Good News Everyone!

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]

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]

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]

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]

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...