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...