Making Friends

AOG, Madrid

It was easy (ish) as a kid, a teen, even in your early 20s…but now?

 

I remember one of the first things I ever learned about myself, and it came straight out of my mother’s mouth.

“If he doesn’t have any friends, he is not going to do well in school.”

Was she right?

Well, ever since she told me this around the time I was seven, I have been fighting with her insight.

Does having friends ensure that you do well in school?

How about work?

Does having friends at work help or hinder your experience? And your output?

Of course, as a child, most- if not all- of your friends were the people you went to school with. A child has a very limited exposure to many social situations and is completely dependent upon parents to socialize to a large extent.

As you grow older, the bulk of your friends is still school-dependent, but, depending on your social interests (among other factors) you find that you have made a few friends outside of school. Maybe you joined a club, or you made a good friend during the summer.

Things like that.

Then comes University, or College, and, again, your social experience is still the main provider of friendships.

And then, one day, in your early, mid or late 20s, when you find yourself at your first jobs, your friends from youth are mostly gone and in their place are other people. People that, if you are “lucky”, have things in common with you.

Or, if you are “lucky”, have nothing in common with you, but you still enjoy each other’s company.

But then you get older. And your life changes. And you change.

But, if you are “lucky”, you still need people you like around you.

You need friends.

But those social networks which provided you with them, and enemies too -lest we forget- are no longer there.

With age you realize that making friends is now a bit more difficult. You realize that you can’t talk to people much younger than yourself because, well, because they all talk crap at that age. Just like you did. Or didn’t.

Now to that mix, add a spoonfull of ‘relocating to another country’ and half a liter of ‘doing it again in your late 30s’ plus a pinch of ‘and your partner lives in another city’.

Now…would you like fries with that?

Yes, moving to another country is as exciting as it is daunting. I now live in Spain. People here are very friendly, but in Spain, as anywhere else on this planet, most people have lived where they live most of their life. Their friends from most of their life are still here, and they are probably well-stocked in that area.

And here comes you, trying to enter that hallowed circle of friendship.

How does one do that? How do you penetrate someone’s circle of friends successfully.

Well, never mind that, my basic question is: how do you make friends later in life?

I have no idea.

If there’s a formula, I never chanced upon it.

I’ve been in Spain for seven years now, and, yes, I have some friends here and there.

Some of my friends happen to live in Barcelona, where my partner lives and, yes, most of these started out by being my partner’s friends, not mine. I am their friend by association, but friend nonetheless.

And here in Madrid I have some friends too, which I have fought over tooth and nail to make.

Some from my Masters, some from a social group, some I met through other friends, some others I met in French class. Some I just met on the street, and many are just expats (and no, not mostly British).

I cherish every one of them, but still I seek more friends. Like-minded people, not just people I have something, or a lot of things, in common with, but people who are like me.

Yes, it may sound ridiculous, but finding people like you is one of the most important things in life.

And what are people like you like?

Well, they are however you wish to define that, but basically, they are like you.

They are like the kind of people you say things like ‘people like you and I’ to.

Those people.

Like you.

So, just last week, through the power of the Internet and a dash of facebook, I met somebody I’d like to be friends with, but probably won’t be.

And she is the reason why this got written in the first place.

Let me tell you about this.

Last week, facebook advertised a page aimed at expats living in Spain who had things they wanted to get rid of, or sell. A sort of second-hand notice board for foreigners in the country.

Basically, if you came to Madrid to live 5 years ago, and you are going back home, you have to sell those Ikea bookshelves and CD collection which only you like. Plus your books.

You may end up throwing it all away, but now, thanks to the magic of the internet and the powers of facebook, your stuff can become someone else’s stuff.

So, there I was on the page, scrolling down to see what was there, hoping to find something I may like. And there it was: somebody was selling a surround sound system for €50.00

Me and another ‘user’ began to badger the owner of the product for a couple of days. One could come, one could not; then it rained; and it was sunny; then I was stuck in the office; and the other one seemed to pull out of the race, blah blah blah.

In the end I was the lucky one.

I went to her place, met her, her husband, and her baby. And really liked her.

After the whole transaction (I am now the proud owner of a Yamaha surround sound system for an incredible price and the cost of a cab ride home) was over, I went home thinking to myself, so… how would I go about befriending this nice person?

The usual fears and anxieties crept in.

She may think I’m a psycho. Or weird. Or any other number of social inequities may pop up in the equation.

Should I say something? Keep quiet?

Is she even in the market for a new friend?

A couple of years younger than I, and a mother, she may have no room or desire for new friends.

What should I do? Tell her I’d like to be her friend? Just move on?

If she were American, this process would be rather easy, but she is British, and as with all things UK, there are social procedures, nuances, and a myriad of unnavigable venues one should keep in mind so as not to make one big fat faux pas… and scare her off.

Age, in this respect, is beginning to be slightly burdensome.

Or perhaps not so much age but rather a clear, easy-to-follow,lack of befriending protocols.

 

Homophobia, and just as we know it…

AOG, Madrid

The gays have never had it so good, so they say, but they are so wrong.

I live in Madrid’s gay village, Chueca. What used to be one of Madrid’s run-down and drug-crazed neighborhoods was, in the early to mid 1990s, turned into the city’s gay neighborhood par excellence.

Most people will tell you that it was because of its shady past that the area became a haven for gay people.

A haven in that society in Spain, as elsewhere, has always equated homosexuality with crime, sin, and all of those other goodies Christianity, and other monotheistic religions, seem to think their particular deity dislikes.

So when you are confronted with a fresh batch of just-baked homophobia on the streets of a gay neighborhood, you have to ask yourself just how far gay people haven’t come.

A week ago I was out shopping around my neighborhood, getting ready to meet some friends at my place later on in the evening. I was crossing the street when, from a distance, I saw a guy coming towards me. 

His appearance was not exactly run-of-the-mill, but then, this was Chueca, and here nothing like that really raises an eyebrow. 

His hair, which mainly consisted of jet-black braids, was up in a bun, and he had a scarf round it, keeping it all in place. He was muscular, as could be gathered from his half unbuttoned shirt, and in a hurry.

He swished past me at high speed, and I gave him not another second’s notice.

And then it happened.

I noticed a small group of people walking towards me. Two girls, maybe around 7 or 8, were giggling, making faces, and pointing at him. 

And one said to the other:

“Is it a man or a woman?”

And the other said:

“Yeah, what?”

And their mother, or the mother of one of them, in case they weren’t sisters, replied:

“It is a ‘that’!”

And they all laughed.

As they walked past me, I noticed the husband-father figure pushing a baby’s stroller, and noticed he was keeping quiet.

As this family walked past me, I overheard a gay couple saying out loud that the only ‘that’ on that street was the girl’s mother.

I have to say that I was aghast at having witnessed the entire scene. Disgusted.

Later on that night I was entertaining some friends at my place. We talked about many things, including homophobia, gay rights, sexuality, you know, the sort of thing that comes up when gay men and straight women (and one of their boyfriends) get together. 

One of them said something along the lines of “but surely the next generation will be less homophobic.”

Well, did I ever have a story to tell!

They were all really shocked to hear it. Surprised. In awe. Especially that this should happen in Chueca of all places.

And I just said that if it was happening in Chueca, could they imagine what must be happening in the less-trendy areas of Spain?

Last Friday, October 11, was National Coming Out Day in the US and several other countries. But not Spain. It is perhaps not necessary since the country was one of the first ones to institute full gay marriage, so a National Coming Out Day is not deemed -or at least not yet- necessary.

But coming out, for all its good intentions, is such a horrid thing to have to do. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, there isn’t.

But, when was the last time somebody informed you that they were straight?

When was the last time a straight kid was bullied for being straight?

Or somebody lost his/her job for being straight?

Never you say? That’s right. Never.

It is a horrible feature of our time that people still have to make some sort of public declaration of their sexuality when it does not fit the heteronormative bias.

Some people I know, those who think they are so trendy and with it, always say things like “but what does it matter? Why do I need to know somebody is gay? It doesn’t matter to me!”

I always say to them, it matters, and you do, and it should matter. And I am always surprised that people think otherwise.

It is not my place to educate people about sexuality, but when confronted with situations such as the one I witnessed a few days ago, I have to say that a little part of me died that instant when I saw that Spain’s next generation will be homophobic too (and when I say Spain, I mean the entire planet’s next generation and generations).

That those girls will probably taunt and make fun of one, or more, of their classmates deemed by them to be gay. That their mother will be totally ok with that behavior.

And that some poor kid, who may or may not be gay, will be bullied because society still has not come to terms with the simple fact that gay people exist, and that we have a right to be respected, and more importantly, just be left alone.

Yes, gay people have come a long way. At least we are not being burned at the stake these days (though in many countries we are hanged and persecuted just for being gay), but that does not mean society is where it should be on this issue (and oh so many others!).

We have come a long way, but we still have such a long way to go…

 

 

 

Pen and paper...

AOG, Madrid

I don’t normally do new year’s resolutions. I don’t like to do them because I always find them nigh near impossible to stick to. 

However, this year, for some strange reason, I did a small resolution list. 

Among the items listed were:

1-    lose weight
2-    write a short story per month
3-    be more sociable

Number 1 is on and off. It always has been with me. But that’s a post for a different day. 

Number 3 I remind myself of every time someone calls and I’m at home, and all I want to do is stay there and not deal with humanity. 

However, I confess that this year I have actively sough out, and worked on, my social life.

Number two, I admit, has been a long time coming. 

Thus far I’m already running behind about three months, and I’ve just written one short story. 

I have, however, started on another one, and there’s a third one on the back of my mind. 

And I can say that this is the case only because a few months ago something happened which has helped me to get my creative act together and do some serious, or almost serious, writing.

Mid November last year I was lucky enough to join a writers group in Madrid. 

I had joined a critique group years ago, but my attendance always waned since it always seemed like we got together to talk and not write, which for some reason is what I, and I alone, thought would happen.

But then one day I came across this group, and thought I would give it a try. 

Most of the people who attend are British, but there’s the odd American, the odd Canadian and odd Spanish member here and there, but there’s other 'odd' nationalities too!

The group itself was founded by an Irish guy who’s been living in Spain for a few years. 

It has been going strong for over a year and I have to say that I was made to feel welcome from day one.
 

Since I joined, the group has gone through a few changes. In fact, the very day I joined I, along with everyone else, was presented with the group’s new rules. Among the one’s that stood out the most to me were: no eating during meetings and no laptops. And don’t be late.
 

Nothing too difficult or demanding.

Another thing it went through was a change of venue. We used to meet at this café near Bilbao metro station in central Madrid. It was ok, but a bit crowded.

 

Also, within no time some people, including me, got the idea that the café's owner was more interested in his other customers than us. For example, the music began to get louder each time. 

This, for a writing group that reads its work out loud, is problematic.

So we went on a pilgrimage to find a new place.

First to a café nearby with nice decor, but a bit crowded. Also, the guy behind the bar rather we got up and asked for things instead of him actually behaving like the waiter that he was and taking our orders at our table.

 

Also, he was not keen at all on charging people individually for their consumption and insisted on one big, fat, large bill. So big, fat, no.

The other place was near the Plaza de España area. In the back of it in fact; an area filled with restaurants serving foreign food.

Less crowded than the other two, it was, in fact, a basement all for us. However, although some people liked it, for others it was uncomfortable and the seating arrangements were a bit odd. 

But the guy who ran it was actually very nice.

Lastly, we went to a Café in Chueca neighborhood. The upstairs of the place was very spacious. We decided to meet there in the end. But no, it too is far from perfect.   

The service is very so-so, and it is starting to get noisy. But this is just like any other café in Madrid. Good weather means people will come out and socialize.

Some of us have begun toying with the idea of meeting at Retiro Park, right by the lake. There's loads of public cafés there. 

 

But I digress.   
 

I normally arrive at the group on time, find a seat, and get ready for an hour of themed writing exercises. 

When we do these, we normally divide into smaller groups of 3-5 people. On a good day maybe 20-25 people will show up!

The group’s members take it in turns to give a sort of workshop on a particular theme. We’ve had workshops on erotica, death, character creation, locations, etc.
 

Every time I go I leave thinking myself lucky for having attended –but I have yet to conduct a meeting myself. Work keeps me from being able to commit for the time being.

Nevertheless, I feel fortunate to have access to such a talented group of individuals from all different backgrounds, all interested in writing.

 

Some of them keep blogs; some are working on a novel; some like to write short stories; some write poetry. In short, one way or another, we are all interested in writing. 

After every exercise we read out loud what we’ve written to our group, and I have really begun to enjoy some people’s writing. 

Slowly, I have also begun to make some friends in the group, and I love that this is the case. I’m always short of friends.

But not just that, I have also been able to get my act together enough that, when I am in Madrid, I actually leave the house on Saturday and go to write for a while to my favorite coffee shop: Diurno. (See past post about writing in Diurno here).

What I do is post a small notice on the group’s facebook page, stating time and place. Slowly, some members have come along. 

We talk and chat and gossip, but we also go quiet and write. And I really like that we do all this.

The group’s facebook page is also very active, with members posting writing tips, ideas, in short, anything which might be of interest to other people. 

But not just that. There’s even talk of a group blog. And there’s been meetings related to it.

But not just that. A few weeks ago, we were told of the possibility of working on a screenplay for a short film.

Some people were interested, some were not. 

 

I was.

I submitted my entry (basically a 300 word story based on some images previously chosen by the director) and waited. And waited and waited some more.

Finally I was told that I, and a couple more members, had been chosen to participate in this collaborative script-writing project. 

I was over the moon when I found out!

I have never written a screenplay, or any other type of play, in my life. 

Nonetheless, I do think it is a wonderful prospect, certainly it is a learning opportunity.

 

Last Saturday we all met for lunch and what was going to be a writing session where the entire script was going to be hammered out between 4 people. 

No such luck. 

We met the director, who is French, and ate some and drank some.

 

 

Then we had a few discussions about the film and the director showed us some more images he liked.

 

Then we talked about them a bit, and then we spent about 20-25 minutes writing on our own.

We reconvened and read our bits out loud. We had some great ideas, some ok ideas, and some ideas which were very ambitious, but nonetheless welcome.

It was almost 7 pm by now, and we realized we needed to talk less, and write more. And that is how we said good-bye.

 

By our next meeting, three days later, we should have come up with something else. Something new.

So I spent most of Sunday trying to think of a story following the briefest of briefs: 

• One should be able to watch the film with the sound off and follow it.
• There should be a scene of feet going to and fro.
• Only 4 characters.
• Use older people because the give a movie ‘texture’.
• It should have a happy ending. 

This last bit we also discussed during the afternoon. Two of us are for it, and there’s one undecided, and one who questioned why this should be.

 I really didn’t have much of an answer beyond the feeling I got off of the images the director showed us, which were mostly depressing and keep giving off an air of alienation.

Its early days yet, but I’m sure I’m going to enjoy this new project.

 

Travelling with Americans

AOG, Madrid

Last weekend, after spending a few days with my partner, I flew from Barcelona back to Madrid. 

As I waited to board the plane, I noticed a man and his young son watching a soccer match between Germany and Greece on television. Because it was soccer, at first I thought that they were German. 

However, after a while, I overheard them speak and realised they were American. Yes, I was slightly shocked that somebody from the US would like soccer.

As luck would have it, they sat next to me on the plane, and we spent the entire flight, from take off to landing, talking about Europe and the US.

It was very interesting to hear him speak. After a few minutes he realised I was for Obama and never liked Bush, and I realised that he didn’t like President Obama at all and was very pro Bush.

We spoke, however, without acrimony, and listening to what the other had to say in a very amicable way. 

I was very surprised about what he said. It was like his views were taken from an alternative reality. From a parallel-universe America. 

“But President Obama is destroying our economy!”

“Of course we did nation-building in Iraq. Look at how grateful they all are.”

“How are American oil companies benefitting from the invasion of Iraq They have not received one dollar. How can you say that when ,today in the US, a gallon of gas is over $5.00?”

“We had to invade Afghanistan because they were harbouring and protecting Osama Bin Laden. What were we supposed to do?”

I don’t pretend to have all the answers, or even half the answers, but I was surprised that a man who grew up and lived in California was so misinformed. So one-sided. 

Here and there I would point out the general European view about America and its policies, both at home and abroad to the father.

“I have been reading the European media, and they only concentrate on the bad side, they never tell you about the good stuff in America”, he said at one point.

I have to say that the conversation was very challenging. His son, who was 15, had just spent an entire year studying Spanish in Salamanca, Spain’s Oxford. And his son loved soccer, so he loved soccer too.

I say this because this man was a nice person who loved his family and had worked hard to support it. 

I say this because he told me and his son so during the flight.

“How many birthdays did I miss? How many games?”

His son nodded in silence.

This man was now in semi-retirement but he must have been in his early to mid 50s. 

As the conversation went on, I tried to tell him about the other side of the spectrum when it came to some of the things he spoke about.

And I have to say that, to his credit, he went quiet very often and didn’t fly off the handle at any one point. 

Perhaps what I was telling him he had heard already, or maybe he is capable of independent thought and, when given new data, he processed it in silence. 

Or maybe he was ultra polite and thought I was just a stupid liberal living in Europe. 

His son, by contrast, did not really join in to defend his father's views. He would nod, however, whenever the European side was expressed. 

I don't know if he fully agreed with it, but, at least, he had been exposed to a different perspective for one year of his life. Unilateral views, for this boy, were no longer an option. 

I mentioned that, in the case of 9-11 and what happened in Afghanistan, perhaps invading an entire country to eventually kill one guy was not the best thing we could have done. That entire families had been killed by Western soldiers in the pursuit of one man. That I didn’t see the justification.

"But they, the Taliban, were harboring a terrorist!"

I mentioned that, as he had mentioned, the middle class in America was shrinking, and that this was very strange since, in the 1960s, when America was not as rich as it is today, the middle class was not shrinking, in fact, it had been growing steadily since WWII. 

That back then, and for many years afterwards, the world looked to America for guidance. But that was not the case today.

“So people hate us?”

“Some do, but then our foreign policy gives them little choice.”

“So what are we meant to do?”

“Not invade countries would be a good way to start.”

“So, are you saying invading Iraq was a mistake? Look at all the good we did.”

“We did good when, after WWII, we took up the cause of nation-building in Germany and Japan. But we didn’t do that, and have not done that, in Iraq.”

He was very surprised to hear this. His facial expressions were very interesting to watch. I think that at times he had a hard time taking in this new perspective. 

And then we went on to speak about his son’s future; and his own future.

“If you want to open a restaurant, why don’t you go to college? Take some courses; you have experience, how about some economic theory and new business concepts?”

“Dad I told you to do that!”

And then he told me about his new “job”, managing his younger son who wants to act.

And about how he needs to help his wife out, and look out for his  soccer-loving 15 year old’s college career.

And that of his other son from another marriage, but which they never talked about.

And I realised what a great father this guy probably was, and how unfortunate that he was a bit of a poster child for the dangers of misinformation and a lacking education. 

At one point he asked me if the sun was a planet just like the Earth and about how European countries managed to have free health care and not break the bank.

“Socialism just does not work, look at the Euro!”

And, when I got home, I turned on my television and, during my channel surf in search of BBC World, chanced upon Fox News.

Disturbing

AOG, Madrid

Tonight I left home and headed to my usual coffee place: Diurno. It has been raining all day and Madrid felt cool, wet. 

On the way over, I saw a mattress. On the street. With a stain. Propped against the trash containers.

It caught my eye immediately. 

A mattress outside its natural habitat is a visual abomination. It challenges your sensibilities. Why is it there? Well, that question is not really as important as: What is it doing there?

We seek an answer to a strange question because of the horror that an abandoned mattress causes us.

Perhaps it was not abandoned. Perhaps it was discarded. And we can't help but wonder about the cause.

The owner moved home. Or, worse, died. 

That red stain near the edge, resembling a wound to the shoulder; or the heart.

Perhaps the owner bought a new one. No, that can't be right. Because when they deliver the new one they take the old one with them. But not this time. This mattress is there because it is no longer needed.

But it isn't something you can give away. Who'd want an old stained mattress? And yet, surely someone, somewhere, would like it. Would take it and use it.

I remember reading long ago that in the past, when someone died, their mattress, or their whole bed, would be thrown out. In most cases, burnt. Thrown into the fire.  

Perhaps not those of the poor, only the beds of those with money, and mattresses, to burn.

A sort of cleansing perhaps?

So, to see such a personal item just thrown out is, was, disturbing.

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.