Big Tits and Pussy

School Discrimination

2009-02-04T09:29:00.002-05:00

I thought that the Dutch were supposed to be some of the most open-minded people on the planet. Those hypocritical bigots disgust me almost as much as this random foot I found on google images...

Smelly footed student wins right to study

A philosophy student with smelly feet has won the right to attend lectures at a Dutch university after a 10-year legal battle.
Teunis Tenbrook was thrown out from the Erasmus University in Rotterdam after complaints from professors and other students that it was impossible to study with the smell from his feet.
But now, after a lengthy legal battle, a court has ruled that having smelly feet is no excuse to ban a student from a university.
The judge said: "Our considered opinion is that the professors and other students will just have to hold their noses and bear it."
Tenbrook told the court: "Although I could no longer attend lectures I tried to carry on by studying in the library, but then I was banned from the library as well."
The university will have one advantage from the ruling - dozens of books that the student had been unable to return because of the ban can now be handed back.
But now the university has announced instead of banning students with smelly feet they are planning to issue fines to tackle such problems.

A Change Has Come

2009-01-20T19:57:00.003-05:00

It's good to be liked again...

French President Nicolas Sarkozy: "We are eager for him to get to work so that with him we can change the world."

German Chancellor Angela Merkel: "I want to say that I believe today is a very special day not only for the United States of America but also a special day for billions of people all over the world."

Spanish Prime Minister Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero: "Obama gives us hope and his words put us on a better path for a smooth and fruitful relationship with the Spanish government. The arrival of Obama gives us an opportunity we won't pass up."

Palestinian Prime Minister Salam Fayyad: "We wish him well and we look forward to active engagement on the part of his administration."

Well, MOSTLY liked again...

Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez: "Hopefully the arrival of a new president will mark a real change in relations between the United States and the countries of the Third World, one of respect for sovereignty and the freedom of the people. But nobody here should be under any illusions. This is [after all] the North American Empire we are talking about."

Divorced man wants kidney back

2009-01-11T12:25:00.004-05:00

It's good to be back in the good ol' US of A, where litigation is King...

_____________________________________________________

A US man divorcing his wife is demanding that she return the kidney he donated to her or pay him $1.5m in compensation.
Dr Richard Batista told reporters that he decided to go public because he was frustrated at the slow pace of divorce negotiations with his estranged wife.
He said he had not only given his heart to his wife, Dawnell, but donated his kidney to save her life.

Man, I hate those things

But divorce lawyers say a donated organ is not a marital asset to be divided.
Dr Batista married Dawnell in 1990 and donated the kidney to her in 2001. She filed for divorce in 2005 and a settlement has still not been reached.

He told reporters at his lawyer's office in Long Island, New York, that going public was a last resort.
"There is no deeper pain that you can ever express than betrayal from somebody who you love and devoted your life to," he said.
He said he had been prevented from seeing their three children for extended periods.

The happy couple during happier times...

"I felt humiliated, betrayed, disrespected and disregarded for me as a person, as a man, as a husband, as a father."
Dr Batista's lawyer, Dominic Barbara, said his client was "asking for the value of the kidney" that he gave his wife.
A lawyer for Mrs Batista said: "The facts aren't as represented by Dr Batista. We will be addressing the issues before the judge within the next few days."

The King is back!

2009-01-10T15:35:00.001-05:00

Have fun playing with the King himself... Just don't get STRUUNG OUT in the process.

Now in BOOK FORM!

2008-12-31T13:02:00.010-05:00

Well, everyone... My articles from Spain have been published in BOOK FORM!

(With, of course, a few changes.)

For those interested, you can either buy it directly from the publisher or on Amazon.

Thanks to everyone who has already read them and I hope to put a smile on the faces of those who will read them in the future!

Keep checking back here for new articles... Hopefully soon from my new-old home in Philadelphia, USA.

Hasta La Vista, Picha [JUNE 25, 2006]

2006-08-14T20:12:00.000-04:00

Well, here I am. It’s my last day in Spain, in Cádiz, and I’ve come down to the beach for one final swim. For one final sunset. For one final farewell.

No more stunning views across the Atlantic...

It’s hard to believe how quickly the past few years have flown by. It seems like only yesterday (okay, not exactly yesterday but you know what I mean) when I first decided to come to España. I had come to Iberia to learn Spanish and can still recall the first time I ever set foot on this soil. The only words I knew were amigo, cerveza, and adios. Every time a local spoke it sounded like that rambling crazy guy from back home in Philadelphia that lived down the street in a box. Come to think of it, that rambling crazy guy was named Rodrigo so I guess it comes as no surprise that the Spaniards’ tongue reminded me of my fellow Philadelphian’s heated hour-long debates with the street corner fire hydrant. My quest to learn español led me from Barcelona to a brief six-month stint in Madrid to my final Spanish home away from home, Cádiz. And here I am, on the beach, nearly three years later, able to understand the conversations going on around me and vulgarly dotted with pichas and chochos. I’ve come a long way in this short time: I can hold my own with Spaniards in the café, watch a film on TV and understand the plot’s complicated intricacies (except for Jennifer Aniston flicks because, let’s face it, the plot in that Hollywood trash is usually as complicated as teaching a bear how to shit), and even listen to the neverending speeches of famous revolutionaries named Fidel. I’m confident that, when I eventually do return back to Philly, I’ll be able to join in the passionate conversations going on between Rodrigo and the fire hydrant. Who knows? If I play my cards right, I might even be able to teach the both of them a thing or two about thought-provoking European cinema.

No more sitting in the shade and watching the tide roll out...

But a firm command of español isn’t the only thing that Cádiz has given me. It has titillated my palate and shown me mouthwatering treats I would have never thought imaginable. Washing down cured ham, olives, and perfectly aged cheese with a bottle of wine – all shared between friends while seated outdoors in a plaza under the starry skies. Buying a bag full of freshly fried fish and squid as my fiancée and I strolled along the seaside slowly nibbling away. A warm plate of paella. A fresh pile of prawns. A cool glass of sangría...

No more sunsets that herald the cool evening breeze...

You have also, dear city, given me friends I will never forget. Some we met during Carnaval and, just as the drunken haze caused by those countless bottles of fortified wine consumed in the piss-soaked streets made way for the next day’s hangover, those friends were forgotten as quickly as they were made. Others have remained in touch and meaningful friendships have emerged that, I’m confident, will only grow as my fiancée and I say goodbye to Spain. Sadly, there’s one friend I’m leaving behind for good. A four-legged companion that I thought I would never love. Alas, she penetrated my heart just as her powerful bowel movements on the sidewalk penetrated the salty-sweet smell of a cool Atlantic breeze. But Ema will always have a place in my memories and I’ll never be able to think of Cádiz without thinking of that adorable, blind Labrador that passed away when we least expected her to.

No more sipping wine on the beach amongst boats and palms...

As I sit here on the beach staring at the boats bobbing up and down in the sea before me, possibly for the last time, I also can’t help but think of the countless adventures I’ve had here and the numerous places I’ve visited. My crazy German neighbor, a collapsed ceiling, Córdoba’s morbid Inquisition Gardens, and the treacherous stench of Moroccan lavatories will all linger on in my memory – probably for a longer time than I would care to keep them there. But at least I’ll have a helluva lot of great stories to regale the little ones with when I’m an old and wrinkled pervert telling them all to lend an ear, gather round, and pour dear ol’ GranPa Philo another double scotch on the rocks.

No more freshly caught fish eaten outdoors in centuries-old plazas...

And what about the kids I’ve taught here in Cádiz? Those spoiled little Spanish brats can kiss my ass and go to hell. I hope I never see them again and glad beyond words to be going back to a civilized country where children know how to behave in the classroom and have some respect. ’Nuff said... Ah, the memories.

No more romantic walks on the beach interspersed with passionate moments...

And so, our little journey here in España has finally come to its end. I suppose it’s time for one last dip in the Atlantic before the sun does its little dance over the horizon. I’ll have to make sure, though, as I emerge from those seemingly endless blue waters and look over my shoulder to catch the majestic pink hues being painted in the sky, that I don’t lose sight of the footprints I’ve made in the wet sand at the beach’s edge. For when I notice them, I’ll probably just stand there – staring – as the waves gently crash and the approaching tide inevitably erases away all my tracks from the face of this city. From that moment on, Cádiz will indeed become but a memory... one that I will carry with me and cherish no matter where I may be.

That's A Load Of Bull [JUNE 18, 2006]

2006-07-08T18:10:00.000-04:00

The sweltering sun is beating down on the bloodstained dust as their eyes meet. Man and beast, standing there, nervous as to who will make the first move, while the crowds in the bullring bleachers – which eerily resemble those of the Roman Colosseum – cheer on the blood sport with a morbid enthusiasm not seen since ancient gladiatorial matches. The matador soon decides to break the deadlock as he waves a crimson red cape in front of the tired eyes of the enraged black bull and draws in their focus. The beast, a species known as el toro bravo (the courageous bull) and specifically bred for its ferocity in the arena, lowers its lethally sharpened horns and prepares to charge. The matador, whose name comes from the Spanish verb matar (to kill), arches his back and waves the cape once again, unwilling to allow the bull to succumb to the pain of the steel blades lodged into his spine and the numerous cuts and slashes that he has received over the past fifteen minutes. El toro bravo rubs his front-right ebony hoof against the ground, aims for the fluttering red cloth – which he has been conditioned to attack since calfhood – and takes off with the force of a locomotive. The streams of blood pouring down his torso and head, not to mention the excruciating pain, are temporarily forgotten. The only thing that matters now is the assault. Fight or flight at its most basic, except that flight isn’t an option. Just as the beast is about to strike his tormentor and end this torturous nightmare, the matador twirls about on the edge of his toes and effortlessly avoids el toro bravo’s lethal charge. The crowd goes wild as they salute the matador’s grace and poise in the face of death. He acknowledges them with a smug tilt of the head and turns to see where his foe has gone. The bull, confused by the whistles, cheers, and applause coming from the bleachers, soon realizes that he must have missed his target. The searing pain of those raw, open wounds makes the creature want to simply lie down there in the middle of the scorching arena and die. Ironically, the streams of blood trickling down his side are not only draining the beast of life but also serving to cool him in this unbearable heat. If only he could lie down in the dust and rest… slowly drift off to death as the ground sops up whatever blood his body might have left. But the matador won’t hear of it. He’s paid a hefty sum for this prize bull and is insatiably eager to hear more praise from the audience. He urges el toro bravo on and the docile brute, a slave to his instincts and conditioning, takes the bait as he prepares for another futile charge. He’ll have to wait at least a quarter of an hour to end this misery – until the matador has finally had his fill of applause and decides to plunge his sword into the beast with that skilled final deathblow. But a matador’s deathblow never actually kills a bull. It’s up to the assistants to lure the beast into a corner as he chokes up pints of blood and jab the creature two or three times in the neck with a dagger. Only then does the toro's nightmare end. Meanwhile, at the other end of the bullring, the judges are tallying up their scores as the matador takes his proud victory stride around the arena, accepting flowers from his countless cheering admirers. Success. Another Spanish bullfight has come to an end.

Dude! There's a bull on your balcony! I've got a BBQ grill on mine...

I went to my first bullfight within a week of moving to Spain. I had convinced myself, along with a little help from numerous guidebooks, Hemingway, and one vivid Cosmo article I can still recall (I swear it wasn’t my Cosmo – It was just sitting there on the dentist lobby coffee table. Honest!), that bullfighting was as much part of the Spanish national identity as inexpensive, quality booze and those green olives stuffed with the slimy red thing. Seeing as I had already gotten drunk my first night in Madrid and even found those tasty little olives at the bottom of some cocktail glasses, it was time to search out a toro. And so I came upon Madrid's Las Ventas bullring, the most famous building of its type in the world, and eagerly bought the closest ticket to the arena that I could afford. Search as I might, they didn't sell any popcorn or foot-long hot dogs once past the ticket window, so I sat down in the bleachers empty handed.

Everyone loves a good bullfight here in Spain,
even the drunkards wandering the streets and wearing crazy hats

What followed was the most gruesome, bloodthirsty and barbarous act that I have ever witnessed being committed in the name of sport. Thank God I hadn’t found any food before settling into my seat because, if I had, I doubt that I would have been able to keep that foot-longer down (Get your mind out of the gutter, you perverts). First off, an angry and confused bull ran into the arena. He had no idea what was going on and I could already see some blood on his sable coat which must have been the result of what is done to the beast backstage in order to enrage even the most timid of toros. Then a man bearing a lance and seated on a padded horse entered the arena and cornered the bull. The mounted man, known as a picador, proceeded to plunge his lance a number of times into the spine of the beast. I was seated close enough to see the bits of flesh and specks of blood which flew into the air each time the sharp blade pierced the raging bull’s hide – and I’m not talking about Robert DeNiro’s ass. After he had inflicted his share of the damage, the picador left the arena, proudly waving his hat to the audience. Next came a group of three banderilleros who each held a pair of ornate knives known as banderillas. One by one, the banderilleros would run up to the toro and lodge their banderillas into the creature’s spine. More bits of blood and gore went flying to the left and right. Finally, with the hope of putting the pitifully weakened bull out of its misery, the matador made his grand entrance onto the arena’s yellowish dirt. He glided elegantly to the center of the arena with his characteristically red cape... It would be another fifteen minutes before I saw the pathetic blood-drenched carcass of what was once a proud toro bravo lying there motionlessly before me. I couldn’t believe the amount of cruelty and inhumanity I had just witnessed and left with the stench of blood drying in the sweltering sun still fresh in my nostrils.

You won't see any Golden Arches or cigarette ads on Spain's highways...
Only Bull

I was shocked, awed, overwhelmed by what I had just witnessed. Was that barbarity in the name of art the same thing Hemingway had romanticized and Cosmo had raved about? If so, I never wanted to see it again – well, maybe once more. I returned to Madrid's Las Ventas bullring about a month later. Call me a heartless tyrant, call me an immoral hypocrite, call me a bloodthirsty sadist, call me Ishmael... But whichever name you choose to call me or how you judge me, know that I am human. I have a curiosity that is built into my psyche – it's helped my ancestors discover fire, create the wheel, and invent multi-angle DVD pornography – and it's that curiosity that drove me to the bullring a second, and ultimately last, time. One of the most well known matadors in Spain was going on stage that day and I had to see if his performance was as brutal as the first one I witnessed. Perhaps it had all just been some murderous amateur's fluke. Well, a fluke it was not. That day's events were even more barbaric than the first's. I swore off bullfights from that day in 2004 onwards and, since then, have stood by my decision happily. Hemmingway, Cosmo, and those tour books, I'm convinced, had it all wrong.

Hey Ernie, does this really look romantic to you?

The next time I saw a live bull was during a pleasant walk in the countryside a year or so later. He was grazing and stopped to take a shit. I took a picture and continued on my way.

The time after that, the last time in fact, that I saw a toro bravo was at a small running of the bulls. It was so small that it was actually a running of the bull. That's right, just one. It took place on Easter Sunday in a town called Arcos de la Frontera and located about a one hour drive north of Cádiz. My lovely fiancée and I had gone with a friend of mine who was visiting from the States. Guidebooks and Hemmingway had also promised him feats of untold bravery in the face of impending danger. Cádiz, however, does not have a bullring (the last one was torn down in the 1960s to make room for housing) so the unique one-day event in Arcos would have to do.

Ah, the local village's running of the bull...
Except that there doesn't seem to be much running going on

Now normally, the running of the bulls takes place in early summer. A bunch of bulls are herded off a truck at one end of town and plow through the streets until they reach the local bullring where they wait over the next few days for a matador to have his way with them. The most famous of these events takes place in Pamplona, a town in the north of Spain, and now draws in thousands of drunken tourists and Spaniards alike willing to pit their beer-muscles against the charging might and horns of a dozen or so hysterical beasts. (Newsweek recently quoted Julio Bernavides Alvaran, a Valencia resident, who was visiting Pamplona to participate in the famous festival, "Life disappears, and you feel your blood moving in your veins. Either that, or it's all the whisky.") Needless to say, there are dozens of injuries and even a number of deaths recorded each year.

"Charge the defibrillator and hook up the IV drip! Oh no, we're losing him...
There's no time for the Coke. Give me two CCs of whisky, STAT!"

In the mountains of Cádiz Province, though, we have no Pamplona. What we have is Arcos and its traditional running of the Toro del Aleluya (literally, the Hallelujah Bull) each and every Easter. The local vendors proudly sell tacky t-shirts with "Toro del Aleluya" printed on them and banners wave gloriously off balconies. As noon strikes, the Hallelujah Bull is released from its cage after a few jabs and sword slashes and charges through the streets of Arcos in pursuit of those stupid or drunk enough to cross the protective barriers erected by the town council the night before. Now, whereas the beast's warpath would normally end at the local bullring, the problem with Arcos de la Frontera is that it doesn't really have one... So they just sort of let the bull wander around town for an hour or two. When the Hallelujah Bull starts getting tired, or rather, when the locals get tired of looking at it just stand there and prodding it on, they rope up the bleeding, exhausted brute and drag him along the cobblestone street back to his cramped cage. A perfect way to celebrate the resurrection of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Hallelujah. Amen.

Don't Christians just do the darndest things?

In the end, I may find this whole fixation of torturing toros barbaric, but I acknowledge that I am a foreigner. I’m not Spanish and it’s not part of my culture. So who am I to judge? Besides, most Spanish people I know find the American system of not providing at least basic free healthcare to all of its citizens while, at the same time, spending billions abroad to protect business interests far more barbaric and inhumane than killing a few bulls could ever be. Who am I to decide whether bullfighting is morally reprehensible or not? All I can do is express my opinion and say I don’t like it. No sir… I don’t like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, I don’t like Roger Moore as James Bond, and I don’t like bullfighting.

I feel that Spaniards, however, do have a right to criticize bullfighting. It is their nation and their duty to condemn something as barbaric and uncivilized, not ours as foreigners (unless, of course, human rights violations are involved). In this respect, trust me, condemn it they have. One thing Hemingway, Cosmo and all those other romanticized notions of the bullring neglect to mention is just how disgusted many Spaniards are by the “art” of bullfighting. They call it brutal, bloodthirsty, barbarous – well, basically all the adjectives I’ve used to describe it. Anti-bullfighting organizations can be found in every city and major town of España. As far as their growing numbers are concerned, the Shame of Our Nation – as these protesters have dubbed the toro’s trials and tribulations – has no place in their homeland. It should be banished to the age of the Roman Empire and the gladiatorial matches from whence it came.

translation of a poster found in Cádiz:
"OLGA denounces The National Shame: Torture is neither art nor culture"

So, where does all of this leave the future of Spain’s national pastime? Well, with one third of the country cheering on the matador, another third boozing it up so that they can get enough courage to race in front of toros, and the final third disgusted by the entire spectacle altogether, the nation is as divided as ever. But as long as the sable toro bravo remains a symbol of national identity and ingrained in the cultural heritage of the populace, it looks like the status quo won’t be changing anytime soon. Meanwhile, that very symbol will continue to be slowly and gruesomely slashed, stabbed, tortured and mutilated in front of thousands of cheering spectators as stocks are dependably replenished and conditioned for next year’s fighting season. After all, the entire sport, art, or whatever you may call it runs on one thing and one thing alone… a huge load of bull.

E Pluribus Unum... To Go, Please [June 11, 2006]

2006-06-12T19:11:00.000-04:00

Earlier this week over lunch...
"Hey, baby. You wanna hear a joke?"
"Not really. Especially if it’s one of your jokes but I guess I don’t really have a choice, now do I?"
"Nope. OK, so here it goes. Did you hear about the Polack who returned his bagel?"
"No."
"Yeah, well it turns out there was a hole in it!" I pause and wait for laughter – even a polite smile because I know my jokes are pathetically horrible.
But I get nothing in reply, "And?"
"And... Well, that’s it. Get it? A bagel? It’s supposed to have a hole in it."
"What’s a bagel?"
"You know, the breakfast food. The thing you eat with cream cheese. A bagel."
"Cream cheese? Do you mean that Philadelphia Cream Cheese stuff they sell at the supermarket?"
"Yeah."
My lovely Czech fiancée looks confused as she finishes slurping up a mouthful of spaghetti in white wine mushroom sauce and eventually washes it down with a sip of water. "Breakfast food with that Philadelphia Cream Cheese stuff... What do you mean? Something like a bread roll or toast?"
"No, no. A bagel. It’s like bread but round and hand-size. And it’s got a hole in the middle."
"A donut? Why would you eat cream cheese with a donut? That’s just disgusting."
"It’s not a donut. It’s made out of dough around this size," as I touch my index fingers and thumbs together to form a circle, "and it’s got a hole in the middle of it."
"Sounds like a donut to me," as she twirls up another forkful of spaghetti.
"It’s not a donut, for God’s sake. I think it’s originally Yiddish food or something Central European."
"Well, I’m Czech and you can’t be any more in the center of Europe than the Czech Republic. Trust me, I’ve never seen or heard of this bagel thing here, there, or anywhere in Europe."
"Hmm, I don’t know," as I twiddle the spaghetti in my plate around. "I guess it was a stupid joke anyway..."
"And why," my Czech asks after swallowing another mouthful, "would a Polish person make that kind of a mistake? If there are supposed to be holes in these ‘bagels’ of yours, wouldn’t he have known it beforehand? Why return it?"
"You know. Because he’s Polish!"
"So?"
"Come on... The stereotype that Poles are supposed to be, well, a little slow in the head."
"What do you mean? Like, stupid? Why would that be a stereotype about Poland?"
"I don’t know. It just is. At least, back home in America it is."
"Well I’ll tell you what’s stupid. Americans are stupid for having such an idiotic stereotype. I’ve met plenty of Poles and none of them were – How did you put it? – a little slow in the head. And what about Copernicus and Marie Curie? They were both Polish. Do Americans consider them to have been ‘slow in the head’ too?"
"Well, no. I guess not... You know what? Just forget I ever even mentioned the whole stupid joke to begin with," as the conversation comes to an abrupt end and we finish lunch in silence. It’s times like these I wish I were back home in the good ol’ U.S. of A.

The shelves are loaded with Philly Cream Cheese over here, but what about the bagels?

The life of an expat (that’s short for expatriate for all you who have never read a Hemingway novel) is not an easy one. S/He is mocked for making assumptions that seem normal enough back home and ends up passing each waking hour in a futile search for that elusive childhood-favorite snack food. My Achilles’ Heel is Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and I’ve spent the last five years on the lookout for those delicious little bastards but, alas, they’re as hard to come by in Europe as a bidet is in North America. And just as my imaginary Frenchie expat-brother in Minneapolis yearns to feel a high-powered jet of water tinkle his nether regions after a massive bowel movement, I too yearn to sink my teeth into a milk chocolate cup filled with creamy peanut butter... But some things are just not meant to be. Pierre will have to get used to double-ply toilet paper and I’ll have to make do with nougat-filled Swiss chocolate.

However, I along with my American expat brothers and sisters around the globe shouldn’t really complain about our situation. After all, we’re experiencing foreign cultures, broadening our cultural horizons, and wandering down that adventurous road less traveled – All while handling as little discomfort as possible. You see, as Americans, or rather I should say North Americans because Canadians are also included in this group, we have fewer hurdles to jump in a foreign land than any other expat nationality. First of all, and most importantly, we speak English and by far the most studied language the world over is – you guessed it – English. Whether a North American expat chooses to make his or her home in Timbuktu or Seoul, a local who has mastered the art of our spoken tongue is never far off. No matter how much a native French or Spanish speaker would like to make the same claim about their native tongue, it simply isn’t the case... Parents from Finland to Taiwan don’t send their kids off to learn French if they haven’t already conquered the world’s only true lingua franca, English. Now I know what all you Brits, Irish, Aussies, and Kiwis are thinking: "GC, you arrogant Yankee wanker, we speak the same bloody language!" That may be true, but unlike Americans and Canadians, you guys can’t drive on 80% of the world’s roads without confusing your left with your right. Even Winston Churchill was knocked down by a taxi-cab when visiting New York City because he glanced the wrong way before crossing. So trust me, when taxi-cabs are knocking you down because you don’t know where to look, being able to speak English doesn’t quite seem like such an advantage anymore.

"Is nice trash here. You like? I give you good price!"
(No kidding. I once spent a good fifteen minutes talking to this homeless guy in English!)

Language comprehension and road compatibility aside, there’s another reason why I assume that I don’t feel as isolated in a foreign land as most of my non-North American expat brethren. Like it or not, ever since the 1950s our cultural products have imperialistically spread throughout the world. American music, franchises, food and beverages have made their way across six continents and are set to stay. No matter what country you’re in, one can always get a bag of Doritos, wash it down with a 7 Up, and sit back to enjoy an episode of The Simpsons. Sure, you can’t always find bagels, but the very fact that every supermarket in Cádiz stocks three different flavors of Philadelphia Cream Cheese proves my point. American culture and products have conquered the world in more ways than just Coca-Cola, blue jeans, and McDonald’s. It’s on every other TV channel, every other radio station, and in everyone’s fridge. What does that mean for North American expats? Whenever you miss home, there’s always a flavor of it just around the corner – as long as you’re not looking for bagels and peanut butter cups.

Cheetos, Doritos, Pringles, oh my... Any American couch-potato's dream come true

In fact, this worldwide success of American products can be accurately judged by a single factor – the staggering amount of cheap imitation rip-offs. Every industrious entrepreneur from the four corners of the globe tries to profit in one way or another from the popularity coattails of American products. Here are just three of my personal experiences to back the claim up:

While wandering through the crowded food markets of a busy medieval Moroccan city this past April, I spotted a street vendor selling some snack food. He was huddled between two butchers’ stalls both covered with flies and the stench of death. What ready-made wonder was this poor Moroccan cook peddling to his hungry Arab clients? A tasty concoction he had dubbed the Big Mag.

"Praise Allah! I shall have one of your delicious Big Mags!
(I never did like your competitor's Whoopers.)"

Another McDonald’s related rip-off is from a little bit closer to home. There’s a fast food joint here in Cádiz that sells burgers and fries for a fraction of the Golden Arches cost. It’s also got quite a witty name, which is where it rips off the American original, but before you can understand it, a little explanation is in order. McDonald’s is often mis-spelled by the locals as MacDonald due to their accent. Furthermore, the letter C in Spanish can either be pronounced as a K or as an S. Therefore, Mac, as in MacDonald, is normally pronounced MAK but also sometimes jokingly as MAS. Confused yet? Hope not cause here’s where the word play gets tricky. Más actually means "more" in Spanish. The word for "less" is menos. So, what’s the name of this ever-popular Cádiz fast food eatery? MenocDonald.

Why pay MoreDonald's for your burguers when you can pay Less?

Although the Spanish love donuts and sell them at every corner shop and bakery, I have never encountered a store in this country dedicated exclusively to the sale of, as my fiancée would put it, the bagel’s sweet twin – That is, until I went to Córdoba. As I visited that grand Spanish city earlier this year and explored its countless cobblestone roads, I spotted a few of the locals carrying what seemed to be a Dunkin’ Donuts bag filled with a half dozen of those tasty treats I remembered from back home. I should say that, throughout my two and a half years here in Spain, I have never seen a Dunkin’ Donuts franchise. I’ve seen them in Prague, Athens, and London – so I know they exist in Europe – but never in Spain. Not even in Madrid or Barcelona. Imagine my surprise, then, when I finally rounded that corner in Córdoba and spotted it in the distance. I couldn’t wait to sink my teeth into a Boston Kreme or a Cruller as I made my way through the entrance. I stepped up to the counter, which looked exactly like the countless Dunkin’ Donuts counters I’ve visited over the years, and prepared to order from an employee who was wearing that same ol’ Dunkin’ Donuts uniform. Then it hit me... The place wasn’t actually a Dunkin’ Donuts shop. Everything looked like the franchise, from the store’s name to the colors to the donut rack behind the counter, but it wasn’t Dunkin’ Donuts. This place was called Duffin Dagels. A little taken aback but not discouraged, I chose to ignore the blatant copyright/trademark violation and ordered myself what had been dubbed as a "Dagel with Creme". I don’t know how Duffin Dagels does it, but that delicious little treat tasted just like a Boston Kreme from my youth. I greedily scarfed it down and went back for seconds.

Duffin Dagels, You've done it again!
What's the secret trademark recipe behind your delicious Boston Kre... I mean "Dagel with Creme"?

I’ve encountered many more blatant rip-offs throughout my travels abroad – far too many to mention here – but, as I previously said, it all mainly comes down to being an indisputable sign of just how omni-present American products are. When Muslim street vendors privately curse the Great Satan’s foreign policy yet publicly sell Big Mags to eager consumers in the heart of an Islamic city, there’s something to be said about our cultural influence around the globe. Like it or not, it’s here to stay.

Always Coca-Cola – whether there's a jihad going on or not

So, in conclusion, what does all of this mean? Well, for all of you North American expats out there, stop bitching and moaning about how strange other cultures are and how difficult you’re finding it to adapt. Compared to Japanese, Ukranian, or Italian expats, you’ve got it easy. You can speak your native tongue anywhere in the world, drive on the right with ease, and get yourself a Duffin Dagel in Spain that tastes just like the ones back home. As for all of you still stuck in the U.S.A. or Canada, scared to see the world through a non-package holiday or frightened to go live that adventurous year abroad in some strange country... Trust me, it’s not that strange. You’ll be able to communicate with ease and still buy those potato chips you love from back home, all while enjoying the wondrous experience of immersing yourself in a new land and culture. Just make sure you get your fill of bagels and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup before you step onto that plane because some things, no matter how popular America’s products may be, have yet to make it across the Atlantic. Oh, and leave the Polish jokes back home too. You’ll have more success getting laughs from the locals by making farting sounds with your armpits.

My Confession [MAY 21, 2006]

2006-05-22T17:39:00.000-04:00

The way those large, erect cylinders draw my gaze from afar. The way they gleam in the sweaty, hot sun. The way that smooth surface, the closer you get, reveals itself to be marked with the slight imperfections inevitably associated with the passage of time... Hello, everyone. My name is GC Philo and I’m hear to admit that I have a problem. I’m a "Roman ruins" junkie.

Oh yeah, baby. Let me see those columns. You KNOW how I like it!

It all probably started back in my early teenage years, that time of constant change and self-reflection when we all try to discover who we really are. My parents flew the whole family over to Greece one summer and took us around those famed centers of Hellenic Antiquity – Athens, Corinth, Olympia and even Delphi. As we wandered the scattered stones and rubble occasionally interspersed with a pristinely preserved mosaic or engraving, I felt my imagination run wild. I was no longer in an age of video games and blue jeans, but one of Olympic olive wreaths and togas. I could see how those people – the most civilized Europe would witness until the High Renaissance some 1500 years later – lived and worked. I also saw how cruel history could be. It had the power to change a once mighty civilization, one that had dominated the known world for centuries, into a heap of marble that now only commands the attention of Japanese tourists’ cameras.

Lovely, lovely mosaics... Especially the ones that show little midgets with huge penises shooting storks.
You complete me - You had me at Hello.

Somehow, though, the Romans always interested me more than the Greeks. I mean, even though the Greeks started it all, the Romans did it more grandly, more enduringly, and more erotically. This healthy interest in Roman orgies, in fact, eventually developed into my Bachelors Degree in History. Okay, okay – I won’t lie to you. It’s even one of the main reasons why I moved to Europe in the first place. If this is going to be a true confession, I need to let it all out... I had to get my "Roman ruins" fix somehow and when the oldest thing you can find back home is a crappy Indian arrowhead from 1600, Philadelphia just doesn’t cut it anymore. Here in Spain, I’ve got enough smack to hold me over for a lifetime.

You can't find something like this back home in America.
Then again, I've never been to California.

I try to visit every Roman, or the rarer Greek and Phoenician, ruin no matter where I am and usually spend hours wandering through what was once the heart of these great towns. But, like I said, I’m a junkie and junkies don’t just look at the sights and snap a photo or two. No, they always go overboard in their strange and delusional ways and I’m no exception in the way that.... (I knew these "Roman ruins" Anonymous confessions were going to be tough, but not this tough.) I guess it’s time to come completely clean. You see, I actually adopt a Latin name for myself and those who are traveling with me each and every time I set foot on an archaeological site. Worse yet, throughout our visit, I only refer to the others in my party with these names. I know, I know... I need help. That’s why I’m here.

Sometimes I just hide in the shadows of Roman ruins and stare at tourists.
I call that my "special" time.

My Latin name is Testicles (emphasis on the last syllable just like in "Japanese"). My fiancée has grudgingly come to accept hers, Breasticlina, as well. But these are by no means the limits of what is indeed the sick and twisted reality within my head. I have wandered through Roman ruins in Morocco with Forgetfulcus. I have scaled the interior of the Colosseum with my ex-girlfriend Alcoholica Maxima only to see her change into Cunnilinga as we walked through the Pompeii city gates later on that very same week. I have witnessed the power of my old room-mate Flatullus Extremis as he expelled those famed noxious fumes within the very walls of the Athenian Acropolis itself. Even my own brother, Testicles Major, made a brief appearance in Cologne, Germany when I least expected to see him... Not to mention my father, Baldicus Maximus, and my friend from high school, Fat Fuckicus (who coincidentally happens to be a bit overweight), when they both decided to visit us here in Spain last spring.

"I assure you, Baldicus Maximus. There's no way THIS citizen
is casting his vote for Fat Fuckicus as next Roman Pro-Consul!"

However that, dearest support group, is not the extent of my dilemma. If only it were! You see, I also feel the need to speak in an antiquated fashion each and every time I visit these archaeological sites. I can almost remember the first time my lovely finacée and I stepped foot in a Roman theater together:
"What ho, Breasticlina?"
"What?"
"‘What ho?’ I say!"
"Are you calling me a ho?"
"Surely you jest. ’Tis I, Testicles. Forsooth, your heaving bosom knows no bounds. ’Tis no mere coincidence that your moniker bears witness to such a claim!"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Tut, tut. How you amuse me so! Such unfound modesty from a goddess whose brassiere can but barely contain the awesome fury within. Aphrodite herself shudders with envy!"
It kept going on like that for about ten minutes until she eventually started to ignore my crazed ramblings. Afterwards, once we stepped foot past the exit gate, I explained to her what had happened and only then did she fully understand.

So you already knew the Romans could build temples to last, but did you also know they had underground heating?

Breasticlina, though, has since learned to live with my illness. She humors me now every time we walk under an aqueduct or through a temple, and sometimes even cracks a joke. But I know that, under that smile, she’s actually crying. It is for her that I need to break this addiction and for her that I’m giving you this confession. I need to nurture the GC Philo she once fell in love with... not the Testicles I have grown to become.

"Very funny and imaginative, dear. Calling me Breasticlina because I have large breasts.
But why are we calling you Testicles, then? Those midgets in the mosaics had a bigger package!"

Breaking this bad habit, though, isn’t going to be easy here in Spain. The land of Hispania, as most of modern day Spain and Portugal were known to the Latins, contained some of the most peaceful and prosperous provinces in the entire Roman Empire. For this reason, Spain (along with Italy) is home to some of the best preserved two thousand year old sites the Western World has to offer. In the south of Spain alone, there are the extensive ruins of Italica (a few kilometers outside Seville) which was the birthplace of both Emperor Trajan and Emperor Hadrian and is home to the third largest amphitheater in the Roman Empire with a seating capacity of 25,000. There is also Mérida, once known as the "Rome of Iberia" and current capital of the Spanish region of Extremadura, which was more populated two thousand years ago with over 100,000 Latin-speakers than it is today with a bit under 50,000 Spanish-speakers. In fact my current home, the port of Cádiz, claims to be the oldest city in Europe having been founded by the Phoenicians, who named it Gadir, some three thousand years ago. A couple of the sights in Cádiz include a Roman theater nestled between a few modern apartment buildings and a Roman military wall that runs through the city center and fuses with whichever random building that happens to cross its path. How am I supposed to kick this nasty habit when the ghost of Testicles haunts me from every corner and I know that, no matter where I step, there are countless layers of un-excavated artefacts below my feet?

"Where do you live in Cádiz?"
"Go past the supermarket and, across from the basketball courts, make a left at the Roman theater. You can't miss it!"

That’s why I’ve come here today to this "Roman ruins" Anonymous meeting and decided to give this confession. I know that I need help and I also know that, by letting my addiction be known and admitting it to myself, I’m one step closer to finding a cure. It may not be easy and the journey will most likely be long and arduous, but it’s one that I’m willing to take in order to stop the suffering that I’m putting my loved ones through. They deserve better, especially my lovely Breasticl – I mean, fiancée. Just as importantly, I deserve better than to live life from one fix to another. That’s why I’ve decided to give it all up. Cold turkey. Come July, I’m saying my farewells to this land of unending Latin temptations and dashed orgiastic dreams. The only way to put that final nail in the coffin of Testicles and silence him, once and for all, is to deny the filthy beast the one thing he craves. In two months time, I’m off to ruin-less Prague and leaving this Spanish whore behind... You see, the Romans never made it as far north as the Czech Republic. I hope that it’ll work.

The Gypsy Blues [MAY 14, 2006]

2006-05-14T17:41:00.000-04:00

Friday night. A crowded, smoked filled bar in the working district of a nameless town on the Andalucían coast. (Well, actually, it’s Cádiz but "nameless town on the Andalucían coast" just sounds a lot more travel-romantic, doesn’t it?). The clientele have been ordering their wine by the bottle for the past hour or so while nibbling on such typical Spanish tapas as jamón serrano, queso manchego, and tortilla. The once hushed table chatter has now built up to such a volume that you can’t even make out the strange language being spoken at that single table to the dimly-lit back... the one under that stuffed and mounted bull’s head. The only thing that’s for sure is that they’re the only ones not speaking Spanish in the joint.

"No way. Quantum Leap blew Fantasy Island away. Hands down!"
"Listen, all I’m trying to say is that is was a pretty creative idea. Don’t you think? I mean – An island where your fantasies come true. That is damn creative," my friend responds.
"OK. I’ll give you that much. But Quantum Leap was just as creative if not more. Some of those leaps. Like, like the time he became Marilyn Monroe was..."
"Hold on. I don’t think he ever became Marilyn Monroe. He turned in to someone who knew her. I’m pretty sure it was a chauffeur or something."
"Whatever. That’s besides the point. What I’m trying to say is... Forget it." I turn to my girlfriend, "What do you think, honey? Quantum Leap, right? A much better show, right?"
"I don’t know. What the hell is a quantum lip?" she contorts her puzzled Czech face.
"Oh right, the whole Communism thing. You guys never got those shows in the Eighties. Well, it was about this guy, a scientist actually, Doctor Samuel Beckett, who entered..."
"Enough already," she interrupts. "Will you two shut up? No one cares about your stupid Fantasy Island or Quantum Lip television programmes. Besides, something’s happening on the stage. I think they’re starting."
"Oh, sorry, dear..." I grab my glass of wine, lean back into the wooden chair, and take a sip before mumbling, "Quantum LEAP not Quantum LIP," to no one in particular.

As everyone at our table silently directs their attention to the motley crew of well-dressed Gypsies and slick-haired Spaniards who have now walked on stage, the tables around us continue their idle chitchat. The young guitarist plucks his first strings and the rhythmic clapping coming from the three others standing to his right slowly builds pace. The patrons surrounding us keep up their drone-like conversations, almost completely ignoring the performing musicians. Not many books have been written on Spanish manners – probably because there aren’t any. But that’s besides the point. Eventually, once the guitar and choral clapping reach what seems to be their climax, a heavier-set, middle-aged, Gypsy women to the guitarist’s left rises to her feet and belts out the first verse of a ballad of unfulfilled desire. Everyone in the bar instantly stops what they’re doing and turns their interested heads to the stage. The passion in her voice grabs the attention of the seated masses and doesn’t let go. She soon breaks into an elegant dance – the ripples of her multi-colored dress undulating in its wake – and draws the occasional "¡Olé!" from random, spellbound onlookers. A night of flamenco has begun.

Work it, baby... Work it!

Gypsies get a lot of grief here in the Old World. Their nomadic background and centuries-old reputation as swindlers and con-artists has done little to help the modern European perception of these cultural outsiders. Historians estimate that this ethnic group first migrated onto this continent from the Indian subcontinent during the first half of the last millennium (that’s 1000–1500AD for all of you high school drop-outs or unsuccessful GED candidates). Ever since, they have consistently formed the poorest and least educated sector of society. Gypsy literacy levels throughout the continent hover at an astonishingly low 40–50% which is even more shocking when you take into consideration that, except for Albania at 87%, not one European nation has a literacy level below 98%. This poverty and lack of education, obviously, also leads to a disproportionately higher rate of crime in the Gypsy community. I recently read a study, for example, that stated even though Gypsy women only make up about 1.5% of the Spanish population, they account for over 25% of Spanish prison inmates. Anyway you look at it – from Portugal to Russia or Norway to Moldavia – there’s a lot of work to be done in the Gypsy community.

Baby Bigot-Gomez finally realizes the wrongs of her ways, "Stinkin' Gypsies.
What d'ya ever give Spain?! Oh... right. The whole flamenco thing."

Outside of Central Europe, Spain boasts the largest population of Gypsies and Andalucía, with nearly 60%, is home to most of them. Spanish Gypsies, or gitanos, are no exception to the European norm. They are perceived as being lazy, thieving and government-leeching. They are discriminated against in interviews, schools and the media. They are the one neighbor that no self-respecting Spaniard would ever want to live next to. But despite all of this blatant racism and outright bigotry, no matter how much they are spat on or looked down upon, there’s one reason why a gitano always walks with a head held up high – Flamenco. The gitanos invented Spain’s most renown music and gave it its passionate dance and ostentatious dress. They started it all in their poor ghettos centuries ago – nurtured it, perfected it – and then eventually handed it over to the Spaniards confident that they would never be able to produce a national style of music that could ever rival their own. And the gitanos were right. Today, Spaniards from every walk of life dance, sing, and enjoy the flamenco rhythm. They perform it on stages and in bars throughout the country while blaring it proudly on home stereos. Flamenco encompasses what it means to be Spanish and is España at the very heart of the proud nation’s name... except that it really isn’t. It’s actually gitano and everyone knows it. Ask any Spaniard to tell you who plays the best flamenco in town and they’ll all agree: "Those dirty, filthy, thieving Gypsies down the road. God bless ‘em!"

"Damn. Those gitanos really know how to shake that booty."

My fiancée and I are fortunate to be living in one of the world’s foremost flamenco centers. Cádiz has been a hub of guitar making and innovation for centuries. In fact, some historians claim that the famed Pagés brothers actually invented the first modern guitar here in 1803. And, no, it probably wasn’t a Stratocaster Electric. Spanish guitars (which include most modern acoustic guitars) weren’t originally designed to play Blue Suede Shoes or Smoke On The Water. They were meant to accompany the passionate songs and exquisite dancing of the flamenco elite – of which we have no shortage of here either. The Province of Cádiz has been home to some of flamenco’s greatest performers throughout the ages. Just to mention modern times, the internationally-known Paco de Lucía, considered to be the best living guitarist, was born and raised here as was the greatest flamenco singer to ever walk the earth, El Camarón de la Isla. El Camarón, unfortunately, died in 1992 at the age of 41 after years of an uncontrollable lifestyle and heroin abuse. He was, of course, a dirty, filthy, thieving gitano... but that still didn’t stop the estimated 100,000 people that turned up at his funeral.

Granny Gomez is dancing the flamenco...
And she's lovin' every minute of it!

One of the results of this proud Cádiz tradition of flamenco is that one can see and hear it nearly everywhere. Young kids who just got their driving licences don’t cruise down the beach in dad’s car and ogle bikini-wearing babes while pumping out hip-hop on the factory-installed stereo. No, they do it while pumping out flamenco. When locals go out with friends just to chill out on a park bench, shoot the breeze, and drink a bottle of beer or two, it’s never long before the rhythmic clapping of a flamenco tune takes over. When mothers are trying to lull their babies to sleep, they moan and wail a flamenco song at the top of their lungs into the baby’s ear – well, I haven’t actually witnessed it but I’m sure that happens every now and then. What we have witnessed, though, was a flamenco "Christmas Carol" show this past December. A bunch of gitanos on stage started dancing and singing away about how a baby Gypsy had just been born in a manger in Bethlehem as everyone in the audience clapped away and threw in the occasional "¡Olé!" I had no idea Jesus was a Gypsy... I always thought he was Black.

The stage is set for the Gypsy Blues...

So, where does all of this leave me and my lovely fiancée? Well, when we first arrived in Cádiz about two years ago, we were eager to go and sit through as many flamenco shows as we could. By the time Christmas came round, and we found out that Jesus was actually a Gypsy, we were already sort of getting tired of the whole thing. Now, we’re lucky if we go to a flamenco show once every couple of months. The problem is, no matter how creative, lively, and passionate flamenco may be, it’s still something foreign to us. I guess it just either grows on you or it doesn’t and, after spending countless nights in seedy flamenco joints, the entire novelty of the thing has just worn out. At the end of the day, we’re not Spanish and we’re definitely not gitano... we’re just adventurous foreigners with a penchant for traveling. So how could we ever come to love this local art form as fervently as the people of Cádiz? The simple answer is that we can’t. Oh well, I guess we’ll just have to amuse ourselves somehow else. Now that I think of it, someone told me the other day that they’ve already released most of the Quantum Leap seasons onto DVD. Screw flamenco, it’s time I taught my fiancée some of the benefits of not living under Communism in the 1980s – quality television programming. Well, that and the whole freedom of speech thing.

Around Morocco In 8 Days [APRIL 30, 2006]

2006-04-30T04:11:00.000-04:00

I thought I knew Morocco before I ever even stepped foot on African soil. Swarms of beggars, con-artists, and street urchins would surround me the second I got off the ferry at the seedy port of Tangier. Mysterious, turban-wearing men would try to sell me handmade carpets, scoopfuls of exotic spices, or magical monkey paws as I wandered through the winding alleys of the ancient souqs, or bazaars. And, to top it all off, I would have to haggle my way through the price of everything from taxi fare to a pack of chewing gum. But Morocco, dear reader, is a land of surprise. A land of false expectations.

Welcome to The Land of False Expectations

Our Gran Tour du Maroc began on a Saturday morning as four eager adventurers set off from Cádiz for Tarifa - the southernmost Spanish port and closest point to Moroccan Tangier from across the Straits of Gibraltar. Our coterie consisted of the Marquis of Maple (a fellow English teacher and native of British Columbia), the Baroness von Pierogi (a Polish friend and also English teacher in Cádiz), the charming Sancho Panza (my lovely fiancée), and I, the brave – as well as fearless – Don Quijote. Fortunately, the Baron von Pierogi (i.e. the Baroness’ boyfriend from Boston) had made for prior arrangements concerning our departure from the European continent (i.e. he agreed to drive us to Tarifa in their beat-up diesel Opel with Polish plates).

Adventurers: Ho, To Africa!

As the Baron and Baroness exchanged farewells on that southernmost tip of Iberian soil, the Marquis, Sancho, and I got into a queue for ferry tickets.
"What’s that you say? 50 € per round trip? Think I can talk them down?" I whispered to Sancho.
"What do you mean ‘talk them down’? This is a ferry. You can’t ‘talk them down’. The price is 50 €."
"I know, I know. But we’re going to MOROCCO, baby. You have to haggle for everything... and I need some practice."
"It’s a ferry. The price is 50 €. We’re going to pay 50 €."
"Yeah, yeah. Of course. Let me go first. I’ll offer the lady at the ticket window 1 Euro and we’ll see where it goes from there."
"You’re an idiot," Sancho concluded.
In the end, we each payed 50 € per round trip. Sancho was right – ferry prices are non-haggle-able, especially when you’re still on Spanish soil.

Our first ever view of the Dark Continent -
Apparently, it's not so dark from close up and the fare to get there is non-negotiable

The journey across the Straits of Gibraltar took a mere forty-five minutes although we had to suffer through a one-hour delay while waiting for our ship to dock. In the meantime, the Marquis brushed up our French a bit with what little he remembered as Sancho threw in her two cents and I tried to recall the glories of three years of high school French class. After a brief lesson in Arabic thanks to my trusty guide book (eeyeh = yes ; la = no ; shukran = thank you), we were informed that the ferry was finally ready to dock at Tangier port. All four of us braced ourselves for the swarms of Moroccans that would accost us upon disembarking and stepping first foot on African soil. We grabbed our bags, made sure zippers were tightly closed, wallets were sufficiently hidden, and passports were tucked safely away as we headed towards the exit...

Who knows what lay around the corner in this mysterious land?

A group of about ten people were waiting at port by the time our ferry had docked. They were looking for relatives or friends that must have crossed the Straits along with us. Only one taxi driver stopped us and asked if we knew where we were going or needed a lift. I told him, "La shukran," and that was that. He smiled politely and went back to his taxi.
"I thought there were supposed to be hordes of people trying to rip us off at the port," the Marquis started.
"Me too," chimed in the Baroness.
"Yeah... That’s what the guide book and everyone who’s ever been here said. It’s strange, isn’t it?" I pondered over why we had such a hassle-free time as we worked our way to a Currency Exchange booth. "I know! It was the ‘La shukran!’"
"You think?"
"Sure! Did you see the way that taxi driver left us alone?"
"Yeah, but he didn’t really seem too pushy to begin with..."
"La shukran, my friend. It was the good ol’ La shukran. Wine ‘em, dine ‘em, throw in a little La shukran and you’ll have a Moroccan eating out of the palm of your hand!"
"You’re an idiot," Sancho concluded.

Most of our accomodations throughout the Gran Tour even came equipped with a washing machine.
I'm convinced it was because of my "La shukran" policy.

Sancho’s deduction may have been true, but "La shukran" served us well throughout the rest of the Gran Tour du Maroc. They were the two words that a Moroccan could never respectfully ignore. Carpet sellers, fruit peddlers, and hashish pushers were all taken aback by "La shukran" and honored that we foreigners had at least taken the time to learn even this simple phrase in Arabic. To a Moroccan, respect of another’s wishes takes precedent over all else. Unfortunately, most Western visitors to the Maghreb (Morocco’s ancient name) find it a bit too difficult to deal with souq vendors who simply won’t take "No" for an answer. These merchants aren’t trying to be rude though. It’s just a part of their culture not to accept the first "No" that is given. When other tourists start responding with "I said NO!" , "Can’t you take a hint?!" or "Leave me alone, you turban wearing freak!" they simply insult and, worst of all, disrespect. All of this hassle and headache could be – and CAN be, to all of you future visitors of the Maghreb – avoided by a little wining, dining, and a firm yet polite La shukran.

I never did get the hang of those pesty Moroccon bus timetables,
"Which one is Tangier? And why the hell is it written backwards?"

And so our circle of four wandered the streets of Tangier for a few hours in search of the bus station and acclimatizing our senses to Africa. We eventually came upon the station and, seeing as it happened to be an Islamic religious holiday later on that weekend, found that there were far more people and far fewer buses than usual – not that Moroccan public transport was an easy thing to decipher anyway. We decided to take a long-distance taxi (one of the massive diesel-powered Mercedes vehicles dating back forty to fifty years and affectionately dubbed Grands Taxis by the locals) to our second destination on the Moroccan coast – a small port town named Asilah about 50km (30 miles) south of Tangier. As we drove away from Morocco’s most famous port and most frequent point of entry, I realized I didn’t really know this nation at all. My first and foremost assumption – that hustlers and beggars would swarm me at the port – had never materialized. Moroccan false expectation number one: Tangier is not populated by scam artists and street urchins who all coincidentally reside near the port. The Maghreb was indeed a land of surprise. I leaned back, stared out the taxi window, and searched for a seatbelt. There weren’t any and, apparently, the taxi driver had never heard of such a wondrous, yet mysterious, life-saving device either.

You know you're in North Africa when...
A man is sweeping the sidewalk! (Oh, and when the stop-signs are in Arabic too)

Asilah is a quiet resort town on the Atlantic coast renown for the long, golden beaches to the north and south. It’s a popular spot with Moroccans and Europeans alike (we saw a number of French and Spanish motor-homes and car-plates here) and the constant stream of tourists – along with the recent rise of beachfront property values as the taxi driver told us – means the residents aren’t nearly as poverty stricken as the rest of their fellow countrymen and women. In other words, it was a great place to spend a first night in Africa and gradually adapt to our new surroundings.

Asilah was the perfect, calm place to slowly prepare for the madness which lay ahead

Once the taxi had dropped us off, a friendly local sitting at one of the cafés asked us if we needed a place to stay and showed us to an unoccupied rooftop room in what must have been the home of his relatives. We greeted the cheerful children as we walked through the hallway and up the stairs and, after we saw the room and accepted it following a brief haggle, tossed our backpacks onto the floor and sunk into the sofa’s oversized pillows. The day’s long journey of passage into the Dark Continent had finally come to an end. As the Marquis and I rested our heads and quibbled over who had managed to pack less socks and clean underwear for the 8-day Gran Tour (he had only brought two pairs of each – one less than I – but I insisted that most of the three pairs I had brought were so hole-ridden that they didn’t even count as socks or underwear per se), Sancho and the Baroness went to freshen up...

Women are the same the world over - Nothing attracts them like a shiny piece of jewelery

Faithful reader, have you ever stared into the abyss of a dark hole, into the mouth of the Beast, and wondered what strange yet putrid surprises lie in its depths? Have you ever looked into the void and pondered as to what dwells in the bottomless bowels of the Beast? Well, Sancho and the Baroness took one look at the Beast (a.k.a. the Turkish toilet) that afternoon and cringed in fright. I won’t lie to you, even I – the fearless Don Quijote – felt my knees shaking as my bare buttocks approached the Beast’s all-devouring throat... But still I could not and left that dark lair in the shadow of defeat. There’s one thing about the Maghreb, dear reader, that you cannot avoid and that is the call of the Beast. He is omnipresent, lurking around each murky corner, waiting for you in His noxious lair. Worst of all, there’s nothing you can do for to befriend the Beast is your only option. But befriend Him you must. Don’t be timid! Loosen those britches, release your pale bottom, and feed Him. For the Beast, I assure you, must be fed eventually... His insatiable appetite knows no bounds.

The Beast is a formidable foe, but one that must be befriended at all costs...
Just take off your pants and go in smiling. No one comes out a loser, even if the first attempt was a failure.

As bad as the Turkish toilet was, and the realization that we would be stuck using it for the next 8 days, we still managed to find a few pleasant surprises that first day in Asilah. We wandered through the town’s medina (a term for the old Arabic part of each Moroccan city which usually consists of narrow, winding roads enclosed within medieval ramparts), browsed through the colorful fare of local clothing and shoe vendors, and discovered what the inhabitants of the Maghreb affectionately call Moroccan Whiskey – mint tea.

"I think I'll try some 'Tea has mint.' What about you, honey?"
"I'm not sure... Either 'Milk with the chocolate' or 'Lawyer juice' sounds delicious too."

While sitting in a square and sipping away at our delicious beverage (mint tea would become our drink of choice in a country where alcohol was near impossible to find), we soaked up the sounds and the sights of this enchanting land. The lovely Sancho even managed to get accosted by someone’s pet monkey that day... And "pet monkey" is not a euphemism for something else, you perverts.

"I don't care whose pet monkey it is, Sancho. I don't want you touching it. You're MY fiancée, damn it!"

The next morning, we set off for Meknès, a city of just under a million inhabitants and once capital of the mighty Arabic Maghreb Empire in the 17th Century, by train. The city was nearly 250km (155 miles) away from Asilah which translated into about a five hour journey including transfer. The less said about the train ride and conditions, the better. I felt like a prisoner in Nazi Germany being sent off to a concentration camp and, to top it all off, the call of the Beast was growing stronger and louder. We never took a train in Africa again and I don’t think I ever will.

The Marrakesh Express:
I don't know what Crosby, Stills & Nash were smoking but it must have been strong if they enjoyed THIS train ride

Meknès was our first true taste of the Maghreb and, as far as I was concerned, the best place we visited throughout the entire Gran Tour du Maroc. There weren’t too many tourists, the locals were extremely friendly, and the main square (overshadowed by Bab el-Mansour, the entrance gate to the medina and the imperial city) was a great place to grab a cup of piping-hot Moroccan Whiskey, sit back, unwind, and do some good ol’ people-watching. Because Meknès is also a city which doesn’t really pull in the tourists as much as, say, Marrakesh or Fès, it is also a lot poorer and reflective of how the average Moroccan truly lives. This isn’t a package holiday or group destination folks...

Our room with a view: My girlfriend forced me to keep my shoes on the window ledge because they were stinking up the hotel. I hope the homeless guy below didn't mind.

One visit to Meknès and you realize you’re in a country with an average monthly household income of 300 €, no social security or public healthcare, and one of the highest rates of illegal migration to Europe. The poverty all around you, though, is not something to be deliberately avoided. There’s nothing I hate more than the American and Canadian tourists who go to their Caribbean destination and never leave the hotel complex or see how the locals love. The same happens with Europeans in Africa and South-East Asia – the residents of wealthier nations come as tourists, stay locked up in their pool-side resorts, and never even bother to explore the sights, sounds, and tastes of the country in question. As long as the hotel has cheap cocktails and buffet lunches, everything is fine. That’s not traveling. That’s not tourism and that’s not Morocco. Meknès – in all of it’s charm, life, atmosphere AND poverty – is Morocco. As one taxi driver told us on the Gran Tour du Maroc, "I do not like the people who come to my country and stay behind high walls or take pictures of us from their scented and air-conditioned coaches. These people only take advantage of my country. But you – travelers who walk and talk with us, live with us – may come time and time again. As Allah commands, we shall always welcome you with open arms."

Meknès was Morocco at it's most authentic, from the metalworker's souq to a vegetable market

We stayed in Meknès for a few days and explored every nook the labyrinth within the medina had to offer. We entered mosques open to infidels (there weren’t many), wandered through the date, nut and olive section of the food bazaar, and even met a friendly man who showed us to his brother’s store in the metalworker’s souq where, after a short haggling session, the Baroness von Pierogi ended up buying a handmade bracelet (still no magical monkey paws in sight) for half of the original price. We ate at a, by local standards, expensive family-run restaurant filled with tourists and at a cheap canteen where we were the only ones who didn’t speak Arabic. That rundown canteen, by the way, served up the best meal I ate throughout my entire stay in Morocco.

The centuries of grandeur and empire have long since left Meknès... but the monuments still remain

The day before we left that enchanting city, as the medina started looking more and more familiar, the Marquis of Maple spotted an alley leading off of the main square that we had somehow overlooked during the previous days. We followed his lead and our noses. It was a peculiar aroma, one I couldn’t quite place my finger on. Was it the Beast? No, no – A finger can’t be placed on THAT odor. Then it dawned on me. It was the smell of blood. We had entered the meat section of the food bazaar. Pools of coagulated fluid covered the uneven concrete floor. Crimson specks dotted the rarely scrubbed walls of two dozen or so butcher stalls. Camel, goat, and cow heads – still dripping with gore – rested on the filthy ground or leaned against the stained walls. And the flies... The place was covered in flies. They festered on cow’s tongues, ground meat, animal hooves, and camel eyes. When an interested customer pointed to one of the cow heads on the floor and the butcher started chopping away at the skull, it was time to go. The Marquis was the first as he covered his mouth and nostrils and fled the sickening stench. The Baroness followed soon after. Once the cow’s skull had been breached and the brain (now freshly being invaded by a hungry swarm of flies) was being scooped out and bagged, Sancho and I locked palms and hurried towards the exit... You’ve never witness carnage, dear reader, until you’ve been to a Moroccan meat market – And I don’t mean Singles Night at Ali Baba’s House of Dance.

The meat market has everything to satisfy your cooking needs from cow heads to camel steaks

The Gran Tour also led us to make a day trip from Meknès to the popular attractions of Volubilis and Moulay Idriss. Volubilis was a Roman outpost of about 20,000 people and is both the largest and best-preserved of Morocco’s ancient ruins. It’s incredible how far south those wacky Romans made it and how durable their constructions were. Moulay Idriss is another important town from Morocco’s past but from about 1000 years after Volubilis. This town is the most sacred Islamic site in the Maghreb and contains the mausoleum and resting place of the founder of Morocco’s first royal dynasty. He was a great-grandson of the Prophet Mohammed, just as the current King is also a direst descendant of the Prophet, and his name was – you guessed it – Moulay Idriss. This town which bears his name, and its famous mausoleum, is perhaps the country’s most frequented pilgrimage site and has only allowed non-Muslim infidels passage through its city gates for the past few decades or so... although we’re, understandably, still not allowed entrance in the sacred final resting place of Moulay Idriss. We decided to set off early for Volubilis that day, in order to avoid the large groups of tourists, and then head off to Moulay Idriss where we could spend the afternoon before returning to Meknès. Unfortunately the Marquis, who as holder of the only watch/alarm was the official time-keeper of our company, had somehow forgotten to adjust his watch to Moroccan time (which is two hours behind Spanish time) despite the fact that we were already into our fourth day of the Gran Tour du Maroc. The result? We made it toVolubilis so early that the ticket office hadn’t even opened yet.

Smile dear -- We're infidel tourists at the most sacred Islamic site in Morocco!

Who's that among the Roman ruins?? Caesar Augustus himself!?! Oh, it's just you, Sancho... cute.

After a few days in Meknès, and having taken in all the sites both within that wondrous city and in the nearby towns, we headed off for the next leg of the Gran Tour – the imperial city of Fès. Unwilling to take another train and, once again, unable to find and inter-city bus, we decided to hire a Grands Taxi. The Marquis and Sancho, our resident Francophones, spoke to a taxi driver:
"OK. I’ll take the four of you to Fès. No problem."
"Great!" the Marquis smiled and gave us a thumbs up as he lifted his backpack to put it in the trunk.
"Hold on," Sancho interrupted. "How much is this going to cost us?"
"108 Dirham," the driver answered. That worked out to about 10.80 €.
"Hmm, how about we give you 100 Moroccan Dirham?" as Sancho decided to try her hand at haggling.
"I’m sorry, mademoiselle. 108 Dirham."
"Come on. You can’t knock off 8 Dirham?"
"No, I cannot. 108."
"Well then!" Sancho crossed her arms. I could tell she was getting a bit flustered. "Maybe if you don’t give it to us for 100 Dirham, we’ll find another taxi driver who will!"
"You’re welcome to try, mademoiselle. But 108 is the government set fare for the Meknès to Fès journey. It is the price we must all charge by law. No more, no less."
"Oh." Moroccan false expectation number two: Not all things are haggle-able.
I smiled and whispered into my blushing fiancée’s ear as we entered the taxi, "Nice job trying to talk him down that 80 cents... YOU’re an idiot," I concluded.

Now spices... THAT's something you can haggle over!

Fès is a city of nearly one million inhabitants crammed into the walled medina which dates back over one thousand years. It has been designated by UNESCO as a World Heritage site in its entirety and is considered to be one of the largest living medieval cities on the planet. It is the cultural and intellectual capital of Morocco and, until the French moved it to Rabat, was the centuries-old political capital as well... That’s what my travel guide book said. Personally, I found the place too big and too spoiled by the constant stream of tourists that contribute so much to the city’s economy. The medina just didn’t have that same charm as the one in Meknès and the locals weren’t nearly as friendly. In fact, it was in Fès where the Marquis discovered the limits of "La shukran" when one of the many pushy souq vendors rebuked him, "Are you Moroccan? No! So don’t speak Arabic to me."

You can find anything in the city's souqs from hand-made shoes to ready-made grandmothers

Another thing my guide book touted about this cultural capital were the countless mosques and Koranic schools which boasted ornate rooms and chambers built to be unrivaled in their splendor. Unfortunately, infidels such as us English teachers were once again not permitted entry into about 90% of these buildings. Instead, we had to make do with staring at donkeys dropping poo-pellets in the middle of the collapsed buildings and filthy squats which were often found right across the street from the grand mosque entrances. But Sancho was happy. She likes taking pictures of "cute" donkeys.

"Good thing we didn't get into the mosque. We might have missed this."

The most impressive thing in Fès was probably the leather souq. In the center of this district, we stood on a balcony and laid our eyes upon the fetid tanneries. The leather tanners working below us were using techniques developed nearly 7000 (that’s right – three zeros after that 7, not two) years ago and passed on from generation to generation. The sheep skins were being beaten and scrubbed to one side and then dipped and cured in mud-brick pits filled with, as we were told, an ancient liquid recipe consisting of pigeon droppings, cow urine, animal fat, brains, sulphuric acids, salts, and natural colors. The stench was overwhelming and, thankfully, the guide who had led us to this district offered us some mint leaves to cover our nostrils and mask the rancidness. We all gladly accepted except for Sancho. She claimed the noxious odor was nothing compared to the stink-bombs I launch at her each and every morning.

The colorful tanneries and us breathing through mint leaves as an immune Sancho snaps away

Something that happened to dawn on me while in Fès, although I had definitely first noticed it in Meknès, was the ridiculous amount of barbershops we had come across. Now that I think about it, it was also quite strange that these shops wouldn’t close for the day until about eleven o’clock or midnight – well after most of the hustle and bustle of the medina had already died down. Every corner, every street, every alley had a barbershop. Sometimes there were even two or three of them right next to each other. In fact, we even saw barbers shaving men or giving them a little trim in the middle of busy city squares and quiet public parks. Not surprisingly, most of the barbers we saw were never really doing anything seeing as there just weren’t enough customers. A case of too much supply and not enough demand, but I don’t think the average Moroccan on the street has ever heard of Microeconomics. It seemed non-academically obvious to me, though, that when you’re struggling to put food on the table, it’s a lot more feasible moneywise to buy a ten pack of BICs than to go to the barbershop every other day. It still strikes me as odd to think that we couldn’t find a single roll of toilet paper throughout the entire Gran Tour du Maroc but barbershops were a dime a dozen. And I’m also convinced this wasn’t just an isolated phenomenon peculiar to Fès or Meknès. It must be like that in every large city throughout the Maghreb. Black holes, the Bermuda Triangle, the origins of the Universe and bellybutton lint, and, now, Moroccan barbershops... Just one more mystery to add to the pile.

If you're ever in need of a shave, Morocco's the place to go.
You can visit a 24-hour barbershop or just have it done in the park.

The day before we left Fès, as the four of us wandered through the textile souq, the lovely Sancho bought an enchanting, hand-made wedding dress. She tried on a few, did a bit of haggling, and ended up paying half the original asking price for a beautifully embroidered three-piece outfit. While this was going on, the Marquis of Maple thought out loud about how interesting it would be to visit the Sahara. The vendor who had sold Sancho her dress and who was now wrapping it up, said he had a cousin who organized trips to the desert and he would gladly lead us to him once he finished. The vendor soon stepped away from his stall and led the Marquis to a carpet-lined entrance down a narrow alley. We all followed suit and soon found ourselves being shown carpets while sipping complementary Moroccan Whiskey.
"No, no. We’re not interested in buying any carpets," we all insisted as the Berber merchant rolled out one exquisite tapestry after another.
"Of course, friends. Of course. But it costs nothing to look," as he continued to unroll each intricate carpet and explain the woven symbols and process involved in making each of them.
"What happened to the desert?" I asked the Marquis when our Berber host wasn’t looking.
"He’ll probably tell us after this pointless little carpet show."
Before long, the Marquis was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the carpet merchant and haggling over the price of a bright, mint green, camel wool carpet.
"An exquisite piece, my Canadian friend. All made by hand and with natural colors used to dye the camel hair. Of that I assure you. Every bit worth its price!"
"Which is?" the Marquis started.
"1100 Dirham." That’s about 110 €.
"Hmm... That seems a bit pricey. How about... 700 Dirham?" 70 €.
"What a haggler! My friend, please. Think of me and of my poor family! As I told you before, this is hand-made and of the finest quality. It took months to weave. Now tell me another price... An HONEST price. One that can help to feed this humble servant of Allah and his children. Think of me as your family."
"Hmm..." the Marquis thought it over. "How about... 900 Dirham [90 €]? No, no, sorry. Wait... That’s not an honest price... Let’s say 950 Dirham?"
"Very well, my Canadian friend. You are quite the haggler! Are you sure Moroccan blood does not course through your veins!? So, shall we agree upon 1000 Dirham then?" as he offered the Marquis his hand.
"Uh... okay I guess." They shook hands in agreement. "The only thing is I don’t have 1000 Dirham. I do have 100 € though."
"That will do fine." Then our Berber carpet vendor called over his assistant and had him wrap up the carpet. "And perhaps a small tip for hard-working Hassan here? Look how well he packages the carpet! Perhaps that 2 Euro coin I saw in your change purse."
"Sure. Here you go, Hassan."
"You are very good, my Canadian friend. Quite the haggler!"
The Baroness finally interrupted all of this, "What about the desert?"
"Ah yes. Well, here are some photographs," as he handed us an album full of pictures. He continued speaking as we flicked through. "What you see there is my hotel on the outskirts of the Sahara. It has all the amenities expected from such a hotel and even a swimming pool. If you prefer something more authentic, I have another hotel not far from there designed in the fashion of a Berber desert encampment. I would personally meet you here in Fès, drive you to either of the hotels in my Jeep, and leave you there in the capable hands of our staff. Truly a unique experience, my friends!"
"Yeah," I entered the conversation. "We might consider it when we have more time. We only have about a week here in Morocco."
"No problem, my friend. Of course. You may contact me at any time."
"Yeah, speaking of that... How would we contact you? Would we have to mail you a letter in advance? Of maybe a telegraph or something?"
"Of course not! Simply write me an e-mail or call my mobile phone." He handed us a business card with couscous@caramail.com on it and continued, "I have a portable computer that I take with me whether I am here in Morocco or abroad. You can contact me at anytime."
As we walked back to our hotel, Sancho holding her wedding gown and the Marquis with a mint green, camel wool carpet over his shoulder, the Marquis said, "Well, at least I talked him down 100 Dirham, eh guys?"
"Well, actually," Sancho replied, "you gave him 102 € with that tip."
"Oh, right. So I guess I only talked him down 8 €. Hmm, it doesn’t really seem like that much."
"And the exchange rate isn’t exactly 1 Euro equals 10 Dirhams. It’s more like 1 Euro equals 10.7 Dirhams. So I think you might have even ended up paying more than 1100 Dirham."
"Son of a..."
"But it’s a nice carpet. It was worth it. And you really wanted it, right?"
"Well," the Marquis fidgeted. "What I really wanted was a small wooden chess set... And maybe one of those traditional Fès hats with the tassel."
"No problem!" I finally chimed in. "If you want to return the carpet you can always write the poor Berber carpet merchant an e-mail on his brand new laptop. I’m sure he’ll reply right away... If he’s not too busy listening to his iPod or on holiday in Monaco."
False expectation number three: We never did find a souq vendor selling magical monkey paws, but we did end up buying a mint green, camel wool carpet.

The Marquis immediately after overwhelming the carpet vendor with his Canadian mastery of the haggling arts

Early the following morning, Sancho and the Baroness went to sort out bus tickets for the final leg of the Gran Tour du Maroc. The Marquis and I were left behind to make sure everything was packed and ready to go. The ladies returned with four tickets to Chefchaouen, a quiet little mountain town five hours or so to the north where we would be spending the next two days unwinding. We threw on our backpacks and headed towards Bab Bou Jeloud, the Fès medina main gate, where we decided to get a coffee before the long bus ride ahead. We sat down at literally the last café in Fès, the one to the right of and just inside Bab Bou Jeloud.

"You want a strong cup of coffee? Trust me, that last shop on the right is just the place."

A small, bald man with a strange Band-Aid covering his entire left eyebrow came to our table, "Coffee? You want coffee?"
"Uh, yes, please. I actually am in more of a coffee mood than mint tea," I replied.
The Marquis agreed.
"Black, definitely black. Strong, right? Black coffee?"
"Yeah, okay. But with some milk too. Café au lait."
"I’ll have a coffee too," the Baroness interrupted.
"No!!!" the waiter stated firmly. "No coffee for you, mademoiselle. Trust me." He turned to us again, "Only for these two gentlemen." The one-eyebrowed waiter then slyly rubbed his hands together and grinned, "Well, then. Two black coffees, gentlemen?"
"Sure, but with milk, please. Shukran."
His grin then burst into diabolical laughter as he continued to rub his coarse hands. "I shall make YOU a cup of coffee you will NOT soon forget, my friends!" and off he went into the kitchen.
[Well, maybe the conversation in that little café didn’t go exactly like that, or wasn’t even remotely similar, but that’s the way I remember it and I’m the one doing the chroniclin’ here, damn it.]
The waiter brought us the two strongest cups of coffee either of us has ever sipped. I added five sugar cubes to that little brown liquid concoction and it was still unbearably bitter. We finished our drinks, paid, and finally went towards the bus station as the one-eyebrowed waiter cackled maniacally in the distance.

I only went to one Internet Cafe while in Morocco because I ended up taking an hour to type a simple e-mail.
Forget the crazy coffee guy - whoever put those keyboard letter-keys in such odd positions is the real maniac.

Even during the long, arduous ride to Chefchaouen, the coffee was slowly working its evil black magic. The Marquis and I began to feel a bit under the weather as early as then, but brushed it aside as being due to the bus driver’s obvious lack of steering ability.

The Rif Mountains: Home to a pristine landscape, bucolic way of life, and reefer

Chefchaouen is a picturesque little mountain town set in the heart of the Rif Mountains (the slang term for marijuana, reefer, comes from here) where all the buildings are painted in quaint shades of blue. It was the perfect place to relax for a couple of days at the end of an exhausting Gran Tour.

Chefchaouen was a pleasure to explore...

The Marquis felt the first rumblings that very evening. We were having dinner at a nice little outdoor restaurant on the main square when he excused himself. Our traveling companion returned fifteen or so minutes later with a look of disbelief on his face. All he could manage to say was, "Now I know why the Japanese lost... Hiroshima must have been a mighty blast indeed." I would have to wait for the following afternoon in order to decipher his mysterious words.

And its hidden treasures were a pleasure to discover...

The few days we spent in Chefchaouen didn’t seem like we were in Morocco at all. Everywhere we turned, we saw Spanish college students, Spanish signs, and even Spanish food. As beautiful as that little gem of a mountain town was, there was one thing that unabashedly tarnished it and that was those young Spanish tourists. They spoke to everyone in Spanish peppered with slang and became frustrated when the locals didn’t understand a word or two. They ordered Spanish omelettes, Spanish breakfasts, and even Spanish paella from local restaurants and seemed shocked when these foods weren’t available. Morocco, to these young tourists from across the Straits of Gibraltar, was just a cheap place where hashish could be bought – nothing more. I lost a lot of respect for the Spanish of my generation during that brief stay in the Rif Mountains. In fact, I don’t think I will never be able to hear them – as they often do – criticize Americans again for I could barely see a distinction between frat guys from back home who fly to Cancun or Spanish college students who drive down to Chefchaouen, except for perhaps the fact that they’re on different continents.

"Another Spanish tourist?! That's it, I'm outta here."

The day before the Gran Tour was to end, I woke with a rumbling in my stomach that just wouldn’t go away. The coffee from the previous morning had finally shown its full potential. By the time we had seated ourselves for lunch, I could withstand it no longer. The call of the Beast had grown too powerful... He needed to be fed.

"Damn Beast is calling me again. Shouldn't have had all of that couscous last night."

What I am about to tell you, dear reader, is not for the faint of heart. Furthermore, I assure you, the things I am about to recount did come to pass. I have oft created stories, embellished, and even lied in the past – but these events, the ones you shall now read about, are factual and unaltered. I write them as they occurred and leave it to posterity, and science, to decide whether they are true or not.

"Gather round, children. I have a tale to tell:
It all happened a few years ago, when the famed Don Quijote visited our humble little town..."

As I bore my bare bottom to the Beast and relinquished what little self-control I had left, an explosion of unfathomable proportions spread out in a 360 degree radius. I was lucky enough to grab onto an exposed pipe protruding from the wall as I was propelled forward from the mere magnitude of that massive bowel movement. The ensuing shockwaves which resonated in that little tiled lavatory lasted for at least five minutes – eventually resulting in the shattering of a mirror and the dislodging of a few loose tiles. I struggled to clean up the mess in the aftermath, especially at the devastated Ground Zero, but soon found my relief efforts hampered by copious amounts of previously undiscovered natural gas which must have surfaced during the aforementioned explosion. I grabbed onto that same exposed pipe protruding from the wall and held on for dear life as my thoughts drifted back to that cursed café waiter in Fès – he had indeed brewed me a cup of coffee I wouldn’t soon forget.

"What are you doing, baby? Don't you know I got diarrhea?"

As I reemerged from the lair of the Beast, having fed Him a feast, I returned to our coterie with that same look of disbelief I had witnessed on the Marquis’ face but one evening before. How could one man produce so much gas? Only then did I fully understand the Hiroshima comment and nod to him in solidarity.
"Jesus," I began. "What the hell did that guy put in the coffee yesterday?"
"You think it was the coffee that did this to us?" the Marquis replied.
"It had to be! It’s the only thing we’ve had this entire trip that the girls didn’t touch, right?"
Sancho and the Baroness agreed. They were both diarrhea-free.
"What a way to end the week," the Marquis shook his head.
"I know. How can a little cup of coffee do all this?"
"No idea, man. No idea."
"That really IS the strongest cup of coffee I’ve ever had. If that doesn’t wake you up, I don’t know what will... Just think... If we could somehow harness the power of that coffee! Send tourists to that little café in Fès and then, a day or so later, capture the gas. Put it to good use. My God, do you realize what we’ve stumbled upon here? A continuously renewable energy source of such proportions... why, why... That little café could power all of Morocco!"
"You’re an idiot," Sancho concluded.

This guy must have overheard us as he appears to be pondering the same thing:
"If only we could somehow harness the power!"

The following day, we caught the only bus out of Chefchaouen directly to the port of Tangier. It was a three hour journey north but, thanks to a few miraculous pills the Marquis had wisely brought along from Spain, the call of the Beast was successfully subdued. As we arrived late in the afternoon, we found that one ferry had just departed and, due to yet another delay, would have to wait nearly three hours for the next ship to dock. Our Spanish home was just in sight across the Straits of Gibraltar as we sat on the concrete and waited.

Ah, Spain - the land where bull is king - is calling from across the Straits

Our ferry finally arrived as the sun completed its slow descent over the horizon. We boarded – the weary Marquis of Maple, the fatigued Baroness von Pierogi, the exhausted (yet still lovely) Sancho Panza, and I, the battle-worn Don Quijote – and sailed off towards Spain, Tarifa and, eventually, dear old Cádiz. As I stood there on the deck of the ship along with the fading daylight and stared southwards, to Africa and the Maghreb, I felt sad that the Gran Tour du Maroc had finally reached its end. It had been a great adventure and a great discovery of a mysterious land of false expectations I had once known nothing about. I continued staring at the fading lights in the distance and feeling that strong sense of sadness – until I realized it wasn’t sadness at all. No, that was a different feeling altogether... One that could only be subdued by those miraculous little pills the Marquis was carrying. Thank Allah we were going back home.

Semana Santa

2006-04-07T11:55:00.000-04:00

Sorry everyone, but there won't be a new article this Sunday.

Next week is Semana Santa (Holy Week) and all public institutions are closed from Monday to Friday. That includes, yep you guessed it, schools. So, what should I do with my week off? Stay here and watch processions for a second year in a row?

No thank you very much. I'm off to Morocco with my lovely fiancée and two other fellow teachers. For those of you curious as to why I'm not staying here for Semana Santa, or simply curious as to what actually goes on in Cádiz that week, take a look at an article I wrote on the whole thing last year titled, KLANSMEN & KROSSES:

http://bigtitsandpussy.blogspot.com/2005/06/klansmen-and-krosses-june-5-2005.html

Have a great week everyone! Until we return... Hasta Luego!

In Memoriam [APRIL 2, 2006]

2006-04-02T11:34:00.000-04:00

Our faithful steed, our cherished companion, our loyal blind Labrador, Ema... passed away suddenly this week.

She had hardly eaten anything at all for about a week and had even once fainted from exhaustion when we decided to take her to the vet on Monday. The blood test results came back on Tuesday afternoon and it didn’t look too good. Acute kidney failure. Ema’s primary metabolic organ had ceased to filter out bodily toxins and would no longer expel them through the bladder. Her urine had, instead, turned into nearly the same consistency as water as the deadly toxins slowly built up in her bloodstream. By the time we noticed the problem – by the time the poison started having adverse effects on her eating habits and visibly altering her behavior – it was already too late. The vet told us she would soon lose her appetite completely and begin to vomit whatever bile had managed to work its way back up her digestive system. She would eventually starve to death if the toxins didn’t kill her first. Finally, we were told about one of the strange side-effects of the poisoned blood now coursing through our faithful friend’s veins. It was numbing her entire nervous system with the same result as if she were drunk, high, or both. She couldn’t feel a thing...

We took Ema home to consider her options and give our friend what would be the last thing she ever ate – a single slice of Spanish chorizo. We offered her more but she simply wouldn’t touch the cured meat. The predicted complete loss of appetite had already begun. Ema didn’t eat a morsel the rest of that day nor the next few days. She was soon too weak to even sit up or even wag her tail and, on Wednesday afternoon, emptied the contents of her bile-saturated stomach onto herself. There was nothing more that could be done. We made the difficult decision to euthanize our faithful companion and put her out of her misery as we scheduled that most difficult of visits to the veterinary office the next day...

The vet gave Ema a tranquilizer which put her to sleep as her furry doggie head rested on my crying fiancée’s feet. I gently lifted our slumbering comrade and took her into the operating room where we placed her on the stainless steel table in the center. The vet shaved her forepaw, found a vein, and inserted the needle. Our loyal steed’s heart ceased beating a few seconds later...

Time, it is written, heals all and I’m sure it will. After all, this is only our third day without Ema. The thing is – I never thought I would be so grief-ridden over the death of a mutt. If a year ago, someone had told me that their dog had just died, I would simply tell them to get over it and buy a new one. What’s the big deal? But things are different now. I only lived with Ema for a bit over half a year here in Spain, but she was my dog, damn it. She had her own personality, her own quirks, and her own habits. They say no human has the same exact fingerprint and I’m sure no doggie sniffs other doggie’s genitalia in the same exact way. What I now know that I didn’t one year ago is that you can always replace a pet, but you can’t replace an individual.

Ema started out as a pet - first my fiancée's and then mine...

But she ended up being more than that... A true member of the family

It’s these small things – those little quirks and habits – that my fiancée and I miss the most now that our little furry friend has parted. There’s no one to eagerly greet us with a wagging tail at the door anymore, only an empty apartment. There’s no one to follow me into the bathroom each time I go to stink it up, only a foul stench that lingers until a window is opened or a match is lit. Worst of all, there’s no one sleeping or resting under our kitchen table. That was Ema’s home, her bed. Now it just doesn’t feel the same each time I walk into that room. I still find myself looking underneath it, looking for that faithful face anxious to get a gentle pat on the head or little scratch on that soft tummy of hers... But she’s not just not there anymore. There’s an emptiness under that table now, just as there’s an emptiness in our hearts.

Who will put up with my bathroom stench now?

And when will I stop looking under the kitchen table for something that's not there?

Hell, I even miss the things that Ema used to do that really pissed me off. And nothing pissed me off more than her inopportune bowel movements. Every time she took a dump outside a busy street corner café or on the beach, I invariably ended up bending over to scoop up that stanky pile of poo. A brief apology to those staring at me degradingly and I would be on my embarrassed way. How I hated that mutt at moments like that! She even got in one last defecation-insult before she went... As I lifted a tranquilized, high and drunk Ema for the final time this past Thursday to put her on the vet’s operating table she – you guessed it – left a little poo scented smear on my favorite shirt and beige dress pants. But who can hold it against that faithful steed now? It must have been her way of saying goodbye... One last "zinger" for the road.

Ema could do her business at any moment... And I often paid the price with the infamous Poo-Finger

But all of that is now said and done. The good times and the bad have both begun that inexorable journey of change, a change into nothing but fond memories for those we once loved. Ema – our faithful steed, our cherished companion, our loyal blind Labrador – you will be sorely missed in both our homes and our hearts. And although I don’t believe in God, Buddha, Vishnu, or Jesus, I do believe in the Great Mutt-hammed. And I’m sure, wherever Ema may be in Doggie Heaven, she’s sniffing genitalia, chasing tennis balls, and pooing in front of busy cafés to her dear heart’s content...

_________________________________________________________________

Homer’s The Odyssey (Book XVII: 34-37) – Odysseus [in disguise as a beggar as he first arrives home in Ithaca] and Eumaios [his old friend who has yet to recognize the disguise] converse in front of Odysseus’ palace:

Now as these two were conversing thus with each other,
a dog who was lying there raised his head and ears. This was
Argos, patient-hearted Odysseus’ dog, whom he himself
raised, but got no joy of him, since before that he went to sacred
Troy. In the days before, the young men had taken him
out to follow goats of the wild, and deer, and rabbits;
but now he had been put aside, with his master absent,
and lay on the deep pile of dung, from the mules and oxen,
which lay abundant before the gates, so that the servants
of Odysseus could take it to his great estate, for manuring.

There the dog Argos lay in the dung, all covered with dog ticks.
Now, as he perceived that Odysseus had come close to him,
he wagged his tail, and laid both ears back; only
he now no longer had the strength to move any closer
to his master, who, watching him from a distance, without Eumaios
noticing, secretly wiped a tear away, and said to him:

"Eumaios, this is amazing, this dog that lies on the dunghill.
The shape of him is splendid, and yet I cannot be certain
whether he had the running speed to go with this beauty,
or is just one of the kind of table dog that gentlemen
keep, and it is only for show that their masters care for them."

Then, O swineherd Eumaios, you said to him in answer:
"This, it is too true, is the dog of a man who perished
far away..."

So he spoke, and went into the strongly settled palace,
and strode straight on, to the great hall and the haughty suitors.

But the doom of dark death now closed over the dog, Argos,
when, after nineteen years had gone by, he had finally seen Odysseus.
_________________________________________________________________

Pichas and Chochos [MARCH 26, 2006]

2006-03-26T12:22:00.000-05:00

If there’s one thing responsible parents the world over don’t tolerate in the least from their young ones – apart from incest – it’s cussing. Whereas playing doctor with lil’ sis’ or big bro’ is about as naughty as it gets, an inappropriate vulgarity uttered in the presence of Mommy or Daddy will sometimes get that temper going just as much. Sure a few curses slip through in the older kids but, at least while they’re still young, most attempts are made at keeping "potty mouth" exposure to a minimum. Parents and neighbors alike take precautions to watch what they’re saying and what is said around toddlers and the easily-impressionable ones. For the most part, everyone around the child takes care to adhere to this rigid censorship of F-, A-, and C- words. Even, horror of horrors, "Big Tits" and "Pussy" are normally vocabulary that’s out of bounds too. In fact, their usage might cause you to be approached by a stranger and told, "Hey buddy, watch your mouth!" if you’re not careful when there’s a baby carriage around. It even happened to me once back in Pennsylvania when, while at a shopping mall food court, I was extolling the virtues of two recently viewed feature-length films aptly named Night of the Giving Head and Lawrence of Her Labia. Apparently, the soccer moms seated behind me didn’t appreciate the humor involved.

I haven’t really noticed this much care being taken to preserve a child’s innocence here in Spain though. Everyone from Great Grandma to Neighbor Pablo from across the street curse a blue streak – children in the vicinity be damned. The first discernable Spanish word I heard and learned upon first visiting this country nearly two years ago was in Barcelona. I was exploring the architecturally rich metropolis and stopped at a lovely little neighborhood park to watch a group of stereotypical Spanish old men (checkered dress shirts, Panama hats, and all) compete in a friendly game of bocce-ball. Their frail, silver-haired wives sat on the benches behind them gossiping away while minding the grandchildren innocently playing at their feet. "¡Coño!" exclaimed one sweet old pensioner as an opponent knocked one of his balls out of the way. A minute or so later, another "¡Coño!" flew out of a different retiree’s mouth as his ball was also, in turn, displaced. By the time the fifth "¡Coño!" had made its appearance, I knew it was time for my faithful little bilingual dictionary and the first true Spanish lesson of my life. [COÑO:- (1) vulgar cunt (2) vulgar interjection fuck me!; for fuck’s sake!]

"Run for the hills, children! Cover your ears! GranPa's playing bocce-ball."

The extensive use of coño throughout the Iberian Peninsula, however, is well documented. It’s the one swear word – well, at least the nastiest – that seems to slip effortlessly into the daily conversations of fellow Spaniards from the Canary Islands to the Pyrenees Mountains. I think that because it is used so often, the word has simply come to lose the power of insult and vulgarism that its English equivalent still possesses. Coño, in my opinion, is now about as much an insult in Spain as "darn" is to a Kansas City grandmother. You use it when you over-bake an apple pie crust and you use it when someone knocks your bocce ball out of the way – whether there are kids around or not.

"¡Coño! This kitty won't sit still. And to top it all off,
I burned my filthy coño of an apple pie this morning too, dang nabbit."

In Cádiz, though, it’s a different story. My neighbors and fellow residents in this city encircled by the ocean are so vulgar that a simple coño will never do. It just doesn’t quite pack that much of a punch down here. Think about it. We’re talking about Cádiz: The oldest port in Europe; Columbus’ point of embarkation on his second and fourth voyages across the Atlantic; Home of the invincible Spanish Armada; Harbor for Napoleon’s mighty Franco-Hispanic fleet (which the British Royal Navy defeated a few miles down the coast at the Battle of Trafalgar); And the Spanish Empire’s only trading link to its vast overseas possessions for well over two centuries. If this city hasn’t seen its fair share of sailors over the years, then I don’t know what city has. The result? These people have sailor-talk pulsing through their veins. Sure they use the ubiquitous coño in the same manner and respect as their fellow countrymen, but the people of Cádiz have come to incorporate the vastly more graphic picha and chocho (locally pronounced piSHa and SHoSHo due to the accent) into their everyday speech as well. Bilingual Spanish dictionary lesson number two: [PICHA:- (1) extremely vulgar cock; prick] [CHOCHO:- (1) extremely vulgar cunt; pussy]

Cádiz: A harbor of sailor-talk for nearly three millennia

So how do the people of Cádiz use these little linguistic treasures? Well, they don’t save them for the occasional game of bocce-ball or apple pie bake, that’s for sure. Picha and chocho are so wide spread in their local usage that I would roughly equate them to my own "man," "buddy," or "pal." Picha for males. Chocho for females. It’s a bit shocking when you first hear it and realize what’s being said, but one eventually grows accustomed to such statements as: "Could you please pass me the menu, picha?" and "Good morning, chocho. That’s a nice dress you’ve got on." Everyone from your grandmother to your newborn baby daughter turns into a chocho and all the men from your crippled veteran grandfather to baby Juan become a picha. I once heard a 12-year-old girl talking to her grandmother and ask, "Where were you yesterday at dinner, chocho. We missed you!"

Nothing says Home, Sweet Home like a "Here lives a piSHa from Cai [Cádiz]" plaque

The simple fact that an observer can overhear a 12-year-old girl calling her Granny a chocho in the middle of town just goes to show how widespread the use of these most vulgar of words is. Customers call shop assistants chochos who in turn tell the other picha customers to wait their turn in line. Wives call their husbands pichas and the husbands call both their mistresses and wives chochos. Each time I’m stopped in the street and asked for either a cigarette, a light, or the time, the request inevitably includes a well-placed picha somewhere before the question mark. But that’s adults and teenagers. What about the kids?

Always an appropriate rear-view mirror decoration for the family car:
"[We're] From Cai [Cádiz], PICHA!"

Well, the little ones’ language here in Cádiz is just as bad as their elders and, no doubt, because of them. A twelve-year-old doesn’t learn chocho by watching Sesame Street. She learns it by listening to her mother and father who probably call her one all the time. And even if they don’t, there are plenty of places to see these words displayed throughout the city. Souvenir shops sell t-shirts with picha and chocho scribbled on the front. Football slogans and local songs incorporate the cussing into their lyrics. Hell, if Cádiz had an anthem, I’m sure it would even be included in that. And as for the Doubting Thomases amongst you, who may believe that one 12-year-old’s foul mouth was probably the exception and not the norm, I should remind you that both my finacée and I teach the little children of Cádiz on a daily basis. Trust me... They’re all well versed in the use of coño, chocho, and picha by the time they hit their eighth birthday.

Mommy, Daddy! Can I please get a "Sorry, PICHA, the whole world can't be from Cádiz" t-shirt!
I'll be the most popular kid in GC Philo's English class!

At the end of the day, though, there’s nothing one can do about it. As vulgar and crude as this may seem to the occasional outsider or tourist with a basic knowledge of Spanish, you eventually realize it’s just the way these sailor descendants speak. If you want to be a part of Cádiz and truly experience its culture, then you have to learn to embrace it and join in the "potty mouth" fun. It may be difficult at first but – as long as you’re not a Bible-Thumper from Mississippi with an innate hatred for anything unGodly – you’ll eventually adapt and learn to let go of any initial inhibitions. Take me for example. I used to punish my pupils for using bad words but have now come to see the error of my ways. What’s the point of me trying to clean up their language in the classroom when their parents use it every five minutes at home? ...An apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. If you can’t beat them, join them... I’ve even come up with my own little Cádiz-style proverb: "A picha in the hand is worth two in the bush." Unfortunately, in translation, these words of wisdom are somehow lost on the undiscerning ear.

Mein Home, Sweet Home [MARCH 19, 2006]

2006-03-19T10:06:00.000-05:00

As expected, the south of Spain attracts quite a mixed lot of residents. Nearly permanent sunny skies, miles of golden beaches, mountains of fresh seafood, and the cheapest wine this side of that boxed stuff Hobo Joe usually carts around (although of vastly superior quality) all meet up at a crossroads here. The result? Colorful characters from the industrialized world over.

While most of these non-Spaniards flock to Andalucía’s Mediterranean coast, known as the Costa del Sol, we still get our fair share here on the Atlantic side, the Costa de la Luz. The guiris (local slang for foreigners) on the Costa del Sol have brought with them ugly utilitarian condo complexes and have inadvertently been the cause for everything from billboards to street sings that are no longer written in Spanish, but in German and English. Thankfully, we’ve been spared this mass invasion and conquest of Spanish culture here on the Costa de la Luz. Most of our guiris only come here as Spanish students and end up staying for the duration of their course – usually six months or so – before returning to Ireland, Norway, Russia or whichever other far-flung corner of the globe or continent they came from.

Of course, there are exceptions but these usually come from the dregs of society: Moroccan migrant laborers, African pirate DVD street merchants, Chinese brand-name design counterfeiters, German homeless alcoholics, and American English teachers. The last lot, though, are by far the worst... They haven’t showered in months, stink of cheap booze, stumble through the streets at night hurling drunken epithets in a language the locals don’t understand, and contributing nothing to society... I just re-read that sentence and sorry about the mix-up. I meant to say the second to last lot, the German homeless alcoholics, not the last lot, the American English teachers, do those things. We English teachers contribute a lot to society and, believe it or not, take a shower every now and then too.

Come on now... He doesn't REALLY look like an English teacher, does he?

Honestly though, I really am amazed at how many homeless Germans there are here. (There aren’t really any homeless Spaniards due to the fact that family bonds are so strong in this country and, no matter what, your parents will always give you a roof over your head – even if you are in your mid-forties, alcoholic, and unemployed.) My first roommate in Cádiz was a Brazilian doctor who has been working in a local clinic for years. He told me how, when he had finished work one day in 2002 and was walking home, a bunch of ragged German street-dwellers started following him and hassling him. It turned out, that evening was the final match of the World Cup (Germany versus Brazil) and they had seen the Brazilian flag on his backpack. They followed him all the way home and continued yelling in German and broken Spanish, "We’re gonna kick your ass tonight!" The one thing I couldn’t understand was, Where the hell do drunken, squalid and homeless Germans from the streets of Cádiz go to watch World Cup matches?

"Wake up guys... Günther, Hans. The big game's on in a few minutes!"

Besides, isn’t Germany supposed to have one of the best welfare states in Europe, if not the world? Aren’t Germans a stereotypically industrious lot capable of building superior-quality automobiles and creating order out of the most random chaos? Why do homeless Germans need to come to the Costa de la Luz when their country is large and rich enough to accommodate all of their numbers and then some? Maybe, the Fatherland is in search of some new Lebensraum. Poland proved too difficult to tame over half a century ago so now the mass armies of destitute, alcoholic Aryans have turned their expansionist dreams to this little corner of Andalucía. Or, more likely and who can blame them, they prefer being homeless by the sandy beach and in the warming sun to living is some half-frozen subway station in Frankfurt. Either way, they’re here to stay.

Screw Deutschland - The bums in Spain get siestas!

This brings me to my main point and the focus of this article. The only German that I know, personally, in Cádiz isn’t of the street-dwelling variety. She isn’t even a temporary student. No, she’s a full-time guiri like me and my only guiri neighbor. Her name is Roswitha and she lives two floors above me. As I previously said, she isn’t of the street-dwelling variety... but she might as well be. She always stinks of cheap booze, hardly speaks a word of Spanish, and stumbles through the narrow streets of the city at all hours of the day. I guess the sunny skies, golden beaches, and inexpensive wine drew her to Andalucía too. Fortunately for me, and for you dear reader, she must have been too sozzled up on the journey down from Deutschland because she ended up here on the Costa de la Luz instead of the immensely more popular, and Germanized, Costa del Sol.

Where to begin with Roswitha... She’s simply incredible. My girlfriend and I met her about a year ago. It must have been a few days after she had moved into our building when she first rang our doorbell. I opened up and saw a skinny woman with short gray hair and sunken cheeks. She appeared to be in her early fifties, "Perdone las molestias. Soy su nueva vecina. [Excuse the disturbance. I am your new neighbor.]" As I continued speaking to her and introduced myself, I realized that her knowledge of Spanish was basically confined to those first few words she had managed to spit out. The rest of the conversation was conducted on her part in a form of pidgin Spanish – using what little she knew of the local tongue and filling in the gaps with German or French. As it turned out, she was unable to open her door and needed some help with the locks. I went upstairs, put in the key, and opened the door on my first attempt. That’s when I smelled the booze on her breath and realized why she must have been having such a rough time getting the damn thing open. "Danke! Gracias! Danke!" she thanked me profusely. I told her it was nothing and, before I had a chance to go, she asked if my girlfriend and I were local Spaniards. I told her I was American and my girlfriend was Czech to which she replied, "Ohhh! Praga! Das ciudad is muy bonita! Muy bonita! [roughly, Ohhh! Prague! That city is very beautiful! Very beautiful!]" Apparently, she had visited Prague in the early Nineties. She said that she was from Cologne, thanked me again while expressing how beautiful Prague was, and bid me farewell with her whiskey-tainted breath as I descended the stairs to my apartment.

A week later. Thursday night. A buzz at the front door. "Si?" I responded through the intercom. "Perdone las molestias. Soy su nueva vecina..." Low and behold, it was Roswitha. She introduced herself once again and told me that she had problems with her lock – if only I would be kind enough to help her with the keys. She had no idea who my girlfriend and I were and asked me the same exact questions as before. When I told her that we weren’t Spanish but American and Czech, a look of surprise descended upon her bloodshot eyes and she began extolling the beautiful and breathtaking qualities of Prague. She then leant forward and told me, with a breath of booze that could have gotten an Irishman drunk, that she was from Cologne.

I think you know where this is going. At least once a fortnight, for the past year or so, Roswitha rings our buzzer and, after the "Perdone las molestias" routine, asks us to help her with the keys. She then inquires into our nationality and ends the conversation by praising the beauty of Prague. We finally had enough on Carnaval Tuesday when she pressed our buzzer at four in the morning. Half asleep, I answered the intercom to see who it was... "Perdone las molestias. Soy su nueva vecina..." That’s when my girlfriend and I let her have it. We told her we were trying to sleep, her locks worked fine if she would just sober up and learn how to actually put the key in the keyhole, and, for God’s sake, she wasn’t our new neighbor. She had been living in the same building as us for nearly a year now and – Yes, we knew – she was from Cologne, she had once visited Prague in the early Nineties and it was a beautiful city. She was taken aback by our sudden explosion of emotions and, when she had finally absorbed it all, asked us how it was possible that complete strangers knew so much about her. I told her to forget about it, grabbed her by the drunken arm, and helped her up the stairs and with her keys once again. By the time she rang our doorbell a week or so later, she had forgotten about the entire incident and the same ol’ routine had resumed.

My girlfriend (or I should now say my lovely fiancée!) and I have now come to terms with Roswitha’s little visits and learned to accept her drunken quirks, whiskey odor, and memory loss. She’s our own little piece of homeless Germany here in the very building we occupy and adds to the general experience of living in Cádiz. After all, the city has to put up with throngs of street-dwelling Aryans and we’ve only got one middle-aged booze-guzzling amnesiac who, for some reason, prefers pressing our buzzer when there are five other just as shiny buttons directly next to it. Didn’t you know? She doesn’t disturb our Spanish neighbors with her "Perdone las molestias" routine, just us. It’s like we share some sort of a cosmic guiri connection here in this foreign land... those wacky Germans and American English teachers like myself must have more in common than I initially thought (except for – and I swear – the whole not showering thing).

The Bohemian - A Novel

2006-03-18T10:03:00.000-05:00

Hey everyone, I finally ended up transferring my entire novel, THE BOHEMIAN, online. So while I keep looking for a publisher, give it a read and let me know what you think!

http://thebohemiannovel.blogspot.com/

Good News Everyone!

2006-03-14T08:01:00.000-05:00

I asked my lovely girlfriend to marry me yesterday, and she said yes!

The Thirteenth of March, 2006

Three joyful years do pass this eve
Since Love first had Her way
Yet from that moment did conceive
A passion burning to this day

This fire in my heart does dwell
It dances and leaps about
Your beauty has cast its wondrous spell
Of that there is no doubt

Those sapphire eyes first struck my nerves
And then your pearly smile
By the time I reached your buxom curves
Well... I had to stare a while!

The blaze these things did once ignite
Has only seemed to grow
For this fire I speak of – this eternal light
Every day does brighter glow

Three joyful years do pass this eve
Since Love first had Her way
And seeing as Her flame won’t leave
Why not asking it to stay?

A Carnaval For The Masses [MARCH 5, 2006]

2006-03-05T07:40:00.000-05:00

To the people of Cádiz: Pack up your costumes, wash off your alcohol-stained coats, and drink a strong cup of coffee to get rid of that hangover. I’m sorry to inform you, but Carnaval has officially come to an end today. The final fireworks just went up in the distance and the traditional giant witch has been burnt on the evening beach. (A very windy beach that nearly killed some people when the entire thing went up in flames. Haven’t you people ever heard of safety measures?) I don’t want to hear any whining either. After all, you’ve had your ten days of fun and produced around 136,000 kilos (approximately 300,000 pounds) of trash in the process. It’s time for you to go back to work tomorrow... Sorry, I forgot Cádiz has an unemployment figure of over 30%... It’s time for those of you who actually have work to go back to work tomorrow.

The fireworks I understand, but isn't burning a 15-foot tall witch on the beach some sort of a fire hazard?
Screw it, this is Spain and Carnaval... Burn Baby, Burn!!!

The thing that strikes me as most odd when it comes to the Carnaval de Cádiz is how long the damn thing lasts. Last time I checked, carnivals were supposed to end on Mardi Gras, or Shrove Tuesday. Carnival originated as, and is meant to be, a celebration of eating meat and doing all the other stuff you’re not allowed to do during Lent before the fasting actually begins. And Lent, as far as Catholicism is concerned, starts the day after Mardi Gras on Ash Wednesday. So does that mean the devoutly Catholic Spanish of Cádiz were lined up outside their local church on Wednesday waiting for the priest to solemnly place an ashen cross on their foreheads? Hell no! They were still boozing in the streets, taking a piss on alleyway corners, and trying to get laid by the first drunken member of the opposite sex that crossed their intoxicated path. Whereas New Orleans, Rio de Janeiro, and Venice all ended their carnival celebrations on Tuesday night, Cádiz kept on going until the following weekend. This is a fiesta... The beginning of Lent be damned!

Welcome to Cádiz, where Carnaval is King!

But I’m getting ahead of myself. You see, Carnaval technically started about a month ago. These groups of singers known as coros (chorus) compete each year in the city’s elaborate theater in order to be crowned that year’s cherished Coro de Cádiz. The contest goes on each night with a new group of contestants singing their hearts out. The only problem is that the music sucks. I’m talking seriously sucks. Every coro performance has more or less the same rhythm and they all play that most wonderfully versatile instrument of all instruments, the kazoo – although the clave sticks were also sometimes thrown in for a bit of spice. The only thing that changes with each performance are the costumes and the lyrics but seeing as the local accent is so difficult to understand (native-speaking Spaniards from Madrid and other regions of the country have problems understanding the Cádiz accent too), I don’t stand a chance of deciphering what they’re singing. Anyway, this revolting music goes on for about a month and is even broadcast – live in the evenings in addition to over and over again through daytime re-runs – on the local TV stations. I would rather listen to Celine Dion do an interpretation of some AC/DC hits than the coros of Cádiz so I’m more than happy when all of this madness comes to an end the day before Carnaval begins.

Just another bunch of street-corner coros: Do you guys know how to play FreeBird?
Nah, I didn't think so...

On that Friday, the finals of the contest are held and that year’s coros champion is selected. More importantly, the crowning of the new victors signals the official beginning of Cádiz’s beloved Carnaval. The people of Cádiz absolutely adore this fiesta. It is a celebration to call their own and a chance to show off their city to the rest of Spain – Cádiz holds the largest Carnival in the nation – and the globe. People from all over the world come here for the festival. Technically, Carnaval is meant to be a showpiece for the winning coro and the numerous runner-ups as they play their horrid, monotonous, toneless songs on various street corners. But people don’t come from Italy, Russia, Germany, and Argentina to hear some stupid coros. My friend from the Czech Republic definitely didn’t come for that. No sir, he came for one thing and one thing alone. To get piss drunk.

"Ja, I come from the Nord' to drink your women and rape your wine."

The drinking starts on Saturday and it continues for nine days. That first day, everyone gets senselessly sozzled and wanders the streets in crazy costumes. Most costumes are home-made and, for that reason, many people continue to wear them throughout the nine days of festivities. But not all of them. That first day, however, everyone is dressed up from Grandma Martinez to Baby Pedro. Revelers on the streets are disguised as anything from a Roman soldier to a seductive nurse, regardless of gender.

Everyone gets dressed up the first Saturday of Carnaval, from the Masked Mutt of MonteCristo to ChickenLittle himself

Then, at night, the nine days of street-boozing begins

The vast majority of costumes, though, are of a sexual or religious nature and, more often than not, both. I couldn’t begin to count how many pregnant nuns or priests with bulges in their pants I saw that evening and this past week. One night, I even saw this little old Sister – who I first assumed was an actual nun – with a rosary dangling from her neck and a portable altarpiece in her frail, wrinkled hands. She stopped in front of me and my Czech friend, opened her altarpiece to reveal a huge, glowing, red penis inside, and proceeded to bless us with the latex phallus and the sign of the cross. We solemnly thanked her for such kind words in the name of the Lord and went humbly on our way. Amen.

That's sacrilegious... Nuns arent't supposed to wear mini-skirt. Or ride those crazy triple-bikes!

And priests DEFINITELY aren't supposed to mention vagina, let alone talk to it and pose for pictures with it!

The next day, Sunday, was when the City of Cádiz was to show that it wouldn’t be outdone by its own citizens. It staged the enormous Gran Cabalgata Magna parade which must have had at least twenty floats and hundreds of costumed participants. The floats varied from kiddie-theme ones – like the Tele-Tubbies or the immensely popular Los Lunnis – to more adult ones like the disco-strip float where topless teenage boys danced in Speedos as girls of the same age dressed in bikini tops and thongs grinded against them. (Although most of these Lolitas made for excellent eye candy, I must admit that a few of those half-naked porkers should have been jumping up and down in an aerobics class and not on a float traveling through the city’s business district.) What must have been twice the city’s population and then some lined the wide Avenida where the parade took place and cheered on as spectators. When it was all said and done, those of us still recovering from the previous day’s hangover headed back into the old city center to start drinking in the streets again. Those with no hangovers, i.e. the die-hard Carnaval enthusiasts who had been drinking for 24 hours straight, kept on at what they had been doing since the weekend began. A hangover could wait for the next day.

Set up chairs along the Avenida, La Gran Cabalgata Magna is starting soon...

Extravagant floats ranging from Teenage Strippers to SpongeBob SquarePants...
Whether you're a seasoned pedophile or a budding toddler, there's bound to be something that catches your eye!

Universities and schools were lucky enough to be closed the entire week. Even banks were only opened for three hours on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. The rest of Cádiz, however, had to make do with less and only shut down on Monday and Tuesday. Tuesday just happened to be the regional Dia de Andalucía but Monday was a true Cádiz holiday of its own. No other city in Spain treats that Monday as a public holiday but here where I reside the store fronts are closed and calendars have it marked as El Lunes de Resaca. For those of you who don’t speak Spanish, that translates into Hangover Monday. You may have heard of Holy Monday or Easter Monday, but here in Cádiz the only Monday that really counts is Hangover Monday. Grandparents, parents, and children all gather together under the same roof on this most sacred of holidays in order to overcome the effects of Carnaval weekend’s near alcohol-poisoning. They drink strong cups of black coffee together and take the ritual cold shower after asking Granny to hold their hair as each respective family member dry-heaves into the toilet. My Czech friend, my girlfriend, and I just stayed in bed until about two in the afternoon... moaning and sucking down as much water as possible.

"Give it a rest Granny, it's Hangover Monday"
(This is an actual bus-stop poster advertizing the local beer)

A quick word concerning hangovers is in order at this point. When my Czech friend first arrived in Cádiz, we went out for a few of the best beers Spain has to offer. He spat them out in disgust and pondered how a nation of forty million could drink such foul-tasting barley water. I told him that a lifetime of drinking premium Czech Pilsner had ruined all other beer for him. Be that as it may, he refused to drink anymore Spanish beer and turned to the best alcohol the Province of Cádiz has to offer – sherry. Now, I can easily drink a bottle, or five or six, of beer and have no problems. But give me a few glasses of fortified wine, let alone the bottle we ended up drinking each night of Carnaval, and I’m gone further than Hemingway on a Parisian bender. And, trust me, the heads you get from having one too many glasses of sherry are as strong as they come – worthy of Hangover Monday itself.

After a bottle of sherry, who knows what you'll end up doing

However mighty that morning after the night before feeling may be, though, it’s no reason for a good Spaniard to slow down his or her Carnaval activities. The yearly fiesta to end all fiestas simply kept on going strong for six more days until it finally ended today, March the 5th also known as El Domingo de Piñata, with the pyromaniacal witch-burning and closing fireworks that went up at around midnight. My girlfriend, on the other hand, had had her fill of the entire thing days ago. To be honest, I was sort of fed up with all of this fiesta as well (After all, how much sherry can one drunken expat English teacher be expected to drink?) but continued going out as the week wound on just to keep my vacationing Czech friend company. While I stayed out late into the wee hours of the morning, my girlfriend found it impossible to sleep with all the banging and drunken racket from the streets outside permeating our bedroom. Worse yet, each time she or I ventured out to walk the dog, we ended up dodging mountains of beer-soaked garbage and shards of broken bottles so that the mutt’s paws wouldn’t get cut up. Our door even got urinated on so many times that its facade began to emit a pungently acrid odor. I’m only thankful no one defecated on our doorstep. But my girlfriend and I weren’t the only ones that had to put up with these despicable acts of dishonor to both home and neighborhood. Besides, we’ve only been living here for a year. Imagine those poor neighbors of ours that have been enduring this Carnaval carnage for decades.

Yeah, yeah, you got a beautiful voice, Toots. But try to keep it down a bit, will ya'?

You see, for every four residents who absolutely adore Carnaval, there’s at least one who wholly detests it. Nowhere is this truer than in our barrio (neighborhood), La Viña, where Carnaval revelry is at its wildest. Remember that extra 136,000 kilos (300,000 pounds) I told you about that was dumped on the streets over the past nine days? Well most of it fell on La Viña outside my door. Then it got pissed on. This neighborhood is also the traditionally working class quarter so the houses are a bit shabbier and the unemployment is even higher than the city-wide average of 30%. The result of all this is that a number of the barrio residents are angry with the local government and letting their woes be known. A day before Carnaval erupted and the streets of La Viña flooded with tourists and wealthier Spaniards, an unhappy brave few ventured out into the narrow streets that would see the most fiesta action and blanketed the walls with graffiti. "Una semana cantando, todo el año tragando" ("One week of singing, an entire year of putting up [with this bullshit]"), "Bienvenido a la Capital del Paro" ("Welcome to the Capital of Unemployment"), and "Carnaval en la calle porque no hay viviendas" ("Carnaval in the street because there are no homes" [Local housing prices have increased by 145% since 1997 while salaries have remained relatively the same]) all appeared on numerous street corners and alleyways mostly in La Viña but throughout other barrios as well. The City of Cádiz spends hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of Euros putting on parades, buying fireworks, and hiring extra security and cleaning firms to take care of the filthy mess produced by Carnaval revelers and ensure that they are having a good time but won’t address the critical issues of unemployment and ridiculously high housing costs that threaten to overwhelm its residents every other day of the year. It comes as no surprise that a few locals that I know actually use Carnaval as an opportunity to escape from the city and go on holiday. They would rather be hundreds of kilometers away in a hotel than party in their own neighborhood streets and partake in the hypocrisy that hangs over it.

Welcome to the Capital of Unemployment...

...And what it looks like every morning for 9 days as Carnaval rages on at night

However most of the local residents, the vast majority in fact, celebrate Carnaval to their heart’s content and let the hypocrisy be damned. Perhaps this says a lot about the local character too: When life’s looking down and you feel like a frown, just fiesta!, fiesta!, fiesta! away. Then again, maybe Carnaval is the easy way out. It’s a lot easier to buy a bottle of whiskey, sherry, or beer and drink it down in the streets than to address pressing social and economic issues. In fact, sometimes, having a few glasses of the strong stuff and wearing a wild costume may seem like the only possibility.

"We ain't got jobs, but it's cool. Can ya' dig it?"

But, as I announced at the opening paragraph, it is time for you – the few people of Cádiz who actually have a job – to get back to work. El Domingo de Piñata has come and gone and those nine long days of Carnaval, one of the longest carnivals the world has to offer, has finally bowed its last curtain call. Whereas a few locals are, I’m sure, eager to return to life as usual, the overwhelming majority of you probably can’t wait for next year’s Carnaval to begin. After all, when you don’t have a job, are in your mid-thirties, and still live under the same roof as your grandparents, what else do you have to look forward to? Don’t fret just yet though! I’ve been told that this coming Sunday, a mere week after the largest street party Spain has to offer, the very same City of Cádiz is planning to organize a one day Mini-Carnaval. I swear it’s true folks so forget about your woes! I guess nine days just wasn’t enough and Town Hall has come to realize it... You know, Karl Marx must have never visited Cádiz in his day because, as far as this town is concerned, Carnaval is the true opiate of the masses. The local government better keep its fingers crossed and hope the downtrodden residents never come to realize it.

The Winter of Our Discontent [FEBRUARY 26, 2006]

2006-02-28T11:57:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine spotted his first nipple of the year on the beach a few days ago. One of the young and firm female varieties. Granted, the owner of the nipple in question probably wasn’t Spanish. She was most likely from Sweden, Denmark, or somewhere else in the frozen extremities of this continent, but her actions had a significant impact nonetheless. As they say here in the south of Spain (well, they don’t actually say it but they should, damn it), "When the first Scandinavian doth her buxom breasts bare, ‘tis Winter’s end so gather and stare!"

"Keep a look-out fellas... We're bound to see a nipple sooner or later..."

I know it doesn’t seem right that I’m officially calling an end to winter during the last week of February – especially while my girlfriend’s family in Prague is currently experiencing -1C (30F), mine in Philadelphia is living through 25F (-4C) and New York City is just recovering from the worst snowstorm in its history – but a Scandinavian nipple is a mighty portent indeed and one that is best not ignored. Honestly, though, winter is something we never really experience in full here in Cádiz. It typically only lasts for about two months and during that time the temperature hardly ever drops below freezing anyway. Now I know what you’re thinking: "There are only two months of mild winter in the sunny south of Spain? What am I doing here? Why the hell don’t I sell the house, put all my stuff in storage, send the kids to boarding school, lock Granny up in a retirement home, and move down there to España by the sandy beaches and sunny skies too?" But don’t be too hasty. There are a few things you should consider first before telling Granny and the young ones to start packing their extended-stay suitcases.

Sunbathers? But isn't it winter? They must be Scandinavian

First of all, just because the local Spanish say there isn’t any winter here doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s true. Like I stated earlier, there are a good two months of cold here. Who cares though, right? Cuddling next to the crackling fireplace in the warm living room for only two months out of the year isn’t that bad. Normally, I would agree with you but there’s one thing not to be overlooked. You see, the southern Spanish are just so damn reluctant to admit that it actually gets cold here, that they choose to ignore it altogether. What’s that you say? How can they ignore the cold? Well, according to the local wisdom all along the coastline of Andalucía, the easiest way to accomplish this is by not installing central heating or radiators, let alone that fireplace you were fantasizing about, in any building – not anywhere and not at any time of day or night – no matter how bitterly cold it gets. "This weather will pass soon enough," the seaside residents throughout the region state with pride. I’ve been living here for the better part of two years now and have yet to see an apartment or office building with central heating. During the month of January, my girlfriend and I were forced to wear three or four layers of clothing (and she would often wear her scarf as well) to school as we stood in front of the frozen classrooms and taught our shivering students. By contrast, each classroom in the school is fully equipped with air conditioning.

Ask any Spaniard from this region about winter and they’ll proudly reply, "Winter?! Ha! We don’t have winter here!" But then again, you’ll only hear that reply for ten out of twelve months. The other two, they’ll rub their hands together in the heating-less cold of the local bar or café and dumbfoundedly reply, "Winter?! Ha! You are unlucky, amigo, because this is the coldest winter I have ever experienced!" I thought last year, when I had asked the same question, was the coldest winter he had ever experienced. Either every year for the past few generations has been miraculously colder than the last, or the locals are suffering from some serious short-term memory loss which has resulted in complete ignorance when it comes to indoor heating.

Those winter sunsets are still just as stunning as the summer ones

Another byproduct of this utter reluctance to acknowledge the existence of winter is what I call the "If it doesn’t exist here, then it doesn’t exist anywhere" mentality. For example, locals are often surprised when I tell them about the wonders of this thing I call central heating and how, often times, I feel colder in Cádiz than I ever felt in the Czech Republic or Pennsylvania. "But it is warm here and cold there, no?" is their only puzzled reply. Yeah, that’s right. But it’s not cold at home. "In Cádiz," I tell them, "your toes are freezing whether you’re waiting at a bus stop or in a bank." "When?" they inevitably hit back. "In winter, of course." "But we don’t have winter! Only this year it is very cold. The coldest I have ever experienced!" Go figure.

This year’s winter, however, truly epitomized the "If it doesn’t exist here, then it doesn’t exist anywhere" mentality and greatly more so than others gone by. A Czech friend of mine, who is now visiting us here in Cádiz for about a week, flew into Madrid a few days ago. At the time, the Czech Republic, which had outranked both the USA and Canada, had just made it into the final four of the 2006 Olympic Ice Hockey Tournament. The very night he arrived in Madrid, there was a big game on to see who would advance to the finals. He searched the entire Spanish capital city of nearly 4 million people and could not find one pub that was showing the match. In fact, when he asked various bartenders if they could switch over the TV to Ice Hockey, they first said they didn’t understand what this Ice Hockey he spoke of was and then stared at him in wide-eyed wonder as he attempted to describe this mythical sport where people somehow magically glide across ice as they balance a wooden stick in gloved hands. While most of the world was busy watching the 2006 Winter Olympics in Torino, their Mediterranean neighbors to the west were oblivious to the fact that it was even going on. Had you asked any Spaniard across the country about it, they would have undoubtedly replied, "But I thought that already happened in Athens two years ago?" It’s as if the Winter Olympics had never happened at all here and couldn’t even be fathomed by the 40 million inhabitants of this land. Not one event was broadcast on national Spanish television. Not even the (from what I’ve been told were elaborate) Opening or Closing Ceremonies were shown. The evening news mentioned the city of Turin only once or twice and the written media ignored it completely. In fact, I doubt if a single Spanish team participated in the whole damn sporting event. For God’s sake, even the Jamaicans have a bobsled team! But that doesn’t concern the Spanish. Sure they have snow here (Madrid and many other cities to the north are routinely blanketed with the white stuff) and plenty of ski resorts but, like I said, winter doesn’t happen here. It’s something that happens in other countries and other regions.

Spanish Sportscaster:
"Wait a minute! Are you trying to tell me there's a WINTER Olympics too?"

So where am I going with all of this? Well, don’t be so hasty to send off Granny and the kids just yet because of the winter in southern Spain. Although it only last for those two months, I’m sure you’ll eventually grow to miss your indoor heating and the occasional sight of snowflakes slowly melting on the windowpane. Worse yet, if you’re a sports lover, get ready to wipe your viewing repertoire clean of practically everything except for football (the soccer variety) and maybe a game of basketball every now and then. Winter in Andalucía is short, but it can be a brutal two month affair indeed.

Ahh... Winter's finally over! It's time to enjoy the first BBQ of the year

All of that, however, is now behind us. It is no longer the Winter of our discontent but the beginnings of glorious Summer. My Czech friend and I have been enjoying the currently sunny 17C (62F) weather and even had our first barbecue of the year by the Atlantic this past Friday. We took out the beach chairs, lit the charcoal, threw on a few steaks and popped open some beers as we looked through our shades at the few, yet clearly present, sunbathers down the other side of the beach. They weren’t topless, weren’t that young and probably weren’t Scandinavian, but it didn’t discourage us from staring. The message was clear: Another miserable winter in Cádiz – one that, like the lost city of Atlantis, no one is even sure ever existed – has finally come to an end. It’s time to join the locals in their denial of the fact that it ever gets cold here and soak up the warmth... All as I go to the beach more and more frequently in order to keep a look-out for my first bare buxom breast of the season. And don’t you worry, I’m confident it’ll come along soon enough. Scandinavian nipples are like springtime dandelions. Once someone you know spots the first one of the year, countless others are soon to follow in bloom.

What A Bitch! [FEBRUARY 19, 2006]

2006-02-21T11:04:00.000-05:00

Well, it’s been a tough one and a half weeks – challenging at times, funny at others – but I think it’s finally over. Our faithful steed and loyal household companion, a.k.a. our blind Labrador Retriever named Ema, is no longer in heat. I can now walk comfortably through the winding streets of Cádiz and loosely hold the leash in my relaxed fingers. She no longer sniffs every puddle of urine and damn street corner or curb, but walks with her head held proudly and elegantly as she once did. She even obeys orders again and doesn’t go running into the middle of the street towards the slightest sound resembling a whimper, bark or growl. One look and you can tell... She’s not that horny anymore. But it wasn’t always like this. No sir!

"Hey there, sailor. Lookin' for a good time?"

For those of you that don’t know, I’m a relatively new dog owner. In fact, I would say I was forced into it as my girlfriend flew in Ema from her native Czech Republic with little or no say on my part. I would have rather seen the mangy mutt dead before living with it but, over the course of a few weeks, I became attached to her. In fact, I eventually began looking forward to her emphatic tail-wagging-greetings at the door upon coming home and our nice little strolls on the beach every morning and evening. A few months after that dreaded four-legged carpet first entered my life, I dare say I couldn’t ponder living without her. So, one can imagine my surprise and anxiety when, about two weeks ago, I saw a tiny puddle of blood under where Ema had been sitting. I was worried and picked her up by the tail for a quick inspection when I saw it and called over my girlfriend, "Come quick! There’s something wrong with Ema! Her asshole is bleeding!" But it wasn’t her asshole. It was her vagina and I was warned... she would soon be in heat.

Me, the unexperienced dog owner, a few months ago
unsure of what to do at the sight of other mutts

I’m assuming most people are like me and, as I was prior to this experience, have no idea what exactly is going on when a bitch is in heat. Well, here’s a quick biology lesson. The canine menstrual cycle isn’t like the human one. In fact, bitches only menstruate twice a year for about two weeks and, unlike women, can only get pregnant during this period. During the rest of the year, when they aren’t menstruating, they don’t even think about sex and don’t have to worry about those drops of blood dripping down their hind legs every few minutes. My girlfriend swears it would be perfect if the human female reproductive system worked like that of a dog... No concerns about forgetting to take the pill and getting pregnant all the time; No changing tampons or panty-liners in public lavatories for a week out of every month (and worrying about whether you brought one with you when you go out for the evening); And, best of all, the dreaded PMS would only strike twice a year. I, for one and as a male, would NEVER want it to work that way. It would mean having sex only twice a year and I sometimes need it twice a day! Although, come to think of it and from what I’ve been told, by the time we’ve been together for over a decade, having sex once every six months sounds like the right kind of frequency. Hell, I’ve heard of married men who are lucky to get even that.

"DAMN! I smell me some booty... Is that bitch in heat?"

But getting back to our blind blonde, Ema, she was nothing but one headache after another for those two weeks. First of all and most basically, she would leave blood everywhere. It really started getting on my nerves after the first few days and I even suggested tying a diaper around her hind quarters. My girlfriend said it was a bad idea. She had already tried it once in Prague when Ema was in heat a few years ago. When they went for a walk early one morning all those winters ago and my girlfriend, in her half-awake stupor, forgot to take the diaper off, the dog ended up first pissing and then shitting herself. I’m inclined to think it wasn’t a pretty sight.

Well, how can he wear a ball cap if he doesn't have a ball?

Now that's better!

So, we ended up mopping the blood after Ema every few hours or so. But that wasn’t the most distressing of our worries. The real challenge came when we took her for her obligatory two walks a day. Every time a dog approached, she would prepare for sex by curving her tail to the extreme left or right and leaving it there – allowing for "easy access" as my girlfriend has dubbed it. I thought it wouldn’t be that much of a problem seeing as Ema is blind and can’t actually see any other dogs. But that didn’t stop her. At the mere sound of another mutt, or whiff of what might be a mutt, or even when there wasn’t a mutt around but she thought there might be, our blind fur-ball would just stop there in the middle of the street, curve that tail, and wait patiently for penetration. A strong yank on the leash or a smack on the head was the lone thing that would get her moving again... only so that she could repeat the whole damn thing a minute or so later.

"Hey buddy, forget the old lady. Do you see that bitch? She's curving her tail at me!"

Ema, though, wasn’t the worst part of this daily ritual. In general, she’s very well behaved and trained. Only when it comes to sex does she get all worked up and in a frenzy. As for other dogs – the true mutts of Cádiz – they’re not trained at all and you can imagine how they act when it comes to sex. The male dogs were all over Ema during the daily walks. They’d sniff her hole and follow her half way through the city, ignoring my threats and adamant foot stomping. Where were the owners, you ask? Who knows! The only "responsible" dog-owners you see here in Cádiz, well at least those of them that are old ladies, and don’t let their pets roam free are so lazy to walk their dogs, that they reluctantly do it in their bathrobe and slippers. It’s quite a sight seeing old ladies wander the streets in their comfortable domestic eveningwear and being led by lap-dogs! As for the rest of the locals, the irresponsible ones, they’re probably drinking their coffee somewhere or having an early tapas at the local bar while their mangy mutts roamed free. And mutts is what most of the dogs here in Cádiz are.

Documented Proof: The lady on the left is wearing a blue bathrobe
and slippers in the town center in the middle of the afternoon

I know I call Ema a mutt, but she is actually a pure-bred Labrador with a pedigree. I have only seen a handful of purebreds here in Cádiz. In fact, even the central pet-shop near the fish market only sells cross-breed mutts, and at practically the same price of what you can get a pedigree pure-bred in Prague. Don’t get me wrong, a lot of them are really cute and adorable and their owners still love them, or even dress them up, as they would an adoring child... Even though most of them are strange cross-breeds with protruding jaws or short-haired bodies with long-haired tails or slobbering mouths that their stubby legs can hardly keep up with. The biggest setback, though, must be that they are impossible to train. And even if they weren’t, the Spanish around here don’t seem to mind. They just let them run around town without a leash or even a collar, and leave the dirty work – of keeping those mongrel phalli away from Ema’s purebred love-cavern – to me.

"Hey, bub. Who you callin' a mutt? My name's Sir Winston."

Sorry about that Sir Winston. These guys are the mutts I was talking about...

...And this litte bastard with an underbite made my life
a living hell each time I stepped foot outside the door

Ema must have realized after about halfway through her cycle that she wasn’t going to get any doggy-lovin’ on our watch. That’s when she resorted to desperate measures. At first, she only did it to my girlfriend... As my lovely Czech sat there on the sofa watching TV with her legs crossed, Ema would slowly sneak up and mount by grabbing onto her knee and commencing the infamous doggy-style. I had a good laugh, "Silly mutt! Only male dogs have sex like that!" until she started doing it to me a few days later. In fact, she even mounted a few visitors we had invited over our place during the weekend. No one was safe while Ema was in heat and if she couldn’t get a male from her own species, then a human leg, regardless of gender, would do just fine thank you very much.

Ema under a severe sniff- and lick- blitzkrieg... and enjoying every minute of it

As I initially stated, thank God though that all of this has finally come to an end. Nowadays, we can walk our lovely Labrador on the beach once again without the fear of having her followed by a pack of male dogs frothing at the mouth over the irresistible odor emanating from her nether-regions. She currently prefers, as she once did, chasing balls and eating salami scraps off the pavement to dry-humping the legs of our house guests. Even the local mutts, which used to follow her without reprieve, now give her and me some breathing space... although they occasionally do sneak by and get a well-sought-after sniff or lick. But, most importantly, no matter how much they lick or sniff, that tail doesn’t get into the "easy-access" position anymore. Now, when I tell Ema to sit, she sits. Lie down and she lies. Stay and she stays. She is once again as loyal and obedient as she ever was. Now that I think about it, it’s amazing what will happen to a living creature when sex is involved. It’s a basic instinct and all creatures, from a bird to mankind, would do whatever it takes to get a few precious moments of pleasure. The one thing I don’t understand about dogs, though, is why do they need it so much when they’re in heat if they can just lick their own genitalia? Hell, if I could pull that one off, I would never leave home. In fact, I doubt I would have ever been able to finish typing up this article...

¡Que Aproveche! [FEBRUARY 12, 2006]

2006-02-15T12:25:00.000-05:00

One of the most important things about going to another country and experiencing its culture is having an open mind. It’s a different place and, seeing as you’re only going to be there temporarily, you should try to absorb as much of the local atmosphere as possible. This is especially true when it comes to food. There’s nothing I hate more than seeing a group of Americans here in Spain, who are probably on vacation for less than a week, standing in line to order a Whopper from Burger King. Now I know Whoppers taste delicious – especially with a slice of cheddar cheese and some bacon – but don’t you get enough of that crap at home? You’re in another country for God’s sake... give the local flavor a try.

The two most typical Spanish dishes, ones that are known the world over, are paella and jamón serrano. Actually, paella is the only real dish (rice in a saffron-base with fish and game meat). Jamón is just a leg of cured ham – but it is DAMN good. Now, as a foreigner in Spain, you probably won’t want to try the jamón. I know I didn’t when I first came here. It can appear a bit intimidating under initial impressions seeing as it looks like, well, a leg of ham. And I’m not talking about that butterball processed crap we have back home and call ham. No sir. This one comes in the form of an actual pig’s leg, hoof and all, and dangles from the ceiling for everyone to see. When you first walk by your typical Spanish bar and see those dozens of legs (or even hundreds as I once witnessed in Madrid’s aptly named eatery, El Museo de Jamón) hanging there like something out of Hannibal Lecter’s twisted fantasy, don’t be turned off! Enter bravely, tell the barman to grab that hoof so he can cut you up a few slices and – seeing as they probably won’t have any fava beans or Chianti – get yourself a side dish of olives and a nice glass of Sherry to top it off.

Who needs interior design when you have pigs' legs?

Spain is the only country where you can actually see a hoof among
your neighbor's garbage and not worry if he's into Voodoo

When one thinks of jamón and the way it just hangs there with its hoof, you realize the Spanish don’t have this aversion most of us in the States do to eating food that might resemble something that was once alive. Think about it... When was the last time you went to the supermarket and saw a hoof, head, or hide? We get all that stuff chopped off and what remains is either vacuum-sealed or flash-frozen. The end result is that we take home chicken breasts, legs, or even processed nuggets, but never an actual chicken. I know what you’re thinking, "I just got a whole chicken the other day and roasted it in the oven, you dumb bastard GC." But here in Spain, it’s not considered to be a whole chicken unless it’s actually WHOLE. That’s right folks. They sell the chickens here with the head still attached. In fact, there are even a few feathers sticking out every now and then too. Imagine my surprise when I first bought a chicken at the local supermarket, came home, unwrapped the plastic and lifted it from its styrofoam tray only to find those beady little eyes staring back at me and that wattled beak drooping lifelessly. I just couldn’t get it. What’s the point of selling a chicken with the head still attached? Who eats chicken heads? What possible use can they serve? None, I thought, until my girlfriend asked one of her young students what her favorite food was. The twelve year old Spanish girl responded without hesitation, "Chicken Blood!"

Chicken heads: A rare sight for the non-Voodoo practicing American consumer

Barn yard animals aside, one finds the most variety in Spanish cuisine when it comes to seafood. Statistically, the Spanish are the second largest consumers of fish and seafood in the world. Only the Japanese outrank them. This appetite for anything from the salty sea is insatiable. Even in Madrid, the capital and largest city but geographically the furthest point from the sea on the Iberian Peninsula (it takes about 8 hours, for example, to drive there from Cádiz), this never-ending demand for seafood can only be satisfied by having it flown in at all hours of the day. Wherever you maybe in Spain – from the mountain tops to the desert valleys – you can always find a fresh plate of fish.

The local fish market is always one of the most popular places in town

Here in Cádiz though, we’re lucky. We don’t need to have anything flown in. The sea is everywhere. You can’t turn a street corner in this town without seeing a fish restaurant or fish for sale in same shape or form. But the fish isn’t the strange thing. I love eating fish and view it as one of the best things to have ever happened to the art of cooking. My problem with the local flavor is their appetite for that really strange, non-fishy, other seafood. You see, I’m not talking about shrimp, crabs, or lobster. I’m referring to everything else that thrives in the murky depths of the Atlantic – octopus, cuttlefish, slugs, barnacles and sea urchins – and it’s tough to be open-minded when these grotesque critters are staring at you from the dinner plate. They love this stuff down here and most of the time even eat it raw. If the residents of Cádiz were to have a culinary motto, it would probably be, "If it comes from the sea, it’s good enough for me!"

The title on top of this poster found at a local
restaurant reads: "Seafood from the Bay of Cadiz"
Need I say more?

Now granted, it is strange to me that they eat all of this stuff, but like I said at the opening of this article, if you’re in a foreign country you should at least give the local flavor a try. I’ve tried the octopus... not bad. In fact, the pulpo a la Gallega way of preparing the tentacled beast is delicious. But that’s just the thing – they actually cook and prepare the octopus when they make it in that fashion. As for the barnacles and sea urchins, and many times even baby prawns, they serve them raw. In fact, they normally sell these things on the sides of busy streets and in one-serving containers just like we do with nuts and potato chips back home. You can always spot a few happy faces on Sunday walking through the marketplace or doing a bit of window shopping while they expertly munch away at the raw prawns or barnacles they just bought. The only hitch is that they are continuous lyon the look-out after what they’re eating – those baby prawns like being swallowed alive almost as much as they like being out of the sea and they make a jump for it any chance they get! And yes, before you ask, I have had an open mind and given these raw "delicacies" a try... trust me, stick to the Whopper with bacon and cheese on this one.

Anyone want some raw sea urchins, barnacles, or whatever the hell that other stuff is? Makes for a great snack!

Or maybe some baby prawns (cooked variety) are more to your liking?

But don’t write off all Spanish seafood just because their cuisine includes a sea creature that you know exists only from old pirate films and Mutiny on the Bounty ("Arghh! I’ll have ye scraping the barnacles off the hull, I will!"). Raw sea urchins and slugs aside, they actually do have some damn good seafood down here. If I had ignored it all because of the jumping baby prawns, I would have never discovered this fried seafood down here, either cazón en adobo (dogfish in spice) or chocos (cuttlefish tentacles), that makes my mouth water at just the mere thought of it. In fact, I would dare say these things have now entered my top ten list of favorite foods. I would have never thought that I’d like fried dogfish or cuttlefish so much but, like I said, you never know if you don’t try. So before you sidestep the entire issue of Spanish seafood, do yourself a favor and visit the local fish market (every town in Spain has one). It’s a Mecca of every underwater creatures imaginable – all waiting to be bought and prepared at home. Take a little stroll through, see what each fishmonger’s stall has to offer, and don’t be afraid to try. Who knows? You may find yourself adding Hermit Crab to your list of favorite foods one day!

"Daddy, why are you playing with your food?"
"I'm not. It's playing with me!"

And even if seafood isn’t your thing, remember that there’s always paella and jamón serrano. The main point though is to not overlook anything just because it looks strange. Who knows when you might be surprised. Be brave! Smile at your Spanish hosts, wish them "¡Que Aproveche!" ("Enjoy Your Meal!"), and dig into the feast they have set out before you. Take a bite out of that pig’s leg, munch on a handful of raw baby prawns, suck those sea slugs out of their shells, and wash the whole lot down with some thirst-quenching chicken blood. After you’ve done all that, had your fill of the local cuisine, and wished your gracious hosts good night, step out the door and head for the nearest Burger King where you can finally scarf down that delicious Whopper with bacon and cheese. Considering what your adventurous taste buds have just been through, they deserve a good ol’ burger...

Aluminium, Fags & Rubbers [FEBRUARY 5, 2006]

2006-02-06T12:16:00.000-05:00

Apparently, the a in "wash" and the a in "palms" are pronounced differently. I had no idea. I’ve been speaking English for twenty-seven years now and then something like this comes up and smacks me in the face. As it turns out, I haven’t been speaking English all along... I’ve been speaking American English.

My girlfriend first pointed it out the other day. I had just done a pronunciation lesson with my adult students in class and was telling her all about it, "The way these Spanish pronounce their English is really interesting! I was doing some phonetics drills and none of them could hear the difference between the vowel sounds in ‘He bought the law’ and those in ‘Wash your palms.’"
"Which difference? The one between bought / law and wash or the one between wash and palms?" she replied.
"What do you mean the difference between wash and palm? It’s the same sound... wAAAsh and pAAAlms...."
"No, no, no. It’s wAUsh and it’s pAAAlms. Trust me."
And so an argument ensued. We always get into arguments when it comes to English. She’s convinced she’s right, and I’m convinced that I’m right – especially since I’m the only native speaker in this relationship. But my Czech girlfriend insists it’s because she’s speaking proper British English and I’m spewing out gunslinger Yankee-talk. And this time, the argument was pretty bad – almost as bad as that time I was convinced there was no such word as "aluminium". There’s no i in "aluminum", damn it! Then she took out the dictionary and, low and behold, she was right. There WAS an i in aluminium!

She was right this time too. Palms has the same vowel sound as "arm" and "father" whereas wash has the same vowel sound as "hot" and "rock". She even had an Oxford University dictionary to prove it. Still not convinced? Well, if the vowels in palms, arm, father, wash, hot and rock all sound similar to you too, then you’re in the same boat as me. You must be a Yankee. But don’t worry! I did a little research of my own – just because I think those "linguists" up at Oxford are a bunch of stuck-up bastards – and went to have a look at good ol’ Merriam-Webster who, surprise surprise, listed all of those vowel sounds as being pronounced the same way. In the end, it turns out, North American speakers are simply unable to reproduce the a in "wash" and distinguish it from the a in "palms". British English has an extra sound we never even heard about. And just imagine, I needed a Czech to tell me about it!

But it’s not only pronunciation that poses a problem. There are differences in everything from grammar to spelling when it comes to which side of the Atlantic you’re on. Slang terms are the worst. I remember once when I was living in Madrid (this was when I used to smoke) and I had also recently learned that the British slang term for cigarette was "fag". Well, I was at a bar and saw that I had run out of cigarettes and went to a table of Brits sitting by the corner. I kindly asked, "Hey guys, can I bum a fag?" Little did I realize "to bum" means to sodomize someone in British slang. They were obviously aware of the American slang usage of "fag" when they replied, "I don’t know, mate. Depends on how you like it, dunnit?!" and had a good laugh at my expense. I never bummed a fag again.

Don’t worry though. I’ve mocked countless Brits in my day too. My girlfriend and I were watching an English detective series known as Midsomer Murders once. The detective was interviewing a sweet little old lady who was cooking and asked him, "May I tempt you to a sausage, Inspector?" "No thank you, ma’am," he replied. "Well then, what about a bit of Spotted Dick and Custard?" she insisted. Eventually the Inspector gave in and accepted. Spotted Dick and Custard?! What the hell is that? Nowadays, whenever I meet someone and I’m not sure whether they’re a Brit or not, the first thing I usually say is, "I got four words for you – ‘Spotted Dick and Custard.’" If they reply and tell me it sounds like some disease you get from a Thai whore, I know they’re not British. On the other hand, if they say it’s a delicious pudding, then I leave the subject be and snicker under my breath.

Granted, these minor discrepancies in different versions of the language don’t usually hamper communication between the two types of speakers. If anything, as in my case, they make for a good laugh every now and then. But when you make a living out of teaching the most popular language in the world, it’s nothing but a headache. I’ve had a number of advanced students question me about dubious statements made while standing in front of class. When I once stated that a student had "finished his test quicker" and also done better than the rest of the students, that very student asked me why I had said "..finished his test quicker" and not "...finished his test more quickly." Grammatically, I should have used an adverb and not an adjective but American English tends to opt for the adjective instead of the adverb. How many times has President Bush said, "Our troops are doing real good" instead of "really well" and no one makes fun of him for that little faux pas. It sounds natural to us... The "Department of Strategery", on the other hand, doesn’t. Come to think of it, I guess Bush isn’t the right kind of an example when it comes to proper grammatical usage, but he does make for a good showpiece in this instance.

On the flip side, it must be even more of a headache for students of the English language. How do they know which version to use? My girlfriend, for example, always used to tell me to put the dog on the lead when I took her for walks. After a few strange looks and a confused scratch on the noggin, she realized I had no idea what a lead was and started using leash. Now when she says it, I smile and thank her for reminding me. She also once asked me, "Shall we go for a walk?" and I asked her what the formality was all about. "Shall we do this or Shall we do that – Woe is me!" She got fed up with my mockery and, again, proved me wrong by pointing to her grammar books which indicated "Shall we..." is a perfectly normal way of indicating a suggestion in Britain. But screw the books and the Queen’s English. I still teach it and say it the way nearly 400 million people back on the other side of the Atlantic do. What’s wrong with "You wanna go for a walk?" It may not be proper, but at least no one will make fun of my student when he goes on holiday to the United States and hits on that hot girl he just met. He won’t say, "Oh dear, whatever shall we do once we have finished our drinks?" but rather, "Hey baby, wanna go back to my place and catch a ride on the love train?" She may slap him either way... but at least he’ll have done it in style.

The thing is, I’ve got a lot of work to do if I want little Carlos and Juan to grow up and be able to throw out that kind of American smooth-speak to the ladies. Nowadays, they start the kids off young here in these language schools. The newest generation have all been learning English since they were five or even four years old. Don’t get me wrong – that’s great. The younger the student, the better his or her aptitude for learning a new language. The only problem is that they’ve started them off on British English so I have a lot of damage to undo. My first day of class, for example, one of the kids asked me if I had a "rubber" on me and winked. I almost sent him to the principal – with a mouth on him like that – until, that is, I realized that a "rubber" is actually an "eraser" in the UK. I told him to use "eraser" with me and none of the students have said "rubber" ever since. But hey, they’re kids. They adapt easily and listen with awe to whatever the teacher says. Not only do none of them say "rubber" anymore, but they also use "pants" and "sneakers." Screw "trousers" and "trainers." By the time the school year is done, I’ll have them saying "cool" and "awesome" too.

The only problem with all of this re-education is that I won’t be able to teach my students – young and old alike – the different vocal sounds in the phrase "Wash your palms." But then again, does anyone really care? There are ways to work around it. Besides, I’m American and I’ll teach them the English I know... "Dude, clean your hands."

"Don’t be one of those people who throw papers in the public street!" [JANUARY 29, 2006]

2006-01-30T07:44:00.000-05:00

An American, a Czech and a Spaniard walk into a bar. They each order a coffee and, once the barman serves them, they each tear open the sugar packet that came with their drink and mix its contents in. The American crumples up the empty packet and leaves it on the counter. The Czech neatly folds it in half and places it between the cup and the saucer. The Spaniard just tosses it on the floor along with the spent cigarette dangling from his lips – despite the fact that there’s an ashtray directly in front of him. There’s no punch line to this joke, folks. Anyway you look at it, the Spanish are pigs.

"Yeah, that's my trash on the floor. You got a problem, amigo?"

Now I know that people litter no matter what country or corner of the globe you’re in. It’s a fact of life and one that people who respect the environment cringe at the sight of. In most industrialized nations, the government in conjunction with these deep-rooted environmentalists form some sort of campaign to stop the pollution of our planet. Such a simple thing, they tell the populace, as placing your empty gum wrapper in a bin instead of on the street can make a world of difference. Everyone is always on the lookout for a litterbug and people generally turn up their noses at the sight of one. At the end of the day, those who litter form the minority of an environmentally-conscious whole.

In Spain, however, the opposite seems to be true. Everyone litters. People toss papers, cans, bottles, bags, fruit skins, empty cigarette cartons, sandwich wrappers, warped umbrellas, toilet seats, fruit & vegetable crates, broken light bulbs, diapers and whatever else you can think of onto the street and into the sea. In the cafés, customers ignore ashtrays, tables, and counters and opt for the floor as their trash bin of choice. Stranger yet, the proprietor gladly sweeps up after them every few minutes because he views this kind of behavior as normal. I wouldn’t be surprised if that very café owner tosses his trash on the floor too when he visits other cafés. And on the streets, it’s even worse. Wherever one spots a group of Spaniards, there will always be a few pieces of litter left in their wake – sprinkled by the omnipresent shells of those sunflower seeds they so dearly love to eat.

Where the hell did all those umbrellas come from?

Just a regular park bench after a little snack... sunflower shells included

As far as I can tell, the Spanish must see it as their God-given right to litter. At any time of day, on whichever street corner of Cádiz you find yourself, you’re bound to find at least one piece of litter strewn on the cobblestoned pavement below. Even when you look over the city walls towards the sea – onto the massive boulders that protect the residents from the crashing waves of the mighty Atlantic – one can’t help but notice the piles of trash that haplessly have been tossed aside here. These boulders have now become a feeding ground for stray cats and seagulls as they scavenge the litter and pick at anything that might resemble a morsel of food. This type of behavior is even more difficult to understand when one considers that the sea has been this city’s lifeline since the day it was founded. Recently, in these times of rough unemployment, it has been one of the only reasons why tourists come to visit. A "day at the beach" must contribute hundreds of thousands of euros to the struggling local economy and yet, still, the Gaditanos view the Atlantic as nothing more than their local dump. If they can’t toss litter into the vast ocean, then where should they?

Ahh, Cádiz! Postcard picture perfect - just... ...DON'T LOOK DOWN!

The zenith of all this littering, though, occurs during public festivals or Carnaval, which is fast approaching at only a month away. The pre-Carnaval celebrations that have been going on over the past two weekends have been a sign of things to come – piles of trash scattered throughout the streets. As we were walking around this Sunday (Erizada, or Sea-Urchin Fest, was taking place in our neighborhood) we found it difficult to ignore how much litter had accumulated outside our door. I understand that oftentimes, especially during public celebrations, there may be no trash can or bin of any sort available for public use in the vicinity. But this isn’t the case in Cádiz. Before each Fest, the city sets up extra bins every few steps away for the revelers to use... but they simply ignore them. We saw countless piles of trash strewn on the ground while practically empty bins stood in their midst. I don’t understand. How difficult can it be to lift your arm and throw that bottle or used plastic plate into the empty bin by your side? We even saw a couple of people using the trash bin tops as tables to rest their food and drinks on or, even worse, they would simply pile their trash on top of the bin without bothering to open it– as if a plastic cover can be that heavy!

Spain's only Environmentalist:
"Where's the trash bin? Oh well, I'll just leave my dirty cups and plates on this plastic lid."

The littered remains of pre-Carnaval fun... ...And the empty trash bin next to it.

One of the most frightening things in all of this littering-mayhem is the attitude of Spaniards – even what must be environmentally-conscious Spaniards if they actually do exist – towards others who pollute. The locals really don’t give a damn at all. In fact, none of it seems strange in the least to them. Why walk to a bin, the local reasoning must go, when you can just as easily toss it on the ground? And this kind of conditioning to a lack of environmental awareness starts young and continues into adulthood. Not once have I seen a child reprimanded for dropping a candy wrapper, or an adult look at one of his fellow countrymen and shake his head in disgust as someone soils his beloved España.

I don’t want to try and rationalize this behavior and, frankly, I’m really not sure why the natives of this lovely land treat their country in such a manner, but I think it might be subconscious. They’ve been programmed to think this way. For example, as far as I know, there is no word in Spanish that litter can be directly translated into. All there is that I could find was basura, or trash, and papeles, which literally means papers. And as for the verb to litter the nearest one can come to translating it is either ensuciar, to get something dirty, or tirar papeles, to throw papers. Even litterbug, or litter lout as the Brits say, can only be rendered into Spanish as persona que tira papeles en la vía pública, or person who throws papers in the public street. No wonder there’s so much litter and no public campaigns to improve the environment here in Spain. The catchy saying we have back home, "Don’t be a litterbug!" doesn’t seem quite as catchy when translated into "Don’t be one of those people who throw papers in the public street!"

"I love litter! Without it, I'd be homeless."

When you take these linguistic shortcomings into mind, it starts to explain some of the Spanish attitude towards litter. But what really completes the picture is how much the government – both local and national – must spend on cleaning up after its citizens. Cádiz, more or less, is quite a clean city especially when you take into account how much people litter. This is due to one thing and one thing alone – the ever-vigilant local garbage-men. Trash is collected every night outside each resident’s door and the streets and trash cans (both public and private ones) are sprayed down clean with a high-powered hose using a disinfectant liquid mixture. Well actually, that’s not completely true. First a group of garbage-men SWEEP the street and then they spray it down... And this happens practically every night and sometimes even during the day too! When I first moved here and would walk home from a bar at two or three in the morning, I was always curious as to why the streets were all wet when it hadn’t even rained a drop. It took me a few months before I figured out those damp cobblestones were all that was left of the Garbage-Man Posse’s evening stroll through the city.

I salute ye, O brave Garbage-Man! Vigilantly cleaning the streets both at night and at day! Litter, beware!

Who can wash the streets down and make the mornings shine?
The Garbage-Man can! The Garbage-Man can!

After a foreigner in Spain considers all of these factors, he can begin to at least try and understand the local attitude to litter. Now I’m not trying to excuse them, but the way the residents of Cádiz see it is "Why clean up when someone else will do it for me?" And even if they don’t know that someone is cleaning up after them, when a Gaditano wakes up the next morning, he inevitably finds his city as clean as a whistle and litter free. Who cares where the trash went as long as it’s gone? The entire situation reminds me of when I cook a little snack or make myself some coffee and pile up the dirty dishes in the sink. The next day they’re all inevitably gone too – cleaned and put away in the cupboard. How they got washed and placed there (although I do suspect my girlfriend may be somehow involved), I’ll never know. But then again, do I really care? As long as the sink is empty and the kitchen is clean, I’m happy. I suppose the Spanish are the same way when it comes to their litter.

Oysters, Fiestas, and Fun... Oh My! [JANUARY 22, 2006]

2006-01-23T11:17:00.000-05:00

According to the Spanish Ministry of the Interior, Cádiz has the highest unemployment rate in the nation at over 30%. Property values here are also ridiculously over-priced (The average two bedroom apartment goes for about €180,000, or $220,000). As a result of these two factors, most young people throughout the city are forced to live with their parents well into their thirties. But it’s not only the budding adults that share that same roof... Often times Gran’Ma and Gran’Pa have no choice but to live there as well. This all implies, of course, that there are usually three generations of Gaditanos (as the people of Cádiz are called) crammed into the same stuffy apartment. The twenty-five year old male in the household definitely gets it the worst when it comes to these living arrangements. If he wants to call in some girlie action after a long night of bar-hopping and flirting, he has to wake up his kid sister and grandmother – whom he probably shares a bedroom with – and tell them to wait outside in the living room while he and his new romantic interest try to do the horizontal mambo as quickly and quietly as possible. That is, of course, if he hasn’t opted for the always popular dimly-lit park-bench or beach-side option. Poor bastard. I’d put a bullet through my head if I were him.

But pessimism doesn’t seem to be in the nature of a Gaditano. When life looks down on them and hands them yet another job application rejection, mortgage refusal, or denial by Granny to leave the bedroom at two in the morning, a Gaditano will just smile back at them all and do what comes most naturally... fiesta! That’s right. Party, party, party. The folks down here don’t seem to know how to do much else and seeing as most of them don’t have a job anyway, nothing seems to stop them from partying at all hours of the day. At night they fiesta until dawn with friends and colleagues while during the sunlit hours they do it with those nearest and dearest to them – Granny and that little kid sister. Fiesta, it appears to this foreign observer, is the Gaditano’s most prized panacea.

I know what'll solve our economic woes... FIESTA!!!

The King of all Fiestas, however, is none other than Carnaval. No other city on the Iberian Peninsula celebrates this ten-day bash with more bangs, ballads and booze. Some people take off from work (at least those that have a job do) during the entire period as others hardly step foot in their homes for an solid week. There’s always something to be celebrated, and drunk, in the streets. In fact, there is so much drinking and revelry going on during Carnaval that the first Monday after the weekend when it kicks off is a local public holiday – officially titled Lunes de Resaca, or Hangover Monday – when all banks, schools, and offices alike are legally closed for business. If there’s one thing a Gaditano is most fond of celebrating when it comes to his or her city, apart from perhaps a victory from the local football club C.F. Cádiz (see ¡óE, el Fútbol! [JUNE 26, 2005]), it’s Carnaval and they’re not ashamed to do it all out. There’s only one problem though. Carnaval only comes around once a year and, according to my calendar, is nearly a month and a half away.

But a little technicality like five weeks is nothing to fret about. The Gaditanos have it covered. Why wait for the official Carnaval at the end of February when the city can throw a pre-Carnaval fiesta in the middle of January? Well, that’s exactly what they’ve done this past weekend. On Saturday night there was a little warm-up fiesta called Pestiñada where the city gave away these little fried pastries called pestiñas (which, frankly, I find disgusting) and a shot of an anise-based liqueur. That fiesta was held in the same square as, and simultaneously to, the official welcoming of this year’s "Goddess of Carnaval" contestants. After they did their little stroll in the spotlight and each potential Goddess had been properly introduced, the judges packed up and the twenty- and thirty-somethings soon took over the square, as usual, with their weekly outdoor drinking fiesta Botellón. (I haven’t gotten around to writing an article about that local phenomenon yet but one is coming soon.) Either way, one square down the road, the city employees were busy setting up what would be the true pre-Carnaval fiesta of the weekend – Sunday’s day-long Ostionada, or Oyster Fest.

Preparing the stage for Oyster Fest 2006... It's gonna rock!

And the morning of...
"I've been waiting all day. I hope this year's bands don't SUCK."

By the time my girlfriend and I arrived at Ostionada on Sunday, the first chorus/band had already played and finished and the line leading to the official city stands – full of free beer, glasses of sherry, pickled peppers and, of course, plastic plates piled high with raw oysters and lemon wedges – was already as far as the eye could see. It was two o’clock in the afternoon. We decided to pass on the free oysters and booze this time and went over to a private stand where I bought a large cerveza for half the price they would normally be selling it. As for the oysters, we figured we would try them another day. There was a lot of cheap beer to drink and, as far as my girlfriend was concerned, loads of pictures to take. As she ducked in and out of the crowds happily snapping away, I stood in the middle of the square contently sipping from my cold cup and listening to the current chorus. I lifted my eyes and looked around. Loads of people (15,000 by today’s newspaper estimates) stood with their families and friends. Some were drinking from glasses while others were slurping from shells. The booze was ridiculously cheap – even free if you were willing to wait long enough in a queue – and the food was plentiful. Good cheer filled the jubilant atmosphere. It was just like Carnaval. I knew this was a true fiesta, if anything, because Granny and the little sister had tagged along too. A real fiesta in the spirit of Carnaval isn’t just for unemployed people in their twenties and thirties who still live at home, it’s for the whole family. Its’s a time for all generations and all loved ones, regardless of age or occupational status, to drink loads of cheap alcohol and slurp down tons of raw seafood to the point of vomiting from food-poising – and to do it together. It almost brought a tear to my eye as my girlfriend eventually found me in the crowd and said, "I got a great picture of this drunk guy at a stand trying to pry open some oysters!"

"That better be an oyster between your legs, mister."

This guy definitely isn't a Gaditano...
"Why the hell did I spend two hours in line for OYSTERS?!?"

We stayed at Oyster Fest for most of the afternoon and, as far as I can recall, it was the only time siesta didn’t seem to occur in the south of Spain. First 3 o’clock, then 4 and 5, all came and went without the slightest hint of the masses getting restless and heading home. I suppose when it comes to having to choose between siesta and fiesta – especially one where there’s free stuff to be had – the latter always wins out. We, however, had had our fill by then. My girlfriend took her last few shots of Gaditanos and their event as I ordered one last beer and drank it... soon to be homeward bound.

Everyone has the right to a little pre-CARNAVAL fun, even the good ol' room mates

"Hey guys, I hope we don't stay too long.
You know I DO have school tomorrow."

We only re-emerged from our cozy abode hours later, after the sun had set, in order to go and meet some friends for our traditional Sunday night game of Scrabble and chess. As we crossed the square where Ostionada had begun all those hours ago, we were surprised to see that there were still some fiesta-revelers – again mostly twenty- and thirty-somethings – going strong. (Who am I kidding? We weren’t surprised in the least to see them still there!) They were still slurping away and drinking merrily, and would most likely continue doing so well into the wee hours of the night. After all, they probably didn’t have any job to go to in the morning and Gran’Ma would happily be keeping the bedroom’s midnight oil burning. The only person they’d have to be careful not to wake while stumbling home drunk was the little sister – she’s one of the few people in the household who actually has to do something in the morning and go to school.

When there's free beer to be had, who knows how long the fiesta can last?

As for now, the only hard part for the Gaditanos is that they’ll have to wait until the end of February to experience Carnaval again. They actually have to wait for the real thing this time. That is, unless of course there’s another pre-Carnaval in the not too distant future... Anyone who knows the locals and knows how fiesta courses through their veins won’t be surprised to hear that there is. Next week’s city-sponsored weekend festival is Erizada, or Sea-Urchin Fest. As far as I’m concerned, a fiesta in honor of, and which serves, sea urchins is not something that deserves celebrating. But then again, when you haven’t worked in three years, can’t get your girlfriend past the bedroom door or Granny, and your kid sister wakes you up each and every morning as she gets ready for school – you need SOMETHING to occupy you from between now and Carnaval ...And a fiesta in honor of those thorny bottom-feeding invertebrates seems like just the thing to do it.

Under Construction [JANUARY 15, 2006]

2006-01-16T07:58:00.000-05:00

I had had quite a few drinks the other day so when I woke up abruptly the next morning with a pounding headache beating relentlessly through my skull, it came as no surprise. As I slowly managed to open my eyes, I rolled over and saw that my girlfriend had just woken up as well.
"Good morning, honey," I whispered.
She smiled in silence, her eyebrows a bit furrowed.
"My head is KILLING me... It’s like there’s a drill coming through my skull and it just won’t stop."
She looked at me perplexedly, yawned, and asked, "Are you serious?"
"Well, yeah, of course I am. Thanks for the sympathy though..." I added sarcastically. "You wouldn’t believe the banging."
"Sure I would. The whole building can probably hear it. That’s not your hangover. They’re doing some construction next door again."
"Really? So the drill that’s now going through my..."
"Is the drill," she interrupted, "that is actually going through the wall behind us. The thing woke me up too. You’d have to be deaf not to hear it!"
I paused for a moment, concentrated all my day-after-boozin’ powers on listening to what was going on behind the bed’s headboard and, low and behold, my girlfriend was right once again. It wasn’t a mental-drill brought on by a now forgotten mix of liquor that was causing my headache, but a power-drill being operated by some sweaty Spaniard named Miguel, Rodrigo, Diego, or God knows what.

Just another street-corner "Under Construction"

Fortunately, the unidentified laborer on the other side of our bedroom wall knew what he was doing and didn’t drill a clumsy hole completely through to our side of the building. But the entire morning’s events did bring one thing to mind: the Spanish are construction freaks. You can see it all over Cádiz every time you go for a walk as buildings to the left and right, down each and every street, avenue, or alley, are covered with scaffolding or debris-catching nets. They love digging, building, banging and drilling. But most of all, they especially love doing these things when it’s connected with knocking things down. A Spanish demolition team can take down a building or strip a room bare quicker than you can say ¿Que pasa? but can take months, if not years, to even begin to put something back in its place. I can’t really blame them because, I mean, what kind of guy doesn’t like to knock things down and take them apart. It’s a basic male instinct that goes back to that first time we saw Dad using a drill or hammer and asked, "Oooo... Can I try? Pleaasse!?!"

Another littered lot waiting...
"If they can bring 'em down, why can't they put 'em up?"

The thing is, most men outgrow that drill and hammer phase in their mid- to late- teens or, at the latest, early twenties. We realize that there are other, more interesting tools that can bring about utter havoc, chaos, and complete destruction – such as the power-saw and gas welder to name a few – and others that call for a more delicate touch – such as the screwdriver or caulking-gun. We quickly incorporate this wide range of accessories into our handyman repertoire and, for the most part, succeed in getting the job done unless our wives are inevitably right and, at the end of the day, we have to suck it in and call for the professionals... a local plumber or electrician. Now those guys have really interesting tools. In Spain, however, it seems no one ever outgrows the drill and hammer phase. If there’s a problem, bang it with a hammer. If that doesn’t work and, as a last resort, try drilling it. Re-tiling the bathroom walls and floor? Bang it. Fixing that leak coming from the kitchen sink? Bang it. Oiling those squeaky door hinges? Bang it. TV reception not too good? Bang it or, after a few tries, drill it. Something’s bound to happen. The noise pollution from all this banging and drilling in the name of construction can drive you mad. Anyone who has ever lived in Spain knows what I’m talking about and, if you don’t, count yourself lucky.

I'd hate to be a tenant in that middle building!

My girlfriend and I are one of the lucky ones this year because we live in a pretty old building (the plaque outside says 1856) and the walls and ceiling are thick enough to deter most of the neighborly construction sounds. That is, unless of course someone is actually drilling into the bedroom wall itself. We’ve also been, for the most part, very lucky because despite the age of our building, we haven’t really needed any work done on it... Well, that is if you don’t consider the time our ceiling collapsed on us while we were sleeping (see ¡El cielo ha caido! (The heavens have fallen!) [MAY 22, 2005]).

When I was living in Madrid though, in a relatively new building and on the eighth floor, my roommates and I almost went crazy from the noise of a next-door complex that was nearing completion and only had the bathrooms left to be done. Bang! Bang! Bang! all day long for half a year. We were puzzled – What was taking so long and what kind of a plumber uses a hammer that much? We eventually even started joking that Spanish plumbers had no other tools at their disposal but dozens of hammers neatly arranged – according to size – in their fold-out tool boxes and, depending on the task at hand, would take out the appropriately sized hammer and begin banging away. "Hmm, faucet problems. This looks like a job for the 9-centimeter (3-inch) hammer." Every morning, starting at six, the banging would begin. It wouldn’t let up (as I later found out when I stayed home sick one day) until about ten or eleven, when most people were at work anyway, and would start up again during lunchtime and siesta, when most people would once again return home. Then the construction workers would take a second break during the entire afternoon and start up the banging again in the evening, continuing until eight or nine o’clock. It was as if the construction crews had specifically designed their work schedule to coincide with the time when most people would be at home and trying to relax. If it was likely to be a time of the day when people were busy at work and there was no one to disturb, then they’d be smoking cigarettes, chatting away, or taking a coffee break. I’ve heard the same type of stories from friends who live in new buildings here in Cádiz too.

There's the equipment, but where's the crew???

"Screw work, did you guys see the football game last night?"

I do have to admit, though, that despite the fact that there appear to be so many easy-going, hammer-wielding construction workers who seem to do nothing but bang and drill early in the morning, they do get the job done quite quickly once they set their minds to it. At least here in the old city they do. Don’t get me wrong – The amount of empty lots scattered with litter and rubble proudly displaying an "Under Construction" sign are immense in Cádiz and, in some cases, stay in the same state of disrepair for years as housing shortages and rising property prices cause residential issues that desperately need addressing here. But once construction does eventually start, as they’d been promising to do since those signs first went up, the job often gets done in record time. I’ve seen lots that have laid empty since the first day I stepped foot in Cádiz and had apparently been like that for years but, once the first load of concrete foundation was poured, a new four-storey home stood in its place in just a few months. And trust me, that’s no mean feat considering all the buildings in the old part of the city must be built with bricks and mortar which occasionally means using older construction techniques in order to ensure that the historic central district retains its distinct architectural heritage. Of course this isn’t always the case and some buildings have had that scaffolding on the outside for ages, but I think they’re more the exception than the rule.

When's the construction gonna start? We've been waiting for years...

...but only three months after they laid the first brick!

The only thing I can’t figure out is how this construction, when it does eventually occur, can be carried out with just a few hammers and a drill every now and then? And why do Miguel, Rodrigo, Diego and every one else in their posse have to be so damn noisy when they go about doing it? But I’m confident that, one day, they’ll all learn to use such other fascinating tools as the power-sander, the jackhammer, the blowtorch, and even a simple plumber’s wrench. After all, this is the twenty-first century and there are a lot more noisier tools out there that the Spanish construction crews could easily adopt. I’m sure they’d be happy to at least possess the ability to get the job done more quickly while, in fact, inconveniencing the entire population even more with their early morning banging and drilling decibel-fests. Hopefully, I’ll still be living in my virtually soundproof apartment by then... and one of those jackhammers won’t make it through the bed’s headboard while I’m sleeping either.

Temporarily Away...

2006-01-01T12:39:00.000-05:00

Sorry for not writing an article this week everyone. My girlfriend and I decided to make the most out of our Christmas holiday and tour southern Spain for two weeks. In fact, I'm actually writing this from a cyber-cafe in Granada. Anyway, enjoy the New Year and read some of my older articles if you're desperate for some more Big Tits and Pussy... Don't worry, I'll be back with a new one in a week!

---GC

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

2005-12-26T21:48:00.000-05:00

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]

2005-12-19T18:00:00.000-05:00

“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]

2005-12-12T09:56:00.000-05:00

"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]

2005-12-05T10:23:00.000-05:00

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]

2005-11-28T12:33:00.000-05:00

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]

2005-11-14T17:21:00.000-05:00

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]

2005-11-06T21:18:00.000-05:00

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.

What's All The Buzz Around Doñana? [OCTOBER 30, 2005]

2005-10-31T08:52:00.000-05:00

We stepped out of the boiling car and into the Andalucían wilderness. The thick shrubs that encircled us allowed for a fleeting glimpse of the wetlands beyond. I squinted my eyes and tried to spot some of the national park’s famous flamingoes in their natural habitat.
"Hey, anyone see some flamingoes?" as I batted away a fly that had landed on my neck.
"No... Wait a minute! What’s that?" our friend asked as she swatted in much the same way I had just done.
"No, no, no. That’s a hawk. Or maybe an eagle," her boyfriend answered as he slapped his arm.
We all continue looking and swatting aimlessly when my girlfriend interrupted,"These flies are driving me CRAZY!
"Yeah, this is a bit ridiculous."
"My God, they’re EVERYWHERE!" as I felt something, somethings, landing on my face. "What the... They’re attacking me! Feeding off of my beard!"
"Me too... Can’t... get... rid... of them."
"That’s it!" my girlfriend yelled. "I’m going back to the car!" She walked back to the searing metal box, arms waving maniacally in the air, and opened the door. A cloud of flies emerged from within. "They’re... They’re... Everywhere! In here too!"
"But we JUST got out of the car!" We had parked and left the windows open, hoping that it would alleviate some of the heat in our air-conditionless Opel. Not even five minutes had gone by.
It felt like we were the unwitting victims in some 1960s Zombie flick gone horribly wrong. "Everyone, quick! Back into the car! Let’s get out of here before they take over completely," I yelled.
We all hopped into the scorching four-door hatchback, windows still rolled down, and drove away to another section of the park as a cloud of dust picked up in our wake.

One of the things you miss about living in a city like Cádiz, nearly completely encircled by the sea and thoroughly urbanized through its three thousand years of existence (that’s right, I said Cádiz has been around for 3000 years), is nature. Back in Pennsylvania, where I’m from, you have so many trees, deer and squirrels that you eventually find nothing strange about strange mammals running across your lawn at strange hours of the day. Back home, we don’t use the popular British expression "like a rabbit in the headlamps" but say "like a deer in the headlights." It’s the same with my girlfriend. In fact, she misses the rolling green hills and wooded countryside of her native Czech Republic even more so than I do. Sure, Cádiz’s cobblestone alleys, Renaissance architecture and decaying Roman theater are nice, but sometimes you just need a little stroll through the forest. You need to get some green and fresh air. So, when the opportunity arose last weekend to take a nice afternoon drive with some friends down to Spain’s largest Natural Park and Wildlife Reserve, Doñana Park, we were as anxious as children on Christmas morning.

Doñana is a lovely place with a wide arrange of flora and virgin habitats. It is home to some 250 different species of birds, over half of them migratory, and 28 species of mammals, most of them in danger of extinction such as the lynx and Egyptian mongoose. The park itself is divided into many different sections but, as a whole, consists of nearly 1300 square kilometers of untouched reserve stretching from the Atlantic through the provinces of Huelva, Seville and Cádiz. At least that’s what our guidebook said. What we found when we first got there were those hordes of flies and countless shrubs. Now I know the ecosystem here in Andalucía is different than that of the Northeastern United States and Central Europe, but a park isn’t really a park without trees, now is it? Shrubbery, no matter how large, tall or plentiful, does not a park make. What it does make is shrub-land and, in my opinion, shrub-land is only one step better than the Sahara when deciding where to take a nice Sunday stroll.

Ah, there's nothing like a lovely stroll through the park

But, as I said at the beginning of this article, we quickly left the first place we stopped at in Doñana. We headed off in the Opel with our windows rolled down and the dusty wind blowing in through the windows which, temporarily at least, seemed to keep the vehicle’s flies at bay. We drove through the shrub-land on the bumpy dirt road for a while when we spotted a sign. "Bird Observatory –› 10KM" What the hell? we thought. An official bird observatory might be the perfect place to get a reprieve, no matter how temporary, from the unbearable heat and insects that seemed to be following us everywhere. There would probably be some exhibits and park rangers there to help us enjoy our wildlife experience too. And maybe, just maybe, we’d finally be able to see some flamingoes.

The Bird Observatory must have taken ages to build!

Well, after about fifteen grueling minutes on the crappiest road ever built by man, we made it to the observatory. There were no park rangers, no exhibits, not even a W.C. In fact, there wasn’t even a building. The official park observatory was nothing more than a makeshift bamboo wall with a hole cut out in the center. That was it. It overlooked the shrubs and, if you looked for long enough and far enough, you could make out a bird or two. They didn’t look like flamingoes though.... The closer I looked the more they resembled the seagulls I see in Cádiz every day. After swatting a few more flies away, we decided we had had enough of Doñana. All four of us crawled disappointedly into the Opel and headed back along the same dusty road.

Observing... Making the most out of Doñana's tourist facilities

Thankfully, halfway back to the "Bird Observatory –› 10KM" sign, my friend (who was driving) had to water the shrubs. It turns out he had drunk too much water on the way there. So, we pulled over, he went to take care of business, and the rest of us walked toward the marshy wasteland a few meters to our left. Then we saw them... the flamingoes. They were beautiful. They were gathered in what must have been a group of thirty or forty, leg deep in the marsh-water, feeding on what algae they could find beneath. A few spread their pinkish-hued wings to fly away and we gazed in wide-eyed amazement at the glorious picture of pristine nature which lay before our unsuspecting eyes. The entire day’s troubles had been worth it... or so we thought.

Breathtaking! It was all worth it

On our way back to the civilization we, once again, had to go through that first place we had stopped at in the park. To our surprise, close to one of Doñana’s entry gates, the locals from the bordering village of Algaida (not Al-Qaeda as I first thought) had invaded the park dressed in elaborate flamenco costumes and riding proud horses. They were preparing for the favorite Spanish pastime – fiesta. The colorful sight was so eye-catching that we decided to stop. How lucky, we thought, to be able to witness both flamingo and flamenco in one day. We found out a few minutes later that quick glances from a moving car can often be deceiving. In all the merriment and excitement we had completely forgotten about the evil little flies that lurked in the shrubbery. As we stepped out, they attacked us in full force but this time with reinforcements... giant mosquitos. We slapped and swatted away as the Spaniards, who weren’t bothered in the least by the countless insects buzzing about, continued drinking their wine, eating their tapas and dancing to their guitars. We were soon overwhelmed by the sheer number of pests and, realizing our mistake, jumped back into the Opel more than willing to sacrifice the show. Inside the metal deathtrap there was nothing but boiling and buzzing.

A fiesta in the depths of Insect Inferno - but the Spanish don't mind

"Get the hell outta here!" I shouted to the driver as we all swung our hands in a futile attempt to protect the little skin that had yet to be stung. "They’re... taking... over..."
He inserted the key and turned the ignition. Nothing. We glanced at each other in despair.
"Try again! The battery’s almost new! It’s not possible!" Our fingers crossed, we watched him turn the key once again. Still nothing. "For the love of God... NO!"
The horrible truth suddenly dawned on us. We were stuck in a sweltering car in an insect-infested park with people laughing and dancing flamenco all around. Forget 1960s Zombie flick – We had entered The Twilight Zone.

Don't take it personally Algaida, but we're gettin' the hell outta here!

The desperate situation called for brisk action. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened to our friends so they took out the cables and asked some fiesta revelers for a jump start. To our relief, the engine was soon brought to life and we headed out of that hell-hole without looking back, laughing almost hysterically at the thought of what if the stalled engine had happened earlier in the day at the "official park observatory" miles from civilization. But we didn’t laugh for too long. Our happy chitchat was soon silenced when the engine died yet again, only fifteen minutes later. We needed another jump start. A quick glance around and we soon spotted our saviors. "Perdone las molestias..." The engine started once again but this time we set off for Cádiz with ominous apprehension.

Well, to cut a long and embarrassing story short, Spanish people proved to be very patient and helpful. My normally pessimistic girlfriend, for example, was completely taken aback when we stopped at a petrol station and asked the busy attendant inside the rest stop for help. She simply handed us the keys to her car, told us to "do what needed to be done" and continued serving customers at the cash register. Our thanks to all who helped!

"Perdone las molestias, Señor..." but we need another jump

Despite this outpouring of kindness though, we still didn’t make it home. Ten kilometers outside of Cádiz on a narrow expressway overpass and in the rapidly fading daylight, the Opel died its last death. We could do nothing more without a mechanic – Shock treatment just wouldn’t bring it back.

Desperate and stranded, we called for help and received what we should have expected from a Spanish tow service, "What? Today during the weekend? How about we pick it up on Monday?"
"Umm, it’s in the middle of the expressway. On a narrow overpass. Don’t you think it might just be a little dangerous to leave it here overnight?"
"Maybe... But, we can’t pick it up until Monday. Try calling the Municipal Authorities."
"Okay, thanks."
...
"Hello? Municipal Authorities? We need a tow truck because we’re stranded on the expressway and this is rapidly becoming a public hazard."
"What? Today? It’s the weekend! We can come by tomorrow."
"But it’s an emergency..."
"Yeah, well... Try calling a tow service."
You get the picture. Anyone who has spent enough time in Spain knows that, after fiesta, the two other favorite pastimes are pass-the-buck and mañana.

In the end, we called an English friend of ours and he came to the rescue a bit past ten. He helped us tow the war-weary Opel off the dangerous overpass and onto a safe side street were it could be left overnight.

The car is now okay and for those of you who understand automobiles, it was the alternator. For everyone else, two little pieces of advice – Don’t rely on the Spanish authorities and, most importantly, NEVER go to Doñana without repellent!

Mañana... I swear!

2005-10-23T06:00:00.000-04:00

Well, I finally made it back from Prague, have settled back into my routine here in Cádiz, and got my writing up and going again. I realize it’s been a while since I last posted an article, but to that I have only one Spanish word (more of a mentality than a word actually) to blame – mañana!!!

temporarily away...

2005-08-15T11:59:00.000-04:00

Well everyone, I'm off to Prague for the next month or so. See you back here when I return!

--GC

One Scam For The Road [AUGUST 14, 2005]

2005-08-14T11:52:00.000-04:00

You can see them no matter what city you live in. If there’s a museum or some landmark in your neck of the woods, then you’re no stranger to their clicking cameras and comments in some language you can’t quite place your finger on. And even though they may annoy us every now and then, all of us, in fact, have been in their shoes at one time or another. Horror of horrors, you may even be one at this very moment – a tourist.

Tourists on the prowl for the perfect postcard

But it’s nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, it’s something to revel in. You’re in a strange country, experiencing new sights and smells and tasting exotic food every moment you step out of the hotel. And, best of all, you have off from work. I myself used to be a tourist here in Cádiz, but then I got a job. Working is what differentiates a carefree tourist from an homesick expat.

I still remember my tourist days here in Spain very well. There are some things that every tourist experiences and I was no exception. The confusion of entering a shop and finding that the local behind the register doesn’t speak a word of English and you don’t know a word of Spanish except for "Adios" and "Por favor." Speaking with your hands is the one language every well-traveled tourist is fluent in. The food also struck me, especially when I first saw those greasy hind legs of some disgusting pig hanging from the ceiling. I never thought I’d have touched the stuff, but one taste of that delicious Jamón Serrano and I was hooked. Finally, the one thing every tourist experiences, whether they realize it or not, is getting ripped off. Scammers and tourists go hand in hand and, as a service to my readers, I’ve decided to classify them into three distinct categories.

Jamón Serrano:
A first-time tourist's disgust, A seasoned expat's delight

Entire economies have been founded on milking tourists out of every last penny and some sharks have amassed enormous private fortunes from their dubious deeds. Most of the time we never realize we’ve been ripped off until it’s well too late. In fact, I didn’t realize I was paying more for most of the things I was buying until I stopped being an tourist and assumed my expat identity. But that was just as far as paying a few extra cents here and there or "accidentally" being handed back the wrong change was concerned. Such petty thievery earns the perpetrator two extra quarters to rub together once in a blue moon and they go home at night donning a big, dirty grin acting as if they’ve just captured Gibraltar back from the British. These are the smalltime scammers and they’re the most prevalent.

Then there are the outrageous scammers. Many of them get caught due to their outlandish bravado and consequently enter the annals of Urban Legends – Globetrotter’s Edition. Have you heard about the Japanese tourist visiting Istanbul, for example, who ended up paying over six hundred dollars for a Turkish rug that should have cost no more than twenty? Or the friendly Parisian street-performer who offered to help the lost Australian lass, who had just given him a handful of change, while his accomplice emptied her pocketbook? Or, my personal favorite, the Englishman who flew into Athens and hired a taxi to take him over five hundred kilometers to a city in the north called Thessaloníki? The taxi-driver ended up driving in circles throughout the Greek capital, until the passenger doze off in the overwhelming heat, and then woke him up three hours later charging the full fare and informing his prey that they had arrived at their destination when they had in fact only gone as far as the Athenian suburbs. But these of course are the exceptions. The ones we hear about. The ones that often get caught and travel guides warn us to keep an eye out for.

The smalltime scammers and outrageous scammers, though, are just petty crooks and end up using all their wit and fast talk for nothing but a few extra pennies. They make maybe one or two big catches per year... but that’s it. Think about it. Taxi-drivers, those most infamous of highway robbers, can’t really be all that good at milking tourists out of their vacation money. If they were, they wouldn’t still be driving taxi cabs around in the searing summer heat, now would they? If you want to make real money out of tourists, you need to get them in herds and make it look legit. You need a company.

The smallest number of swindlers but, by far the most profitable, are what I call the syndicate scammers. These guys live off of tourists. They make mountains of money during peak tourist season (the summer months here in Andalucía), and then sit on their asses or in their villas during the rest of the year sipping sherry or sangria. As far as I’ve been able to discover, there are only three syndicate scammers here in Cádiz and they’re all in the same business.

TOUR DE CÁDIZ offers you the best view of the back of the Cathedral around!

The two that are at most at each other’s throats, because they do exactly the same thing, are the ones that run the tour bus swindle. Cádiz Tour has the red buses and Tour Por Cádiz has the green and yellow. These massive double-decker buses offer to take you around the city and show you the sights while saving your feet from all the walking and your head from hours of overexposure to the sun. How can that be a scam, right? They’re providing a useful service for the tourists, aren’t they? Well, normally I would say yes. A city like Madrid needs such a service and I’m sure it enhances the tourist’s holiday experience. But here in Cádiz, it’s a different story. This city is over three thousand years old – the oldest in Europe. People probably didn’t even know how to use a horse and carriage when the Phoenicians first settled here and you can see it in the city’s street plan. Most of the inhabitants either walk to their destination or drive around in mopeds because that’s the only thing that can steer through the maze of narrow and winding streets. You do see a car every now and then, but they crawl along at a mind-numbingly slow pace while offering you a chance to closely examine the many dents on the body and missing side-view mirror, both telltale battle wounds of how difficult it actually is to navigate a vehicle through these streets. The only large, two way street that cars dare to use is the one that goes around Cádiz... the one the tour buses use but, of course, there aren’t any monuments or sights of interest on that street. They’re all in the center.

I can just imagine how a tour on one of those buses would run: "Ladies and gentlemen, If we were to go down that street, you would see the Cathedral which is a beautiful example of 17th Century architecture. In front of the Cathedral you would see a beautiful square with an intricate marble pattern carefully laid into to stone. The narrow street leading off of that square leads to the beautiful flower market and the always popular fish market, which we, of course, can’t see from here. I would be more than happy to describe it for you though. Imagine... As you enter the market, you would probably see a number of fish to either side including octopus, prawns, and actual swordfish in their entirety. If you were to walk to the..." When the guide finally finishes talking, the bus just goes around the city once more and the tourists finally get off, having seen nothing from the bus except for the ocean to one side and the decaying buildings that line the city’s only two-way street to the other. Tourist milking verdict? Complete success!

Map of the tour route - Just follow the blue line around the city

The other syndicate scammer is a bit different but also offers tours. This one is always popular with the kids and the Germans. They can’t get enough of it. El Tren De Cádiz provides the same service as the tour buses, and exclusively uses the same two-way, ocean front street... but these Spanish Shylocks do it in style. Who needs an oversized double-decker bus when you can use an oversized, tacky white train? Just make sure you keep you hands inside the moving vehicle at all times, whether you’re a local or not.

Here come the Krauts... Make way for the tacky white train!

Come to think of it, if you ever find yourself zipping through the streets, I mean the street, of Cádiz one day in a white train, then you’re probably not a local anyway. You’re not even an expat. Face the facts... you’re just another tourist.

A wee dram of Scotch [AUGUST 7, 2005]

2005-08-07T17:15:00.000-04:00

I’ve been working in Scotland for the past month with the officious title of "Group Leader". My duties entailed assuming responsibility over a group of eleven Spanish teenagers as they attended English Language Summer Camp along with some two hundred other students from all over the world. The kids could be problematic at times, but at least I got a free vacation out of it And besides, whenever things got a bit too demanding, as they often do when one is put into such a position of authority, there was always the local pub around the corner waiting with a refreshing glass, or two, of Scotch whisky and soda.

As far as Scotland itself was concerned, the country didn’t really surprise me all that much. Everything was, more or less, as I had expected. The weather was crappy, everyone loved golf, the true Scotsmen didn’t hide their manhood by wearing something under their kilts, there were a lot of castles on the rolling green hills, and the bagpipes blew – although the haggis, amazingly, didn’t. At the end of the day, the two things that required the most getting used to boiled down to the Scottish accent and the damn cars always coming from the right.

Every true Scot enjoys a nice round on the green

The accent... Aye lads, the accent.
"Aht’s forr poonds ahty sex pee."
"Umm..." I hesitated a bit "...Yes? Please?"
She returned my confused glance with one of her own. "Aye. Ah, no. Forr poonds, ahty sex pee." as she turned the register towards me and pointed at the display.
"Oh! Four pounds, eighty-six pence. Sorry. Here’s five pounds."
She took the five pound note and shook her head disappointedly as she mumbled, "Bloody turrists."
"Hey, wait a minute. I heard that! I’m not a tourist. Well, I am. But I speak English. I mean, I’m a native speaker. I just didn’t understand what..."
"Aye, aye," as she handed me my change. "Next, please!"

The thing I don’t get, and it only dawned on me halfway through my stay, was that if I was having problems understanding the locals, how the hell were my Spanish kids coping? Taking them to Scotland to learn English didn’t seem like exactly the brightest idea.

After the first few days had passed, my ears started to adjust and I began making out about fifty percent of what the local Scots were saying. I know what you’re thinking – fifty percent isn’t anything to brag about. But hell, that’s about as much Spanish as I understand in Cádiz and I seem to get by without any problems there. Just as I was about to complement myself on how much Spanish I must have picked up over the last year – seeing as I can understand a Scotsman and an Andalucían about the same – my first almost-accident happened.

"Bloody turrist!" he laid on his horn as the car came to a screeching halt.
"What the...? Oh right. Britain."

Well, knowing that Churchill once got hit by a taxi cab in New York because he looked right instead of left comforted me somewhat. Although I’m no Churchill, I’ve done a few significant things in my day to warrant being stupid enough to not look before I cross. Why just the other day I helped an old lady carry her groceries up a flight of stairs. It may not compare to single-handedly defeating Fascism, but it’s got its merits.

Meanwhile, as I was busying myself fine-tuning my ear and looking right, left, right, left, right each time I crossed the street, the students seemed to be getting along fine. They were making friends from all corners of the world and speaking English with all of them. To be honest, the Spanish speakers tended to hang out with the other Spanish-speakers, just as the Italians, Chinese, and countless others hung out with their own, but they were still forced to integrate through a number of entertaining school organized activities. Surprisingly, some of them even made non-Spanish friends of their own accord. And so, confident that all was fine and taken care of by the English Language Summer Camp, I did what anyone in my position of authority would have done. I abandoned the kids for a few days and went on a little private tour of Scotland.

The train rides through the countryside were breathtaking. Tall rugged peaks would slowly blend into dense forests and settle into lush, green pastures strewn with sheep and cattle. And then there were the lochs dotted with castles and ruins... Loch Lomond, Loch Tay and, of course, Loch Ness. I left early one morning from the neighboring town of Inverness, where I had arrived the night before, and trekked through the ancient evergreens to find myself peering into Ness’ deep blue waters and wondering whether some pre-historic monster was actually lurking below. A breath of crisp Highlander air cleared my mind as... what the hell? My mobile phone was ringing. They always pick the perfect moment, don’t they?

"Hello. Who is it?" I answered rather curtly.
"Aye, hellu." It was the school director of the English Language Summer Camp. "Well, Ah em surry ta disrupt ye, boot it seems we haev a wee problem wit two of yerr stoodents. They werr cot shoplifting."
"What? Shoplifting? Did you say shoplifting?"
"Aye, shoplifting. The police haev em noo, boot it dinnae look serious. Caen ye meet us at the constabulary?"
"The co-stib-u... The what?"
"Aye. Ye knoo. The police station."
"The police station? You want me to go there?"
"Aye."
"Well, umm... I’m a bit busy now. Do you need me now?"
"Busy... na, Ah suppose naught. Dinnae wurry. Ye need ta sign fer the police report. But ye caen git it in the morrning."
"Okay, good. And the girls?"
"Dinnae wurry. We arr gitting them noo. Ah jus wanted ta inferm ye aboot the inceedent."
The school director’s accent was too thick and I didn’t catch the end of her last sentence. "Umm... Yes? Please?"
"Aye, see ye in the morrning."

There's no shame in what God gave you

I immediately – after a cool whisky and soda and another almost-accident – got on the next train out of Inverness. The next morning I met up with the school director and the police. From our unintelligible conversation, I managed to gather that the girls had been caught shoplifting some stupid little trinkets. The were young and the police understood. The authorities simply gave the girls a slap on the wrist and the director would punish them by not allow them to go on any more school excursions or activities. When I spoke to the young ladies later on in the day, they were full of embarrassment and genuinely apologetic so I didn’t tack any rebukes of my own onto their sentence. After all, I couldn’t think of any better way to punish two Spanish teenagers than by having them sit in a "constabulary" and try to decipher a Scotsman’s accented reprimands for half the night. Bloody tourists.

Sunday Morning Rummage [JULY 3, 2005]

2005-07-03T14:28:00.000-04:00

"Everything for TWO Euros! That’s right... TWO EUROS!!" a sun-baked Spaniard sitting lazily in his chair and sipping beer yells into the passing throngs. The people take no notice as they go along their business, rummaging through the garbage strewn out before them. "Not two HUNDRED Euros. No, no. Not two THOUSAND... Just TWO EUROS! Everything! That’s right! TWO EUROS!" He continues his half-hearted sales pitch, making it echo across Mercado Central – the city’s main market square. It usually smells of fresh fish, cured meats, fruit and vegetables here. But not today. The food market is closed during the weekend. There’s something more interesting afoot... It’s another Sunday morning in Cádiz.

For those of you who have ever visited Madrid, you will undoubtedly know what el Rastro is. Over half of the Spanish capital’s population must turn out for this weekly event. It’s an enormous flea market that takes place just south of the city center and comprises an entire neighborhood. Vendors set up shop on the side of the countless streets and alleys after the police have cut off traffic for the day. Madrid’s residents can’t get enough of it and, if you ever visit the city, it is the one event no tourist should ever miss. You can literally spend your entire Sunday wandering through el Rastro encountering one hidden treasure after another. I, for example, once spent two hours going through one guy’s collection of hard-bound English books (only one Euro each!) while my girlfriend was a few blocks down the neighborhood digging through a mountain of authentic, new leather jackets (made in Spain and only thirty Euro each) searching for the perfect fit.

El Rastro - Andalucía style
(Notice the man with the hat on... and his hand!)

But that was in Madrid. Things are a little different down here in Andalucía. The love of flea markets, I’ve found, isn’t restricted to only the capital. Spaniards all over the country can think of no better way to spend their Sunday mornings than by going through the junk that someone else can’t wait to throw away. The thing is, here in Cádiz, we’re a bit over 600 KM (about 400 miles) away from the Spanish capital so the residents can’t really drive every week to the biggest and best second-hand sale South-Western Europe has to offer. But not to fret. They’ve done the next best thing. They’ve started their own flea market, which the locals have adoringly dubbed, el Rastrillo – or the mini-Rastro.

Not even a serious injury can keep a true
Spaniard away from the lure of a flea market

Seeing as Cádiz is only a fraction of the size of Madrid, our mini-Rastro isn’t nearly as impressive as the original. Ours encompasses only one city block, where Mercado Central is located. As for the goods on sale, the selection is also severely limited due to the significantly lower population. But that doesn’t stop the locals, and us foreigners, from turning out faithfully each and every Sunday morning to see what’s on offer.

The products available for purchase at el Rastrillo, like their counterparts at el Rastro, are comprised of three main categories: 1) Hidden Treasures 2) Reasonable Finds/Bargains and 3) Complete Junk. Whereas Madrid’s vendors offer a healthy mix of all three, which can be a source of scavenging pleasure for hours, we here in the provinces are restricted to mostly goods from Category 3.

El Rastrillo: Any junk imagineable – even the ol' kitchen sink

A brief list of items my girlfriend and I have run across at el Rastrillo simply to illustrate the point...
– I needed a new phone and the vendor tried to offer me a used NOKIA. Perfect working condition. Number 7 button missing. Price: 10 €
– Chainsaw minus the chain. Price: 5 €
– A broom without the stick. Price: 50¢
– I got homesick once when I saw an authentic "US 25¢ Quarter" minted in 1992. Price: 1 €
– Small pile of crossword puzzle magazines for sale. Upon closer inspection, we found that all the puzzles had already been completed and the books, in fact, were written in Finnish. Price: 20¢ each, 2 € for the lot
– A Spanish translation of an East German book called The Diary of a Homosexual Communist. Price: 50¢
– My girlfriend wanted to buy her niece a present. She saw a plastic doll in the distance. It was naked and missing an arm and an eye. Price: 1 €
– Rollerskate. That’s right, only one. Price: 2 €
...And those are just the "finds" that have stood out in my memory. Add to that the countless nuts and bolts, cracked cups and dishes, plastic knickknacks and other trinkets we’ve come across, and one can see what’s on offer here at our little el Rastrillo. Most of the time, we just end up walking around and nudging each other every few minutes, "Can you believe they would even try to sell that?!"

A rare find to complete your record collection!
That "The Beatles of Cádiz" album everyone's been talking about!

But I honestly don’t think anyone in Cádiz turns out Sunday morning expecting to find a hidden treasure. It’s just a form of entertainment – for the wandering crowds as well as the vendors. Most of them just sit there behind their stuff, drinking a cool bottle of beer and trying to fight off the approaching afternoon heat. They’ll occasionally shout something out to grab attention, but most of the time they can’t really be bothered. Making a sale is something secondary. If it happens, it happens. Besides, the vendors are usually too busy talking to friends or neighbors and trying to catch up on the latest town gossip.

Sunday morning vendor busy attending to customers

Still, my girlfriend and I wouldn’t miss el Rastrillo for the world. We’re faithful members of the Sunday morning throngs. There’s no better entertainment to be found in Cádiz. Sure, we’ll never find any hidden treasures like we would have in Madrid, but one never knows. After all, a few weeks ago a couple of friends of ours invited us over for some dinner and a game of RISK. When pushed for details and, it turns out they had actually bought the board game at el Rastrillo. Sure, it was missing a few pieces and Japan, for some reason, had disappeared off the face of map, but it still made for a great evening of world conquest. And all for the low, low price of two Euros.

¡óE, el Fútbol! [JUNE 26, 2005]

2005-06-26T13:28:00.000-04:00

It’s Sunday night. Around nine o’clock. My girlfriend and I are in the living room playing a game of SCRABBLE. I just put down an X on triple letter score, but it completes two words, so I smile at her as I motion to the scorecard.

"Fifty points. Oh yeah!"

"Wait a minute. That’s not a word! ‘AXE’ has an E at the end of it. ‘AX’ isn’t a word!"

"American English, baby..."

"Well, I learnt ‘AXE’ with an E. Proper English has it with an E. And you need an E."

"So – Are you challenging me or what? Here’s the dictionary. Look it up if you want."

"I don’t know... just tell me. Is ‘AX’ really the American spelling or are you lying?"

I shrug my shoulders in innocence. "To challenge or not to challenge, that is the question."

"Alright. Give me the stupid dictionary." She flips through the As and a look of disappointment forms on her face. Just as she’s about to utter some Czech obscenities, deafening cheers and foot-stomping from the apartments above and next to us stop her short.

"¡oEEE! ¡óE óE óE oEEE! ¡óE Cádiz, oEEE!" comes through the ceiling and windows.

"What the..." I begin. "They’re going wild! What do you think it is this time?"

"Probably another goal. You know they never make any noise unless there’s a football game on."

"Yeah, I guess you’re right."

Goal! Goal! Goal! Goal! Goal!

That happened three weeks ago and, as usual, she was right. Cádiz C.F., the local football team, was playing and won. The thing is, while we were stuck in our little room bent over a SCRABBLE board, the whole city around us was going wild. It was the second to last game of the season. If Cádiz C.F. won that game and the next, they would advance to the First Division of the Spanish League. It would be like moving up from the Minors to the Major League. One more game to go. The final of the season.

I don’t usually get too involved with football, even though it is the most popular sport in the world. Maybe it’s because I’m American and I was just never brought up watching it. By the way, I’m talking about real football here, not that sport we call "Football" in the States. Jesus, why is it even called football back home? It’s more like rugby than anything else. Your foot hardly ever touches the ball and its more about throwing the ol’ pigskin than kicking it. American football should be called "Oblongshapedball" and Soccer should be re-dubbed Football, the same as it is in every other country on this planet. But... I’m getting worked up over nothing. As a general rule, I don’t really like any sports and normally don’t get involved either way. I’d rather sit down in a comfy chair and play a good game of chess. Marx, in my opinion, got it all wrong. Screw religion – Sports is the real opiate.

And Spaniards, along with perhaps the English and Brazilians, are the most addicted junkies I’ve ever come across. They absolutely love "el fútbol". Especially if it's their home team that’s playing. You can see grandmothers, five-year-old girls, even the Señores who don’t seem to give a damn about anything, decked out in team colors and filling the local bar when there’s an important match on. In fact, that’s exactly what happened with the last game of the season.

If it doesn't come packaged in the team colors, we don't sell it

Although, as I said, I usually don’t watch sports, I did make an exception for the final Cádiz C.F. game. The atmosphere in the city was unbelievable. It had been building up all week. People had hung Cádiz C.F. flags on their balconies. Pharmacies and corner shops had removed their normal goods and products from the display window and put Cádiz C.F. paraphernalia it their place. The tiniest of children were wearing oversized Cádiz C.F. jerseys. Dogs were even shuffling along with little Cádiz C.F. scarves wrapped around their necks. All walks of life were decked out in the team colors. The city was awash in a sea of yellow and blue.

"I hope they win the big game tonight..."

That was what Cádiz looked like last weekend when my girlfriend and I went in search of some friends we were supposed to meet at a local bar. The game was only being aired on cable so the streets were packed with countless others in the same boat as us. The thing is, the bars couldn’t even begin to accommodate those filing through their doors. So they did the only logical thing – they turned their TVs so that they would face the street and allow everyone to see. The barmen didn’t care if they would make more money off of it or not, their team was playing. Winning was the only thing that mattered. Besides, everybody was too busy concentrating on the game to think about drinking.

Forget walking the dog, the match just began!

But, being Spain, the drinking had to come at one point or another. And so it did.... after the game had ended and Cádiz C.F. were officially advanced to the First Division. The city went wild as everyone – from babies to grandparents – marched to the Old City Gates of Cádiz and partied on until the team heroes arrived victoriously aboard the Cádiz C.F. bus at three in the morning. It was unreal. People were jumping into the public fountains, champagne corks went flying in every direction, and traffic came to a complete halt as the streets filled with yellow and blue. All I could think about was that this – this madness and festivity in the name of a football victory – wasn’t even due a true victory. They hadn’t won a trophy or a cup or anything like that. The only thing Cádiz C.F. had managed to do that season was lift itself out of the god-awful league it had been part of and join the big boys of Spanish football. Nevertheless, the city was celebrating as if they had just become World Champions!

At the Old City Gates before...

...and after the victory

All of that happened last week though. Things have sort of died down since then. Don’t get me wrong – you can still see the yellow and blue flags everywhere – but at least the Old City Gates have finally emptied of revelers. I’m not fooled though. Just because football season is over, doesn’t mean that the Spaniards can forget it so easily. After all, the next one is only a few months away. The locals have already begun talking about how the heroes of Cádiz C.F. will soon be playing against such football giants as Zinedine Zidane, David Beckham, and Ronaldo. With this kind of excitement going round, who knows. I might even find myself, just like everyone else in Spain, glued to the TV screen when next year’s football season kicks off...

¡óE Cádiz, oEEE!

Yeah right. Who am I kidding? I’ll be stuck in front of a SCRABBLE board trying to think of how to get the most points out of that X on my letter-rack.