Closure

I once famously held off five bloodthirsty students, preventing them from killing a spider which was running out of our tent, only to see it squashed moments later by a five year old girl holding a big red balloon. If I remember correctly she even spat at the deceased insect. As you see from this example, I am – by definition – the ultimate naïve pacifier.

Yet, this weekend saw me fulfill a wish I have had for most of my adult life: dress up as a killer of bulls – that very Spanish personification of, well, death.

As I scaled the wobbly chair to salute my adoring crowd (of cheerleaders, golf players and, yes, even a sextet of aerosol spray cans all chanting to-re-ro, to-re-ro) I found myself dancing to the summit of modern musical culture, the YMCA and had, therefore, plenty of time to reflect on my perverse – yet very real – desire to don the suit of a matador.

There is a very good Pedro Almodovar movie called Matador which explores the theme. It is about Diego Montes, a bullfighter, who is forced into early retirement by a horn-inflicted injury. He then switches his prey from bulls to women: after making love to them, he finds that killing them is his only way of reliving the intense emotions of the sunny afternoons of his past.

So, is this what I secretly want? No of course not. If Carnival is about achieving your deepest yearning of becoming something you actually want to be I would dress up as a singer-song writer, a NASA-scientist, or indeed, a Great Galapagos Sea Tortoise.

I reached this conclusion as I was replaced on my wobbly chair, which had rapidly turned into the bar’s centre stage in just over a minute, by what I can only describe as a large insect-like grasshopper from a distant planet, from let’s say Mars. He or she continued my YMCA dance but the crowd turned – to my surprise – against my replacement. The insect saw it was losing the audience so I was pulled back into the act as he or she (I still couldn’t tell) pointed to his or her heart. It was obvious what I, the maestro torero, had to do: I had to kill this funny looking creature off with my plastic sword. The crowd was back in and the mesmerizing chanting of to-re-ro had started yet again. Nobody – not even the large group of gypsy fortune tellers which accompanied us that night – could have realized that by finishing of this extraterrestrial bug I was revenging that little girl with the red balloon who had jeopardized my reputation all those years ago. Psychologists would call that closure.

Closure or not, it became clear to me why I wanted – for one night only – to be a bullfighter. In daily life – I remember from a distant uni class – human beings are expected to act according to specific social settings. Sociologist Erving Goffman uses the metaphor of a theatre, and that we all act according to what is expected of us to avoid confusion. One of his famous quotes was that "society is organized on the principle that any individual who possesses certain social characteristics has a moral right to expect that others will value and treat him in an appropriate way” (don’t worry I had to look that up!).

Carnival, luckily, messes that all up, and this is what relaxes the mind. However, I noticed that everybody did keep to their role; the cheerleaders flirted, the golf-players acted posh and the aerosol cans, well, I guessed they just stunk. And the Martian insect? It got killed by a bullfighter.

El pez sano

So, as my name was called out in almost perfect English, it all came to an end this morning with a solid ‘Thomas Reeve, sala 17 por favor’. It wasn’t the first time I had spent lingering in the ageing waiting room of Hospital San Carlos, but hopefully it will be my last.

I congratulated the doctor with the pronunciation of my name, which sounded rather smug coming from me as I struggled myself over the 4-syllable word ‘pronunciación’. Ironic. She chuckled. I was not sure if this was out of self-satisfaction or to bury my own incompetence. Either way, she wasted no time in getting to business and she said I was perfectly ok. She based this conclusion on some tests lying on the table, only handed over to her seconds earlier by a Joe Pesci look-alike. Some weeks earlier I had undergone a blood-test and an ‘ecografía’ to see if there were any nasty side-affects after the operation. Luckily, there were none. And so ended our last appointment which went smoothly until a somewhat uncomfortable tug-of-war for my blood analysis which I wanted to take home and she wanted to keep for administration. I won the battle; she won the war with a subtle ‘we don’t need it anyway’.

I left the hospital feeling good, like a pez sano, a healthy fish. I also felt a bit philosophical. Just two weeks ago another doctor had told me that ‘I had been bloody lucky surviving as I could have been anywhere but close to a hospital when my spleen finally ripped.’ He also told me that I should now ‘do something with my life as it was obviously someone’s wish that I was still here’.

I wasn’t sure how I should take his comments as this is the same doctor who had me confused for minutes whilst scanning my insides blabbering ‘blaaaaahdaaah, blaaahdeeeeer, blaaadder’, referring as we discovered later to my bladder. He later told me that as a kid he had lived for three weeks with a family in Birmingham which is where he learnt all the 'intestistnes' in English. I played a long as it was obvious he was trying to impress the nurse. I think he was grateful for this as he gave me a manly pat on the shoulder as I left, quipping ‘you can’t have a decent fight on the streets these days without being sent to hospital’ which left me a bit disturbed and concerned at the same time.

Just as I thought ‘this show had finished’ he yelled “so what do you think about the crisis?” Another attempt to impress the nurse perhaps? Or maybe he was just happy to have a fellow university graduate in his practice – certainly no strange thought judging from the crowd in the waiting room. “Well,” I stammered – struck by this surprise parting question as only moments ago we were debating on how to pronounce ‘kidney’ in English – “estamos bien jodidos, I think that many people made many mistakes due to the fact that their greed was fuelled by flawed opportunities which made even more people materialistically blind infecting almost the entire western world in believing that there was no end to financial growth (failing completely to use any economic terms whatsoever).

“Ya,” the doctor said pondering on what I just said as if I had just explained the Conundrum of Complicity. “Do you know what my wife thinks?” Wow. Now, this was unexpected, I thought, being unsure if Mrs Doctor would approve of her husbands loose lips. “No,” I replied, delivering my doc a platform to stage his final performance. “She is unsure about the rescue package offered by the president of the United States. The numbers are just so big she thinks its confusing so she made a small calculation, do you want to hear it?”

I had already overstayed my welcome so I gathered that five extra minutes wouldn’t hurt. “She asked me why not give the 700 billion Euros to the whole population of the world? If there are 6.7 million people living on this planet this means that every human being would get something like 104 million Euros!” He let this number sink in to create a dramatic effect although he didn’t keep quiet for long. “And that’s per person, I have five kids you know, giving our family well over 700 million Euros!” Another pause, he could see I thought his wife had a point. “Do you know how many pesetas that are?!!??!” (I have always been bemused with the remaining dependence of ALL Spaniards on the peseta calculating EVERY amount above 45 EUR to their old currency to comprehend the scale of things) I didn’t know and frankly didn’t care but he gave me the answer: 17263 million pesetas!

So, Englishman, tell me “what the hell should I think of that?”

Three photos

Please take a look at three photos which stuck with me this week.

1) Party season in SpainDuring the whole of august Spain celebrates parties in every little village, town and city of the country. This picture was - quite obviously - taken during a bullfight. My opinion about Bullfighting is like that of the average Spaniard: I am neither against (if you are against bullfighting, stop eating meat altogether as breeding fat chickens in a large full shed is worse than breeding a bull in a wide open field you hypocrite), and neither in favor (hmm..poor bulls). And honestly I am a bit tired of the subject - not worth getting so exited about (although picture demonstrates otherwise). To totally shut up the 'contra's' I suggest that all bullfights should be done like this (follow video link). Simply one of the most amazing things I have ever seen.


2) Atletico in the Champions League!
After 11 years yesterday Atleti smashed German side Schalke04 (0-4...how appropriate!) to reach the group phase of the Champions League. Hero of the night - as always - was 'Kun' Agüero - our small Argentinean number 10, scoring the first goal and involved in pretty much all of the play. 'Kun' has - however - doen something more impressive. He has turned Maradona into Atleti's biggest fan by....impregnating his daughter! Yesterday the great man could be seen dancing, crying, hugging, jumping, singing, swearing like any other roji-blanco. Maradona an Atleti supporter? Nobody would have thought that 11 years ago after we crashed out against Ajax in our last champions league performance.

3.) Madrid airport tragedy
No words needed really...

Despegue, siniestro, luto

Despegue, siniestro, luto. Take-off, disaster, mourning. All new words for me.

Reading the news every day in Spanish has helped me develop my language skills, but this week I have been taught a lesson I would have rather done without.

With every big event I learn new vocabulary and verbs, the Euro Cup taught me saca de banda (throw-in) and a por ellos (let’s go after them), the Olympics added cien metros lisos (one hundred metres sprint on track) and salto con pertiga (pole vault). It is these constant references – the ones you can’t escape and then later can’t imagine how you went through life without them as you hear the words over and over again – that are developing my Spanish more than anything.

Reading the news or watching it on tele this week hasn’t been too much fun though. Horrible, awful stories. It was Siomara’s first flight ever. Javier and Zanaida went to baptise their 3 month year old baby. Maria and Ruben were getting married. The father of Donovan wanted – minutes before the fatal take-off – to get out of the plane as he was afraid after the captain had told them that there had been a delay due to technical problems. They didn’t let him. His body was identified yesterday instead.

Amazing stories too. Hector and his wife left home rushing and missed the flight by three minutes. The check-in had closed and anger soon turned into total and utter relief for Hector whose face was expressing a mix of morbid astonishment and blissful sorrow. Then there was Goreti who was going to take this flight last minute, but then decided to take another flight with another company at the same time ‘as it was 10 Euro’s cheaper’.

Personal story. My old friend Luwe wrote me a message at 12.08, “Hey, poom (how he calls me), I am now at Madrid Airport on my way through to Ibiza. Exams went well, let’s see if I can visit you in September or October! Send my regards to Carmen.” Around 14.45 my work mate asked me if I had already read the news ‘about the crash at Madrid airport’. “Where to?”, I asked as I rushed to the computer not knowing how long Luwe’s wait was for his flight. One minute later I read that the flight was on its way to Gran Canaria. Ooef.

Mujeres y hombres y viceversa

Mujeres y hombres y viceversa (Women and men and viceversa) is a typical Spanish day-time dating programme, and actually, it is not that bad. Great Siesta entertainment if you ask me (unfortunately I don’t get to see it often, only on Fridays when I can get home a bit early).

Basically, there is a main character (every show there are two guys and two girls) who everyday has two dates with contestants from the opposite sex, chosen from a pool of about 16 overly attractive human beings. After these dates - which tend to be extremely embarrassing for both due to the absolute lack of conversational power - the main person who chooses the dates has to send somebody home (amongst the shouting of the crowd and – strangely – after the advice of a ‘professional dating panel’). Amazingly - for reasons only known to the production team - another beautiful person replaces this outcast so that it can take months until the main character chooses the love of his life.

So, why am I telling you all this? Well, firstly because Carmen and I analyze these dates in depth – slashing out towards the contestants with a mixture of disdain (what a bunch of idiots, how can you base a first ten minute date on the question 'do you like skinny-dipping?') and absolute envy (why aren't we so pretty?).

And secondly, because we actually appeared on it! Yes, after months of amusement we bumped into one of these dates (usually held in exotic nightclubs, horse-tracks, weird spa's and child amusement parks - do people actually do this?) in the famous Flamenco Bar 'Casa Patas' where we were buying tickets for a Flamenco song and dance show to be watched by our Dutch friends Alon and Yaël (the show was later to be branded as 'one of the most boring things I have ever seen, comfortably beating a musical I once saw about a bloodthirsty Australian medic' by the enthusiastic Alon).

If you look closely at the video you will see a group of four standing behind the guy (named Efrén, what kind of name is that?). First, check out the photo above so you will be able to localize us on screen, you will see Carmen peeking behind the beam, holding a white bag, but hardly holding her nerve on national television. We were both overly and childishly exited. I can be seen from the back - my best side - in a white t-shirt slightly to the right of her. Alon and Yaël are hidden somewhere between us.

The date itself – between Efrén and a Seville dressed Soroya – itself wasn't too bad. Here is what the website has to say about it when comparing it to the other date of the day:

Dos formas distintas de conquistar

Soraya y Dulce han tenido su primera cita con Efrén y las dos se han volcado intentando conquistar al tronista. Sin embargo han utilizado estrategias muy distintas. Soraya se ha mostrado muy cariñosa y ha preparado una romántica cena donde poder encontrar alguna afinidad con Efrén. Dulce ha sido más atrevida y ha llevado a su chico directamente al agua. Entre sidra y piropos han podido empezar a conocerse.

Two different forms of conquering

Soraya and Dulce (Sweetness) have had their first date with Efrén and both of them have tried to win over their man. However, they used two very different strategies. Soroya showed to be very sweet and had prepared a romantic dinner where she hoped to find some affinity with Efrén. Dulce was more straight-forward and took her boy directly into the water. Between cider (hmm, I didn’t quite get that translation) and flattering comments they were able to get to know each other.

So, on this particular date, Soroya showed her ‘sweet side’ (i.e was boring and didn’t say anything of importance except ‘you are very handsome’ and ‘yes, I smoke, its my only sin’ – upon which, by the way, Efrén said that his ideal woman didn’t smoke, bummer) whilst Efrén’s only sentence bearing any type of significance was that the perfect girl should always be able to impress his mum (incidentally, he rapidly added that he thought Soroya would do just that – how he came to this swift conclusion remained, as ever, unclear).

To compare, watch the other date at some kind of swimming pool. Efrén confesses that he doesn’t like ‘the typical artificial woman with lots of make-up, operated and who spends all her time watching herself in the mirror’. No, Efrén prefers – like most of the contestants oddly enough – the inner person (why, oh why, do they always say that?). Two questions arise from this confession: ‘what the hell is Efrén doing there?’ and ‘is an artificial woman therefore typical?’. Hmm, I don’t think Efrén knows the answer but it would be a good question for the next date. I can’t wait; meanwhile Carmen and I will now prowl through the city for more dates to surprise, the casino perhaps?

August in Madrid

Friday 1^st of August. “Hmm, that’s strange,” I think as I wonder past the empty spot close to my work where normally an army of five free-newspaper-handout-people try to attack me with their nonsense filled tabloids, “where are those flies?” As I arrive at my office I realize: it is the first of August, Madrid is on holiday. I asked around and my suspicion is confirmed. A colleague of mine informs me that she read the day before in the newspaper Metro that they would shut down for the entire month ‘due to holidays’! A newspaper! Shut down! For a whole month! Due to holidays! That’s just great.

There is an odd end-of-term (or actually, post-end-of-term..euh therefore holiday) feeling in the city at the moment which is apparently totally normal for Madrid in august. It actually reminds me of when I was a child (oh no, here we go again) during the final days of my primary school, when we had to return to school to rehearse the final play although all classes had already been suspended for summer holidays. The grand school building was empty and those of us who weren’t very clever (and therefore had only a very small part to play – I for example had exactly two lines to rehearse) would spend their time running through the empty halls and playing football in the corridors. The physical structure of the school was there, but the educational authority and control had gone.

This is more or less the sensation of walking through Madrid during August. Again it is the less fortunate who have to stay in the city as over 50% of Madrid have gone on holidays – most taking the A3 to the closest beach in Valencia.

So, what about the rest of us? What can we do in the capital whilst all shopkeepers, hairdressers and all other businesses are ‘cerrado por vacaciones’? I – for instance – would like to return to that childhood feeling and run up and down Gran Vía, doing roly-polies and playing football with the ten other people who have decided to stay. Nobody would object and it certainly seems possible.

However, other little details make the stay in Madrid not so bad. Street parties have crept up out of nowhere to entertain us. Outside bars have been put up overnight and terraces are to be found on every street corner occupying the parking spaces left empty by the beach-goers. Whole streets have been decorated with flags, lights and other paper-based ornaments. It seems that as the mayor too has gone on holiday the people decide – secretly, behind his back – to throw one massive street party. Nobody is going to tell them to shut up.

These street parties have – of course – a religious ring to it too. As Madrid celebrates two saints during this period – San Cayetano (7^th of August) and Santa Paloma (15^th of August) – the brave remaining people have decided to make the entire week a party. As I said – nobody is here to object.

Photosite Updated

Newsflash! My photosite has been updated with photos from Alon and Yaël's visit.