Thomas en Madrid

Closure

2009-02-24T20:02:00.006+01:00

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

2009-02-18T20:46:00.001+01:00

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

2008-08-28T14:30:00.004+02:00

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

2008-08-22T10:56:00.003+02:00

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

2008-08-19T13:44:00.007+02:00

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

2008-08-11T13:31:00.005+02:00

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

2008-08-06T11:00:00.002+02:00

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

100th Post

2008-08-05T16:17:00.003+02:00

In celebrating my 100th post I would like to present the following piece of art which has been composed with the words which I have most frequently used in 2008:

You can make your own by going to www.wordle.net

The bearded dentist

2008-07-31T14:58:00.000+02:00

After a Rangu Silva full toss (i.e: hit in the mouth by a cricket ball) and a stubborn Stockholm metro door, it was now the turn of a goat cheese filled Spanish bocadillo (sandwich) to make my front tooth (this time the left one) drop to the floor in a rather unexpected and unfortunate dental mishap during lunch time yesterday.

Upon sifting the lower half of my tooth from a mushy mix of fine Castillian dairy and dry bread I went immediately to my boss who found the whole incident disturbingly entertaining. However – as a good boss ánd Spaniard – he instantly produced that commonplace and overly useful Iberian tool: the enchufe (literarily a fusebox, but it means to say wheelbarrow). “Ah, I know a place just down the road on Calle Fuencarral. Tell them that you know our doorman José and they’ll probably put it right back in there for free – or at least at a heavy discount. Apparently our portero is a well liked figure in the neighbourhood. Mentioning his name has opened doors for us here at the office on at least one other occasion (a mad rush for folder binders if I remember correctly).

I trotted down to the dentist – not knowing what to expect – with the remnants of my tooth in my sweaty right hand. It was – is – very hot outside, over 40 degrees. I am not sure if this had anything to do with the incident, and I didn’t raise the possibility of a meltdown to the dentist who I was about to meet.

Finding the practice was more difficult than I thought as it was hidden in a residential block of flats on the third floor. I still haven’t quite got used to the fact that many offices, medical practices and hairdressers are situated between Señor Rodriguez on the right and La Familia Suarez Garcia on the left. Business and residence – in my view – should always be separated.

There were no telling signs – except a big red poster reading dentista – what was about to happen when I rang the doorbell 3B and - rather comically - three men in doctor outfits stumbled to open the door as if having been waiting there for over half a century. They looked like they had walked straight out of a strange Chevy Chase Lampoon movie. ¿Dentista? I asked. “Si, sientate por favour,” (Yes, sit down please) was the choired answer.

After sitting in ‘the waiting room’ (i.e. passageway) for about 10 seconds I was summoned by one of the three men – the youngest, who had an odd twitch – to follow him to the dentists’ practice. There a bearded – never trust a bearded medic – dentist was waiting. Without appointment, without introduction, without words, I was ordered to sit down in the chair. At that moment I decided to end this farcical display of dentistry and speak up. This was no Dr.Cats – my posh The Hague dentist with whom a three month reservation had to be made. Where was the funny little elephant-shaped box in the corner where I was still – at 17 years old – invited to choose a little present from after a revision? Where was the clean state-of-the-art machinery (and other bits and bobs which never seem to be used) belonging in a dental practice? Where – for God’s sake – was the dentist’s assistant? Looking around it seemed I was in someone’s living room. Someone who had an odd obsession with 1950’s dental equipment.

I broke the silence by explaining my situation. I didn’t mention cricketballs nor locked Scandinavian metro doors, I decided for the easier ‘bicycle accident when I was 19’. I did show my tooth as if to prove it had actually fallen out. The way the bearded man was looking at me I felt this was necessary. I went on explaining I was from Holland and that I needed a receipt to show my insurer. Upon mentioning this he lightened-up and uttered his first words. “Ah, great, do you want me to charge you more?” Totally innocent and not quite understanding I asked: “¿Pero, porque?” (But why?). “Well, so you can overcharge your Dutch insurer and get some extra cash”. Oh, yes, I remembered, I am in Spain. I quickly replied “no, no hace falta” (no worries, its ok). I was not sure if this act of solidarity was an encouraging sign. However, as we were talking business I decided to ask him for the price of my new tooth. Curiously enough my question was not replied with an answer but with another question. “Euh, how about 35 Euros?”. Oh, shit, a bargaining dentist.

His first step was depressingly comical. He took my sweaty tooth and tried to put it back in, hoping for a quick fix (my God, is he going to use super-glue?). Luckily, he swiftly shook his head, eliminating the possibility. He then started to look tentatively towards a set of tools lying in front of him. Suddenly I noticed the enormous melancholic streak he had about him, reminding me instantly of the 17th century Dutch poet Piet Paaltjens. He was staring alarmingly gloomy at his gear and then back to me as if asking me which one to use. It seemed he was just about to cry.

The bizarre situation was enhanced by the two other men in the apartment who – in the adjourning room – were making a noise which I can only describe as if they were bouncing huge rubber balls. My dentist did not notice, confirming that this was not a strange sound for him as he finally started to fill the gap in my mouth.

Now, I was going through this procedure for the third time in my life so I knew what I should be expecting. Firstly, the colour of your teeth is checked, mine is usually described as ‘Lemon Chiffon’ (I am not kidding). Then you have to bite on some plastic thing after which a cap is brought on which is filled with a type of paste. After this everything is polished-off until it more or less has the shape of a tooth. Obviously, this time my man followed with his trial and error policy, often repeating the words: “and how about now?” (asking if my tooth felt ‘too big’). The strangest moment of the operation was when he took the polishing tool (which also fans water to moisture the mouth) and sprayed it around his head: “¿Puuf, hace mucho calor verdad?” (Puuf, it’s really hot, isn’t it?).

When everything seemed finished the youngest of the three came in – sweating, presumably from the bouncing – and was required to take a look. “Looks fine,” he said. “Well done,” giving the impression that he was the boss (that’s strange, he is at least 15 years younger than my bearded melancholic). I suddenly felt respect for the young guy (great for him, just out of Uni, set up his own dental practice, recruited his DAD and doing well for himself, well done). But the roles were abruptly turned: “it’s the other tooth”, the graduate obviously was fooled by my other fake tooth (he missed out on my story you see).

It was time to leave. I shook the hand of the morose medic, who surprised me by saying “you speak Spanish really well”. I wanted to hug him, but then didn’t. I paid in a cabin which I suspect used to be the apartment’s toilet. “Thirty Euros, wasn’t it?”. I nodded, silently excusing myself for the 5 Euro discount. I deserved it.

Walking down the stairs – the three men all waved me goodbye (was the oldest one weeping?) – I wondered when and how – for it is sure to happen – the next tooth-dropping will take place; a nasty beach tennis accident involving a German tourist; perhaps, a health and safety calamity here at the office? Probably not, most likely – with the miserable result produced – it will be whilst slurping through a bowl of strawberry yoghurt…tomorrow.

The Dylan Smirk

2008-07-31T14:57:00.002+02:00

There were some special moments when Bob and I first met this weekend, at the Rock in Rio festival, just outside Madrid. It was a true exhibition of blues mastery coming from a folk legend, absolutely mesmerizing. I had heard some nasty stories about Dylan-live; he would be grumpy, even rude, to his adoring crowd. His voice would be so rough that lyrics would be hard to follow. And above all, you just had to be lucky if he played some of his more famous songs as he does have about 800 to choose from. All was proven wrong on Sunday.

Preparing for this concert I took out my Bob Dylan DVD collection – consisting of the two classic documentaries ‘No direction home’ and ‘Don’t look back’. Now, I wouldn’t consider myself a fan of Dylan, more a distant admirer. I have a feeling he doesn’t like the fans who walk around in Dylan merchandise. He admits it himself in his book ‘Chronicles’. He doesn’t want to be idealized; he doesn’t want to be seen as a messiah of a lost generation. He just wants people to enjoy his music. He has never asked someone to understand it.

Anyway, whilst I was watching the ‘Don’t look back’ documentary – which follows Dylan on his controversial tour of England in 1965 – I bumped into the following scene which I would like you all to take a look at. In this particular part we see British folk singer Donovan (to many a Dylan wannabee, but certainly no schmuck) and Dylan in a Newcastle hotel room, exchanging songs. Note how Dylan observes Donovan’s tune; nervously shaking his leg, waiting for his turn. Notice how quick the Jester snatches the guitar from his British counterpart as soon as he finishes. Although does manage to stammer “That’s a good song man”, but does he mean it?

Dylan and Donovan

However, the most fascinating part comes exactly at 3.00 when Dylan – at the height of his classic song ‘It’s all over now Baby Blue’ – portrays something what I will call ‘the Dylan Smirk’. An arrogant little smile which shows off: there is something what I know, and what none of you know – and certainly not Donovan. He takes the whole room to school.

Observing this spectacle I can’t help but - running the risk of sounding very pretentious indeed - be reminded of Plato’s Symposium. There too a group of young geniuses come together in a room, amongst them Aristophanes – the comic poet, Pausanians – the legal expert, Eryximachus – the physician, and last but not least: Socrates.

After taking the microphone from Agathon, Socrates sweeps the floor with all of them; bouldering a faultless discourse on Love and Desire, leaving the room pretty much speechless, unable to give any dignified answer. At the end of it, Socrates stands alone, hoping for some kind of response which he knows he is not going to get. For he – like Dylan – was such a master of his trade, a King of verbal contest, who stood so high above the rest that even competition seems ridiculous.

Now, back to the Dylan Smirk. I imagine that this could have been Socrates’ face during his speech on Love at the Symposium. With this grin he could be seen answering Agathon’s call. A grin of total and valid arrogance. So, I went to look for this particular facial expression on Sunday. To see if Dylan – our modern day Socrates – still had it. If he still had the power to take an entire audience to school, to show that he knows something we all don’t. Well, I think I saw the smirk twice. They came rather powerfully in the following songs, and exactly during the lines I have inked in black.

During Spirit on the Water

You think I'm over the hill

You think I'm past my prime

Let me see what you got

We can have a whoppin' good time

And during Thunder on the Mountain

Thunder on the mountain, rollin' like a drum

Gonna sleep over there, that's where the music coming from

I don't need any guide, I already know the way

Remember this, I'm your servant both night and day

Both these lines he sang which such spit that I was convinced that he still had it. ‘I don’t need any guide, I already know the way’ – that’s just great.

Historic win

2008-07-31T14:55:00.002+02:00

It was the night when Carmen waved the Spanish flag for the first time in her life. Before the match she had even asked me to tuck the tiny ‘bandera’ away because she admitted that it still felt a bit like betraying her principles. She blatantly felt uncomfortable of me – and my parents for whom I had bought España Toro attributes for the occasion – sporting Spanish symbols. It was just something she had never done before.

But after Torres’ great goal she – we – jumped crazily as she grabbed for the yellow and read, waving it high up in the air. By the end of the match she did not want to let go of it and carried it all through the night, up and down Gran Vía where many Spaniards were experiencing the same: for the first time openly being proud of your nation. Much has been said about ‘the two Spains’, and one football match won’t change this a big deal, but it was refreshing for once to see Spaniards rejoice instead of arguing about nationalists, Madrid’s central power or ETA.

Carmen celebrating famous win

Of course, we were in Madrid, the capital, so these scenes could be expected. But news came in from Sanxenxo – a lively summer tourist destination in Galicia where Carmen’s sister was watching the match – that people where also celebrating on the streets. Later, on the news I saw scenes in Barcelona and even Basque country of people jumping up and down in delight.

Yesterday really was something incredible. We decided to watch the match in Fuencarral to be more with the Spanish although our neighbourhood Lavapies – with all its immigrants – was also supporting Spain. In fact, Carmen and I were interviewed by national TV La Sexta, as they did a reportage on foreigners supporting Spain. Unfortunately – although I did my best to act as foreign as possible – we did not make the cut as you can see from the following link: http://www.misexta.tv/home/1_0/0/151901

I guess we were not immigrant enough.

¡Viva España!

The five minute Interview: Jason Opheim

2008-07-31T14:52:00.001+02:00

Every once in a while Thomasenmadrid publishes a short interview with one of the Key figures of my life in Spain or people who have taken the trouble of visiting me here in Madrid. This week it's the turn of Jason Opheim (26) from Oklahoma, USA, also known as Jazz. Jason is a Madrid old-timer although he has also spent some considerable time in Granada and has been here a tad longer than me and we were befriended by our mutual friend Tyler. Jazz – a lively and sunny character – is a linguist, never shy to run away from a vocabulary discussion, often winning it. Lately he has put dreads in his hair which – I have to say – have improved his physical aspects remarkably. Such was its success that I am thinking about doing the same myself.

The first time I saw Thomas was: as he snuck up behind Tyler in H&M and tickled him to say hello.

My favorite place in Madrid is: Paco’s Bar on Sunday afternoon.

Something I say too often is: Why yes, you can call me Jazz.

I am not a politician, but: If I were, I would make playing songs out-loud on your mobile phone illegal

People know me from being an English Teacher, but in a truer life I would be: disciplined enough to be doing something else.

If I weren't talking to you right now I would be: looking for someone else to be talking to.

Normally, my breakfast consists of: waiting until lunch

I passionately have confidence in: The people within my inner circle

At the moment the most played on my MP3 player is: Dry the rain by The Beta Band and The Yeah Yeah Yeah Song by The Flaming Lips

In moments of weakness I: want to go back to Oklahoma City

I'm good at: Loving the people I like.

I'm very bad at: Pretending to like people I don’t.

The ideal night out is: Beginning at a chill bar with a small group of friends, and then later connecting with more for drunken dancing

In a nutshell, my philosophy is this: Be who you are and try to liberate others to do the same.

A por ellos

2008-07-31T14:51:00.001+02:00

So, “I am, where I am”, I guess it is back to the fold. I honestly was quite affected by the crashing out of Holland, it always does. But, yesterday night has rescued my Euro Cup feeling. Actually, I really believe this has been the best Euro Cup I have ever experienced. Now only the Germans are waiting for us in the final. Indeed, us, I have jumped ship, I am now loudly, proudly singing ‘a por ellos, o-é’ (let’s go after them olé).

Just a couple of days ago I was defending my Dutchness, but I have tossed that away as quick as a circus act juggling hot potatoes. I am an unashamed glory supporter, and last night I was hugged by Spaniards as if I was one of them and I guess now I am.

After the match Carmen and I decided to walk back from ‘Paco’s’ – the bar where we were watching the match – instead of taking the metro, and we witnessed some fantastic scenes of celebrating Spaniards. But there was something strange about seeing so many Spanish flags together. Last time I saw such a collection was at the rightwing/catholic/family-day-values demonstration on Plaza Colon. Today, the flags returned to Plaza Colon but the anti-government protest signs were left at home as the economic crisis was forgotten for at least one more night.

'España, España'

It suddenly occurred to me that Spain hasn’t had such a national celebration for a long time (24 years to be exact) and it seems that the Spaniards are still not quite comfortable waving their red and yellow, proudly shouting ‘España’. For many, it is still too politically charged. I wondered how things were going in Las Ramblas in Barcelona, or in Bilbao, where – I believe – waving the national flag can still result in a good ‘paliza’ – a beat up. Reaching the Euro Cup final must unite a nation, it must bring the people together, but the feeling I had on the street yesterday evening is that not everybody is willing to do so.

The scenes after Real Madrid winning the League were much, much more jubilant and yesterday it was mostly tipsy teenagers dancing around in the city’s fountains. The adults were taking it all in rather subdued, but with a smile nonetheless. I guess it was a bit like Germany in the last world cup where for the first time since the war many people where proud of their flag, posting it on their car windows and on their balconies. For Spain, being so diverse, it will be very interesting to see what happens when they actually win it (they deserve it by the way).

Three Lions and Orange wigs

Will there be a type of national unity like never before? Will people all of a sudden sing the national anthem in the streets of – say – San Sebastian or Tarragona? I very much doubt it and it really doesn’t matter too much. Maybe too much emphasis is always laid on national pride when it comes to football, maybe people should pay more attention to the actual game. I think that is what is happening here. Compared to Holland – where even the cheese seller wears an orange wig – it is very calm here in the Spanish capital, only two days before their biggest match in a quarter of a century. Football comes first here, then later maybe the country. The opposite to, for example England, where the three lions seem to matter more than scoring goals.

In other sports it’s the same. The sportsmen and woman in this country are hailed for their achievements, not for their nationality, and the truth is that they are doing really well. Have a look at the following list:

Alberto Contador (cycling) – Winner of the last Tour de France and the Giro de Italia

Rafa Nadal (tennis) – 4 Time Roland Garos Winner

Fernando Alonso (Formula 1) – 2 Time World Champion

Pau Gasol (basketball) – Key Player for the Los Angeles Lakers

The National Basketball team – World Champions

The National Hockey team – World Champions

Javier Gomez (Triatlon) – World Champion (from Galicia!)

Carlos Perez (Kayak) – World Champion (from Galicia!)

And…..the National Football Team – ?

Midsummer 2008

2008-07-31T14:17:00.001+02:00

The Madrid Team had just watched Spain qualify for the semis for the first time in over twenty years as we decided to wander into town (well, village) to celebrate the victory. Although happy with the win, we all were exhausted after three days of Midsummer and there was definitely a post-midsummer feeling in the whole seaside village of Varberg where we had decided to spend the night after three crazy ones in Fröslida.

Whilst sipping on a 7 Euro beer we were quietly reflecting on the past days. For both Jason and David it had been their first MS experience and I was happy to see them enjoying so much. In the bar there were four other people, all well beyond drunk, and it was not long before David – a natural conversation starter, a true machine – had started chatting with one couple who had an impressive collection of empty beverages stalled out in front of them, confirming their physical state – and their wealth.

They asked us what we were doing there. We answered about our long weekend and that we come back every year to celebrate Midsummer on the West Coast of Sweden. They were amazed. “Why come all the way from Madrid to join the nerdy Swedes in this traditional celebration?” A quick answer was impossible so I whipped out my camera and showed the woman the following video: (to be uploaded, for now: http://sites.google.com/site/thomasenmadrid/the-blog/midsummer-2008)

She burst into a great – albeit rather tipsy – bout of laughter. “That’s just fantastic, you have totally integrated into Swedish society within three days,” she said. Luckily it was enough and she forgot about her question on why we were there, no further explanation was needed and we started chatting about the hostel they had bought one Swedish mile (that’s 10 kilometres) away.

It’s just that I can’t really explain the reason why we have so much fun up there. Is it the dancing? Is it they silly games we play? Is it the friends we see every year who make me laugh so much? Or is it the traditional Swedish dinner where I always avoid the raw herring in mustard sauce? Could it be the flower picking? Or the parties? The Saturday Pizza? The beach? Why do we enjoy so much? It’s most probably the Schnapps…

I read somewhere that “the foolish man seeks happiness in the distance, the wise grows it under his feet.” Does this mean we don’t have to go all the way to Sweden to be happy picking flowers in a meadow? Does this mean we have to do it right here in Madrid, erecting the agricultural phallus symbol on Plaza Mayor hopping around it like a frog? Or are we just foolish?

I don’t know, it won’t be the same. Sweden – and it’s people – is just something special. Just to continue churning up quotes, Mark Twain said: “Happiness is a Swedish sunset – it is there for all, but most of us look the other way and lose it.” In a country where in June the difference between sunset and sunrise is minimal, we always manage to see it and that’s why we go to Sweden, every year. (Photos to be found on: http://picasaweb.google.com/reeve.thomas/Midsummer2008)

Holland or Spain: who am I going with?

2008-07-31T14:16:00.001+02:00

“I have always honoured the King of Spain,” is one of the more striking lines in the national anthem of - yes, you guessed it - the Netherlands. Yes, rather than the Spanish it is the Dutch who penned this phrase down 4 centuries ago whilst the provinces of the Netherlands where part of the Spanish empire for about 80 years. Nevertheless, it could have easily been slotted into the Spanish one as well. For there is plenty of room in their anthem as theirs is lyric-less. However, it’s great for me as it fits in nicely with my new duel-nationality (conveniently dropping the English).

So, after two convincing wins for Holland and six points for Spain it is time to start thinking who I am really supporting at the Euro Cup - defining my nationality along the way.

Deception

I remember very well throwing my Holland scarf on the floor, two years ago in the truckers lounge of a boat slowly drifting somewhere on the Baltic Sea - swearing that I would never support Holland ever again. We had just played the most shameful game of World Cup history with 16 yellow cards and 4 reds, all resulting in a 0-1 defeat against the thieves of Portugal. It was not so much that we lost but how we lost. There - on deck 7 of the 'Robin Hood' - I morally walked away from my national team and my Dutch nationality altogether.

I have never felt Dutch and I probably never really will. Circumstances in life have made me a bit of an outsider in the country whose passport I hold. Somehow I never really fitted in the Dutch society although I am yet to discover why this is. When I see the groups of well-off Dutch trotting through Madrid I can't help but smile. I do feel some sort of an affection for my countrymen but much more than affection I can't bring up.

Argentinean

When my friend Asaf - himself a beacon of Dutchness - visited me here in Madrid we bumped into a Dutch guy in a very crowded flamenco bar. At first we tried to deny that we were Dutch, both putting on an Argentinean accent to save ourselves from an awkward conversation. The combination of two facts - Asaf's T-Shirt reading 'Holland' and the fact that he heard us speaking Dutch - did us in. I noticed I was very rude to this half-Spaniard half-Dutch who was just very happy to finally find two Dutchies in Madrid - a city where he felt a bit lonely after living nearly all his life in Holland, he confessed.

I had no desire what so ever to speak to him only because of my nationality. "I am, where I am", I tried to explain him. "Huh (a typical Dutch expression)," he said, "So, you think you are from Madrid?" His laugh which followed made me realize that I am fooling myself thinking this. Nationality is just a topic I wish to avoid.

"I am where I am"

But, during the Euro Cup nationality cannot be avoided. So, my “I am where I am,” thesis is being put to the test and I have to admit I am failing my own exam: I am passionately supporting Holland – sweating every second of the matches. I am wearing orange clothes, publicly defending liberal Dutch policies, explaining to all that Holland is the best country in the world to raise your kids.

In other words, I am shamelessly riding the Orange Wave which is currently rumbling through Europe. After two crushing wins people are stopping me in the street offering me drinks and congratulating me on my Dutchness. I accept it all with glory. The exiting playing style of Holland is turning me into some kind of hero here in Madrid. My star has risen considerably, just based on my nationality, something which I was willing to renounce only a short time ago. I am what they call here in Spain a ‘sin vergüenza’ – a person without shame.

My Spanish passport

So, what about Spain? The other day I joined the Facebook group “You know, when you are Spanish when…” and going through the following list I can comfortably say that according to Facebook – that embodiment of social truth – I am Spanish, because I know that:

‘The Raul discussion’ is not something to be messed with
Three of the regions in my country want to secede at any given time.
Conversation mainly focuses on food
Spiked mullets have been in fashion for as long as you can remember
I can always tell who is a tourist by the amount of sunburn they have
No one eats supper before 10 pm. No one sleeps. Ever.
My grandmother-in-law has an olive, peach, citrus, or plum tree in her backyard
It is acceptable to dislike someone solely on the premises that he/she votes PP/PSOE
Gay marriage is totally okay
A "Chino" is not a person, but a place to buy alcohol underage.
There are no Spaniards in Benidorm
There's a national holiday every other week, and Fiesta Mayor at least three times a year
It’s not Español, it’s Castellano
Bable is a real language (from Asturias)
There are more dialects than people
There are five construction cranes everywhere you look
You're cool with living with your parents until you're 30.
A Three-bedroom apartment seems HUGE
There are three food groups: ham, bread, and wine
My prime minister is called “shoemaker”
Prosciutto is not real ham. It must be Iberian.
Prostitutes are a vital part of the economy.
Every drink is a "Cubata". It doesn't matter what is inside as long as it's alcohol.
Every year someone around you chokes on New Year's Eve because of the damn grapes you have to swallow.
Only tourists order sangría at a restaurant.
Everyone is appalled when they meet you because you lean forward to give them two kisses.
You never drink chocolate milk, just dip things into it
The exact four or five ingredients to put in a tortilla española can start a fight
Even though it's just a rock covered in monkeys, I am secretly bitter than Britain owns Gibraltar
You leave your apartment at 20.45 because you had to be somewhere at 20.30 and you wanted to be early.
Mixing wine with fruit juice, seltzer or coke is perfectly normal and sometimes expected.
Nino Bravo is the King.
What a ‘missing call’ is and am never in the mood to fully explain how it works to a foreigner.

So, there it is. I am also Spanish. I know all these things and act to them appropriately. But it is not enough to fully support their football team. If the two teams meet in the semi’s I will go for Holland – my new country. I am a born-again Dutchmen. After the final I will revert to my ‘I am where I am’ theory. But not just yet, please – with your permission – let me enjoy these moments.

The five minute interview: Sylvie Betard

2008-04-18T09:40:00.003+02:00

Every once in a while Thomasenmadrid publishes a short interview with one of the Key figures of my life in Spain or people who have taken the trouble of visiting me here in Madrid. This week it's the turn of Sylvie Betard (26), my great Erasmus friend from Paris who came to the Spanish capital just over a year ago and visited about every art gallery Madrid has to offer. Art is her thing and she is currently on a very secret mission of changing the world through art and good luck to her. We need some change.

The first time I saw Thomas was: in Bjornkulla in Stockholm during our Erasmus program. I think I met him in the courtyard of the residence but I’m quite sure it is not the reality. But I like to think it like that anyway. And I remember that we became friends very quickly.

My favorite place in Madrid is: The garden at the back of the Museo del Prado.

Something I say too often is: “Sorry, I’m slow”…. !! And Thomas always answers me: “You are”

I am not a politician, but: I would love to have a power to make this world better especially about ecology.

People know me from being an art buyer and art director, but in a truer life I would be: a famous art critic in order to give names to art movements, like Pierre Restany did with the New Realists movement or maybe I would be Andy Warhol, just to be at the beginning of The Factory.

If I weren't talking to you right now I would be: working again late in the evening or having a drink with my friends (if it was Friday), to celebrate the weekend.

Normally, my breakfast consists of: tea that I never drink because I use it only to dip my toasted bread in it, and a smoothy.

I passionately have confidence in: LIFE ! it has been nice with me until now.

At the moment the most played on my MP3 player is: Yaël Naïm and her song “new soul”! makes me so happy !

In moments of weakness I: As you Thomas, I think about the Erasmus time. It was the less stressful period of my life even if I had a job and had to learn a language. It was just the most beautiful time of my life. And for not that long, I am thinking at the moment that we won’t have anymore water to drink. The death of human life, such to say.

I'm good at: organizing things. Shopping. Cleaning my house when I don’t want to think.

I'm very bad at: Getting up early in the morning. Call and emails my friends. Cooking. Having a healthy life.

The ideal night out is: a night every two years with Erasmus friends or a night with my friends in the building or a night with my boyfriend listening music and talking about life.

In a nutshell, my philosophy is this: you can do better (thank you dad).

Norway

2008-04-14T11:22:00.009+02:00

There is a famous image here in Spain of former Spanish PM Jose Maria Aznar practicing esquí de fondo – cross country skiing. Not only does he look rather ridiculous it also makes me have to defend what we do during our winter holidays to those who are unfamiliar with the variety of cross country skiing. Langlaufing – cross country skiing following a pre-laid track – has a particularly bad image – that of boring, elite, and for the over aged – due to this type of images and the massive popularity of down hill alpine skiing. What we do is similar to this although there are no pre-laid tracks – and not many right wing politicians for that matter.

I have always felt that I have to explain myself – even excuse myself – to people asking about our skiing holidays. Why do we go all the way to Norway – to the middle of nowhere – only to sink ourselves in the deep snow, crawling up a mountain, just to crawl back down again? A valid question, very much related to the question why I play cricket instead of football or tennis. I blame it on the fact that my family never really was one of following the Alpine exodus towards the down hill slopes of Apre-Ski Europe. We tend not to follow crowds, they scare us. They would not approve of a nose dripping father, causing icicles to form on his snout or the wearing of unfashionable – huge – sunglasses. Something of which I am now – aged 26 – very grateful.
Esquí de travesia
Without comparing ourselves too much to Aznar – arguably the most distasteful politicians of Western Europe over the last 20 years – I would like to point out that what we do is, in fact, esquí de travesia – a form of cross country skiing of which I am not sure it actually has a name in English. I guess you could term it as mountaineering but then with skis. On the official Spanish website I found the following description:

La modalidad más libre del esquí. Mezcla de montañismo y esquí alpino, sirve para escapar de los tumultos de las estaciones. Similar al fondo, aunque va algo más allá, pues no necesita ningún tipo de huella. Utilizado para subir a cumbres nevadas y realizar travesías sobre nieve.

The most free way of skiing. It is a mix of mountaineering and Alpine skiing and it serves well to escape the tumultuous ski stations. It is similar to langlaufing although it goes a bit beyond it as it does not need any type of track. It can be used to climb snowy mountain tops and general cross country skiing. The Oxfam brigade
However, before I go any further let me say that although we have been doing this for over 15 years now, we are by no means professionals in this peculiar form of snow enjoyment. Compared to our Telemark (the southern region of Norway where we go every year) companians – the ‘Yatmans’ a Danish/British family from way back – we rather look like the Oxfam brigade, both in our clothing as in the poverty of our skiing abilities. Just one look at 11-year old Thomas Yatman and we are confronted with the sad state of our skiing skills. We continue to enjoy our holidays despite this obvious discrepancy. Over the years we have spent nights in huts with no electricity, no water, without a decent bathroom. I can tell from experience that hearing your parents pee in a pot – even though it being a beautiful Telemark Tin style pot – at four o’clock in the morning is a less than inspiring holiday experience. However, we keep returning as it is – funnily enough – really worth it.

Sauna and Vitro
This year, we upgraded. For the first time in my memory we went to a place in Telemark which not only had running water, but a sauna. Which not only had a kitchen, but vitro cooking facilities. Which not only provided various ready made tracks, but fully-functioning ski-lifts. Another first was actually meeting other skiers during our trips – complete with sweet dogs, pulling their owners across the ice. This all because we had returned to something which can even be called a skiing resort – Kvivtavatn – a place where my parents where first introduced to cross country skiing 24 years ago. In total we spent a week in the rented hut providing space for 23 of us. As mentioned above we are always accompanied by the Yatmans, although we are often joined by others making the stay that more enjoyable. It is difficult to describe the pleasure of passing holidays with this group of warm and socially capable people. Many interesting stories are told over a piece of deer meat, many tour plans are made eating a freshly baked bun and many, many jokes are made whilst drinking a third glass of fine Tesco boxed wine. I can’t imagine a nicer place on the planet than a Telemark hut after a days skiing. The Phallus of the North
Absolute highlight of this particular trip was for me climbing southern Norway’s highest mountain: Gausta. The mountain itself – visible from most part of the region at almost 2000 meters – stands like a pointy Vienetta cake high above the Rjukan valley. It was a hard, long trip, well lead by my father. On the way we had to negotiate a nasty, steep ridge before arriving at a high frozen lake providing a good opportunity to recharge the batteries before ascending to the top. There you will find a phallus type structure annoying observers as it spoils the natural awe of this snowy giant. However, as you can see from the photos the tower did serve as an excellent vantage point whilst ascending the peak. When we – a group of seven – finally got up there I kissed this yellow tower verifying that it actually made a very soft zooming sound. This confirmed that it was still working. Working? What was that thing doing up there in the first place? Well, it is actually a Cold War relic called ‘early detection system’ defending Europe against Russian missiles. To make things even more James Bond we discovered that there was an elevator inside the mountain providing an easy ascent for good old NATO technicians who did not share with us the same eccentric love for climbing mountains. As the Cold War finished some time ago this elevator has now opened for the public, making it possible to shoot to the top for about 50 Euros return in roughly 10 minutes. Instead, it took us nearly 5 hours to climb, but we did it for free. At the top the Martinis were exchanged for a hot cup of shaken but not stirred saft (lemonade based drink) as we took in the view encompassing almost all of Southern Norway – one sixth of the country’s size. Heavy water
Looking over Telemark next to a machine set up to protect Norway, Europe and the Free World against communist weapons, you realize what a special place it is. Not many people know that this vast region played a crucial part in the Second World War by sabotaging the Germans intent to harvest ‘heavy water’ from these mountains. This special type of water is used to construct Atomic bombs as the Germans were closing in on the Allies in the race to construct the decisive war-turning bomb. Things could have been different had a group of local saboteurs – known as the Heroes of Telemark – not been able to constantly make life difficult for the German technicians. After a series of successful small operations they finally sank the supply boat full of ‘heavy water’ heading for Berlin in a nearby lake.

As a kid my brother used to think that skiing in these mountains made him feel like one of these saboteurs, and I can’t blame him really. Despite his vivid imagination there is something in this wild nature that brings you back to the basics; far away from daily life, ski stations and Jose Maria Aznar.

Carmen did very well on only her second trip and as you can see from the photos she even managed to climb a mountain of herself. For me it is very special to show her this place which has been part of my life for over 15 years now. I hope I can convince you all to come with me next year. Go to my photo website to get an idea and we will see you in a hut somewhere in the Telemark mountains soon.

Mi cumpleaños!

2008-03-31T16:06:00.003+02:00

Photo's of the South Korean National Day of Brotherhood can be found on my photowebsite.

My Kosovo Project

2008-03-31T15:29:00.003+02:00

You all might have noticed that my communication has been somewhat slow over the last month. Well, most of that has to do with one man: Hashim Thaci. On the 17th of February he, being the Prime Minister of Kosovo, declared independence from Serbia following a unanimously passed vote in the Kosovo parliament on the same day, sparking a wave of international reactions. Some prominent countries, such as the United States, France and Germany quickly endorsed the declaration, whilst others, most notably Serbia and Russia, rejected the intentions citing that it was “a terrible precedent breaking up the entire system of international relations which have taken centuries to evolve”.

There was another small little consequence on that February day and we felt it right here in Calle Bravo Murillo were the office of my consultancy can be found. A week before the declaration of independence I had received a fax telling us that we had been short-listed for a Kosovo project where the main aim was strengthening the Ministry of Local Government to make sure that Kosovo municipalities work together with their counter parts across the border. It seemed tough enough before the declaration and then seemed impossible after.

Forming a consortium
I will briefly explain a bit how a company can win a contract. We work with an institution called EuropeAid which funds all kinds of projects, mostly outside the European Union. At the office I am responsible for finding projects in the Balkans and Eastern Europe, occasionally getting as far as Russia and its former satellite countries. That is my terrain. When I identify a potentially interesting project (which I do on EuropeAid’s website) – we specialize in the strengthening of young transitional Local Governments who are in need of capacity building – I have to find other consultancies to work with as projects often need additional companies with other specific specialities. This forming of consultancies is exactly like forming a football team in Secondary School during gymnastic class. Everybody wants to have the strongest on board and it is often the case of who holds his hand up the highest to achieve this.

After finding an interesting project – such as the Kosovo one – the newly established consortium of companies has to write a so-called ‘Expression of Interest’ which highlights our expertise through the provision of project references which we have collected over the years. These references have to fit the requisites as set out by the project directors.

Shortlisted
Then a special committee evaluates all the ‘Expressions of Interest’ it has received, which can amount up to 30. It chooses between 5-8 consortiums which in their view fit the project best. When this happens you have been shortlisted. You are then required to write a ‘Technical Offer’ outlining how you will design and implement the project in the field. This document – over 100 pages long – should provide country profiles, project backgrounds, planned activities, objectives and results, expected risks and assumptions and crucially, the proposed team of experts.

When you are shortlisted one of the most essential tasks is to find the best experts to implement the project. The quality of these people makes up for almost 70% of your chances of winning the project. If you have the best experts, you will almost certainly win the project. Normally, the team of experts consists of three people, but this varies. To find the best you have to search though hundreds of CV’s making my job also a bit of Human Resource. Even when you have found the best you will need to negotiate with him or her to offer the most competitive salary per working day.

For the Kosovo project I was in charge of writing this Technical Proposal and the selection of the Team. It was extremely interesting going through the whole process and equally fascinating researching the specific Kosovo context. Logically, the company with the best Technical (and Financial) Proposal will win the project. We feel we have made a good offer and that we have chances of getting the contract, I will know in a couple of weeks.

Cuenca photos

2008-03-18T20:02:00.003+01:00

Please go to my photowebsite for photos of this last weekend. They are in the folder Madrid 2008.

An Unusual Record

2008-03-18T18:22:00.004+01:00

This Interview was published in the March issue of the Hot English magazine. Sold Worldwide to English students around the globe!

Thomas Reeve (25) is a Hot English teacher and a twin. He was born on the 28th of March 1982 and together with his brother he holds an unusual twin record. We spoke to him about this record and his experiences of being a twin.

What is the story of your birth?
I was born in Ulsan, South Korea. At the time my father was working there and my mother became pregnant. In those days communication was poor so it was only a couple of hours before giving birth that she heard she was going to have twins. The Korean doctor gave my parents a very big shock when he told them: “Mr. and Mrs. Reeve, you will have multiple births”. So, to add to the confusion, it was unclear how many births there were going to be! Luckily for my mother there were only two: my brother Pieter and me. Although for a moment she thought it could have been six or seven!

Is it true you are a record holder?
Yes! We were born as British citizens – my father is British and my mother Dutch – and when he went to the British consulate to register our births he found out about our strange record. It turned out that we were the first British-born twins in South Korea! A record of which I am very proud!

What is it like being a twin?
Many people ask me this but of course I don’t know anything different. Obviously, it is fun to grow up with somebody your own age although my older sister might disagree with this! We often teamed-up against her which wasn’t very fair!

Do people ever confuse you?
No, we are not identical twins. My brother is taller and much more handsome! He has dark hair and brown eyes and I have blond hair and blue eyes. However, when we were at school teachers would mix-up our names either way! Also, to make things easier, my mother used to buy all my clothes in blue and all my brother’s clothes in red.

What is your strangest ‘twin experience’?
My brother and I decided that after 18 years sharing the same room we should separate a bit. So, on our gap-year we went to New Zealand: I went to the North Island and my brother to the South Island. It was a time of great independence so neither of us cared to phone home to England after arrival, although we did send the occasional email! After a month or so I decided to call up my mother, but I couldn’t get through because the line was engaged. Five minutes later I tried again and my mother picked up. The first thing she said was “Wow, that’s a coincidence, do you know who I was just speaking to?” She told me that that my brother – 600 miles away – had decided to make that first phone call home at exactly the same time! That can’t be a coincidence!

New Photos

2008-03-12T15:24:00.003+01:00

After some weeks of silence I am back with a bang. Please find a collection of photos on my photo page: http://picasaweb.google.com/reeve.thomas

They include highlights of:

- Eduardo's birthday

- Carneval

- Tyler's hamburger extravaganza

- Barcelona trip

- Holland trip

Stay tuned for more...

The five minute interview: Tammo Rennies

2008-02-18T13:00:00.003+01:00

Every once in a while Thomasenmadrid publishes a short interview with one of the Key figures of my life here in Spain. This week it's the turn of Tammo Rennies (27) hailing from Oldenburg, Germany. Now he resides in London with his Spanish girlfriend but was very important to me – and for office morale in general – during my internship at a well-known internet mobility portal. I will never forget when we were struggling to fold massive carton boxes into a recycle bin and a small group of onlookers started to form. Sweating and visibly annoyed Tammo snapped angrily “have you never seen an intern before?!”. The group shuffled away. His answers are short, but to the point, perfectly painting the picture of a man on a mission.

The first time I saw Thomas was: At Just Landed Global Headquarters in Madrid

My favorite place in Madrid is: On a terrace in Malasaña

Something I say too often is: I am not in the mood

I am not a politician, but: hungry for cash

People know me from being a lazy bastard, but in a truer life I would be: a business philosopher

If I weren't talking to you right now I would be: chilling somewhere

Normally, my breakfast consists of: cigarette, coffee, newspaper and a king size plain chocolate cookie, not the other way round!

I passionately have confidence in: developing business ideas, unlike to put them into action.

At the moment the most played on my MP3 player is: not in possession

In moments of weakness I: focus on my roots and look forward

I'm good at: autosuggestion

I'm very bad at: discipline

The ideal night out is: the night in with friends

In a nutshell, my philosophy is this: Todo se reduce a querer y se quieran.

Super Tuesday

2008-02-05T15:18:00.000+01:00

“It’s Super Tuesday!” screams a headline as I tuck into my French Chorizo Omelette. No wait. Two lines into the article it gets even better: Super-duper-Tuesday! This is fantastic, this is great. What a way to start a day! I wish every Tuesday would be a Super Tuesday. Heck, I wish every day would be Super-duper! Although I have always felt that Tuesday needed some extra encouragement, I didn’t think the Americans would go this far!

Super Tuesday, it just sounds cool. What would its Super powers be? Can it fly? Can it make Monday disappear? Can it turn Friday into ice? Let’s ask the Americans!

Unfortunately, Tuesday has historically been my least favourite day. This is strange because when I was young I normally had cricket practice on Tuesdays, but Tuesday practice was always less fun than Thursday practice. People complain more on Tuesdays, the weekend excitement has past and it is the most typical day for a bar to be closed. Atletico never plays on Tuesdays. The best we can ever get is UEFA cup which is shown on Thursday which doesn’t really need this extra boost – being so close to the weekend. There is just very little going for Tuesday. It is no wonder that the Americans are trying to repackage it.

In my current agenda it is Tuesday which again is spoiling my week. I leave home at 08.45 only to arrive back at 22.30 – by far the latest in the week, leaving no time for cooking or that other favourite pastime of mine: jogging. This happens on the far classier Wednesday. It’s just all impossible on Tuesday. So, I therefore applaud the Americans who have finally got it right. From now on, every Tuesday is going to be called Super Tuesday. Super-duper-Tuesday.

On Politics (Part 3): The Church

2008-02-01T12:56:00.001+01:00

Has he gone mad? After naming King Juan Carlos as a political player surely Thomas is not going to include the Catholic Church into the political debate. Well, unfortunately the answer is no to the first one and yes to the second. This morning I read in the newspaper that the Conferencia Episcopal Española (CEE) – which represents the Church – has urged the people of Spain to vote for the party which fights against gay-marriage, negotiating with terrorists and the Memory Law I mentioned in my last article on politics. In other words, kick out Prime Minister Rodrigo Zapatero and bring back the good old boys who reigned over Spain for 40 years (and a rather shorter spell of 8 years later on).

To make sure the Church was not breeching the long standing Montesquieu ideology Auxiliary Bishop Juan Antonio Martínez Camino wanted to make clear, however, that the Church was not backing any political party. In stead of explicitly breaching the Trias Politicas he pointed to a list of 10 points which worry the Church. Conveniently, all 10 points are in favour of the PP and not one supports the political plans set out by the governing socialist party the PSOE.

Using terrorism
At a press conference Mr. Martínez Camino urged Catholics - and all Spanish citizens who want to act responsibly - to vote those parties who do not explicitly nor implicitly recognize terrorist organizations as political entities. Of course the Bishop did not mention ETA as this would be political foul play, but he was blatantly referring to PSOE’s efforts to end ETA’s bloody hold on Spain.

In a farcical attempt to attract voters to the political right the Bishop went on attacking the rights of the nationalists (who want more autonomy for Spain’s provinces, such as Galicia, Catalonia and Basque Country) who were according to the Church seeking to modify the unity of Spain and reminding everybody of the dangers of the new Memory Law, seeing it as a great risk for the stability in Spain. Further more traditional points concerning euthanasia, abortion and gay marriage I leave unspoken. Better that way.

The sad thing is that the Church still wields considerable power over Spain’s citizens. This was once again confirmed when the Church and its supporters took to the street in their thousands (Plaza Colon, where else?) demonstrating against PSOE politics on the National Day of the Family. During all the key speeches government policies where attacked. Something which – I am told – was not done during Aznar’s period in office.

Hypocrisy
In its defence the PSOE hurried out a statement claiming it immoral that the Church – following the PP – uses terrorism for political gain. They pointed out that every legislation up to date has held talks with ETA in an attempt to broker a peace deal. Adolfo Suárez, Felipe González and José María Aznar all approached ETA for talks, the latter even using a Bishop (Bishop Juan María Uriarte) as intermediate. Hypocrisy at its worst.

So there it is. The Church is entering the political campaign supporting the right-wing opposition. Sad, but true, that they felt this was necessary although I feel the impact will not be very big. Those for who the message was intended – hard line Catholics – have probably already made up their minds.

Spontaneous anger

2008-01-29T16:00:00.000+01:00

I do not get angry very often and if I do, I certainly don’t show it. I actively see this as a fault in my character. From now on I see it as my obligation to show my anger more often in public and I can’t think of a better place to do than here in Spain, where it is some strange type of national pastime.

Spanish have no problem in venting their irritation at public authority figures, such as postmen, bus- and taxi-drivers and – dare I say – gas station holders and doormen (authority figures? In their eyes a definite yes!).

My ill-fated relationship with bus drivers took another turn last week as I tried to negotiate my way into a bus which was not going where I wanted it to be going. This sounds odd – and you are right it is – but I was doing so just to annoy the public authority figure which was in this case a rather ugly bus driver.

I will explain.

Upon arriving at the bus stop of bus 224 which brings me to a class out east in San Fernando de Henares there was a chubby bold man telling people very friendly that the bus was not going to stop at any of the other bus stops, in stead going it was going straight to its destination Torrejón. Thus, missing my San Fernando bus stop quite comfortably. I understood this, so after telling the man my destination I asked him when the next bus was coming which wás going to stop at my busstop.

I did so in good Spanish, but he replied in a very fast tongue. Hijo, no te entiendo, tienes que esperar. Son, I don’t understand you, you have to wait. I told him that I knew this already but that I wanted to know when the next bus was coming. He refused to answer my question as he presumably thought I was Polish (this happens quite a lot actually) and therefore not worthy of an answer.

Right there, I wanted to verbally tear this silly little man apart. I wanted to tell him to fuck-off and to answer my question politely. In stead I tried to enter the bus although it would not bring me to where I wanted to go. My plan worked, he started shouting at me “You shouldn’t do this, you are wrong, you are wrong, come back!”, he veered as he ran after me into his own bus. I had reversed the anger and this gave me great relief. We looked at each other and I laughed. The ultimate revenge.

The next bus arrived five minutes later and there were no further problems. However, I should have done things differently. I should have done things like Giovani Trapattoni – one time boss of Bayern Munich. As I was waiting for the next bus to arrive I remembered how this Italian football coach went on a verbal rampage against pretty much all of his players at a post-match press conference. The important thing here was that he did it in German – not his first language – but still went crazy. I wish I could do this in Spanish. Next time I run into a public authority figure messing things up for me I will do things like this (please follow link as it will demonstrate how I will be in the future):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bqp64q7kHmw

Chronos and Kairos

2008-01-17T13:45:00.000+01:00

“But, Thomas, we won’t get depressed will we?” asked one of my better students in almost perfect English.

I gave her a rye smile in return.

“Well…” I started, with a pause giving me time to think. We would be discussing the difference between two forms of the future tense: ‘will’ and ‘to be + going to’. I had thought it would be a good idea putting this into practice by telling each other our New Year Resolutions. ‘Will’ could be used for something they would be 100% sure of doing in 2008 and ‘going to’ could be followed by a plan they had for the New Year.

Later on we would use these New Year resolutions to practice what Unit 11 of our Grammar Book calls ‘Commenting on the past (the future in the past)’. We would magically travel in time to the 8th of January 2009 and look back at these resolutions. So, for example they would have to construct phrases like “I said that I would start learning French” or “I thought that I was going to travel to Amsterdam”. Perfect class plan.

My student of course didn’t know this yet so I replied “This depends on your resolutions.” Unit 11 had however nothing to do with the question she had asked, so I followed up my answer knowing exactly where she was getting at: “But don’t worry, you won’t get depressed, that was only one class and I will not let it happen again.” All students sighed in relief and I could continue with the class, although I did think back to that fateful class where all of my five students banged their heads on the table shouting in Spanish Mi vida es una mierda “I have a shit life” and something else similar to “Is it all worth it?”

So, what happened?

I had found a nice and interesting text in the Headway Intermediate Student book of English. The article was about time and at the beginning of the class I had written the following word on the blackboard: kairological time. Blatantly trying to impress them with this word I looked around the classroom and waited for some sort of reaction. There came none. Waiting for that spark to kick off the class I encouraged them by saying: “by the end of the class you will know what this means!” My excitement was not immediately returned, but I knew for a fact that it would be interesting.

To start things off I asked them to think of a normal day and write down for example: At seven o’clock I get up and have a shower. At nine o’clock I arrive at work. At eleven o’clock I have a coffee, etc. The point was that they had to use the present simple for habitual actions. As I gleefully listened to their answers I knew this class was going exactly where I was hoping it would be going.

On the blackboard I made a list of all their phrases. All of them concerned more or less the same. Getting up, breakfast, going to work, having lunch, going to a meeting, driving home, and finally going to bed. “You, beauty,” I thought, “I will get my message across, of this I am sure.”

After this exercise we read the text which was about Time. It had various interesting observations in it. For example, it discussed how various civilizations valued time. The Thai Karen tribe, you see, measures time in distance. The Karen always know where they are, when they are, how far they are from sunset or home: for time and distance are connected in the Karen language. Therefore, if you would ask a Karener about the time of sunset they would say: “Oh, about three kilometers away” (thank heavens nobody asked how it was that the Karen had knowledge of the metric system) because the only way of traveling is to walk, which takes a known length of time.

However, the piece de resistance would be saved for the end of the text. For there, the difference would be explained between the two Greek gods of Time Kronos and Kyros. We read together:

Gods of Time

The ancient Greeks had different gods for time’s different aspects. One of the most important was Chronos, who gives his name to absolute time, linear, chronological and quantifiable. But the Greeks had another, far more slippery and colourful, god of time, Kairos. Kairos was the god of timing, of opportunity, of chance and mischance, of different aspects of time. Time is qualitative. If you sleep because the clock tells you it’s way past your bedtime that is chronological time: whereas if you sleep because you’re tired, that is kairological time. If you eat biscuits when you’re hungry, that is kairological time: whereas if you eat by the clock that is chronological time. After this small history lesson we returned to the black board where I had already neatly summed up their activities and created two columns: Chronic and kairological time. We went through the list and as we discussed each one of them I put them in the correct column. “At seven o’clock I wake up” I said hoping to kick off a discussion. “Chronos!” was the immediate reply. “We are not ready to wake up, we do so because we have to!” they shouted as if in a heavenly English choir. “That’s right!” I danced as I added the rather ridiculous “Ooh, so much more than just an English class!”. I desperately wanted to give them something to think about.

We continued. “Nine o’clock, off to work” was next. “Chronic time! It’s against nature!” chanted the group, now full of exaltation. “How about lunch?” I asked with a quick response following: “Chronos, Chronos, Chronos! We don’t eat ‘cause were hungry, but because our bosses tell us it is time to” stirred the class which was rapidly turning into some odd form of Time Rebellion. I was already sensing that I might have overcooked my chicken.

And indeed, the chants and shouting quickly dimmed down. A soft voice uttered “So I guess going to bed after Los Hombres de Paco (TV show which ends at 23.45) is also determined by Chronic time as I am normally not tired at all, but just do it because I know that I have to get up early in the morning,” said my clever student earning herself eight forceful eyes of anger.

The penny had dropped. Everything they had just summed up was determined by Chronos, totally leaving the more joyous, colorful and adventurous God Kairos out of their lives. Heads fell. Although I was glad that my plan had caused such a discussion I had lost the war. Smiles disappeared and the dropping heads were soon hitting the cold, white, synthetic table. Thud.

The only male student in the class room decided to break the silence which followed the frantic outings of despair I mentioned earlier. “You have depressed us Thomas,” summing up the feeling of my advanced group pretty nicely. I could offer them no real response. I had not thought that the class would take such a twist. I certainly didn’t have the answer. Telling them to start following Kairos would, in reality, be like telling them to simultaneously quit their jobs and this would lead me into a right muddle.

I had a quick look at my watch as everybody looked at me in disgust. Without realizing that I was checking the time – the very topic which had brought me into this mess – I was about to say “Hey, look, its well past 20.15, so class has finished, you can go home.” Luckily I understood my problem at the correct moment. I recovered and said “Don’t you all just feel like going home? Yes, let’s follow Kairos for once and go home happily,” I attempted.

They were not to be fooled. “We’re still depressed Thomas” was the last comment before everybody left in silence leaving me to ponder what had just happened.

On Politics (Part 2): Partido Popular

2008-01-15T15:21:00.000+01:00

Whereas the US Presidential hopefuls are combating each other amongst euphemisms such as Tsunami Tuesday and Super Sunday, here in Spain you would be forgiven for not noticing that the general elections are only a mere two months away. Although liberal opposition leader Mariano Rajoy and sitting Prime Minister Rodrigo Zapatero feature on the daily news flashes they have yet debated together in public, nor have there been any smear campaigns, or come to think of it, any campaign at all.

As I promised some months ago, I would be writing a series on politics here in Spain. It has taken me some time to follow up this promise because I knew that my next article had to be about the Partido Popular (PP), the current right-wing opposition party. There are simply so many things wrong with this political movement that I just did not know where to start. So, let me begin to explain where this party began, for later discussing where it went wrong.

Trousers
Actually I have to correct myself here; the Partido Popular never went wrong. It began wrong. It was founded as the Aliaza Popular (AP) in 1976, by the former Franco government Propaganda and Tourism minister Manuel Fraga. This grumpy political hardliner only gave up political prominence in 2005 when he was defeated as president of the autonomous region of his native Galicia. Just one look at the man some people call the Fragasaurus, makes you understand why people don’t rate him as highly as his trousers rate him.

During Franco’s time he had been responsible for catapulting Spain’s tourism into stardom for which he is well respected. However, he has been heavily criticized for never really distancing himself from his pro-Franco comments. Whatever your view of him is, Fraga played a crucial role in Spain’s transition from dictatorship to democracy. As a political heavy-weight it was him who amongst others personally signed the constitution Spain still has today.

As Fraga failed to beat the Socialists in the 80s (lead by four-term Prime Minister Filipe Gonzalez) he in the end decided to hand over his leadership. After some internal battles Jose Maria Aznar became his successor. In doing so, one of the most despicable political leaders Europe has seen in its post-war years was introduced.

PP Government
Aznar’s star rose considerably and quickly. Within two years of joining the AP he was elected for parliament, followed by a stint as president of the autonomous region of Castile and Leon and ultimately he was elected as Party president (of the renamed Partido Popular). After losing out yet again to Gonzalez he – and the PP with him – finally got their revenge in 1996 when for the first time in Spain’s post-Franco history a right-wing party won the general elections against a PSOE crippled by alleged corruption charges.

Spain got what it voted for. I cannot comment too much on his eight year reign as I was not around, however Aznar’s legacy will forever – as Tony Blair’s – be linked to one theme: his decision to send Spanish troops to Iraq. Aznar was obsessed with aiding his new best friend George W. Bush, whereas other European continentals such as France and Germany frowned upon this seemingly idiotic show of ‘I want to be your pal’.

Kodak Moment
There is a joke here in Spain that Aznar chose to send his troops to Iraq just so that he could get a photo with George W. and Tony. This is exactly what he got when the three met in the Azores to seal the fate of country that has never been the same since. This country of course being…Spain.

Whilst Spain was getting ready to vote in their general elections four years ago it seemed certain that the PP would win a third successive term. This would have made present leader Rajoy Spain’s second right-wing president as Aznar, valiantly stepped aside claiming that a president should only be allowed to sit eight years “like in America”.

However, Al-Qaida thought otherwise and killed 192 people three days before the elections.

This event started a string of lies which has dominated domestic politics ever since. Interior Minister Miguel Ángel Acebes immediately appeared on the television claiming it was ETA who had carried out the attacks. He did so practically every 20 minutes for three days. With him the whole PP echoed that it was not Al-Qaida, but the Basque terrorists who were to blame for the March 11 bombings. It was in the interest of the PP that ETA was the guilty party as an Al-Qaida attack would point the bloody finger directly to the men who sent Spanish troops into foreign territory without the mandate of their people.

Spaniards were not fooled and elected the rather surprised Rodrigo Zapatero who immediately pulled out Spanish troops, infuriating the United States.

Lesson
The defeated PP should have learned their lesson right there and then, but it didn’t. If in the Netherlands such an attempt of public deception had been made, it would have certainly meant the end of the political careers (and maybe even a jail term) of all of those involved. In stead Acebes remains Secretary General of the PP and will certainly hold a prominent position in government if the PP wins next March.

After everything what has happened the PP still uses terrorist threat for political gain. Whenever ETA strikes (it has happened twice in the past year) they organize a demonstration ‘for peace and stability of this country’ openly questioning why the PSOE does not join them.

Rajoy, Acebes, Aznar and their mates do not understand that this type of demonstrations (against terrorism) should not be politically coloured, but partisan. It is very dangerous to associated domestic terrorism with your political opponents. Dangerous and wrong.

It is these demonstrations which further anger me. The party has taken national symbols and made it their own. Spanish flags are massively represented and the National Anthem is played after the main speeches, followed by a loud ‘Viva España’. Again, dangerous and wrong.

Public Memory
Another topic of fierce discussion between the two main parties here in Spain is the new Law of Historic Memory. This new law goes against the agreement made during Spain’s Transition period (incidentally Spain’s most interesting piece of history) that to advance as quickly as possible all should be collectively forgotten in an attempt to secure a stable democracy.

At the time this certainly was a good idea. Spain would still be internally muddling if it was not for this decision. However, it is obvious that now is the time to start constructing the real truth, to find out what really happened during Franco’s years, to uncover the painful wounds left by those who at present still have everything to lose if reality comes out to play.

In the Independent you can read our friend Acebes commenting on this new law. It reads (click link for article):

“The PP said the initiative was "a huge mistake" that rakes up memories of the worst time in Spain's recent history. "Zapatero has brought division and confrontation, and reopened the wounds of the past," said Angel Acebes, the PP's general secretary.” The Independent adding that “The PP has never dissociated itself from Franco, and many members covertly admire him.”

In other words, the PP would prefer to just ‘forget’ what happened in those forty years of dictatorship, even after thirty years of stability. This is like explaining to a Holocaust survivor that he should stop making so much noise as it’s just better for the rest of us to turn our heads. It really is like this. Dangerous and wrong.

It is not just their terrorism focussed politics and their symbols. It is also their people. The Party President Mariano Rajoy blatantly lacks the charisma of Aznar and it is obvious that Aznar still plays a huge role within the party and therefore Spanish politics. It is incorrect that a former PM makes so many politically tinted comments. Not only is he undermining Rajoy, he is undermining the whole political system. “You had your time, now shut-up,” seems to be the general common sense opinion.

The PP Voter
Then, ultimately there are the PP voters. You can spot them from a mile away although often – as common amongst conservative voters – they do not admit it. They wear posh clothes, have little Spanish symbols such as mini-flags in their cars, on their wrists, on their foreheads. They often have not travelled outside their beloved Madrid and if they have done, it will have been to far-away destinations, preferably the States.

Their love for Spain as one unity blinds them from the fact that Spain is a beautiful diverse country with an array of traditions to be proud of. In stead of being proud, they are cynical and sour, marching and shouting for more Spanishness.

Witnessing this has surprised me and disgusted me at the same time. The opposition has been so poor that it begs to be believed. A prominent PSOE politician wrote in El Pais this Sunday. “We have to win, we will win. Just imagine if Rajoy, Acebes and Zaplana are allowed to run the country.” A simple remark, but utterly true. It would be a complete disaster.

El fin de la huelga

2008-01-10T11:12:00.000+01:00

The Madrid Metro Cleaners strike has finally come to an end. Tuesday morning was the first in about twenty days that we Madrileños could enter our little subterranean world without having to step on layers of garbage ranging from banana skins, to ripped-up papers, to puke. It is a relief to all. I can now once again sniff up that fresh carbon filled air with a whiff of delight.

The honest truth is that I did not take any real interest in the reasoning of the strikers. The problem is that I am not a striking person. I come from the more modest mould of ‘why can’t we just ask really politely whilst extensively using the magic word (which is, as I am sure you already know, the word please)?’. When in real desperation you should revert to the more dramatic pretty please. As you might expect this hasn’t really brought me to any heights just yet.

The thing is that I am neither in a position to go on strike. Really, what would happen? I would be replaced immediately at the consultancy by one of a score of recently graduated Social Science students unable to get a foot in the door. Then, the English school would just contract another under-qualified American pretender on a gap-year and my voluntary organization, well, I am not even sure if it is even possible to be a volunteer on strike.

So, there it is. The thing that did upset me a bit was that most of the damage in the Metro system was done by the cleaners themselves. Up to 22 employers were fired as it was found out that they were deliberately littering the underground in order to enhance the effects of the strike! What’s that all about? That goes directly against what you are supposed to do. Please follow these links to have a look at what they were doing: Madrid Metro 1 and Madrid Metro 2.

If my imaginary strike would continue, this would mean that I would have to continue working as English teacher but deliberately teach them incorrect English (But, Thomas, can you really say ‘I shit in the milk’?), thus not being on strike but just sabotaging. At the consultancy it would mean that I would have to create more work for them by creating extra projects. Therefore I would have to be employed by the European Commission if I would seriously want to sabotage in the way of the Metro Strikers. Sabotage, in my case, therefore would just mean more (and better!) work! And then I am not speaking about the volunteer work where I would have to construct myself a cayuco (one of these boats refugees build to cross the ocean) and wash myself up on the Canary coast line!

I guess I just want to say that I sympathise with the Metro Cleaners for going on strike – they certainly do a good job – but they do have it quite easy striking. Much easier than most of us. In the end, they got what they wanted, a pay rise and better social protection. But, the Metro system has decided not to renew the contract of the four main cleaning companies which suffered from the strikes! So in four months all the strikers will be out of a job! That’s bad luck.

Christmas and New Year

2008-01-04T09:30:00.001+01:00

Thomasenmadrid has returned for the New Year! I would like to wish you all the best for 2008 and I hope you enjoyed the holidays.

This year, as always, I went to my parents’ house in High Easter, Essex, England, to celebrate Christmas. It was great. My mother, you see, is the original Christmas machine, churning out minced pies with her right hand whilst filling stockings with the other. Things haven’t changed much over the years but my mum must posses some magical success formula because everybody keeps returning.

It was more of the same this year, with Christmas dinner in suits, Midnight mass, mulled wine, stockings, too many presents, salmon and champagne, Winking Murder, Party Poppers, playing games, Boxing Day at Auntie Ann’s and my Dad’s famous after Christmas bubble and squeak.

However, things were a bit different this year. By far the most important was the introduction of a new Family Reeve Christmas Tradition: the making and baking of a gingerbread house. I learned this tradition in Sweden from my lovely neighbour Dana (who kindly supplied me with the necessary pepperkakor dough to construct the masterpiece). The principal design and building work was done by me and my brother-in-law Alex although my father was anxiously looking over our shoulders as building site supervisor. In the end he contributed with a steady icing sugar performance. For New Years, I skipped over to Holland with my sister, Alex, and two friends John and Debbs who accompanied us to The Hague where we would celebrate the New Year. My brother was already waiting for us and we would be joined by his girlfriend Ernestine and another friend of mine Clan for the actual New Year party at our house.The remaining days I spent looking up old friends and this was great fun. I saw my The Hague friends Luwe, Guus and Folkert in Rotterdam. Luwe now lives in the best apartment Rotterdam has to offer and we headed into (or down to as he lives on the 29th floor) town for some beers and sate. I had already met my old Swedish friend Ulrika with her Dutch boyfriend for seaside pancakes in Hoek van Holland. Later that day I also dropped by to say hello to Carmen’s Dutch family who received me brilliantly. The first day of the year was mostly spent with Asaf and his friends. We developed a business plan for a soon-to-be-released magazine. These are the things you do on January the first.

Anyway, I wish you all the best and please take a look at my new photo website for more Christmas and New Year photos: picasaweb.google.com/reeve.thomas

The Five Minute Interview: Sigrid Pratsch

2007-12-21T10:08:00.000+01:00

Every Friday Thomasenmadrid publishes a short interview with one of the Key figures of my life here in Spain. This week it's the turn of Sigrid Pratsch (25) who now lives in Vienna, Austria but has strong ties with the capital of Spain. We became friends during our internship at the internet mobility portal Just Landed where we found out that we both couldn’t handle an electric drill. A happy and enthusiastic person Sigi was very much the savior of the office when it came to comedic remedy and her bubbly character made my stay at Just Landed worth the while. She was also a founding member of the Friday Afternoon Chinese Lunch Club.

The first time I saw Thomas was: At Just Landed’s office in Madrid. But I don’t remember any details – I’m also bad with first impressions. For example, I thought that Tammo (another intern) was a high-ranking member of the crew! Anyways, that shouldn’t mean that I didn’t grow to love you, Thomas! (in an entirely platonic way, of course)

My favorite place in Madrid is: The “Montaña artificial” in Retiro! It’s in a corner of the park; I discovered it in 2003 during my Erasmus stay in the city. I wandered about town and ended up on that little mountain – the view was spectacular as the sun was about to go down and covered everything in red-golden rays of light. I went up there a lot to have a “cigarette” and enjoy a couple of quiet moments.

Something I say too often is: “Leiwond” (Viennese term for something like “super-great”, only cooler; can also be used sarcastically) and “zach” (upper-Austrian term for almost everything really J)

I am not a politician, but: if I had to, I’d be a good one, because I wouldn’t bend over for nobody!

People know me from having quit my job at an PR-agency and now working part-time at an event location, but in a truer life I would be: either a news-reporter for Al Jazeera, hihi or the EU’s foreign minister – but in my imagination, the position would come with A LOT more power than any democratic constitution would ever allow!

If I weren't talking to you right now I would be: on one of Vienna’s Christmas markets sipping mulled wine, chatting with friends and staring at all the pretty blinking lights.

Normally, my breakfast consists of: A cup of coffee, one or two slices of bread with butter and either jam or honey. When I have breakfast with my roommate we also have soft-boiled eggs, ham, cheese, tea, etc. But I really shouldn’t call that “breakfast” because it usually takes place at noon!

I passionately have confidence in: the fact that Austria is going to get its ass kicked at the EURO next year! This is going to be so embarrassing. No, wait a minute – it’s embarrassing that we’re taking part in that event in the first place!!!

At the moment the most played on my MP3 player is: The Pixies, Foo Fighters and Babyshambles. I try to evolve and listen to more “sophisticated” music but my heart’s not in it! Rock is all I really need.

In moments of weakness I: Listen to melancholic and sad Oasis songs sung by the Chief, have a smoke and think of better times.

I'm good at: Denial! Only joking. I am good at cheering up friends – making them feel better about themselves during sucky times.

I'm very bad at: Finding a properly paid job that I actually like, apparently.

The ideal night out is: Start it with a couple of drinks at home with friends; continue with going to a club where they either play alternative rock/indie or electronic dance music and dance and chat with friends until around 4 or 5 o’clock in the morning; End it with a) a cold beer down by the river next to the “Flex” (a Viennese club) or b) a healthy plate of goulash and rolls at a 24 hour bakery/bar/restaurant in my neighborhood.

In a nutshell, my philosophy is this: Good question! Take it as it comes – and maybe try to change it when you don’t like it, II guess.

Enhorabuena Carmen!

2007-12-19T11:38:00.000+01:00

Monday was a very special day indeed. It was Carmen’s graduation day. Thomasenmadrid would like to congratulate her on this fantastic achievement. Together with her colleagues from the Master Ación Solidaria Internacional de Europa she collected her degree in the impressive Leganés Assembly hall. Enhorabuena a todos!

The diary of a volunteer: CEAR in Las Palmas

2007-12-19T10:56:00.000+01:00

Ever since reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance I have been searching for Quality. Doing things with Quality means that you enter what you are doing, that you connect with it. For example, if you are faced with a problem don’t be scared of it but make it your friend. Sit down with it. If your motorcycle is not working the only way to solve this with Quality is to understand the machine and calmly work out what’s wrong with it. Connect with the machine.

Now, the sad truth is that the only thing with which I have booked considerable success using this philosophy is with my (by now) famous tortilla Española. I connect with that potato and egg based pancake and for this reason it always turns out well. However, I do precious little other things in life with Quality and this bothers me a bit. Nevertheless, this weekend my spirits were raised. I went on a two and a half day trip to Las Palmas, Gran Canaria, and witnessed that there are quite a few people who do things with Quality at the NGO I do volunteer work for: CEAR (Comisión Española de Ayuda al Refugiado). I will try to explain why and why this is important.

I do most of my CEAR work from home, late at night after work, often accompanied by Aqui Hay Tomate re-runs on the television. The work that I do does not involve too much connecting, although I try. Since I started my new job I don’t have time to swing by the CEAR office to chat with Mariví or Eugenia, the two colleagues I normally deal with. I have no time to connect (a gumption which is explained in the book, but which I will not go into for the moment, although it is a very interesting subject indeed). This is why I was happy to receive the invitation to go Las Palmas and participate in the 7th CEAR Volunteer Assembly. I was happy to actually feel I was part of an organization, to be a part of CEAR.

Multinational

So what have been the gains from my 58 hour hop-over to Gran Canaria? Well, several. First of all I discovered that there are many good people working for this organization. Good people from all over the world. I was surprised by how many foreigners attended, ranging from Cameroon to Germany to the United States to Sweden. All of them wanting to contribute to the greater good of the NGO. Many with the Quality I was talking about earlier.

Second of all, I had fun. I laughed a lot. This is very important.Another highlight was the workshop I attended on the reasons of being a volunteer as seen through the five senses. The truth is that I joined CEAR just because I thought it was a very good and important cause and this reasoning was unlikely to be changed in doing exercises involving my nose, eyes, ears, tongue and hands. The workshop started with a group massage where we – after stroking each others back for a couple of minutes – had to ‘throw away the negative energy we had just collected’. Normally I find this stuff rather ‘bla-bla’ but something told me this was going to be different. And it was. I did my best to connect with the exercises.

Eyes-Wide-Shut
The session was very open and the discussions interesting. At one stage I was blindfolded, laid down on the floor and left alone in the empty room. The idea was that I had to use only my ears for orientation and that I had to trust the team in whatever it was they were going to do with me. This was not so much of a problem. I was dead tired of a night without sleep so that soon I was half-way to dreamland. Music from the Amelie soundtrack played a helping hand in this as well. A couple of minutes later I heard some feet shuffling back into the room and not long after that I was picked up by about twenty hands who rocked me gently in the air. This was an amazing feeling, although a bit Eyes-Wide-Shut. It’s a bit like you are on the bottom of the sea, floating through nothing. They started walking, I had no idea where to, but I felt completely safe. When – after various minutes of flying – they laid me down again at another place in the building I was very relaxed and had caught up with an invaluable three minutes of sleep! Great experience.

All the other discussions and activities had to do with how to use your senses and what this had to do with being a volunteer. This made me think. Why was I a volunteer for CEAR? And what had my nose, ears, eyes, hands and mouth got to do with it? Well, the first one is a lot easier to answer than the second and it goes a bit like this:

Reason

I am a volunteer for CEAR because I believe that the situation which these poor people (refugees, paperless people, illegal immigrants, asylum seekers, etc.) find themselves is inhuman and unfair. I feel that this is enough. There was a lot of talk why one should be a volunteer. I heard that you had to be an open person, willing to change the world and that personal reasoning shouldn’t play a big role in being a volunteer. I disagree with this. Everybody has their own reasons and these shouldn’t be questioned.

As I mentioned above I was looking for Quality and the President of CEAR gave a good example. His speech on the 20 objectives of CEAR and his personal worry concerning people who not only don’t have papers, but also lack a country (because they are not recognized by anybody, like in the movie The Terminal, therefore lacking an identity), was blatantly filled with Quality. Here is a guy who connects with his job and the problems which have to be faced. Like him, there are many people within CEAR who do this. Crisis

During one of the presentations we were told that crisis should be seen as opportunities to improve. This is something I have heard often before and I felt something was missed. Crisis like the one the President mentioned are not opportunities alone. They are situations created by people who didn’t take the time and effort to foresee where the problem was going. To solve such a crisis, being positive is not the only requirement. As I said, sit down with the problem. Take it apart like you would take a motorcycle apart and then put it together again, and again, and again.

Valiantly, I will leave this problem solving to the others at CEAR. I truly wish I could do more, but for the moment I will just play my small part, something which I hope to increase once I can drop teaching English classes. I walked away from this meeting with the conviction to spend more time working on CEAR issues. This sounds like a new years resolution.

For now, I wish to thank all the people who attended the meeting in Las Palmas, it was truly enjoyable and I learned a lot. At least, it made me feel part of a team, fighting for a general cause.

We just need some more cowbell

2007-12-13T15:24:00.000+01:00

I used to watch this clip when I was in Sweden with my friend Joi. The other day I was sent it again and was reminded of this classic: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5J6wVBq1LCo

Please have a look at it and laugh. Look at for the memorable quotes:

"Gene wait, why don't you lay that cowbell down right now..... with us..... together..."

"I put my pants on just like you guys, one leg at a time. Except after I put them on, I make gold records."

Have you seen dignity?

2007-12-13T14:09:00.000+01:00

Fat man lookin' in a blade of steel
Thin man lookin' at his last meal
Hollow man lookin' in a cottonfield
For dignity

Wise man lookin' in a blade of grass
Young man lookin' in the shadows that pass
Poor man lookin' through painted glass
For dignity

I am in bus 224 heading towards Madrid’s Avenida de America station where I will enter the city’s Metro network. The buildings aligning the A2 motorway are moving past slowly. We are in a traffic jam as I listen to these first lines of Bob Dylan’s Dignity. I have crammed Carmen’s MP3 player with melancholic autumn songs and this is simply another shining example. I join the Jester’s search for Dignity as my mind wonders back to a class I had just given up north in Madrid.

As often in English class conversation had turned to the benign. “Which news events have had the most impact on you in your life time?” I ask almost feeling the shame. They know we have to talk about something.

I had already offered them some examples: Diana’s death, September the 11th, The Fall of the Berlin Wall (who ever mentions this one nowadays? Impact seems to be a concept which can be replaced by time), etc. Of course I completely overlooked the painfully obvious.

One girl had tears in her eyes. “Shit,” I thought. “March the 11th”. Or as they say here: 11M (Once M). It was indeed this event she was about to share with us.

She told us that she comes from a suburb of Madrid which was particularly affected by the Madrid Bombings in 2004. The train she took every day to get to her downtown University was one of those targeted. Luckily that day there was a student strike at the Uni, so many – including my student – opted to stay at home. However, one of her classmates decided to go to the library anyway to study. He was one of the 192 people to die that day.

The benign didn’t feel so benign anymore and by now the girl had switched to Spanish. English class had been put on hold for a while and replaced by group therapy – which seems to be the second usage of language classes in general anyway.

She continued her story about how a friend of hers lost an eye in one of the blasts and that he still went into the wreckage to pull out people. He has been traumatized for life. And about that nearly everybody in her suburb knew of somebody who had lost someone.

The class came to an end as did her story. The last five minutes had been spent talking Spanish but this didn’t seem to bother anybody. I turned my attention back to Dylan. Where was Dignity on that March day in 2004? He tries to answer but just sings.

So many roads, so much at stake
So many dead ends, I'm at the edge of the lake
Sometimes I wonder what it's gonna take
To find dignity

When he finishes I notice that traffic has begun speeding up again and so has the music. Out of nowhere appear the ‘Barenaked Ladies’ whose song ‘If I had a million dollars’ brings the necessary comic relief I had been waiting for ever since the class had finished.

The song is about what they would do if they had a million dollars. At one stage they sing:

Well, I'd buy you John Merrick's remains
(Ooh, all them crazy elephant bones)

As the song is humorous I decided to find out who John Merrick was and the next day I read it on Wikipedia. It turns out that John Merrick (1862-90) was known in his Victorian lifetime as ‘The Elephant Man’. The picture clearly shows why. Apparently Micheal Jackson once tried to buy his bones for exactly 1 million dollars, but this was turned down. Jacko wanted to by them because ‘the story reminded me of me a lot’.

His story makes fascinating reading and I started wondering about Dignity again. If there ever was a person who was in search of Dignity than it would have been this guy, John Merrick. And he would be looking in a mirror. I was not surprised to find out that one of the main books about his life was titled: The Elephant Man: A Study in Human Dignity.

The Five Minute Interview: Carmen Pontevedra Maroño

2007-12-07T09:51:00.000+01:00

Every Friday Thomasenmadrid publishes a short interview with one of the Key figures of my life here in Spain. This week it's the turn of Carmen Pontevedra Maroño (25). She is a proud Galician woman who bravely went to Sweden, the Netherlands and Madrid. She is well known for her good sense of fashion, excellent cooking and solidarity with the world through her studies and work. This week we will be celebrating our third anniversary. How everything started - and more - you can read below.

The first time I saw Thomas was: In Sweden, sometime in the month of September 2004. In the museum of the Drottingholm castle during a guided visit of Erasmus students. I had just bought a postcard with a view of the castle and Thomas had bought a big postcard with the Swedish princess Madeleine. He looked very happy with it. Twenty minutes later we met again by chance at the bus stop to go back to Stockholm. He proudly showed the card and said “this is going to be my future wife”. This was the first thing he said to me.

My favorite place in Madrid is: I think Gran Vía. The street has really impressive buildings and of course the shops! Haha! And my corrala in Lavapies, I think it’s very colorful, especially on the weekend when people hang out their clothes.

Something I say too often is: “Mogollón” which is an adjective that means ‘a lot’. For example: In the concert there were a mogollón of people. But above all it is bueno, I even use it when I speak English. Also I use the Dutch ‘ja’ and ‘nee’.

I am not a politician, but: I am! I studied political science which makes a pólitologa (political scientist).

People know me from being a trainee at FIIAPP, but in a truer life I would be: a handy-craft worker, a cook or designer/tailor of clothes. Or in other words, everything which implies me working with my hands. Thinking stresses me. Funny, because I wouldn’t mind being a wedding planner, at least this entertains me.

If I weren't talking to you right now I would be: using my sowing machine to adjust the length of some new jeans I bought a couple of days ago and of course I have to cut quite a big piece as always, because my legs are short!!

Normally, my breakfast consists of: a glass of juice and a piece of bread which I eat on my way to or at work. I would like to have time for a tea, but I am lazy and I don’t get up ten minutes earlier.

I passionately have confidence in: cars. When I drive my father’s car I never feel that it will break down. But this is just an example, because in general, I am quite unconfident in things. ‘Si no lo veo, no lo creo.’ (If I don’t see it, I don’t believe it).

At the moment the most played on my MP3 player is: A mix of international pop hits and strange music which Thomas has put on it since he has kidnapped my MP3 player. I think his music is boring.

In moments of weakness I: would like to stay in Galicia – my big paradise – with my family and friends, and of course also with Thomas.

I'm good at: running in the snow with my boots with heels. This I did several times in Sweden to catch the last train into town. I am also good at things which I do with my hands. Organizing events, parties or meetings is also one of my good points.

I'm very bad at: numbers. I just listen numbers and money and I collapse. I couldn’t be an economist. Also, when I get nervous I change the order of the words of the phrase. Further I have difficulty with the discussion nationalist vs independent in Galicia. I am bored of it. In Madrid I am treated as a Galician fundamentalist and in Galicia some people see me as an outsider who doesn’t understand Galicianess. This topic lives a lot amongst certain groups of people.

The ideal night out is: a summer night in Galicia, with friends. To have drinks outside in the port, without having feet pain! Being a bit happy and end the night with the always popular chocolate con churros.

In a nutshell, my philosophy is this: Enjoy the moment.

Sinterklaas in Lavapies

2007-12-07T09:46:00.000+01:00

I have always thought that Sinterklaas was a bit of an oddball
Old man, more or less six hundred years old
But the strangest thing of all
Is that he has a horse named Mould

They say he lives here in Madrid
Something which doesn’t quite fit
From here, he brings a present for every Dutch kid
Leaving the Spanish youth in the shit

I have searched high, I have searched low
I will search every where I go
But still I haven’t found the good man, no, no, no
Not even hanging with his Pedros Negros in the Park Retiro

So what could I expect this 5th of December?
Would the Sint forget me or would he remember?
I had been a reasonable good child this year
So principally I had nothing to fear

The only problem was a simple one
I was in Madrid and the Sint probably somewhere in Rotterdam
But this great old friendly man is always considered very wise
So he got together with his black helpers to arrange a compromise

He would send his youngest Piet back to Spain
So that my expectations wouldn’t be in vain
So there it was when I opened my eyes
My shoe was filled with a great big surprise

The Knights Who Say NIE

2007-11-28T13:27:00.000+01:00

The Knights Who Say Ni! are a band of knights from the comedy film Monty Python and the Holy Grail, feared for the manner in which they utter the word “ni” (pronounced as knee but clipped short). As it was said in the movie, “Those who hear them seldom live to tell the tale!”

The Knights are led by a man who is approximately 12 feet tall with disproportionately short arms and reindeer antlers inserted into his helmet (played by Michael Palin standing on a ladder). The other Knights are of normal human dimensions and act as a chorus, only repeating words and phrases that the head Knight has spoken.

The Knights are to be found in a forest and demand to King Arthur that he gives them a shrubbery (a good one and not too expensive) as a payment to pass through the woods they defend, which he in the end obtains in a nearby village.

Now, today I myself had to pass the mighty Knights Who Say NIE! My knights only differed in two ways to the Monty Python ones: the way they say NIE is more open (pronounced as knee-eh) and they are located – not in any woods – but at Plaza del Campillo del Mundo Nuevo nº 3, right next to my house.

NIE in their case stands for número de identidad de extranjero and is like a social security number which every foreigner needs to obtain to work and live in Spain. In other words, it is a bureaucratic procedure with difficulties. Naturally I was afraid of the Knights Who Say NIE so I brought along a shrubbery just in case.

Upon entering the building I had to leave the shrubbery outside for security reasons. I tried to convince the doorman that I had brought it as a present for the Great Leader who was going to attend me; he was unimpressed but let me pass. This was going far too easy.

Inside I was scanning the waiting room for the 12 feet tall civil servant who was going to tell me that I didn’t fill in the correct papers and that I had to come back in two months time. I couldn’t find him or her. Instead there was just a friendly man sitting behind a desk who told me to wait just a momentito. He even offered me a biscuit which I declined.

Sure enough after five minutes I was attended by another friendly looking person who asked me to pass through to her office. I had already figured out how to say in Spanish “Sorry, the doorman didn’t let me pass with the Shrubbery, but if you let me I can go down and get it for you now.” But she never asked me the question. Alternatively she asked me where I was from and what the names of my parents were (Is your father’s name Peter Thomas or Neil…just choose one, we don’t mind!).

Within two minutes I had my NIE and I was a legal entity in Spain. I was confused. This had gone way too easy. When I left the office and stumbled down the stairs I passed the doorman and nodded hasta luego. Two seconds later I heard the doorman shout “Caballero!”. “Of course,” I thought, “They have discovered something and now I will need to hand back my newly obtained number and come back in two months.”

But this is not what the man said. He just simply communicated “Sir, your shrubbery.”

The Five Minute Interview: Eduardo Sancho Garcia

2007-11-23T09:25:00.000+01:00

Every friday Thomasenmadrid publishes a short interview with one of the Key figures of my life here in Spain. This week its the turn of Eduardo Sancho Garcia (25) a born and raised Madrileño whose greatest passion is Atlético de Madrid..and Franz Ferdinand, well and Swedish girls too...or is it Zapatero, but the interview says his dad? I guess he just has a lot of passions.

The first time I saw Thomas was: I can’t remember the exact moment but I’m sure that it must have been in the second fortnight of August, 2004, being introduced to each other. That was the time when our Erasmus period in Stockholm got started. But the very first time I do remember talking and actually seeing him was one month later in a trip to Tallinn, Estonia, where we shared a 4-beds-cabin with 3 more guys in a cruise (don’t make any jokes about why there were more guys than beds). I could have never imagined that that drunk Dutch guy who just spoke crap about Spaniards would become such a good friend 2 years later (and living in Spain). That’s irony. Cheers for it.

My favorite place in Madrid is: Tough one. I’d say both Gran Vía street (our Broadway) and La Plaza de Oriente. But I like La Latina and its little narrow streets too, especially the ones close from La Plaza del Biombo.

Something I say too often is: “Y tal”. Empty of any meaning, it’s just a Spanish pet word that would mean something like “and so on”. Example: It was the perfect job ‘cause you do very interesting stuff, you earn well, you have a very reasonable schedule, lots of holidays…Y tal.

I am not a politician, but: I’d love politics and I think it’s a moral obligation to be interested in it, as a good citizen (and even in a selfish way, ‘cause even though you don’t care it affects you). Authorities and ourselves should be concerned in promoting good citizens in terms of civism and courtesy (you don’t live alone). In general I believe in vigorous and efficient public institutions dedicated to make our lives easier and to polish the unfair social inequalities, promoting tolerant societies sensitive to minorities and individual choices, and also a world where borders and national identities are just an anecdote. This may sound naïve but it’s my political statement (Applause).

People know me from being an Eternal student of Business Management Administration and an Intern in the financial department of Robert Bosch España , but in a truer life I would be: I wouldn’t have minded to be a very famous actor or a British mod rock star from the 60’s.

If I weren't talking to you right now I would be: Either in the school or in front of the computer (I’m a real Internet addict).

Normally, my breakfast consists of: A couple of pieces of fruit (mandarins, bananas, apples… depends on the day and season) and a huge bowl of Cola Cao (milk with chocolate).

I passionately have confidence in: My father. Courtesy and civism as a way of being and the left ideology (Am I being too deep?). Also in “Kun” Agüero and Maxi Rodríguez.

At the moment the most played on my MP3 player is: PJ Harvey’s Rid of me, Joy Division’s Transmission and Franz Ferdinand’s Michael.

In moments of weakness I: Try to remember the time of my life: My Erasmus period in Stockholm, Sweden. I’ve never been so happy in my whole life. Too bad we can’t live forever like we used to do up there. Family, friends and my own world (I’m a bit autistic) are also a good support.

I'm good at: First impressions (or at least that's what I think). Public communications. Organization. And I’ve been told I’m good writing in my mother language (Spanish).

I'm very bad at: Duty comes before leisure. Willpower. I’m lazy and hesitant.

The ideal night out is: With my friends or someone interesting (for many reasons) else. Fancy and cool pub (Bonano, Costello, La Sueca), laughs, drinks and if we’re feeling like, ending up in cool place by Gran Vía. Anyway, the company (the right one) is always crucial.

In a nutshell, my philosophy is this: “Vive y deja vivir”. Something like “live your life the way you want to, but respect other people’s choices”. I do love the quote “A veces los árboles no me dejan ver el bosque” (under pressure, sometimes trees don’t let you see the forest).

Televisión

2007-11-21T11:01:00.001+01:00

Daily life in Spain is full of literal translations ranging from proverbs to music to television. A good example is their naming of ‘KC y su banda Sunshine’ (KC and the Sunshineband). Another one of my favorites is ‘Vigilantes de la playa’ (Baywatch) or the equally pleasing (but less exact) ‘Coche fantastico’ (Knightrider).

Like any other language Spanish has some great expressions (neatly captured in the book From Lost to the River – a fitting birthday present given to me by Carmen). Top on my list is ‘we were with few people and then Grandma had a baby’ (Eramos pocos y parió la abuela). But the list is endless: to be more battered than a gorilla’s chest (estar más zumbao que el pecho de un gorilla), to give firewood to the monkey (dar leña al mono), to cost an egg and part of the other one (costar un huevo y parte del otro) and the fabulous: to be simpler than the mechanism of a bucket (ser más simple que el mechanismo de un cubo).
What they also do is take an English word and – almost literally – run with it. The king example is the Spanish name for a homerun in the game in baseball. First of all they call the game béisbol (neither a base or a ball doesn’t exist in Spanish, more logical would be pelota or balon) which is taking the English sound and adapting it to Spanish spelling. Not to be outdone they have ‘translated’ homerun into – here it comes: Jonrón! (Which is pronounced exactly how is spelled, the Spanish way of saying Homerun!)

The reality is that due to Spanish TV I have learned to understand the language quicker. After a few months without TV we brought a television from Galicia to our new flat so my learning of comprehension can proceed once more. The other day one of my favorite movies was on television ‘Bailando con lobos’ (Dances with wolves). I have always identified myself with Kevin Costner in this movie because when I was young I fancied that when I would be older I would rather look like him. This of course turned out to be incorrect. I – in fact – look like a young Tom Cruise.

Anyway, now I admire Ltn. John Dunbar even more. It has taken me a good twelve months to come to the level of Spanish I have now. Although I am happy with the progress I have made this last year I am nowhere close to the fluency of Mr. Dunbar. The fact that this fine man made the Sioux idiom his own in just one Indian winter is mind-boggling and convinces me even more of his supremacy.

So, Spanish television, what can I say about it. One of the remaining relics from the dictatorship years are the numerous gossip programs shown on national television. Created to keep the public ignorant and quiet you can watch (and more annoyingly listen to) a panel of 5 – all too often also shouting – Spanish verbally tearing up a life of somebody famous, every single hour of the day. To gossip is to live, they say here in Spain. One of the more pleasing aspects of these programs is the lying detector sessions. Although there is a bespectacled man in a white doctor suit analyzing the answers I am not sure about the validity of these tests.

Honesty – or truth for that matter – has little to do with anything anyway. However, the other day I witnessed something I have never seen before. A gypsy man – who is rather famous for reasons I think even he doesn’t understand – managed to negotiate his way through the customary 20 questions without telling the truth one single time. What I could make out of it was that he had lent some money to his ex-wife and there were some severe disagreements. This wasn’t helped by the fact that the gypsy was making things up along the way. It – as always – of course ended in chaos when a family member of the gypsy man walked up onto the stage and threatened the poor ‘doctor’ who was analyzing the answers. You could just see him wonder ‘I must have been sick when we discussed this in acting class’.

The Five Minute Interview: Thomas Reeve

2007-11-16T14:01:00.000+01:00

Every friday Thomasenmadrid will publish a short interview with one of the Key figures of my life here in Spain. I will vainly start with myself, but don't worry, from next week on you will be able to look deep into the hearts of those important to me.

My favorite place in Madrid is: Templo de Debod, an Egyptian temple in the centre. For a while I reckoned that it should have been given to my grandfather for his efforts in Egypt. Then I discovered it had nothing to do with him or my family. The only hope left is that he did have something to do with it, because the good man was in fact a spy working for his majesty’s services. This is something my father believes. I also love Paseo de Recoletos between Plaza de Colon and Cibeles because it is very 'turn of the century' art deco.

Something I say too often is: “Entonces…” which means something like, “so, recapping what I (or you) have just said…”. In an attempt to make people relate a short phrase to my very person I recently I have been saying "digo yo" ("that's what I say" or "that's also my opinion) a lot, with considerable succes.

I am not a politician, but: I would bring back the plan to make Madrid a port city. Someone actually tried to do this at the beginning of last century by constructing a canal between Madrid and the Atlantic although just one look at the river Manzanares makes me rather skeptical of this idea.

People know me from being an assistant project manager at SICI Dominus, but in a truer life I would be: an astronaut or a pilot. That’s odd, because I hate flying.

If I weren't talking to you right now I would be: probably in the metro. As a part-time English teacher I spend most of my time underground. I like the anonymity of being a metro-passenger. I pride myself knowing for each station I am going to where to enter the train so that when I get out I am closest to the exit.

Normally, my breakfast consists of: pine-apple juice (Carefour’s own brand), three or four Maria biscuits (again, Carefour’s) and half a carton of yoghurt (you guessed it, Carefour). Although I never have time I would like to think that I also have a tea.

I passionately have confidence in: “Kun” Aguerro, the forward of Atlético de Madrid. He will guide us towards a place in the Champions League.

At the moment the most played on my MP3 player is: Boudewijn de Groot, the Dutch Bob Dylan. My brother sent me some CD’s which I left behind and this was one of them. My choice of music is somewhat dated. I also like listening to Nino Bravo.

In moments of weakness I: think back to my Erasmus period in Stockholm. I shouldn’t do this. It actually makes me sad with melancholy.

I'm good at: Stumping people down the leg-side. Of course this is total abracadabra for non-cricketers and that’s partly why I said it, but it is true. In the game of cricket I am good at this particular aspect.

I'm very bad at: Home truths. I only recently discovered that if you go out of the house with wet hair you might get a cold. Thank God for Carmen.

The ideal night out is: For me, visiting a Flamenco performance at about nine o’clock and then heading off to a nearby bar/restaurant to have some tapas (preferably tortilla, zorza, pimientos de padron and croquetas). After that I would go to two or three bars in the old districts of Madrid, like La Latina, Lavapies or Tirso de Molina. If I feel like it I would try to find a place which stays open after three. For this I would need to go to the Gran Vía/Sol area.

In a nutshell, my philosophy is this: Life is like a sewer, what you put into it is what you get out of it. By far my favorite quote.

On Politics (Part 1): The King of Spain

2007-11-15T11:07:00.000+01:00

Spain has – compared to the rest of Europe – an amazingly interesting recent history. If you would ask any Dutch school boy which side Spain fought on during the Second World War he would first look a bit confused and then guess “the allies?”. The poor and naive boy is not to blame for his unknowingness: this stuff is simply not taught in schools throughout Western Europe. Spain, of course, did not participate in the Second World War, but was in stead ‘neutral’. The dictator at the time – General Franco – however supported the Nazi regime morally after they had helped him gain power during the Spanish civil war (1936-1939).

The Generalissimo rained for almost 40 years before dying a natural death in 1975. Spain then entered one of its most interesting and dynamic periods in its rich history: the transition. Books and books have been written about the man and will power to transform Spain back into a democracy. As we will find out King Juan Carlos I played a major part in securing the democracy. After waiting over 30 years for Franco to hand over power he skilfully approached key political figures – lead by the charismatic Adolfo Suarez – to ensure that the healing could begin.

Ever since Spain has been a divided country for many reasons, some of which I will discuss in the following weeks. All of what you will read I have found out only this year because the fascinating (political) history of Spain is one of the best kept secretes of Europe. I will introduce the main figures of present day politics through which I hope to give you all a better idea of the situation down here in Spain. The series will start with King Juan Carlos I.

The King: Juan Carlos I
It is of course strange to start a political series with a King – who shouldn’t have too much to say on these things – but as we will see he is at the heart of modern Spain politics and many still thank him for his efforts without which there probably wouldn’t be the stability there is today.

The King is still a popular figure today. One must understand that Franco had actively restrained Juan Carlos’ grandfather Alfonso XIII and father Juan from playing any part in governing the country. Strangely enough the dictator had confidence in the young Juan Carlos to take over the rains after his death. Almost immediately after the last breath of Franco the King put into action a plan he had been thinking of for years and years: to bring back a stable and fair democracy.

Many claim that without Juan Carlos Spain would never have had the stability of today. Indeed, when a coup was intended by Antonio Tejero in 1981, it was the strength and wit of Juan Carlos and Adolfo Suarez who together stabilized the country and withheld the coup. The combined impressive images of Adolfo Suarez – who dramatically refused to take cover when the militants stormed the parliament – and the King – who after a TV blackout appeared on television to calm everybody down – ensured that Spain would not fall back into a militant regime. Both men are still loved for this. Throughout the nineties the King remained an influential figure and many still regard him as the head of state. He has more political power than the Dutch or English Queens who both fulfil a more symbolic role. However, recently he and his family have come into some stormy weather. It all started some months ago when – after some heavy republican criticism – the King had to publicly defend the authority of his throne during an address at the University of Oviedo. This was followed by the burning of his photo by a group of leftist youths, which still is an illegal act here in Spain. Two weeks ago the King and Queen controversially visited Ceuta and Melilla, the two Spanish conclaves in North Africa where they were fiercely greeted by Moroccan protesters.

This week the controversy flared up again after the King – at a summit between Latin American-Hispanic countries – told Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez to “shut up”. After Chavez refused to stop calling former Spanish prime minister ‘a fascist snake’ and continued babbling whilst current PM Zapatero was speaking, the King raised his voice and snared ‘por que no te callas?’ (why don’t you just shut uo) without using the polite form of Usted (and thus seemingly talking to a five year old). Not long after this the King walked out of the discussion in disgust.

We saw this impressive clip just before having lunch on Sunday and my first question was: “what was the King doing at this summit anyway?” I was explained that he still has influence and that many South Americans regard him as their King as well. I feel divided. For me, a monarch should have no political power because he has not been chosen by his people. However, the actions of the King has made people very proud here in Spain and I guess that if his power stays as limited as it is now I have no problems with that.

However, I am a monarchist. I believe that monarchs – present day monarchs that is – bring stability. Whenever there is political trouble a monarch can publicly speak out without being part of the political scene. This was famously the case when Queen Beatrix of Holland spoke to the nation following the murder of filmmaker Theo van Gogh by a Moroccan youth. Had the prime minister appeared on TV, or an Imam, or the leader of the opposition (which they all did), things wouldn’t have calmed down because they are politically bounded – and thus biased – to an ideology. The Queen – who doesn’t belong to the political elite – isn’t so she could reach out to all, not just the white Dutch middle class.

This is basically what Juan Carlos did all those years ago: clamed people down without branding people with a political view point. The King is the biggest ambassador of the country and was educated all his life to fulfil this role. I don’t buy the argument that he shouldn’t because he wasn’t chosen. His political power is very limited and he fulfils his symbolic power majestically. A parliamentary-monarchy is a proven system with success. When a country is in turmoil, like Holland was following the death of right wing politician Pim Fortuyn it is essential to have a non-political figure remaining as head of state. (I would like to remind the readers that 1,5 million people voted for a dead person and that therefore non-political stability is essential).

For now, it seems the King has won back admirers after his display against Chavez. These coming months there will be a lot of mud throwing between the two major political parties – the PP and PSOE – as elections are coming-up in March. Let’s hope this doesn’t lead to turmoil for the King to show his strength once again. Next week I will discuss the political right – the PP – who in my view has led miserable opposition in these last four years.

A day in the life of...me

2007-11-08T09:13:00.000+01:00

8.12: It is 8.12 when the second of the two alarms goes off. It's the 6th of November 2007 and Carmen has already left for French class when I wake up. The radio is – as always – playing songs of Europa FM and today is nothing different. It will be a day like normal.

8.14: I get up and go to the bathroom to prepare myself for the day. My breakfast is like always: an orange juice, three or four Maria biscuits and some yoghurt. If I have time I also have a tea, but this hardly ever happens. I pack all my stuff for the day. This consists of class material, lunch which has been cooked the day before (often by Carmen) and a book to read in the metro. At the moment I am reading a Spanish book ‘El nino con el pyjama de rayas’ about a boy whose farther is sent to Auswitch…as camp commander, nice!

8.35: I leave the house and I take the small walk though Calle de Tribulete of about three minutes towards the closest metro station at Lavapies. Normally I do this walk with Carmen but she is not with me today. The street is occupied but not crowded. Many of our neighbourhood gets up even earlier to work in the more – well – unorthodox sectors.
8.38: When I arrive at Lavapies station I enter fast down the stairs, but I never have to run for the metro. The yellow line – line three – passes every two minutes in the morning so I never have to worry about missing it.

8.40: Well, that’s not completely true. Even though the metro goes very often it always goes totally packed. The next station is Sol – this is one of Madrid’s busiest stations and everybody wants to leave so stands close to the door. Today I am alone, but when I am with Carmen she sometimes politely raises her voice to the passengers to make some more space. She does this great. The people actually move!

8.57: When I enter the metro I only have one stop to make and I change at Sol to the red line – number two – heading towards La Elipa. I only have to wait four stops on this one – which takes about ten minutes before arriving at my destination: Quevedo. In total my journey to work costs me about 20 minutes. 9.00: I enter the building and say good morning to the portero (doorman). He is a grumpy man with whom I don’t think I will ever start a social relationship. The first day I turned up for work he asked me which floor I was going to. I said ‘the third’. He said ‘are you sure?’ and I replied ‘yes’. This is to date still the largest conversation we have ever had.
9.01: So there it is, the door to my new job. After scaling to the third floor – in an elevator – I turn to the left and open the door with my key. I am normally the second to enter the office. If I am the first I have to type in the safety code. I only have had to do that twice. I say hello and my workmate answers back, cheerfully. 9.02: After a small chat with my workmates - we are in total four at the moment - I turn on my computer and do a quick round of my websites: Gmail, Hotmail, AD, BBC, The Independent, Marca and various other blogs. This normally takes about ten minutes and then I click on what has become my addiction: Microsoft Outlook. Some researcher found out that an average worker clicks on the refresh button 40 times per hour and I think I am an above average worker! At the moment I have to do various things. From the moment I started I am learning all there is to the EuropeAid project cycle. From the very beginning - scanning the EU's websites for interesting projcts - to the end: the completion of a projects which can run for years with a budget of often over 3 mln Euros. At the moment I am looking for partners to form a project consortium and contacting International Experts for projects. In a couple of weeks I will start helping to write Technical Offers for projects for which we have been shortlisted.
11.17: I am starting to feel a bit hungry so I attack the bottom of my three drawers where I keep various boxes of energy bars and chocolate to keep me awake. For the moment I prefer the hazelnut bar.
12.35: I am still working on selecting the best international experts for our project in Bulgaria. It works like this: once you have succesfully applied for a project, you are shortlisted (with 8 other companies) and then you have to make a Technical Offer which includes the profiles of the International Experts you are going to contract. They play a crucial role in winning the contract so we need to make sure they are quality. 14.32: Lunchtime. Carmen prepared me a nice spaghetti yesterday. She comes home a bit earlier than me and therefore has time to prepare my lunch. So sweet she is! This one was particularly tasty: chicken, onion, oregano, spices and pesto...mmmh. Often I am joined in our big room by two of my work mates, one of whom you see in the background. I get along well with them and they are very helpful.

14.45: Today, my lunchtime wasn't very long. I had a three o'clock appointment with my boss at Hot English. Luckily, this is just around the corner so I could go during my one hour lunch break without missing any work. Every month, upon receiving my pay-check, I have to go through all my classes and explain what I am doing with them, how they are responding and if I have any difficulties. These conversations normally go rather smoothly as I am lucky with my pupils and don't have any major problems.

15.10: However, the Director of Studies is running late and is not on time for our appointment (the watch is mine and the empty chair is hers). This annoys me a bit because I am on my lunchbreak. 15.11: I make time by preparing some classes in the Teachers Room. My classes usually consist of a fine mix of grammer (preferably Murphy's English Grammar in Use), reading and listening (as supplied by Hot English) and conversation (for which I normally prepare a role play or some topics). I try to give every class some sort of theme. Last week we had celebrities and the role play was a gossip program. It was an instant success. 15.40: I arrive a bit late back to work due to the delay of my Hot English boss. I am trying to make a consortium for a project in Kazakhstan and it looks like I am in luck. Someone responded positively and I am now in talks with them to set up a consortium.17.02: My working day at SICI Dominus has finished. I work between 09.00 and 17.00. I turn of the computer, chat for a while with my boss and then I am off to my English classes. 17.04: Just across the street there is a nice café where I usually give myself some rest. Normally I go there after lunch but today I had no time because of the appointment with Hot English. I am by now a regular and don't have to ask for a café con leche, I am just given it with a nod of the head. I share my coffee with the sports newspaper AS (I prefer Marca, but they don't have that one). Today, the trainer of Real Madrid is in trouble for insisting that the referee of the other day was from Catalonia and that this was the reason of their loss against Sevilla. A rediculous remark by a man who is losing friends in Spanish football very rapidly. 17.26: I head up Calle Bravo Murillo and enter the metro station of Canal with destination a two hour class with a company called Brother. The walk between the café and this station is no more than five minutes. I notice that it is already getting a bit dark and it is certainly fresh. 17.40: There are only three stops between Canal (which is on the orange line) and Avenida de America where I am heading. Very often this man welcomes me as I arrive. He sings country and western songs with a voice which is rather tangled-up but nice to listen to. He delivers with charm and today I gave him a euro because he was signing one of my favorites, a CCR classic: Have you ever seen the rain. We exchange smiles. 17.46: This is the bus 224 that I have to take to get me to the Business Park of San Fernando de Henares which is exactly 19,3 km from Puerta del Sol in the centre of Madrid. It takes me about twenty minutes and I have to take it every Monday and Tuesday because on these days I have classes with this company. 18.05: I arrive with no delays. Normally the bus ride goes without trouble. Only once did I take the 224A (instead of the 224) which took me 10 kms further. The business park lies under the Barajas Airport flightpath and next to the busy A2 highway. Also there are various works going on inside the compound. Amazingly, we don't have any trouble with noise inside. 18.07: As I am a bit early I sit and wait outside, this happens quite often as the class only begins at 18.15. During this little wait I am called by CEAR - the NGO which defends the rights of refugees and asylum seekers in Spain. Sometimes I help them with translations or other small tasks so I assumed this would again be the case. It was. They asked me if I could be interpreter for a CEAR member at a meeting the coming Thursday. I couldn't. BUT the call didn't finish there. My CEAR boss told me that they had been very happy with me (two weeks ago I did a SOS translation of a 5 page document personally for the Secretary General of the UNCHR!) and that I had been selected as one of the four Madrid volunteers to go to the CEAR anual meeting in Las Palmas, everything paid for. Las Palmas...that's is on the Canary Islands!! So, on the weekend of the 13th of December I am off to the Canary Islands for free! It just shows that it pays of working as a volunteer! It will be fun but I'll also learn a lot as the Canary Islands is the place where most refugees arrive. 18.17: With this good news in mind I start the class. Normally we are with three students but one has called off ill. This is a pre-intermediate class which is a lot of fun. We handle the basics like present simple and continuous, past simple, questions, etc. Also we read, discuss about the weekend and have fun with vocabulary. This group is enthusiastic, like most of my students. I enjoy teaching English. 20.10: After the class finishes I have to cross the A2 to catch the bus on the other side and this is the view. As you can see one of the busses is leaving on the right hand side, but a bus stops every two minutes so no problems there. On Tuedays I am normally accompanied by one of my fellow teachers from the Academy on the way back into the centre. 20.35: I arrive back at Avenida de America where I have to take two lines to get to my final destination of Tribunal. 20.55: I arrive at Tribunal in the centre of Madrid for my second class of the day. It's only a short walk to Miguel's house. 21.01: Miguel - my student and I dare say now my friend - has what he calls 'a bachelor pad' in the centre of Madrid. He does not live there but uses it on the weekend and for English classes. Our English classes are mostly spent talking politics. I have troed many times to convince Miguel to do exercises but he refuses. Now he has to present me with a business plan every class. He admits having the memory of a fish, but he is being unfair on himself. 22.10: During the class with Miguel I was called by Eduardo if we wanted to meet him, Fred, Eva (the visiting Austrian girl...see 'this weekend we mainly...' on your left hand side) and Carmen for a drink. Miguel was not feeling too well so he declined but I opted for the five minute walk back up north to a nice bar filled with mirrors. As you can see they were having a lot of fun when I arrived.

22.35: We didn't stay too long because everyone was a bit tired. Edu and Eva had been out doing tourism which can be very tiring. Carmen had had a day at work and a French exam and Fred also had had a long day at work. So we all took the metro at Bilbao just opposite the bar. 22.50: Another short 15 minute trip with only one change in between, at Sol and we arrive back where it all started this morning: Lavapies. We head home and as we opened the door we met the president of the Corrala - our little Melrose Place. Yesterday there had been an incident which had everybody talking. A bottle of Rum had been thrown out of a window onto the central patio and then the front entrance had been kicked in, shattering glass all over. Very mysterious and the president was trying to blame our neighbours! Carmen testified that this couldn't be the case because she had heard them leave before it all happened. We were invited by the President to our first community vote, it will be on bicycles and whether you can leave them in front of your house.

23.01: I sit down for dinner. I prepare myself a salad of cheese and ham, topped with a nice vinegrette which I have to ask Carmen to prepare because I still don't know how to do it. I wash this all down with a glass of water. 23.35: As desert I have a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit which I have in bed. We moved the TV into the bedroom and watch an incredible documentary about the child smuggling affair in Chad. This is big news in Spain because the airplane crew is Spanish.00.35: The 6th of November has already finished when the documentary does. It is time to go to sleep.

Visit Cordoba and Sevilla

2007-11-02T12:11:00.000+01:00

Two weeks ago - during the puente of Pilar - we went to Andalucia, the south of Spain and visited two cities: Cordoba and Sevilla. Both were totally different to what we had seen before here in Spain. So different that it is hard to imagine that Spain is one country. This is a political statement which I will avoid explaining for the moment but will certainly come back to in the weeks to come.

Anyway.

Cordoba is rich in history and played a key role in the Muslim occupation of Spain before the arrival of the Catholic Kings (lead primarily by Fernando and Isabel). You can still find impressive Mudejar architecture throughout this small town. Highlights were without doubt the Mosque (which was conferted into a Cathedral) and our small walk to the other side of the river which gave us great views of the town.
Sevilla is bigger and grander city than Cordoba. We stayed at a Backpackers hostel. For me this was the first time I had done this since my backpackers life in New Zealand. It reminded me how odd and strange their lifestyle actually is. Sevilla itself is beautiful and I think it is my favorite city I have visited in Spain (although Santiago and Salamanca come very close). The colours are simply everywhere and the mix of cultures impressive. The gardens of the Alcazar were my favorites, together with Plaza España with its ceramics (it had been a dream of mine to visit this site eversince seeing it on the cover of my first Spanish student book). The feel to Sevilla is just very relaxing and I can recommend everybody to visit. The fact that we also watched Jonny Wilkinson kicking the French out of the World Cup Rugby also helped.

The City Walk

2007-10-29T15:18:00.000+01:00

Last weekend we received my parents. My mother had already enjoyed a week of Madrid in May but this time also brought along my father. He would become the sixteenth person to stay with us this year. Amazing if you think about it.

Visits are tiring, but great. Those of you who have made the journey down here will know. The other day – when we were in the train heading back to the airport – both my parents were sleeping. I turned to Carmen and asked: “Why is it that everyone who visits us is totally destroyed when they leave us?” I have to admit that I am to blame for a large amount of this. I want to do too much with the people. There is always the city walk. Most of the time – due to lack of imagination and proven success – these walks are the same. We start in Parque de Retiro – in the summer tucking into a home-made picnic (tortilla, chorizo, empanada and fruity white wine from the fields of Galicia) and in the winter playing Frisbee – and soak up the relaxing side of Madrid. A false sense of what is to come for the unknowing visitors.
Hubi playing tunes in Parque de Buen Retiro

Heading out of the park we exit at Puerta de Alcala – arguably the symbol of Madrid – where I normally explain that it took nine years to build (and then inserting a bit of extra drama I add that it only took two to build Plaza Mayor) and served as a grand entrance to the wife of Filipe III who lived in Alcala. From there it is a short walk to Cibeles proudly housing the impressive Palace of Communication. At this point I rhetorically joke that it is now used as a post office – which is only partly true – and that it will soon be used as the city hall. Meanwhile cars shoot around the roundabout leading the way to our next destination. My mum in front of the Palace of Communications

After taking a photo I usher the people through towards Gran Vía – without doubt Madrid’s most impressive avenue. Here I explain that “Gran Vía is Madrid’s own Broadway with a majority of the city’s most important buildings. At the turn of the century city planners thought a new main street was needed, defining Madrid as one of Europe’s most important cities. It was built in three stages between 1904 and 1929.” I point out that the people should look upwards to appreciate the detail these buildings show-off. I don’t do that anymore and make time by counting people simultaneously wearing socks and sandals.
Clan and Pieter on Gran Vía

Following Gran Vía sometimes I head right at Calle Fuencarral to pay a visit to the Municipal Museum – home to a large model of the city of Madrid. However – depending on the tiredness of my listeners – I often continue along Gran Vía towards Plaza España which I use as a handy tool to tell something about Spain’s Franco period as it was the Generalisimo who personally had a hand in developing this square. All of you have been on the photo with Don Quijote and Sanch Panza whilst Cervantes looks down on me seemingly saying “Mate, are you here again?” Pieter and Clan at Plaza España

Cervantes – by that time – already knows where I am going next and five minutes later I am at one of my favorite spots: Templo de Debod. This Egyptian temple never fails and lays in the peaceful Parque del Oeste offering fine views of the Palacio Real – another photo favorite amongst our guests. Maiko and Hikaru at Templo de Debod Jan-Ole with the Palace Backdrop

Now by this time the visitors are getting tired but still I push on towards the Jardines de Sabatini – also known as the Royal Gardens. I know that it is only a short way towards the Palace and then Plaza Mayor where I finish the tour with a bang. The visitors have already been walking a solid five hours – only stopping for the occasional café con leche or caña – so the bang at Plaza Mayor rarely registers.

To make things worse I often want take my tourists out on Friday and Saturday night. Friday a ‘quiet’ night in La Latina and Saturday it is dancing with the crippled güiris. For those who on Sunday can still walk we suggest the Rastro Market – eating a tosta with those ugly grey things which they say is fish – and then to head off to the Prado Museum. Sylvie at the Rastro Market Irene and Tamara enjoying Rastro's tostas

I can honestly say that I have learned from my mistakes. For example, this weekend with my parents I opted out of a half-day excursion to Segovia where I would have liked to have shown my father the Aquaduct – something Emma and Alex where lucky enough to see. Neither did we go to Toledo or the Reina Sofia Museum. Guadalajara and Casa Lope de Vega also missed out. We did however go to see a bullfight. The thing is that there are so many things to do in Madrid that I guess – well – you all just have to come back! Agnes at Madrid's Paloma Party
Ace showing off his typical Madrid souvenir
My dad applauding the Torero Emma and Alex at the Segovia Aquaduct

The decision

2007-10-16T09:46:00.000+02:00

Well, after weeks of being haunted by a Gordon Gecko look-alike I came to a decision which in the end was rather easy. I am staying in Madrid.

The race to finding a job in Madrid was not as exiting as portrayed on this weblog. Whereas Gecko served as an interesting metaphor the frustration was real. I did call many consultancies in Spanish, begging for a placement at their offices. I did chase leads on infojobs.net which resulted in interest from companies wishing to utilize my three languages for – mainly – customer service.

The envelopes handed to me by Gecko where – in fact – a telephone call from Brussels and an email from Madrid – both received on the same day last Friday. After a telephone interview with Brussels and a face-to-face one in Madrid I was convinced. My new Spanish boss would personally teach me a lot about the design and development of social projects throughout the European Union. After a six month trainee period I will be offered a contract – if everybody is happy that is.

Although Carmen was a very very important reason for staying I also made this decision in a professional way. After speaking with people who know about it I concluded that in my field there are many more opportunities in Brussels than in Madrid. Therefore, it is much easier to develop experience in Madrid and then – maybe later, you never know – go to Brussels (or any other place in the world!) and use it, than it would be the other way round.

Next week it will be exactly one year since my arrival here in Spain. If I look back I am very happy with what I have achieved and where I am now. Although I need to improve I can perfectly defend myself in Spanish. I have pocketed experiences at Just Landed and the NGOs (Comisión Española de Ayuda al Refugiado and the Centro Hispano Colombiano). My life as an English teacher has made me a confident public speaker and I have met many interesting people and businesses because of it.

Apart from the professional side I am happy that I shall remain in Madrid for some time to come. I would not like to lose moments like enjoying a coffee at the bar whilst reading el Marca (which as a rule tells lies about players on the verge to sign for Real Madrid) in between classes or missing another easy chance playing football on an old basketball field close to Moncloa. Neither do I want to say goodbye to our friends here who take us to nice places like Buitrago, share a Mahou with me in a random bar, or just listen to me talk about why Gordon Brown should win the next election (whilst wondering what I am talking about).

So it’s good news all around. Carmen has got herself a great new traineeship with plenty of opportunities and I can’t wait to begin my career as an assistant project manager. To top things off Tyler found himself a flat after a month (I read the other day that 50.000 young people are looking for a flat in Madrid!!) which meant no more couch-hopping. We celebrated this with a delicious Rioja (Marques de Riscal dating from 2000) and a meal prepared by Carmen. Salud!

The dilemma

2007-10-10T11:08:00.000+02:00

I was reading the beginning chapters of The Shadow of the Wind when the doorbell rang. Carmen had already left to work and I wasn’t prepared to get up from bed and open it. I wasn’t expecting anybody so it was either the postman trying to enter the corala downstairs or the two ladies who I met three weeks earlier trying to convert me into some sort of catholic paradise believer (I – in turn – tried to convince them that I didn’t speak Spanish, upon which they gave me a paper explaining everything in English). Neither option tempted me to push the cream colored button letting them in so I continued reading.

I made it through a passage where Daniel – the main character – enters the Library of Forgotten Books for a second time where he – soaking wet from walking through the rain – notices that the door handle of the Library resembles the devil. This image both exited and scared me, oddly preparing me for what was going to come.

A burly knock on the door woke me up from my book which is set in Barcelona. I heard instantly that it had been a man’s knock and a strong one too. Who could it be? Surely not the two catholic ladies. Curious, but hesitant, I put down the book at the foot end of the bed and made my way through the living room to the entrance.

Just before unlocking the door I could make out that the stranger standing in front of my house was tall. I could see his dark silhouette through the rather transparent pink door window curtain. As I touched the gold handle a chill went through my body, one that makes you shiver all the way through. A quick swing of the door and the stranger was revealed: Gecko.

He had the same expression on his face as eight days ago when I first met – and last saw – this peculiar gentleman. Upon seeing the target of my chase questions shot to my head. How did he find me? What is he doing here? Where is his brown leather brief case? Is he going to give me the contract? Is that a small cut above his left eyebrow? Will he be disappointed that I opened the door in my pajamas?

We stood face-to-face a few seconds and all of a sudden I had the urge to offer him a cigarette because this seemed the time and the man to do so. I have never smoked so this was out of the question. I noticed that he was wearing the same suit but had changed his shirt and tie (matching grey and white). Unable to speak I nodded my head offering him to come in. In turn – also without speaking – he nodded a ‘no’. He had no interest in entering our flat. Instead he reached for the inner pocket of his blue chalk-lined jacket. He took out two envelopes and handed them to me. As I took them from him I fixed my eyes on the crisp white envelops. I could feel that both of them had maybe two A-4 sized papers (no more) inside. As I looked back up to finally ask my first question to Gecko he had disappeared. Gone, probably down the stairs, and onto Calle Tribulete. Of course.

I stood in the door opening holding the envelopes. My Latin neighbour walked past and cheerfully greeted ‘hola’. Only too conscious of my appearance I replied with ‘ja’ and turned back into the flat. Again I had been impressed by Gecko who seemed to use ‘shock-and-awe’ as his personal style of communication. Still dazed by our short and silent meeting I placed the envelopes on our dinner table which was – besides the three small Italian cups (a present to Carmen from my mother) and two vinegar and oil bottles – totally clear and sat down in front of them. Only then did a notice that – on the front – both of them had something written on them. The left one read MADRID and the right one BRUSSELS.
In these moments I do not stare and appreciate the moment, I am too curious for that. I opened the left envelope in a second. It basically had a similar job description in it as the one I had read eight days earlier on Gecko’s lap. This was however an intern position at an international consultancy where I would be responsible for the creation of project teams as well as designing projects myself after a learning period of a couple of months. Another task would be helping the consultancy get the project proposals to the European Union in order. I would only be paid a small amount of compensation money. It seemed perfect. In the evenings I could follow teaching English class and the rest of the day start my career right here in Madrid, where I am enjoying myself immensely.

I laid the papers down to the left of the three Italian cups. I turned to the second envelop which had BRUSSELS written on it. Again, it was a job description, this time for an international consultancy in the capital of Belgium, the capital of Europe. The work would be quite similar to the Madrid proposal, although I would be paid a bit better and there would be a good option of being contracted after the initial six months. Also being in Brussels could be very good for that favorite word amongst beginners: networking. However, I would have to leave Carmen and the flat we have just moved to behind.

So, that’s it. Gecko has given me two choices to think about. Two jobs, two cities. This past weekend Carmen and I have been thinking about it. By the end of the week we shall know, we shall have made a decision. You can still influence the outcome if you post your opinion on this weblog. I’ll keep you all updated.

The contract

2007-10-02T14:44:00.000+02:00

The telephone slipped out of my sweaty palms falling on our white and brown duvet. I soon followed my worn-out Nokia as I laid myself down on the bed whilst my feet remained firmly planted on the floor. I was contemplating the words of the woman who I had just spoken to. Although she had spoken rapidly in a soft Aragon accent I had understood everything. “You don’t have enough experience for a job in our office,” I mimicked to myself, “and an internship is out of the question because we have signed agreements with Universities of whom you do not belong.” I was hardly surprised. I had been in contact with over ten consultancies who had answered the same. The message was loud and clear: Thomas Reeve, you cannot start your Spanish career here. Although this time it had been a woman I estimated that the gender equation of the people I had spoken to was about 50-50. As I stared at our pale yellow ceiling I wondered: who are these anonymous voices I am talking to? What do these people look like?

Exactly 4 hours and 23 minutes later these questions came back to me as I entered the southbound dark-blue metro line in Cuzco station. I had just taught a class on Calle Orense and had decided for no apparent reason to take the dark-blue line instead of the light-blue line at Tetuán which would have made more sense. I sat myself down on the second seat to the right-hand side of the sliding doors. The metro was pretty empty but I did as I always did, I scanned the faces of the people surrounding me, unconsciously looking for those unnamed people I had been speaking to over the telephone. On my left there were two attractive – but very young – school girls giggling their way through a magazine. The man opposite to them was annoyed by this and was angrily trying to crunch his ‘El Mundo’ newspaper so that the girls would stop. It was useless; the girls were also listening to music and paid no attention to the old man. A tired-looking Latin woman was looking at of the window whilst rocking a pram with – presumably – a baby inside it although I couldn’t see if there actually was.

As I turned my head to the right I saw him. Directly opposite to me sat a middle-aged man with a smart, tightly fitted dark-blue suit with chalk lines – matching light brown belt and shoes – confirming his style. He had his eyes firmly fixed on mine. His strong facial features made him remind me of Gordon Gecko – as played by Micheal Douglas in the Hollywood movie Wallstreet – although this man was definitely younger and slightly taller than Gecko. I tried to avoid his fanatical eyes by glancing down to his lap where I could see three neatly held together sheets of paper. It seemed that all the lights in the metro had been switched off and that the only source of light - deep under the surface of Madrid - was this package of paper. Their attraction even made me forget the stare of its owner.

As a professional metro passenger I could easily make out what the papers were (spying on other people’s papers and books is a common underground pastime). They were a contract. Assistant project-manager, in-house training in designing, evaluating and implementing social projects through-out Europe, 1725 Euros per month (which is a lot in Madrid), situation will be reviewed after one year with a possible extension of two at the end of this term, job starting on the 1st of November 2007. “This should be my contract,” I thought to myself. “After trying so many consultancies it can’t be a coincidence that this man – who was still staring at me without changing the expression on his face – is sitting opposite to me”. All of a sudden I understood. This was my contract. As I slowly raised my head my eyes finally met his obsessive stare. The automatic voice had announced the station Nuevos Ministerios twenty seconds earlier as the metro came to a halt. The race was on.

As soon as the doors had slid open, Gecko had put the contract in his brown leather briefcase and within in a second walked through onto the platform. Although I was quick to respond my exit was hampered by the old man reading ‘El Mundo’. On the platform I looked left and right and spotted a lean figure in blue turning right heading for the stairs. I started to run towards the exit he was taking. As I turned the corner I met a flight of stairs – no more than 15 – which he had already scaled. I jumped two at a time passing a group of Italians who were making their way to the airport. I entered the open space of Nuevos Ministerios station which was familiar to me, scanning the crowd for Gecko. Just as I thought I had lost him I saw him passing the exit gates to the left-hand side.

A quick glance to one of the three green exit signs confirmed what I already knew. He was heading towards the buses. I have to admit that at that moment Gecko was lucky. With his long legs he could easily make pace without attracting attention. After effortlessly climbing the three sets of stairs leading to the above ground Madrid street-life he had no trouble negotiating his way through the two pedestrian crossings which stood between him and a range of buses heading back north. The luck for him was that just as he arrived on the other side he managed to catch bus 14. At this instant I was still crossing the road but could already see that another bus – 27 – was approaching which I knew would follow the escapee. I entered the 27 without any problems closely following my target.

I remained standing next to the bus driver to ensure a rapid exit when necessary. At each bus stop I was checking who was leaving the proceeding bus 14. I was causing quite an upset amongst the entering passengers who I was clearly obstructing and the bus driver asked me more than once to move to the back of the bus. I managed to persuade him that it was ‘just one more stop’. He grumpily agreed. As bus 14 pulled over alongside the Santiago de Bernabeu stadium I could see the tall figure of my fugitive exiting on the street. Ten seconds past until my bus finally caught up and I jumped out through the front door accidentally bumping into the shoulder of a young man dressed in a pink shirt.

The next sight I had of Gecko was of him crossing the street, well not just any street – it was La Castallana – Madrid’s busiest avenue. He was crossing the road illegally with cars – quite rightly and for once with a good excuse – honking their horns in anger. This was simply too dangerous and I stood helpless waiting for the light to turn green. I followed him as I saw him walk – in not one moment did he accelerate to running – onto a little bridge which led him into the Azca compound – a medium-sized shopping centre surrounded by two of Madrid’s highest office towers: Torre Picasso and Torre de Europa.

As soon as the aorta of cars had come to a halt I dashed towards the Azca compound, crossing the bridge where Gecko had walked only 30 seconds earlier. As I passed through a small passageway I could see I that I needed to make a choice. A flight of stairs to my left would take me upwards onto an open square between the two high towers and two electric doors would lead me into the shopping centre. I could not reason which one Gecko had chosen as I didn’t known the man. I instinctively chose the electric doors because this is what I would have done.

I was in luck. Upon entering the shopping-centre I could see him on an escalator taking him to the first floor of the open planned space. There were however at least 40 meters between him and me. I took a gamble. I ran back outside, took the stairs – now to the right – again jumping two at a time, making my way to the big open square. I was now on the same level as Gecko although he was still inside. Five very long seconds followed and then I saw that my gamble had paid off. The man who I had seen for the first time only 16 minutes earlier was now – also for the first time – fully in my sight, but I was also in his. Like that first gaze he fixed his eyes on me and then – if I was not mistaken – smiled. I didn’t expect this so when he started moving towards the larger of the two towers – Torre Picasso – I hesitated in following him. He had reached the main entrance of the tall white tower before I started walking towards him.

I gathered pace and when I followed Gecko into the Torre Picasso something happened what I had dreaded all along. I passed the portero without problems. The elderly man had just returned from lunch and was in no hurry to stop young looking people like myself enter into his territory, instead he turned to his newspaper 'Marca' where he could read that Real Madrid had won against Getafe by one goal to zero although they had – once again – failed to convince.

I am afraid that I also failed to convince that Monday afternoon. As I saw Gecko entering the elevator I thought I had him – and the contract. Through the numbers I could make out which floor he would exit and then it would be just a matter of time. As the doors closed I patiently waited for the next. I noticed my error after two slight seconds. Gecko had used a key to enter the lift as all employees of the building did. I was distraught, I had lost.

The strange pursuit through the northern-centre of Madrid had simultaneously exited and surprised me. I had been uncharacteristically instinctive in deciding to start this mad goose-chase and it just demonstrated how badly I wanted that contract. Whilst I looked around the reception area – where everybody was oblivious to the fact that I had just chased an unknown man for nearly twenty minutes – I spotted a name card on the floor, just in front of the elevator Gecko had used. I picked it up and made no sense of what was printed on it. Unknown company, unknown name. Without thinking I turned it around and in dark-black ink the mysterious business man had written a message.

It read:

Try harder.

Ambassadors of Lavapies

2007-09-27T19:33:00.000+02:00

“Muy bien, contigo vamos a ganar la guerra”, I shouted at the bus driver. This is a literal translation from Dutch (Met jou winnen we de oorlog wel) and it means “Well done, with you we will win the war” – sarcastically aiming at the inexistent valiant character of the person receiving the insult. I was furious that I was refused entry to bus 34 in front of our house in Piramides. My suitcase – in which I was moving stuff from Piramides to Lavapies – was deemed too big by the bus driver who didn’t understand my verbal abuse (what war?). I poked my head into the red urban bus and asked the three people inside it whether they had any objection to me entering this public transport vehicle. No response from the crowd and the doors were duly closed. I decided to walk the ten minutes uphill to our new flat in Calle de Tribulete. In total it took us nine trips (all on foot as the Madrid Public Transport Association had sent out a neat communiqué reminding bus drivers not to take on citizens with excessive luggage – the world has truly gone gaga) to move our stuff. On various trips we were accompanied by the ever helpful Eduardo. Whilst transporting a bookshelf through Paseo de Acasias it suddenly struck me. “Edu,” I said, “I have seen it all, really.” Not understanding where this was going he looked at me, encouraging me to follow. “Three years ago I was settling myself quietly into Bjornkulla on the outskirts of Stockholm – with a nasty winter rapidly approaching – and now I am moving into a flat in the centre of Madrid which is the complete opposite. I have made a complete turnaround, the circle is complete.” It was obvious that I was trying to impress Eduardo and I realized that I had used the world ‘complete’ three times – which in no way reflects the reality of what I am going through right now. Soon after this remark our arms got tired so we rested for two minutes in front of a Repsol petrol station and I let my moment of completeness pass.

Can you spot the difference?

It didn’t take long for it to come back, but this time I wisely kept it to myself. Our new flat is indeed the exact reverse of my residence in Sweden. As some of you know Bjornkulla was situated in a forest. The 15 minute walk to the University took you over a muddy path, past an abandoned water tower towards the Flemingsberg Pendeltag station. On some days you could see young deer hopping alongside in the fresh winter snow. In contrast, here in Lavapies, the way to the nearest Metro station is somewhat different. First of all, there are people and people from all over the world. We are now located in the centre of Multi-cultural Spain. There are at least two shops (a fruit shop and an internet café) in the street which I have never seen closed whilst ‘Tanger’ hairdressing advertises ‘an International haircut’ for 5 Euros. In Bjornkulla I shared a corridor with seven Swedes who didn’t care too much for communal life. The kitchen was mainly avoided and I only really got to know one of my neighbours, Dana, who loved her peace and quiet, but at least let me share it with her on many occasions. Here in Lavapies our neighbours are a mixture between the old generation of Madrilenos (mainly widowed women) and immigrants (mainly Latins although we also have a colony of Sub-saharians downstairs). On weekends the corrala is buzzing with life and music. A neighbour down-stairs has an impressive music installation mainly playing Luis Miguel (a Mexican singer of Boleros). Nobody seems to care and neither do we actually, it honestly adds to the character. So, we live in what is called a ‘corrala’. This is a typical style of communal housing dating from the 19th century and can best be compared as the older sister of Melrose Place. Everybody looks out onto a main patio with all the balconies connected. Each flat has its own washing line spun between the opposite side of the corrala (as you can see from the photos) which creates an artistic display of colours and cotton. The flat itself is small, but very cute. Basically it has a living room (with sofa, table and an oversized cupboard/bookstand) with an American-style kitchen (i.e. an open-planned kitchen), a tiny bathroom and a bedroom. But this is sincerely all we need. To celebrate our new home we threw a party the other day with two special guests from our Erasmus period: Tamara and Paqui. Scroll over the pics to get an idea of our new palace. You are all invited to come visit the corala.

Truth

2007-07-27T13:38:00.000+02:00

For Carmen’s birthday I bought her the Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary and this is what it had to say about The Truth: something real or exact, especially when this is different from how it seems (well, actually it says quite a bit more but this is more or less what I mean too).

The demise of Truth, or the breaking of it’s perception for me all started – of course – with Hansie Cronje (click on the link, it makes interesting reading). The South African cricket captain was the benchmark of Sportsmanship in a sport which itself was the yardstick of fair play…and Truth for that matter. I remember the day when the news broke. I think The Times headed “Oh no, Hansie, oh no” referring to the disbelief that he had ‘sold’ cricket matches for years. The subsequent inquiries learned that the former hero had over seventy bank accounts scattered around the world, his winnings from a decade of deceit. The message to cricket fans was clear: many of the matches we had seen over the years had in fact been decided before the game started to earn as much as possible in the illegal Indian betting circus.

It took me quite some time to get over this. Actually I have never enjoyed watching a cricket match as much as I used to. When I was a kid I also like watching a children’s TV show called Blue Peter, a legendary BBC program educating children throughout the English speaking world. It now turns out that they have been cheating children (follow link for more info) into believing they can win prizes by entering contests! I am stunned. More than once has a ‘fake winner’ picked up a prize on Blue Peter. I honestly thought things couldn’t get any worse from here when it comes to public deceit.

I was wrong. After the Hansie Cronje affair I turned to the Tour de France as summer entertainment. For the past five years I have been following the Tour with a rather large amount of passion. Big mistake. Last year – obviously – was horrible, but I am a positive (albeit naïve) person so I believed this would be a drug-free edition. My team – the Rabobank team – has throughout the years remained spotless and allegation-free. So you can imagine my joy whilst Micheal Rasmussen was steaming towards Paris in the yellow jersey. I was riding some classic races and I loudly was supporting him on my couch. Rasmussen held the same immunity as Hansie Cronje for me. Danish people don’t cheat (well…), they just get on with things. Of course, Rasmussen lied about pretty much everything and another Thomas Reeve bubble burst. I had once again been fooled, two weeks of watching the TV down the drain accompanied by a life time of innocence.

I will never ever believe anything I see on the television again. I an era where entire wars are based on public manipulation and spin I have given up. Really, what is next? Will apples turn out to be just very well disguised bananas? Will dolphins indeed take over the world after pretending to be very cute? Will it be discovered that Belgium in reality is not a country? Is Chuck Norris – in fact – a woman?

I have decided to turn things around and begin trusting the biggest lies of them all: children’s books. Everybody – except children – knows that it is impossible for Charlie to fly into space in an elevator. Neither can it be true that someone sleeps 100 years without being pronounced dead. Therefore I am reading the great book ‘El pequeño vampire se cambia de casa’ (The little vampire is moving house). It is impossible to be cheated in a world where a little boy named Anton becomes great friends with Rudiger – a nine year old vampire who died over 150 years ago. This is my new Truth, I will start from here.

Who says cricket isn't posh?!?!

2007-07-19T14:53:00.000+02:00

My tour through Europe continued after Sweden towards Bacons Farm, Essex, where two old friends of mine had organised a cricket weekend for our respective youth sides. For those of you who do not understand the rules of cricket do not get exited, I will not explain the Laws of our tressured game. But I would like you to give you a challenge: guess them after seeing these photos...

For those of you who do know the rules...you are probably all in these photos, have fun.

Midsummer 2007 - the Connection

2007-06-26T15:01:00.000+02:00

“I am just a stranger, they call me Cuandome,
I am just a stranger who likes to dance,
The girls of Tumbalina call me Cuandome,
The girls of Tumbalina like to dance”

We are all on a brown and white blanket as Joi is playing the guitar in front of me. I had asked him to sing a song about a cowboy. With his soft, gentle and unaccented voice he came close enough. His girlfriend Katrin lies besides him without saying much, taking in the sunshine which has finally broken through. To my right Torge has struck up a conversation with my right foot – and alter-ego – Señor Pie (Mr. Foot). Like Carmen, Torge doesn’t get along with him very well. Also to my right Hubi is looking at the girl which has – according to him – “the most beautiful smile in the world”. She doesn’t notice. She is sitting on a decked surface where another group is just hanging around. Their attention is focussed on Henning, an impressive Swede who claims he can make a clapping sound whilst only using his right hand. His paltry and ridiculous attempt results in laughter, a kind of laughter which makes you smile even though you don’t know the reason of it. Another group is preparing the garage to my left. There will be another party tonight. The rattling of bottles reminds me of the check-in lounge at the airport. The Swedish always bring home a Duty-free bottle or two from abroad. As I flick through the photos with Hubi we try to remember the night before. A combination of Eurovision songs and Amy Whitehouse (...and I said, no, no, no) provided the soundtrack to a night which started with a Midsummer dinner for 36 and ended with Hubi failing to convince Moa’s little sister Maya to ‘go for a walk’. She denied and he got me instead. As we laughed at the funny incident I realize that I haven’t stopped being happy since I arrived.

"Please come for a walk...she is thinking about it"

"I really don't think I want to go for a walk""So then I will go with you Dutchie" Midsummer is something special, something else. In my last article I talked about Quality and that this is achieved by connecting with the things you do. The Swedes connect with Midsummer and get it right all the time. Example. On Midsummer Friday it had been raining solidly for 22 hours, but this didn’t stop the local band ‘The West Coast Boys’ playing their tunes for us as we danced around the Midsummer pole. The two men – well into their seventies – played all the classics on the local football field. The boys had placed themselves neatly between the goalposts. Midsummer songs celebrate the normal life. They sing about going to the market, washing and drying your clothes and something about frogs which I still haven’t figured out although this is my third year of celebration. There are about 100 songs and all are greeted with a swift clap in the hand and a “Yes, let’s do that one!”. That is connecting, that is Quality. In the end it is the people who make Midsummer. It is rare that such a bunch of good people – with an enormous social talent – come together. All of them make me smile and I can’t think of a better characteristic. We create three day relationships which feel like long-term friendships. You tend to get close to everybody you mean even though you have only met this person five minutes ago. I mean, only with a Midsummer crewmember can I have the following conversation:

Question: “So, how did you get that nasty cut on the sole of your foot?”
Answer: “Well last week I was in Cambodia...

(the girl could have stopped there, her answer was already perfect...but she continued)

“...and while I was running on the beach I was struck by a fishing harpoon.”

That was honestly the best answer she could have given. For this story, the are – like the Midsummer songs – about 100 more and we will continue creating them for years to come. Well done everybody, well done ‘The West Coast Boys’.

The Art of Mountaineering

2007-06-20T17:41:00.000+02:00

I can see by my watch, without taking my hand of my hip, that it is five-to-eight in the morning. I am early. A fresh breeze on my bare arms tells me that I did well packing a sweater and a rain jacket although the forecasts had been good for the day. I head back into one of the seven exits of metro-stop Calle O’Donnell to meet Tyler. Together we would go hiking with two more friends (Ángel and Hswin) in the Sierras in the north of Madrid. It was exactly what I needed for hiking is like fishing or a motorcycle trip, it gives you time to think. And thinking was on my mind. Despite receiving positive feedback after my interview with the Ministry of Foreign affairs I didn’t get offered the job. Why not?

The forty minute drive in Ángel’s Audi up to the national park ‘La Piedraza’ (big stone) just outside the reservoir town of Manzanares el Real doesn’t leave me with much time to reflect as the newly formed team of the day converse. Ángel is by far the most talkative. He is a hiking instructor and is clearly happy with our enthusiasm to join him for the day. He talks about the houses he has lived in during the 40 years of his life and about the importance of mountaineering preparation. He is an entertaining guy and I am not bothered. The thinking can come later.

Upon arriving at the park around nine o’clock we stop at the cabin cafeteria for coffees and donuts. Although I make an honest attempt, Ángel pays for us all. The surroundings are impressive with high rock mountains waking up to the morning sun. The smell of pines brings me back to the Rocky Mountains of Canada. Ten minutes later we are off. The team is exited at the prospect of a 6 hour hike through this imposing setting. Although nobody knows it I am the most exited. The reasoning could start. The report of my interview stated various valuations on me as a person. It said for example that I am a good worker under stress and that sometimes I have difficulty expressing my thoughts and ideas. All were assertions about my character, about the quality I possess as a person. I have a few problems with this and I would like to point out why.

Recently I have been reading Robert M. Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance which carries the rather unknown subtitle of An Inquiry into Values. It talks about Quality. I am hooked. Actually, I only want to talk to people who have also read it which leaves me in a spot of bother down here in Spain. I turn to Tyler as we are making a stop to put on some factor 25 sunscreen and he confesses that he has started Zen three times without getting past the first ten pages. No help there then. Slowly my mind wonders back to Quality. Zen is at the very hart of what I am trying to get at. It is a search for values and Quality comes out on top. Quality is the undefinable entity which defines everything around it. It is the source of everything we know. Quality – or its absence – doesn’t reside in either the subject or object. Zen tries to get rid of our dualistic way of thinking. Subject-object, mind-matter, wrong-right, good-bad and 0-1. These are all things unknown to nature and which have been created by man. Quality isn’t created by man, but exists a priori (before anything else, like time and space) in the things we see around us. Man however can influence the Quality of something through its interaction with it. If there is no full connection with that he is producing people will view the product as bad Quality.

We’ve moved into lighter terrain above the tree line, we will soon be at the top of the mountain. A discussion flares up amongst my companions. It attracts my attention. Madrid is claimed to be the European city most favourable to the blind. This statement tempts me to make a comment. I calmly agree and verify that I have seen more blind people in Madrid than in any other city I have lived in. “This is because of ONCE – the charity for the blind who sell lottery tickets,” adds Tyler. I nod and slip back into thought. People can possess Quality as well. Actually, everybody possesses Quality you just need to know how to use it. Zen promotes a society without school or University grades. This way, students are challenged to determine themselves what Quality is. They are not told what it is. In the book the metaphor of the motorcycle mechanic is used. The good mechanics, the ones who work with Quality, are very much connected to their work. In fact, the moment of pure Quality is when subject and object are identical. They feel the machine they are working with. They have let go all manual instructions and do not need to be told what to do or what Quality is. They know. They can see its Quality. They are challenged when something goes wrong because this will bring them forward. They are making an art of what they’re doing and do not expect that others will see this art, although it is noticed. Think of a world where everybody makes Quality decisions. Now, during my interview not one question was asked about Quality and if I either possess it or if I know how to spot it. Instead, seven characteristic points were evaluated through which they told me what good is and what not. Mister Pirsig would have been very disappointed indeed for this is totally the wrong approach. The Ministry could only really have been happy with me if I could determine Quality myself. Quality is undefinable and Pirsig’s main striking point is the motto of his book (which also appears on page 398): ‘And what is good, Phaedrus, And what is not good – Need we ask anyone to tell us these things?’ It is past midday now and we are heading back down the woods. As usual, it is tougher descending than ascending. Hswin is having difficulties and asks her boyfriend Ángel if we could stop for a moment. We do. Her legs are hurting and I admit to myself that mine are doing the same. I pass a water bottle round and it ends at Tyler. He looks tired and when he finishes he puts the bottle besides him. We talk about Oklahoma and that all the lakes in this North American state are manmade. We get up again, brush the pine needles of our pants and leave. The water bottle remained where it was.

I like to think that I have a classical way of reasoning and that I like to understand what I am doing. I believe that I most of the time connect with what I do. I feel that this was missed during the interview. Now I understand that it is not possible to change human thought or an interview procedure for that matter, but it is nice to think about it. Well, there you go. My day of thinking came to an end (for rethoric purposes this article was a summary of my thoughts of the day, it could have been a lot longer) as we approach the same cabin-like restaurant of this morning. Pre-empting Ángel’s wish to offer us a drink I beat him to it before we enter the café. “I would like to buy you a beer,” I say proudly and surprisingly he accepts without a struggle. We sit down in the shade and enjoy the four cold Mahou bottles brought to us buy the waiter. Ángel stands up and says he is going to find himself a cigarette. Still contemplating the day I offer him a weak – but sincere – smile. A few seconds pass and I snap back to reality. “Ángel doesn’t smoke.” As soon as I realize this I see our mountain guide returning with a big grin on his face. He has paid for the drinks, this was obvious. So much for connecting to your actions, Thomas. So much for Quality.

La Boda en High Easter

2007-06-09T12:43:00.000+02:00

26th of May. My mother’s birthday. My sister’s wedding.

For weeks I had been telling my students that I was going to England for my sister’s wedding. Whole classes were devoted to matrimonial vocabulary. For months Carmen and I had carefully been collecting various parts of our outfits. My suit from El Corte Inglés, shirt, tie and socks from Zara. My shoes from a Chinese shoe shop in La Latina. My matching belt from El Rastro market. Carmen had endured a similar odyssey.

Not only Madrid was eagerly awaiting the marriage. My sister’s wedding in High Easter was the talk of entire towns and various small villages in Galicia. For Carmen, one of their own was going to an English wedding. England, the land of women curas (vicars), coffee in the Churchyard and above all – and by far the biggest talking point –, the land of pamelas (hats) at major events. This kept people gossiping for evenings upon end.

On the 24th of May Carmen – and with her a good part of Spain – was ready. So was I. The present had been bought (a full tea set, craftily manufactured by the Galician master’s of Sargadelos) and the suits were in the bag (a special bag for suits that is, Carmen always thinks in these things). We took the 20.50 EasyJet flight from Barajas Airport to London Luton (we were delayed, missed the last bus to London Stansted and had to wait three hours at Luton whilst keeping a dodgy man awake who admitted that Spanish real estate corruption was ‘his kind of style’. Eek!)
I told you Carmen was ready but I dare say she wasn’t. Actually neither was I. She had been asking me for a long time what the wedding was going to be like. What were people going to be wearing? I really didn’t have a clue. I had only been to two English weddings before, both of cousins of mine. The last one was two years ago and I have to admit it was great. There was a band inside the church and they were playing religious songs throughout the ceremony (and as I recall there was also someone dancing modern ballet). For the other one my cousin had rented some sort of manner (big, stately, country palace). All very Sense and Sensibility and quite the contrary of the Baptist wedding I mentioned before. I was rather sure that Emma’s wedding wouldn’t be similar to any of them. So what could I say?

On the other hand, Carmen’s experience of weddings was limited to Galician ones. Now one needs to understand that the most important thing of a Galician wedding (well apart from the couple saying their vows of course!) is the food. If there are less than 8 (!!) seafood dishes the wedding is considered to be poor. Thus, the most frequent question I was asked up there was ‘yes, but what are you going to eat?’. Again, no clue, although I was sure we were not going to reach their high level of expectation.

We arrived at the house in good spirits and everybody had there own little tasks of preparing things. My dad had the longest list of things to do, but had to scrap most of it as the making of the wedding cake was taking far longer than expected (Can somebody phone Ann and ask her if she knows why this Icing Sugar is not setting properly….please?!). In the meantime I had to pick up people from the Airport but I got lost on the country lanes. I am a city boy. At night we enjoyed an Indian meal with most of my Dutch family and some international friends. The party had begun.
26th of May. The big day. I woke up with a strange sensation. There were voices downstairs, one of them was unmistakenly regional Essex. This could mean two things. My mother had changed her accent overnight or the make-up artist had arrived. As I was still half asleep I was contemplating the first, but after rationality had taken over I whispered to Carmen that we should have to get up and she should head down to get her face painted. I was sent on some errands and my shopping list for Tesco’s included: 48 cans of Carlsberg beer, 12 roles of ultra-soft toilet paper, enough ice-cubes to fill have a tank, cheese-crackers (the amount was left to my own imagination), 2 containers of cereals (Frosties and Ricecles), a toothbrush, 5 packets of digestives, 6 liters of orange juice and a newspaper. The lady at the check-out counter thought that my parents had gone away for the weekend and I was making the most of it. She was wrong: I was making final and extremely vital preparations for a wedding.
Upon my return the house was buzzing. The make-up artist was still there and had been accompanied by the hairdresser since my departure. Neither was going to touch me though. After a quick breakfast of Ricecles I hoisted myself into the suit and discussed the plans for the day with my brother over a cup of tea. We were going to be the ushers of the wedding. This meant we had to move people from place to place. Most difficult was entertaining people after the lunch between the restaurant and the first song played by the band (there is a walk of 5 minutes between the restaurant and the tent in our garden which would be the scene of the party leaving a gap of one hour and 55 minutes). Easiest task: getting people away from the church after the mass towards the champagne.Piet and me left our girlfriends behind who helped my sister get into her dress (which up until than had hung in my room as a ghost reminding me what lies in the future) and headed to the church to welcome people and lead them towards the coffee. As we were walking through the village (we illegally crossed the cricket pitch and then turned right towards the church) I felt rather smart and I guess Pieter felt the same although we didn’t discuss this point. The first cars started arriving as soon as we had done. An elegant car with neatly dressed people turned up first. The woman was wearing a hat and the question “are you here for the wedding?” seemed ridiculous (the last wedding in High Easter was four years ago) at first but was an instant success with all the guests who thought it was slapstick ushering so Piet and I smoothly repeated the inquiry to all cars arriving at the car park.

Things were going well and soon Carmen, Ernestine (my brother’s girlfriend) and my mother also arrived. Upon seeing coffee in the churchyard Carmen giggled her first giggle. This is not how it normally goes. People have coffee in their houses not in churchyards. A fair point really if you think about it. But there was no time to relax for the usher, soon we had to push people towards the church and so this is what we did. However I felt a bit useless when David the coffee man moments later raised his voice to the crowd and asked them to move to inside the church. I had been outplayed. After about ten minutes everybody was in. Well, everybody except my dad (who for once had a good excuse for being late!) and the bride. The vicar churned out the standard pre-ceremony babble, no photos, try to keep quiet and, oh yes, maintaining the church roof is an expensive business so please donate something upon leaving the church. Carmen poked me and we both laughed at this begging. The good old Catholics in Spain are still heavily supported by the state.
There were some agonizing minutes between this warm-up and the arrival of the bride but the ancient organ-player (who actually seemed part of the furniture) kept us all entertained with some snazzy tunes. Alex – the groom – put on a smile and was looking around a bit. Was he dancing to these melodies? There were quiet chats between family members and friends who hadn’t seen each other for a long time. A lot of nodding, I don’t know why. And then it happened.
Some whispering at the back soon turned out into real excitement. My sister had arrived and was making her way into the church. I turned around and the first thing I saw was my dad’s everlasting beaming smile. “The man is going to have some serious cheek-ache tonight,” I thought as I turned my eyes to my sister. She looked beautiful, stunning. The dress fitted perfectly and was very elegant. Slowly they walked down the isle, like in the movies really.
Actually, everything was a bit like in the movies. The vicar started the mass and soon we were singing. Why does everybody know the melodies to these psalms except me? Luckily, the funny thing about psalms is that you can sing them with any melody you like and you still fit in with the rest. So this is what I did. Carmen isn’t used to signing in church (in Spain they have choirs!) so she just hummed.

After the singing and signing it was time for the big act and the vicar had a small surprise up her (rather spacious) sleeve. First, she asked the happy couple to take their vows (I swore Emma was going to break out in the giggles whilst the vicar was struggling her way through Alex’ middle name: Gerrit) and then she addressed the audience. “Will you all support Emma and Alex during their marriage?” Unanimously we shouted “We Will”. I could feel Carmen’s eyes fixing on me. I knew what her question would be and the answer was ‘no’. No, this wasn’t customary. With that – and the Lord’s prayer – the ceremony ended and we all rushed outside for the photos to be taken. Some had already spotted that the coffee had been replaced by champagne and headed straight for the outside bar placed next to the tombstone of someone who had died in 1932. Happy faces all around.
For the ushers this was a busy time as general entertainment is one of their tasks and there was a lot to be done. Slowly a line was formed outside the restaurant which conveniently shares its backyard with the church and the important people received handshakes and congratulations. The ushers were the last to enter the restaurant. The bottom of my tasty third champagne glass was telling me to slow down. I did.
The table-seating was spot on. I was neatly placed between my godmother Caroline, Carmen and some of Emma’s posh Oxford friends. It was time for some food. Over some appetizing carpaccio with avocado we discussed the mass of the vicar. Over chicken with ‘some kind of sauce’, fresh asparagus and new potatoes we chatted about crazy Emma and Alex stories. Over desert (a chocolate bomb) we laughed about the speeches as told by my dad, Alex and his best man. Highlight was the question ‘how to say something nice about Emma?’ Answer: she was a very good hockey goal-keeper. Good one dad.

The wine was from the Marlborough Sounds, New Zealand (half of the room could testify that they had been on the vineyard of the wine’s origin or at least mighty close. A fact which I am not sure David the wine man appreciated) and was racing to my head. Simply delicious, but I took it easy. There was more ushering to be done. The hard part. From the restaurant to the house. In the end it was easy. Shove a drink in the hands of the thirsty and begin a party. It worked. The hours before the band (a very good heir to the Yardley Syncopators) arrived were spent with more chatting which became increasingly louder. By the time the band played their first song people were ready to start dancing. Emma and Alex traditionally took the first which was – I think – a Rat Pack song. From there on everything was just a bubble of laughter, fun, red wine, dance, chat, sit, white wine and talk. Carmen and I enjoyed a lot but it was evident that Emma and Alex enjoyed it even more. Felicidades.

Coffee at 14.30

2007-06-05T16:49:00.000+02:00

My fight against bureaucracy prevailed (see Lunch at 13.30).

After weeks of annoying my Embassy in Madrid I made the exam (which basically was an IQ-test) on Monday the 14th of May at 9.00 o’clock. My triumph was complete. The woman, my enemy, was there to greet me. “I am so glad that we could sort things out,” was her welcome. I grinned. She proceeded with the niceties “Would you like coffee?”. “No not really,” I thought. “Yes, milk and sugar,” I answered. She delivered the goods 90 seconds later, she had added a stroopwafel (Dutch type of biscuit). “Good luck, I hope you pass,” she beamed as she put me behind the reception desk computer. “You can’t pass an IQ test, you cow,” was my final reflection as I slipped into concentration.

The reception desk. They put me behind the reception desk. A final stroke of genius by my old foe. Whilst I was turning kubuses on their heads people were asking by phone how to apply for a new passport. The Consulate is open from Monday to Friday from 9.00 to 17.00 (except on Wednesdays and beware, they close for lunch!!), I could tell them but I was making the test. The examination itself took two hours and ten minutes. Although disappointed with the lack of concentration I knew that I had given all I could. A couple of days later I received the swift answer from Woerden. Against all odds I had made the cut and was invited for an interview in The Hague: Tuesday the 29th of May at the Ministry of Interior Affairs.

The Hague, a city which I had sworn never to live in again. There are so many differences between Madrid and The Hague that I don’t even know where to begin. In Madrid you can walk into a restaurant at 02.00 and order a dish. In The Hague, well, you can’t. Either way, I had been drawn back by fate to the diplomatic centre of the Netherlands.

My meeting was at 15.00 on the Lange Voorhout – a stone’s throw away from the Dutch parliament. I flew into Amsterdam in the morning after a short sleep in England (I had been there for my sisters wedding, report and photos coming up!). It had been 8 months without setting foot in Holland and I felt like an alien although passport control greeted me as one of their own.

Upon arriving at an empty parental house I went straight to bed setting three alarm clocks for 13.30. I woke up just as a middle-aged woman was just tucking into her lunch 1200 kilometers south. I honestly wasn’t nervous. Nothing to lose really. Within 15 minutes I had my suit on (the same I wore to the wedding only days earlier, this time with a white and blue striped shirt, topped by a yellow and blue striped tie. I certainly looked the part as I took bus 18 into the centre of town.

I was early. 20 minutes early. I noticed that I was checking myself out in car windows. My stride confident, my walk arrogant, my step posh. This was bothering me, three hours in The Hague and I was back to being posh although I was still reassuringly feeling alien. It was the combination of suit and city. I had 20 minutes to kill so I turned into the Pulchri Studio – which is next to the (magnificent) building I had to be at 15.00. The Pulchri Studio did not help my increasing poshness…actually it worsened. Even my movements were different; I noticed that whilst I was picking up the newspaper a young waiter boy was approaching. I ignored him for while until I found the time right to turn my head and communicate my order: a cappuccino. My voice was different. Aristocratic. Superior. Upper-lip. Sad.

With a whip I had the last sip of my cappuccino and hoisted my left arm up in the air with a certain level of style so that my watch became visible. Time to go. I had already seen that a Cappuccino cost exactly 2 Euros. I left the coin on the bar. The waiter boy looked at me. I made an attempt to wink at him but I have never been good at that.

It took me exactly 12 steps to get from the Pulchrie Studio to the Interior Office. I didn’t have to ring the bell because a man in a nicer suit than mine entered. I followed him. I don’t think he noticed me. Even if he did he wouldn’t have said anything. Maybe hello. I looked as if I was already part of the set-up.

As I entered the big reception hall there were two women waiting on my right hand side, both holding a folder on which I am sure nothing was written. They were waiting for me although I remained cool. I didn’t walk to them but instead headed to the reception desk. Another woman. “Hi, I am Thomas Reeve and I have come for the Traineeship Interview.” No words, she just nodded to the women in the corner. They smiled. So did I.

Both introduced themselves but I forgot both their names within one second, as I normally do. The one on the left led me to a room on the same floor. There were three other candidates waiting in silence, accompanied by somebody of the project team organizing the selection process. The blond girl asked me – as soon as I entered – if I had made any expenses coming to The Hague. I put on a smirk smile. “Well,” I began, “I have come from Madrid.” This made an immediate impact on the room. I knew this would happen, that is why I did it. Pathetic.

One guy, who was sipping at his third coffee in 15 minutes, suddenly awoke. “Madrid?,” he asked without introducing himself. I confirmed as soon as he said it. Only then did I really notice his face. He was the typical koorbal (posh Dutch student member of an elite fraternity). “Does your father work for the embassy or what?,” he barked. Fifteen thoughts raced through my mind. I will name three. 1) That’s the worst question somebody has ever asked me as their first. 2) Ha, the embassy, the boy doesn’t have a clue. 3) Why did I pay 2 Euros for a cappuccino if I could have got free coffee here?

After contemplating these thoughts I snatched back: “No, actually my girlfriend is Spanish.” The boy was disappointed, I wasn’t.

The following fourteen minutes I spent in the waiting room. I was topic of discussion and although I tried my best not to be pretentious, I was. But that’s OK. Being pretentious in their world is a pro. Meanwhile I filled in my expenses form: a return ticket Schiphol Airport- The Hague Centraal (14 Euro). Then, all of a sudden: “Mr.Reeve, please would you like to follow me?” Still not nervous I did what was asked by one of the ladies with folders. I commented: “Nice building” (this was a sincere comment) and she agreed. She didn’t go into my small talk though. At all.

I cannot tell you anything about the interview itself. I signed something prohibiting me from it. I can only say it went rather well. With that I leave you all in suspense, like I am now. On Wednesday June the 6th I will be called with the result. Either I am in or I am not. In the meantime I am back in Madrid, far away from diplomatic Den Haag. Today in English class one of my students confessed that she had always thought that poodle dogs had hoofs, like horses and lambs. This puts things right back into perspective, doesn’t it?

El Torero de los Coches

2007-06-05T16:30:00.000+02:00

I was relaxing on the terrace of the Galician beach house when Alberto came to join me. We both agreed that we had enjoyed ourselves the evening before. It had been Carmen’s 25th birthday and we met with some friends of her to celebrate this superb achievement. Amongst them house-philosopher Oscar (Great man, calls me ‘Ome Mortego’ for undisclosed reasons, Batman in Galician) who after much thought claimed that the Partido Popular (the Spanish conservatives) lie so much that they could tell people that they are selling beer while they are in actual fact selling urban buses. From that moment on we were toasting to urban buses.

During these political discussions and birthday celebrations Alberto mentioned something to me about a Car Rally which was to be held the following day throughout the district. I had pretty much forgotten about it when he reminded me the following morning on the terrace that we really should be heading off to the course to find some good spots.

Carmen stayed at home to prepare her birthday lunch and as we left the house we were just passing the midday hour. There was a shrewd type of heat going when we stepped into Alebrto’s navy blue Citroen. One of those heats that you don’t really realize but is certainly there. We stopped at a near by village to pick up José-Maria (a bloke) and our team was complete. (In the car heading to the track I was trying to rattle off some Rally rhetoric, but I think my unknowingness of cars was obvious.)
Upon arriving at the track – which was set out on various Galician back roads – the tension was immediately noticeable. This was a day exiting things would happen. Now, Alberto and José-Maria had already been to many rallies, for me it was my first (well, one time when I was young, I witnessed people thundering down a Swiss mountain road in wheelbarrows, but I guess that doesn’t count). These two boys knew exactly what to do and I sheepishly followed them.

Alberto, taking the lead, decided that we needed to head for the best corner on the track. This is easier said than done at Rallies. The decision to move up the course is a decision which takes you right back to the primitive origin of mankind for ‘looking for a good spot’ means as much as ‘run for your life San Fermin style’ (cars pass every two minutes). Alberto started by asking the local farmers how to get there. Three minutes of shouting, smiling and a lot of patting on the back and we were on our way. “We just need to pass the river up there and we will have the best spot,” indicated - a rather sure of himself - Alberto. I was just happy enough not to have to run on the road.

We headed in the direction to which the rural wise men had pointed us (through a field of mud) and we soon found ourselves in a spot of bother. A thick line of trees, no river, and a cacophony of loud laughs in the distance. A trick had been played on us and a whole village took it upon themselves to chuckle about it. Bless them. Not to be outdone we continued and climbed a fair sized mountain full of Eucalyptus trees until we suddenly bumped into two rally-drivers who were just as surprised at the meeting as we were. We had climbed to a somewhat obscure part of the course where the two drivers had managed to crash their Peugeot and were now standing by the side of the road. We were exited, they weren’t. After a quick “he is foreign and would like a picture with you” from Alberto we decided to take a closer look at the car they had crashed. This is a basic mistake in Rally-watching. I didn’t know this (although Carmen later claimed that she had warned me about it). Cars pass every two minutes and they can get so confused when they see a crash that they make the same mistake. I however, was unaware of this and was not about to give up on such a good photo opportunity. Foolish.

Suddenly, a noise. Shouting. A crowd which I had not noticed up until then was crying to us. “Coche, coche, cruza, cruza!!”. This is Spanish for: There is a car coming, if you don’t cross the road soon it could crash into you. My photo smile turned into a horrible nervous ‘are-they-talking-to-me-I-am-just-a-foreigner-leave-me-alone’ smile. Alberto and José-Maria crossed the road quick as a flash. As I said earlier, connoisseurs.

I remained stuck to the ground, incapable of doing anything. Deer in the flashlight kind of thing. The cries remained but I had long stopped listening to them. Things slowed down, they really did. Right in front of me a Renault (137) was ripping around the corner. I noticed there was a yellow pear with sunglasses on the left-hand side of the car just above the indicator, which I thought was funny. The car spun and was heading for me. The cries had definitely stopped now. ¨Is that a woman navigating the vehicle?¨ Yes it is. The car had left the road and was still moving when it hit some kind of stone or branch five meters in front of me. This saved me.
The bump stopped the car and revived my heartbeat. I had experienced my first real rally moment. Alberto and Jose-Maria accepted me as one of them and were soon calling me ‘El Torero de los Coches’ (The Torero of the Cars) which I keenly tried to spread.

We returned to the beach house where all was tranquil. A world (well only a couple of kilometers) away from the adrenalin filled back roads. Carmen and her parents had prepared a great Chrurasco (Spanish type of barbecue). With Manuel, the dad, I was turning spare-ribs as big as a very big loafs of bread. Whilst sharing a beer. My masculinity had reached a very high point indeed. We had a great time. Congratulations honey!

Salamanca

2007-05-22T16:10:00.000+02:00

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

2007-05-22T15:55:00.000+02:00

“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

2007-05-22T15:37:00.000+02:00

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

2007-05-07T15:52:00.000+02:00

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.

Thomas el Topo (Thomas the Mole)

2007-04-25T14:39:00.000+02:00

Opposite our local video store in Den Haag (The Hague) is a supermarket called C1000. Three years ago – upon returning the Danish Dogma-film ‘Festen’ – I stood in line in this very supermarket buying a packet of cheese and a loaf of bread (this was dinner, before meeting Carmen I was not much of a cook). Nonchalantly – and cunningly – I placed the Festen DVD on the counter to impress…well anybody really. Sad? Maybe. Instantly successful? Certainly!

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.

El Rio Manzanares: flowing misery

2007-04-18T12:50:00.000+02:00

This Saturday, at about 17.30, I decided to go for a stroll. Strolls are good as they make your mind take one too. I headed south towards El Puente (bridge) de Toledo which crosses the river Manzanares.

When I first heard that Carmen found a house in Madrid I immediately went on Google Maps and looked it up. I found that the flat was close to a river which looked of a quite respectable size – albeit seen from space. “Nice,” I commented to Eduardo, who also lives close to the river, “we can go fishing in the river on hot summer nights.” Edu considered this for a while before giving his well thought-of answer. “Thomas,” he said, “there are no fish in the river, actually – come to think of it – there is no water in the river.” And he was right. The river is ridiculous, a joke. My toilet has more water than this stream. It challenges the mighty river Chelmer – infamous in Essex for its width as it takes more than two people to look across it – for the worst river in the world.

Things only deteriorated for poor Eduardo when I later asked why an Indian was the mascot of our beloved Atletíco Football Team. “Well,” he explained with a voice of a child who is having difficulty in convincing his dad that Farther Christmas exists, “it is supposed that the Indian came sailing down the river and settled in the stadium to fight against our rivals.” One shameful look at the river and it is obvious why Atletí has not played a decent game at home for over two years.

My stroll took me over this flowing piece of misery. Turning right at the Glorieta de Marques de Vadillo, I headed ‘upstream’ (not that there is a current in any form or shape) towards the Atletí stadium Vicente Calderon. I passed a group of boys playing the drums although I didn’t take any notice, subconsciously I was still angry with the Manzanares. As I climbed some steps to get a better view of the stadium my feet trod on an ADN newspaper – one of these free newspapers you receive every morning. This would have been a somewhat minor event had my eye not spotted a picture on the second page. It depicted a pair of hands trying to catch a white ball. The title was: Recta Final Mundial de Cricquet en Granada.

This summed-up my Cricket World Cup ’07 experience. Deprived of Internet or any other source of information (Luwe in a valiant effort to keep me updated sent me two messages with scores but soon gave up as I failed to reply to any of them. I will let it be known that I enjoyed receiving these messages, slackness however took over) this was the first news I had of the World Cup since the murder of the Pakistani coach Bob Woolmer three weeks ago. And it was lying – torn up – on a Madrid pavement, neglected by everyone.

I soon found out that there was no point continuing my walk ‘upstream’ as there was no bridge in sight (although I could have easily jumped over the Manzanares…backwards and blindfolded). Therefore I turned back and again crossed the rather extravagant Puente de Toledo and found my self once more north of the river which marks the beginning of Madrid’s old town.

At this moment Tyler, my mate from Okalahoma City, phoned. “What’s up,” he greeted. I never know how to answer this question with any degree of honesty. “Clouds? The Sky?.” Luckily Tyler had already provided me with the only two reasonable answers some weeks earlier, so I could not be fooled this time. I answered: “What’s up yourself?” (“Not much”, is the other plausible reply and this coincidently was Tyler’s answer to my rebound). He wanted to know if we had any Spanish books lying around he could borrow. “Something nice and easy..you know, to practice some Spanish.”

When I returned home after my nice stroll I had a look for him and I could only find one book: Oscar Wilde’s El Retrato de Dorian Gray. “Perfect, that’ll do just fine,” I thought.

Barcelona

2007-04-09T19:37:00.000+02:00

Before our trip to Barcelona I had been singing the classic song with the same title as sung by Freddy Mercury and – Catalonia’s favorite daughter – Monteserrat Caballé for over two weeks. In other words, I was very much looking forward to the Easter holidays. By the end of it I had enough of all the tourists overcrowding this overrated, glorified and much hyped city, bored of the milked-to-death Antoní Gaudí and Salvador Dalí, and I inventively (and cleverly) changed the lyrics of the Barcelona song into: Barcelona, never was I so wet, the moments I walked through your streets you took my smile away (instead of, of course: Barcelona, how can I forget, the moment I stepped into the room you took my breath away). 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.

It all started the day after my 25th birthday party. I had got a bit carried away during the party with Ponche Caballero which is a typical Spanish beverage kindly brought by my American classmate – and classroom side-kick – Tyler. Carmen had warned me about the effects of this particular drink and the consequences it would have the following day during our 6 hour road trip to Barcelona which we would undertake with Carlos and Fred (by coincidence also heading to Barcelona). But it was my birthday and I didn’t want to disappoint Tyler (and I didn’t as we merrily could agree that Ponche Caballero really is the best drink in town!) You should know that Carmen – as a rule – normally is right with these home-truths and didn’t fail me this time. After ten rather uncomfortable and embarrassing minutes in Carlos’ SEAT Ibiza I had to indicate to Carlos if he could stop his car. I took some fresh air and after that I was fine, as right as rain. It was uphill ever since and after six hours of pedigree driving by Carlos we arrived – with a boot full of expectation and two neatly packed suitcases – in Barcelona.

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.
The town itself was very nice and we continued our trip to Girona, well-known throughout the region for its colorful houses and castle. Although the day had turned grey (again) it was easy to see that this town has more to offer than the Ryanair Airport (Ryanair promotes this airport as Barcelona although there is a distance of over 100 km between the two) which is in the outskirts of this town and is the main arrival port of the Costa Brava army of tourists. Alberto did a great job driving us around and informing us on the ins and outs of provincial Catalonian dwellings.

Monday, our first day in Barcelona, started well and we walked up the main street of Barcelona Calle de Gracia and turned into a nicely built Victorian style food market. Carmen had a delicious fruit juice and I had a coconut (which is not as you might think a typical Barcelona tapa, although I did try to convince myself that this was the fact). Once we walked out of the food market our tropical mood was enhanced by a tropical storm. It had started to rain and it literally did not stop for 36 hours. Luckily our mood was saved by Pilar (from Galicia!) who met us and we chatted away in a bar which resembled more La Habana than Barcelona. I was fighting myself in believing that I was actually in Barcelona. Later that night we went out for a meal and to a Jazz café…nice! 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!)

Our last and most successful day in Barcelona was spent in the city’s two primary parks: Park Guell (you guessed it…that man Guadí again!) and Monjuic. Guell was nice but again packed with tourists. The rain had stopped you see and tourists flocked out of the museums and into the parks. Monjuic had my preference as we visited the Olympic stadium and the Pueblo Espanol, which – as the name subtlety gives away – houses Spain’s most influential building styles over the last three centuries (in 1929 - for some World Fair - they made a replica of a typical Spanish town representing all regions of Spain). Galicia was well represented with at least three buildings and these of course took Carmen’s interest. “Why do you so eagerly want to inspect these houses, you already have seen them 1000 times?”, I asked her. Always quick to defend the Galician cause she quickly replied. “Just to see if they are well done”. That’s one of the reasons why I love her.

On the way back to Madrid we stopped in Zaragosa – which is neatly placed between the two most important cities in Spain. Zaragosa is a well proportioned country town with its main attraction being the Nuestra Senora del Pilar – a massive church on a nice square. We were lucky as upon our arrival the Easter processions had started. These are rather scary if you ask me as they date right back to the inquisition which to me is scary business. Take a look at the outfits on the photos and you will quickly reason why.

Feliz Cumpleaños

2007-03-22T19:38:00.000+01:00

Coming wednesday the 28th of March will be the birthday of me and my brother Pedro. 25 years ago we shot to fame as the first British-born twins in South Korea and many would argue that it has been downhill on the fame-scale eversince. However, to celebrate this wonderful anniversary I am throwing a party on friday the 30th of March. Proceedings will start at our flat at around 10 o´clock. After a traditional Spanish botellón at the flat we will commence with a march on the South Korean embassy where we will be offered the Freedom of the country. Everybody who reads this is invited.

On one condition

2007-03-21T17:00:00.000+01:00

Si fueras una verdura serias: un collyflor (If you were a vegetable you would be: a collyflour)
Si fueras un elemento serias: plata (If you were an element you would be: silver)
Si fueras una figura gemétrica serias: un círculo (...geometric figure: a circle)
Si fueras una textura serias: peluche (...a texture: a fluffy texture)
Si fueras un período histórico serias: la guerra de 80 años (80 year war between Spain and Holland)

The last one beating the rest of the pack quite confidently I would say. We are of course talking about conditionals, or as the Spanish say rather exotically Condicionales. The other day in class we had to answer the above mentioned quirky questions. In class I love these assignments as I get to know my classmates. Answering a question like ‘if you would be a historical period, you would be’ of course says as much about your personality as kicking a last-gasp drop goal in a World Cup final. A situation which we – by the way – discussed during another class.

That’s what Spanish class is all about. Not only do we learn the lingo but we also get a free psychiatrist session thrown in. Luckily two of the pupils have studied Psychology so classes about our childhood are the most successful ones. Both of them however admit that they are not fully qualified to attend to our deepest, most inner fears and feelings. Although this doesn’t stop me chatting away about the time we found my brother Pieter – at the time aged three – at the bottom of a swimming pool in Singapore.

Today was the birthday of my Spanish teacher Maria and we decided to give her a surprise party. I made a tortilla, Fernanda the Brazilian girl (pictured here with her son Gabriel) brought a bottle of coke, Olga (Russia) and Monique (Germany) bought chocolates and Tyler the American failed to bring anything. His funny questions in class however excuse him from all wrong-doing. As many of you know, I have started teaching English classes and it are the simple questions like ‘teacher, could you explain the third conditional to me’ that scare me. By now, of course, I know that there are four. I give classes voluntarily at the Centro Hispano-Colombiano and it now also is my job as I teach between 10-15 well-paid weekly hours for a company called HotEnglish. For the latter I do not have to teach in the nude as the company name might suggest.

It is going well although yesterday there was a bit of anarchy in the classroom at the immigrant centre as my game of ‘match the drawings with the words’ turned into a mass theft competition between the various teams I had created. Some kids preferred my drawings of cats and pigs to those of bananas and apples and consequently set it upon themselves to steel their classmates’ drawings. I tried to intervene but things only got worse when the kids found out that there were even more drawings in my bag. Just at that moment an external evaluator walked into the classroom. I smiled, she frowned and left.

Art for Art’s sake

2007-03-09T19:44:00.000+01:00

Whilst in Stockholm I visited the Vasa Museum up to four times to entertain friends and family. Even the doorman at one time asked why I was visiting so often because it was no more than, in his words, ‘just a big old ship’. The answer to his question was rather simple: the Vasa Museum is Stockholm’s Eiffel Tower, its Big Ben.

It’s been over four months now since I moved to Madrid and I have yet to find a Berlin wall, a leaning tower of Pisa, or a Vasa Museum for that matter. Not enough big ships around. There is no typical Madrid picture. And yet, with the visit of Sylvie and Asaf, it was all about pictures. Sylvie wanting to take them and Ace wanting to be on them. I have – on this website – selected but a few of the weekend’s modest results.

There is only one thing better than friends visiting and that is friends who already have a plan – and a good idea at that – of what they want to do during their stay. Sylvie had produced a list of no less than 20 museums and galleries she wished to visit and Ace, Ace just wanted a beer. Try juggling that! Looking back I am confident that they both got what they wanted.

On Friday, before the arrival of Ace we did a tour of the best galleries Madrid has to offer. Sylvie is into contemporary art and I would like to point out that there is a significant difference between modern and contemporary art. Although I don’t know any technical terms the main discrepancy between the two is that modern art is nice to look at while contemporary art just frustrates you. Frustration is of course also closely linked with Atlético Madrid. Actually Atléti was Ace’s primary reason for visiting. The crunch match was against our city rivals Real. Ace and I met with Eduardo to taste a bit of the atmosphere. Both of us were holding a home-made Empanada in our right hands. We met up just outside the stadium, the atmosphere was electrifying but whilst Edu had a prime spot inside the stadium we had to settle for front seats in Bar Obelisco. What we saw was injustice of the highest order. The referee stole a two goal lead and it eventually ended in frustration of a draw (1-1). The evening was however salvaged by a good night out and a mighty tasty chicken sandwich.

The highlight for all I guess was our Sunday stroll through El Parque del Buen Retiro. The park – which lies in the heart of Madrid – is the place to be on a Sunday. We were struck by nice weather and whilst Carmen and Sylvie rested a little of a fine bench Ace and I found the time to play with our new toy: a Frisbee-like plastic donut which – according to the instructions could be propelled for ‘up to half a kilometer’. Ace and I managed a good 20 meters before lobbing it into a medium-sized birch. After that the fun was all but over although Ace did manage to catapult the device out of our tree with a fair-sized stone.

So in the end, Sylvie enjoyed her art, Ace had his beer (or two) and Carmen and I enjoyed everything. Shame it was only a weekend.