Old things, new things

AOG, Madrid

There are concepts that make it across the planet in seconds, and others which, even after all the technological advancements, still take for ever to arrive. 

What for instance? Well, in Europe there is something called teletext, which is a rudimentary form of interacting with your television. 

Last time I went to the US, teletext was a bit of a mystery to most people I mentioned it to. 

Ditto for Skype, though I hear that Skype is making somewhat of an inroad into American culture. I think it is taking a while to make an impact since telephone calls in the country, unlike the rest of the planet, and in particular Europe, are expensive things.

So, does America return the favor? Yes, of course, a thousandfold, though to many people, American concepts are just, well, American. 

Like the idea of teamwork, trial by jury, and even cable TV. Or garage sales.

Here in Spain, a country well know for being as prone to fad hysteria as any other Western country these days, old things and the lore associated with them are a bit of a an outsider. 

This in itself is a very American concept, but in the case of Spain, there is a twist. 

It isn't that the Spanish don't like old things. They do. Although not as populated as early as, oh I don't know, Mesopotamia,  the Iberian peninsula's ability to support our species is, by all measures, millennial. 

People have been living here since almost as soon as they, we, started living anywhere. 

The city of Cadiz, for example, a former Phoenician colony, is meant to be Europe's oldest continuously inhabited city, with a history going back over 3000 years. 

Yes, but Cadiz, which stems its name from Gadir, existed at a time when Spain, or anything that looked, sounded or smelled like Spain, did not exist. 

Nevertheless, the people living in Spain these days, including me, are lucky enough that they are surrounded by a lot of ancient rocks, streets, artifacts, and, of course, ideas. 

But I digress.

In Spain, ideas like 'vintage', which they actually refer to as 'vintage', are only just beginning to appear on the cultural horizon. 

And this, for someone like me, someone who has a degree in History and who likes to admire objects from other eras and imagine the world as it might have been then, this is exasperating. 

When I was growing up, if there was something I loved doing was buying old comics. 

Not because they were old, but because by the time I'd come on the scene (read Earth) these things had been here for a while longer, and I hated waiting for a whole month until the next issue came out. 

I devoured things like Peanuts, or the Wizard of Id, or, and this was apparent the microsecond I hit 16 and was eligible to drive, automobile magazines. 

I began to buy Road & Track and Motor Trend like there was no tomorrow. Except that my love for cars extended unto my artistic experimentation, and it was days before I picked up a set of French curves and stared drawing my own automobiles. And I needed inspiration. 

And inspiration was to be found in old issues of Road & Track and Motortrend, among others. 

For me, the ideal Saturday morning was going for a drive with my family to the nearest second hand book store and make my way into the 'Automotive' section. 

There my treasures were laying. Although hardly any issues went further back than early 70s, it was a real treasure trove for me. 

I would get more sophisticated with time, and other magazines and sources of inspiration , such as antique stores, the Salvation Army store and flea markets, would make their way unto my consciousness, but old magazines are still something I find precious as well as intriguing. 

When I lived in the UK, I was very fortunate in that the country has a tradition of charity shops. 

These are stores which are usually run by volunteers and which sell second-hand items (books, clothes, shoes, bric-a-brac) for a good cause, such as the Royal Institute for the Blind, the Red Cross, Charities for Romanian Orphans, or Oxfam, one of the more sophisticated ones. 

In fact, Oxfan was one of my favorites since it often had shops especially geared towards book lovers, such as myself. 

Ah yes... in as far as old things are concerned, London in particular, and the UK in general, were paradise for me.

And then I moved to Spain.

Yes, for all its old palaces, castles and Phoenician ruins, Spanish culture is still not very second-hand friendly. It is still tied to social class. Only poor people would be interested in second hand things. 

So nobody gives anything away publicly. If they do, it goes straight into the hands of nuns, or other charitable institutions, who do NOT have stores where you can go a peruse. 

Oh no; if you are poor, they will give you things, of course, but none of the fund raising aspect, as you would find in the UK, you see.

And as for old things, yes, there are some stores here and there who sell old paraphernalia. But they are difficult to find, and not exactly well stocked. 

Old books are never too far from a collector's gaze, so these are plentiful in Spain. As are Objects d'Art, tapestries, and assorted household decorative items. 

But things like old clothes, vintage old clothes,  shoes or accessories, are not so readily available, something really odd for a fashion powerhouse such as Spain.    

Of course, things are changing. 

Vintage shops are popping up here and there especially in the trendy districts (unlike in the rest of  Western Europe where secondhand shops might be trendy, but are not to be found in a trendy area -London being perhaps the only exception). 

And yes, of course, Spain always did have sort of antique markets operating in one way or another, although these days places like the famous open air antique neigborhood of 'El Rastro' in Madrid, or the 'Els Encants' market in Barcelona, are more geared towards cheaply-made Chinese products and, more often than not, stolen goods, than actual valuable antiques. 

However, the idea, the simple idea of a second-hand store is still anathema to most people here. How far from Tokyo where, we were told, there is, in fact, an entire department store selling only second hand goods!

So this weekend I was to be met with slight disappointment again. 

I read in the paper that there was going to be a  toy car collector's meet in one of Madrid's shopping centers. 

 Images of Hot Wheels, Majorette and Matchbox flooded my mind.

So I went, early Saturday morning, to the appointed place. Yes, there they were, a small army of collectors and passersby taking up a lot of space and not letting me look at anything. 

Yes, I know I was impatient. I am a little, especially when anxious. 

However, as I began to look out over a sea of not-exactly-miniature toy cars, my heart sunk. 

What the hell was this? It was slot cars. 

Ok ok, I'm not racist, people who like slot cars also deserve to live and who am I to criticize their hobby? However, the problem was not them, the problem was the stupid journalist who wrote the piece and didn't mention that bit of information.

I have to say, yes, there was one single, solitary stand, which did cater to my favored size. As per usual, the goods on offer had been in battle. Childhood can be very damaging to a toy car. Bent, wheel-free, dented, paint-scrapped miniatures were there, all lumped in a box, ready for a kind hand to pick them up. 

And I did, and when I saw the state they were in, and the €6.00 they wanted for them, I put them back in their pit. I saw a couple of early Matchbox Rolls Royce models, from the 1950s I think, complete with their flimsy build and smaller size. 

I also saw one of the cars which accompanied my childhood. 

 A yellow, 2 door Mercedes from the 70s with the usual white interior and the black top which, and I just read this online as I was looking for the image, was removable. Something I never did. 

I thought it would break. I was the kind of child who would take care of his toys. But the stand guy wanted €10.00 for it. Sorry, I'm not rich, and I don't have a toy car habit. 

So getting back to the original point, some fads and trends whizz around the world in days. And some take a while to arrive. Like Teletext in the US; Democracy in Arab countries, and second hand stores in Spain.

Outside

AOG, Madrid

Outside is different. What does this normally mean? Well, for starters, it means that everywhere you go, it is going to be different. Different? You may say, But of course!

Well Little Miss Smart Ass, you don’t know different until you see a French toilet up close and personal. Or until you enter a rest area on a British highway and marvel at the dried up and insipid food. You never knew sausages could taste like rope did you?

Yes, forget America’s obsession with hygiene and smells and get ready to enter the smelly world waiting for you just outside your local international airport terminal.

The planet is different from us. Not better or worse just different, and I suggest you strap yourself tightly, darling, because the great “unknown” just beyond our borders is going to smack you in the face like a wet fish and no, it won’t say sorry afterwards.

Start with Europe, one of our acknowledged cultural homelands (for what else is our country but an amalgamation of XVIII European Enlightenment thoughts and ideas sprinkled here and there with some good old fashioned social and religious persecution and a shameless excuse for slavery and world domination?).

Europeans feel superior to us. No, I can’t explain it. They just do. It does not matter that we tend to earn more, have bigger and longer hair, that our waistlines are expanding like mount Krakatoa on acid, or that we live in larger homes. 

It does not matter that the price we pay for gas is half of what they pay, or that anything the Japanese invent, we get first.

It goes beyond that.

Europeans have a certain knack for keeping old things around which we either lost along the way, or, quite frankly, never acquired. And yes, we must admit, that is why we go to Europe.

No one in their right mind travels seven hours from JFK to stare at London’s Canary Wharf, or eight hours to be marvelled by La Defense, in Paris.

No.

We jump into those flying tubes to get what we don’t get in America: old stuff. Sometimes, very old stuff. In the case of Greece and Italy, even ancient stuff.

And here’s where their dislike of us begins. Once, in Southern Spain, I overheard a group of American teenagers as they were being addressed by their tour guide.

“We will visit the Roman ruins of Italica”, she said.

And what did Miss Blonde Bimbo say to her friend within earshot of yours truly?

“Oh, we have those back home, how boring”.

In case you are wondering, la Bimbona was from Texas.

The tour guide overheard her and started to laugh when she glanced over towards the airhead section of the group and saw me trying to gnaw my veins off in disgust.

Europeans, I must confess, don’t hate Americans, they just hate stupid people.

Unfortunately for us, we do have an inordinate amount of those within our borders. Sometimes they even make it into the White House, so imagine how superior Europeans feel!

In Europe you will find old everything: homes, cars, clothes, people, museums, streets, jewels, neighborhoods, cities, bridges, and, interestingly, customs.

Europeans like their tradition even more than we do, the difference being that they have so much of it!

Like their tradition of keeping poor people poor. 

An age old tradition that one.

Why help the poor better their lot in life when they will only multiply and produce more smelly poor people? 

Like I always say, you can’t rape the willing!

Harsh, but very much how many European governments treat their population, and they then, in turn, say things like “please Sir, can I have some more?”

Unless they are Scandinavian. These are probably the only countries on Earth which have worked tirelessly to ensure everyone is middle class, and poor at the same time.

Poor? You may ask. But I heard they have a great social system!

Indeed they do. Everything is paid for…out of their salary. What is the point of earning 60K when half (or more) of it is going to the State? So ok, they are not exactly Brokeback Mountain poor, but they are sort of lower middle class on state aid poor… ish.

But they drive Saabs and Volvos! You say. Yes, but they tend to be cheaper there. And subsidised.

Unlike their alcohol, which is taxed to death and controlled unlike in any other place on this planet.

Which explains why Scandinavians like to visit Southern Europe so much: booze is cheaper there, and like the Vikings they really are at heart, they love nothing more than getting wasted on a Mediterranean beach after (or even whilst) “fertilizing” a local lovely.

Ah…Europe…so civilized…and yet…so not!

Like I said at the beginning, “outside” is different. Be prepared, yes, but bear in mind that our way is not the only way, nor the best way.

You really haven’t lived until you’ve Frenched a drunken Adonis on a Mediterranean beach under a star lit sky with Europop blaring nearby. 

Or until you discover what a foreskin is. You thought you had, but I assure you, you haven’t. Not until you've seen one upclose and personal.

Pack your bags my lovely, it is going to be a bumpy, yet thrilling, ride!

Planet Japan:Day 2

AOG, Tokyo

We woke up tired from the previous day's events. Tired, but wired, of course. This city is too energetic to let yourself down.

We decided to try and find a bargain of sorts and headed towards the electronic emporium that is Akihabara.

Shinjuku Station

Ok, you know those movies where Central Station shows and you see a sea of people moving to and fro? How romantic, right? Well, forget about that. No station on this planet sees the amount of people as Shinjuku does.

The place is huge, but not like in New York. It is mostly underground, has many levels (including a shopping mall which extends 7 stories up and a couple down), and it is very like a labyrinth.

The first you notice is that Japanese society is very quiet. At least it is quiet at a personal level. We very quickly noticed that the loudest sound thousands of people made in that low-ceilinged place was the one made by their footsteps. But it is not the only sound.

The other sound is the announcements on the tannoy. But even those sound almost whisper like. Feminine voices sprout forth orders and commands almost as though they were little girls. It is the polite way.

I have to say that working out the ticket machines was not as daunting as we first thought it would be. They all have an "English" button.

And the great thing about Tokyo's transit system is that if you underpay, all you have to do is go to the JR or Subway desk found at every station on the network and pay the difference.

No penalty, no punishment, no social shame (how unlike London, by the way). It is good advice to buy the cheapest (130 Yen) ticket, hop on board, and pay the difference at your final destination.

The other thing you notice is how orderly the citizens of Japan get on the trains. The floor is painted where the doors will open on the edge of the platform, so you know where to line up.

Another thing about Japan, they don't like to crowd each other, so personal space is much larger than what you'd think. When we stood at our first street crossing, we were amazed at the distance between people. In fact, their system actually works better than ours. Since they are spaced apart, when both sides of the street cross, there is very little bumping into people, and you cross much faster.

At times I get the feeling that the Japanese have thought of everything...but they haven't, of course. Here and there, little "disruptions" are to be found. But more on those later.

The trains are always clean, always efficient, and always on time. If there is a delay, they tell you, and they inform you of the next train to arrive in its place. Also, the frequency of the trains is amazing.

I have to say that Madrid is superior to London in this respect. Train frequency is very good. But when compared to Tokyo, Madrid is definitely snail-paced. Never mind London!

It is as if every station has a continuous line of trains which is spaced out by a few minutes of tranquility. It is definitely non-stop transport. The only downside is that it shuts for the day around midnight, or half past. Hence the upsurge in Capsule hotels.

We took the JR train (Japan Railways) from Shinjuku and marveled as Tokyo sped past us at full speed. This city, fortunately, still keeps its Edo period roots here and there.

Read the Wikipedia article on Tokyo here.

It appears that Tokyo is crisscrossed by many rivers and canals. Next to these, it is not unusual to see the odd cluster of traditional homes (one or two story houses), and, a few minutes later, a high tech spectacle of lights and modern architecture.

Modern in Tokyo, however, often means a building from the 1960s or 1970s with a huge neon sign on top of it.

And another building from, perhaps, the 1980s, next to that one. Then a traditional building. Then one with no advertising. Then one which could be private apartments. And then, once again, modern neons and glare.

When we got off the JR, we walked right into the electronic district.

We were hungry so we thought, after taking some pictures, to get some lunch.

We found an alley and decided to walk into it, in the hope of finding some sort of decent grub somewhere.

Most places looked unappetizing at first sight, so we continued walking until we found the closest thing to what we thought resembled a restaurant the kind of which we could both withstand and understand without too much hassle. Which we did, eventually.

We walked in only to be told it was closing by an angry old man from the counter. The waitress had told us to sit down just one second before, so we were a bit confused. Then, out of nowhere, a younger man came out and told us it was almost 2 O'Clock, and it was "last orders".

So they acquiesced to our presence, and fed us some delicious sushi. It was not to be the first time we ate this.

With our bellies full, we walked back to the 7 story monster which is the electronic city of Yodobashi Camera.

Each floor contains a particular product and even, we were surprised to find, a bookshop and a branch of Tower Records.

After a myriad of wires, lights, photographic equipment, computers, accessories, Jewel Cases, Cell Phones, Headphones of all shapes and sizes, and the biggest television set my eyes have ever seen outside of a Hollywood movie (around 70K Euros if you are curious), the music was a welcome sight for sore eyes.

We saw hundreds of things, many of which we had no clue what they might be useful for, and spent hours inside that cyber-cage. Eventually we left, once we realised that any hope of taking photographs today had vanished. The light was gone.

So we left, having bought a couple of small items (prices are as high as they are in Europe, no bargains here in Tokyo). Once outside, we were surprised to see a small section of the street cordoned-off and filled with people staring at their mobiles.

In Japan, you cannot smoke on the street (though you can, it seems, everywhere else), and they have designated smoking areas. But no one was smoking, they were all looking down. We read on the guide book that most people in Japan access the internet from their cell phones, and they are right.

Everywhere we went, time after time, all we saw was people with their head down, staring at their phones. Not actually speaking, mind you, but reading, or typing away. I suppose it has something to do with their love of silence, or their respect for others.

So we headed back to the hotel, changed, and went out to for a drink.

Ni-chome part 2: Japanese Bar culture

Since it was still rather early, we decided to head back to Gregorios. It was open. And empty. We were the only people at this Jazz/Karaoke bar. Our friend from Barcelona had been there just a few days before us, and the bar Master (that's Master-san to you) remembered them well. In Japan, bar Masters decide who gets in and who does not. Simple as that.

They served us our drinks and we started talking. A bit later, the Master's partner brought out some delicious ribs for us to munch on. So we whiled the evening away, talking to the staff and no one else.

I asked about the name of the place, after all, it had opened just three weeks earlier. It seems that the bar's investor loves music and really likes Gregorian chants.

"When he thinks of music he thinks of the music for God", the Master told us. I didn't ask which God.

I thought it was fascinating about the connection between God, music, medieval Gregorian monk music, and a gay bar. A gay, Japanese, karaoke & jazz, bar.

The we'd thought we'd check out some other bar. I wanted to go to Arty Farty, but it was not to be. We were surprised by the bar tally (2 beers and two soft drinks), but said nothing.

The bar Master accompanied us to the next bar: Logos. I asked, eventually, about the name choice. I remember the Logos bar Master said something about looking up what it meant in the dictionary, and how it made him think of Egypt. So there you have it.

Perhaps our previous bar Master came with us as much out of courtesy as anything else because, at this next place, we were the only Westerners present.

We had read that bars in Japan often don't let foreigners in. Discrimination issues aside, there is probably a good reason for this.

You see, Master-san's job is to make you feel welcome, feed you some tid-bits, and, if needed, pimp you (and the other customers) a little bit.

He is meant to inform others of your interest in them, and vice versa. If he does not speak English and you don't speak Japanese...you understand.

Once at Logos (a hop and a skip away from Gregorios and on the same building as Arty Farty -so close!) he introduced us to the bar Master there, and bought us a drink (we think).

We all spoke for a while while we marvelled at the minute dimensions of the place. No more than 15 people, it seemed. All drinking, all singing karaoke. And all smiling at us. I have to say, in my experience, gay Japan is nothing if not friendly to a fault. Not just polite, friendly.

Then Master-san split and left us in the bar to fend for ourselves. Much smaller than Gregorios, and louder, it
was to be the norm bar-wise, henceforth.

After making his excuses to tend to his other customers, he quickly came back for us to ensure we sat down at the bar when a couple of people left, and assigned us one of his English-speaking staff to entertain us and keep us company. It was his day off but nevertheless, he complied.

As luck would have it, it was one of the customer's birthday, and someone had brought birthday cake. We were each offered a piece of cake, even though we were complete strangers to the place and knew no one. Like I said, friendly to a fault.

After some karaoke singing (I have to say that most of the videos which accompanied the songs looked like they were filmed in 1989) we decided to check out another bar.

We informed the Bar Master who, upon learning of our plans, called ahead to see if they could accommodate. They couldn't (meaning, no one on duty who speaks English tonight) and he took us to another bar.


Adventures in postmodern culture...Tokyo style

So he took us to another bar. Bridge. It was where the local gay culture vultures meet. Especially cinematic culture vultures.

We walked in, and everyone looked at us thinking how out of place we looked. The bar Master welcomed us, looking a bit puzzled, and our previous host left us in good, if confused, hands.

I have to say that of all the bars we visited in Japan, this turned out to be my favorite. It was slightly more spacious that the others (only just) and it had a balcony where people smoked. Meaning, it had large glass windows which allowed you to see the building in front.

The decor was very Euro-filmical: movie posters everywhere, well-lit bar shelves with European liquors, intellectual-looking customers.

We sat next to the bar's Anglophilic enlightened one, and, thank God, we had someone to speak with. He laughed at absolutely everything we said. I'm sure his previous consumption of alcohol helped.

Eventually the bar Master asked about our provenance, and when we said Spain, the whole bar turned to us.

Why?

Because Japanese queens, like any self-respecting intellectual queen anywhere else, love Almodovar's films.

They were very quick to point this out and inquire about our knowledge of the director. Needless to say we awed them with out insider information.

They did not know about the short film which accompanies his latest movie, "Broken embraces": "La concejala antropófaga" (The Cannibalistic City Councilor).

They could not believe their eyes. Nor could they believe that my partner, actually, had a copy of it on his iPod.

Here it is for you viewing pleasure. In Spanish. No Pedro, no need to thank us. We too are fans of yours!

Surprised and grateful is not the word. They loved it! And us for showing them. Especially after we mentioned that the short and Almodovar's latest film are connected, and how if you view the short, you understand the movie just a little bit better. Insider information you see...

Once the iceberg had been broken, one of the other customers informed us about his love for Andalucía and Southern Spain. He loved Granada, it seems. And Flamenco.

We politely declined to comment, since we all know what a faux pas it is to criticize someone's diva (be it human, female, animal or mineral).

After our cultural escapades du nuit, we decided to leave, and make one last attempt to visit the next bar on our list: Matagi (Hunter).

Following our upside down map of gay Tokyo (turns out that many maps in Japan have North pointing wherever the hell they feel like making it point to, regardless of accuracy), we finally made it to the alley where it was meant to be.

Did we see it? Did we hell!

We asked a couple of guys who were there if they knew where Matagi was at. They looked at each other and pointed to the door we were standing next to. Yes, gay and blind! Oh how we laughed!!!

Seeing as how it was closed we decided to head for bed. It was nearly 3AM and the night had proven quite fruitful. Still loving Japan.

Globalization meltdown in my living room

AOG, Madrid

I’m all for globalization, and sometimes the extent to which our World, certainly my life, are globalised, amazes me.

Today I was at home watching some television in my newly installed satellite dish. I live in a XIX century building in an XVIII century neighbourhood in Madrid, a city turned into a capital in the XVI century, of a country striding all centuries between the 500 AD and now. Hard to believe? come on over and see for yourself!

But back to today's lesson...

The furniture at home is Swedish (Ikea), my television, DVD player and mobile phone are from South Korea (Samsung). My laptop was assembled in China and it is a Toshiba- Japanese.

The clothes I wear are mostly European and American labels, sawn in Southeast Asia.

The cologne I wear is mostly French.

Bed linen is British (Laura Ashley, Habitat), Swedish (Ikea), or American (Ralph Lauren). I use an iPod, designed by an American company (Apple) and assembled in Taiwan.

My digital camera is a Canon; American, though it is probably assembled in Asia somewhere.

My life has always been like this, cosmopolitan even when I was not aware of it. Labels and international companies have always accompanied me and my friends.

But today I experienced a complete meltdown.

There I was, at home, sipping a latte from Starbucks (Seattle- though the beans were probably African, or Brazilian- the milk? local Spanish cow from the North fare) watching television through a US-designed system pegged unto a European satellite named ASTRA.

I was quite savvy with some of the television channels- Cubavision, Al Jazeera in English, France24 in both French and English, television from Ecuador, Colombia, the UK, Argentina, Germany, Italy, the Netherlands, and Portugal, even Korean and Russian television... in English, (don't ask, I don't know).

I could cope with all this, in fact, I loved it. But then it happened.

I flipped the channel and, suddenly, I was watching a Mexican soap opera dubbed into Arabic on a Moroccan television station through a European satellite using American technology unto my XIX century building and my XXI century life.

I spat out in laughter my Kenyan-Seattle coffee brew all over Ikea's imitation English Floral (itself an imitation of Chinese XIX century florals) and all over my Bolivian red carpet.

My brain exploded. It was too much. Even as I write this I laugh. I’m still giddy.

I can’t help but wonder what might come next?

Chinese opera dubbed into Swahili with Arabic subtitles courtesy of Tanzanian television?

Why I love being a Journalist/Writer/Actor/Model/Waiter

AOG, Madrid

T0day I started, sort of, a new job (sort of job). I am with a news agency in Spain. Sort of. They don't really know how to take me on, either as an intern, or a freelancer. Or what.

But, to me, that is secondary.

This morning I showed up at work and went to cover the Anne Frank musical. Yes, it is odd for Spain to come up with this, but then, if the British can turn Les Miserables into a musical, then I suppose the Spanish can turn Anne Frank's diary into a musical.
We arrived at the Häagen-Dazs Theater in Madrid (don't ask, I don't know), and the director, or perhaps he was the musical director, was telling off a blond actress of age unknown for being late. She politely, yet defiantly, told him that other people had been late too. So, obviously, the problem was not the actors, it was the call sheet.

The director, or stage hand, or whatever he was, mentioned that that could not be the case. The actors had been late all throughout the rehearsals. And so it went on.
A few minutes later, a local television station was interviewing the blond actress who came down from the stage outraged at the way she had been treated. As soon as the camera went on, she switched on the charm. A true professional, I thought.

We were treated to two scenes from the play.

There I was, witnessing a press conference, thinking how this might be replayed for Tele-K's immigration program, my other (unpaid) job in Madrid. The angle being that the female lead is played by 13 year old Havana-born Cuban American Isabella Castillo, who flew all the way from Miami to play the part. The general consensus was that she was very pretty. Prettier than the real Anne. But then, this was theater, and not without controversy.

There were two, in fact: One, which the journalists were trying to create, concerning the two Anne Frank foundations (Basel and Amsterdam) one of which is not (untrue as it turned out) 100% happy with the musical.

The other, a question from the AP journalist concerning the producer's claims that this was the first musical based on Anne Frank. Incorrect. According to the journalist, and The New York Times, there is at least one other, "Yours, Anne", which was produced off Broadway in 1985. Then the journalist and the producer, Señor Alvero, began to discuss the difference between a musical, and a sung play. In short, the controversy was set.

And there I was. Day one and amazed and grateful for being able to be there, then.

Later in the afternoon, we went to cover the anti FARC demonstration in Plaza Mayor. It was mostly Colombian expats living in Madrid. A few Venezuelans, who were there to offer their support for Uribe, and their distate for Chávez, the odd camera-seeking individual (who, by the way, had me beckoned so as to shoot him and his daughter, which we did), and, most surprisingly, my International Journalism professor, M.A. Bastenier. I wanted to go and say hi, but I was working. So I couldn't. And in any case, he was busy telling the crowd how his heart was Colombian.

One of the participants quoted García Marquez, "We Colombians are born suspect, and we die guilty". How true of Colombians, unfortunately. Why do some nationalities have such negative connotations?

Half way through, they started singing a popular human rights folk song by Argentina's answer to Bob Dylan, Leon Gieco, "Solo le pido a Dios" (I only ask of God). It was very emotional.

And there I was, in the midst of it all, looking for camera angles, people to interview, story angles.

Then back to the office to edit, cut, write up the story, then go home.

And I so loved every minute of it.

Oh, yes, and I learned something new today.

There is no subway into Georgetown, in Washington D.C., because Jackie Kennedy opposed the idea. Something to do with social class and her finding public transport too low class for Georgetown.

Or so I was informed today by a work colleague who knows D.C. much better than I do.

Truth? Hearsay? Urban myth? Bad propaganda?

Dealing with cultures in a Blasé sort of way

AOG, Madrid

It is a difficult thing to live in a different country, something I have done all my life. So much so that I, in fact, belong to many places all at once, and to nowhere in particular.

I think that as my personality developed, it picked up pieces from here and there and fused them with whatever was there before. And this must have gone on always. In many ways it still goes on.

I am acutely aware of how different my sense of humor is becoming in Spain. My friends refer to it as being very "British". This is because I am the epitome of sarcasm, mockery and understated irony. And yet, I am aware that this sense of humor was already quite latent in high school back in Texas. If not sooner.

I find myself these days trying to learn the Spanish work etiquette. I find it hard to know when to make a joke, when to be serious. When to relax and when to worry about something. If there is a Spanish word for Blasé, I have not found it yet. And flippancy is sometimes frowned upon. And very often welcomed. I just never know.

And it is driving me mad. I find myself being either very serious, which is interpreted as being in a bad mood, angry, or something to do with my general well being oroutright irreverent (unfortunately I do this only too well!) and out of synch with everyone else. I think the people at the office are still trying to figure me out, although I believe that most think they have me figured out already- a very common Spanish thing to do, in my view.

When I arrived at the radio, I met with some of my ex-classmates on the elevator. As soon as they saw me they said "we were just talking about you, we were discussing how you should have been sent to the culture section at El País". I was flattered and amazed they thought this. I think I am better suited for an international newsdesk. And yet, this is how I am perceived.

I spent today updating the radio's website, as I have been doing since last week, with mostly international news. I think that they know it is what I like doing most, and so they oblige me. But of course, I do all sorts of news.

Today I wrote about sectarian mobs in Lebanon killing 4 people; about the arrest of a Spanish brigadier for talking to the press last year and criticising the Defense Ministry- big no no in this country it would appear. At least from within because it appears that everyone in Spain and their dog criticises the government whatever the reason.

I also wrote about the US Secretary of State's forthcoming visit to Spain next March.

And then I discover that "no mention was made [between Spain's Foreign Affairs Minister, M.A. Moratinos, and Ms. Rice] concerning president Zapatero's recent declarations concerning his willingness to follow the desires of the people of Spain and not meet up with President Bush ever". I was amazed to read this.

Amazed at how insular this country can be at times. I think Señor Zapatero must be the ONLY president or Prime Minister on earth who would say such a thing publicly.

And I don't think that this is either pragmatic nor helpful for Spain's foreign policy.

What country wants to deal with a state whose president may or may not meet with you depending on whether he likes you or not? I fully understand Señor Zapatero's principles in wishing not to meet with Mr. Bush. But when you are in politics, it is time to put your personal beliefs aside for the pursuit of a greater cause. In this case, Spain's foreign policy goals.

True, Mr. Bush is out of the White House in no time, but I think Mr. Zapatero fails to realise that by snubbing the American Head of State, he snubs an entire country. And if Mr. Zapatero is not aware of how much Spain's wellbeing depends on Americas's good will, he, or indeed Spain, may experience a rude awakening one day. This is, after all, the man who is pressing at the UN for his plan of an "Alliance of civilisations". Am I missing something here?

Unfortunately many in Spain (and the rest of Europe for that matter) prefer to live in the fiction that they are in the right, and America in the wrong. Not just today. Always.

Many people here are very anti-American. Not anti 'Americans' mind you, Americans they deal with well enough, and Spain is certainly very americanified these days, just like any other Western country. Two days ago they broadcasted Mr. Bush's State of the Union speech. Live!!! If that is not Americanified, I don't know what is!

Still, many here profess a deep dislike of American foreign policy. Old imperial rivalries? Perhaps. I have to say that I find the British behaving towards the US in much the same way. But whereas in Spain, as I stated before, Americans are mostly liked well enough, in Britain I would not be so sure. But of course, these are just generalisations. And I still have of lot of cultural catching up to do.