Customs old and new

AOG, Madrid

A few days ago I went to a wedding in the Basque country. One of my partner’s cousins was getting married. It was held in the town of Markina, halfway between Durango and San Sebastian.

It was great.

I was enthralled by the family spirit of the whole thing.

I was lucky enough to witness some old customs, and some new ones, as well as the first lashes of culture clash.

It is traditional in the Basque Country for a dance of honor called “Aurresku” to be performed just outside the church once the bride and groom have been married.

In this dance, the male dancer does a step whereby his leg is outstretched and kicked upwards all the way to his face. Amazing. No Ballets Russes here.

This was the traditional part.

The new custom, it would appear, would be the letting out of fireworks as the newlyweds walk past their guests and into the car.

Everyone remarked on it and asked (and by everyone I mean everyone) if the bride was from Valencia.

You see, aside from Paella, Valencia is known for its fallas and its fireworks. If you think the Chinese have cornered the market on loud firework displays, you’ve never been to Valencia.

So there it was, 2 customs, one old, one new, both surprising since, these days, it is less and less common to see weddings where the Aurresku is performed. But there were still new customs to be seen.

We were treated afterwards to a delicious wedding banquet in a lovely restored traditional basque homestead located in the mountains. Think Swiss Alps with log cabins, but add a couple of stories, make them bigger, and use stone, not wood.

It was white fenced throughout and everyone said it was very atypical to see white fencing. Personally, I thought I was in Virginia!

At our table were sat my partner’s brother and his wife, as well as his sister, and their cousins and wives. It was amazing to hear all the childhood pranks these people got into. It was great. I liked how they were telling stories 15, 20, even 30 years old. How they spoke of their joint childhood, their common stories, adventures, and the times they got in trouble too.

How they referred to each other's parents as "Auntie this" and "Uncle that".

I loved being witness to all that.

On of them was taking about his own daughters; he was worried about how they would try to outsmart him and how he was powerless to stop them. Well, much like his own parents I suppose.

Was this not the eternal family wheel upon which all humanity is thrust into? Childhood, youth, adulthood, patterns which repeat themselves albeit with new actors.

I kept thinking how lucky they all were by being able to grow up with family members their age, and that they are still in touch with each other. What a wonderful thing.

The bride and groom were surrounded by their loved ones and we didn't get much of a chance to talk to them.

For me it was also a great opportunity to get to know better some of my partner's family, and to learn how everyone is related. My family being so small, it was great to be able to do this.

Customs anew...

It is worth noting two of the banquet’s waitresses. One of them, in her early 20s or younger, blonde, blue eyed, prim, proper, white-gloved throughout, very professional, and, genetically designed not to laugh at anyone’s jokes.

She would come over with food, tell us what it was. Wait for us to grab a portion. Then split. If a joke was uttered, she either ignored it, or raised above it. We were actually embarrassed to make any jokes when she came round. She was not mean or anything, just trying to be professional I suppose.


The other waitress was definitely my favourite.

In her early to mid 40s, or younger perhaps, blonde, hazel eyed, tanned, muscular, prim, proper, white-gloved throughout, very professional, and, genetically designed to be a different gender once upon a time.

Some people mentioned that she was a body builder who used a lot of steroids, and that that was why she was so muscular and had such a masculine gait to her.

My partner and I differed. She was lovely. Which is why I was convinced that she might have started life with different gonads at one point in her existence.

She walked in heels like a football player would, and her hair was reminiscent of Ivana Trump. Her fake nails were the size of spoons. Yes, she could have tackle d anyone if she had wanted to. But it was all very dignified.

My partner and I loved the fact that the place which held the wedding banquet had the good taste to hire her. A new custom.

The old and the new. Just another day in Spain.

Fake-Nice

AOG, London

Back in London now. "Only in Miami is Cuba so far away" sings Bette Midler. Only in London is America so far away, says I. It is always nice to go to the US. It is easy to compare London and New York. They have similarities, But it is their differences which I like, and I hope neither is ever like the other. It would ruin both.

Everytime I go across the pond, I discover- or reinforce- another nagging little thing about the US which makes me want to slap somebody upside the head.

Picture it- Manhattan, 27th December 2006, we go out to eat in Greenwich. We find a restaurant which reminds me of Diurno in Madrid. Our friends say how it is a really nice place, and the food is good and this and than.

Problems- We have to wait for a table, The music is mega loud and annoying (like in those chinese buffets where the music is designed for you to eat and get out. Clever the Chinese...if demonic!). I won't go into the price of things.

We finally get a table by the door which we have to decline as the weather outside is approaching ice-age. We get-grudgingly- another table.

Our waitress arrived. She was the typical non-nice waitress masquerading as Miss Sympathy. None of us bought her niceness. "Where are you from?" She asked with fake niceness. "Spain and here" we replied. She looked at me. "So...are you enjoying your christmas or hannukah or whatever you celebrate over there?" She asked. No one at the table heard her. That nugget of ignorance was mine to savor. I could not believe it. Especially the condescending "or whatever" part. If you don't know, keep it shut dear.

As per usual, not only did she not have a clue where we were from, she committed the diplomatic faux pas equivalent of asking someone from Saudi Arabia if they are enjoying Diwali. I cannot expect americans to know where Spain is. But if, unfortunately, Spain is known on this earth for one thing, it is for being a Catholic country.

And I don't say that with pride, I say it with shame and sadness. I am not saying that there are no Jewish people in Spain. Increasingly there are more and more these days (this can only be a good thing). But 99% of the population of Spain no more celebrate Hannukah than the people of Massachusetts hold bullfights on Martha's Vineyard.

The evening continued on with our fake-niceness waitress, no bread, no water at the table for ages, cutlery which arrived after the food did, no one to take our drinks orders until after we got the cutlery, and then, and this is what hurt me most of all, the $18.00 tip our friends agreed upon for bad service.

"They work for tips, their salary is really low", they said. I was totally against anything above $3.oo. The service had been atrocious. But one of our friends has worked as a waiter. "And I know how little we get paid, and what a difficult job it is!", said he. It was my first night in New York. I did not want to cause a scene. I complied and agreed to paid an undeserved tip.

Very unlike me to do such a thing. But I did not want to ruin everyone's evening. The fact that I just wrote that last sentence is testimony to my many years in the UK. Or perhaps I am getting older. Or both. Or neither. Maybe it was jetlag and fatigue...

I prefer the last option.

We all spoke about the waitress. We all wished she had been more herself and less fake-nice. Fake-nice is rather unpolite. I prefer real-evil. Or normal-sarcastic. Or even hormonal. But fake-nice is just insulting. It is like saying "I am being nice to you because I have to, not because I actually am. In reality, I could have you on toast for breakfast you idiot". I would prefer that. Evil. It works. You know where you stand with evil. Or sarcasm. You can open channels of communication. But with fake-nice, all you can do is wish for the evening to end soon so you don't have to bear the waitress any more than what you have to.

Sometimes you get fake-nice in the UK. But not often. The English are quite good at barely-passing-for-polite. And that is much more bearable because it allows you to feel smug in your feeling of superiority as aclient, and it allows them to resent you and spit on your soup.

You no longer need to wonder about how the black plague spread on this continent.