it's impossible to take the blame

I do not like to generalize people as a whole. We are all individuals, yet there are some traits that bind us together as a group. Whether that group is Republicans, Blacks, Europeans, female drivers...there is some running joke, true or not, believable or not, that characterizes us and places us in that group. To not be outdone, the Spanish have their own group and one characterization is their inability to drive, follow rules and most of all their self righteousness.

As most of my 2 readers know, I am quite long winded. I like to describe in detail a setting before I get into the story thus prolonging the punchline in the end. But still I have to attempt to paint a mural for you to give you some idea of Spanish life.

Driving here is no different than driving in America. We have flashing yellow lights at crosswalks. We have street lights but i am finding them to be only really used in large intersections in highly populated towns. But mostly the Spanish use what I call roundabouts. These roundabouts are like little pinwheels if you were to study a street map. They are used in place of traffic lights. The rules are simple: you yield the right away to your left, follow thru the roundabout until you get your exit and exit right. If there are two lanes, the inner lane is reserved for motorists who will ultimately exit to the left direction (like making a left at a standard 4 way intersection) or if they are doing a U-turn to head in the direction they came from originally. The outer lane is reserved for those exiting to the right (like making a standard right turn at an intersection) or continuing straight thru the intersection heading in the direction they entered the roundabout.

I will give you a moment to work it out. If not here is a visual:
http://www.azdot.gov/CCPartnerships/Roundabouts/Roundabouts_1.asp

But what i am finding living in a semi rural area, there are many one lane roads feeding into these roundabouts which are two laned roundabouts. The fact you go from one lane to two is not the problem. The goal of the roundabouts are to add some ease to traffic and alleviate buildups if you keep traffic flowing. The inner lane, as said before, services those who may want to deviate from their northrn approach and head west. The problem comes when people use these advantageous spaces for personal gain.

Some impatient drivers will use the roundabouts as passing tools. sure there may be 500 cars ahead of you, but they find some comfort in not having one more car then they could help in front of them. 499 is so much more relieving than to have 500 in front of you when you have to get to the cafe for your afternoon latte. There are so many issues with using the roundabouts as a passing lane, but the one that puzzles me is being cut off. sure the inside lane has all the advantages of beating the outside lane to the rapidly coming exit. So the inner lane driver, guns his vehicle to get in front of you while you follow the rules and head on the much longer outside lane. If this makes no sense to you, imagine running track...would you prefer the inside lane or the outside lane. how many people do you see jogging around a track staying to the outside? anyhow, there are more times than i wish that I have been cut off by the over zealous driver who just cannot seem to stare at the minor dent in my hatchback.

When these fuckers go Evil Knievel on you, it does nothing but raise panic and fear. My male bravado can do nothing but want to get all street race on them but playing chicken with my car and family inside is not a way to go out. Still what is right is right. Just because others don't follow the rules don't mean you have to. We will always have people who will get away with things and feel it is their right to do so. This problem is multiplied tenfold when motos or motrocycles decide to enter the frey. Its amazing how a cyclist thinks he ownes the road when riding in an open air death trap. One would expect them to be extra careful, but no, they seemingly dare you to hit them even if they are disobeying the road. from what i can gather, the Spanish allow this to happen. Surely it is arrogant of me not to be a defensive driver no matter if i am driving a tank or a smart car. Still, if i am riding my bycycle i am goign to be extra careful as not to cause harm to myself. That is just my opinion.

So now onto the story. I thank you for bearing with me to paint this picture. But it was mostly to give you background into how the Spanish treat their driving and cars. i am sure most Americans can agree we love our cars. We have memorable movies and television shows where you can't remember the name of the movie, but we know which car Baretta had or the rebel flag atop the General Lee. I have seen on more occasions i care to remember, the bumper car effect when the driver uses the car in front and to the rear to assist parallel parking his car.

Nor will you find used car lots like Carmax anywhere in sight. This country has no tolerance for cars and treat them as such. sure you are going to find some sweet rides here but most of them are driven down from France or the UK.

So I am sure yo know since we have been here we have had one car totalled and another ding a few times. Admitedly one ding on the new car was my fault trying to manuver in a parking garage and the corner of a wall won, hands down. Car is fine, just my pride is bruised. Carme backed into our parking spot in our garage for our apartment building and went too far and the bike we keep in the rear of our parking space puckered the hatchback. But my experience last week told me a lot of the Spanish mentality.

I was driving out to the soccer fields one day and was behind an old beat up van. Behind me was a family who's son plays soccer with Alex. I was alone and just enjoying some tunes when the van in front of me suddenly stopped a few yards shy of the stop sign. I was puzzled why he stopped short. I was still a good 20 yards from him when all of a sudden I see his white lights light up and he began accelerating towards me. i freaked and laid on the horn while bracing for the impact. It was not a great impact but enough to wake anyone sleeping in the car. i let off the horn as he began to roll forward and reached for my parking brake to inspect the damage. Just then I realized he was rolling forward but still in reverse. He accelerated again and backed into me but this time with less impact. I laid on the horn again until he rolled off my car and took his car out of reverse. he slowly rolled forward and pulled off the side of the road. He did not exit his car, but now I can see he is looking out of his side view mirror. Something he was doing probably already rather than his rear view mirror. I pulled the parking brake and walked around the front of the car to look: not one scratch. I realized my car was too low and he hit me in a good spot and square with his higher bumper. I was furious still and yelled at him asking what was he doing. He responded and told me to get out the way he was trying to park.

Let's take a moment here...

His intentions were to parallel park on the side of the road to our left. Not once did he put on a signal, also I had left him plenty of room to turn his wheel. but instead I guess in his mind I had not and to "pay me back" he decided to bulldoze me off the street. I so wanted to walk over and lay some road rage on him to give him a taste of American street justice. But I figured i should not and retreated to my car in a huff. The family behind me were amused. they had surprised looks on their faces and smiles. I wonder if they thought it was comical how blatantly horrible the other driver was and how he justified his gross actions with apathy and ignorance. Or were they laughing that I took so much care in a car. Or maybe my Spanish sucked and I said something like "get off the table you stupid cat". Who knows. but it is every man, woman and car for themselves in the mean streets of Spain

my (not so) typical day...

When I opened my eyes this morning, I felt a bit inspired to write a little this morning. As I searched in my mind for something worthy of writing, I felt that I had nothing really entertaining to say. I would imagine this is called writer's block. But I find if I just start typing, even if it is meaningless and dull, it helps to work out all the cobwebs in my right brain and get me flowing again. This is if my left side is functioning properly enough to help me formulate words and sentences into ideas. So I figured I would do a little writing exercise and tell you about my typical day here in Tossa de mar. Still you will find that today is not a typical day and is filled with one of my favorite local characters here in my small spit of a town.

The day starts with the usual sounds of activity on the streets. The trash men are doing their daily runs, banging large receptacles and the heavy trash trucks whining and whirring to lift the trash collection units, strategically placed to be accessible by all. Unfortunately, I happen to live equal distance from 2 trash bins so depending on which way the cool autumn sea breeze is blowing determines which one receives my daily offerings to the trash Gods.

Next to each receptacle are the color coded bins for recycling. I find pleasure in loading my plastics in the yellow, glass in the green (lots of wine bottles here) and paper in the blue. I find it quite refreshing that a small and secluded town like mine is well on its way to doing its little part in making our planet green.

I arise from bed when Carme reaches over to raise the full length shade which allows the invasive and penetrating sunlight to flood our sanctuary. The shades do more than block out the waking morning sun; it insulates sounds during the night of the local boys, bored out of their minds, setting off firecrackers to stimulate their growing testosterone levels. Or drown out the noises of the Barcelona residents who own or rent an apartment in our building who have nothing else to do but have dinner parties lasting until sunrise on their balconies. Carme is a light sleeper so if there is lack of space here as compared to our previous home in America, we make up for it by locking down our house and shades like the scene in Star Wards Empire Strikes Back when the Rebels closed the gate on the planet Hoth despite Luke still being out there. Still you won't hear me cry out like Chewbacca as I have grown very accustomed to the pitch black interior of the room, barely lit but the clock radio on Carme's nightstand.

So like a ton of bricks, I am hit with drowning morning light and Carme signals the start of the day and slowly rolling out of bed doing a system check like I were a computer system, seeing if each critical part of me is function at minimal performance levels. Ankles: check but sore, knees: check but no sudden movements laterally, lower back: check, but bend at the knees, eyes: check but find your glasses since your memory is old and you might have forgotten to pick up a pair of those incredibly large shoes and trip over one, thus causing damage to your ankles, knees and lower back. Once my full boot up process is completed while sitting on the edge of the bed, I commence lift off and race to the bathroom to empty an over active bladder. That body part is always in constant check as it is making it difficult to empty that bladder without causing a mess.

Now I begin my usual bathroom rituals which I will spare you the details for your own sanity. But during this process, I am in constant contact with my son to make sure he is progressing thru his morning rituals of not cleaning his room, not brushing his teeth, not combing his hair, not...well you get the picture. And finally the moment comes for us to be off to school, sometimes walking proudly hand in hand for the first few meters (that's right I am on meters not feet or yards anymore, that is so old school). Once we get a few meters from the front door of our apartment building, we begin passing the local high school to get to Alex's elementary school building. Even though the older kids being school at 8:30am, Alex still doesn't want to look like a little kid in case any older kids is looking out the window at the people passing by taking their children to school.

On any given day, I am greeted by a few random calls from the 3 story high school from the kids. Seems that most of them know me either from the soccer team or by association with the many soccer players I have coached so far in the past 2 years. A few of the familiar faces are from the local kids who have come to me for computer repair. Since I have offered those good prices and the time to teach them how to use their computers, I have built a sort of trust with them. I feel like I have gained some respect and trust with the younger generation that will only grow in time, surely. Soon as we pass within sight of the building, Alex grabs my hand again, reassuring me he loves me while maintaining the coolness he so desperately wants to hold onto.

We come to the last corner, 5 minutes into our walk and only about 3 city blocks away from our home and Alex raises on his tippy-toes in my direction with lips puckered, gesturing a kiss before he sprints off the last block to the gate doors of his school's courtyard. I bend over, carefully remembering the status of my lower back and plant a warm kiss on his cheek and run the top of his head with my hand. This serves two main purposes, the rub that is. One to reassure him how much I love him and adore his young and brilliant personality, but to balance myself from falling over in case of a system failure any of the major points of balance for my old body.

As Alex disappears from sight, into crowd of anxious parents and restless kids (who I am sure did not want to rise from bed this morning but can't wait to enter class and have another day of spitballs, teasing and name calling with their peers) I hear Alex's name being yelled out in acceptance from other kids. He is one of them and loved by his motley crew of snot nosed peers so I feel proud and head in the opposite direction to begin my day's work.

I wait for the local police officer to stop traffic and proceed to walk across the crosswalk. There can be one of 5 different persons here on any occasion and they always speak to me in some capacity. There is just enough conversation to last the 30 or more odd steps from one side walk to the other and casually pass the frozen crossing guard. I pass the occasional parent trying to hurry their little one off to school trying not to be late while their children resist any sense of urgency and are more intrigued by anything else shiny or new on their usual route to school. I am greeted with head nods and hellos from familiar faces as I pass on my way to my small little shop.
As I cross the bridge the looms over the dry river bed, I wonder when we can expect heavy western rains that seem to fill and bring water when the mountains cannot soak it all in. The river bed seems to be dry 80% of the year, but serves its purpose well to prevent flooding to affect the local business and the school along this main artery toward the beach. Once over the bridge, it's a left turn as I head up Ramblas Pau Casal toward my shop. The usual groups of mothers who have just dropped off their kids are heading to the cafe that is next to my shop. Sometimes if I am lucky I can reach the coffee shop before them so I can enjoy my usual iced coffee with mil. If I hesitate and decide to open my shop first, I might have to wait a good hour until the crowd of 20 or more female regulars and a few of their spouses all congregate to speak of local gossip. Like magic, they take their usual seating arrangements like clockwork, ever so often peering into my shop thru the large plate glass window, maybe to curiously see what I could be doing this fine morning or maybe to make me the topic of their conversation.
The local maintenance men began a project this week in installing new gas or electrical lines along the street where my business is located. Systematically, the 3 man crew has been digging a foot wide trench by first removing some of the concrete tiles that make up the 10ft wide sidewalk. I make notice at the ease of how it would be to repair the sidewalk or any underground piping instead of tearing up a complete sidewalk like in the states. This month long feat seems to throw my day off a bit as I am faced with the constant pounding of the jackhammer to break up the concrete tiles and the heavy machinery to dig deep into the rich clay soil. Still I settle into my comfy chair, which has worn away a considerable size of the vinyl floor from me sliding back and forth from my work bench to my main desk facing entering customers. One day I will get the floor fixed but I think for now it shows a little character showing how I multitask at the expense of the semi real looking flooring.
Since beginning my little computer repair shop, I brought over a few principles form America which are lacking here in Spain, namely customer service. In time, my Spanish has improved but my level of service is strange but accepted here. I spend most of my time trying to build trust and good relationship with the locals. Seems that the locals are quite weary of the first local shop here, despite the two boys who run and own it being locals or connected in some way with the locals by marriage, association or by relation, I learned that most residents did not relish in their quality of work or the fairness of their prices. And not knowing who is connected to whom is it incestuously or not, I made it a rule to treat everyone like they were related to me.
Being so nice and pleasant has its costs. I seem to attract some of the more colorful characters in town. Most of these residents usually have not need for my computer services but seemingly have exhausted their welcome from other local shops who might try to gently handle these regular visitors to their shops. One such visitor, sadly I do not know his real name, but I call him "Pues Venga" (poo WESS bin GAH). Let me explain…

In Spanish, when you are having a conversation with someone and you are exiting or ending the conversation, you might say something like "venga" which literally translate to "it goes, he goes or she goes". That is the verbal clue that you are leaving the conversation. Pues venga means literally "well it goes". In learning the language and the subtle nuances, I picked up on this phrase, pues venga, and worked to remember it to exit a conversation I was following or grew tired of having with undesirables.

One such day, this gentleman in question walked into my store. He is taller than I, his grey hair telling his age, his hair style reminding me of the characters from the 50's like on the television program "Mad Men". As he cautiously approached my desk to answer a question, I noticed he stuttered and stammered thru his attempt to present me with his needs. I do not like to make light of others' shortcomings but I noticed he was, how does one say politely, mentally handicapped. to what extent, I am unsure of this deficit but it is quite noticeable.

I have a hard enough time speaking Spanish with the many different Spaniards who migrated from other areas and dialects of Spain to come to Cataluña during the 60's and 70's to find work and prosperity here, thus planting roots to raise family where their kids identify themselves with being Catalan and the parents holding true to their past local heritage and customs as well as the different dialects of the Spanish language. Speaking with one Spaniard is not the same experience compared to another Spaniard. The way Catalans speak Spanish will slightly differ in rhythm and flow than another person from other regions of Spain. So with each new person I meet, I am faced with at least 3 or 4 extensive conversations to get accustomed to their abilities to speak a fast as humanly possible without moving their lips.

Sometimes I have no fighting chance. I rely heavily on common sense and intelligent with a splash of luck to figure out the nature of their questions or conversation. If a person walks into my shop and rattles off a rapid fire array of bullet like words while pointing at my laptop, and I am lucky enough to comprehend a few key words from their speech, I can feel safe to rule out they are asking if I am hungry or not. But this gentleman now before me is slurring, repeating and stammering thru his question. I have a little tape recorder in my head that records the conversation and rapidly plays it back to me several times in my head, affording me the opportunity to decipher what they are asking. Since he has to work twice as hard to get these words clearly out his head, off his tongue and carry thru the humid morning air to my ears and into my processing center. His question was if I had blank CDs for sale. I quickly pointed him to my small shelf of stock I did keep on hand, clearly pointing out the price tag that I had hastily taped in front of the neatly stacked cake boxes of 25 and 50 unit types for sale. He then asked the price and I turned after staring at him for one second longer to figure out if his glasses were decoration or indeed used by him and recites the price. He took a step back saying it was too expensive and I stood in silence with him for an uncomfortable 10 seconds. My mind, working at the speed of light, working to analyze this brief conversation and standing at ready to decipher his next possible comment or question. He stood before me, with a blank look in his eyes, nervously cupping one hand in the other with a slight hunch in his posture, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, waiting for me to speak as I waited for him to speak. Was he waiting for me to lower my price or offer him other solutions?

So I broke the silence asking him if he was in need of 25 or maybe just one single disc. I know it sounds odd, but many times people have walked in asking for just one CD. I do not carry single CD wrapped in plastic. If anything, you will get a package of 5 at a minimum. H reeled a little bit and stood in silence as he thought. I figured this might take a while so I sat back down at my desk to wait for his next chess move. Instead of continuing on this path, he decided to ask me where I was from. Now I am reeling from the switching of gears and thought I would play along. We carried on for a few more minutes about my shoe size, English, Obama, etc. Finally after a few moments which felt like an hour or so, he mentioned back to the CDs that lay still on the shelf calling his name, I decided I needed to move this conversation to a close and get back to my reading of the morning news via the internet. So I responded with "pues venga" hoping this will signal an end to a conversation that was going no where...but he held fast, feet firmly rooted into my fake vinyl flooring.

His conversation went on to include more items about the weather, how many people were in Tossa with the travel season upon us and about his dog that passed away a few decades again. I sat there thinking to myself about how it will pay off in the future if I am to be patient and converse with this poor chap. If word got out that I was being rude to a local person, especially with some obvious diminished mental capacity, my run at a life here was over. So when another break in the conversation came, I decided to use the "pues venga" card again and he trumped me with another question about CDs in general, successfully ignoring my silent and tortured please for him to stop wasting my time and leave.

He continued on for another few hours...maybe minutes...and I weathered the storm as gracefully as I could until all of a sudden, he said "pues venga" and quickly exited my shop, no CDs in hand. I realized that was 30 minutes of my life I will never get back ever. I also learned that "pues venga" doesn't work when I am not leaving and I want someone else to leave. Maybe I will give him the shop and go home for the day.

I know I began this blog speaking of my average daily routine and got off track with my new friend Pues Venga which I call him now because I fear having another conversation with him to find his name it might be another hour of life I will be owed in some cosmic way for my patience. But the point to the matter that this man has truly created space in my busy day to grace with his presence regularly. Today alone I have seen him 3 times grace my door way.

The first thing this morning was for him was truly uneventful, but when is it ever? I noticed the top of his Dick van Dyke hairstyle peeking from the corner of my doorway. It took me a second to place the strange sight I was seeing of a man's head bobbing sideways into my door as if he were hovering above the ground horizontally a split second before flying past like Superman. Funny how the brain takes in an image but it might take a split second for the rest of you to fall in line with what you are seeing. I am not sure how long he was standing out of view and just bending at an awkward angle from the waist to catch a glimpse of me in my shop, steady working on my blog, until I was overcome with a sense of someone watching me and I looked up to meet his eyes. As soon as the connection was made, he proceeded to enter my shop. I could not stifle a small giggle roaring from my inner bowels until it barely ruptured into a giddy and awkward smile. I laughed at the new adventure with my new side kick that was so rude not to bring bagels and cream cheese if he is going to come and have a sit down with me every morning.
Luckily, he came in and out like a tornado with no early warning system and went randomly where he wanted and left when he felt the need. Usually I am blessed to attract the attentions of the natives here so should I complain? But as soon as I felt the creative juices begin to flow and drip from my fingertips, a familiar nervous sounding footstep entered my shop. This time, he was quick, direct and to the point. He asked me if I had a Euro.

Ok let’s take a step back here. Like in the movies or television, my whole reality came to a screeching halt. I stepped out of my own skin to step back and take a perspective on this new achievement in our relationship. I literally stood a few feet away from myself and seeing both Pues Venga and myself in a freeze frame of sorts. I was not taken aback that I have manifested my daydreaming to this level of Technicolor and detail. I was now seeing the whole interior of the shop in full panoramic view. I could even rewind and forward and play again the scene like a disputed call during a National Football League playoff game, now inspecting anything part of the transaction that I may have blacked out on. I was just floored he felt comfortable enough to ask me for money. Surely I don’t think he will drink it away on some cheap wine or go score some baking soda from the wannabe drug dealers, but just the comfort in asking me for money was blowing my mind!
I, as confidently as he asked, told him I was not going to give him a euro. He stood there a moment, looking puzzled, hurt and trying to figure what he could do now as he obviously did not have a Plan B unless his plan b was to enforce Plan A. He slowly sulked out of the office, not saying a word and seeing some unfamiliar impatience in my face. Surely I could have given him a euro but what would that cost me in the long run? Still I made not of the proverbial tail between his legs as he exited my shop, he reluctantly walked out, making sure to turn ever so often to see if my facial expression had changed.

The morning progressed without further incident as I settled in to more blogging. But 1pm comes quickly. Siesta begins normally around 1pm each day and lasts until 3 or 4pm. During this time, I will head to the school to retrieve Alex for his 2 hour break. Again we walk hand in hand until we are in close proximity of the High School and onto home. There I offer him one of his 3 normal selections, pasta, toasted bread and jelly or hotdogs. We often include a quick Xbox 360 video game or a quick midday cartoon to enjoy together. Carme sits in the retreating autumn sun to firm up her now fading tan on her freckled face while reading yet another new book by Patricia Cornwell.

A few minutes before 3pm, we all exit the house and Carme usually takes Alex off to school while I head in a slightly different to my shop. Like every morning, the same groups of ladies, after leaving their children back at school after lunch break, congregates back at the next door café. Again, the conversations are updated, rumors confirmed and new rumors introduced. I settle again in my chair and begin to finish off my blog. The pounding of the work crew forces me to close my door after I lower my awning to block out the afternoon sun that not only lights my shop but causes it to come to near sauna like temperatures in the summer. But who’s perfectly done grey hair do I see peering into my closed front door. He steps to my closed door and using his hand to block out the sun, he presses his nose to my window to see if I am in my shop. The glaring afternoon sun causes this effect that momentarily blocks out the ability to effortlessly peer into my shop. I sit slack jawed, able to see him make a fool of himself like the countless cop shows with the two way mirrors in the interrogation rooms. My mind wanders thinking if he spends hours doing his hair. White people’s hair has always been a mystery to me. Especially that Ray Liotta in "The Godfather" type look.
Suddenly he realizes I am sitting here staring at him. He seems taken aback but nervously smiles and waves and I nervously wave back. He then turns and shyly wanders off to his next victim. I am proud to say nearing 5pm today, he is nowhere to be seen but I may be speaking too soon.

5pm here in Spain is an event all to itself. The local groups of ladies have long since completed their update processing and have gone back to their respective worlds to put their ears to the ground. But a few minutes before 5pm, they are back, this time with a change in venue to the school’s courtyard. Usually Carme will walk the block and half from her office to get Alex and halfway walk him back to my office where I escort him to soccer or tennis practice, depending on the day of the week it is.

I head toward the school, along with many other parents, all of us looking like we just parked in some remote parking lot and heading to the coliseum to catch the concert about to start any minute or some back country church revival. Same familiar faces, different day, we use the opportunity to use this moment, right before the large double green metal doors allow us into the courtyard, to catch a person we have to do rapid business with. Most times people only nod to me and say hello but occasionally someone might walk up to me to ask me if I am the guy that fixes computers, careful to not do it too loudly in case the competitors were within in earshot.

While I stand outside the courtyard, I wait patiently for Alex to emerge with the biggest smile on his face. Usually I am not the one to come for him so it is an extra treat for us both when I come to get him in the evenings. Today is soccer practice so he would come to me anyhow so I can cart him off by car to the field on the outside of town. Once I have passed those brief 30 minutes with him, making sure he is properly dressed out for the weather and a few words with the parents of the team, it is back to my shop to reopen for my last push on the day.

Most people work until 7pm so I keep my doors open until 8pm to accommodate their needs. As the sun slowly does a nose dive behind the high school and pine trees in front of t, I wind down my day, answer my emails and take a little time to myself to reflect on where I am and where I have to be for the coming tomorrow. At 8pm, I turn the lock on my door after killing every visible light in my office, pull down the grate that protects my all glass store front, and say my goodbyes to the usual group of hens who are congregated around one table sharing in the late day edition of the gossip. I hear then all wish me a well night by name and their cackling and laughing fades away as I walk to my apartment building.

You would never know there was life in my building when entering the hallway. 3 stories with 2 apartments on each floor, the hallway is silent and dark and I press the automatic light which stays on long enough for me to reach the first floor, find my keys and enter in safely into my tiny apartment. The apartment is warm with artificial lights, Carme doing her best to get dinner in Alex and homework done. She finishes work at 7pm like most Spaniards and suffers thru the daily task of providing a good balanced dinner. Sometimes I am greeted by Alex, Carme or both with warm hugs as I shut the door to another day of Spanish 101 with the outside world.

Eventually, with Alex asleep and Carme and I mentally exhausted from the day, we retire to bed. The last thing I hear is the familiar whining of the shades being lowered to the floor, coming to a crash if one is not careful but not enough to startle me from my now settling sleep. All sounds from the outside world are muffled and we both fall off into dream land.

an herbal surprise

One aspect to learning a culture is to intertwine oneself into the culture to see how the people feel in general about topics we Americans may take for granted. I feel it safe to say that the whole Palestine v. Israel conflict has shed a new light on itself after talking with the people and seeing how the media portrays the situation. The ideal of kids leaving the home, marriage, having kids out of wedlock (esp. in such a predominately catholic state) all seemed to be refreshing and puzzling at the same time. But the one subject that really blows my mind is the general feeling towards drugs and alcohol. The general impression for the both are not in any way related or grouped together, forgive me for misleading you with my last statement. We will treat them in separate and different lights.

Alcohol, the drink of the Gods, is seemingly adored and coveted here on the same level as water being a necessity for survival. Not one Spanish home is without at least one bottle of red wine, especially in the home of the older generation. Spain is a very big wine producing country importing from France and Italy but exporting their varieties as well. From the drier and arid south to the mountainous and humid north to the saturated lands of the Atlantic Ocean, the types are just as wide and varied as in America. But of course, the Spaniards think Americans are far off the mark when it comes to wine production , as told to me by my father in law who is an expert on wine drinking...not wine tasting, but drinking. Mind you he is my litmus test when it comes to most things Spanish or Catalan.

I still remember how I felt and internally reacted when I had lunch with this pillar of the grave vine, and he ordered a bottle of wine. He insisted I drink some with him since he could not possibly drink the whole thing by himself (which he later made a liar out of himself as his eyes drew a tear when he finished the last swig of the magic elixir). I was just floored that the ordering of a bottle of wine was so fluid and almost expected for a midday meal. This was no McDonald's but still, my mind went back to days of having lunches and my coworkers and I laughed about ordering a rare midday margarita. And speaking of McDonalds, there is beer on the menu.

For just about every meal, I see wine as a selection for your drinking palette. Now I won't stretch the truth and claim to have seen the local drunks enjoying a Merlot over their corn flakes. But I notice it is not uncommon to see the locals taking in an alcoholic beverage in many of the sidewalk cafes in our town or others. Beer is pretty common while wine is saved more so by the glass or the whole bottle for a meal either during lunch or dinner. I still cannot say I have grown accustomed to wine, even though my father pushes it on me like a neighborhood crack dealer while still claiming he cannot finis the whole bottle by himself.

Drugs on the other hand carry pretty much the same social stigma to a point. I have gotten pretty chummy with a few of the local police officers. One in particular works night pretty much as the coast guard does. He told me I would not believe the amount of drugs being smuggled into small coastal towns like our in the dead of cloudy or moonless nights. I also heard from one of my soccer team kids (and I am not sure how much weight I can put on this statement) but Tossa is one of the largest drug spots in Spain. I am not sure to what extent or which drugs are coming thru our shores while my family lay motionless in deep sleep.

The overall social feelings pretty much run the same for heroin and cocaine. LSD is pretty much not spoken of but I am sure there are some kinds of ecstasy floating around in the neighboring town, Lloret, due to the influx of young people who come to dance the night away in what seems like hundreds of nightclubs. The billboards alone seem to rival that of Times Square, advertising the many local and national DJs who travel to play their brand of hypnotic trance and electronic music. But on drug seems to have a somewhat dissimilar take than what I am used to in America.

Sorry, I have to backtrack. Tobacco is sold in controlled and licensed stores where alcohol is sold almost anywhere! This is "bass-ackwards" to this Virginia boy whose ABC stores seemed to shelf the only option for your weekend barbecue, nightly binges or holiday festivities. What's a President's Day without Tanguray? Where, outside Ukrops, you can find cigarettes in any corner store. Still hey have tobacco vending machines in most restaurants and bars, a throwback to the way America used to be.

Marijuana is seen as a recreational drug, like in the states. But I think we handle it a bit differently back home. Sure, in any tobacco store, you can find rolling paper on display, but that doesn't necessarily mean you smoke pot, since many here still like to roll their own cigarettes. Just because tier is glue on the shelf doesn't mean you don't sniff it, now does it? But I was surprised to see a shop here in Tossa selling pretty much anything you need to complete you weed smoking needs. The guy who owns and runs it is a local figure, looking more like the popular image of Jesus Christ with his thin pale frame, long brown hair and goatee. On any day you will find him in his usual "hippy" clothing, blasting his Bob Marley CDs just loud enough to catch your attention when passing his door. He is a nice fellow but I have not spent much time getting to know him. In his store front window, he has all types of gear and paraphernalia like bongs, pipes, as well as T-shirts with great weed smoking slogans on them. I am just too nervous to enter.

With popular movies like the Cheech and Chong sagas, to half Baked and Friday's trilogy, we Americans find humor in Mary Jane. We seem to be accepting of those actors and singers who openly talk about or allude to the fact that they puff, puff, give. The Chronic was a hell of an album that no one can seem to take in if fully toasted. Still we debate or the mere use of medicinal marijuana to ease the ill of out cancer patients going thru chemotherapy. We let Dave Chappell entertain us with his lifestyles but cannot allow the sick to ease their ills to a tolerable point.

I soon had a call to visit a client in their office and from her balcony, I saw on an adjacent rooftop from her office balcony, several marijuana plants growing. We shared a laugh at how his other potted plants were doing so poorly in the Spanish summer heat, but his pot pots were flourishing like no one's business. I made note to talk to my police friends and I learned that it is legal for you to have 2 potted plants per adult per house. My eyes glared and I did the simple math to come up with 4 possible variations next early spring to begin my journey in the culture I am so eagerly learning about.

I am nothing of a pothead. I admit I have enjoyed the spoils and labor of other farmers who have so loving taken the time, care and patience with one of the ugliest plants I have ever seen. Still my mind wonders how the first humans discovered the spoils of this potent plant. I would imagine the first cavemen pyromaniac to just walk around aimlessly in the woods, setting things on fire and inadvertently causing a chain reaction which would have him inventing the munchies a few minutes once he inhaled the sweet aroma of its smoke. Or some caveman, well rooted in the doghouse for ticking off his cave woman counterpart, coming across this strange and aromatic plant to use as a way back into the heart of the woman he loved. Only to return to his tribe to find she is shacked up with someone new so in defiance and anger he sets it on fire. Pretty soon nothing else matters in his world and he has all but forgotten the heartache he felt before and her sister is looking much better than ever before. But unfortunately he is too relaxed to get up and do anything about it. But I think this caveman did invent Doritos in the process.

Still the general social feeling to marijuana is not so accepted as in America. Surely, back home, we do not want our doctors to take a few puffs in the lounge before doing a surgery, or our airline pilots to get a quick taste before landing on a snowy runway while low on fuel. Just like we see potheads to be spacey and a little too relaxed and lost, Spaniards in general also see these potheads to be the same way but there is a distinctive difference in the toleration. Where we might laugh and make movies about the subject, The Spanish seem to be a bit more polarized in such a recreational drug. It is truly a matter of the have and the have not. I often enjoy Carme "warning" me on the people who are known pot users and yes, I do not see any cure for disease or Nobel Peace prize coming anytime soon from them, but she is also letting me know who I need to be friends with inadvertently. Armed with this knowledge and now a new set of Spanish vocabulary, I began my personal quest for some bud.

So I got a catalog from the local Bohemian shop and my eyes grew and moth watered at the many varieties of seeds being offered. They ranged from the not so pricey to the "taking out a loan to afford them" kind. My eyes were fixated on the ones in the middle range with the average amount of THC in them. Again I am no lightweight but I am definitely not a heavyweight and will stay in the welterweight division with no plans on bulking up in the future. So far this quest to become my own farmer by next spring as led me into a whole new set of vocabulary and meeting new, spacey and forgetful people who, luckily, seem to tolerate my language skills all the more than a sober person would. I am sure I will document my adventures after the first frost so stay tuned. I am just a little bit sad it took me two years to find out this wonderful herbal surprise!

to answer a few questions...

I have now become the portal to everything Spain for my American friends and family. I now carry the honor of being the virtual Wikipedia for those who don't have the drive and the time to get a library card or catch the web cast of Spain on the National Geographic web site. I feel like I am the modern day Marco Polo, set to bring back paper from the new world. Ok I am going overboard but why not. I am not getting a big head about this, mind you. Many of our family members have done their bid in the US military and traveled to many far off places...they just usually had to fire a weapon once or twice in their abbreviated stay.

Funny thing, as Americans, we don't know much about Spain. Ask the average citizen, and they could find Spain on a map. Ask the not so average citizen and they will point to Mexico. My favorite response to my puzzled face was, "isn't the name 'Mexico' Spanish for Spain?” And it is not all Spain's fault. Living many years of the last century under a dictator that aligned himself with Hitler and Mussolini was more than enough to keep Spain out of the United Nations until 1955 and off the world stage for a considerable amount of time.
Whenever I “add a new friend” on FB, hook up with a chum on yahoo I am hit with the standard questions during the catching up phase. These questions have become routine and I thought it would be beneficial if I compile a list for future reference in case there is yet another "friend" from Facebook who I mistakenly forgot about 20 years after I received my diploma who asks me, "what time is it there?” Forgive my lack of remembering you sat next to me in homeroom, there has been a lot of years of alcohol, drugs and therapy.

So I am going to take the time to put out the top few things about Spain. Rather let's call it:

The top few myths to dispel and or things you did not know about Spain.

1. We are 6 hours ahead of ET, most of the year. Daylight Saving Time is a whole other ball game. In the fall, we fall back before ET falls back (if I remember correctly right before Halloween), thus we are 5 hours ahead. In the spring, we spring ahead a few weeks after the US does so...so again we are 5 hours apart. But outside of the collective 3 or 4 weeks in total, it is safe to assume we are 6 hours ahead for the other 50 odd weeks.

We see the sunrise before you do so if there is anything flaky about the sun (less intensity, excessive flaring, etc) I will call you and give you a 6 hour head start to make your "end of the world is near" signs. While you are waking up and making your morning commutes, (for my east cost homies) I am having lunch. While you are coming home from work, I am already in bed asleep.

2. Siestas are midday breaks, not necessarily time to go home and take a nap. It does last normally 2 or more hours and I have been tempted to nap thru those hours. I may be wrong but when the Spanish left their imprint on Latin and South America, during the midday, the field workers would call that siesta, the hottest time of the day where the sun's rays were the most intense. Instead of sweating thru it, the work day was halted until mid-afternoon and they continued to work after siesta until last light of the day.

The cool thing about here in this part of Spain, at the height of the summer, the sun done not set until near 10pm!!!! Believe that, homie! But the normal work day does not end here until 7 or 8pm, dinner not until 9 or 10, Sangria on the beach before sundown, party until sunrise. That sounds about right.

3. Food. There are no tacos in Spain. Well they might be, but remember...TACOS ARE MEXICAN CUISINE. Just like Pork Pies are not normally associated with the US, they are English. Speaking the same language does not mean you eat the same food.

4. Bull fighting still exists, but PETA is working hard! The bull is the national animal and the symbol of Spain. When driving to near Madrid, we encountered several tall and massive billboard like cutouts erected on hill tops that sort of loom there like some mythical creature watching over the land. Imagine an eagle on top of Mt. Rushmore of the same size.

5. Spain has a royal family, like the UK and Monaco. The king before last was overthrown before WWII by the military general Franco and ruled by him until 1975. During his life, he allowed the crown prince to attend the university here in Spain under protection while the King died in exile. Upon Franco's death, thinking no one could run it better as a dictator, he soft-heartedly gave control of his beloved country back to the royal family and thus Spain became a democracy soon after 1975. And the King is a pimp, too. Not like in selling of females on street corners, like Magic Don Juan. But during a meeting of the heads of states for Spanish speaking nations, he candidly, in front of live and international broadcast, told the President of Columbia to shut up when Chavez went on one of his long winded rants. It was priceless!

6. Everyone in Spain is not Spanish. The country is more like a collection geographically rather than culturally. There are many different people and regions here. Like we have 50 states and Georgia is way different than California, it is much like this in Spain. There are the Galician, Basque and Catalans to name a few, each region historically having their own language. Franco wanted to stamp this out by telling the world that they were all dialects of separatists and rained down on them in hellfire if they bucked the system. I live in the region called Cataluña. Here their first language is Catalan and it is off the chain! It is a romance language all on its own. I think I read somewhere it is the 8th most popular language that no one knows about. This is the reason why I am taking so long to learn anything because most people speak Spanish as a second language.

7. We drive on the right side of the road.