The New Spanish

I had an insight while reflecting upon an experience in the Rome airport, waiting for our flight to Madrid last week.  My insight has to to with the future of the Spanish language.  A few seats away from us a group of Spaniards were talking.  I couldn't hear quite what they said, but I could pick up a continuous stream of isolated words: joder … coño … puta madre … hostia … coño … joder … puta madre … 


Speakers of Spanish will recognize these words as a series of obscenities.  "Why were they cursing?" you might ask.  I glanced over at the group.  They did not seem frustrated with the inconveniences attending to travel by air.  They did not seem put out by a delay in their departure time.  In fact, they did not seem to be grumpy in any way.  To all appearances, they were simply whiling away the time with pleasant banter.  Pleasant banter punctuated by words whose English translations – were they to appear in this paragraph – would subject my blog to an "adults only" filter of some kind.

Now, those of you who know Spain and Spaniards, I am sure, are not in the least bit surprised.  You know that this is simply how many Spaniards talk.  But as I reflected upon this, my first encounter with Spanish after spending a week hearing nothing but Italian, I was struck by the high frequency of the obscenities, and I had the insight to which I have alluded.   I assure you that it is a novel one.  My ready access to the Biblioteca Nacional has allowed me to peruse the pertinent secondary literature, and I can inform you that I have found no scholarly articles of monographs that advance the argument I will put forth in the paragraphs that follow.

The Spanish people, I argue, are engaged in a linguistic experiment of the most radical kind.  They are attempting to develop a language in which one expresses oneself solely and entirely in obscenities.  Yes, this is what is going on.  Slowly but surely, "clean" words are being eliminated from the language, and their functions are being assigned to a slew of obscenities.  Eventually, only the obscenities will be left, along with some indispensable connecting material like articles and prepositions.

But you might wonder how anyone could express the entire range of human experience exclusively through obscenities.  You will find your answer in the threefold character of Spain's great linguistic experiment: permutations, context, tone.

1. Permutations.  The volume of individual obscenities is considerable, but it certainly does not even begin to approximate the size of the "clean" lexicon.  This limitation is addressed, in part, by combining the obscenities in a variety of permutations.  For example, one can say me cago en la leche, or me cago en la hostia.  Both of these are set phrases that utilize the first person singular conjugation of the verb cagarse, "to defecate," but predicate to this verb different objects, leche, or "[your mother's] milk," and hostia, or "[communion] host."  In this way, Spanish obscenities function like regular language, but unlike regular language, the range of allowable predicates is smaller than the range of syntactically correct predicates.  Thus, one cannot say me cago en el coño.  Not to my knowledge, at least.  One can also abbreviate such expressions, or supplement them.  Me cago en la leche, for example, is really an abbreviation for me cago en la leche de tu madre, which in turn can be extended into me cago en la leche de tu puta/putissima madre, or even me cago en la leche de la putisima madre que te parió.  The wide, but not unlimited, range of permutations allows for a greater number of set expressions than there are individual obscenities.  Competent speakers instinctively know how the different permutations nuance meaning.
2. Context.  Many obscenities acquire their precise meaning from the context in which they are used.  Is the speaker talking back to the television news?  Is he congratulating you on the birth of your baby?  Is she expressing disapproval of your work performance?  Context is what allows these obscenities to signify in ways that have nothing to do with the literal meaning of the obscenities themselves.  Competent speakers will choose the correct permutation for the context in question, thereby communicating meaning with little or no ambiguity.
3. Tone.  Without a doubt the most important, and most elusive of the three characteristics.  The tone in which an obscenity is uttered can radically affect its meaning.  For example, me cago en la leche, when uttered quietly, with a sigh, can mean "I do not think that I can withstand the soul-crushing burden of my meaningless existence anymore," but when uttered explosively and dramatically, can mean "What kind of idiot thinks to park his car here!?!?"  Once again, competent speakers will know how to vary tone, even subtly, to achieve their communicative goals.

Now, you may be saying to yourself that these three characteristics are common to obscenities in many languages, not just Spanish.  But the point is that, in the emerging "New Spanish," these rules will not just govern the use of obscenities, a marginal form of speech, but will govern all language use, since the obscenities will be all that is left.

As the rules of obscene language become the rules of language itself, tone and context will assume unprecedented importance.  Print media will disappear entirely, since it will not be able to function in this new setting.  Imagine a newspaper headline reading ¡Obama jodido!  In the absence of tone and context, it will be impossible to tell what, precisely, is being reported.  Has Obama lost an election?  Has one of his legislative initiatives been defeated?  Has he suffered a serious back injury?  The New Spanish will be able to communicate all of these various meanings, but only through oral communication, utilizing precise tone and drawing upon the specific context to underwrite the communicative project. 

Are there specific impediments to this experiment?  Two stand out, to my mind.  One is the continued use, by many Spaniards, of words that are not obscene.  Just today, while enjoying my cafe con leche in the cafeteria of the Biblioteca Nacional, I tuned in to the conversations around me, eager to identify and enumerate the obscenities in circulation.  During the 5 or 10 minutes that I sipped my beverage and munched on my small jamón sandwich, I heard not a single one!  The second, more serious impediment has to do with the verb "to be."  Most action verbs can be replaced by obscene ones, such as cagarse and  joder, but I do not know of an obscene substitute for the Spanish verbs ser and estar.  Later this week I plan to take the Metro to Spain's prestigious think-tank, the Centro Superior de Investigaciones Científicas (CSIC) to inquire as to the public resources that are being dedicated to resolving this problem.  I suspect that the percentage of the CSIC budget devoted to researching obscene alternatives to ser and estar is not inconsiderable.  

But while the trip to the CSIC is obligatory, it is not where my heart draws me.  I want to leave the library, march down the avenue to the stately headquarters of the Real Academia Española, and immediately apprise its membership of what is afoot.  I shall direct myself without hesitation to the office of its illustrious director, Dr. Victor García de la Concha, burst into his office, and set forth my argument just as I have done here.  "Do something, your Excellency!  The New Spanish will spell disaster!!" I will cry out.

I fear, however, that it may already be too late.  The director will listen to me, aghast, and then respond with a simple, Joder.  

Roman Holiday

Long-time readers of the blog will remember my long-ago posts about our trip to Andalucía, when we saw Córdoba, Seville, Cádiz, the pueblos blancos, and Granada in seven days.  The trip was wonderful, but quite the whirlwind, and we were quite conscious that we were only getting to see the biggest attractions in each place.  So when it came to planning our trip for Christmas vacation, we decided to take a different strategy.  This time we had nine days, and we would spend them all in one place, taking things slowly, relaxing along the way.  We asked the Kid where in Europe he most wanted to go, and he immediately said "Rome!"

There were two reasons for this preference. One was that the Kid had studied Rome in third grade, with his mom/teacher, and had learned all about the Roman Republic.  The second was that, back in 2007, Zoë had taken me to Rome for three days to celebrate my 40th birthday.  Three years later, the Kid was still resentful about being left behind, and wanted to "catch up" with everything we'd seen.  I won't bother to try to determine which of these motivations weighed heavier in his mind.

The trip was made possible by Zoë's amazing mutant power, which allows her to find the best airfares, hotels/apartments anywhere.  As in Barcelona, our savings came at a cost.  We flew Ryan Air, whose seats do not recline, and who nickels-and-dimes you for everything.  The most astonishing thing on sale?  Scratch tickets.  The money goes to charity.  We think it's the employee retirement fund.  Our apartment was roomy and attractive, but on a ground floor / basement, and ended up being rather damp.  Still the prices were right, and the location of the apartment could not be beat.  Right near the Castel Sant' Angelo, on the Roman side of the Tiber, 10 minutes walking from the Piazza Navona.

I will not burden you with a blow-by-blow account which few of you will read anyway.   Those of you with interest, time to waste, or papers to grade, can spend time looking at my Ricardo's Rome Google Map.  There, I have marked everything we saw, and just about everywhere we ate.  You can click on the icons to see our reviews/reactions/advice.  The map is meant to be part journal, part resource for any of you planning your own trip to Rome one day.  For the rest of you, here are the highlights:

• We saw 18 churches, including St. Peter's Basilica and the Sistine Chapel.  For a full list, see the Google Map.  The Sistine Chapel, of course, was sublime.  I found myself very moved by it, just as much as the first time I saw it years ago.  St. Peter's was also spectacular.  It's not beautiful, but stunning.  What caught us all by surprise, however, were the Roman and medieval mosaics that you can see in Rome's oldest churches, like the Basilica of Cosmo & Damiani, or the Basilica of Santa María in Trastevere.  For pics of some of these, see Facebook.  We ended up going from one church to the other, on a mosaic hunt.
• We have long been fascinated by relics.  Not for devotional reasons, since we're all a pretty secular lot, but for the perverse fascination with this sort of fetishism.  We saw loads of cool relics, including the skull of St. Agnes, pieces of the manger, and the teeth of St. Martial.  Then there were the reliquaries containing cool relics that you couldn't see, like the heads of Sts. Peter and Paul, Peter's finger, and pieces from the table of the Last Supper.  Who knows if any of this stuff is actually what people believe it to be, but the ambiguity is one of the things that  make them so fascinating to us.
• We saw ruins.  Lots of ruins.  The Forum, the Palatine Hill, the Baths of Diocletian, etc.  The ruins in Rome proper were stunning, but what made our experience with all this really special was the day trip we took to Ostia Antica.  This was once Rome's port city.  It ended up getting buried by mud and silt over the years, and has now been mostly excavated, allowing you to visit a Roman city, as you do in visiting Pompeii or Herculaneum.  Ostia, though, is not crowded.  Oftentimes we found ourselves alone, wandering among the buildings.   Highlights included the theater, the tavern, the mill, and the latrines.  The Kid and I got to sit on 2000-year-old toilets.  "Sit," that is.  Notice there is no "h" in that word.
• We ate.  No splurge dinners to fancy Rome restaurants.  Just good, solid, affordable Roman food throughout the trip.  Lots of great pasta and pizza, and amazing gelato.  Great carbonara, artichokes in oil, fried zucchini, and some really good desserts involving marzipan, cheese, and fruit.

Now, attentive readers will have noticed a contradiction between the list above and the plans as set out in the first paragraph.  Did we take things slowly?  Relax?  Not at all.  You see, Rome is inexhaustible.  We are not, but we did our darnedest to test the limits.  My hip started to hurt.  Zoë's feet were killing her.  But we had a big fistful of naproxen sodium and we powered on.  Our last day we had an hour to kill before our transportation picked us up, so we went to the Castel Sant' Angelo and slowly, agonizingly trudged up its ramps and stairs to take in the view.  You can't tell from the picture we took there that we are all utterly and completely drained.

The best part of it all?  Witnessing the Kid's enthusiastic and engaged responses to everything.  He was thrilled as he entered the Colosseum (although later he found it a letdown).  He wanted to take pictures of everything in the Egyptian rooms of the Vatican Museums.  He was clearly moved by the Sistine Chapel.  He could not get over the fact that he was walking on the same roads that Roman emperors had walked upon in the Forum.  He wanted to take in every detail of every church.  He learned to distinguish at a snap between Renaissance and Baroque aesthetics.  He developed a preference for Bernini over Borromini.  He loved the pasta and gelato.  All in all, I think we made up for leaving him home three years ago.

The worst part of it all?  Enduring the Kid's enthusiastic and engaged reactions to everything.  Those of you who know my son know what a talker he can be.  Everything he sees and experiences comes accompanied by constant verbal commentary.  Sometimes he has wonderful things to say, like when he walked into a church, looked around, and said, "This is basically a Renaissance church with a Baroque altar, right?"  In our nerdy family, this is like scoring a touchdown.  Sometimes, though when the hour is late, and everyone is tired, it's all a bit too much for Dad with his sore hip and Mom with her aching feet, particularly if the naproxen sodium has begun to wear off.  I'll leave you with one example, a conversation had while exploring the crypt of the St. Peter's Basilica:

Santiago: I was just thinking.  When the Pope signs a check, does he use his Pope name or his real name?

Mom: Who pays for anything with checks these days?

Dad: Please, mi hijito, can you stop talking for the next ten minutes, and just look at the stuff?

Christmas, Come Hell or Highwater

I am writing this as I wait on hold with American Airlines.  This is a favor I am gladly doing for my mother-in-law, who is obviously a most unfortunate holiday traveler, as you will see from this post.  A lesson from the Almighty?  Or just a good ole fashioned cluster-fuck?  You, dear reader, can decide.

Zoë's family – Mother (M), Sister (S), Brother-in-Law (BIL), and Adorable Little Nephew (ALN) – were to join us for Christmas in Madrid.  S and BIL were quite anxious during the week leading up to their departure, because they really did not know how ALN would handle the rigors of transatlantic travel, to Europe no less!  M, meanwhile, was blasé about the whole thing, since she regularly travels to Kenya on trips that involve not just lengthy flights, but overland travel in jeep-like conveyances over dusty roads into remote areas.  The great irony here is that S, BIL and ALN arrived without incident, stroller and pack 'n' play included, while M was cast by the Furies into the traveler's Hell that is also known as Heathrow Airport.  

Day 1 - Having arrived the day before, S, BIL, and ALN were ready to stroll around, have a great lunch, and start getting to know Madrid.  We at "El Fogón de la Abuela," a mom-and-pop restaurant near the Kid's school that makes great croquetas and roasted meats.  M was stuck in a flea-bitten hotel near Heathrow, hoping that they would be able to de-ice planes the next day and get her out of the UK.

Day 2 - More of the same.  Those of us in Madrid were busy discovering how lovely the city is at Christmastime.  The downtown area is decked out in Christmas lights.  There is an enormous electric tree in the Puerta del Sol.  The Plaza Mayor hosts a Christmas market.  We went to the Chocolatería San Ginés to enjoy the best hot chocolate in Madrid, while people at surrounding tables burst out in Christmas carols.  M befriended the random selection of hapless unfortunates who were also stuck in the flea-bitten hotel and tried to scrounge a half-decent meal at the local pub.

Day 3 - In Madrid, more strolling.  A visit to the Prado, where BIL was delighted to see Bosch's Garden of Earlthly Delights and S was thrilled by Goya's Semi-Submerged Dog.  M, meanwhile, paid an outrageous amount of money to a British cabbie to get to lovely Lutton, England, where the airport was up and running, and where she would be able to catch an Easyjet flight out to Madrid the next day.  The hotel in Lutton was equally flea-bitten.  At least it had food, such as it was.  The place close to Heathrow had run out.  

Day 4 - In Madrid, still more strolling about.  A trip along the Gran Vía, culminating in hot chocolate at the overpriced but lovely café of the Círculo de Bellas Artes.  And, finally, in the evening . . . TA DA!!!  The glorious arrival of Zoë's Mother, after a delay of 5 days!!!!!!!!  And how much snow did they get in England?  10cm!!!!!  For the metrically-challenged among you, that is less than 5 inches.  The busiest, most important airport of the capital of what was once the almighty British Empire was utterly paralyzed by fewer than 5 inches of snow.  Wusses.

Day 5 - All together at last!!!  M wanted to go to the Reina Sofía, Madrid's wonderful modern art museum, and we went, because obviously we were going to do whatever she wanted.  She loved the museum, particularly its centerpiece, Picasso's Guernica, and we loved sharing it with her.  We had lunch at a local cheap-eats place, El Lacon, where the chipirones a la plancha (sauteed cuttlefish) were just fabulous.

It was the Kid's birthday, so that night we enjoyed ponche de yema, a type of cake, from the Mallorquina, Madrid's best bakery/pastry shop. 

Day 6 - December 24th.  The big day.  For those of you unfamiliar with Christmas traditions in the Latin world, Christmas Eve is the big celebration, not Christmas day.  We had ordered prepared food from El Corte Inglés, Spain's biggest department store.  For a surprisingly affordable cost, we got lobster bisque, mushroom-stuffed turkey, sauteed mushrooms, and an apple tart.  We added a salad and mashed potatoes, and - voila! - dinner was served.  Well, except for a little incident where we thought that the oven in M's apartment was not working . . . but we solved that.  After dinner and presents, M and I went to midnight mass at San Ginés, one of Madrid's most beautiful and historic old churches.  The beauty of the setting almost made up for the pathetically mechanical mass.  No choir.  No singing.  A priest who seemed like he'd been roused from his bed to say mass, and was eager to get back.  At the end, they did something called "the Adoration of the Child," which involved having everyone line up to kiss the foot of a little statue of the Christ child.  My mother-in-law, a Protestant, was stunned by the idolatry of it all.  I got a kick out of the priest's reassurance to the congregation, "To make this go faster, we have two."  Two Christs, that is.  God forbid that anyone spend any more time than absolutely necessary in church!!

Day 7 - December 25th.  We got together at our house to consume something we had bought at a nearby bakery the day before, with no real certainty of what it was.  It was a baked good, shaped like an anguila (eel) biting its own tail.  It had frosting and came with candied fruit.  It was clearly a special treat, and a sweet one, so we wanted to try it.  The Kid especially, since he is particularly fond of sweet treats.  As it turned out, these anguilas are made of cabello de angel (angel's hair), which is a type of candied squash. That's the filling.  The outside is marzipan, one of the greatest foodstuffs known to human-kind.  I think it's meant to be eaten as a dessert, but we ate it as a breakfast, largely because we had confused it with these other things they were selling at La Mallorquina, called roscos de Navidad.  It was unbelievably sweet, particularly when paired with the candied peaches, cherries, and pears.  By this morning, we had eaten the whole thing.  

Day 8 - Farewell BIL, S, and ALN!!  They flew out this morning.  ALN proved to be a hardy traveler.  He adjusted to the time change with no problem, and was all smiles and giggles about 90% of the time.  He also learned a new trick, napping in his stroller, which we all hope will stick upon his return to the US, since it is very liberating for parents when their 14-month-old does not have to nap in his crib all the time.  

The rest of us went to Toledo, where we had a magical day.  A Toledo trip was what the Kid had wanted to do for his birthday, but we weren't able to because: 1) M had arrived the night before and we had all gotten to bed late; and 2) the Kid had woken up in the middle of the night to vomit all over his bed.  But, it ended up being for the best, because it was rainy on his actual birthday, but sunny on the day we actually went. We took the train, and managed to see both of the medieval synagogues, the little 1000-year-old mosque, before having a superb lunch at the "Taberna Alfileritos." We had a rice dish, some duck spring rolls, roasted lamb and venison, and a wonderful chocolate dessert.  Basically, traditional dishes reinterpreted, very well, along modern lines.  Then it was off to Toledo's magnificent cathedral, and back to Madrid, …

… where my mother-in-law has discovered that her flight to the US has been cancelled.  I am still on hold with American Airlines, more than one hour after beginning this blog post, waiting to see if we can at least get her across the Atlantic tomorrow.  

Done!  American answered just as I finished writing the last sentence.  She is getting out tomorrow!  Going home to Boston!  By way of Dallas/Ft Worth. Arriving at midnight.   At least this time, there should be no flea-bitten hotels, or English food. 

BAAAAARCELONA, where the winds come sweeping down the plains!!!

You may be wondering about my title, since Barcelona is known neither for its winds or plains.  But the State of Oklahoma is.  At least it has been since Rogers & Hammerstein gave us this song in their musical Oklahoma!  I only know the lyrics alluded to in my title, along with two other fragments from this musical.  One of these is from a particularly irritating song, while the other is only slightly less so.  I have no idea where I picked up "Geese and chicks and ducks better scurry,/ when I take you out in the surrey,/ when I take you out in the surrey / with the fringe on top!" but I wish I could put it back.  I know exactly where I got "Oh, what a beautiful morning!  / Oh, what a beautiful day!" however.  When I went camping with my Boy Scout troop, one of the troop leaders – a grizzled old, chain-smoking former Navy cook who had served in WWII – used to wake us all up by singing those two lines as well as a grizzled old chain-smoking Navy cook could.  I sometimes woke up early, having dreamt of him singing those lines while he was still strolling around the campsite, sucking on a Marlboro, waiting for the right time to do the deed.

Now, I am certain that you are all fascinated by this, but you may be wondering what all of this has to do with our recent long weekend in the capital of Catalonia, the fair city of Barcelona.  The answer: absolutely nothing whatsoever.  Except that one of our friends here in Madrid lives in Oklahoma, and seeing her has gotten the songs from the musical stuck in my head, and last week I realized that you could substitute "Barcelona" for "Oklahoma" and the meter still worked.  So, for the few days before our departure, I was singing "Baaaaaaaaarcelona, where the wind comes sweeping down the plains!," much to the chagrin of Zoë.

But Zoë had her revenge.  On the night before our departure, she informed us that she had neglected to notice, upon reserving the apartment where we would be staying, that it was a fifth-floor walk-up.  That's five floors, not counting the ground floor.  So a six-floor walk-up, by US measure.  Oh well.  The price was good, as was the location, right in Barcelona's Barri Gòtic, or "Gothic Quarter."  If you are now picturing us among black-clad teenagers listening to desperately depressing music, then you should know that it was not that kind of gothic, but the other kind, the medieval kind.  As in "gothic architecture," or "gothic cathedrals."  The neighborhood had one of the latter, and plenty of the former.

We spent four days in Baaaaaarcelona, where the wind comes sweeping down the plains, courtesy of the weekend, Constitution Day (Monday), the Feast of the Immaculate Conception (Wednesday) and the bridge day (Tuesday).  A bridge day, for those of you so saturated in the Protestant Work Ethic that you simply cannot believe what is obviously implied, is a vacation day connecting two other vacation days, so as to maximize continuous vacation time.  We left Saturday on the early (6am) bullet train, and came back this morning, giving us four days and four nights in Baaaaaaaaarcelona where the wind comes sweeping down the plains!

Saturday

La Seu without the scaffolding that currently graces it

• Arrival.  Trudged up the apartment.  Orientation from Julián, the young Argentinian guy in charge of check-in.  Dumped our stuff.  Trudged down.
• Strolling around the Gothic Quarter.  Again, no Goths.  
• Visting La Seu, the medieval cathedral of Baaaaaaaaarcelona, where the wind comes sweeping down the plains!  Extraodinary.
• A visit to the City Museum, which features remains of the Roman town of Barcino, the predecessor to the current city.  The whole museum is underground, because that's where the remains are.  
• Lunch at La Fonda, a restaurant in the Gothic Quarter that I would recommend to anyone looking for a good, affordable meal.  
• An extended visit to the Christmas market in front of the cathedral, where the Kid became obsessed with the Spanish custom of the Nativity scene.  People invest a great deal in these things, adding figures and details over the course of the year.  We ended up buying one, with the central figures, the three kings, the shepherds, and some animals, including a dog and a family of bunnies.  For Santiago, it was all about the animals.  The weirdest thing on sale, though, was the very Catalan figure of the "caganer," a traditional peasant in the act of having a bowel movement.  A fertility thing apparently.  For the satirically inclined, there were caganers in the form of celebrities, including soccer players and politicians, even Barack Obama.  Not to be confused with the caganer was the "caga tío," or "Tío de Nadal."   This is a log with a Christmas outfit that you hit with a stick while singing a special song.  It then defecates small presents, or turrones and other sweets.  Mmmm just what I wanted for Christmas, log-shit for dessert.   We set up the new Nativity scene in the apartment, only to shock poor Julián.  When he came in to fix a little problem with the toilet, he saw our Nativity scene and concluded we were deeply religious people who had brought the thing with us from Madrid because we simply could not be without it during the Christmas season.
• Trudged up to the apartment.

An Obama caganer

Sunday

• Breakfast at Forns del Pi, a bakery/coffee shop in the Gothic Quarter.  We found that Catalans know how to do pastry, and enjoyed having breakfast there every day.
• Betrayal!!!  One of the things we most wanted to see in Baaaaaaaaaaaaaarcelona where the wind comes sweeping down the plains! was the collection of Romanesque art at the National Catalan Art Museum.  We arrived first thing only to find that the gallery was under renovation.  How could they do this to us?  Didn't they know we were coming?  Or was it because they knew we were coming!?!?  Maybe we should have whacked a log with a stick before leaving Madrid.
• Frustrated and angry with the MNAC, we decided to leave it altogether, and go instead to the Fundació Joan Miró, a museum centered on the collection of works donated by Miró precisely for this purpose.  I can't say Miró is one of my favorite artists, but I certainly appreciate him more having spent a few hours with his work.  At least they didn't have any galleries closed for renovation.
• Lunch at Òleum, despite its location within the walls of the traitorous MNAC.  The only real reason we went there is because all of these museums are located on the hill of Montjuïc, which is on the edge of downtown.  You can either schlep back into town to eat, or eat at one of the establishments in/around the museums.  Òleum was absolutely superb.  We sat with a view of the city, and particularly enjoyed the dessert, chestnut cake with black-sesame ice cream.  Surprisingly, this meal did not break the bank.
• Afterwards, the Poble Espanyol, the kitchiest thing we've seen in Spain.  "See Spain in an hour!" say the ads.  This is a leftover from the world's fair of the 1920s that bequeathed to us many of the structures on Montjuïc.  We read the description to the Kid, and he was dying to go.  It's basically a little park, where each and every building is a repro of some historical buildign somewhere in Spain.  Well, the façade is, at least.  The interior is an arts & crafts and/or souvenir shop.  I was tempted to take a picture of the fake plaza mayor and post it, claiming it was a real place.  The Kid got a kick out of watching the glassblowers.  The Andalusian section included a street from Arcos de la Frontera, where we had been in September.  It was creepily reminiscent of our experience there.  The whole place was a shock to me, because I thought we only had this sort of kitschy repro-authentic places in the US!
• Then, the Caixa Forum, another museum, where we saw this very cool exhibition of archelogical remains from Saudi Arabia.  The museum itself is wonderful.  It's in a repurposed textile factory.  The exhibit culminated in a pair of 17th century metal doors that had once lead into the Ka'ba in Mecca.  Zoë, a former Near Eastern Languages and Civilization major, was particularly moved by this.  
• Dinner at a tapas place off the Ramblas.  The food was delicious at Òleum, but the portions small, so for once we ate dinner.  The Ramblas are a series of pedestrian walkways that cut down the length of Baaaaaaaaaarcelona where the wind comes sweeping down the plains!, and where much of the action is.  Flower stalls.  Cafés.  Tourists.  Pickpockets.  And over-priced but delicious tapas bars.  Can't remember the name.
• Trudged up to the apartment.

Monday

Entrance bldg at Parc Guell

• Gaudí Day.  If you don't know who Antoni Gaudí is, you're missing out!  Gaudí was a spectacular architect of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, certainly of Spain's greatest ever.  Most of his buildings are in Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarcelona where the wind comes sweeping down the plains!, and we decided to see them.  
• First stop, the Parc Guell, a spectacular public park in the hills just above downtown.  The fusion of nature and artifice is amazing. The architecture reminded me of something, and I couldn't tell what it was . . . Something sci-fi?  No.  The Lord of the Rings?  No.  What?
• Second stop, La Sagrada Familia.  We were conveyed there by a Galician cab driver who told the Kid that he looked like a girl, and then regaled us with a story about how he won the Army Judo Championship back in the day, despite the fact that he knew no judo, by getting his opponent into the only pin he knew right away.  He mumbled some nostalgic things about life under Franco.  Upon arrival: Abort! Abort! Abort!  The line wrapped around the entire block.  We decided to come back the next day. Early.
• Third stop.  Not really a stop, since we were walking the whole time.  A stroll through the Eixample, the 19th century neighborhood where most of the buildings by Gaudí and other modernistas.  
• Fourth stop.  We went into La Pedrera, an apartment building by Gaudí that is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site.  I wondered what it would be like to live in a UNESCO World Heritage Site, but then as I wrote this, I realized that I actually have!  Again, it looked like something I knew, but I couldn't place it . . . 
• Lunch at Ponsa, a family-owned restaurant nearby.  OK food, but overpriced!  The most expensive meal we had in Baaaaaaaaaarcelona where the wind comes sweeping down the plains!
• After lunch, an abortive trip to the Museum of Contemporary Art, which was closed Mondays, it turns out.  
• Exhausted, we headed back to the apartment, planning on an early bed and an early rise, to get to the Sagrada Familia before it opened. 
• That night, Zoë had a dream that revealed to both of us the answer to the question that had been bothering me so.  Gaudí's architecture looked like something out of . . . Dr. Seuss!!! YES!!!  Apparently, Zoë and I are not the only ones to think this way: take a look at this passage from Dr Seuss: American Icon, by Philip Nei. 
• Trudged up to the apartment.

Tuesday

The crucifixion scene

• La Sagrada Familia.  I knew this unfinished church by Gaudí was going to be a show-stopper, but I was not prepared for it to be quite as spectacular as it is.  Gaudí reinterprets gothic architecture to make it look natural, converting the columns into trees and the vaults into leaves.  The interior soars.  The stained-glass shines.  I cannot even imagine what this place will be like once it is finished.  Right now, it is among the most impressive buildings in Spain, along with the Mosque in Córdoba and the Alhambra in Granada.  We spent 3+ hours there, gawking and marveling.  I was particularly impressed by the statues executed for the western façade, dedicated to the Passion, by the Catalan sculptor Subirachs.  
• Then the Picasso Museum.  A strange little place, because it has no really famous works by the artist.  It's interesting nonetheless, because it has some juvenalia that allows you to appreciate just how talented Picasso was at an early age (14 years old).  There's also a wonderful gallery with his multiple parodies of Velázquez's Las Meninas.
• Lunch was at Origens.  I highly recommend this place when you find yourself in Baaaaaaarcelona where the wind comes sweeping down the plains!  It specializes in Catalan cuisine.  The menu reads like a magazine, with a little article about every dish and a map that shows you what part of Catalonia it's from.  We had the tasting menu, which was both a flavor feast and a good value.
• After lunch, a stroll through Barceloneta, the waterfront neighborhood, enjoying the unseasonably warm temperatures (high 60s).  And then the teleferico ride across the harbor to Montjuïc, followed by a long walk back to the apartment.  
• Trudged up to the apartment.

Whew.  I can't believe that was just four days.  If you enjoyed what you read, please post, here or on Facebook.  We'd all love to hear from you.  If you didn't enjoy what you read, go post on David Gies's blog.

Life is a Dream

I am sitting on our incredibly uncomfortable couch trying to piece together a strange dream I had.  I dreamt that I was back in the US for a week, that I saw friends & family, that I attended a dissertation defense at UVA, that I had Thanksgiving dinner at my mother's house.  But here I am, in the apartment on the Calle del Prado, and I'm not sure if any of this happened.  Like Segismundo of Golden-Age-Spanish-drama fame, I find myself wondering whether or not my memories are of a real experience or not.  Here are the pros and cons:

What was dreamlike about it

• I met with some good friends in the department lounge, where we had a lovely albeit too-short conversation.  I usually go out for lunch with these friends.  What in the world were we doing in the lounge?
• The dissertation defense was in the History department.  I am in Spanish, but do research that is historically oriented.  What was I doing there?   Clearly my intellectual identity issues were making themselves felt in my dreamworld.  The defense went extremely well, by the way.
• I was with some other good friends at a burger place, eating delicious organic burgers, but they were having veggie burgers and breadless burgers.  Breadless burgers??  Clearly Dali-esque.
• At Thanksgiving, my cousins Carlos Hernán an Victor Manuel were there.  Victor saw me putting marshmallows on the sweet potatoes, and expressed curiosity about this, asking me if it was an innovation of my own.  CH was there last year, so he checks out, but I have not seen VM since he was 11 or 14 years old.  And he continued to be fascinated with race cars, as he was when he was a kid.  A very suspicious detail.
• Carlos Hernán had a preternaturally well-groomed beard.
• At the Spanish Consulate, we explained to the consular official that my son had to have a note from them explaining why he was missing gym class that week.  The consular official provided us with said note, on consular stationery.
• I was in our house in Charlottesville, with the family, talking with our renters.  They had rearranged some of the furniture, so that the house looked both familiar and not so familiar.  At one point, I was looking for stuff I needed in boxes, and couldn't find anything.  Just like an anxiety dream.
• There was Asian food everywhere.  We went out for Thai with my mother, and for dim sum with my mother-in-law.  The strange mix of cultures in the DC area seemed unreal.
• My brother was at Thanksgiving in this psychedelic shirt.  He said an artist friend had made it, but it looked like it was made from old curtains, like in Gone with the Wind.  
• My niece asked me if they had killed Voldemort in the last Harry Potter book.  I asked her if she had read the book.  She simply responded, "yes."
• My son delighted in taking care of my in-law's dog Ruckus.  He referred to the dog as "my dog" and spoke of how she was going to come to live with us one day.  If you knew Ruckus, you would appreciate how creepy this is.

What was real-seeming about it

• During the dream, I could only fly if I was in an airplane.  I was on several of those.  None of them traveled over land, or dove into long tunnels, as they often do in my dreams.  None of them were detoured to Singapore or Swaziland, as often happens in my dreams.
• The food tasted so real.  The sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, turkey, pad thai, pork buns . . . all of it.  Good, too.
• I did not have to kill Voldemort, as I often do in my dreams, but I did see a movie in which several people were devoting themselves to this very objective.  
• VM did not look 11 anymore.  He looked like he was in his late 20s, as he should be.
• Charlie, my baby nephew, behaved in perfectly baby-like fashion.  He did not drive a car or do complicated stunts.  He gurgled a great deal, but did not talk, or tell me my new book was crap.
• Most of the people I encountered behaved quite reasonably, even affectionately.  No one spoke in tongues or demonstrated that they possessed magical abilities.  None of them notified me that I had to take, the very next day, a final exam in a class that I did not even know I was registered in.
• Heathrow Airport, where we connected on our return flight, was nowhere near as horrifying and stressful as it so often is in my dreams.  
• At the Spanish Consulate, there were no additional forms demanded of us.  We did not have to show that we had gotten our butts notarized and apostilled.  We handed them our passports, and they were returned to us with the visas in them 1.5 hours later.
• I have a large sack of Target-brand bathroom products and over-the-counter medications in my closet.  This sack was not there before the dream.  Nor were the Harry Potter books on the shelves, or Santiago's electric keyboard in the apartment before the dream.   There is also a selection of cheeses in the fridge, which we were apparently given by my mother-in-law, which were not there before.

At this point, I have seen no photographs of any of these experiences, and will not be swayed by photographs once I do see them.  How would I know they weren't concocted in Photoshop, perhaps on the basis of information garnered from this very blogpost?  The physical evidence (the bag of stuff, the cheese, the keyboard, etc) tells me I should believe this dream was no dream at all, but reality, but maybe Zoë's just been shopping a lot, and I've been too immersed in work to notice.  The visas and the note, though . . . Could Zoë and Santiago have gone to DC and gotten these?  I can only say, following Segismundo:

Yo sueño que estoy aquí

en este sofá sentado,

y soñé que a otro estado

más angloparlante fui.

¿Qué es la vida? Un frenesí.

¿Qué es la vida? Una ilusión,

una sombra, una ficción,

y el mayor pavo es pequeño;

que toda la vida es sueño,

y los sueños, sueños son.

Going Cuban in Castile

My friend Gustavo, who teaches classes on Cuban culture, says that students often walk in on the first day of class expecting it to be about "mambo, mojitos, y mujeres," and are surprised to find out when it's all about sugar and slavery.  Well, this post is not about any of those things, but it is about being Cuban. It is also about public transportation, roasted meat, and mob behavior.

Last weekend we were treated to a visit from a friend and his family.  This friend is a historian who is also on sabbatical, and is spending his year in a chilly, rainy country to the north.  Basically what we're doing, but in a nicer and much more expensive apartment.  The schools in that chilly, rainy country were on vacation, so he, his wife, and their daughter decided to go to Lisbon and Madrid.  Unfortunately, they brought the chilly, rainy weather with them to sunny Iberia.  It never rains here, by the way.  Only on holiday weekends.  Our friends were undaunted by the weather, though.  They live in Seattle most of the time, so sunshine is something that they only know about through TV and movies.

We had a great time with them, going to museums, eating tapas, churros con chocolate (fried dough with hot chocolate) and cochinillo asado (roast suckling pig).  All this despite the occasional shower, and/or soaking downpour. Churros con chocolate is Madrid's most famous breakfast treat, and cochinillo asado is a speciality of the city of Segovia, where we went on Monday, the Big Day Off.  It was All Saint's Day, a national holiday, so we caught the high-speed train to this lovely old hilltop city famous for its Roman aqueduct, its cathedral, its romanesque churches, and its hilltop castle or alcázar.  The cathedral was lovely, the aqueduct impressive, the churches closed, and the alcázar grand, even though we never went inside.  Despite the occasional sprinkle, we had a wonderful time walking around the streets.

Lunch was at Casa Duque, a restaurant that's been around since 1895, and is housed in a restored 16th century building.  The owners have been roasting lambs and pigs with great skill for over a century now, and they have the certificates, plaques, and pictures-with-famous-people to prove it.  They actually offer a course for people who want to become "master roasters."  I asked Zoë why she was not enrolled in this course, and to this date have not received a satisfactory reply to my question.  Luckily, the only rain that hit that day fell while we were wallowing in roasted piggy deliciousness.

After lunch, we wandered around a bit until it was time to catch the bus back to the train station.  And this is where my story really begins. You see, when our train arrived, the city of Segovia had several #11 busses waiting to take everyone up to the old town.  We thought that the municipality would exhibit the same wisdom in the afternoon, providing ample transportation in time for the 6:20 train to Madrid.  Not so.  One bus loaded up, and then pulled away leaving a crowd of desperate day-trippers on the sidewalk.  Another bus stood idly by, its callous driver waiting for it to be time to start his route.

We started to count the minutes until our train left, wondering if we would get there.  We ran across the square, through the puddles, to the taxi stand.  No luck.  Big line, no taxis.  Back to the bus stop, where Mr. Devil-May-Care had finally pulled his bus up.  The once-calm line was turning into an anxious crowd as the driver fiddled with some papers and change.  People started yelling at him.  "Let's get going!"  "We're going to miss the train!"  He continued to fiddle.

Santiago came up to me, and told me it was time to go Cuban on him.  Here, an explanation is in order.  As you know, my mother's side of the family is Ecuadorian (quiteño, to be precise, from the city of Quito), and my father's, Cuban, from Havana.  These two brands of Latin American culture are really quite different.  Quiteños put a high value on politeness and soft-spokenness.  They can lose their temper, of course, but it takes them a while before they abandon their indoor voice.  Cubans do not have an indoor voice. What they call "talking" is often perceived by others as "shouting." They are also fond of using a vocabulary that would make a prostitute blush (unless, of course, she is a Cuban prostitute). None of which, mind you, is mean to be offensive.  It's not shouting and cursing, just communication.  For example, there is a Cuban comedian who tells audience that the proper translation of "¡Coño!  ¿¡Qué mierda comes!?" is "My point of view is different from yours."

Spaniards are somewhere between quiteños and Cubans, although there are certainly much closer to the Cuban end of the spectrum.  They can be loud, and are certainly foul-mouthed. Unlike Americans, or quiteños, they have no filter that examines words and ideas before they are enunciated, discarding those that might be considered offensive.  Words simply drop from brain to tongue, and pop out of the mouth, and it is the listener's job to know how to take it.  Zoë, I believe would tell you that Spaniards are on a par with Cubans, particularly after our experience at back-to-school night, where everyone was shouting/talking so very loudly, but I must disagree, if only out of national pride.  I cannot let anyone share the throne with Cubans as the loudest and most foul-mouthed of Latin Americans.  To Zoë's assesment of Spaniards I must answer: ¡Coño que no! ¡Que tremenda comemierdería!

But I digress.  Imagine, if you will, a stunning Roman aqueduct, over 2000 years old, spanning hundreds of feet and standing several stories tall.  One end of it thrusts into the orange stone of an ancient walled city, its crenellations almost burning in the light of the setting sun as it pierces through the clouded sky.  A brisk fall day.  A one-thousand-year-old Romanesque church in the background.  At the base of the aqueduct, a small crowd of Spaniards loudly berates a hapless bus driver.

I decided to go Cuban, and join the fray.  "What do you think you're doing?"  "Can't you see there are people waiting?"  "The train is going to leave and we're all going to be stranded!"  "This is an outrage!" "We're going to file a formal complaint with the municipal government!" I was in there with the angry Spaniards, yelling, gesticulating, crowding in, feeling the exhilaration of losing myself in an angry mob.  Finally, the driver let us on the bus, but we were held up.  By what?  By an elderly Spaniard who thought that the moment he bought his ticket would be the perfect time to give the bus driver an extended lecture on the nature of quality customer service.  Damn him!!!  I almost went Cuban on his ass too!!!!

The bus finally pulled away from the curb, full of glum passengers with little hope of reaching their train.  We yelled at the bus driver every time he stopped to let pedestrians passed.  We measured the wisdom of making a run for it at the station, just in case the train was delayed.  Seconds would count.  Our sense of solidarity with the others that had developed at the bus stop was fading, as we began to realize that the bus's arrival at the train station would trigger a mad dash for the train in which it was going to be every tourist for him or herself.

Here was the lineup:

• My historian friend: Most likely to make the train.  He's a runner, and was wearing a good pair of walking shoes.
• The kids: Youth, vigor, and sneakers on their side.  As long as they didn't run in the wrong direction, they're chances were good.
• The historian's wife: Also a runner, but wearing clogs that were no good for for the sprint.  As a result, a wildcard.
• Me: Definitely not a runner, but I had sneakers on, and figured I could take the elderly Spaniards, as well as the ditzy pair of Brits.
• Zoë: Also not a runner, but like the historian's wife, wearing unfortunate shoes.  
• The elderly Spaniards: They were screwed. Not real contenders, but could figure in the competition as obstacles to the real competitors.  The trick was going to be to get off the bus before they even got out of their seats, so that we wouldn't be stuck behind them.
• The smiling Brits: Did they know what was going on?

The bus stopped, and we were off!!  The historian was in the lead.  His daughter second, me third.  The spouse was  lagging behind.  I don't know where Zoë or Santiago were.  We sprinted across the parking lot to the glass doors and  …

There is an unmistakeable stillness that fills a train station after the only train has definitively left the station.  There is no bustle of people coming in from the platform, or hurrying out to meet the train.  The loudspeaker is quiet.  The board listing arrivals and departures flashes no platform numbers.  There are no voices of greeting or farewell.  The ticket-takers stand still, as if dormant.  The people on the benches look like they've been there since time immemorial.   We burst into this stillness and immediately recognized it for what it was, a certain sign of our defeat.  No one needed to ask if the train had left.  I remarked to the attendant, "The train is gone, right?" and got an unnecessary nod in reply.

This was the moment at which our tiny society dissolved.  Surely, there would not be spaces for everyone on the remaining trains.  Our former allies were now our rivals, in what would surely be a ruthless contest for a limited number of seats.  We took advantage of our lead to get into the ticket line first, sure that we would have seats on the next train.  The rest of the bus passengers filed in behind us, forming an orderly but decidedly grumpy line.  

As a new window open, I hopped into it it, but found myself joined by one of the elderly Spaniards.  No, he was not trying to cut line.  He just wanted to get a head start on his complaining.  As the RENFE ticket agent explained our scant and expensive options for getting to Madrid by train that night or the next morning, my fellow traveler scolded him for the faults of Segovia's municipal transportation system.  Others joined in. One shouted out that we should all go to the police to denounce the incident.  Clearly, having gotten no satisfaction from the bus driver, everyone was ready to stick it to the train station guy.  Still in Cuban mode, I joined in, suggesting it was ridiculous for public transportation not to be coordinated with the departures of the train.

Eventually, Zoë and I gave up, realizing that the few spots available on the trains were going to cost a fortune, and that going Cuban was not going to make them either more plentiful or cheaper.  But we'd come up with an alternative.  The bus!  Of course!  We would take the bus!  We abandoned the ugly mob, got a #12 bus to the bus station, and rode a moldy-smelling intercity bus back to Madrid.  Home by 9pm.

The next day, the historian and his family flew back to their chilly, rainy country in the north, and the sun began to shine again on Central Spain, just in time to go back to work and school.  I half expected the newspapers to report how an ugly mob at the Segovia train station had lynched a RENFE ticket agent, but I never did get to check the headlines.  Passing the Cuban restaurant on our street on the way to the Biblioteca Nacional, I thought to myself, "Coño, que jodienda aquello del tren."

Hogwarts.es

When we visited the Kid's school for the first time last August, the Kid blurted out, "Wow!  You could film a Harry Potter movie here!"  He was reacting to the school's monumental 17th century courtyard.  You see, Santiago's high school goes back to the middle ages, and is one of the oldest educational institutions in Spain.  During the sixteenth century, it became a very important college, and almost every important writer of Spain's so-called "Golden Age" either studied or taught there.  Since the 17th century, the school has produced a slew of writers, intellectuals, and even the current king.  It actually gets mentioned in Fortunata y Jacinta, the most important novel by Spain's most important 19th-century realist, Benito Pérez Galdós.

The school is going through a huge transition now.  Many of the neighborhoods of downtown Madrid have filled up with immigrants from Africa, Eastern Europe, and Latin America.  The school now serves students from 23 countries, many of them from troubled working-class backgrounds, and it has its share of problems.  But it's our neighborhood public school, so that's where Santiago goes.  The Hogwarts of Madrid, only without the magic. Or the owls.  Or the English.

This week, the Kid ran into his very own Professor Snape.  I won't mention his name or the subject he teaches.  Let's just say he has a teaching style that does not rub the Kid the right way.  Something happened in the classroom last Monday that left the Kid quite upset, so Zoë and I went on a rampage.  We actually barged into the school and demanded to speak with the director.  The professor was brought in to the conversation, and an argument ensued.  This was to be expected, since that very morning Zoë had said that she wanted to "rip off his head and shit down his neck."  I shared this sentiment.  As you might surmise, we were not in a frame of mind conducive to constructive dialogue.  Neither was the professor, it turned out.

We have learned some things since that very upsetting half hour.  In Spain, high school teachers have tenure, and they are kings in their classrooms. Nothing can be done to call them on their behavior, and no one seems to have any authority over them.  Not the director.  Certainly not the hapless parents.  Particularly if they are from another country and can be accused of not understanding the nuances of Spanish as it is spoken in Spain.   We can only be thankful that if today's class is any indication, the professor has no intention of taking things out on the Kid.  OK.  Good enough.  We declared victory and went for ice cream.

Today, I'm happy to say, was different.  I told the Kid that if he wanted to make friends he had to take the initiative and ask someone over to the house.  So he asked a friend over for lunch and a study session.  Everyone has a test tomorrow, so why not prepare together?  It's in English class, so this made the Kid an attractive study partner.  So, our Harry brought along his Ron.  Ron is from Ecuador, and like all Ecuadorian children, has impeccable manners.  Really, he does.  I'm not being sarcastic.  It was such a pleasure to watch him wait for everyone to be seated before eating his food, and to instinctively get up to clear his plate when the meal was over.  No feral USA kid there!

Now, of course, calling my risk-averse, brainy, unathletic child "our Harry" represents something of a stretch.  The Kid is no Gryffindor.  He may be a Ravenclaw.  He might be a Hufflepuff.  At least he's certainly not a Slytherin.  But you get the point.

There's even a Hermione in the picture.  She tagged along on the way home, and ended up coming over when her mom had to go to work and realized she wouldn't be able to help her prepare for the test.  I find Hermione adorable, and am very impressed with her manners as well.  Harry, Ron and Hermione spent the afternoon doing homework, and when it was time for Ron to leave, they walked him to the Puerta del Sol.  Now Harry has gone off to Hermione's house to study French, and maybe to visit the Halloween store . . . Hmm.  . . Maybe the Kid is Ron, and his friend is Harry?