España Profunda

This morning I awoke not to a cacophony of car horns, or the incessant buzz of a jackhammer, or people shouting (errr, talking) to each other in the street, but to the Chariots of Fire instrumental theme looped over and over. It took my sleep-addled brain several minutes to remember why, and then I quickly put on my glasses and joined my roommates on the balcony to watch the runners in the 31st Maratón de Madrid make their way down our street. The runners streamed by, buoyed by the downhill stretch and the still cool morning. They chatted, ate bananas, or stopped to use the facilities (or should I say walls) of the alley below our flat. And then I went back to bed, lulled to sleep by Chariots of Fire.

And pick up this month’s (May, that is) Condé Nast Traveler (España), you will find something I’ve written at the very end of the issue. It’s a page about parks and plazas in Madrid, which is part of the issue’s Madrid guide. I would put it online, but ‘fraid this is only available at your local newsstand (and in español!).

This year we decided to go back for Almanzor, mountain a few friends and I attempted to climb a year ago. A snowy April in the Circo de Gredos, home to Almanzor, the Laguna Grande, and other beautiful rocky pinnacles, remains one of my favorite spots to be in all of Spain. And, I repeat, it’s just over two hours from Madrid.

Anyway, this year we were quite a large group of friends of friends and ex-lovers and so on: thirteen in all who walked up to the refugio Saturday afternoon. Fewer departed for the big peak early Sunday — in more snow and less water than last year — and in all we were seven who reached the narrow Portilla del Crampón, and stood there for a while in the whipping wind and rapidly increasing fog, surveying the ice-covered rock and not finding the anchor for the rope we wanted to mount. Below, on the other side of this frighteningly narrow “pass of the crampon,” the canales oscuras (dark channels) yawned their gaping mouths. With the deteriorating weather conditions, the nasty-looking ice, and pocas ganas to spend a while mounting the whole set-up to make sure we didn’t fall down into said depths, we decided to head down the very snowy ladder we had climbed.

To be honest, I was still on a high from having overcome last year’s fear and actually making it to the pass. The view (on both sides) was enough to leave you breathless, and looking down at what we’d come up, I wasn’t sure how we had done it, or how we would descend it. But we did. I don’t know if we’ll ever make the spring snow ascent of Almanzor, but I wouldn’t be opposed to keep trying.

Yes, we’re talking about that white box you see on your left. I first encountered it in Chile, when I was studying abroad and living with a slightly eccentric Chilean family. If I didn’t remind them to turn on the calefont, I would have an ice cold shower. Or sometimes I would be surprised out of a mid-shower reverie by a blast of frigid water due to someone turning the apparatus off. [Yes, yes, I know millions of people all over the world survive without hot running water. But I had come from the U.S., where the water in my shower always ran hot if you waited long enough.]

So I wasn’t exactly surprised to find a calefont in my new home in Madrid. I was quickly corrected by my Spanish roommates that it was not a calefont but rather a calentador (heater). OK, whatever. The White Box That Heats Water made it known in a few short days that it was a royal pain in the culo, that the gas would turn off when it wanted to, and then it was all but impossible to turn it back on again. We finally devised a system whereby we’d take turns holding the pilot until enough gas was in the chamber (generally upwards of five minutes of pushing your thumb into a button) and the flame would stay lit.

But the problem persisted, the Box turned off and lighting the damn thing didn’t get any easier. We finally called servicio técnico, who sent a repair guy who proclaimed the Box very dirty and said we should do a better job of maintenance. Said repair guy (reported my German roommate Inga) was muy muy guapo. This was December 2005.

Fast forward to April 2008. In the more than two year interim, the guapo repair guy had returned at least once, the Box continued to turn itself off when it pleased, but the re-lighting process had become considerably shorter and easier. But in April of this year of economic crises, strange weather, and an incredibly drawn out primary season, the Box turned itself off, and none of the six residents in my flat could turn it on. We called servicio técnico, they would send someone that day (urgente) for 120 euros, or sometime in the next one to three days for 60.

I had already begun bathing myself in the old-fashioned style, that is heating water and pouring it over my head. (I had done this once before in early 2006 when I returned from Christmas holidays, the Box was turned off, and I, alone in the house, had no idea how to turn it on again, and desperately needed a pre-party shower.) It’s a slow system, but it works. Lucky for us, the guapo returned the following day (I again missed his lovely visage due to occupational obligations), fixed something, said the Box had been leaking, and we had a glorious 24 hours of hot showers before it turned off again Saturday afternoon and refused to turn on again.

And then water started to drip from the Box. A lot. We filled Tupperwares every few hours. So this week the guapo returned, inspected the Box in a rare moment it was not leaking at all, promptly lit the thing, and probably walked off muttering about what a bunch of nincompoops we were. My roommate who attended him was surely too embarrassed to insist that, no, it really had been leaking.

Well, I’ve got news for you, Sr. Guapo who I’ve never seen: the Box is still dripping several days later after you marched in and said it was fine. It started promptly after you left and hasn’t stopped. We still have our precious hot water, but I fear that at any moment it could turn itself off and be very ornery when we attempt to turn it on again.

And this is one thing that makes me miss home.

Tile-fronted old mansions, yellow trolleys, red roofs, cobble-stone streets, wrinkled old women peering out windows, colorful laundry blowing in the breeze from the Río Tejo, pastéis de nata aside, Lisboa rocks my world because you can hardly smoke anywhere indoors.

What a breath of fresh air.

Yes, in some bars in the Bairro Alto you can smoke, but in many you can’t. Smoking was prohibited in every restaurant we ate in. It was wonderful.

In this sense, the city is light years ahead of Madrid. In other comparisons, and with the experience of last year’s Semana Santa under my belt, I’d say that Portugal also betters Spain’s simple green salad (yes, that lettuce should be green, Spaniards) and bread, which is crustier and heartier in our western neighbor. I’ve found the Portuguese to be lovely people and, in my two short trips, I’ve even grown fond of their language, which sounds soft and whispery with the slightest hint of a more sing-songy Russian. I’ll certainly be back.

If there’s one thing that shows my true American-ness it’s got to be my love of peanut butter.

It all comes down to the fact that I consider it a kitchen staple, much like milk or bread. With peanut butter you can have a meal. It works with bread, with fruit, by itself. And it’s totally tasty and pretty nutritious to boot.

But in Spain you might as well be talking about frog eggs or something. Peanut what? they say. How do you eat that? They don’t really get it.

So it’s become something I always bring back with me after a trip home, or ask visitors to bring me. I like the natural stuff, just peanuts and oil, and maybe some salt. In desperate times I’ve been known to make it myself (try it! all you need are a bunch of peanuts and some oil and a good ol’ stick blender!). And most recently I resorted to buying it at the natural foods store where a tiny jar costs the equivalent of well over $5.

And tonight a student who was just in the U.S. brought me a jar, though I had barely mentioned the word to him. He brought natural, too. I couldn’t be happier.

Thank goodness.

I was furious when I saw a pantallazo (or the city government’s latest foray into big bucks from advertising) erected right in my neighborhood, in front of a city-run cultural center. These beasts are ugly and invasive no matter how you look at them, but in front of a historic public building? Come on now. I was not the only one who complained about the pantallazos, though. Within several months people started reporting the removal (or relocation?) of these suckers. But mine continued to stand.

And then on Valentine’s Day I received the most wonderful gift. I happened to pass by the Centro Cultural Galileo, as I sometimes do on my way to work. I could see the base of the pantallazo surrounded by workers from down the block. My heart sped up and I grabbed my camera:

But in the following days I returned to the site and the monster was still there, rotating through its ads for mobile phone companies and expensive cars. Not until today did I see that it was finally gone. Forever.

This is a long overdue post about our New Year’s trip to Morocco and some of my thoughts and impressions.

Why am I writing about Morocco in a blog about Spain? Basically because I believe that Spain and Morocco have a lot to do with each other. Because I would argue that, in an ideal world, more Spaniards would travel to Morocco, especially those who disdain the “moros.” To spend time in Morocco is to open your eyes and your mind to Africa, to Arabs (and Berbers), and to Islam. I found it to be a place that benefited me greatly in terms of cultural education.

Here’s a list of things that I noted about our week in Morocco.

1. There are people, everywhere at all hours. I don’t just mean in cities. I mean walking on the side of the highway, carting materials from one place to another, working or looking for work. Or just outside their houses. I remember my sister’s description of Nairobi as I tried to conjure up an image of it myself: “tons of people, all the time.” Where were they all going, she always wanted to know. Upon reflection, it seems to be an aspect of a developing country. The people are out and about because that’s where life is—not in the house in front of computers and television like in so much of the rest of the world.

2. I became enamored of the way people dressed. Many men wear a djellaba, a long, pointy-hooded cloak. At first it reminded me a bit of the KKK, but I soon changed my mind. Djellaba come in all sorts of colors and materials and seemed like the kind of thing that is totally comfortable and good for any season. I also found the Berber women’s dress in the villages we visited in the High Atlas very stylish in its own right. They wear all sorts of scarves in their hair, skirts, sweaters, and socks, that are wonderfully colorful.

3. One of the loveliest things I saw on the whole trip were the communal ovens of Xauen. We spent a day and a half wandering around this tranquil town in a perpetual downpour. But we didn’t mind: the entire medina is painted in an amazing celestial blue that makes you feel like you are walking through a fairy tale. And we’d frequently cross paths with people carrying loaves of bread covered with dish cloths on wooden boards. We wondered where they were all going until we finally saw one descend into a low doorway. We peeked in, and there was a man tending an oven, pulling out freshly baked loaves from the hearth and putting more in. It was almost certainly the nicest thing I saw on the whole trip.

4. The way vehicles move around the country is astounding. First you’ve got the trucks, which aren’t very long but are loaded about 50 feet high with stuff. Mind-boggling. But really the preferred form of transport is donkey—with or without a cart. On the side of any road you’ll see lots of people riding donkeys loaded with whatever goods they might be transporting: olives, oil, vegetables… In general, you’ve also got a good number of people who drive the latest BMWs, Mercedes, and what have you, and then everyone else, who drive 20-year old Renaults with horrible engine problems. There are also plenty of motorbikes and regular bicycles thrown into the mix.

5. The way drivers move around the country is, simply put, suicidal. We drove on many many two-lane roads. Moroccan drivers, especially taxis and big buses, like to play a game on these roads called “get out of my way or else.” We found that oncoming traffic rarely respected any sort of rules about overtaking, and frequently had to slow down in our direction for an overtaking driver in the other direction. It’s a wonder that there aren’t more accidents, but we decided that since everyone more or less drives in this chaotic manner, it sort of works itself out.

6. Our first morning in Morocco we found ourselves in a riad in the center of the medina in Marrakech. Imagine our surprise when, in the pitch black of 5 in the morning, we suddenly hear a very plaintive, and quite loud, wail. And it continued for a good 15 minutes or so. We quickly got accustomed to the prayer ritual and the way the town megaphone would crackle to life about five times a day

7. Seeing women in headscarves (and possibly more body-covering garments) becomes completely normal, as does seeing significantly more men than women everywhere. But women have their presence, especially at the markets.

A week is not a very long time in the end, and I think when we left I sort of felt like I was finally just getting used to the way everything worked. I’ll just have to go back.

You wouldn’t know it, but Spain also has important elections this year–in fact, the real thing (no such thing as primaries here) takes place in only three weeks. In the past weeks, Madrid’s streets have filled with the faces of the right- and left-wing candidates for prime minister (Rajoy and Zapatero, respectively) on light-post banners, on phone booths (see picture), in the metro, on the highway… As for the advertising I’ve seen, the left-wing PSOE has been doing much better than the right PP, mostly because PSOE ads are EVERYWHERE.

Yesterday, a huge vinyl ad appeared on the entire façade of a building on Gran Vía. It features photographs of the top three ministers of each party sitting in a congressional session. The top row is the PSOE, smiling and animated, and below them are the three representatives of the PP, frowning and lost in thought. And in between the two rows of photos the slogan: No es lo mismo (It’s not the same). I think it’s marvelously clever, personally. Or maybe I’m just on an advertising kick because I now teach a class at an advertising agency?

It’s a little less exciting than what’s going on at home (most of my students seem to agree with that statement), but it’s still got entertainment value.