Salamanca

The following photos are from our trip to Salamanca during the Puente (bridge) of a couple of weeks ago. The crew were: Carlos, Fred (it was her birthday during the trip!), Carmen and me.

Loes de La Mancha

“What giants?” asked Sancho Panza.

“Those you see over there,” replied his master, “with their long arms. Some giants have them about six miles long.”

“Take care, your worship,” said Sancho, “those things over there are not giants but windmills, and what seem to be their arms are their sails, which are whirled round in the wind and make the millstone turn.”

“It is quite clear,” replied Don Quijote, “that you are not experienced in this matter of adventures. They are giants, and if you are afraid, go away and say your prayers, whilst I advance and engage them in fierce and unequal battle.”

And with these words Don Quijote – the unlikely hero of Castilian prose – strode towards his towering monsters and consequently into literary history. Needless to say, he was proven wrong as the windmills shivered his weapon in pieces, dragging his horse and its rider with it.

A couple of weeks ago my mother Loes came to visit and we decided to find out if Don Quixote really was an old nutter. We went on our own little exhibition to Castilla La Mancha, the rented Toyota Yaris serving as the steed Rocinante and Carmen, Tyler and Kirsten (our friends from Oklahoma) taking on the role of Sancho Panza.

Tyler, always in the mood to surprise Europeans with American way of thinking, excelled in the responsibility of being the trusty – but rather slow minded servant of Don Quijote. Somehow the discussion had meandered its way to launder habits. After Carmen had explained that although the hanging out of clothes outside the house was considered ‘rather gypsy’ we hardly ever used the drying machine, as this is a clear waste of energy. Tyler – without shame – admitted that before he had arrived in Spain he had never even thought of the possibility of drying clothes on a washing line. This confession took some courage, a characteristic worthy of Sancho Panza.
Tyler: a man of laundry principles

After a day driving through La Mancha – and seeing more than our fair share of Castilian windmills we came to the conclusion that Don Quijote might have gotten it all wrong after all. But who cares, is the answer of about every Spanish person. The book is not about right and wrong but about a knight with principles and a man who is ready to stick by them, whatever reality might think of it.

These last couple of weeks I engaged in a Quixotian battle of my own. This time my opponent was not a windmill if not another type of monster: bureaucracy. Neatly disguised in the form of the Dutch embassy. Read below about my quest against the prototype administrative ogre which stood between me and an interview at the Ministry of Interior Affairs.

Lunch at 13.30

She is about 50 years-old with curly – but tired – blond hair, visibly tinted. She has a bespectacled face, scarred by 25 years of red-tape. Her middle-aged eyebrows are constantly raised while her grey-green eyes remain only half-open, as if defying the force of gravity. She has a Dutch accent whilst speaking Spanish and will without doubt turn into what John Cleese calls a pepper pot (a complaining, moaning old woman, shaped as a pepper pot) after reaching the age of retirement, something she craves for every hour of the day. And what is most important of all: she has lunch every day at 13.30. If not, she will die of hunger, that most uncomfortable of deaths.
Various other pepper pots

Unfortunately I know all this because I encountered this champion heroin of bureaucracy in my quest of achieving the relatively simple. I am applying for a traineeship within the Dutch government. At present I have proceeded to the second round for which I have to complete a psychological test in Woerden, a sleepy town close to Utrecht. As I can’t fly to the Netherlands on such short notice the Dutch government offered that I could do the test at the Dutch embassy in Madrid. For this I just need a computer with Internet connection for two hours and someone within the embassy checking my ID. Nothing more.

However, before even been given a real chance to start a career with the Dutch government I have already created one enemy – a nemesis – amongst one of my future colleagues. However, the pure determination of this woman to avoid any type of improvisation, creativity or diplomatic skill to help me out has to be admired.

Our first confrontation took place the Friday before last. The day before I had placed a call requesting the exam by phone. I was told that I was to be phoned back as soon as possible. A day passed with silence from their part so I decided to make the trip up north to Avenida Comandante Franco changing two metro-lines along the way. I arrived at 13.01. The friendly Spanish security man let me pass without any problems. Nice – although slightly bored – man.

In the waiting room I was reunited with my former compatriots. A lost passport. The registration of a new-born child. Regular stuff for the experienced embassy personnel. 13.25. The man behind the glass protected reception looked satisfied. His thought “only one more before we close for the afternoon” was betrayed by his facial expression. I repeated my request as it was the same man who I spoke with by phone a day earlier. His features read “oh yeah”. Confusion. “This is not a regular task,” he contemplated, “a mysterious exam, a psychological test at the embassy.” The panic stricken civil servant hurried away. I had won the first battle, but was ill-prepared for my next opponent.

She listened attentively to the message-man who was pleased enough not to handle such an unheard of request and start with his lunch – without doubt a Gouda cheese sandwich (why change to Spanish eating habits when you can enjoy Dutch cuisine?). After hearing her colleague out I observed how the woman quickly thought of a strategy before slowly making a move to the glass protected desk – her natural habitat and preferred battleground.

As I saw her marching towards me I reasoned to myself: “Maybe she will actually help me. This woman could be my mother.” By nature, I am a positive man.

Two seconds passed between her arriving at the desk and the opening of her sour, yellow stained mouth – an experienced but foul weapon. She was taking her time. “My colleague informed me of your situation….,” she started.

She paused briefly, obviously going through her well drilled and finely trained bureaucratic rhetoric and then routinely uttered that pedigree phrase – a favorite amongst civil servants: “…and sir, it’s impossible.” A subtle blow delivered with a customary sigh of monotony. Authority, however, was nowhere to be found.

Now I am a polite boy, but I knew that my request could hardly be impossible. I tried to reason with the woman. “Mevrouw,” I pleaded, “I only need a computer for 2 hours and somebody who can check my ID.” The simplicity of my words and what actually needed to be done must have struck the paperwork dragon. But it immediately became clear to me that more citizens had faced this practiced bureaucrat before me and that thus my words were only making her stronger.

“You need authorization of Foreign Affairs,” triumphed the pen pusher.

? was the expression on my face. Blankness. This is not what I had been told by the traineeship office. My incapability to speak was like music to her ears (ironically as I still had not uttered a word in response). Confusion amongst an opponent is the highest a bureaucrat can achieve as it confirms their knowingness. She marveled in that moment of supremacy.

I gathered my wits. Authorization? What is she talking about? I am applying for a traineeship within the Dutch government. In theory, this embassy falls under the responsibility and authorization of the Dutch government. Surely an arrangement had been made. Swiftly I glanced at my watch. 13.31. “Good,” I notioned to myself, “the traineeship office in Woerden is still open. I will call them and sort this out now.”

Meanwhile, the bureaucrat was still contently observing my thinking ways without really looking at me. In a brush of optimism I delivered the quite reasonable. “Do you mind if I call the traineeship coordinator, she can inform you and me all about authorization.”

Success! This was not what the old dinosaur had expected! Clearly annoyed about my suggestion she repelled at once. “Maar dat kan echt niet hoor.” Which in Dutch means as much as: “but this is truly impossible. She was out of sorts and I have to admit that it felt good. Strengthened by her panic I asked the perfectly palpable question: “Why not?”

“Well, we close at 13.30 and what can I do…you know…I need to have lunch. I need to eat (Ik moet ook eten hoor).”

With this statement any chance of a swift resolve died a hungry death. Over the last couple of weeks I have been back to the embassy four times trying to force this exam to happen, I will keep you all updated on my Quijotian struggle.

Morriña

Table football? A Galician invention. Maradonna? Galician (well…his parents actually). General Franco? From Ferrol, Galicia. The first football match in Spain? Was in Galicia. The first cricket match in Spain? Ourense, Galicia. Nobel Prize winner for literature Camilo Jose Cela? Galician. Yes, rumour even has it that Christopher Columbus was born in the small town of Poio (which by the way means chicken in Gallego)…in Galicia.

I have heard it all before and I heard it all again the other week when we visited the promised land of Carmen’s origin: Galicia, an autonomous region in the North-west of Spain bordered by Portugal and Asturias. The reason for our visit was somewhat morbid. Carmen’s mother had managed to crash through a window and was hospitalized. However, we found her in her typical good spirits and she is doing fine now.

Those of you who know Carmen know her love for Galicia. She is entering her third year outside her beloved home-land. But she is not alone. Galicia is crammed with migration history. Over the last century many Gallegos left their beloved shores to find work all over the world. They went to Argentina, Switzerland, Australia, Uruguay, Germany, basically you can find Galicians everywhere. In fact, the word for a foreigner in some Latin American countries is Gallego.

All of these immigrants however show the desire to return home. This yearning is so strong and unique that the Spanish language has a special adopted word - Morriña – which originates from Gallego to describe this feeling. It is one of those great words which do not have a fitting translation and can’t be agreeably translated into another language (like gezellig in Dutch). It means as much as homesick, but it is a particular feeling unknown to non-Gallegos. It includes the missing of your people, your food, your customs, your land.
(Back home in Galicia with real Gallegos)

The other day Carmen told me that the sensation of Morriña was being investigated by natural scientists trying to establish a link between the physical elements of Galicia and the feeling of Morriña. Some claim that the water and land of Galicia transmit some supernatural force which magnetically attracts its people back (I think it is their cheese which is mighty tasty!). Carmen has a good deal of Morriña in her and it is a miracle that she has survived so long outside its borders.

When rain was battering the puffed up town of Barcelona (see previous article) during Semana Santa (Easter Holiday) Carmen remained cheerful. Why? Well, Barcelona has the fame of being a sunny city whereas Galicia has about as much reputation as a showery day in rain-land but whilst we were sheltering under Catalan palms tourists were flocking to the beaches of the Rias Baixas – Carmen’s coast – which was being blessed by delicious sunshine.

“I told you,” she beamed as I was in vain drying my soaked socks by blowing on them, “we have a micro-climate in the Rias Baixas. And a very special one you know.” Only too aware of her Morriña I petted her on her damp head and replied “Of course you do” meanwhile cursing the wetness. Minutes later, I was getting increasingly jealous and annoyed (which I might add is the same feeling) and was about to say “well I have two micro-climates” in a ridiculous and desperate attempt to win a deteriorating discussion on West-Iberian coastal meteorology.

Carmen was, however, as usual, correct. Last week, during our stay the weather was great and we enjoyed a couple of days on the beach as rain was still battering the best part of Catalonia. I even got to practice the lingo with the locals. At present my Gallego runs from Un home, un home, un jato, jato (a man, a man, a cat, a cat) to Imos a molla-la palleta (Let’s go to wet our bottom lip) which surprisingly gets you quite far in Galicia as it covers just about everything.
I guess what I am trying to say is that I am jealous at Carmen’s Morriña. I simply do not have a place like Galicia to call home. The closest I have is the posh The Hague neighbourhood of the Benoordenhout where your status is judged on the colour pants you wear. A world away from Galicia where you can run on the beach pretending you are Pamela Anderson and David Haselhoff without being scorned at.

So, hooray for Carmen. Hooray for Morriña and Galicia. And the loudest hooray for Micro Climates which continue to confuse me!

The photos shown below are a collection of Galician photos over the past two years.