The man standing in front of me soon noticed the case I had just placed between his dinner and mine. I remember him buying one of the more expensive and fine pieces of meat C1000 had to offer, together with red wine and spices too obscure to remember. I was in luck, if anybody would recognize my superior knowledge of art-house cinematography it was this man. I was right. The man – dressed sophistically – turned and asked me: “Ah, Festen, did you watch it?” The simplicity of this question did not disturb me. This was my new best friend. We would – in the future – see much more Dogma-films together or films in general for that matter.
Equally as casual as I had put the DVD on the counter I answered: “Yes, I did”. I could not produce more of a response as I was too exited about the classy tête-à-tête I was having. The man – whose wife was becoming increasingly annoyed by our conversation as it was their turn to pay (I didn’t like her, she obviously was not of the same standard as my new movie friend who I had already prematurely named Lars) – followed my swift reply with a second – more expected – question: “Did you like it?”
Although this question was predictable I was taken aback by the charm with which the C1000 customer had made his inquiry. I did not have to think long about my second response. Now was the time to make my point and – more importantly – to impress the mysterious Lars. “Yes, I did,” I beamed. This was a lie. I actually did not like the movie although Lars did not and would never know this. I was however not letting this inaccuracy stand between me and eternal friendship.
Just as I was about to explain to Lars why I liked Festen so much he overruled me with the authority of a Russian Czar. “Well, I didn’t,” he catapulted back at me. He just as well could have hit me with a medium-sized rock. Upon making this statement he paid for his food and left. With his wife. For a moment I was dazed, did not know what to think. Sub-consciously I handled my groceries. The girl at the counter – oblivious of what had just happened – asked if I wanted a plastic back for my cheese and bread (which I could clearly carry in one hand although I had the DVD in the other). I said no.
Although this little history should have taught me a lesson, it didn’t.
Whilst traveling back-and-forth by train between Amsterdam and The Hague I tried the same. This time with a book. Even though I had finished reading Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment three weeks earlier (and had used every opportunity to flash this book – and my brilliance – at other passengers) I had kept it in my bag. Every time I had the chance I took the Penguin Classic Paperback out of my rucksack and laid it on the table. One day, however I was found out when a stranger mentioned “sad ending, don’t you think?” Overjoyed I said “Yes, I know,” trying to communicate my literary luminosity. “If you know the ending, than why do you still carry the book,” I could see the woman thinking. She was not thinking this – although I was unaware of that – but it pressed my nose on the very miserable fact: this was getting out of hand.
Since then and over the last few years I overcame this peculiar, narcissistic and self-styled form of exhibitionism. Until now.
Ever since accepting the job as English teacher I have been confined to the Madrid Metro network. Between classes – which are mainly taught at businesses scattered around the capital – I move, almost animal like, through this underground world. Primarily, green and unaware, not knowing anything about the new and unexplored moving society around me. Over the last couple of months I slowly have been learning and I discovered one very important thing: there are more paperback exhibitionists out there.
At first I spotted a young man reading Nietsche’s Also Sprach Zarathustra (it attracted my attention as this had once also been one of my ‘weapons’). It was obvious however that the youth was not taking in – or in fact reading – the philosopher’s masterpiece. “Who are you trying to trick, old chap?” I thought. However, meanwhile I was sympathizing with the boy (he could not have been more than 20 years old). “You only are doing yourself in,” I muttered without him – or anybody else – taking any notice.
Two days later – on my way to a ‘teaching gig’ up north in San Fernando de Henares I sat next to a middle-aged Latin woman. I had asked her to notify me when we arrived at the station where I would have to change to get to the business park just off Avenida de Castilla, the location of a new client. As she agreed she pulled out En el Blanco by Ken Follet. I was struck by a sudden sensation of competition, rivalry and – which was by far the most dominant feeling – thrill. ‘An opponent’ I quickly reasoned, and all the mechanisms of exhibition came flooding back in that Line 10 metro carriage heading north at about 70 kilometers an hour. Not to be outshone by this pretender I whipped out the birthday present I had received from Eduardo less than 10 days before: Icon, by Frederick Forsyth (Forsyth comfortably beats Follet, he has sold more copies, I found out later whilst looking it up on Internet).
With this, my friends, The Mole is back, tunneling through the Madrid Underground – not missing any chance in showing-off his reading skills and abilities. Thomas El Topo ha vuelto.
Needless to say my Madrid heart did not melt although it did get a bit wet. The thing was that it just rained everyday of the trip – two of which were totally washed out without much done. But you will not here me complaining (although the first paragraph might suggest this – this was however done to achieve a comic effect). We were received brilliantly by Carmen’s cousin Alberto and we met up with an Erasmus friend Pilar (from Galicia and proud of it!) and a fried of Alberto’s who we know from Amsterdam, also named Pilar (from Tarrasa and equally proud of it!). Their company was the highlight of the trip.
Here we were met by Carmen’s cousin Alberto. He has been living in Barcelona for over four years now and he came to visit Carmen and me whilst we were in Amsterdam and was now valiantly returning the favor. He has a shared (with Oscar – a fellow Galician – and a girl from Ibiza with a funny name which I cannot remember) flat in Barcelona’s El Coll area close to Gaudí’s Park Guell.
Sunday was the only day that Alberto could actually join us as he did not have holidays just yet, so we decided to do a trip along the splendid Catalonian coast (We were accompanied by 4 very friendly and talkative Brazilians, friends of Alberto). We avoided the much famed – and equally feared – Lloret de Mar, Callella and Tossa de Mar and instead headed for Figueras, which is of course the birthplace of Salvador Dalí. Dalí turned the local theatre into his own museum and didn’t do that bad. As a rule I do not like Dalí as his surrealism fails to strike a cord with my mild but steadfast realist mind. However, his museum is a well designed piece of art and it entertained me and about 40 busloads of mainly American tourists. 
But as I mentioned earlier, Dalí (and Guadí to an even larger extent) is being milked throughout the entire Catalonia. This is not better demonstrated than a sign in a window in the small and quaint seaside village of Cadaques. There you can read the following in five languages: “Welcome to Cadaquez, a village which inspired Dalí to paint most of his masterpieces (a statement which is by the way repeated in most Costa Brava villages). As you can see this house hosts many cats (this was true). Dalí very much liked cats, actually he had one himself. Please make a donation in the box on your left to ensure that this rich history of cats can continue. Dalí would be very proud to see this tradition persist.” This falls only a whisker short of out-right begging. An American standing next to me was more impressed and approvingly donated some coins. “Dalí was a great man,” I could see him think. Fool. 
Next day confirmed our bad luck. More rain. Not to be bowled over we hurried off to La Sagrada Famlia – Gaudí’s masterpiece – which with its cranes and builders failed to convince me. We followed our walk back to the centre and passed the Bullfighting square on the way. Once we had arrived at the Arque de Triumfo (which I have been told is the only Arque de Triumfo to have been built without any purpose) it was decided that there was no sound reason in continuing the walk through the rain. We entered one of Gaudí’s houses, Casa Balló. Although packed with rain-avoiding tourists it was hard not to be impressed by the man’s creativity. After this we went back to the flat and met with Alberto and Pilar (from Taraza!)
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