FEBRUARY 29, 2012

AOG, Madrid

Leap year. That means one extra day. Not that it matters much. Unless you were born on February 29, which means today is your real birthday since, according to our calendar, today occurs only once every 4 years.

This morning, as I was running towards the bus, I picked up one of the free papers so readily available on Madrid’s streets these days. 

On it, there was a headline  which somehow brought it all home to me: “I got my driver’s license on my 5th birthday and I retired on my 16th”. 

Isn’t that wonderful? That possibility of living and celebrating things within your own universe? Of living on this world but dictating, or at least, living by the odd dictates of a calendar based on reality, as it opposes our natures?

What do I mean by that? Well, it is obvious that the Earth rotates as it pleases,  but that we have a measuring system created many millennia ago in the Middle East somewhere. 

 It was the ancient Sumerians who came up with the sexagesimal system (one based on the number 60) around 2000 BC. 

That is 2000 years before Jesus (if you believe in things like that) was born. Nobody knows why they came up with the sexagesimal system, but it is with us today. 

How many seconds in a minute? 60. How many minutes in an hour? 60. 

However, today it is more or less proven that it was the ancient Egyptians around 1500 BC who thought of dividing the day into smaller portions. Certainly they seem to have created the first sundials.

So we, as a species, long ago chose to make sense of our planet by breaking it down into smaller, more maneagable parts. Even if these have little to do with reality, or, at least, reality as we perceive it. 

This alternative real reality (real because it is a fact that this date only happens every 4 years, and it does happen) also tends to permeate our lives, except, perhaps, we don’t give it much credit.

For example, my family, my partner and I all live in different cities. And when we meet, the important calendar dates have gone by, or they are about to. 

Hardly ever do we get to be together on the date itself. St Valentine’s, Christmas, birthdays and anniversaries are celebrated by us within our own alternative time frame.  For example, last year, we celebrated Christmas with my family on the 30th of December.

This year, my partner and I celebrated St Valentine’s Day on the 18th of February, and then again on the 25th. Twice? Yes, twice. 

Both times there were gifts exchanged, vows given and words said. 

So, is keeping dates all that important? Probably not. A couple of years ago I got to celebrate my birthday about 2 months later. 

The celebration was just as wonderful as it would have been on the day itself. Probably better, because it meant we had all been waiting to celebrate together.

I will admit to a small personal superstition: nothing is ever celebrated ahead of time. Why? I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem right to celebrate things before they happen.

Perhaps it has to do with my mother telling my sister as a child never to put a veil on her head or she would never marry. And never to say wishes out loud in case they don’t come true.

I remember reading that in China, people think that the Gods are jealous of children, so they never say things like what a beautiful baby, or what a healthy looking child, in case the Gods get envious and harm the child. 

So it is "Bad baby! Bad baby!" all the way.

Are the Gods crazy? 

I remember reading a cartoon about the political situation in Spain. In it, there was an image of people rioting, and a couple of bankers, or politicians, (men in suits anyway) looking at the rioters. 

One of them asks: “Have they gone crazy?” 

The other replies: “No. They have gone sane”.

When you realise that in Spain the unemployment rate is about 20% of the working population, and that there is very little social unrest, the caption makes complete sense.

Just like 29 February.

What am I looking for still?

AOG, Madrid

My search for the eternal past continues, but this time I think there is a lesson somewhere which is staring me in the face, but I just can't quite put my finger on it.

Thanks to the magic of facebook, a couple of months ago I contacted a friend of mine from when I went to primary school in Mexico City back in the Dark Ages of Disco. 

As luck would have it, he was going to be in London over the Christmas season visiting his brother and his new niece. We agreed to meet and meet we did. I waited for him by the National Gallery’s entrance in Trafalgar Square. 

If you’ve been there then you know that the entrance to this wonderful museum is a bit like a balcony from which to wave to one’s subjects. It was raining and I stood right by the balustrade to make sure I could see him. 

This is important to know because this past Holiday season, I have been the coldest I’ve ever been in December. London was a continuous rain fest, and although it is usually not cold when it rains, this past December, it was cold all the time. 

So there I was, unprepared for the weather (because I, who am so smart, left my rain coat in Madrid and went to London with a knitted jacket and little else), waiting for my tardy friend under freezing cold and wet conditions. 

He showed up about 25 minutes later, but I was happy to see him. He asked if we should get a beer, and I suggested we went for coffee. 

During this time my partner had opted to let us meet before hand whilst he had a beer and then meet up with us. A wise move I think, though at the time I was very nervous and would have liked him to have been there. But in retrospect, I think is was just as well he wasn’t.

No drama, just a fact.

So my friend and I went for coffee at Costa Café in Soho. We ordered, we sat down, and we started to sort of catch up. We hadn’t seen each other since about 1980. Where do you start?

We did the usual, married? Kids? Job? bit and moved on. He started to ask about my accent in Spanish, how it was very soft and although identifiably Castilian, it was not thoroughly Spanish. “I can hear some of Mexico when you speak”, he said. And rightly so. You can. I like that about me.

It was then that I mentioned that my partner, who is from Spain, had a much stronger accent. 

A few sentences later I went from partner to “he”. And I could see my childhood friend almost jump back on the sofa.

There was a very apparent and even negative reaction to this bit of news. Maybe it was just surprise. In any case, I think he quickly came to terms with the new paradigm and our conversation continued.

Soon after my partner showed up. Introduced himself, and we stayed for another half an hour at the café. Then we asked my friend if he would like to go for a drink.

“Yes, that would be nice!”

“We are going to a gay bar, are you ok with that?”

Silence lasting a very long second, then reply:

“Well, erm, I am in London, and nobody knows me here, so I think it is ok”.

Nothing else was said and we continued our conversation as if his reaction had not occurred. Of course, it had, and at that point I was torn between wanting to chat with my old friend, and wanting to say goodbye to someone who might be slightly homophobic. 

Still, all those years not knowing anything about each other weighed heavily in my decision and he did seem generally interested in being with us, even if it was at a gay bar.

At the bar we spoke for about an hour and then he had to get back to his brother’s place in South London.

I walked him to the bus stop at Centre Point in Charing Cross Road, and along the way he began to semi apologise for not having bothered to look me up at all.

“You know, in life, when I close a chapter it remains closed”.

To that I replied that my life has been very different, and that I tend to reopen closed chapters now and then.

Just before he got on the bus he said that he would have never bothered to look me, or anyone else, up. Was this an apology? Just a fact? I don’t know. I said to him that it was ok.

“I did the looking up for both of us, and I’m glad I got to see you”.

I walked back to the bar to be with my partner and our friends, who were curious to know how it had all gone. I had told them the night before that I was meeting up with someone I hadn’t seen since we were both 9 or 10 more or less.

I was feeling a bit strange about all this. I think part of the problem is that the last time I saw him was on a normal school day. I left the classroom at the end of the school day and never went back. I never said good bye to any of my friends. We changed schools in one day.

Is this why I want to see them? So that I too can close a chapter which was shut but remained unfinished? Was this some sort of childhood closure?

I still don’t know. Over the next few days, my Christmas tour continued. And when I say tour, I mean I slept in about 6 different beds and 5 different towns since the 23^rd of December before I got back home to mine. 

My thoughts about my friend stayed with me and I was wondering what was the problem with me. Why was I not happy?

Well, last week he contacted me. He was coming to Madrid. Could he stay at mine?

Certainly. No problem. It will be a pleasure.

So last night he arrived close to midnight. I made him a sandwich, and we sat to talk in front of the tv for a while. What did we talk about? Not much, not even small talk.

It soon became obvious that we were strangers who shared some sort of common past. But then he said something nice:

“This trip I’ve been thinking about our infancy. About the school, do you remember…”

And I did remember. And I remembered him, and me, but something was a bit off. Something was awry. But I don’t yet know what.

He will stay one week with me. 

Winning the lottery...sort of

AOG, Madrid

Once again Christmas rears its ugly head. Different countries tend to celebrate in different ways, all living out their version of the modern invention of Christmas as invented by Germany in the XIX century. 

In the case of Spain, this means the National Lottery, the largest of its kind on Earth. As befits a country obsessed with luck and money (much like this other country I know on the other side of the pond), in these times of economic hardship, many people are spending what little they have on the lottery. And the lottery is big business. 

They have just spent who knows how many millions on their latest television commercial, where you see loads of little kids leaving a private boarding school at night (in Spain, it is students from the San Ildefonso school who call out the winning numbers as they come out of the wheel and they have been doing so since the XVIII century)  and watching and catching from afar people's lottery numbers and dreams. 

They then go back to, I'm guessing, lottery central, and deposit their catch in a Burtonesque machine which drops each one into a gigantic ball. All very dream like and, obviously, pulling at the heart strings. The soundtrack is straight from Edward Scissorhands. Fantasy and escapism. 

Although according to the latest statistics, takings have lowered recently, many in Spain like to play the lottery, or lotteries which pepper the country from North to South and East to West. And on the internet. 

In fact, if you log on to the Spanish National Lottery website, it can show you where the number you would like to play is being sold. 

Yes, in case you were wondering, in Spain it is traditional for many people to play one single number year after year. 

Or perhaps they think a particular number will be lucky and they go all over the place looking for it, asking friends and family to look out for it where they live. Well, no more. Now technology comes to their aid.

At almost every office in the country, including mine, it is quite common for the entire office to pitch in and buy an entire lottery number series. 

Yes, you guessed it, the lottery in Spain is not about just winning a number, but about winning this number from that series. Furthermore, the entire series is divided up into  fracttions and theses into individual tickets called 'décimos', literally 'tenths'.

 What this means is that if you one of the 'décimos' you get a percentage of the winning number. And if you bought the entire series, you win the whole lot. 

Most people in Spain only buy one or two 'décimos' for themselves since a whole series would be too expensive for most people.

However, given that most families have more than working member (the ones with jobs) it is often the case that people are buying and swapping tickets from various lottery series, and thus, increasing their chances.

Well, lo and behold, I too am expected to participate in this age old tradition. It started on Saturday. My partner and I went for breakfast at a café near home. As we were paying, the waiter asked if we'd like to buy a lottery ticket from them. 

It seems that the number in question is quite "lucky" because it was the number a recently deceased customer of theirs had been playing continuously for the past 52 years and never once did it come up. 

"This year it is bound to come up!" the waiter told us. My partner, being an ace at mathematics, made a quick mental calculation of the amount of times that number had been played per year, times 52, and compared them to the chances of winning average. The result? "You need a further three life times at that rate for that number to come up". So no, we didn't buy a lottery ticket from them. 

But it doesn't stop there.

People at my office have started talking about buying an entire series, or half of one, or a fraction of a fraction. Or whatever. 

We went down for a coffee this morning and, too sad to talk about last night's electoral results, the big story was the national lottery. 

Only one other person is thinking of not participating, and our colleagues looked at us in dismay, but secretly hoping that we don't participate. Why? 

Well, in the past, many of these office lottery tickets tend to win big. And it happens in every office that someone did not buy a ticket. In a way, to my colleagues, if we don't buy a ticket, their chances of winning are increased. 

I already lived through this a couple of years ago. Back then it was the same scene, same dialogue, but with different characters. I didn't fall into it, but I did feel a little anxious about it. 

I mean, what if they did win and I was the only idiot in the office who didn't participate? That is a lot of pressure. Nevertheless, I think this year will be much the same as last time. 

"No thank you, I will not participate in this ritual". Silly really, since my partner will no doubt buy one for me and give it to me as a gift. 

But that is an altogether different story...

Rome Sucks

AOG, Sitges

Word of advice number one: when you next go on vacation, never wear new shoes on the flight. 

Why? well, it could be that the airline looses your luggage and you are doomed to wear the same pair of new shoes for days on end.

Word of advice number two: Never, ever, go to Rome in August. Our friends had warned us against this. 

"Don't go, it is too hot!", they said.

"Never in August. You'll die from the heat!", they warned. 

Did we listen? Well, of course not. 

Our logic? 

"Well, we always say we won't go in August and we'll go some other time, but then we never go", said my partner. 

I agreed. My partner was right. We always say we'll go some time, but then we never do. 

So this year, we decided to go to Rome and check out the Eternal City. Eternal mistake on our part!

After paying Vueling Airlines (a low cost airline) for 2 pieces of luggage, we arrived at Rome's Fiumicino Airport with a slight delay, but no suitcases. We only discovered this after waiting for our bags for over an hour at belt #9.

I went to the Baggage handling company in charge of our flight (turns out there's more than one. Blessed capitalism!) and they told us they had no record of our bags on their system. 

Yes, having been to the country in the past, in fact, as recently as last June, my first thought was "typical Italian efficiency", but I was wrong to think that. 

The problem was not typical Italian efficiency, it was typical Spanish negligence. As we would find out the next day, the bags had never left Barcelona. 

The Italian handler made us fill a form, put the details into the computer, and sent us off on our less than merry way with a reference number which, we  would later discover, was incorrect. Although no consolation at all, we were not the only people without luggage on our flight, there was, at least, one other.

So there we were, in Rome, with a driver waiting for us to take us into the city for 50 Euros, which we thought would be a good idea since we didn't know the city and we wanted not to worry about the bags. 

He was very nice, and if he was upset at having to wait for over an hour, he didn't let on. So we got into his Ford Focus and off we went to the Città Eterna. 

I have to say that the drive went pretty well, and that it is not exactly very pretty. It was, all in all, a bit odd. First we were on a highway, then, after a while, we were in what can only be describe as 'leafy suburbs'. 

He didn't take any major roads and, instead, we were driving on one-way roads with large, tall, walls, behind which I can only imagine private villas. This took a while before we approached something which resembled the outskirts of a large city.

Once there, it was the usual dim urban landscape, typical of any major European city post 1950. Large, square, brick and concrete buildings, with many stores along the way selling mostly urban goods: fast food, urban clothing, ugly furniture, and the odd newspaper stand. 

Still, we were a little excited to be in Rome. 

Then, suddenly, something which would happen again and again, though we didn't know it at the time, occurred: when we least expected it, and just before we entered a tunnel, out of the corner of our left eyes, we caught a glimpse of St. Peter's, in The Vatican. 

This was unexpected because we had thought that we would view that particular monument going up the Via Della Concilliazione and into St. Peter's Square, like almost everyone else. But it was not to be. 

We quickly crossed the Tiber and drove down the Corso Vittorio Emanuelle II and into our hotel near the Campo de Fiori.

We paid our driver, plus a tip, then checked in. The hotel was ok. We had asked for a room with a balcony, and they gave us that, which was nice. But I soon discovered that the a/c was, well, less than able. It made a lot of noise,  but gave out little cold air. But I would only realize this later in the day. 

We were starving by now and wanted to a) see Rome and b) get some clothes. We had nothing to wear.

We left our hotel, which was, it seemed, used to situations such as ours -"you'll get your bags tomorrow", said the receptionist/owner, and off we went to eat.

We found a small restaurant about 3 minutes away and sat down. We ordered one pizza for both of us and something to drink. It was the best pizza we would have during the whole trip. It was that good. 

The service, however, was pretty bad. I wouldn't say it went downhill from there, but rather that the service in Rome was consistently bad, day in day out. 

Our waiters over the next few days, it would seem, would find new and creative ways in which to outdo their colleague's 'performance' throughout our stay. And no, we hardly spent a penny on tips while in Rome.

So, after having lunch and stopping off at the local grocery shop where we got basic eating and drinking supplies, as well as some toiletries,  it was back to the hotel, quick shower, and out before the stores closed. 

We really only had the clothes on our backs to wear and, as the lunch experience had proven, Rome was baking under the sun, and us with it.

Out we went into the Corso Vittorio Emanuele II and started walking East, with no particular place to go. 

We were really torn between wanting to see the sights, and our clothing needs, so we tried to concentrate very little on what we saw, hard to do since, if you've never been to Rome, everything is new to you, even when nine or ten centuries old. Or more.

Eventually, we got to Via del Corso, but not before we stumbled on the Piazza Venezia and the enormous monument to our right: the monument to King Vittorio Emanuele II, first King of Italy. 

This is one of the monuments on my list which I would not really arrive at the way I had expected. 

When I say we stumbled, I mean it. It is gigantic, but it is not exactly by a major road, it is on a major square, but off to the right, so if you happen to be on the street and not turn right, you might not exactly see it. But then, once you do, you can't see anything else. 

I wanted to go to it (yes, its array of classical columns was calling me) and bask in its classical 'interpretative' colossal beauty, but it was not to be on that first day. We turned into the Via del Corso, and forgot about it. 

Via del Corso is one of those major shopping streets in central Rome. Many of the major brands, and others not so major, are there. Although Rome's high class shopping strip is the Via Condotti.

On the corner, just as you go into Corso, there is the Doria-Pamphilj Palace. Serene and decorated in a wedding cake style, I was immediately drawn to it. But didn't go, and would, unfortunately, not get to go during the trip. And pretty much sums up the entire trip. I didn't get to see many things.

So back to the Via del Corso, and our shopping. We had nothing to wear the next day, and clothes were urgently needed. So we spent the best part of the afternoon traipsing from store to store, looking for garments, and missing out on Rome altogether. I must point out that by now, my partner and I were wondering how the people of Italy reproduced since, it was very obvious, all men in that country were gay.

Our main hope turned out to be H&M, but, once we got there, almost at the end of the Corso, we discovered, much to our dismay, that there was no Men's section there. Can you believe it? We had walked the entire length of the Corso in the hope of finding a place which might have something overpriced. Fat chance.


Since at that point we were only about two blocks from the Piazza del Popolo, we decided to go there. I have to say, at this point in the day, I was ready to be impressed, or something, and impressed I was. 

I had long wanted to see the twin churches of Santa Maria in Montesanto  (1662-75) and Santa Maria dei Miracoli (built 1675-79). 

And there they were, in all their Baroque beauty. I think this is the one time Rome got interesting that day. I would say it made the whole thing worthwhile, but it isn't true. 

The day had sucked all day long from the minute our luggage went missing. But that minute, when we walked into that space, covered in fatigue and sweat, the city seemed beautiful, the tourists a mere nuisance, the heat (and it was around 8:30 PM) almost tolerable. 

We stopped at the obelisk in the middle of the Piazza, an original comission of of Sety I (later erected by Rameses II) from Heliopolis which  stands in the centre of the Piazza, inside a fountain, and is the second oldest and one of the tallest obelisks in Rome (some 24 m high, or 36 m including its plinth). 

It was brought to Rome in 10 BC by order of Augustus and originally set up in the Circus Maximus. 

Once there, a tourist girl asked her friend if she could drink from the fountain. My partner overheard her and told her that he'd read that you could drink from any fountain in Rome, unless it specifically said not to. She was happy about this, and we spoke with her for a couple more minutes. She was from Spain, and was there on holiday with a couple more friends from school. She must have been in her very early 20s. And she was lovely. 

It was starting to get dark, and we decided to get back to the hotel. We couldn't decide between a bus, the subway, or walking. So we walked back along the dark and not too busy streets of, as it turns out, downtown Rome. 

Soon we were back at the hotel, where there was no news about our luggage. The hotel's concierge really couldn't care less, so we went to our room, had a shower and went out to have dinner, not too sure about where to do this.

We decided to follow the incoming crowd down one of the streets, and ended up at the Campo dei Fiori. It was teeming with life: children playing, musicians, flower vendors, Indian or Pakistani trinket salesmen. In short, Touristland right there in front of us. The only Italians being the waiters at the Campo's many restaurants. 

So in we walked, and decided that the one on the right, on the other side of La Carbonara Restaurant, where we should have dined, just as you walked in, would do. Mistake.

The food, although ok once we got it, did not surpass the bad service of a place which doubled as a drinks bar and dance club after 11PM. We kept getting food meant for other tables, everything arrived at odd intervals, drinks had to be ordered more than twice. In short, a mess. But given the day's big story, it really paled in comparison. We didn't mind much that the service was so bad. I think we were relieved it was over more than anything else!

Afterwards, we went for a walk on the Tiber, and saw that, at night, it really came alive. It seems like the good citizens of Rome have allowed for bars and stands to be set up alongside the banks of the river. I was immediately drawn by the music and the bright, intermitent, lights of the marquees. 

We crossed the bridge, and went down to the bank. We saw a couple of small stands which were a sort of Godsend since they had one of the items we needed most: a phone charger! Yes, ours were safely (we hoped) stored inside our suitcases. 

We then decided to go to one of the "bars". A rugby-themed bar by the side of the Tiber showing New Zealand's Rugby matches. Yes, slightly surreal, but then Rome is slightly surreal. 


We would have stayed longer, but we were beat. We had had a long day and were yearning for sleep. 


So after a couple of drinks, we headed back to the hotel. The room was not exactly cool, although the imitation a/c had been on all afternoon, so we agreed to sleep with the balcony window open.


So our first day in Rome ended.

Summer reading

AOG, Madrid

Summer vacation is just around the corner and I've lately been a bit preoccupied with my Summer reading list. 

Every year I take a small army of books with me to whichever place I happen to be visiting, and every year I return home with 98 percent of the pages intact. 

I read on the plane, but I'm not a beach reader. Nature gets too in the way for that to happen. I don't get up early enough to read either, so I spend most of the day doing things and not reading, but glancing now and again at the untouched stack of books by my night table. 

I wish this weren't the way things happen, but it is.

This year, this little literary ritual will probably continue, untouched. But I have to say it started a bit early, insofar as the sourcing of the material was concerned. 

Two weeks ago I met with two friends by Madrid's 'Cuesta de Moyano' street. 

This is a place, behind the beautiful Ministry of Agriculture and next to the Botanical gardens which goes from the Prado Boulevard upwards (it is on a slope) towards Retiro Park. 

What is nice about this place is that there are about 20 bookstalls all along one side of the street which sell anything from second hand books, to newly printed books, magazines and literary collections from mid XX century to now.

There are, of course, books from the XIX century and before, but those are slightly out of my price range at present.

I like that here, of all places, all sorts of books can be found. And two weeks ago, I came across 4 strange magazines which immediately caught my eye.

On the first stall I chanced upon there were four copies of the Spanish-language version of "Soviet Literature", printed as they were in Mexico City in 1979 (three of them) and 1978 (the other one). I wasn't sure what to make of them at first, but I guess I was in a Russian writer kind of mood, and I snapped all four for a mere 2 Euros after having a quick perusal.

Now, of course, I am in somewhat of a conundrum. You see, in one of the issues, there is an excerpt of Irina Grekova's novel 'The Faculty' (Kafedra in Russian). 

I've been reading it these past few days and, Soviet overt propaganda aside, it is very well written. I am really enjoying it. 

And, given my ignorance of Soviet writers, I was surprised, pleasantly surprised, to discover how much I was enjoying the excerpt.

Of course, the problem is that this is one novel I'll never be able to finish. I have combed the Internet and discovered that Irina Grekova happens to be one of the greatest Russian women writers of the XX century. 

I have also discovered that that particular novel is nowhere to be found in English, or Spanish, 0r French. 

I can't find it anywhere. There are some of her other novels available, so, since I do like her style very much, I'll have to "settle" for one of those instead.

And on a Soviet-Russia related moment, last weekend in London, I came across Alexander Solzhenitsyn's 'One day in the life of Ivan Denisovich'. An edition from 1979. 

I picked it up because, strangely enough, it was around 1979 when this writer came into my radar as a kid. 

I remember the media circus around him back then, and how all the adults were talking about this book. 

I thought at the time that I would have to read it eventually, but I came across 'The Gulag Archipelago' first about 10 years ago. So I thought it was fitting that I should read this now, so many years later. 

Will I read it over the Summer? Well, certainly it will come with me on vacation, but, as per usual, it will have to fight Nature and its never-ending distractions. 

This is all very interesting because this year, I was planning on reading Roberto Bolaño's '2666'. 

That may have to wait until 2012 now.

The moment I felt most American

AOG, Madrid

On election day 1988 my mother, my sister and I were on a Jumbo Jet heading for Europe. 

We arrived in Madrid and within less than an hour we were on a train heading for the region of Extremadura, on the border with Portugal. 

My thoughts on that long journey (it was about an 8 hour train journey then to add to the transatlantic flight) centered around what our new lives would be like in this continent. I remember being told at the time that Spain only had 2 television channels. 

This might seem ridiculous to you, but I had grown up with cable, and two channels seemed insufficient to me. And third-world like. And I wasn't happy about it.

I remember stepping off the train and looking over the tracks to my right. A beautiful hill and forest scene with sheep peacefully standing there, hardly moving. To my left, the future. 

We had gone to Extremadura because one of my mother’s great aunts lived there with her Italian husband, who came to pick us up at the train station. My parents were separated now and would divorce a few years later, and this was the only close family we had at the time. 

The car which picked us up at the station was a white Ford Escort. I remember thinking then “ok, I know this model, everything is going to be ok”. 

View of the city of Caceres

 A couple of days later, my sister and I went into town on our own. I clearly recall my thoughts when I saw this very modern looking parking meter with a digital screen right next to a XVII century Baroque palace with medieval elements attached to it.

I immediately thought back to the meters in Houston where you had to stick a quarter and roll a handle to watch a little flag pop up telling you how much time you had left. 

 At that moment, America didn’t seem modern at all, especially when compared to this country which could allow things like Baroque palaces and modern digital machines to co-exist side by side. It was, I think, my first eye-opener.

A year after landing in Spain, we landed in London. Life was moving on.

I have to say that from the moment I set foot in Europe in 1988 I have felt American on a daily-basis. It is hard to explain, but it must be related to not really knowing what the deal is most of the time. To making a faux pas here and there, that you are not even aware that you are making. 

To looking at things and thinking, “my God what are they on about with this?”. 

To reacting to some situations in a manner different from expected by my friends and colleagues.

To not settling for tripe when tripe is being served (although I think this is more about me than about me being American; many Americans settle for tripe too easily).

I know I am different from most of the people who surround me and my life. I think differently.  I act differently. I react differently. I want different results. Better things in general.

And I'm glad I do. Just as I am glad that they think differently from me.

I have experienced hundreds of examples of this  cultural disparity since election day 1988.

But back to the original question.

In 1995 I went back to the US and stayed with a friend in Alabama. it was my first trip back since 1988.

Although everything was familiar I could see small cultural cracks here and there. I was no longer the same person who’d left the country 7 years before.

And the questions began to flood in. Some positive, some negative.

Why do people drive everywhere? Why don't they make more sidewalks? Why do they all eat so much processed food? Why are things national and not local? Why are there so many people who allow religion to rule their lives? Why all this racism and hate? Why are women's fashion and hair stuck in the 1980s?

I was feeling very much the European throughout. But then something happened.

 Shortly before I left, I went out one night in Birmingham and I met this guy who was very friendly.

I remember talking with him about things, his life and his future, and mine. He was about my age and had achieved quite a lot. He told me about his up and coming projects, dreams, and achievable goals. There it was once again. American positive thinking. Everything was possible.

I remember thinking during that conversation that I needed to get my butt in gear and be like my right-there-in-front-of-me peer.

I needed to complete my education, just like him, and start aiming for a good job, just like him, and aim for a better life, just like him.

He was talking to me in a language I completely understood. The cultural references were identical. The outlook was familiar and well trodden. The goals achievable. The future was bright, and it had an American glow about it.

I felt very American just then. That instant catapulted me back to the person I used to be just before that Pan Am flight touched down at Madrid Barajas Airport in 1988. The feeling stayed with me for a long time afterwards.

I returned to London.

Yes, the minute I got back to my flat in central London the questions started flowing, but in reverse.

Why is everything so expensive? Why is everyone so poor? Is this a police state? Why doesn’t anyone smile? What am I doing here?

It was a few years before I realized what I was doing there and before I could answer my  own questions.

I confess that these days, I am one of those people who feel very American in Europe, and very European whenever I go to the US. I can't help that. In fact, I rather like it. 

Modern Neighbors

AOG, Madrid

The cool thing about growing up in America is that most of us (not all) live in homes large enough to house a small third world village in the backyard. It is one of the perks of living in a large country and of growing up in a place where most people rather live in a house than in an apartment or a flat. Of course, places like New York, or Chicago do tend to combine high-rise living with houses or town-houses.

However, this was not the case with me growing up in Texas. My home had a front-yard and a backyard. And my bedroom alone was larger than my entire ‘modern euro-studio’ in central Madrid. And no, I’m not exaggerating.

I have to say that ever since I moved to Europe, I’ve missed space. Not outer space. Living space. I miss walking around my home and not knocking into tables or armrests. Not hitting my shoulder on the doorsill. Having a backyard to look at (like I said, Texas, where the heat stops you from setting foot outside for anything over 1 minute). Stretching my arms out and not touching the corridor’s walls. Space.

My studio flat is very similar to this image, though smaller.

I also miss playing music loudly in the knowledge that the neighbors are too far away to hear it. Here, I can hear the couple next door make love. Which means they can probably hear me talking on the phone and everything else.

And I know they do because just the other day, a note was slipped through the door asking me to please not do any washing after 10PM. Guess what time I normally do the washing when I get home?

Yes, they did have a point, and yes, I was in the wrong, and yes, I should have known better. Yes.

So, once I cursed the day they were born (because I’m only human and I can't help being defensive at first) I decided I would be a good little Southern gentleman and post a note apologizing for my actions.

The next day, just as I was leaving for work, I noticed that the note I wrote on a small Turkish card I had leftover from my trip to Istanbul last year was on the floor, unread. Well, I only discovered that after I picked it up and noticed it was unopened. Yes, I was, again, in the defensive thinking “how dare they!!”. But they hadn’t dared, they just hadn’t noticed it.

So, again, I left it wedged in between the door and the doorframe. When I came home that night, it was gone. Had they read it, I hoped so. But had no clue.

One month later, or last Tuesday, this guy walked in when I was checking my mailbox downstairs.

“Are you our neighbor?”

I answered “Yes” expecting the worse.

We both got into the elevator.

“Oh, its great to meet you. We loved your card!”

“Thank you. I’m sorry I…”

“We thought ‘how wonderful to have a neighbor like you’, you know? People are so rude these days.”

“Thank you. But I was the rude one.”

“Oh, we were so pleased when we read your note. We couldn’t believe it! Nobody does that anymore. People are so selfish.”

“It’s very kind of you to say so, I feel really bad that I made so much noise, but you see...”

“Honestly, please feel free to count on us for anything you need. Anything at all.”

“I didn’t realize there were two of you.”

“Yes, my partner and I. We’ve been there for about a year now. But I travel a lot.” 

By now the elevator had reached our floor.

We said our goodbyes in the friendliest manner possible and I was feeling both good, for having had the kind of upbringing that would make note-writing to people you have bothered a necessity, and bad for having had the kind of life experience with humanity which makes you curse your neighbors for leaving you a note asking you not to do your washing late in the evening, and you thinking that that is the only time you have to do it but, alas, you will concede.

The thing is, right, that one of them had never been particularly friendly towards me ever. He’d seen me on the street, seen me leave home a couple of times, we’d even avoided taking the elevator going down once or twice.

And then he (or so I thought) left me a note saying the washing machine bothered him. A very polite note, I have to say. But by then I figured he really didn’t like me at all. 

So this turn of events towards the friendly and nice side of the Force really threw me. Of course now I wonder which of the two is the one that I didn’t think liked me much. In any case, it might be that he likes me a bit more now. Or not.

In my defense, I will say that when I first moved into the studio flat I call home, my neighbor at the time, this girl, knocked on my door at four in the afternoon one day because the music bothered her.

She was wearing a bathrobe, her hair was a mess, and she was really upset that I had dared to play music at …four in the afternoon, thus waking her up from her effing siesta du jour.

Evil, but ...

I was shocked at her request, but, of course, complied. For the next few months I was tempted to leave a note on her door asking her to climax a) less loudly or b) muzzled. 

Yes, for the next year and a half I could hear her orgasms at all hours of the day and night. And yes I was very tempted to say something about it…but never did. I honestly thought she might have been a hooker or something. 

But I think she was doing the same guy, who was probably married, which would explain the “all hours of the day” part of the equation.

So forgive me for thinking all neighbors are evil and must be destroyed. And yes, after our little elevator trip, I had to mentally recant all my previous curses.

I wonder if I need to fill out a form or something?