All Hallow's Eve

Happy Halloween to all my friends back in the United States.  Based on Facebook photos, it looks like you all had a good time.

Noel: El Fantasma de Miedo

In Spain, Halloween is not a cultural tradition, and thus there is very little semblance of the celebration here.  (Due to the influx of American media, there is an awareness of it, but the only ones who seem interested at all are very young children.  In our family, the youngest ones [Noel, 8, and Mario, 4]) had a friend over, and their Halloween fix was satiated after about 10 minutes of running around in makeshift ghost costumes [literally pillow cases with eye-holes cut out] and "trick or treat"ing [trico-truco!] for whatever candy was around the house.  It was very cute.)  Instead, what Spain does celebrate is what might be known as All Hallow's Eve, or, the day before El Dia de Los Santos (All Saints' Day).

El Dia de Los Santos is a very special and important holiday here (everything, pretty much, will be closed), particularly since in Spain it coincides with El Dia de Los Muertos (The Day of the Dead), usually thought of as a Mexican holiday but also observed here.  For those unfamiliar, El Dia de Los Muertos is far less grisly than it sounds; the "celebration" is, essentially, a solemn and bittersweet day for family to visit the graves of their relatives and loved ones, which are traditionally cleaned and especially-ordained with tremendous bouquets of flowers, candles, and whatever else might be deemed appropriate.  My grandfather, who emigrated his family to the United States and spent the last half of his life there (serving in many ways as a second father to me), is interred here in Raxó, and so Emily and I spent our Halloween 2010 observing, instead, All Hallow's Eve.  (Some of the cleaning/grave-decoration happens today, so that when the graves are visited tomorrow they already look sufficiently kempt.)  It was at once the least "scary" or "frightening" Halloween in memory, and yet, paradoxically, the most macabre.

Here are some photos of Chelo and her daughter Marichelo cleaning the mausoleum of my grandfather's family (interred there as well, most immediately, are his brother and nephew [Chelo's father and brother, respectively]).  Chelo took this job very seriously; after everyone else had done seemingly enough, Chelo, wiping down the entire mausoleum, made sure to stand on a rag while she finished tidying up, sure not to track in footprints of any kind on this rainy day.  Marichelo joked: "There may be some prettier graves, some better decorated, but none are cleaner."  Tomorrow is the major part of the holiday: a big family dinner; important church service; another trip to the cemetery.  I'll be sure to blog about that, after its done.

This oil & water mixture will burn for a particularly long time.

My grandfather's newly improved grave, cleaned & decorated.

Pauper's grave, with flowers

I'm not quite sure yet how I feel about El Dia de Los Muertos.  On the surface, it's difficult to be anything but enthusiastic about it; here is a holiday that reminds people to honor and cherish their dearly departed, brings together families to remember and celebrate their loved ones, and closes down work and businesses as a reminder to slow down and focus on the things that are most important in life.  Furthermore, I personally am particularly attracted to the holiday's inherent acknowledgment of, and focus on, death and the nature of dying; I can think of no American holiday that does this, and moreover I think it's something, amazingly, that most Americans seldom (if ever) think about.  And that, I think, is a shame: I think of my death frequently, and though it may sound morbid or perverse, I actually think it's the opposite--thinking of and acknowledging my inevitable death allows me to remain grateful for my health and the time that I do have, refocus my energies on living & accomplishing my goals in life, and takes the terror and mystery out of dying (as much as possible, anyway).  I think Americans' reluctance to go there psychologically and emotionally is a large contributor to some of the characteristics (selfishness, vanity, materialism) I would categorize most unfavorably about the American soul.  At one point tonight Marichelo guided me to something in the back of the cemetery that I had never before noticed: it was an unmarked plot, which generations ago (nobody apparently knows when) served as a pauper's grave.  Marichelo had an extra vase to place there--filled with the same fresh, beautiful flowers that she had graced at her family's graves--for the soul(s) of whomever might rest there.  It was a deeply moving gesture, made even more so when I noticed how many other people had felt the same impulse.

At the same time, as someone who has had a unique history of loss and grief, I am dubious of a custom that contrives to have everyone grieve in the same way, as El Dia de Los Muertos does intrinsically.  Grief is a complicated and deeply personal experience: I, for one, suppose a lot of people might find it shameful that, in the almost 14 years since he died, I have only been to my father's grave twice; while that physical space has very little significance to me (I felt nothing either time I went), I think of my father constantly and have my own ways to honor him and make sure his memory never dies.  I have found it, and find it still, preferable to grieve in that specific manner, and in the same vein I don't intend to have a conventional funeral or "resting place" when I die (personally, I've always found the conventional Western approach to death appalling).  Ultimately, I wonder if the public spectacle of El Dia de Los Muertos doesn't have a negative effect on some people--people like me, at least--who might rather emote privately.

Lost in translation?

Window dressing in a popular fashion store in Pontevedra.  Your guess is as good as mine.

Spain Loves "The Wire" Too...

People who have watched (and without fail, loved) "The Wire" form, at least in the social circles I'm part of, something of a geek-cult in which discussions of favorite characters, seasons, and moments/quotes are the norm.  It was truly a great show, a piece of American culture that captured a place and time, and highlighted many of the most perpetuated social problems in the country.

How on Earth, you might wonder, does something like that get translated and dubbed into Spanish?  I don't know either, but apparently it's quite popular here (judging, at least, by this book of essays we found in the library).

 

Moral of the story?  Apparently great art translates, period.  That, and: "Omar no asusta."

The Immigrant Experience, 2.0

I've written earlier in this blog about how, due to sociopolitical and economic causes, many Gallegos were forced to move out of Galicia in (primarily) the second-half of the 20th century.  Many of these men (and women) moved for a few (or sometimes many) years, returning when they had earned enough money and/or the situation in Spain had improved, and many of them (like my grandparents, mom, and aunt) emigrated permanently, never to return to their native country.  (Before moving to the United States, my family lived for many years in Buenos Aires; in fact, so common was it for Gallegos to immigrate to Buenos Aires in particular that there was a time when, in Buenos Aires and Argentina, "Gallego" was a synonym for "Spaniard.")  While Spaniards saw a number of their brothers and neighbors emigrate this past century, they have only recently begun to see a large migration of immigrants into their country--another way in which Spain and the United States differ greatly.  In the classic pluralism metaphor, Spain is definitely a "salad bowl."

Because of my personal family history, I've always been very interested in the concept of, and political debates surrounding, immigration and multiculturalism.  While I have had a lot to get worked up about lately regarding American discourse on the matter, I'm afraid that the situation is not much better (and perhaps worse) in Spain.  I've been particularly interested in these issues in Spain since reading this NYTimes article from 2008, about the struggle Spain's burgeoning population of Muslims have had in building mosques in their new country.  Spain has also gained a lot of other negative publicity in recent years for the loud, boisterous demonstrations of racist soccer fans at major games and arenas across the country.  Clearly, this is a country that is struggling very disgracefully with its rapid rates of immigrations and multiculturalism (not unlike, perhaps, the United States throughout its major waves of immigrations, though this time in a modern, globalized society where such things could never be publicly condoned; this article, too, highlights how the terrible economic times have meshed with racism here to create pressure on workers who live in Spain legally [either legal immigrants and/or European Union residents], which reminded me a bit of the sentiment that likely led to American prosecution of Sacco & Vanzetti and Bruno Hauptmann in the 1920s and 30s).

Ironically enough, for the first time in her life, Emily herself (and in certain ways, despite full citizenship, I as well) is an immigrant here, and as her husband I have become intimately aware of the immigrant experience in a way I never have before.  Sitting with Emily several times in the extranjero (foreigner) section of the national police department (where immigrants register in Spain), we were sufficiently "other-ed," acutely aware of the glares and whispers of the Spaniards at the other side of the small room, where I had waited just days earlier for my DNI card.  Emily in particular, clutching her American passport and envelope of important documents, told me how strange and objectifying it felt, for a white American, to feel so outside the norm.

On a few separate occasions here, some family members have expressed opinions--generally in the form of cringe-inducing generalizations--that show a mode of thinking which, if not racist, per se, is certainly shaped by a history without exposure to, or assimilation with, people of other nations, races, or creeds.  Even when Emily and I walk around in public speaking to each other in English, I feel that we are the subjects of several stares (some of them glares), and the more emboldened strangers will often take it upon themselves to ask where we are from (or, occasionally [and more pointedly] "What are you?" followed the inevitably incorrect guess [generally, oddly enough, Italian, German, or English]).  In the interest of privacy and decorum, I won't say exactly which family member said what, but suffice it to say it was nothing terribly scandalous, merely, rather the kind of feeling you might get when you hear someone's 80-year-old grandparent refer to "negroes" or "colored" people.  My hope is that, in the immediate future, Spain's economy can rebound to the point where current immigrants can earn tolerance, acceptance, and ultimately assimilation, both for their own benefit but also for the betterment of the nation; in kind, Spain will learn what a wondrous and beautiful thing it is to live in a diverse nation.

As for the voice of actual immigrants here, we met a Bangladeshi family a few weeks ago and were able to get their opinions on the matter.  Emily and I decided we needed a change of palate one day (as rich and nutritious as the food is here, it could benefit from a bit of flavor diversity), and grabbed lunch at a falafel/halal restaurant in Pontevedra.  The owner asked us where we were from, and we began to chat for a while.  He spoke a little bit of Spanish and even less English, and though his accent could make his Spanish almost impossible to understand, we were able to carry a conversation for about a half hour, in which we spoke mainly about what it was like to move here.  He has been living in Pontevedra with his wife for 12 years, and absolutely loves it.  He had moved from Madrid, which, in spite of a social net of other Bangladeshis, he hated; Galicia, he said, was a lovely place, very peaceful, and he was happy to live and stay there (he even convinced his brother to move to O Grove, where Emily was taking language classes [though he insisted people from O Grove were ignorant and old-fashioned, as opposed to the modern people of Pontevedra]).  His daughter was born in Pontevedra, is now 10, speaks fluent Spanish and is happy and assimilated, with friends.  He told us his wife had learned Spanish almost fluently, all for free through the Spanish Red Cross and other non-profit organizations, and for the first time in her life felt safe and comfortable walking the streets alone at night.  He told us that he had invested a lot of money and energy into a failed Indian restaurant (we laughed about how Spaniards cannot handle spicy foods), but that his current, smaller restaurant was doing good, steady business.  I asked if he was Muslim, which he confirmed he was; he told me there was a mosque very nearby, about 15 minutes, which was well-attended and always respected/left in peace by Spaniards.  I asked him if ever felt the subject of racism or religious intolerance, but he insisted he did not, neither as a dark-brown-skinned man nor as a Muslim.  "The only thing I get," he said, smiling, "is 'Hey Apu,' you know, like from The Simpsons."  We laughed.  I was glad to hear that, from the horse's mouth, things maybe were not as bad as I had feared after all.

Rainy Beach, With Dogs

Today was a nasty, rainy day.  Obviously, nobody showed up at the beach, except...two dogs?

From the window I noticed a black dog and a white dog, with no owner in sight, playing and running with each other on the beach, amidst the rain, and snapped a few pictures.

 One dog goes one way, one dog goes the other way, and the photographer is thinking, "Hey, whaddaya want from me?"

A monument I liked...

Didn't get to my third longer post tonight.  To those who follow this consistently--sorry, I'll get to it tomorrow.

Instead, without context, here is a monument I passed in Pontevedra that I liked.  I didn't see a title or artist name, it just kind of stuck out there without explanation.

Just Like Being Home!

 

Sure--burgers, Looney Tunes...a perfect match.
  Amazingly, this place is out of business.  I guess people didn't want to think of eating rabbit burgers...or having them served by Bugs Bunny.

Another Article Highlighting Spain's Dire Economy

Very sad NYTimes article specifically about the housing problem here.

"My House Is Older Than Your Country"

Spain has a very long, rich, and utterly fascinating history, in ways both good and bad.  From it's diverse ethnic history and separate states, to the establishment of a singular kingdom; it's history of exploration leading to a vast and powerful empire across the world; it's expulsion of ethnic and religious minorities during the Inquisition; to a modern civil war, bloody and protracted, leading to one of the lengthiest modern totalitarian states and generations of emigration.  As is fitting with a country with such a dense and ambivalent past, Spain has a very complicated relationship with it's own history.

A few weeks ago I posted a picture from Combarro, which is a small town similar to Raxó and very nearby (about two towns over to our east).  Combarro has been officially noted by the government as a town of unique historical value, both artistically and picturesquely, as it has remained in many ways very much untouched from what it looked like centuries ago.  (Ironically, of course, this makes it a moderately popular tourist location, which has caused several small gift shops and new cafes to open, which in a sense has totally modernized it, but I digress--this article is about the legitimately antiquated aspects of it.)  Combarro itself is a reminder of Spain's antiquity, and oft-reluctance to totally modernize; compared to the whole narrative of American history we learn in high school, the entire existence of the United States can seem, relative to Spain, like a brief moment of time.

I'm not sure exactly how old Combarro is, but I know at least one statistic that sheds some light as to its age: six of the old stone crucifixes which stand intermittently around the town (which are some of its main historic monuments) date back to 1727--these are not necessarily the oldest, just the ones that still stand and whose dates can be confirmed.  What is notable about that is that the monuments were built already late into the town's history, during a time in which the Catholic Church wanted to instill its power on the area and reshape its long-standing pagan beliefs and rituals.  (The crucifixes were built as a "protector" of the town, which had a firm belief that on cold and particularly dark nights malevolent spirits roamed the streets--something that is, of course, contrary to the beliefs of Catholicism.  As a bit of a background here, Galegos, being Celtic, historically have/had a long mythology involving brujas [witches], and believe[d] in the power of amulets and other charms.)

Combarro really is a beautiful town to this day, almost entirely constructed of stone and with several old horreos (granaries), a large old shipping port, and tiny, winding roads way too small for cars, which lead to the old church in the center of town.  Unfortunately I don't really have any good pictures to post yet (but I PROMISE that I will spend a proper day taking pictures there and post them), because the day that Emily and I spent there a tourist bus completely flooded the town, making the tiny streets impossible to even walk down (literally); taking a picture of anything without including 3 tourists in the frame was an impossibility, so we simply put the camera away.  That Combarro has become so touristic is, to me, both a gift and a curse; it is rather unfortunate to see all the tourists and gift shops (although they are all, at least, kept within the old buildings), but at the same time it is a blessing to see that the town and its residents can remain there more or less on their own terms, protecting their legacy and figuring out how to profit from it, rather than adapting into something modern and without character.

Emily and I stopped to play cards and enjoy a glass of wine at an uncrowded bar with a nice garden, and started a conversation with the lady who owned it.  Emily asked us when we might be able to return and avoid the tourists (she hates the giant tour buses, haha, which she dealt with on a daily basis in O Grove), and eventually the lady asked where we were from, which started a longer conversation.  When I told her I wanted to be a filmmaker and was working on screenplays while living here, she told me about how (supposedly) Steven Spielberg had considered making a movie in Galicia, since some people (supposedly) believe Christopher Columbus may actually have been born here.  When I told her I was also working on a documentary project about my family's immigration story, she became more interested; "Ah," she said, "you must have a strong desire to know your family's history, since you don't have much of a history of your own."  I could tell she didn't mean that in any kind of a pejorative sense, but still I wasn't quite sure what she meant.  It turns out she was speaking about my history as an American, which, in her view, was barely a blip in time.  "My house is older than your country," she said, to which I laughed; "seriously," she insisted, "it probably is."

We spoke a bit about history, which she seemed at once very interested and invested in, and at the same time tired of and unwillingly chained to; "the history books here are so thick," she said, "mi madre."  Her insistence that the United States had "no history" was interesting to me; of course on one hand it's flatly incorrect, but at the same time her point retains validity because the vast majority of the history of our country has not only been whitewashed and revised, but pointedly destroyed and ignored.  When I told her that the United States Constitution was heavily influenced by the Iroquois Confederacy, which predated the Constitution by probably hundreds of years, she was amazed and confessed she had had no idea; I wasn't surprised, since the vast majority of Americans don't either.

I've always wondered to what extent the United States' "newness" is a factor in what makes it such a unique nation--capable seemingly of anything, and yet with so little that is considered sacred or shared.  That question is easily the most fascinating thing about the narrative of Mad Men, whether it is explored consciously or not, as *****(very slight spoiler alert)***** Don Draper's double-life is very clearly a metaphor for the United States in that regard--a nation that, like Draper, is constantly morphing and changing, especially during the narrative's era of profound social change.  If we can imagine a nation like a family (a metaphor several classic American films have explored, notably The Birth of a Nation and Gone With The Wind), there is another, deeper parallel between Spain's relationship with it's history and the United States' with it's own.  In Spain people generally feel a major obligation to their family: retirement homes are almost non-existent, with often several generations living in the same small home (a habit formed in part as a byproduct of Spain's historic failure to provide social welfare to the elderly); children are often very late to move out of their parents' home (in part a product of the cost of housing and poor economy); families are averse to relocate, and children seldom go to college far away or move (once they do) more than a short drive from home; Sunday lunches very typically remain a large family affair, celebrating nothing but its own simplicity.  (This kind of connection remains for Spaniards even after death, something that was explored in the Almodovar film Volver; trying to think of it just now, I could think of no American equivalent, as movies from the United States that explore ghosts and their relationships with living loved ones tend to lean towards the melodramatic, such as Ghost, Ghost Dad, The 6th Sense, Field of Dreams, Frequency et al.)  Spaniards are tied to their families, both for better (often, as they assert their love for creature comforts), but also for worse, as such habits no doubt contribute to the perpetuation of other social and economic problems.  Americans, on the other hand, seem to me to have a much smaller connection to their families in the long term; retirement homes/communities are the norm for grandparents, rather than living with their children; teens are encouraged to go out and room in a university; and major stigmas are attached to children who still live with their parents into their mid-to-late 20s.  These things are often seen as more pragmatic and responsible decisions, and very well may be--I'm less interested in judging than I am identifying what seems to be unique about each country.

While I don't want to draw a simplistic conclusion, I suspect there is a connection here on some level, and I imagine it probably manifests in other ways I have not yet considered.  In what ways are our habits and decision-making our own, and/or to what degree are they shaped by our environment and an entire history that has taken place even before our birth?  Probably we'll never quite know.

As for the lady who owned the bar, I ran into her about two weeks later at a bus stop in Pontevedra.  She didn't recognize me right away, but when I reminded her about my American wife her face lit up.  "Oh right!" she exclaimed, "how's your documentary project coming along?"  I smiled and told her I hadn't worked on it much yet, that I was busy with another project; "well give yourself time," she advised, "it's very important."  She then proceeded to advise me on three or four different places I could visit to research my family tree, find old records about births/marriages, etc., and unearth a lot of history.  We spoke for a bit and then said goodbye.  By chance I've seen her on the bus two additional times since then, and we share smiles and say hello.

Spanish Bureaucracy

In the theme of getting back into writing some meaningful posts on this blog, each day for at least the next three days I'm going to add a new post that I had been meaning to get to recently, but hadn't completed.  Today I want to share a bit about Spanish bureaucracy.


Bureaucracy is, in general, a pretty dirty word, isn't it?  Nobody I know seems to think government administration or red tape is really acceptable in its current state, much less a good thing.  Well, the Spanish people might be the most tolerant-of-bureaucracy people I have ever met.  My experience with Spanish bureaucracy in the past has always been somewhat limited (mainly finalizing my citizenship and registering my marriage with Emily through the Spanish Consulate in New York, which was generally headache-free), but this year I have dealt with it quite a bit.  Fortunately we seem to be done with it now, with Emily finally receiving permanent admittance into the country yesterday, but it was a long road to get here.


All Spaniards are required by law to carry, at all times, a national identification card called the D.N.I. (Documento Nacional de Identidad).  It's basically a photo ID that has your name, parents' names (a ubiquitous question in Spain), address, and a personal number (something like a Social Security number), with some cool futuristic security stuff built in (wacky pin #s and a computer-chip-looking thing, plus all kinds of watermarks and such--very sci-fi movie-ish).  It's not that it is a very strange or intrusive idea--I know a lot of American politicians have called for equivalents in the States, particularly after 9/11--but it's the process in getting your card for the first time and/or renewing your DNI (necessary every 5 years) that is a huge, huge, raging pain in the ass.


I will spare you the entire boring story of how many hoops I had to go through to finally get it, but suffice it to say that a trip to the DNI office makes the American DMV feel like a drive-through window.  It took me three separate trips to get it done, and on the day that I finally did I showed up to the office 10 minutes before they opened, and still ended up waiting over 5 hours to be seen.  You can schedule an appointment to avoid the long lines--but they are all booked up until mid-December; I'm pretty sure the lady sitting next to me had died in her seat, but I couldn't tell through all the cobwebs covering her body.


Nevertheless, you'd be hard-pressed to find someone complain about this.  Without a lobby TV or even so much as a table with last month's magazines, people sit patiently and hardly seem to care.  The first day Gonzalo came with us to show us where the office was, and when I complained about the wait (at that point it had been only about 3 hours) he shrugged it off, stating that the cards were very important and no doubt the clerks were doing their best to make sure all the forms were properly filled out, and so forth.  That day it turns out we didn't have all the requisite paperwork (in itself an absurdity, since I had had sufficient paperwork for a passport, but somehow insufficient paperwork to prove my citizenship--think about that one), but yet nobody seemed quite sure what paperwork we needed.  Person 1 asked person 2, who turned to person 3, and so on.  Each had differing opinions as to what we needed, until we finally seemed to reach something of a consensus.  When we left, I expressed my frustration to Gonzalo: "How can they know we don't have the right papers, and yet not know what we need?"  I was expecting him to say, "I know, right?" but what I got instead was another convoluted apologia, suggesting that the job was difficult, but of the utmost importance, and we should be glad that they were taking the time and effort to be sure we had our papers in order.


Needless to say I was confused.  After removing my "Don't Tread On Me" hat to scratch my head, I began to see a common thread in what Gonzalo was saying, which linked also to some things I had heard along the way.  When he refused to validate my complaints, he spoke vaguely of the way things used to be a generation or more ago, telling me that the infrastructure then was much worse, with valuable records and documents often being lost, licenses and things expiring and being allowed to lapse, and so on.  Under Franco, he told me, people and/or organizations who knew people within the old (corrupt/fascist) government often got preferential treatment and thus things which should have been important or well-regulated often had little or no validity at all.  Gonzalo, speaking generally, said he believed that all the new measures I complained about were necessary, even if they might be burdensome, because they guaranteed that everything was equal and transparent, with everyone on the same field.  In defending the current system, Gonzalo was implicitly comparing freedom and democracy to fascism and totalitarian rule; to him--and this is a sentiment I have heard or felt by others as well--minor complaints about things like waiting times for a DNI card are merely the costs of running a modern, efficient democracy.  What I’ve observed, ultimately, is that Spaniards have generally a much more forgiving, optimistic, and trusting relationship with their government than Americans.

I found it fascinating and eye-opening to hear bureaucracy, something which so many Americans (myself included) decry on a daily basis, described as nothing more or less than the trade-off for a good and functioning government, and honestly it made me (as an American) feel somewhat spoiled and demanding.  It made me think a lot about what we, as a nation, expect from our government, and how that reflects our values.  Right now I guess that's a pretty difficult question to answer, as there seem to be two very large camps that disagree pretty strongly about how to answer that question.  But from my unique perspective looking in, it seems to me that Spaniards have a more evolved and mature form of political debate, as certain things that I would consider to be major issues--health care, higher education, care for the neediest (sick/elderly/poor/homeless)--are to them expectations, and to ensure those things they are willing to put up with minor headaches that many Americans tend to demonize.

That being said, I think Spaniards' apparent-immunity to government bureaucracy also seems to go too far, and I don't mean to suggest that they have it all figured out.  When Gonzalo was stressing the importance of me getting my DNI, he reminded me that, until I had one, I should never leave home without my Spanish passport, in case I needed to identify myself.  After I reasoned that I didn’t want to lose it, and wouldn’t be needing identification in most instances anyway (and if so I carried my US Driver License and a credit card, both which had my name) he rhetorically questioned what I would do if the police wanted to stop and question me.  “For what?” I asked, confused.  “For whatever reason,” he replied.  Confused, I answered “I suppose I’d try to answer whatever their question was.”  Frustrated that I wasn’t seeing his point, he said “But then what will you tell them when you don’t have ID?”  At this point I was further confused and felt kind of irritated and violated at this imagined-scenario, and said “Well they don’t have the right to demand my ID, I haven’t done anything wrong.”  At this point Gonzalo and I shared a mutual cultural shock, as he explained to me that Spanish police—while they may not exercise it much—have every right to stop random, law-abiding citizens and question them, demand to see their identification, and take them into custody if they are not carrying their DNI.  Incredulous, I told him that police have no such right in the United States, and that while many police may abuse their power and overstep their authority, American citizens are guaranteed freedom from unreasonable stops and questioning and are under no obligation to carry identification on their person.  Moreover, most people who don't have Driver Licenses (a significant portion of impoverished people) don't even own photo-ID.  Surprised, Gonzalo defended the Spanish law, reasoning that it was for the greater good and people should have to be able to prove who they are; when I asked him if he would be sure to carry his DNI even down the street to the grocery store, he said “Of course, yes.  Always.”  Still now, just the thought of that rhetorical exchange with the police gets my blood all boiled up.  And furthermore, I was a bit weary about the part of the DNI process in which they obtain your digital fingerprints and keep them on file (supposedly, so my cousin tells me, courts cannot use those files to prosecute a crime, but I have my doubts).  Doesn't this country have a Civil Liberties Union?

In other annoying ways, bureaucracy seems to be pretty omnipresent here.  For instance, there are, if I remember correctly, 14 different types of Driver Licenses here, which break down all different categories of motorcycles, cars, vans, trucks, et cetera, and even the most basic kind requires you to take a mandatory, lengthy and expensive training class, read a book a half-inch thick (according to my cousin's estimation) and pass a very difficult test.

For my part: Don't tread on me.  But give me single-payer health care.  And, I wouldn't mind a full pension at age 61 :-p

"Love" Is In The Air

Today, driving all around with family, we passed in the car: a prostitute streetwalking at a busy intersection (illegal in Spain); a brothel (legal in Spain, according to my cousin [a police officer]); and a "restaurante erotico" (yes, you translated that correctly--evidently its just what the name promises).  A quick web search of the latter two yielded their respective websites, and for the former there was even a website devoted to rating and ranking all of the brothels in Spain (evidently there are 25 in Pontevedra alone, something I would never have believed just yesterday).  I never remember quite how puritanical the United States is until I return to Spain.

"You know what they call a quarter-pounder with cheese in France?"

Whether or not you've ever seen Pulp Fiction, you probably are familiar with the answer to the this question, which has become one of the most iconic quotes in recent film history (and, in my opinion, one of the greatest openings in all of cinema).  Though I've never been to a McDonald's in France, I know (or at least believe, thanks to Quentin Tarantino) that in Paris they serve a Royale with Cheese.

Spain, as I've mentioned earlier in this blog, does not eat a lot of beef.  In general, hamburgers are thought to be very unhealthy (and, generally, disgusting), and any kind of fast food or pre-prepared/processed food is generally anathema.  Consequently, I had never before seen a McDonald's outside of a major city (Madrid or Barcelona).

Today, however, we went out with family to a town about 40 minutes away, and I saw a billboard for a McDonald's, which specifically advertised it's drive-through.  And so, I ask: You know what they call a McDonald's drive-through in Spain?

A "McAuto."  jajajajajaja.

Beach Zen

Today was a gross, rainy day, a bit chillier than recently but still not cold (I wore only a Polo shirt all day, no jacket or fleece).  Still, some family mentioned that perhaps winter weather was here to stay (the immediate forecast is that the next few days will be overcast with scattered rain).  I've never experienced a winter here, but Galician winters are considered to be the worst in all of Spain, characterized by heavy rainfall and winds, with temperatures reaching lows of about mid-40s at worst.  Considering that's May/springtime weather in Buffalo, I'll gladly take it.

Nevertheless, the thought that I may have gone to the beach for the last time until 2011 is a sad thought.  Hopefully it's not true.  In a good-vibration-ish effort to channel positive energy, I am posting my favorite beach pictures of this year.  The first week we got to Spain, we saw a couple of hippy-looking 20-somethings making this Buddha sand sculpture.

It was impressively large, with incredible detail.  Their note (below) says "Thank You" (in Spanish, Galego, and Portuguese) and "We need money to travel the world."  Naturally, we were sympathetic to their aim, and appreciated the beach art and threw them some money.

Decisive Moment

Picture teaser

Thought I would add just one picture, until I sit down to do a longer blog post.  10 days ago the tide rose to one of the highest points anyone has ever seen in Raxó, it was really fascinating and exciting to see it like that.  Evidently it was the result of several days of very heavy rainfall (though by the point of these photos, as you'll notice, it was a beautiful day), and heavy winds out on the ocean.  If you look at a detailed map Raxó is on estuary in Galicia, so ordinarily we don't get heavy waves or anything like that in this town, you have to travel about 20 minutes to a coastal beach to find that.

I ended up taking over 250 pictures of this high tide, but here below is just one view of how high the tide rose.  Every beach in the entire town was totally swallowed by water!  In all the years I've been here, good weather or bad, I've never seen anything quite like it.  Compare it to the sunrise photo I added at the beginning of the month, and you'll notice how deep the coast usually is (granted that was taken at lower tide, but neither was it at the lowest point of the day).  Notice the water on the street, which splashed cars and pedestrians who were not careful.  I'll post better photos later but this one will show you the water breaking over the generally-secure street border.

Back after a long layoff

Today I finally finished all my applications for grad school, which was a major relief for me.  In total I applied to six: USC, UCLA, AFI, and California Institute of the Arts (all in Los Angeles), and NYU and Columbia in New York.  Each application is for the respective school's Master of Fine Arts (MFA) program in Film Production.  I will likely know in about 5 months which, if any, schools accepted me, at which point Emily and I can start making plans for where we'd like to move when we return to the States.  I'm anxious, both nervous and excited, but more than anything glad to be done.  I worked as hard as I could in school and throughout the application process, so I have the peace of mind to know that for better or worse I will get accepted, or not, based on my true merits; for that reason I don't think the waiting period will actually be terribly difficult.

At any rate, I'll be able to get back to contributing to this blog more consistently, as I did in September, since I basically put it aside while I finished the applications (which took much, much longer than I anticipated).  This post is just kind of a where-I've-been, but probably starting tomorrow I will get back a bit and start to post some things that hopefully will be worth checking out.

Another NY Times Article Re: Spain's Economic State

Economic Crisis Batters Spain's Socialists and Unions

"I see my reputation has preceded me..."

China is taking over the world.  Here is the storefront of some kind of bazaar in Pontevedra.  The name of the business?  "China Best Price."

One View of Raxó

It occurred to me that I hadn't yet posted any pictures of the town we live in, to give people a frame of reference of how it generally looks.  Here is one view of the western border of the town on the waterfront, taken from the pier (which is featured prominently in all the sunrise photos I've posted from our balcony).  Here is a panoramic view, starting from the end of the town and rotating/turning my head right 180-degrees.  Soon(er or later) I will post some other views to give a more complete perspective of the town, including what I call "Old Raxó," the part mostly untouched by tourism-related construction, which is my favorite part of the town.

You can see our apartment building here, in the foreground, far left of the row (before the green space)