, on the busy streets of Cádiz

I know it’s a different culture, but this kind of thing really did shock me. Not a single person under the age of forty (except for me and my girlfriend – and we don’t even believe in God!) were in church that night, listening to beautiful carols and enjoying the season’s greetings. The yuletide music, no matter in what language or form, always carries the same message of hope and love. It can fill anyone with the ‘Christmas Spirit’. This time of year is about something more than just getting presents from Baby Jesus or going out to get drunk. It’s about spreading cheer and joy. It’s about being with the ones you love. And it’s not just for religious people, but for all of us. Every man, woman, and child. After all, we are all one big family on this tiny little planet we call home... no matter what your creed or beliefs. That’s what this time of year means to me. I guess the Spanish just aren’t filled with that same ‘Christmas Spirit’ that I’ve had this Holiday Season. Then again, they haven’t been stuffing themselves with potato salad all night long either. Testify!

Let's Get It On... [DECEMBER 18, 2005]

“What ... you ... there?” my girlfriend calls from bed.
“What?” as I try to hear her. The passionate moans and ecstatic cries the TV is now emitting have grown so loud I can hardly make out a single word coming from the bedroom. I pick up the remote and lower the volume. “What was that?”
“I said, ‘What are you doing in there?’”
“Nothing, just watching some porn.”
“Oh, okay. Well come to bed when you're done. Good night, my love.”
“You got it, baby. Goodnight.” I pick up the remote and sultry groans once again fill the room as my girlfriend slips off to Slumberland.

Honestly though, I normally don’t look at porn unless it happens to be there. I’m not one of those fellas that goes off actively searching for it in the seedy side-streets of town. I’m more of an Internet type of porn guy... If a link pops up offering scantily clad women posing in compromising positions – and all a mere left-click of the mouse away – who am I to resist? The thing is, here in Spain (and the rest of Europe in general it would seem) sex is not something to be confined to the XXX rack at your local Bob’s Discount Video Shack. Here, you can find it on public TV, on billboards, even in store front window displays. Indeed, the deed and everything associated with it can be found wherever you look on the European continent.

I suppose I should first start off with the Czech Republic because, although I no longer live there, that was my first home in Europe and where I initially encountered this sexual liberalism. Many of the things I called sexual “oddities” in the Czech Republic were, as I would later discover in Spain, shared between the two countries and, I’m therefore assuming, between most other European nations as well. Porn comes on TV after midnight, naked women are used to sell anything from shampoo to exotic chocolates, and kiosks have hardcore magazines in clear view at the front next to the daily newspapers and motorcycle mags. One thing I did see, though, in the Czech Republic that I haven’t seen since were their eye-catching weather forecasts. In the United States, we usually try to get an attractive, young lady (who probably has no idea about meteorology) to give us our daily dose of weather along with the evening news. Not so in the Czech Republic. They get rid of the ridiculous “male fantasy” effect and just have a stripper, completely nude from top to bottom, walk onto the set as the next day’s forecast appears to the side of the screen. She then gets dressed accordingly... underwear, bra, skirt, shirt, and perhaps a sweater or jacket if need be. Can you imagine this type of thing coming on in the US right after Jim Lehrer’s just wrapped up talking about the new House Appropriations Bill? And I know what you’re thinking... The Czech feminists must have been up and at arms against such a shameless objectification of women when the practice first began. Well, they were and soon got their message across. The Czech TV station in question, fearful of being sued by this female outcry, pulled its act together and introduced completely nude male weather forecasts the next day. It seemed everyone was now happy.


Does anyone in the Czech Republic actually tune in for the weather forecast?
(http://www.nova.cz/tvarchiv/?period=2002-07-13..2002-07-22&prog=POCASICKO)

This kind of thing, of course, doesn’t happen all over the continent. Nude weather forecasts may just be an isolated Czech event but this mentality, the idea that sex is not something to be hidden behind closed doors, definitely pervades all types of European society. At the end of the day, it helps to explain most Europeans’ incredibly open attitude towards sex. (For example, the irrelevance my girlfriend attaches to me watching Spanish TV porn at night in the other room!) Sex is something they’ve grown up with, seen since they were children, and never been sheltered from. You can’t be human without sexual contact, the local mentality goes, so why hide from it? When I tell the Spaniards that I didn’t hear about the birds and the bees until I was 14, they inevitable ask me 1) What the hell do birds or bees have to do with that? and 2) How could you not have heard about sex before 14 years of age? I assure them that I had a hunch, but the details had somehow eluded me for the better part of a decade and a half.

The Spanish, however, don’t have that problem. They’ve been exposed to sex since, well, that first day in the playground when little José María and little María José realized that they weren’t exactly hauling along the same playtoys down there. Mommy and Daddy promptly explained what the hose and well were used for and that was the end of the mystery. The kids continued playing doctor and the adults continued sipping wine and eating tapas as they looked after them. No big deal.

But there are a few results to this sexual openness that, as a North American, did take me slightly aback at first. I mean, coming from the country where having two women kiss on TV was a “stepping stone” media event (remember that Rosanne episode in the mid-nineties?) to one where they show porn – and I’m talking about hardcore, ass-slapping penetration not those Cinemax skin-flicks – each and every night on regular public airway TV does come as a bit of a shock. Granted, they aren’t aired on the national Spanish stations and they only appear on local regional TV after midnight, but an orgy on the screen is still an orgy on the screen, no matter who’s broadcasting it or when. And just because hardcore porn aired after midnight isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, Spanish TV will still find something sexual to tempt your taste buds. Lately, there’s been this recurring commercial of a voluptuous beauty taking a shower and baring it all to the camera. The message? Her shampoo MUST work! And, even if that’s not enough, right before the beach going season begins, Spanish viewers are always bombarded by plastic surgery spots showing just how sexy and buxom you too can be with a little helpful visit to your local clinic.


You better make sure the kids are tucked away if you wanna do some Spanish channel surfing after midnight

On the other hand TV, although it might be one of the largest providers of sexual images to the Spanish public, is by no means the exclusive distributor. One can find sex everywhere. On my way to work I walk past the “fashion district” of Cádiz and, I tell you, the nipples on some of those mannequins are so erect they could cut glass. What is the point of having such ridiculously erect nipples on a plastic window model? Obviously, the proprietors think it’ll be good for business. After all, sex is supposed to sell, right?


Good Lord! Do those mannequins have nipples or radio dials?

Another Spanish proprietor that hopes to increase business through sex is the local restaurant/café owner. The other day, for example, I was dying for a cup of coffee so I slipped into the nearest corner restaurant, pulled up a seat, and ordered a cup. As I surveyed the surroundings, my eye caught sight of the CDs next to the ice cream freezer. A lot of these places set up racks by the doors with cassettes, CDs, and DVDs which they hope to sell on the side. So I got up to have a look at the DVD rack. It had a pretty good selection of films... A couple of John Wayne classics, a copy of Gone With The Wind, some golden Spanish cinema, and – you guessed it – five or six hardcore pornos. A Tale of Two Titties and Debbie Does Madrid were, of course, occupying the top spot while the poor ol’ Duke was relegated to bottom rack. If I had been a newbie to Spain, I guess it would have bothered me that that kind of rack was set up next to the ice cream freezers and, therefore, easily accessible to children. But I’ve been living here for about two years now and have even experienced a few Czech weather forecasts. I threw a quick glance over the cover of Cum and Get Me, checked to see how much they were selling Red River for, and went to the bar to enjoy the delicious, steaming beverage awaiting me.


I hear the old neighborhood restaurant is having a 2 for 1 sale on porn!

I suppose that, what it all comes down to, is that I’ve actually become desensitized to the deed. I no longer view it, as I once did, as something to be talked about behind closed doors. Something to be embarrassed about when talking to relatives and bragged about when talking to friends. Now, I think I’m starting to understand why so many Europeans think we Americans are a little crazy... Why they can never understand how the whole Monica Lewinsky thing led to impeachment hearings and yet the guy who presented us with unfounded claims of WMDs which launched an invasion of Iraq can be forgiven by putting it all off to an “intelligence error.” In the US, you can show Freddy Krueger or Jason hacking people to bits on TV but God forbid if a nipple makes an appearance or Howard Stern says “cock” on the air. In Spain, you can show your cock and say it too.

Virgin Forests and Feasts [DECEMBER 11, 2005]

"What the hell? Another day off? That’s fantastic!"
"Oh yes. Spain has the most public holidays in Europe and Cádiz has the most public holidays in Spain!"
That’s what my first room-mate, Einstein, told me when I initially moved down here to the sunny southern Atlantic coast of Spain. Let’s just clear things up a bit – Yes, his name was actually Einstein. His full given name as it appeared on his driver’s licence was Einstein Fuerza Romiro Gonzalez or whatnot and, even more incredible, he was an M.D. with a specialty in gastroenterology Doctor Einstein was always a popular one with the patients down at the hospital. ("Well, I’m no Einstein, but Doctor Einstein told me not to worry about that strange growth on my anus so I guess I shouldn’t...") But let’s save Einstein for another article. This one is about those public holidays he mentioned all those months ago.

The amount of days off the school kids have here is incredible. They get off for all the days celebrating national festivals (war victories, constitutional ratifications, etc.) and, claiming to be a devoutly Catholic country, they get off for all the religious festivals as well. The reason why I say Spain "claims" to be a devoutly Catholic country is because I still question how such a supposedly religious society could overwhelmingly approve of gay marriage and have it passed as law (one of the first three countries on the planet to do so) when the "secular" United States can’t even agree on whether evolution should be taught at schools or not. But, again, let’s save that for another article. Whether the Spanish are religious or not, their kids still get off for so many religious holidays that I’ve lost count. And, when in doubt as to why the schools are closed, it’s probably due to that one special lady no Southern European country could do without... the Virgin Mary.


There's a Virgin for everyone here in Spain!
"Dear Virgin of Grammar, please let our granddaughter pass her next exam."

There are so many Virgines here in Spain that I’m surprised anyone back in Jesus’ day and age actually ever got laid. There’s the Virgin of the Palm, the Virgin of the Immaculate Conception, the Virgin of the Rock, The Virgin of the Sea, the Virgin of the Olive, the Virgin of the Ham, the Virgin of the Cheese, the Virgin of the Virgin, the Virgin of That Stuff You Just Stepped In, and the list goes on and on and on. This past week, we had yet another two public holidays and one of them was, again, due to that special lady. (The other one, on Tuesday, was for Constitution Day.) I’m not quite sure which virgin we were honoring on Thursday but the Virgin of the Anal Growth would be my random guess. Thank my luck stars Doctor Einstein wasn’t around back in Jesus’ time to take care of that embarrassing little problem.... or I might not have had the day off.

And so, due to the fact that this week’s workload of five days was cut down to three, a group of us and some friends decided to make the most of it and head to the mountains. When it was first suggested we go hiking through nature, my initial reaction was, "There’s nature in Cádiz?" You have to understand, being isolated on this peninsula for nearly a year and witness to only the arid fields that make up the surrounding landscape, I thought we were a mere step away from the Sahara here in Southern Spain. After all, we’re only a Straits of Gibraltar’s throw away from North Africa. But nothing could be further from the truth. We went for a drive to the northeast and emerged in a forested utopia the likes of which I never imagined I would see here in the dry south of Andalucía.


This can't be the south of Spain, can it?

The rolling hills of trees as far as the eye could see. The blue lakes and winding, bubbling brooks that lead to them through a maze of green valleys. The tall jagged peaks with rocky precipices staring onto the pristine nature below. I couldn’t believe we were only two hours away from the desert coast of Cádiz and the sweltering summer capital of Seville, and not in Canada or the Alps or some other nature lover’s paradise. These were the Sierra de Grazalema.


Well I'll be damned... It is!

We were so impressed with our first trip to this region on Tuesday, that we decided to repeat it once again later on in the week. After all, we did have two public holidays this week and our first journey, a bit tainted by cloudy weather, was mostly spent in the town of Ronda which stood perched on a cliff near the Sierra’s easternmost foothills.



Ronda and her beautiful bridge stretching the gorge

Our second trip was away from any civilization and truly a hiker’s dream getaway. Normally, I would steer clear of these kinds of getaways. My idea of walking for a few kilometers is doing it because there’s a pub to be found and the end of the rainbow. But that wasn’t the case this last time around. We didn’t even encounter any other people, let alone a refreshment stand, on our winding trail through the forest. (Although we did see a few grazing cows and piglets.) I don’t know how I got sucked into going on it, but I really did enjoy that little nature walk of ours. And even if my girlfriend lied to me and there wasn’t any beer to be had at the end of our long hike, I still have to thank her for dragging me along. Who knows? She may make a mountain-lover out of a beach-bum yet!


The long and winding...

Looking back on this entire week, I’m glad we got the opportunity to explore such a little-known corner of southern Spain. Not only did we discover this emerald of green in a desert of scorched earth and olive groves, but we also managed to bring back some of that breath-taking nature with us to Cádiz. Now, our little apartment even has a Christmas feel about it. We can proudly say we’re the only ones in our building to have authentic pine cones and branches cheerfully hung around the place. All that’s missing is a nice big bowl of eggnog, if I could ever manage to explain to a Spaniard what that is. And just think, none of it would have ever been possible if it hadn’t been for the feast-day of the Virgin of the Anal Growth.

Avast, Ye Mateys! [DECEMBER 4, 2005]

Well, we’ve had a pretty exciting past couple of weeks here in Cádiz. A trading boat from the Swedish East India Company, the Götheborg, had been sitting in port replenishing her cargo and supplies for the long months ahead as she prepared to round the Cape of Good Hope and head to China. The last we saw of her was on Monday, though, as the beautiful lady set sail for her next destination. The Chinese trade, they say, is a lucrative one and the wooden vessels come back from the Orient filled to the brim with treasures undreamt of. Porcelain, tea, and exotic spices are but a few of the riches they bring us Europeans. I wouldn’t mind joining the Swedes on their journey – if it weren’t for the threats of jaundice and scurvy on the high seas – but I’m a lowly lily-livered land lover. Arrgh, her blue waters are no mistress for an English teacher/amateur writer such as I. I would have probably ended up spewing forth all over her polished starboard (Or is that the port-side? I always get the two confused...) as the lass set off on her treacherous journey to the East.


FIRE CANONS OFF THE PORT!!! (Or was that the starboard?)

Aye, aye... I know what you’re thinking, but this is not a historical piece and I’m not talking about the XVII or XVIII Century. There actually was a boat from the Swedish East India Company, a wooden vessel and fine seafaring specimen she was, arrgh, sitting in the modern port of Cádiz as tankers, cargo-ships, and cruise-ships were conducting business as usual. But now, instead of plundering the rest of the world and bringing riches back to Europe so that we on the continent might powder our wigs and scoff at the primitiveness of others, the Götheborg is actually sailing around the globe on a diplomatic "public image" mission. The crew are no longer a motley bunch of cutthroats and vagabonds lured onto the Seven Seas by promises of adventure, glory, and untold wealth, but well-educated multi-lingual tour guides willing and able to answer any questions you might have about their country. These Swedish buccaneers no longer brandish crooked daggers and deadly muskets, but hand out pamphlets and set up tents filled with informative little tidbits about that country to the north none of us really knows all that much about. Yes, the Swedes have come a long way since the 1700s. And they’ve even managed to open up a few IKEAs in the meantime.


Thar she be in all her beauty... Tis a fine vessel worthy of the name GÖTHEBORG

The Götheborg, as our multilingual Swedish tour guide told us in impeccable English, will be following the original journey of other ships that once sailed for the Swedish East India Company and will also be stopping off and informing the locals about the nation of Sweden and its customs. But don’t you worry! We have been assured that they have more than enough pamphlets printed in the appropriate languages to answer any questions that might be posed by other visitors in Brazil, South Africa, Australia, Indonesia, China, Singapore, Malaysia and by the helpful employees of the Suez Canal that will undoubtedly ask them what the hell are they doing sailing around the world in a wooden ship from the XVIII Century.


My girlfriend's lovely picture from the deck which
she begged me to include with this article

After I had absorbed all the Swedish trivia I could, it dawned on me to seek the answer to the one burning question that was on both my girlfriend’s and my mind: What on earth does a wooden Swedish ship have to do with Cádiz? Well, our blonde Scandinavian tour-guide had an answer to that one too. In fact, she had something even better – a tent containing an historical exhibit written in both Spanish and English.


Historical images of the port of Cádiz and maps of the old trade route to the East Indies

As it turned out, once a viable sea route was discovered to the Kingdom of China, merchants from Europe were eager to begin trading and reap the financial benefits that such a route could provide. In 1587, the Portuguese established the first East India Company and, throughout the 17th Century, they, along with the Dutch, British, and Spanish, controlled a monopoly on Europe’s insatiable thirst for tea, porcelain and spices from the Orient. But the Swedes soon battled for an opportunity of their own and, in 1731, the King of Sweden founded the Swedish East India Company. That’s where Cádiz comes into the picture. The only things the Chinese wanted from the Europeans was silver and the Spanish had a lot of it. So, before setting off for the long journey to Canton, the Swedes would stop off at Spain’s southernmost and busiest Atlantic port, a.k.a. the place I call home, and sell the Spaniards some quality Swedish goods in exchange for newly minted Spanish silver coins which would then be used months later to buy goods from the Chinese. Confused yet? Not quite sure what on earth the Swedes could possibly sell the Spaniards that would fetch them that much silver and make it such a profitable venture to sail halfway across the planet? Well, the Swedes sold them plenty of rope and, most importantly, quality furniture with a sense of style specifically designed for the modern fashion conscious homeowner... all at a low, low reasonable price. I guess some things just never change.


IKEA - "affordable solutions for better living"

But alas, the Götheborg has now set sail and departed the ancient port of Cádiz. She’s probably somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic now, steadily steering towards her next destination as her crew prepare to set up tents and hand out those countless pamphlets. I, for one, will miss those Swedish swashbucklers. The sight of tall, blond men and buxom blonde ladies roaming the streets of this Spanish port were a welcome relief from the countless short and dark-haired locals one is used to seeing. And even if those blonde sailors from the north were nothing more than, arrgh, the notorious Scandinavian scourge of the North Sea, well this ol’ land lover wishes them a safe and tumult-free journey as they brave the high seas. Canton and numerous other cities await, ye brave adventurers... as does another market for your well-crafted and stylish, yet affordable, interior design products.

Old World Charm [NOVEMBER 27, 2005]

Well, another Thanksgiving has come and gone and for all of us Americans away from home, expats and travelers alike, thoughts inevitably flock back across the Atlantic. Sure, we make do with what we have here in our newly adopted countries, but some stuff will always just seem strange to us. During the holidays, above and beyond all other times of the year, these differences seem to shine the brightest. Holidays or not though, it’s plain and simple. No matter how long you stay in a foreign land and adapt, certain things will always appear to be exactly as that land’s moniker had promised when you initially set off – foreign.

It’s the small things that first come to mind. Such simple objects as the can openers and milk cartons that they’ve got over here are still as perplexing as particle physics to me. I have no idea how my girlfriend manages to successfully extract those juicy mushrooms from inside that cold heartless tin she just bought at the supermarket without requiring a Band-Aid or tetanus shot afterwards. And don’t even get me started on the milk cartons they’ve got over here. I always stare in amazement as she delicately tears open the top corner of the box without spilling its content all over the kitchen table. Keep in mind, these oddities aren’t just Spanish phenomena, but are commonplace all over the continent. They’ve been a nightmare for me from Athens to Prague to Madrid.


You expect me to open that milk and use that can opener?

Another one of the small things that, as an American in Europe, I’ve had to get used to is ...(How else to put it?)... how small things actually are. Everything is smaller here in the Old World. From the cars to the swimsuits to the streets to the female waistline, nothing is as large as its American counterpart. The word "supersize" hasn’t entered the lexicon over here yet. That inevitably means that everything that was normal in America back in the day is still normal here. Most people still buy a 330ml (10oz) can of Coke as opposed to the Big Gulp or liter of soda most people back home do. Cafés still sell coffee in one size or, if you’re lucky, in the good ol’ variant of small, medium, or large. There’s none of that Yuppie tall, grande, or venti crap over here. And if you’re looking to get a jumbo Party Pack of potato chips at the corner store, sorry but you’re out of luck. There’s only one size here – small. You need to buy two bags or go for a single and throw in a pack of nuts. A little variety never killed anyone.

But it’s not only the food that’s smaller. All the systems of measurement are too. Now I know that the US is practically the only country on the planet to use the antiquated Customary Unit system, but I still can’t get used to this whole Metric thing and I’ve been trying for over four years now. Every time I step on the scale, I’m surprised at how light I am (2.2 pounds is equal to 1 kilogram) and every time I go to the doctor and he scribbles down my height, I’m surprised at how short I am (1 meter is equal to 3.28 feet). Nowadays, when a European asks me how tall I am or how much I weigh, I usually just reply, "Normal," because if I get into the entire Metric conversion thing, I’d probably end up telling him I have as many kilograms as a grizzly bear and as many meters as that Chinese guy who plays basketball for the Houston Rockets.


Now THAT is a compact car!

The thing that really confuses me when it comes to the Metric system, though, is the temperature. I don’t care how many times someone tells me 44C is stiflingly hot, it still sounds like 44F to me and, in my book, that’s cold. I never know whether to take my coat with me or a light windbreaker when I step outdoors. And the fact that it’s usually so unseasonably warm down here in Cádiz doesn't help either. I used to just stick my hand out the window and try to figure out the temperature that way but it doesn’t really work that well in our current apartment. So, I’ve recently resorted to just going to the front door, popping it open and sticking my head out. If it ain’t cold and the sun’s a-shinin’, then that winter coat is staying right where it is.

Then there’s the appliances. That’s one thing I really do miss about home and it really became evident over the holiday. We tried to buy a turkey for Thanksgiving and shove it into our oven but it didn’t fit. Of course, like everything else here, our baking machine was too small. Granted, we only own a toaster oven but my girlfriend and I are still better off than a lot of Spaniards we know. For some reason, a lot of people here don’t believe in ovens. Anyway, we had to make do with a chicken this year but it still came out deliciously, although the carving (You ever try to carve a chicken into presentable slices?) left a little to be desired.


My TV and oven competing for the "Biggest Appliance of the Apartment" trophy

Another appliance that is lacking all over the continent, at least as far as I can tell, is the dryer. I always used to think that the term "washer & dryer" went hand in hand but apparently not so here. Who needs a dryer, the local wisdom goes, when you have a perfectly good roof or window to hang damp clothes out of? And while you’re waiting for your clean underwear to dry out the window and watching TV on that small set that’s as big as your oven well... Don’t even get me started on how much I miss that big screen back in Philly.


Who needs a dryer when you've got a window?

But it isn’t all that bad I suppose. When you stop and consider it, there are a lot of advantages to having smaller things, like they do here in Europe, as opposed to the luxury large editions we have in the States. I hardly ever see any SUVs hogging the road and the small cars here are both fuel efficient and environmentally friendly. The fact that appliances are smaller here and therefore consume less electricity means that the bills are never too high and, again, help guarantee a less polluted environment. Now that I think of it, although I’m stuck in a foreign land with Thanksgiving behind me and Christmas right around the corner, there must be all kinds of advantages to doing things the way the Europeans do. Far too many to mention here...

Doggone It! [NOVEMBER 13, 2005]

I never thought that I’d find myself walking down the old, winding streets of a three-thousand year old city carrying a bagful of shit in my right hand. Not only that, but I scoop up the still steaming shit (only the fresh ones will do) from the ancient sidewalks myself and, even worse, I do it practically every day. How low can one man sink? I hang my head as I write this because I’m sure some of you will think I’m finally revealing that twisted fetish you all knew I had, but I assure you I’m not – It’s just that I am now a dog owner.

I’ve never been a big animal lover. Sure they’re cute and I’ll stroke the occasional domesticated critter, but pet ownership was just never for me. I put this down to two things: One, I’m violently allergic to cats. Two, my pet rabbit, Fluffy, jumped off our balcony and plummeted two storeys to his ultimate demise when I was but a wee lad. The authorities at the time, a.k.a. my older brother, concluded that it was suicide brought on by depression as a direct result of my pet ownership abilities (or lack thereof). Whereas I eventually got over Fluffy’s untimely hara-kiri, the cat allergy has stuck with me throughout adulthood and, as a result of these physical and mental issues, so has the aversion to having animals live under the same roof as me.

All this changed, of course, when I started dating my girlfriend. She loves dogs. All Czechs do. They have a saying in the Czech Republic, "If you don’t like dogs, you don’t like people." Frankly, I’ve met plenty of antisocial misanthropic Czechs who absolutely adore mutts but, hey, I’m just a stupid foreigner so who am I to point out these obvious non sequiturs. The one thing that I did have to get used to was that she was a dog owner and so was everyone else in her family. The only relative I have who owns a dog is my retired uncle who lives in the mountains and loves hunting. But that’s what love and relationships are all about. Compromise.

When my girlfriend and I first moved to Spain, she had to make one of the hardest decisions in her life, or so I’ve been told by other dog owners, and leave her faithful friend behind in Prague so that she could travel across Europe with her adventurous boyfriend. This, I’ve been told by dog owners again, proves that she must love me.

After we returned from Prague this summer though, we finally brought her dog with us. The two would be separated no longer. We thanked my girlfriend’s sister for looking after the Labrador Retriever for the past year, put her in one of those airplane dog cages (which set me back over 150 bucks!) and flew her down to sunny Cádiz.


Just chillin' out at home

Ema, the Lab, has been living with us for about two months now. At first, I didn’t want her here at all. A dog in my home? I thought. That means barking at ungodly hours of the night, chewed up slippers left and right, and surprise deposits of urine waiting in the living room corner. But Ema’s been great. She’s completely house broken and trained. The only time I’ve ever heard her bark is when my girlfriend says "Bark!" in Czech. In fact, Ema doesn’t really do anything at home... unless you take sleeping into account. The thing is, she really isn’t that old so I don’t see why she’s passed out and snoring on the floor half the time. I guess blindness will do that to a dog.

That’s right, I said Ema is blind. It’s quite ironic actually. Labrador Retrievers are world-renowned for being used as seeing-eye dogs. Our Lab can’t see another dog’s ass even if it’s an inch away from her face, although she has recently learned how to sniff out that kind of thing a lot better. I guess one day, when we can afford it, we’ll buy Ema a Labrador of her own so that she won’t bump into walls anymore.

In the meantime, we’ve been having a grand old time here in Cádiz. The first few weeks were a bit strange for all of us and took some getting used to but we’ve gotten over those initial stumbling blocks. Just a few words of advice, though, for any dog owners out there who decide to bring their blind four-legged friend – especially if they come from a landlocked country like the Czech Republic – to the ocean. Be prepared for prolonged fits of canine coughing after your first visit to the beach. Your blind dog will think that the big wet thing that just soaked her paws is not the Atlantic but a lake. She will therefore begin to lap accordingly.


You gonna throw it again or what?

Another thing to be careful of is throwing the ball. Everyone knows dogs love chasing after tennis balls and it didn’t take me long to find out that Ema was no exception. Sure, it takes a blind dog a bit longer to find what she’s looking for, be she still gleefully goes on her merry way and doesn’t give up until the ball is firmly fixed in mouth. Throwing a ball to your blind dog on the beach is no problem, but whatever you do – DO NOT THROW IT DEEP INTO THE OCEAN! Ema jumped into the Atlantic the first time I launched that fuzzy green sphere in there and began wading aimlessly towards the horizon. Being blind and all, she had no idea where the ball was so she just kept wading... and wading... and wading. Further and further away. Thank God my girlfriend and I eventually caught her attention by throwing a few stones and yelling at the top of our lungs. If we hadn’t, Ema would be halfway to New Jersey by now.


Look closer... there's a blind dog among the vessels

So far, these brief anecdotes form the limits of my dog experience. I’m told there’s a lot more to expect though. Apparently, she menstruates only twice a year and, either before or after it (I can’t remember exactly), she tries to jump on any erect male that crosses her path. I’m told it’s pretty hard to stop her but I think preventing a blind dog from sleeping around can’t really be all that difficult. I’ve also been warned that she occasionally goes through bouts of farting but I haven’t had the opportunity to smell that yet. Oh, and she’s recently started this whole shedding thing. I thought the dog was going bald when it first happened but I was soon assured that it was all completely natural. My girlfriend, as a result, has had to sweep the floor two or three times a day for the past week but I don’t really see a difference. Ema still just sleeps away in her quiet little corner, waiting for an opportunity to chase after that mangled green ball that sits next to her water bowl.


Doggone it! It's right here you sightless mutt!

As for me and the whole idea of living with a dog, I must admit... It’s really not that bad. Don’t get me wrong, I can’t think of anything nice about walking down the street carrying a bagful of warm excrement or praying to God that Ema doesn’t "take care of business" in front of the busy outdoor café. But every time I come home and that tail of hers starts wagging like mad simply because she’s so happy to see me, I stroke her smiling head, scratch her behind those velvety ears, and wonder why it’s impossible not to love her back.

Something Smells Fishy In There [NOVEMBER 6, 2005]

Humanity has come up with some pretty strange celebrations in the name of tradition. Some cultures dip their newborn babies into water, others have them circumcised before they can even blink, and still others order their young men to join the military (and become killing machines) before they can truly be considered adults capable of respecting others. But these are all but unique traditions. Things most people go through only once in a lifetime. The most exquisite of traditions aren’t the ones that we see but a single time throughout our many years, but the ones that happen again and again, year after year. And there’s no time of year when these types of traditions get stranger than at the end of October and beginning of November.

Christianity has All Saints’ Day, the Brits have Guy Fawkes Night, and we Americans – along with most of the Western world it now seems – have Halloween. I thought we had the world beat with Halloween. I mean, how can any culture possibly have a stranger tradition than that one? A bunch of kids go around their neighborhoods asking for either a trick or something sweet and, if they’re lucky, they get the fright of their life after Dracula pops out of the closet. Keep in mind, the Count is popping out of the closet of some stranger’s house and telling little five year olds, "I VANT to SUCK your blood!" If that happened on any other night of the year, the police wouldn’t go long without a disturbing complaint from a frantically concerned parent. But, on that one night, mom and dad tell their frightened little one, "Oh Honey... It’s nothing to be scared of...." Even E.T. got to walk around the town during Halloween and no one was the wiser! There can’t possibly be a stranger yearly tradition somewhere else in the world, now can there?

Well, curiously enough, there is and it happens every year here in good ol’ Cádiz. It doesn’t happen all over the city as Halloween does in towns back in the US, but only in the central food market. Why this is will make perfect sense once I explain what exactly it is that goes on during the festival of Tosantos (As the people of Cádiz pronounce Todos Los Santos, or All Saints).


Welcome to TOSANTOS - You're in for quite a treat!

The official Cádiz food market, Mercado Central, is a large one-storey building that occupies an entire city block in the center of the city. It has provided the residents of Cádiz with meat and produce for hundreds of years and continues to do so till this day. Sure there are supermarkets elsewhere, just like in any other modern city in Europe, but if you want the good stuff or the hard-to-come by fish and pork fillets, you go to Mercado Central. The market itself is divided into three sections – fruit and vegetables, meats and cheeses, and fish. This past Monday all three were closed as the mongers within labored away in preparation for their big night. They were dressing their food.


Was that butcher made out of...? Don't even ask.

That’s right, I said dressing their food. And I’m not talking about a bit of parsley on the side. Mama always said don’t play with your food but I guess the matrons of Cádiz have never heard of it.

My girlfriend and I first entered Mercado Central that evening through the produce section. It was almost too comical to believe.
There was a tourist groups of nuts (walnuts if I remember correctly) visiting a scale model of the Egyptian Pyramids and surrounded by camels made of potatoes.


These Spaniards have got to be nuts

Another produce-peddler had changed his juicy citrons and kiwis into an elaborate crossing-the-border scene as illegal African emigrants tried to scale the fences which guard Spanish enclaves in North Africa. Next to them stood the council table of the United Nations as Bush, Chirac, and others discussed what could be done to alleviate the problem.



A better life awaits on the other side................ But should we let them in or not?

Another vendor forgot about dressing and arranging his melons and simply sculpted them, putting what I normally see carved on pumpkins back home in Philadelphia to shame.


A fruit-man by day, sculptor by night

But fruit and vegetable decoration isn’t that strange, right? After all, we have carved pumpkin too. Well, that’s where the meat and fish sections of Mercado Central come in. The night of Tosantos, the fruit pushers aren’t the only ones that have fun, the butchers and fishmongers get in on the action too.

The pigs were what first caught our eyes.
There were pig families dressed in elegant clothes dancing in front of television cameras.


Tonight on the Ed Sullivan Show

There were couch potato pigs eating ham – of all things – and watching us walk by.


Nothin' to do but hang out...

Even the family of the animated film, The Incredibles, showed up wearing what must have been their newly designed pig secret identities.


Is that THE INCREDIBLES in Cádiz? .............................. And they even brought the baby along

There were big pigs, little pigs, fat pigs, thin pigs, pig heads, pig feet... you name it. And, keep in mind, when I say pigs, I mean REAL pigs. The heads and hooves and whatever else is left of the animal when the butcher is done his business. Most of us don’t usually see these things because when we buy meat in a supermarket, we buy it in a nice little vacuum-dried container wrapped with sterilized cellophane. Who’d even think that our porkchop came from that same animal dancing about on the counter in the cute little outfit?

The pigs may have been disgusting and crowned Tosantos as the officially strangest "end of October/ beginning of November" tradition, but one sight at what lay in store for us in the fish section gave the festival the most repulsive crown as well.


You gonna come in or just stand there all day?

Dead rotting fish lined the walls of Mercado Central’s inner most sanctum. I was accustomed to seeing fresh tuna, still jumping shrimp, squid of all shapes and fish of all sizes on display at the stalls there. But nothing prepared me for the grim picture of decaying sea-life that awaited us that day. As my girlfriend’s camera clicked away, I pushed my way through the thronging crowds (mostly families with young kids) and soon found myself, along with all the Spaniards around me, laughing at the witty comments posted by each fish and admiring the creativity of that particular fishmonger.


Go Fish-Racer, GO!


Jeez, can't a fish have a little privacy every now and then?


Fish in their natural habitat: Singing in a choir on the Cathedral stairs



Looks like the Little Mermaid finally got that wedding she always wanted

I know... I should have cringed at the grotesque pig heads and been repelled by the dead fish dressed in wedding dresses (not to mention those in race-car helmets), but the happy-go-lucky attitude of Cádiz is just so damn contagious I forgot completely about how disgusting it all was. That night alone, we were no longer foreigners. We were one of them...

Only after we had done our rounds through Mercado Central and my girlfriend had her fill of pictures, did the repulsiveness of it all finally strike us. We held our noses – the mingling stench of rotting fruit, fly-infested pig parts, and days-old fish heads had by then become too much to bear– and finally walked away from Tosantos, confident that no matter how strange Halloween may be, nothing could beat what we had just witnessed.