Bush

AOG, Madrid

Before I forget, from today, only 199 days to go until President George Bush is out of office for good.

Just thought I should mention it.

I wonder if he'll invade someone else between now and then....

Must confess to having repressed my urges to deface and vandalize his photograph.

I am trying to be an adult about this.

And then there's this:

From Doug Brinkley's Reagan Diaries, published by Harper Collins:

"A moment I've been dreading. George brought his n'er-do-well son around this morning and asked me to find the kid a job. Not the political one who lives in Florida; the one who hangs around here all the time looking shiftless. This so-called kid is already almost 40 and has never had a real job. Maybe I'll call Kinsley over at The New Republic and see if they'll hire him as a contributing editor or something. That looks like easy work."
As they say, If only we'd known then what we know now...

A non ex in Madrid

AOG, Madrid

Many years ago, perhaps 10, I met someone in London who appeared to be semi interested in me.

Nothing ever happened between us, since we met at a friend's place, and then all of us went out to dinner together but I noticed during the bus ride that I was being watched. However, my self esteem being what it was, I never gave this much thought. Neither one of us acted on it.

Then time passed, and I didn't see this person again. I forgot about them. Relationships came and went.

Then a few years later, I visited Madrid, and there was this person again, smiling. I didn't know they were no longer in London.

I was surprised.

Thinking we could have been friends I went over. We spoke.

This person confessed some sort of feelings back then (much more than what I expected) and did so just as we were leaving the locale. Other plans, other commitments that night, ensured we got nowhere fast and our conversation ended slightly abruptly.

All I heard was a "Don't you see what effect you have on me?" and that was it. Until then I had not seen that "effect". Intuited, yes.

We said we'd catch up the next day. Same neighborhood, common interests... But no. I was there, half hoping to see them again. But they did not show up.

I left the next day for London.

Then more time went by, and I moved to Madrid.

Last week I saw this person in a bar. No longer attractive. Older. Undesirable in "that" way. And yet I wonder if I should have said hi. Hello. How are you?

But I didn't.

It was a case of me seeing this person, and this person not seeing me back.

I'm not upset, or anything like that, far from it. I just hoped I wouldn't be so shy and could just say hi to people now and again.

What does protocol dictate about speaking to non-exes?

So different

AOG, Madrid

I've come across a website called PostSecret and I really like it.

Its basic premise works around the idea that it will publish your postcard and that in said postcard, you will confess to something, or you will divulge something.

For whatever reason, I feel ironic tonight, and when I came across this post card, I felt odd.

My first impulse is to want to slap this person for being racist (which they are not being at all).

I am surprised to see -yet not really since I know human nature as what it is only too well,-that the first and only thing which comes to mind about someone who helps you, is the fact that they were Chinese.

In fact, I wonder.

Where they Chinese? Were they Japanese? Korean? Vietnamese?

It matters to me because some (most?) white people are so quick to classify everyone by ethnic (not long ago I would have said "race" until someone told me how biologically we are all one race, regardless of skin color and pigmentation) group and place them in a neat little pigeonhole. "It helps us to understand each other better" I've been told many times. I don't fully agree.

Am I so warped that I need to dissolve this man's thank you card and his gratitude because I find it ethno-centric?

Do I know what I would have written? No. What if this poor soul is still convalescing?

I do worry about the most useless things sometimes.

The chain letter

AOG, Madrid

Like many other people these days, I've grown accustomed, tolerate, smirk at, and even sometimes read over... slightly miffed, the numerous chain -letter emails I get throughout the year from my friends.

These are often only a form of spam with a cute picture, or some sort of Christian propaganda designed to tug at your heart strings. You know the type, "Someone who loves you (but can't be bothered to pick up the phone and call you) sent you this". Read it and pass it on, send it back. I often choose to press the delete button on Hotmail.

And feel happy my friend came across my email address when going through a list. At least he/she thought of me for a milisecond. In this day and age, what else can we expect our friends to do? Honestly, the more technology we have, the less human we become in a way.

My dear friend Freddie, now deceased, used to send me this type of email all the time. Full of love and good wishes and needing a reply. It was her way. And it used to drive me insane.

I remember years ago when I got the first of these cyber-epistles. I remember reading it and forwarding it to at least 10 people, or else. A silly form of threatening good luck

Today, however, I got one which really surprised me. It was sent by a friend from Venezuela who hardly ever writes full emails, and today's was quite surprising.

It featured an image of the virgin of Guadalupe, and the inscription:

Before anything else, I want to tell you that the virgin of Guadalupe is miraculous, she goes with you wherever you go. This letter's purpose is to go round the world and continue...

And then there came the warnings:

The president of Argentina received a letter and called it "trash", and 8 days later his son was dead. A man received the letter and sent it off again and his surprise was that he won the lottery.

Alberto Martinez received the letter and asked his secretary to copy it, but they forgot to send them off: she lost her job and he his family.

This letter is miraculous and sacred, don't forget to re-send it before 13 days pass. You must send it to more than 20 people in 13 days. Don't forget. You will receive a great surprise surprise!!

The banality of the whole composition and its warnings really irked me.

Here I was meant to believe that through some cosmic junction between the virgin of Guadalupe, cyberspace, the internet and an anonymously written email there stood the possibility of blessings or damnation. Really? How odd.

So the same virgin who will bless me and all that will also be the same one to make sure my son dies 8 days after receiving it (and before the 13 days are up) and not sending it off? So the virgin will be really upset with me and take it out on my kin if I don't forward some retarded email? Quite.

I am no virgin expert but if this is how she behaves, perhaps we should reconsider the whole adoration thing.

So I asked my friend to please not send me anymore damming emails.

I don't like malefices or damnation. Never have.

Especially now that Spain have won the 2008 European Soccer Championship, aka the Eurocup, for the first time since 1964 and Franco roamed the land.

How do I know? I asked what it was Spain had just won about an hour after watching the match against Germany.

Open Top Madrid

AOG, Madrid

Today I had a good day. Good second day at work. Still learning the ropes. Still excited. Then a good afternoon, friendly and comfortable.

First I met my writing-buddy David near Plaza de España. We had Starbucks coffee and chatted about Spanish politics. A lot.

He came on Monday to see me perform in the theater but didn't say a word about it today (I am obviously very needy). Grr.

Then we both got on the Metro (subway-underground) to meet some other friends of mine for dinner in Madrid's AZCA neighborhood- known as 'little Manhattan' since it is where Madrid's tallest skyscraper lives, Torre Picasso; 43 floors high.

The restaurant, Italian, had been chosen because it purportedly served wholemeal pasta. Turned out they didn't. And I'm on a diet.

They also ran out of meat. So I had salad for dinner. I don't mind that. But I did have my heart set on something else.

During the meal, one of our friends told us about his more-than-probable-move-back-to-Argentina in the Fall because of work. He'd be making more money in a country where a European salary will buy you an extremely comfortable and luxurious life.

Another one of us colluded with me regarding the concurrent paramour of one of our friends, not present at the dinner table. I find the paramour in question to be a complete parasite, and have thought so from the day I first met this person.

My opinion has not changed yet, though I have often said that I may be mistaken and I am willing to be corrected.

It does not look like it is going to happen. And now my friends are beginning to see what I meant, and they are starting to think the man in question is an idiot.

And then, the icing on the cake.

Mr. "I'm going back to Buenos Aires" informed us that he had brought his new car, an old 1970s Citroën Méhari.

I was anxious to see it, after it was drawn for me on the back of a napkin a month or so before. I had no clue what the car in question was (the drawing was accurate, but odd) and no one could rememeber what it was called.

It was a gem.

Topless, and bright orange/yellow, it is a wonderful blast from the past.

My friend offered to drive me back home. We drove topless all over Castellana boulevard. I loved that new perspective on Madrid at night.

It was a great experience driving in Spain inside something that old. I've been inside older cars (hello, I've been to Havana!) but not in Spain. For whatever reason, old cars in Spain are conspicuous for their absence.

Most cars in Spain are new. Not necessarily expensive -I've yet to visit a city which can outdo London on automotive luxury-but new, ish. And here is this thing which is so ugly it is beautiful, so odd it is futuristic. So pedestrian and spartan it is a luxury item on wheels.

And I was the lucky passenger chosen to ride it that night. I felt very special all the way home. A cool breeze blew over the windshield and over our heads. Madrid slowly showing us a new perspective of itself, mostly unseen from inside a hardtop. Convertible drivers are lucky, I've always thought.

The car's owner told me he had bought it for two thousand Euros, and that he had passed the word that he might have to sell it should he get back to Argentina.

"I've been offered six thousand euros, and all I've done to this car is fill its tank with petrol and drive it a bit".

Worth every penny.

Answered prayers

AOG, Madrid

No, not Capote's unfinished novel. The other kind.

The kind that leave you numb with doubt surprise and which make you want to sit down and take it all in so that you may understand it.

Today, so soon after, I was offered a job interview.

And then I was offered a job.

I didn't think too hard about it.

I love my soon-to-be-ex-job but to them I am only a freelancer. I wanted, I need, a full-time job.

I said yes on the spot.

And now I will be a full-time journalist.

Finally.

Saint John's night

AOG, Madrid

I have just experienced a magical and pagan night, unexpected, but welcome.

Tonight was St. John's night- alias the Summer solstice- the shortest night of the year. In Spain, they like to celebrate this date by making bonfires and jumping over them. It has all sort of magical connotations to do so.

I have spent a couple of hours in Las Vistillas, a park behind the San Francisco el Grande Church, not too far from Madrid's royal Oriente Palace.

The church itself is famous because it is believed that St. Francis of Assisi once lived there inside a hut, back in the XIIth century on his way to Santiago de Compostela. It is a large building, neoclassical mostly, and it reminds me of a similar church in London's Knightsbridge- the Brompton Oratory.

Behind San Francisco's walls, perched as it is on the edge of a hill, there descends all the way down to the Manzanares river a park and garden called Las Vistillas.

It is there that the citizens of Madrid congregate to spend the shortest night of the year amidst a combination of Christian calendar date and profane ceremony.

So tonight was a special night. Pagan ritual aside- you must write a wish on a piece of paper, throw it in the fire, then jump over it- there was a great atmosphere.

People were playing drums, singing, laughing and drinking. Friends and strangers walked around from bonfire to bonfire, taking their turn to jump, or to throw something unto the fire, be it wishes or a piece of wood. Some where modest and some were a proper inferno! I suppose that if you are making a purifying bonfire, the bigger the better. One in particular, to my mind, was getting slightly out of hand, but it was a sight to behold. A large burning pyre with flames ever towering in size over people. Ritualistic and enthralling. Some people began to chant. At that point I had to smirk slightly. Here we were, almost all of us Western European, or at least, Western, and suddenly a dreadlocked girl, probably from Madrid, dressed in hippy garb which would not be out of place in Camden, starts to chant gibberish. Hala, ohelo, hala. Some of her friends did the same. I thought it was funny, but in the spirit of the evening, I moved on.

To top it all off, there was a thunderstorm in full swing. We arrived (my improv teacher, a classmate and I) just after it had stopped raining and the ground was very wet and sloshy.

The air was cool, and the breeze helped to blow away most of the smoke emanating from the bonfires which would have otherwise stayed with us. This is important since some of them were slightly toxic, given that you are also meant to symbolically and physically burn those things you no longer need. In many cases, plastic objects and old suitcases. Thus the toxicity of the affair and the need for a good wind.

Soon after we arrived, another group of friends of ours showed up. They too wanted to purify their soul.

After visiting and jumping over a few bonfires, it started to rain. Not a light rain. A rain of epic proportions reminiscent of the great flood. We went for cover under a tree but decided to leave. The rain only got worse. We decided to leave the bonfires and our friends.

When we got to the car we were soaked. We interpreted it all to be good omens. The fire purifies the soul and the rain cleanses it. All in all a good start to the year. I liked this alternative to the official calendar.

On the way home, for the first time in my life, I witnessed a blackout. I have lived through my fair share of these, but, for some reason, I've always been indoors. This time, however, I was driving through (or being driven through) a street when, suddenly, all lights went out. We drove through a dark avenue for a minute or so. It was very exciting. Something I've never experienced before. It happened again before I was dropped home.

I am feeling quite lucky to have experienced tonight. Next year I'm taking my camera with me. I missed it more than once tonight.

Rats!

No heroes weekend

AOG, Madrid

This week in Madrid a couple of movies are making the rounds: The Happening and The Mist. Both are apocalyptic and, in their own way, a reflection of the fears society makes for itself these post 9-11 days.

I saw the first one of them on Friday night because there were no tickets left for Sex and the City, the movie. So I compromised and went for what appeared like a thriller.

And I saw the second one on Saturday night because the movie projector broke down and no one got to see Sex and the City, the movie. It was 23:30 at night and I was in a movie mood, so I went to another film theater nearby and, at 00:40, went to see The Mist.

I won't give any plot away, but I do think that both movies share a common theme: neither has a hero- or at least not in the Hollywood sense. Events overtake the characters and the protagonists and there is little they can do to change them. Much like it would happen in real life.

In The Happening, directed by M. Night Shyamalan, the events which change the character's lives are too abstract to fully understand, even at the end of the film.

You are left wondering what happened, just as you are left wondering who cast Mark Wahlberg as the lead.

Much has been said about his heterosexuality, but in this film, unexplainable apocalypse aside, I kept thinking he was having an affair with John Leguizamo. Or with some other guy. And if that had been the case, it would have been ok. But it is not the case.

Instead, we are meant to believe he is a happy heterosexual who just happens to dress like a 22 year old disco bunny eventhough he is well in his 30s. The character is very well written, but Wahlberg just naively plods along, there is no intellectual depth. It was like drama 101. He wants you to like him, and you do like him, you just can't take him seriously as an actor. I wonder if he acted like that on purpose. Everyone in the audience, certainly the people next to me on isle 5, were laughing at his performance.

The other film, The Mist, is proper Old School apocalypse. Though with a twist. The acting is better than The Happening's, even if the events rock back and forth from the sublime to the ridiculous and back again. There are times when you stop suspending your disbelief, and others when you buy all that is on offer. The ending, however, has to be seen to be believed. The movie itself is a bit like Lord of the Flies. Society is what it is until things go slightly awry, then we all turn into barbarians. This movie certainly shows you how quickly we turn, and it does so semi-believably. Until the ending, which, is quite human, but also quite odd. I won't go into the acting but Thomas Jane does the best he can given the script.

The film is based on a short novella written by Stephen King back in 1980. This version, 27 years later, is perhaps quite in tune with concurrent global disaster thinking: that there is little we can do.

That no one is coming to save us because such things don't really happen. True or untrue, both films take a no-clear-hero approach. Things happen, and people survive, or not, through sheer chance. Both films reflect current fears in Western society.

I wonder if this is a new trend in movies? The human-all-too-human approach.

Open Mic Madrid

AOG, Madrid

I remember reading a few years ago about Americans living in Prague during the 1990s. There was a small community of college kids (thought not only) living there who found the city fascinating and had created a small literary community. The only drawback, however, was that they cared little for Czech and spoke only English. Or so the author told us.

Yesterday I witnessed the Spanish equivalent of Prague's literary expat community. It was called "The first Mad open Mic" and was organised by Margie Kanter, an American writer who's lived in Spain for more than just a few years.

I have to say that, on my way there, I bumped into a new friend of mine named David. He was moving out of his apartment in central Madrid and moving in with a friend in north-central Madrid. He was letting out his apartment for 1,200 Euros per month and moving into a large spacious place where "We can entertain" with a girl who is a friend of his and was driving the car he had just popped out of as I was walking past.
Needless to say I swiftly invited myself to he up-and-coming entertaining soirées chez David.

Back to poetry.

The event in question was held at the Café Concierto La Fídula on Huertas street. Nice venue but pricey. I had to pay 2.70 Euros for a small bottle of sparkling (fizzy) water. Yes, it was Vichy Catalan, but still.

Aptly enough it is located in Madrid's famous literary neighborhood of "Las Letras"- literally 'The Letters', almost across the street from the Prado museum.

So, what did I see? What did I hear?

I think the person who stood out the most for me was the first reader, Nicholas Thran. Canadian and living in Toronto where he works at a bookshop, he finds the time to write and, even, publish his work. Something I've never been able to do.
He said he liked Roberto Bolaño and dedicated one of his readings to him. Does he know Mr. Bolaño is dead? As it happens, he does know (see replies). I was also surprised to hear he has not visited his mother in five years until now although, as I've been informed, she goes back to Canada once a year. She, by the way, is the one living in Spain. I am very curious as to why. Does she work at the Canadian Embassy in Madrid? When I saw her I certainly thought so; she looks the type.

Then there was Sue Sinclair. Beautiful reading voice. She said how "everything in Spain is more beautiful than back home". She too is Canadian and Mr. Thran's girlfriend.
She read a poem called "Sunburst". Of hers, I liked this line the best: "Seeing objects in their endless sleep" and "A tear in the foil that reflects the God's to themselves".

Then Sue Burke read. Her contribution was a succinct but very well written witty tale about a Spanish man learning English with two different tutors. It made me laugh to hear the short story. I know Sue. I read her blog. Her husband was there too.

After her, a supermodel-type girl named Maria Schock from Ohio went up. More than read, she performed "The memory of a girl". Hers was a poem which blurred the lines between formal poetry and urban rap. I was amazed she could remember her work and not have to read it. I think we all were.

Then a woman named Laura Ferguson read. Margie was playing MC last night, and when it was Laura's turn, she asked after saying her name if the pronunciation was right. I immediately asked myself "in how many different ways can you pronounce 'Laura' in English?" I only know of one.

So Laura read a poem about immigration. A hot topic in Spain. A hot topic in the US too. I thought it was cute that Ms. Ferguson had a slight lisp. I thought it was very interesting that she regaled us with a some personal information through her poetry. It appears she leaves home for work with a book and a pencil. The Spanish seem to find this very odd. She likes to underline her books to ensure the words stay with her for the day. "For life if possible".

Then a lady of unknown origin but very posh-sounding English (with the odd Spanish inference here and there- mostly her consonants) read a short-story in progress: "African love". I unfortunately did not pay enough attention to it since her accent fascinated me. It was slightly like what I remember Lady Bienvenida Buck's faux posh English accent (in the photograph) to be, only one million times better. Susana Aikin's speech certainly enthralled me.

Then Margie's husband read after Marjorie herself read a selection of short poems. The only Spanish artist present to do so. His poem "Stereotypes" stayed with me all night long:

"Women like money
Men like Sex
That is why money and sex
go so well together"

I loved it. We all did.

Then the biggest surprise of the night for me was a girl named Nasima Akaloo. She apologised for using a lot of Spanish words in her work. "Your English gets displaced by Spanish to the point where you don't want to translate any more".

Of herself she said she was "Muslim and more" but didn't speak "Al Arabiya" as her poem told us. I don't know where she was from. Perhaps Pakistan? Her English certainly was at times choppy and foreign throughout- I think her second language, not her first. Amazingly she writes in it. And she writes very well.

Her poem spoke about having to wait in line to sort out her residency papers. About how the Spanish don't understand that she wants to live in Spain and yet she can't abide pork or its derivatives, and I had to be brought down to Earth rather quickly by the fact that not all immigrants are hard working people who are willing to do menial jobs for whatever pay. Here was an artist. I wonder if her employer knows or even cares about this?

I also find it interesting that, whilst all expats there are immigrants, Ms. Akaloo was the only one who felt she was. She certainly was the only one to say so. I think it is to do with that odd trans-ethnic thing where, if you are white and Western, anywhere you live in the Western world is part of your culture, and so, even if you are a midwest farmer living in Portugal, life, though different, is still at its core, somehow familiar to your own culture.

Whereas if you come from the non-Western part of the globe, you will always be an immigrant, unless you, somehow, blend in to the point of "passing for a local". Anglo-Indians in London do it all the time, though I wonder if it works both ways. Do they go to India and blend in? Probably not at first.

Two of the readers failed to show up, although one did but 30 minutes after the affair had died down. British, he was surprised that the flier mentioned it lasted until 22:30 and he arrived around 22:00 or so. Just in time to listen to the person previous to him, and the one just after him. I thought it was a bit rude to show up so late, but he was mostly just upset that he didn't get to read. Was there an excuse? Perhaps, but I didn't hear it. Mostly I saw a man with a pony tail and a black leather jacket sulk. I would like to hear his work at the next open mic, whenever this may be.

All in all, the evening was a success. I was quite happy to have been a part of it. I do hope to take part next time it takes place.

Striking Drivers in Spain

AOG, Madrid

For the last couple of days, a group of truck (lorry) drivers representing only about 20% of their sector have been striking because of the high price of Diesel in Spain. Scuffles have broken between protesting truckers and strike-breakers on the second day of a road transport strike and drivers have blocked deliveries across the country. This video from Reuters has some good images on the situation.



The Spanish media have been following the story rather closely. The fear of empty markets and supermarket shelves gathering dust is a reality only just now really beginning show on people's minds.

Shoppers and car drivers have been stockpiling fuel and food fearing shortages. On the news this morning it was the top story. Hidden camera footage showed customers walking past empty shelves at a major supermarket.

The Government has told Police to avoid clashing with protesters and yesterday it reached a deal with truck drivers, however it is not them who called the strike but rather their Union.

President Zapatero has not really been seen much on television and the opposition is asking why not. Public opinion is upset since during March's general election, the Socialists refuted all claims of the possibility of an economic crisis. They have a point.

Some journalists are asking why fuel is being delivered with armed escort but food isn't.

A 47 year old driver was killed when he was trying to stop a truck from breaking the picket line and making a delivery- he got caught on the undercarriage of the vehicle and was dragged for about 50-60 meters and his body laid on the road for two hours before it was taken away. "Now the strike really begins" strikers have declared after learning about Julio's death as they walked out of negotiations this morning.

There is a real fear that things will worsen. Pro-Government journalists, such as Joaquín Estefanía have defended the Government's reluctance to reach a long-term deal arguing that the price of oil can change from one day to the next and that it would be futile to agree on a minimum price.

Unfortunately, the same Minister whose management of the high-speed rail link between Madrid and Barcelona was highly criticised because of its problems and delays is in charge of negotiations. Magdalena Álvarez is well known for replying to criticism by alluding to her sex and the fact that she is from Malaga and taking everything personally and by not actually responding to them.

I hope she fares better at dealing with strikers.

In the meantime, the driver's go-slow strike has all but collapsed most of Spain's roads and highways for the third day running.

They have also tried to close Spain off from the rest of Europe by striking at border posts between Spain, Portugal and France. The image shows the border pass at Girona, in Northern Spain.

The strike is affecting not only prices, there is talk of inflation reaching its highest level for 12 years. It is also affecting Spain's agricultural production. Tons of spoiled fruit and milk has been thrown away since it cannot be picked up because of the pickets.

I went to my local "DÍA" lo-cost supermarket and saw only empty shelves where perishable produce should have been. No meats (except for salami, chorizo and other types of cold meats) no chicken, beef, pork or lamb. As for fish, only the forzen variety, and then not much- a testimony to the Spanish' distaste for frozen foods. I, having no such distaste, bought some frozen salmon and vegetables and had that for dinner.