Spain: Land of Rogues?

The last time I had my hair done (a few months ago now, sigh), I went to a friend’s house in a neighboring town for a “home session”. She knows a young hairdresser who works for herself and will come to your house for an extra 5 euros, but the prices she charges are well below the going rate even with travel expenses tacked on so it sounded like a good deal.

Chattering away as only three women in salon mode can, we eventually came around to the inevitable topic of Spain’s downtrodden economy and soaring unemployment (my friend is currently one of the millions looking for work). I was surprised to hear the hairdresser say that she was also unemployed, and I asked her if she just did these house calls as a special favor for friends from time to time. She replied nonchalantly, “Oh, no, I have appointments lined up until next week and I’m always rushing around to fit all my clients in, but it’s all under the table. As far as the government is concerned I’m on the dole.” At the time I didn’t give it a second thought; after all, this type of “job” is very common in Spain and I have yet to meet anyone who feels any compunction about working on the sly.

However, all the news reports about how the unemployment rate continues to rise got me thinking. As things stand right now, the active workforce of Spain is just under 17 million, and nearly 6 million people are officially unemployed; this means that less than 17 million workers are currently responsible for maintaining a total population of nearly 48 million people. It doesn’t take a genius to see that this situation is untenable in a welfare state. But how many of those 5 million+ unemployed people are really unemployed? How many have their little side businesses, their door-to-door services, bringing in income that goes undeclared and untaxed, often while continuing to receive a government subsidy because they are officially jobless?

For me, as a self-employed individual, it would be a dream come true if I could forget about paying my Social Security contribution each month (265 euros, regardless of how much I earn) or quarterly handing over the value-added tax I am obligated to charge on each invoice, regardless of whether or not my clients have paid me the money which I’m supposed to pass on to the tax authority, or not having to deduct 21% from each invoice I issue as income tax withholdings. But I can’t. Even though I’ve spent my entire adult life in Spain, I am still a foreign resident and therefore technically a guest—and no one likes a parasitic houseguest. I enjoy free health care for me and my children here, and the Spanish system has a lot of safety nets which I know will also be there to catch me if I should topple off the financial tightrope. So if I’m working and earning a living in Spain, I feel obligated to do my part and contribute to the system as long as I can. I may not like everything about it or agree with how things are run, but this isn’t my country and I can like it, lump it or hie me back to the USA.

That said, I can’t help but feel a bit resentful when I hear of cases such as the “unemployed” hairdresser. It just seems unfair that I and the rest of the official workforce are bearing the brunt of tax hikes left and right in order to pay unemployment subsidies to people who aren’t really unemployed and make up for all the taxes that aren’t being collected on that underground income (which explains why the government continues to raise taxes on essential commodities and services such as gas, food, electricity, water, etc., as it’s virtually impossible to avoid paying them). This can probably be chalked up to the cultural legacy of America’s British roots, our sense of “fair play” and “that’s not cricket” and such, which brings me to the central point of my musings: Is Spain a land of rogues and rascals? Many Spanish journalists seem to think so. With all the recent headlines screaming about case after case of corruption involving politicians of every persuasion—back-room deals, bribes and kick-backs, property speculation, millions squirreled away in Swiss bank accounts, detective agencies hired to spy on political opponents, etc.—one has to wonder. Couple the high-profile rogues with the millions of ordinary citizens who unabashedly admit to defrauding the system, cheating on their tax returns, high school tests and university exams, and using bogus addresses to get their kids into good schools, and it seems an inevitable conclusion. I can’t think of anyone I know from the States who would admit doing those things to anyone, much less to casual acquaintances or first-time customers. And I think most Americans (though I may be wrong, my circle might be too limited) would probably be shocked to hear such an admission, and a conscientious few might even wonder if they had a moral obligation to blow the whistle on the culprit. But are we really more honest, as a nation, than Spaniards? Or is it more a question of keeping up appearances, of saying one thing and doing another?

I don’t know anything about the statistics on political corruption and tax fraud in the US, but I think we probably aren’t that far behind Spain. Or perhaps Americans just take more care not to get caught, and expect public shows of remorse and profuse apologies from those who are found out. Numbers and figures aside, I think the fundamental difference between our two societies lies in what we consider a “proper” attitude toward dishonesty and bending the rules. Americans and Spaniards measure right and wrong by the same yardstick, but the former are expected to express shock and horror when confronted with misbehavior, whereas in Spain it often seems that the general reaction is one of grudging admiration. This has changed recently in the public arena, and condemnation of corruption among the higher-ups is now more widespread and vociferous, though I can’t help but think that this outrage has more to do with the fact that many ordinary citizens are incensed that others have found a way to live high off the hog while they are struggling to make ends meet in this climate of economic recession than with any real change in the general attitude toward dishonesty.

There must be an explanation for this difference in social mores, though the experts seem incapable of reaching a consensus. Some attribute it to the different socio-religious history of each country, others say it’s a structural issue (related to how government is organized and run at different levels), and yet others just throw up their hands and say, “It’s a cultural thing”. Some studies also argue that a nation’s willingness to break the rules is directly related to their perception of public corruption, the “If the big dogs do it, why shouldn’t I?” school of thought. For me personally, I think that I will always find it hard to deal with this attitude, not because I consider myself in any way morally superior but because of the particular way that my family and culture of origin have trained me to react to rule-breaking, which often clashes with the view taken by people in my adopted country. I’m sure it’s going to make for some interesting arguments with my spouse in the future: What should our response be if our son is caught cheating on a test? How should we react if he comes home saying that he’s accepted a job without a proper contract? We both know the “right” answer, but where we do and probably always will differ is in our willingness to justify such behavior.

In all fairness, I must say that there are many Spaniards who work tirelessly to fight corruption and correct the systemic issues that facilitate illegal or unethical conduct among those in power. And I find that most Spaniards, at least the ones I know, are actually more open and honest than Americans in some aspects; they don’t beat around the bush when it comes to expressing their views on almost any subject, and our two most sacred dinner-table taboos (politics and religion) are fair game in most circles. If someone doesn’t approve of what you’re wearing, they will tell you so. If you’re acting like an idiot, a friend will waste no time and mince no words in letting you know. Everything is open to discussion, things are rarely sugar-coated, and I think that on the whole this is healthy. Coming from New England, where words are used sparingly and you usually have to read between the lines to figure out the real message, I find Spanish volubility and bluntness quite refreshing, even when the truth stings a bit. A phrase I’ve often heard in the mouths of Spanish friends sums it up: You don’t need a psychologist if you’ve got good friends. Of course that’s overly simplistic, but the reasoning behind this is that real friends are expected to give it to you straight, listen to your problems, and berate you when you’re out of line. I think this is probably the theoretical definition of true friendship in our culture as well, but in practice I haven’t found a lot of Americans willing to risk a friendship by speaking the truth even when it hurts. That risk simply isn’t a factor in the friendship dynamics I’ve observed here; it’s inconceivable that a good friend would be so deeply offended by well-meaning criticism that s/he would break off a friendship. Friends will fight, yell and insult each other and still meet up for coffee the next day. That’s what makes them friends. Everyone else is just an acquaintance.

So is Spain a land of rogues? On the whole I think not. Or at least it's no more roguish than the next country. We have different ideas about what constitutes justifiable conduct, but our notions of right and wrong are generally the same… and you’ll never find a more honest friend than a Spaniard.

Subway Showdown

I warned you my posts would be sporadic. Here’s another good story from the days when I was still footloose and fancy-free (i.e. childless)...

Several years ago, I was working for the organizers of the Contemporary Art Biennial of Seville (which, sadly, has since closed due to financial difficulties), and a small team was recruited to travel to Madrid for an official presentation of the event at ARCO, Spain’s biggest contemporary art fair. So I and two of my co-workers, Esther and Rosa, hopped on the high-speed train called the AVE and flew north to the capital. We worked our little buns off for two days, carting boxes of press materials and racing around the fair venue to make all the necessary arrangements for the event. Of course we had all dressed to the nines, eager to make a good impression on the Spanish art world and represent our company well. But the heels wreaked havoc on our feet as we pounded the pavement to and from our hotel and covered miles of carpeted flooring at the fair. On the last day, having completed our mission and taken in as much contemporary art as our weary brains could handle, my colleague Esther (who was handling media relations) and I limped our way to the subway station—after succumbing to the temptation to pick up two pairs of inexpensive flats at a shoe store along the way—and boarded the train that would take us back to our hotel for a night of much-needed rest before heading home to Seville the following morning.

We were accompanied by James, an American guy who had come over to supervise on behalf of the biennial’s curator and didn't speak a word of Spanish. So I tried to facilitate communications between the two of them as we got our tickets from the automatic machine at the station and managed to push our way into one of the cars. The subway was packed with people leaving the fair and heading back into downtown Madrid, so we were shoulder-to-shoulder and back-to-back with a crowd of strangers. James retreated to the corner while Esther and I found a handhold on the overhead bar, and we chatted as the train hurtled through the tunnels. She asked me if I remembered what time our train was leaving for Seville the next day, which I didn't, so I decided to have a look at the ticket in my purse. As I carefully maneuvered my arm to avoid elbowing my fellow passengers and stuck my hand in my purse, I was surprised to find that the top flap was open. I was almost certain that I had closed and latched it after buying my ticket. With a sinking feeling, I began to rummage around inside for my wallet, to no avail. I frantically began emptying the contents and passing them to Esther, but a thorough search confirmed my suspicions. I started to wonder if I could have left the wallet at the ticket machine, but then I clearly remembered storing the ticket inside my wallet as we were moving toward the train so I knew that wasn't the case. It had to be a pickpocket, and given the fact that we were packed in like sardines and unable to move, I knew it was almost certainly one of the people in my immediate vicinity. We hadn't even reached the first stop so whoever it was hadn't had a chance to get off yet.

I immediately went into panic mode: the wallet contained all of my documentation, including my prized foreign residency card (which if lost would mean loads of paperwork and hours of lines and rubber-stamping) and my train ticket home, as well as all my credit cards and cash. I whispered my conclusions to Esther, and we began to surreptitiously scan the people around us for a likely candidate. The only people within reaching distance were a well-dressed elderly Spanish woman, an equally well-dressed business man, and a girl who looked to be about 10 or 12 years old. The girl was lost to the world, humming to some tune blaring through her earphones, but I could see that she didn't have anything large enough to hide my wallet and her hands were in plain view. The elderly woman was staring at me and my cheap flats so unabashedly that I discarded her as a suspect; I figured that if she was the thief, she would have turned away to avoid attracting attention. That left the businessman. He certainly didn't look like a subway pickpocket: he was wearing a nice three-piece suit, holding a leather briefcase, and had a trench coat slung over his arm. Ah hah—the trench coat! It was the only possible hiding place, and he was the only one of the three whose hands were hidden from view.

Again I whispered to Esther, “I think it’s him.” She gawked at me in disbelief and said, “No way!” I said, “I’m going to ask him to show me his hands.” She urged me not to, saying that it couldn't be him, and if it was confrontation could be dangerous. But by that time I was too worked up to care; all I could think about was what a mess it would be if I lost my wallet and my ticket home, and I was trembling with a combination of fear and righteous anger. So despite the frantic nudges from my co-worker, I tapped the man on the shoulder and in a shaky voice said, “Excuse me, sir, would you mind showing me your hands?” As soon as he turned to face me I knew I had the culprit. He held up the hand not covered by the trench coat and tried to look guileless, but I was now certain that my wallet was lying under the coat so I pointed to the other hand, indicating that I wanted to see that one as well. I suddenly felt something brush the hand that was at my side, and as I opened my fingers the wallet was pressed into my palm. I held it up to make sure it was mine, and I quickly checked to make sure that nothing had been removed as Esther looked on in disbelief.

Meanwhile the “businessman” had quickly shifted his position to turn away from us and was trying to push through the crowd toward the door. The next stop was announced over the PA system, and the train began to slow down. I still couldn't believe that I had recovered my wallet, but as relief flooded over me I realized that the pickpocket was making his getaway and would disappear as soon as the doors opened, no doubt intending to catch the next train and prey on some other unsuspecting foreigner. The relief gave way to indignation and anger at the thought that he was going to get away scot-free without so much as a reprimand. By this time Esther, equally relieved that I had recovered my wallet and that the man hadn't pulled a knife on us, was also hopping mad and we both raised our voices and began yelling at the people near the door to stop the pickpocket. But the few who looked up simply glanced at us, some bemused and others pitying, and instead of blocking his escape the crowd actually parted to let him through. We tried to catch the attention of the subway employee standing at the other end of the car, but he either didn't hear us or didn't want trouble. No one within hearing distance could have failed to understand what had happened, but they just didn't care.

The ruckus had alerted poor James to the fact that something was wrong, but he didn't understand the rapid-fire Spanish we were speaking, so he edged over and asked what was happening. When he grasped the situation, he chivalrously offered to grab the man and hold him until the subway authorities could be summoned, but by that time there were about 10 sweaty bodies between us and the thief and the train had almost come to a full stop. Esther, a small-town girl herself with an excellent repertoire of colorful insults, began shouting at the top of her lungs: “Ehcoria! Malnacío! Sinvergüensa!” (spoken in a thick Andalusian accent, which in English roughly translates as “Scumbag! Louse! Shameless man!”). Emboldened by her shouts and with my dander thoroughly up, I also began yelling, “Yeah, you’d better run! Coward!” The people on the car around us actually started laughing as the insults poured out, recognizing our southern accents and probably thinking, “Just another two hicks getting a taste of big-city life.” The man never looked back at us, and as soon as the doors opened he hustled off the car and melted into the crowd.

Rattled and amazed at our own boldness, we discussed the episode for the rest of the journey and wasted no time in narrating our adventure to our husbands over the phone. What we found most surprising about the entire thing was the total apathy of our fellow passengers, and the fact that the only person willing to do anything about it was a guy who didn't even understand half of what was going on. If something like that had happened on a bus in either of our towns, the pensioners riding in the back almost certainly would have pinned the blackguard to a seat with their dentures, and he would have been lucky to escape with his suit and/or teeth intact. In any event, the story had a happy ending: I got my belongings back, we didn't get shivved, and we had an exciting tale to spice up after-dinner conversations. But we also learned a lesson: keep a hand on your purse at all times in large crowds, and don’t expect any help from strangers on the Madrid subway. We were two happy little country bumpkins when we finally made it home, grateful to be back in a small town where everyone makes it their business to know your business but can also be counted on to “have your back” in a pinch.

Green Acres is the place for me...

Pinching Pennies

When I meet someone new in the US and tell them that I live in Spain, the usual reaction is "Oh, wow, how glamorous!" Those who actually know where Spain is (and that it isn't an extension of Mexico) tend to conjure up images of me lounging on the shores of the Mediterranean, flouncing around town in my ruffled flamenco dress, sipping wine at all hours of the day and night, and generally living the good life. Sadly, this picture is far from accurate. I hate to be a wet blanket and discourage potential tourists from visiting Spain, but if I replied truthfully I would say that my life here probably isn't all that different from what it might have been if I had settled somewhere Stateside. It's a whirlwind of school activities, diaper changes, laundry, housecleaning, and work, with the odd opportunity for socializing (usually with my in-laws). True, the approach to life is different here. Getting ahead professionally isn't always the top priority, and greater importance is attached to personal relationships. And when we have two cents to rub together, we try to get out and do something fun with friends or our kids rather than put them in a retirement fund (I don't think we'll ever be in a position to retire!). These are just some of the reasons why I can't envision myself ever going back to live in the US. But still, the day-to-day reality of my life in Spain is usually anything but glamorous. The difficulties imposed by the economic recession have turned me into what I swore I would never become: a thrifty house manager. Here are some of my favorite penny-pinching strategies:

Using cloth diapers. After searching in vain for a cloth diaper supplier in the Seville area, I admit that I took a short cut and asked my mother to send some items along. This makes for huge savings, as I can now stretch a pack of 30 disposable diapers (cost: 6 euros) to last an entire month. I only use them at night, as I find that baby gets too wet with the cloth variety to sleep comfortably, and when we are out and about. It makes for a bit of extra laundry, but I can handle 1 additional load every 5-6 days. I highly recommend Thirsties diaper covers and Snappi fasteners (much easier and less dangerous than safety pins).



Turning off the lights. As an American I tend to leave lights on all over the house. I'm not sure why we have this habit, but here in Spain children are raised to be very aware of the cost of electricity and turn off anything that's not in use at the moment, particularly lights. It's an uphill battle, but with some prodding from Manolo I'm becoming more power-conscious and hitting the light switch is slowly becoming second nature.

Buying meat and produce at the local market. As I do all of my grocery shopping for the week at one go, as opposed to buying each morning as most Spaniards do, the easiest thing would be to buy everything at the grocery store (my Mercadona, love it). But I've found that meat, vegetables and fruit are much cheaper at the market stalls, so I try to make time to swing by the marketplace on grocery day.


Buying our own spare parts. With two Hyundai Accents (94 and 05) that always seem to break down when we can least afford a mechanic, we've had to come up with ways of reducing the repair bills. We've found a reliable mechanic (a small miracle) who charges a reasonable hourly rate and is willing to install parts that we bring him instead of ordering directly from the manufacturer. Sometimes this isn't possible because certain parts have to be new for safety reasons, but in many cases we've been able to find parts in perfect working order at the local scrapyard for a fraction of what they would normally cost, and we've saved hundreds of euros. Desguace el Pingüino is our favorite scrapyard (I know, this smacks of trailer-park culture, but it can't be helped):


Legumes and pasta. I never knew there were so many different ways to prepare these staples until I sat down to figure out how I could cut back on monthly grocery costs. Spain has a rich tradition of potajes (stews) so I've taken notes on how my sisters-in-law prepare their garbanzos, beans and lentils, and I've scoured the internet for new recipes to spice up the menu. We now eat legumes and pasta several times a week and have less meat, which is probably good for our health and certainly great for our household economy. And I'm having fun discovering new dishes and experimenting in the kitchen.

My thrifty Scottish grandmother would be so proud of me... now if only I could convince Spaniards of the advantages of coupon clipping!

Intruder Alert

I've been thinking a lot about intrusismo lately, primarily because of its effect on my professional life. I'm not sure if there's an exact equivalent in English; it literally means "intrusionism", the act of intruding, but what it refers to is a widespread phenomenon in certain fields, namely the "intrusion" of people who practice a profession without proper qualifications. A perfect example is photography: with the proliferation of digital cameras, today anyone with a cell/mobile phone can snap a picture and sell it to the media, effectively "intruding" on what was once the professional photographer's turf. Sure, there's still a market for quality photography, but as far as news reporting is concerned quality is beginning to take a backseat to the pressing need for fresh and sensational images, and unfortunately the ranks of professional photojournalists can't hope to compete with the millions now armed with image-capture technology. I'm not saying this is necessarily bad or good; times change, and it would be futile to try to stand in the way of progress. But it does seem a bit sad to me that people who have taken the time to study and prepare themselves, whether in the classroom or on the street, and who have invested in top-of-the-line equipment suddenly find themselves in the unemployment line or unable to work in their field because nowadays no one cares about the quality as long as a photo is newsworthy. And we are all guilty participants in this phenomenon. We all visit YouTube to view the amateur footage of a robbery caught on camera from a balcony by some bored teenager; we all peruse the blurry images of politicos up to no good, caught by a random passerby; we share them, tag them, and comment on them, and we don't care who took them. It seems that war zones and art galleries are the only options left to the pros.

"A bit of normality", Kosovan child, by Sean Smith

So what does this have to do with me? I'm no photographer, but I know some talented people who are, and the situation makes me feel sad for them as a lot of potential avenues for this profession are disappearing. But where this affects me personally is actually in the field of translation. I'll say this right off: the biggest "intruder" in my profession today is undoubtedly Google Translate and hundreds of similar machine-based translation tools. Even though most people know that these machines turn out truly terrible translations which amount to little more than gibberish, I know for a fact that reputable companies use them in a pinch, either because they don't want to pay for a professional translation or because they just want to say that they have a website/brochure/etc. in five languages and don't care if the contents are legible. But you can't really hold a grudge against a machine, and in truth it's not really a serious competitor in my field of specialization (art and culture, literature) because most people who take the time to publish something literary or art-related are at least nominally concerned with the impression that their text will make in translation. They want to publicize their work in the English-speaking world and they know that a machine won't give them the results they want. But funds are limited thanks to the worldwide financial crisis, and costs have to be cut. Unfortunately this often means eliminating "superfluous" things like translations, or finding cheaper ways of getting texts translated. In many cases the difficulty is overcome by hiring a native speaker to do the translating in-house, often for a salary well below what a professional would earn working for him/herself, and occasionally for no pay at all (if they play dirty and take on a string of "interns" instead of hiring someone). Sometimes this works out well and the employee turns out to have a knack for translating, but in many cases the results are less than desirable. Other companies don't have enough volume of work to justify a translator on staff, so they look around for a freelancer offering cheaper rates. Unfortunately cheaper rates, or at least rates well below the generally accepted standard for translations, usually means a cheaper product. As in all markets, you get what you pay for. But non-English-speaking customers usually doesn't realize this as their rudimentary grasp of the language doesn't allow them to pick up on grammatical mistakes or awkward-sounding phrases. They just know that they've got an English translation that looks good to them for half the price.

And all this is due to a common misconception: the belief that any native speaker is capable of translating into their own language. Anyone who has seen a recent study on the average knowledge and writing skills of a U.S. college student should know that having the ability to speak one's own mother tongue, or even a university education, does not necessarily mean that a person knows how to express him/herself well in writing. Toss in the fact that a translator should have a near-native command of the source language, a good memory, the ability to think and write creatively (and coherently), and a wide vocabulary in his/her chosen area of specialization, and the pool becomes much smaller. Don't get me wrong: I'm not saying that anyone who wants to be a translator has to have a degree in translation, and I am all for encouraging people to join the profession. It's a fascinating line of work, but you have to love it and be willing to put in the time it takes to become proficient at any trade, and I have little patience for those who see translating as a way to make an easy buck rather than a painstaking labor of love. Sure, we all work for pay, but in my humble opinion translating is a lot like writing: you have to have a vocation, something inside you that makes you WANT to translate and do it well, to accurately convey not only the contents of a text but the original author's unique voice, something you find so enjoyable and enriching that you would do it for free even if you didn't have to work for a living.

Perhaps I'm too much of a perfectionist. I just think that if you're going to charge for something, you at least ought to make an attempt to do it well. I get incensed when I am asked by my clients to review translations by others and come across things like "Flamenco art of the 15th century in Holland" (flamenco in Spanish can refer to flamenco music/dance but it is also the word for Flemish, and the context here was a big clue).

Flamenco art?

Of course, I'm speaking from the perspective of a translator dealing with art and literary texts. I imagine it's different for someone translating other kinds of material, such as medical or legal texts, where accuracy is paramount but there's not much room for creativity--indeed, a "creative" translation of a medical text could be deadly. But I don't "intrude" in those fields. I know my limitations, and I stick to my area of expertise. I just wish everyone would do the same, and charge a fair rate for their work so that they don't undercut their colleagues.

Speaking of sticking to what you know, I've had a lot of opportunities to "intrude" in another profession: teaching English. I've lost track of how many times I've been asked to tutor kids struggling with their English classes or help adult professionals brush up on their business English. But I've always declined, and not because I don't want to help. I could probably be of some assistance at least informally, helping people improve their conversation and listening skills. But I don't do it for two reasons: one, I don't have the time; and two, I don't feel that I'm qualified. I think you have to have something special to be a teacher, something that makes you want to guide others along the path to knowledge and that makes them want to listen to you, and I freely admit that I don't have it. I know from friends and acquaintances who do teach that there is a lot of behind-the-scenes work involved: research, preparation, sourcing materials, designing a program suited to each age group or level of proficiency, and then the actual teaching itself. It's just not something that excites or motivates me, which suggests that I probably would be doing both my students and myself a disservice if I tried it. I have the highest respect for people who are skilled teachers, and some of them just "fell" into their profession much as I fell into mine: by trying it, finding that they were good at it, and investing time and effort in developing their skills to become ever better at what they do. So again, I'm not saying that anyone who didn't get a degree in their chosen field is an "intruder". If you take your job seriously and love what you do, that's all the qualification you need in my opinion.

So what are your thoughts on intrusismo? Does it affect you in your line of work? Is passion for one's profession a prerequisite or a luxury?

The Baptism of a Vegetable

This story is definitely one for the memoirs...

First, a bit of background. My husband is a "cultural Catholic" and I am a Protestant (non-practicing at the moment as I haven't found a church here that I would feel comfortable attending). As anyone familiar with Spain knows, Catholicism is deeply ingrained in this country's history and culture, and even those who no longer practice or even agree with the dictates of the Church still observe certain religious rites of passage, the main events being baptism (usually at 0-12 months of age), first communion (at 7-10 years old), and marriage. After much discussion and thought, we decided to baptize our children according to the Catholic rite, mainly because it was very important to my mother-in-law and because, if they later express a desire to do first communion or get married in a church ceremony, a baptism certificate is a must. I didn't really have any strong objections as I acknowledge the fact that the richest roots of Protestantism are found in the Catholic Church, and our commonalities far outweigh our differences.

Bobby and I in 2008

And I didn't want our kids to be oddballs or have doors closed to them that they might later want to go through. So, the decision was made, and our son Bobby (Roberto) was baptized at 6 months together with his 4-month-old cousin in the same church where his father had been baptized many moons ago (the Church of Santa Ana in Triana, Seville, a beautiful building with a great priest officiating), followed by a joint reception in Seville for family and friends. So far, so good.

Then it came time to baptize our daughter, Laurel. Our economic situation had changed at lot in 4 years and we no longer had the means to throw a big bash at a rented venue, so we decided to host a simple party at our house with just the family (with catering provided by yours truly). As we weren't going to rent a place in Seville, we thought it made sense to have the ceremony at our town's parish church so everyone wouldn't have a 40-minute drive to get to the party afterwards. Although we had never actually attended mass at this church (on the rare occasions we've gone it's always been in Seville), we knew this wouldn't be a problem as the majority of "Catholic" Spaniards rarely darken a church door except on special occasions (in the States, they would be called "Christmas and Easter Christians") and the clergy are generally resigned to this fact. So we talked to the sacristan, reserved a date, and showed up for the mandatory cursillo or "little course" that parents and godparents have to take beforehand.

The course should have rung more than a few warning bells. Instead of the usual reminders of the significance of baptism and exhortations to the godparents, the sacristan waxed eloquent about the evil people who choose not to baptize their children and the consequences for their tiny immortal souls. "Van a salir moritos" was a favorite phrase I heard several times, roughly meaning "they'll turn out to be Moors/infidels", the Moors (Muslims) being the greatest ancient enemy of Spanish Catholicism for centuries. I thought that ghost had been put to rest, but apparently not in the small-town heartland. His voice ricocheted off the church walls as he shook his finger at us to drive home the point that if our children turn out "badly", it would be entirely our fault for not raising them in the church. I was quivering in my boots for fear that I would be singled out as a heretic, as the sacristan already knew from the forms we'd filled out that I had never been baptized in the Catholic rite and--horror of horrors--we had been married in a civil rather than a religious ceremony. Part of this fear was justified, as after the speech he went around to each couple checking the information on their forms and asked us, peering suspiciously over his horn-rimmed glasses, "What's this you've put here in the 'place of marriage' field?" I had innocently put down "Seville City Hall", not knowing that what they wanted was the name of a church. I replied, "Yes, it says Ayuntamiento de Sevilla, that's where we were married." He tut-tutted (yes, he actually did!) and said, "Well, that has no validity in the eyes of the church, so we might as well just cross it out." And just like that, 8 years of marriage were stricken from the record. He also queried the name we had put down for our daughter, Laurel (my mother's name), which is unusual even in the States and here is unheard-of. He looked askance at us when we explained that it is pronounced "LAU-rel" not "Lau-REL", which is the name for bay leaf in Spanish, but no more was said so we felt that we were in the clear at least on that point.

Church of Santa María la Mayor, Sanlúcar la Mayor

I had a bad feeling about going through with the ceremony after that grueling incident, but we talked it over and decided that we didn't want to start all over again at another church, and besides, the worst was probably over. Oh ye of little foresight...

The fateful day arrived. It was just before 7 pm on a sweltering June afternoon, and we met up with Manolo's family and took our seats in the 3rd row. The church was packed, as there were 5 other couples baptizing their children at the same time, each with their retinue of friends and relatives. Sweat was trickling down our faces, babies were wailing (not ours, thankfully) and there was a murmur of hushed conversation from the back of the church. By the way, I have to say that the church itself is lovely, a 14th-century Mudejar masterpiece with a fairly simple decorative scheme that contrasts with the Baroque ostentation of many other churches in Seville... not that Baroque should be anything other than ostentatious and overly lavish, but every once in a while it's refreshing to come across a church not dripping in gilt. And the beams of late afternoon light pouring in the windows were skilfully captured by our photographer, my brother-in-law's brother who for many years was a staff photographer for the newspaper ABC. After a wait of about 10 minutes, the sacristy door finally opened and the elderly parish priest made his way to the pulpit. He grasped the microphone and said, "Now, we're about to begin the baptismal ceremony, but before we do there is something that needs to be cleared up. We have here," and he thumbed through a sheaf of papers in his hand which I recognized as the forms we had filled out for the course a month earlier, "a child whose parents have asked to christen her with the name of a vegetal (a vegetable/plant), which is obviously unacceptable. Will the parents of that child please come forward for a consultation?" Nothing stirred in the church for about 10 seconds, as I slowly came to the horrified realization that he was talking about US, and I elbowed Manolo frantically and whispered, "Hey, that's us! Go up there and see what he wants, and just explain that Laurel is a variant of Laura!" Of course he had been lost in his own thoughts and it took another 20 seconds for me to relay the message, but when he realized what had happened his features became set in that stormy look I've come to know means big trouble, and he stalked up the aisle and into the sacristy.

I have to explain that, until relatively recently, children had to be baptized with a saint's name, at least here in Spain. This is still the tradition, though it is no longer mandatory. I had initially suspected that we might have trouble with the name "Laurel" because of this, as some parishes still demand a "Christian" name, but knowing that it wasn't mandatory according to the Vatican gave me some reassurance, and knowing that the parish had been informed of our choice at least one month in advance (and having been asked about the name at the course by the sacristan) we assumed it wouldn't be an issue. But you know what they say about ASSuming things...

Back to the church. The entire congregation was abuzz, no doubt with excited whisperings about what kind of vegetable we were hoping to baptize and who this strange family was. The mother in front of me kindly suggested that we could just change the name to Laura for the ceremony, which I wouldn't have minded doing if we had been consulted in advance as one's "Christian" name has no legal effects as far as government documentation or identity. But I knew that trouble was brewing in that back office, and my husband's innate horror of being humiliated or criticized in public had almost certainly triggered a reaction that was anything but conciliatory.

Angry man, illuminated

After 15 minutes of waiting, during which my cheeks acquired a flush that had little to do with the overpowering heat and stuffiness of the building, I finally asked my brother-in-law who was acting as godfather to go check on Manolo and try to remedy the situation if possible (or at least hide the body if things had gotten out of hand). He scurried into the sacristy, and 2 minutes later all parties emerged. Manolo and his brother took their seats again, the former with a murderous look on his face and the latter looking rather sheepish, and the priest took the microphone and began the rite. I whispered, "What happened? Did you change the baptismal name to Laura?" and he glared at me and said "Not now, I'll tell you later. But she is going to be baptized with the name we chose, or we are walking out of here." The rest of the ceremony proceeded without a hitch, though the priest did look daggers at us when it was our turn at the font, and he very clearly and deliberately pronounced the name wrong (Lau-REL the plant). But we saw it through and practically ran out of the church to form a family huddle and get the scoop on what had transpired behind the scenes.

Apparently, the conversation went something like this (abbreviated version).
Manolo: So what's the problem?
Priest: I can't baptize your daughter with a pagan name, you should have known that.
M: Well, having a saint's name isn't mandatory anymore, is it?
P: Not technically, but I'm in charge here and I make the rules.
M: Well then we should have been informed of those rules a month ago when we first told you about our choice of name.
P: I can't be expected to read every form that's filled out for baptisms, it's your responsibility to comply with church norms.
M: Grrrr....
P: Why don't you look over this list of saint's names and pick one you like?
M: What, you just expect me to pick a new name out of a hat at a moment's notice? We might have considered that possibility IF we had been duly informed of the rules, but after you've used this situation to publicly embarrass me and my family there is no way in hell I'm changing the name. She was named after her SAINTED grandmother, and by God she's going to be baptized Laurel or not at all.
P: (Huffy) Fine, that's your choice.
M: Just so you know, this is going to appear in tomorrow morning's headlines. I'm a lawyer, I know what canon law says about this (he totally invented this part, but by now he's on a roll) and I can assure you that your outrageous behavior is going to be front-page news.
P: (Red-faced) Are you threatening me?
M: No, I'm just stating the facts. We comply with everything that we're told to do, we show up on time and in our places, and you can't even be bothered to read the names of the children you're baptizing until 5 minutes before the ceremony? And then feel it's your duty to make a public example of us by calling us out in front of the whole town?
P: There's no need to get upset, I'm sure we can work something out.
M: Yes, we can work it out in the press because I'm done talking.
P: But why don't you just take a look at the names and see if any appeal to you?
M: (Looking down at the list of names of the other children in today's baptism) What's this? You're baptizing a "Lola"? Who is Saint Lola?
P: Well, that's acceptable because it's a shorter version of Manuela.
M: Yes, but it's not Manuela, it's Lola. So you bend the rules for some but not for others.
ENTER THE MEDIATOR (BROTHER-IN-LAW)
BL: How's everything going in here?
P: He's threatening me!!
M: I won't consent to being treated like this!!
BL: Well, did you explain that Laurel is a variation of Laura?
SILENCE.
P: (Relieved) Well, why didn't you say so? Of course that's fine, Saint Laura is on our list, that solves it.
M: (Grumbling) Great, let's get on with it before I change my mind. (EXIT)
BL: I'm really sorry about all this.
P: (Recovering some of his aplomb) Well, I should say so. The nerve of threatening an ordained priest! Hrumph.

On retelling the story to some of our local acquaintances, they were not very surprised. Apparently this priest has been at the church for 50 years and is famous for his old-school views, pointedly critical homilies (complete with fingering individuals in the congregation for specific sins), and cantankerous nature. Of course no one had warned us of this beforehand... I'm sure the local pubs and coffee houses are still abuzz with the story of that weird couple who wasn't even properly married and then went and baptized a "vegetable".

The bay laurel, Laurus nobilis

Country Living

We are oddballs in Spain. And not just because I'm a "furriner"... I've gotten used to that and wear the "americana" label with pride (hint: it's a free pass to get away with wearing flip-flops in autumn and hoodies whenever you feel like it). No, the really odd thing about us is where we live. Coming from a small town in rural Maine where most people can't even see their nearest neighbor's house from their yard, I don't consider where we live particularly remote or "rural", but for Spain, where people actually like living piled on top of one another, we are waaaaaay out in the country. Our house is located in one of the "urbanizaciones" (housing developments) that grew up haphazardly on what were once privately-owned agricultural plots: people were supposed to use them to grow produce or cultivate fruit trees, but then some starting building little shacks for weekending, and the shacks gave way to houses, and some started putting in pools, and finally a few brave souls decided to live here year-round. By the time the authorities took an interest it had already become a full-fledged neighborhood with almost 300 houses. So they decided to legalize it and they're still in the process of equipping our development with all the amenities of civilization (i.e. paved streets, drinking water, sewer system, telephone service, etc.). For now we continue to "rough it": our taps have running water from a community reservoir which is clean but not drinkable by today's standards; our phones and internet connections are all provided by mobile companies as there isn't any copper wiring to speak of yet; every plot has its own sump tank for waste disposal; and at night we enjoy fabulous views of the starry sky as there are no street lights and little "luminous pollution" from neighbors, most of whom are still weekenders. Spaniards think these are sub-par living conditions and most would never choose to live in such a place, but for us it works fine.

My favorite olive tree in our back yard

Of course there are drawbacks. We can't get anywhere walking (except to the fields behind our development). We don't have mail delivery service. We have to buy bottled water in bulk. The power outages are more frequent. And we have to deal with something that rarely bothers the vast majority of Spain's population: yard work. Spanish housewives are famous for their immaculately clean homes, but I wonder what level of cleanliness they would be able to maintain if they also had to mow the lawn, whack the weeds, prune the bushes, organize the shed, clean the pool... At least I console myself with this thought when the dust bunnies start cartwheeling across the living room floor like tumbleweeds in a John Wayne flick. They'd probably take it all in stride: I've encountered few things more formidable than an "ama de casa" armed with the tools of her trade. Thank goodness I'm not Spanish and everyone accepts the fact that as an American I don't know how to keep house "properly".

But there are plenty of perks to country living in Spain. One of my favorite things is not having a live audience tuning in to every marital spat or worrying that the upstairs/downstairs neighbors are getting fed up with my wailing infant or loud-mouthed child (I have to write another entry on the volume of speech here vs. the US, a fascinating subject). We can holler at each other to our heart's content and no one will mind (if they even hear us). Another bonus is the fresh air, the greenery, the space, and the fact that I can let my boisterous boy run wild in the yard to expend his pent-up energy while I type away at my laptop on the back porch.

I can't envision myself trekking to the city park every day as most Spanish moms do; I find it hard enough to fit everything that needs doing into the available hours of each day, and a 2-hour jaunt to the park every afternoon would totally throw a wrench (a spanner for my UK pals) in the works. And in the summer it's great: we have pool parties every weekend with all the cousins, BBQs with family and friends, and warm, quiet evenings with my husband in the garden sipping tinto de verano (homemade wine spritzer).

The downside is that we are too far away for easy childcare arrangements, so we rarely get to go out, and when we do it's like packing for a week-long trip with the travel crib, diapers and changing paraphernalia, extra clothes in case of accidents or mud puddles, stroller... ugh. But everything in life is a trade-off, and on the whole we are pretty happy with our bargain.

Local Color

Every country, region and language has its own colorful expressions. I confess that I am completely enamored of the popular sayings and phrases of Andalusia, which never fail to make me laugh and marvel at the creativity of the human mind. I don't really know if these are uniquely andaluz, common throughout Spain, or just made up by my acquaintances, but wherever they come from, I love them. Here are some of my favorites:

Más lento que el caballo del malo - Slower than the bad guy's horse (what a great visual: really, when is the bad guy's horse EVER faster than the good guy's?)

No sabía si tirarme al tren o al maquinista - I couldn't decide whether to throw myself under the train or at the engineer. An eloquent and slightly salacious expression indicating a state of confusion so great that you don't know whether to throw in the towel or go for broke (in this case, by jumping into the engineer's lap!).

Más sabe el diablo por viejo que por diablo - Literally, the devil knows more because he's old than because he's the devil. The senior citizen's clever way of saying, "I've been around long enough to know what I'm talking about, you insolent young pup."

Salud y pesetas, lo demás son puñetas - Health and wealth, to hell with everything else. No comment needed.

Es más listo que los ratones coloraos - He's smarter than colored mice. I still haven't figured out why colored mice are supposed to be smart, or exactly where one would find a colored mouse. Maybe because a mouse would have to be pretty smart to figure out a way to dye its fur?

Más contento que un tonto con un lápiz. Literally, "Happier than an idiot with a pencil", the equivalent being our "Happier than a pig in mud".

El que no llora no mama. He who doesn't cry doesn't suckle. Something like, "If you don't speak up you won't get what you want."

Feel free to comment on your own favorites (in Spanish or English)...

The Schoolyard Grapevine

Having a child in a foreign school system is quite an experience. And it's more than a bit scary, as you have no frame of reference from your own childhood, no way of knowing what's changed or what's new in the system since you were in school, what is expected of your child or, more importantly at the preschool level, of you as a parent. My almost-5-year-old is now in his second year of "educación infantil", which starts at age 3 and goes through age 5, the last year being equivalent to kindergarten in the States. The first important thing I discovered is that you only have one shot to get your child into the school you want, and if you don't take it at age 3 (say, if you were considering keeping him home until age 5 or 6, when education becomes compulsory) then you are almost certainly going to be stuck with whatever school happens to have an opening. And it's usually the least desirable school in your district.

Places in schools are awarded based on a complicated points system which changes every few years, so what applied 2 years ago when we filed our son's request may not apply when it comes time to repeat the process for our daughter (now on the verge of turning 1).I say this as a warning to anyone who might read this blog and assume that they can be guided by my experience. Points can be racked up for a number of things: the most points are awarded for having a sibling already at the school of your choice, and your current place of residence and place of work are two other biggies. You also get points for having an annual income under a certain level (based on tax returns from 2 years prior, which makes no sense), for being a single parent, for having a mentally or physically disabled person under your care (or perhaps this only applies to the child applying, I didn't read the fine print on this one), or if one of the parents is employed by the school in question. Quotas for each school are set by the state (by the way, all this rigmarole applies only to public or charter/concertado schools, I'm sure the criteria for private centers is completely different). Under this system, your child is pretty much a shoe-in if he/she has a sibling at your chosen school, and you have an advantage if you are a registered resident in the school district or its "area of influence" (the boundaries of these districts and areas tend to change each year). We were at a disadvantage as this was our first child to enter the school system (no points for siblings), we were still married and living together (I know, odd ducks, right?), and our income was above the cut-off line (though if they took our expenses into account we'd certainly have qualified). So all our hopes were pinned on the points for district residents. Of course a lot of other families had the same number of points, so after handing out the first places to the high scorers the rest of us were left waiting for the lottery. Yes, the lottery!

To solve this problem "fairly", every year the regional authorities come up with a random four-digit decimal which has to be multiplied by the total number of students with the same number of points who are vying for the remaining places. The decimal places are then removed from the resulting number and this plus 1 indicates which position on the alphabetical list is first. Confused? I was. But I eventually figured it out. I'll illustrate with an example. In a school with one room per year, only 25 kids can be admitted to each grade. Say there are 20 kids with 10 points each who applied to the same school, but there are only 15 spots left in the class after the ones with the highest points have already been given a place. The random number for the year's lottery is 0.4080. So 15 x 0.4080 = 6.12. Eliminate the decimal positions and we get 6. Add 1, we have 7. That means that on the list of kids who all have the same points, arranged in alphabetical order, whoever is 7th on the list is the first one to get a spot, and the 14 who come after him in alphabetical order are also in. And numbers 2-6 on the list are out of luck and will be assigned a place at another school in the district that can accommodate them. Here's where it gets nasty: parents have a window of opportunity in which they can challenge the results of this "raffle", and the most common way to do this is by alleging that some of the other contenders don't deserve the points they claim to have. This is often the case, as people have been known to use the addresses of relatives or friends living in the desired district in order to get residency points, and some couples have even filed for divorce to get the single-parent points (and then conveniently "make up" right before school starts). Parents will go to great lengths to get their children into the right school: some hire private detectives to spy on other parents suspected of playing dirty, and others go out and do the digging themselves. I had a first-hand confession of these activities from the mother of one of my son's classmates, whose older son was originally denied a place in the school. She proudly narrated her adventures as an amateur sleuth, digging through town hall records and trailing parents to see if they really lived where they said they lived, and she uncovered enough evidence of skullduggery to bump two kids off the list and get hers in. Legally, she was entirely within her rights, and yes, those cheating parents should be ashamed of their tricks, but I can't see myself playing Sherlock in the boonies of Andalusia and kicking other people's 3-year-olds to the curb. I made a mental note never to cross that particular mommy.

So, to make a long story short, our son got lucky on the wheel of fortune and was admitted to the school we had wanted, one of the town's two charter schools. So far we are happy with the school, though my foreign ignorance and my husband's typically male absent-mindedness has already supplied more than a few funny stories. I don't know if this is a small-town thing or if it's a Spain-wide (or worldwide?) phenomenon, but I have discovered that the mommy grapevine is absolutely vital. Why put something in writing when you know that all the mothers are going to share info at the gate at pick-up time? Sure, it saves paper and the drag of writing out 25 notes to parents, but I seem to be one of the few that never gets the message until it's too late. I seem to be one of the few working mothers in the group, and one of the even smaller group of mothers who don't go to pick up their children every day. As we live about 15 minutes away by car (another anomaly, most people live within walking distance) my husband is usually the chauffeur; my office is at home, whereas he works outside the home, so it makes more sense for him to do the driving whenever possible and save me the hassle of packing up baby and losing a precious hour of work time.

But of course, being a man, he rarely strikes up conversations with the huddled packs of chattering mothers, and so misses all the vital word-of-mouth notifications. Like the day we found a note in our son's backpack asking us to bring one meter of cola de ratón to school the next day. My husband is Spanish, born and bred, but not into crafts, and without any additional information we puzzled over the brief note, wondering why in the world a 3-year-old needed a mouse tail and where on earth we could get one without engaging in animal cruelty. After trolling the internet we discovered that cola de ratón (mouse tail) is a kind of string, which from the pictures online looked like the same kind of cord we used for our clothesline, so we sent along a meter of that. Of course it wasn't the right kind, and everyone had a good laugh at our expense. And on another occasion hubby miraculously opened his ears long enough to hear that all the kids had to come to school the next day wearing a hat. So we dug out our son's adorable baseball cap and sent him on his merry way, only to find the entire class sporting the typical flat-brimmed hat worn by boys and men during the April Fair (it was April, so if we had stopped to think we might have figured it out). Needless to say, the baseball cap quickly disappeared into my husband's briefcase, but not before several of the parents had had a good chuckle. And then there was the day that he showed up at the gate only to find it locked and the schoolyard entirely empty. Standing in the middle of the street with our son dressed in his uniform, backpack and all, he asked a passer-by if he knew why everything was closed up, and the man replied, "Don't you know it's a holiday? Today is the feast day of the town's patron saint!" Not being "locals" and living out in the burbs, we had entirely forgotten--of course, if I had been nattering with the mums the day before, I would have picked up on this. Thankfully our son isn't overly sensitive (more the active, rowdy type) and so far doesn't seem to care that his parents are clueless, but we are trying to tune in more often so that we don't end up making him the laughing-stock of our little town. But I'm sure there will be many more blunders; I just hope we can continue to laugh them off.

Learning English: Mission Impossible?

So last night I was watching a game show on Spanish TV, and two of the contestants were the comic duo Los Morancos:

These guys are brothers, born and raised in the colorful neighborhood of Triana in Seville, and most of the time they crack me up. On the show they were given a series of clues and they had to compete against each other to guess the name of the song, which was Madonna's "Like a Virgin". The first four clues gave them plenty of opportunities to make the audience roar with laughter, but neither one could come up with the song's name (apparently... who knows if it was part of their gag routine). The fifth and final clue was "Como una virgen" and the half-laughing, half-incredulous host said, "Ok guys, all you have to do here is TRANSLATE the phrase into English, it's not that hard." And their answer was "How One Veergeen". You'll only get this if you speak both Spanish and English so I won't bother trying to explain why this is both hilarious and disheartening.

Lately I've seen several news reports about the mental block that many Spaniards seem to have when it comes to learning English. A lot of people think it's hopeless and that Spaniards have some kind of genetic inability to master our language, which I find hard to believe. I've met a lot of people in Spain who have a very good grasp of English and can hold their own in conversations, but it's true that I've met very few who I would describe as totally fluent, and even fewer who can write a one-page letter in English without grammatical mistakes. Is English really that hard to learn? Or are Spaniards just getting started too late in life, or not getting the right kind of instruction? I started learning Spanish when I was almost 12--past the ideal age, according to the experts, but before my brain had cemented itself into monolingual mode, so I was able to become fully bilingual. Of course I think it's virtually impossible to ever completely "know" any language, even one's mother tongue: I am still learning new words in English and Spanish, new expressions and rules. And it's fun and fascinating, a learning process that will hopefully continue for the rest of my life.

The odd thing is that children who start young are supposed to have a head start on learning a second language, but I don't really see the results in the new generation who have been exposed to English since nursery school. My nieces and nephews (the oldest of whom is now 14) have been getting English classes at school since they first enrolled, and most of them are also taking private classes after school. But their pronunciation is dreadful and their listening comprehension is almost nil. Why? Is it because their teachers aren't native English speakers? Is the instruction method deficient? What do they do in all those hours of English class? Why are northern Europeans able to attain such a high level of English proficiency while their southern counterparts continue to lag behind? The Spanish government is pushing for bilingual schools, but their educational workforce belongs to the generation of "genetically-challenged" English speakers, and the current teacher hiring system (a bureaucratic mire of exams with questions that have nothing to do with the job you're competing for, with an obscure points system and open only to EU citizens) makes it impossible for each school to directly recruit the best person for the job. I tremble to think of what my children will go through in their future "English classes" (which they almost certainly will not be excused from taking, no matter how high their level of English is, because the rigid school system in Spain makes no allowances for students who are below or above average... kind of an "every child left behind" policy). If I'm still blogging when the storm breaks, you'll be sure to hear about it.