The Peaceable Kingdom

Here at MotP we wish all our readers as much peace and harmony in their lives as is seen in these pictures.

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Who said we neglect dogs on this blog?

Strumpet City

It is the policy of this blog to report the truth as we see it, recognizing that this might be upsetting to some. Or indeed that doing so might draw the attention of the wrong kind of reader, lacking in the discernment that characterizes the great majority of our readership. But these are the risks we take in the interests of truth.

Thus, for instance, I fear that earlier posts may have given an incomplete impression of the nature of the Calle Valverde, where I am currently billeted. Not all is leafy grandeur and "My Fair Lady" like elegance. At least I don't remember seeing any sex boutiques in "My Fair Lady", though Henry Higgins was clearly more than a little bit kinky. So it would be remiss of me not to mention the two cheerfully decorated sex shops right here on the street where I live. And, I suppose, in the spirit of full disclosure, it seems only fair to mention that there are four more within a block on either side of the Gran Vía.

Now, lest any of my readers become concerned for my safety, I need to say that, from the outside at least (the limits of my experience, I assure you all), Spanish sex boutiques seem to match more the clinical cheeriness of their German counterparts than the sleazy, fear for you own safety nature of the corresponding establishments in the U.S. (Again, I must plead limited experience here). So there appears to be little element of danger surrounding these establishments. Neon? Lots! Danger to one's personal safety? None, assuming one has the good sense to observe from the outside only.

Then there is the following observation to be made. On Sunday afternoon, as I was figuring out the way to school for the next morning, I accidentally found myself strolling down the Calle de la Montera (which runs parallel to c/Virgen de los Peligrosos, where the school is located; the two are linked by the c/Caballero de Gracia).

tart walk

Gentle readers, I am not entirely clear about the literal translation of Calle de la Montera, but an accurate functional translation might be rendered as "Street of the Working Girls". ¡Strumpets! In hot pants! Plying their trade at four in the afternoon on a Sunday, right in the center of Madrid! With the apparent full approval and cooperation of the local constabulary.

This must be what they mean when they refer to "the new Europe".

The plain people of Ireland: Begob, that's shocking altogether! And on a Sunday no less?
The management: Indeed.
The plain people of Ireland: Tell us, were you able to get any pictures?
The management: Salacious wretches! If it's dirty pictures you want, I suggest you indulge your prurient curiosity elsewhere on the internets, that is, if you can unstick your fingers from the keyboard.
The plain people of Ireland: No need to get huffy. Just askin'. So tell us - "Strumpet City", that's a reference to that book by yer man, James Plunkett, isn't it?
The management: Yes, a fine panoramic tale of strife-torn Dublin during the lockout of 1913, booklink later adapted by RTE into a fine television series. Available on DVD.
The plain people of Ireland:
Strumpet City in the sunset
Suckling the bastard brats of Scot, of Englishry, of Huguenot
Brave sons breaking from the womb, wild sons fleeing from their Mother.
The management: dear God. So ye've learned to google, have ye? This cannot end well.

Unto us a child is born

An update from the throne of the Bourbon-Hapsburg-Battenberg-Hohenzollern-Tiramisu-Hasenpfeffer-Sachse-Gothenburg-Windsor-Thurn-Taxis dynasty:

El Príncipe and his non-aristocratic wife had another Infanta on Sunday. Se llama Sofía como su abuela, and she is third in succession to the throne, after el Príncipe and her sister, Leonor (pending some boring changes in Spanish law which will give equal rights to male and female heirs in the line of succession; too late to benefit el Príncipe's older sisters, but I'm sure they're not bitter in the least). The Infanta was delivered by Caesarean section on Sunday at 16:50, and weighed 3.31kg, measuring 50 cm. Don Felipe informed the queen by radio, as she was returning from the Rostropovitch funeral in Moscow, that her 8th grandchild would bear her name.

This touching picture is that of older sister Leonor, about to visit the new arrival. Rumors that the older sister's first words to her sibling included the phrase "neener-neener" remain unconfirmed, according to a palace insider.

Members of the Battenberg branch of the royal family are said to be literally pink with fury, maintaining that they are being short-changed in the proposed new succession rules. A palace insider, speaking on condition of anonymity, said that, in view of their somewhat checkered past, it is unlikely that a Battenberg will ever again mount the Bourbon throne.

The Hasenpfeffer family could not be reached for comment.

The plain people of Ireland: Are you gone daft altogether? This is surrealist rubbish, and not even funny at that! Any more of this, and steps will have to be taken.

The management: Do you mind? I spent the afternoon at the Reina Sofia museum, much of it spent in mature contemplation of the works of Dali. Is it any wonder if a little surrealism creeps in occasionally? We sensitive souls are very suggestible you know. The lush zebra imbrocates aubergine schoolbuses with zabaglione.

The plain people of Ireland: Dali, is it? Oh fair enough so. Sure that's understandable. Let us know when you're feeling yourself again.

The management: The narpish fleens gongoozle sybaritic nightshirts.

Take the virtual tour

A few of my readers have wondered: "why aren't there more photos of people on this blog, of David, in particular"? An entirely reasonable question. So, here you go: (and yes, I have shaved off my moustache)



This photograph is just one of many subtle gems you will find if you take the virtual tour of my current dwelling, which is at the following link:

where I live now

The plain people of Ireland: Begob, them's very fancy digs indeed. Sure 'tis living on the pig's back, you are - ar mhuin na muice, as Brother O' Donovan was always fond of saying.
The management: Yes, thank you. Nice of you to say so.
The plain people of Ireland: That's what comes of all that book-learning. Sure 'tis nice to see it pay off.
The management: Why yes. In my time, I did indeed apply myself to my studies, with occasionally gratifying results.
The plain people of Ireland: But with all that book-learning, did you never hear of a thing called Grecian Formula? For someone like yourself, with a fine head of hair, 'twould take years off overnight. Sure look at what it did for yer man Reagan over in..
The management: Why, I believe the new wireless connection is acting up. I'm afraid we will have to leave things there for this evening.

The street where I live

People stop and stare. They don't bother me.

For there's nowhere else on earth that I would rather be.

On the plain

Estoy en Madrid. Much more to relate, but right now, I've got to go buy a laptop.

¡Hasta luego!

Art from the Albujarra

Photos in greater detail are available at

Photos galore

It's a wonderful life

Sometimes life just hands you a peach of a day, one that you look back on and savor in memory for years afterwards. Today was such a day. An all-day excursion to the Albujarra, the part of the Sierra Nevada between Granada and the coast, named for the father of Boabdil, the last Moslem ruler of Granada (famously expelled by the Christian monarchs, or reyes catolicos, Ferdinand and Isabella, in 1492, but that's another story entirely).








Stumpito de la Albujarra

As you can imagine, the bus tour around the mountains involved a fair amount of scary, inches-from-the-abyss, driving. There was a lot of good-natured shrieking, ooh-ing and aah-ing, and a couple of genuinely hold-on-for-dear-life, moments. I shrieked along with everyone else. My Dad, who would have been 85 on May 1st, and had both a fear of, and a fascination with, heights, would have loved it, in his own teeth-gritted, white-knuckled way. Dad, I was thinking of you every turn of the way.

Random facts

We finally have a positive identification of the hitherto mysterious "frutas del bosque". They are black and red-currants. As delicious in Granada as in Seville, I might add. Other pretty darned good ice-cream flavors include: mandarin, nuts and rum, and the chocolate-orange combination.

Did you know that the Spanish refer to the current queen of England (more precisely, Reino Unido) as Isabel II ?

UFOs are known as ovnis.

Paz Vega, the pearl of Andalucía, enters the final month of her pregnancy in a state that is described both as "glowing" and "beatific", despite being ambushed by paparazzi at her last ob/gyn bisit. As a cultural reference point, think of Paz as Spain's version of Heidi Klum.


Meanwhile, all of Spain awaits the bisit of Beyoncé, "la diva más 'sexy'" with (you're way ahead of me here), bated breath.

Plain people of Ireland: This is very choppy today. And shouldn't that be....
The management: What? "Baited breadth"? Is that what you were going to say? Think hard before you embarrass yourselves further.
Plain people of Ireland: Oh, all right so. Never mind. No need to be so touchy about things. Just trying to help.
The management: Indeed.

Menu of the damned

Unfortunately, this is the best image I could get, despite several efforts. Even a Spanish waiter will eventually respond to some random passer-by taking repeated snapshots of the menu, so I had to smile and move on. So you will have to trust me that item # 23 really does promise "calluses", while the penultimate item is the mysterious "spurted of Iberian".

My best etymological guesses are that they mean "tripe" and "selection of Iberian hams", respectively.

Personally, I recommend the "codfish to the la Riojan" as a starter. Or possibly the skipped mushrooms.

On the home front

Many of my readers have written wondering what is happening with the kitties. Here is an update, courtesy of George (¡ hi, George !)



Boris, being Boris.



Natasha, always the flighty one.

Both appreciating the fine new kitchen floor tiles.

The plain people of Ireland: Begob but that marmalade cat is awful fat-looking.

The management: Silence, you insolent wretches! This time you have gone too far. Boris is not fat; he is simply big-boned.

Washington Irving slept here

This afternoon I visited the Alhambra. I will have more to report about this. Please check back later.

¿ And for dessert ?

The ugly duckling

You may remember that this sign had previously vexed me a little. "¿Palace of the Ducks?"

Well, here at MoTP headquarters, we spare no effort when trying to get to the bottom of life's little mysteries. Our readers deserve no less.

So we did a little legwork, and here is what we found. The building in question has now been transformed into Granada's most luxurious hotel, surpassing even the Alhambra Palace Hotel in the opulence of its furnishings and the servile fawning lavished on its guests.

Here is a view of the main entrance to the hotel.

Observe closely. Just above the "C" in "Canon", what is that white, snorkel-like thing?

Let's take a closer look.

Why, it's a swan. A pair of swans, in fact.

Unless you are Spanish. In which case you will refer to this hotel as the Palace of the Ducks. Go figure.

Doing the locomotion (a rant)

Yes, I know. This may seem like a bit of an obsession, but once again I find it necessary to hold forth on the habits of the Granadan pedestrian. Gentle readers, I wish I could report that I had attained a state of Zen-like detachment, as far as pedestrian progress is concerned. But this is simply not the case.

I can, however, after two weeks of intensive study, cast further light on the problem. Because one has to understand one's enemy in order to prevail. For anyone intending to travel to Granada in the near future, I offer the following taxonomy of sidewalk denizens. The key variable in understanding pedestrian behavior is age, and the breakdown is roughly as follows:

12 to 30-year olds: pedestrians in this age group do not pose a particular problem. They can generally be trusted to behave similarly to their peers in any other city of the world.

30 to 50-year olds: in this group you will find, primarily, proponents of the sudden stop, the turn without warning, the random dart. Masters of Brownian motion, their main contribution to inhibiting the normal flow of pedestrian traffic is the element of surprise. There is simply no telling what these people may do. What causes the sudden stopping and starting behavior so characteristic of this group? I wish I knew. It could be something as simple as seeing an acquaintance across the street, or a particularly snazzy pair of shoes in a stop window. Or stopping to pay closer attention to one's strolling companion. Adjusting the baby stroller. But - let's be clear on this - as often as not, it's for no discernible reason whatsoever. Entropy rules supreme in this group.

the over 50-crowd: this particular menace to society is distinguished by the tendency to roam the pavement in packs, usually of three or more. The preferred number is four, because only then is it possible to walk in formation in a way that occupies the width of the entire sidewalk. Often sauntering with arms linked, a phalanx of these oldsters yields to nobody. If you let them, they will force you into the gutter. Occasionally, senior citizens may sally forth in groups of three. In this case, it is a simple (and apparently instinctive) matter for them to combine the arm-linking technique with a gentle weaving motion in a manner that makes passing virtually impossible except to all but the most determined.

A related observation pertains to the behavior of your average Granadan shopper. Whether through instinct, or years of practice, as if by second nature, upon entering a store of any kind, the typical Granadan customer will immediately gravitate to the single narrowest part of the store and proceed to stand there aimlessly, thereby maximizing the potential congestion in the store. Be it in the supermarket, or el Corte Inglés, this behavior is so consistent that one has to suspect there is a genetic component that is passed on from one generation to the next.

I am generally not given to violent fantasies, dear readers, but I have to say that, on more than one occasion in the past couple of weeks, I have mentally transplanted some of the worst offenders to the tube in London, or the subways of New York, and imagined the subsequent mauling that they would receive at the hands and feet of people who understand the fine art of pedestrian behavior.

¡Citizens of Granada! Your behavior is neither charming nor tolerable. It is egocentric and oafish, and would not be considered acceptable in any truly civilized society.

In the classroom

Three weeks ago I bought a Sony Discman. I need to listen to classical music at night to fall asleep. Otherwise strings of Spanish words keep repeating in my head, driving me nuts, because this is already happening during the daytime.


When I mentioned this in class the other day, there were three very odd sounds. Later, I was able to interpret these retrospectively as the sound of three twenty-year old jaws dropping. Followed by stunned silence.

Fortunately, my familiarity with Scissor Sisters' "Take your Mama" salvaged my credibility later on during the same class. Temporarily. However, the information that I do not now own, nor have I ever owned, a cell phone, appears to have been too much for my classmates' twenty-year old brains to assimilate. So now I am treated with the deference accorded any over-the-hill old fogey. I may start to bring an ear trumpet to class if things go on in this way.

On the other hand, the words promulgate, obstreperous, and byzantine are part of my active vocabulary. Which, I suppose, is just further confirmation of fogeyhood.

Where did I leave that AARP application form? Gosh-darn it, I know it's here somewhere, if I could just find my bifocals.

The plain people of Ireland: begob, there's some very fancy words you're using tonight.
The management: I had a feeling that would get your attention, you obstreperous wretches. Now, please be quiet.

Reino de Granada

I have no idea what it is, but you won't catch me sitting under it, that's for sure.

Life at the home for retired light fixtures can be a little boring sometimes.

Whenever I'm staying at the Reino de Granada, I like to revive myself with a delicious piece of cardboard pizza, ordered in from the good folks at Telepizza. It's so convenient, because if you don't speak Spanish, the helpful hotel receptionist will place your order for you. Of course, some might consider her complete lack of English the weak link in this logical chain, but if you don't mind the frisson of excitement that accompanies the element of surprise (¿anchovies anyone?) you can't go wrong with this room service option.

A few nights of this and you too can approach the state of glazed torpor of that happy businessman. Unless the light fixtures or wall hangings attack you first.

Words, words, words

You see, this is the kind of thing guaranteed to drive any foreigner crazy. Because you know, and I know, that "pato" is the Spanish for "duck". We are supposed to believe that the ducks have their own palace? I have my doubts; honestly, I do. My personal theory is that this apparent "municipal sign" will later be revealed to be a piece of performance art perpetrated by the city of Granada as a kind of passive-aggressive act of revenge on the foreign tourists to whom it owes its livelihood, and with whom it cultivates an ongoing love-hate relationship.

Alternatively, it could be like Venice in the old times when there was the palace of the duck and the palace of the dog (my Italian is a bit rusty).

Who is this fine fellow? ¡Why, it is Ozzy, the bear of liquorice! For a long time, the word "regaliz" gave me trouble, as it seems to come from nowhere, with no clue at all as to its meaning. Then, last week, when I finally made the realization (¡duh!) that "Argel" is Spanish for "Algeria", "regaliz" suddenly made more sense to me. If you think about it, all the liquorice consonant sounds are there, just randomly jumbled to confuse non-native speakers. I really wish they wouldn't do that.

Other random word-related musings.

Words I like: musulmán, for moslem; pájaro carpintero, for woodpecker ; okupa, for squatter.

Words I dislike: paloma, for pigeon. Who do they think they are kidding? Everyone knows that paloma means dove. To extend its meaning to include flying vermin is an insult to doves the word over.

Things I found out the hard way this week: the phrase for "breast cancer" is not "cancer de pechuga". It is "cancer de mama" (no accents in that last word). And if you are tempted to double up on the second 'm' (as I was), remember the rule of Caroline.

Water Music

Earlier this week, I had a minor epiphany. Thinking back to the situation where I have had the most success in life mastering a foreign language, I realized it was as a teenager in Germany. The breakthrough came after about 6 weeks, when I just woke up one day and vowed that I was simply going to speak at all costs, and not worry too much about the correctness of what I was saying (after all, that's presumably how we do it as kids - nobody really teaches us the rules). So I've started to do the same thing here. Furthermore, I've added the condition that I will force myself to overcome my natural reticence (yes, folks, I am an introvert, thought not hugely so) and make a conscious effort to talk to strangers, whether it be to ask for help, exchange pleasantries about the weather, or just engage in general meaningless chit-chat.

It's amazing what a difference this can make. Obviously, some interactions are more successful than others. But I've gone from being served with the kind of sullen neglect, bordering on rudeness, Spanish waitresses manage to inflict on most tourists to being greeted with an ¡hola!, a big smile, and free vocabulary lessons in the restaurant where I eat lunch most days. Similarly, I've learned that the previously eternally bored-looking woman, Inma, stationed at the counter in the internet café/grocery store, spent six months in Killarney last year with her boy-friend (the competent helpful guy - see earlier entries on "laws of the internet café"), and they are both crazy about all things Irish. And I'm due back at Hannigan's (not to be confused with Flanagan's, because there is one of them as well) Irish pub tomorrow night, because I've been roped in as a member of what has been described as a "killer" pub quiz team. (I explained that I would be no good whatsoever on sports questions, but apparently that's already covered).

About 6:30 last night (Saturday), I was exploring the narrow alleys of the Albaicin (the area of the city by the Alhambra). Without particularly meaning to, I found I had made it pretty much to the top of the hill, to what seemed to be the bus parking lot for the Alhambra itself. Seeing a sign for the "Manuel de Falla cultural center", I followed it. Very few people arround, but there was a terraced area from which I had a great view of the city, and the Sierra Nevada behind me. I walked around a bit more, and was getting ready to go back down into the city, when I spotted three guys, who appeared to be maintenance men taking a cigarette break outside what seemed to be the entrance to the main auditorium, which was visibly deserted. A week earlier, I would have nodded to them neutrally and gone my way. But I obeyed my new policy and forced myself to ask a question: "¿Hay concertos aquí?", which seemed like a pretty safe bet for an auditorium named for De Falla.

Turns out that not only are there concerts almost every night, there was one last night. Again, with my usual bone-headed pessimism, I thought to myself that it would surely be sold out. But the little voice said, "it can't help to ask, dummy". So I did: "there wouldn't be any tickets left for this evening, though?" At which all three went into this elaborate pantomime of denial, indicating that "sí, sí", there would be tickets, and that all I had to do was come back to the taquilla (little excursion as they took me over to show me where the taquilla was) after 8pm (further little pantomime with watch hands) to snag a ticket for that night's concert at 9pm. The zoos "Budapest", "Tchaikovsky" and "agua" kept coming up a lot, so I had some idea of what the program might involve.

Well, at that point, it would have been churlish not to come back, right?
(to be continued)

Price updates

Not everything in Andalucía is a good value. Three examples: (to convert from € to the equivalent approximate dollar amount, just multiply by 1.40)

1. Cost to have 3 weeks' worth of laundry washed, dried, and folded = 30 €
2. Cost for one café con leche in Starbucks = 3.80 €
3. Cost of one (meagre) scoop of Cherry Garcia at Ben and Jerry's = 2.90 €

Here, of course, it's Starbucks that are the most egregious offenders - somehow they again manage to take an item typically costing just under a Euro and quadruple the cost. The amazing thing is that they get away with it; the Starbucks stores in Seville were always packed, as is the one I've seen here in Granada.

Mind you, the price for doing all that laundry wasn't exactly cheap either - $42 would allow you to do many loads of laundry in the U.S. Even if you handed it in to have it done, I'd be surprised if it cost half as much in San Francisco. Not that the method of arriving at the price was particularly scientific - if it had a name it would be referred to as the Iberian squint technique.

At least, three weeks of clean laundry lasts for roughly three more weeks. One can only wonder why the robber barons of Starbucks get any repeat business at all.

MAINLY ON THE PLAIN

I'm surprised nobody has asked yet. ¿How do you say "mainly on the plain" in Spanish?

I know that my discerning readership interprets this question in the intelligent, rather than the literal, sense. So I will answer the intelligent, not the literal question.

The management here at Mainly on the Plain takes such linguistic enquiries seriously. I am glad to be able to report that, following weeks of investigation by our top experts, we are now in a position to give a definitive answer on this question.

In the Spanish version of My Fair Lady, the rain-related phrase with which the sadistic Professor Higgins torments Eliza is the following

La lluvia in Sevilla es una maravilla

The plain people of Ireland: begob, there's a lot of them double-ls in that sentence.

The management: which is precisely, the point, you wretches.

The plain people of Ireland: Oh right. Of course. Very clever indeed. Smart boy wanted. Isn't that interesting?

The management: yes, isn't it? For once, we agree on something.

¡Tally-ho!

I know many of you must be wondering: "¿What if I would like to plan a motorcycling holiday in Andalucía? ¿Are helmets mandatory?"

Indeed they are, gentle reader, indeed they are. And if you read of the untimely demise of one middle-aged Irish blogging statistician, it will be because, convulsed with laughter, I fell into the path of an oncoming Vespa. Whose rider was smartly outfitted with the following, by far the most common choice among discerning Vespa-riders throughout Granada:





As yet, no foxes have been sighted. But I live in hope.

Coming clean

Time to come clean (note deft tie-in to preceding post) about something. You may have noticed my use of a little blogging device, in the form of imagined interjections by the so-called "plain people of Ireland", providing a kind of meta-commentary on the ongoing blog content.

Irish readers will recognize immediately that this device is in no way original. It was used, to considerable comic effect, by one of the geniuses of Irish literature, Flann O' Brien. Flann O' Brien is one of the pseudonyms used by Brian O' Nolan, who also published, for many years, a daily column (An Cruiskeen Lawn; anglicization of the Gaelic for "the full jug") in the Irish Times, under the pseudonym Myles na gCopaleen.

From Wikipedia:

Flann O'Brien is rightly considered a major figure in twentieth century Irish literature. The British writer Anthony Burgess was moved to say of him: "If we don't cherish the work of Flann O'Brien we are stupid fools who don't deserve to have great men. Flann O'Brien is a very great man." Burgess included At Swim-Two-Birds on his list of 99 Great Novels.

The full Wikipedia entry is here

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flann_O'Brien

My adoption of the device is intended in the spirit of pure homage to this most brilliant of Irish writers. If you have never read "The Third Policeman", order a copy right now, even before you finish reading this entry:

http://www.amazon.com/Third-Policeman-Byrne-Irish-Literature/dp/156478214X

It's the funniest description of hell you will ever read in your life. Borrow, steal, or buy a copy now!

¡Don Limpio!

Wednesday in Granada. A day of many small triumphs. I think anyone who has spent more than a few days in a foreign country probably knows what I mean when I say that one of the joys of being abroad is the huge sense of triumph that one can get from accomplishing even the most quotidian of tasks. Something as simple as buying an alarm clock. Or sending a package back to California. Because you are doing it in a foreign country. In a language not your own. You get this absurd sense of accomplishment. At least I do.

The flipside is that you also learn to take a somewhat different view of the normal activities that form the fabric of everyday life at home. The quotidian is no longer something to be taken for granted.

A case in point. Laundry. In Ireland, and in the U.S., there is a natural progression, for males, anyway:

• Someone else worries about it
• You bring it home at weekends and someone else worries about it
• You learn the basics and do it in the nearest shared facility (college dormitory or public laundromat); you start to obsess about having enough quarters
• You move up to a shared facility that doesn't need quarters (e.g. apartment complex or building)
• Finally, you graduate to living in a space with an in-home washer-drier, after which you never really think consciously about laundry again.
• Until the washer-drier goes on the fritz, at which point you are brought to a sharp realization of just how much you have been taking for granted.

Another way of being forced to realize just what you've been taking for granted is to travel or live in a foreign country for a while.

Take Spain, for example. Gentle reader, there is one thing I can state with certainty. You will not find the love of your life sitting in a Spanish laundromat. Not in Seville or Granada. Nor anywhere else in Spain, from what I am given to understand. This is a country without laundromats. The concept simply doesn't exist. How do I know this? As usual, for me, I found out more or less the hard way.

See, when you are traveling, there's a kind of grace period, where you first start to think about laundry in a general abstract "Gee, I really should do something about laundry before I run out of clean socks" kind of way. Eventually, the end of the grace period looms, when you realize that you need to do something about the laundry situation within the next two days, (maximum three if you relax standards slightly on the sock front). So now you walk the streets, consciously keeping your eyes peeled for a laundromat. Things start to seem weird: none of the likely-looking streets pan out.

There is an interesting, and useful, side-effect during this phase. You are forced to pay conscious attention to all the stores that you pass, and so you actually see what kind of stores there are. This gives you an interesting composite of the Granadan character. Clearly these are people who are so busy buying, renting, and selling apartments, visiting the nearest fruit store, bakery or bar, in between visits to the stationery store, peluqueria or salon de estetica that they have little time for such niceties as washing clothes. Results of my (unscientific) sample consisting of the block in which my apartment building is located. It's a rectangular block, each side being a commercial street, with the two short sides being more heavily trafficked than the longer sides; totals are for both sides of the street for each face of the block - got that?

The plain people of Ireland: That's probably a rhombus you're thinking of -'tis a very common mistake to mix up a rhombus and a rectangle. Are you sure those corners are all at 90 degrees?

The management: Oddly enough, peasants, for once your question is not complete rubbish.

The plain people of Ireland: That's Brother Jerome up at Saint Malachy's we can thank for that. A great man for the Euclid.

The management: But I think you mean a quadrilateral, not a rhombus. Not that it matters for the purposes of this story.

The plain people of Ireland: Begob you're right. Fair enough so. We're all ears.

Frequencies for the most common types of business:

• Inmobiliara (real estate offices) = 6
• Restaurants/bars = 4
• Pastry shops/bakeries = 4
• Hair/beauty salons = 3
• Fruit stores = 3
• Stationery stores = 3

Some time on Tuesday, it began to dawn on me that maybe the reason I wasn't stumbling across any laundromats on my travels was because there weren't any out there. A quick check of the yellow pages and an online search served only to confirm this suspicion.

So I asked the teacher. Unfortunately, I chose to ask María (names changed to protect the innocent), not - as it turned out - the most empathetic of respondents. Her initial reaction was to make me repeat the question twice, as she subjected me to the kind of pitying gaze one might cast upon someone with Tourette's. Finally, acknowledgement that perhaps my question might have some legitimate basis. But then, in the most dismissively condescending tone imaginable:

"But why would anyone need to use public washing machines. Every home in Spain comes with a washing machine", shuffling her papers to move on from a topic which was clearly of no concern to her washing-machine-containing-home-loving self.

Somewhat taken aback by this complete lack of empathy, I pointed out that, indeed my current temporary lodging contained a washing machine (though no visible drier), but that it also came equipped with seven other boarding students and a dragon lady whose very first sentences to me had been about the need to conserve water in Granada.

This conversation led nowhere fast. Fortunately, my compatriot Cathal came to the rescue this morning, by directing me to one of two known places in Granada (if you aren't staying in a hotel) where one can drop off laundry for later pick-up. At 16:30, as they reopened after siesta, I was there with my bulging bag full of 3 weeks' of accumulated dirty laundry.

And, gentle readers, you will be relieved to know that a mere 4 hours later, I was marching home to Señora Rosa's, with enough clean clothes to last me at least to Madrid. For tonight, at least, I am the Spanish equivalent of "Mr Clean".

Your faithful correspondent,

Don Limpio de Granada.

At the post office

The post office can be a scary place, especially for foreigners:

Day of reckoning

Sorry folks, I can't even to begin to make the experience of filing taxes in three separate jurisdictions (Federal, California, and New Jersey) from a distance of 6000 miles from home seem anything other than exhausting. I would like to thank all of the people who helped track down information at the last minute, and who pulled me through the experience.

Perhaps the only light note was when I googled to try to figure out why the filing deadline this year was April 17th. The reason involves some arcane provision about holidays inWashington DC; the amusing part is that the Federal Government was apparently unable to figure out its own regulations in enough time to print the correct deadline on the relevant forms and (quite sensibly) didn't bother to have them re-printed.

The plain people of Ireland: What's this? Nothing yesterday, and two paragraphs of self-pitying rubbish today? When do we get our refund?
The management: Funny you should ask, fools. I had the same question myself today. Must be that time of year. Get in line, like everyone else.

Church, churros & chocolate

This morning I got up around 8:30, put on my snazziest threads, and headed over to the cathedral for Sunday morning mass. Not out of an enormously developed sense of devotion, I regret to say, but for two slightly less admirable reasons. First, in the spirit of sociological inquiry - I wanted to see what it would be like. Second, I wanted to see inside the cathedral, and this avoided the 6€ fee that is charged during the week.

The powers that be are obviously wise to this second reason, because in fact not all of the cathedral is open to worshippers on Sunday morning. Nonetheless, what I saw was interesting. As was the mass. Since I've been seeing one touching display of family togetherness after another since getting to Spain - in the streets, in the cafés, in the bars at night - three generations out together, often as not, I fully expected mass to be a multi-generational experience as well. Boy was I wrong. At fifty, I was one of the youngest congregation members in the church. Attending mass appears to be something that young (and middle-aged) Spaniards appear happy to leave to the older generation.

Or maybe I just picked too early a time. This thought occurred to me when I got back to Señora Rosa's shortly after 11am to find that nobody else in the house was up yet. I don't know whether to be impressed or shocked, because I have never considered myself a morning person.

One other disappointment at mass was the sermon. I was mentally settled in for a good 20-minute job, even had my little Moleskine (hi Dr Heidi P!) notebook to jot down good vocabulary words. What did we get? Two minutes, maximum.

To console myself on the way home I had to stop at a churrería, for some churros and chocolate. I took a picture, so that my blog-readers could share vicariously.




Churrería almost displaces murcielago as my favorite word of the moment. In part, because it's so much fun to watch my charming classmate Charlotte, from Lille, wrinkle her nose as she tries to pronounce it. But then I remember that murcielago is the only word in Spanish containing all five vowels (or so I´ve been told). Also deserving honorable mention this week, michelinitos, meaning love handles.


Plain people of Ireland: this Charlotte girl, does she have a sister?
The management: Silence, curs!

Books and such

While I remember to do so, I want to mention two books that I brought with me to Spain, both of which I highly recommend to anyone with an interest in Spain, generally, and in Andalucía in particular.

The first, published in February of this year, is by Giles Tremlett, and is called "Ghosts of Spain: Travels through Spain and its Secret Past".

From the blurb on amazon.com -

The appearance, more than sixty years after the Spanish Civil War ended, of mass graves containing victims of Francisco Franco’s death squads finally broke what Spaniards call “the pact of forgetting”—the unwritten understanding that their recent, painful past was best left unexplored. At this charged moment, Giles Tremlett embarked on a journey around the country and through its history to discover why some of Europe’s most voluble people have kept silent so long.

Ghosts of Spain is the fascinating result of that journey. In elegant and passionate prose, Tremlett unveils the tinderbox of disagreements that mark the country today. Delving into such emotional questions as who caused the Civil War, why Basque terrorists kill, why Catalans hate Madrid, and whether the Islamist bombers who killed 190 people in 2004 dreamed of a return to Spain’s Moorish past, Tremlett finds the ghosts of the past everywhere. At the same time, he offers trenchant observations on more quotidian aspects of Spanish life today: the reasons, for example, Spaniards dislike authority figures, but are cowed by a doctor’s white coat, and how women have embraced feminism without men noticing.

Drawing on the author’s twenty years of experience living in Spain, Ghosts of Spain is a revelatory book about one of Europe’s most exciting countries.

More information at the amazon link here:

http://www.amazon.com/Ghosts-Spain-Travels-Through-Secret/dp/0802715745

The second book is older. I brought it with my on my 2003 trip to Spain, and brought it with me again this time. The author is Maria Rosa Menocal, and the book is "The Ornament of the World: How Muslims, Jews and Christians Created a Culture of Tolerance in Medieval Spain" .

More information at:
http://www.amazon.com/Ornament-World-Christians-Tolerance-Medieval/dp/0316168718

Songs without words

Given the - ahem - slightly pedestrian nature of the previous post, (the plain people of Ireland: you can say that again) I feel obliged to finish the evening with something a little more contemplative.

During the daytime here en españa, it's all about the words. That's pretty much the point of this trip - I'm here to learn the language. Unlike during my teen years, when I used to osmose German vocabulary with a facility that irritated the hell out of my classmates, this time I actually have to work at it a little bit. So I read my carefully chosen articles in El Páis (hint: every Thursday they have a special section consisting of translated articles of general interest from The New York Times, these are a terrific source of vocabulary words), I walk around muttering words I like under my breath, or - I can't believe I'm admitting this - I make up little nonsense rhymes, centering on my particular favorite of the moment. This week's particular favorite is murcielago (Spanish for bat), if you must know, and my little song is none of your business, thank you very much. A blogger needs some privacy.

Oh, all right then, if you must know, here's an excerpt:

.... somos los murcielagos sevillanas

Comimos las manzanas

y a veces de la carne

De las brujas catalanas....

Just as I did during my last trip to Spain, at about the two-week mark I reached the point where it seemed as if the words had taken over my brain completely. I would lie in bed at night, trying to fall asleep, but the words would keep racing through my brain. Fortunately, I knew what to do. I went to el Corte Inglés and bought myself a fine Discman (at rock-bottom prices, presumably because the era of the iPod already threatens obsolescence). To go with it, many fine CD's of classical music. Strictly orchestral stuff, because - you've guessed it - no words!

This is why, every night for the last couple of weeks, I've been renewing my acquaintance with the nine Beethoven symphonies (16.10€ for the set of 5 CD's). Accuse me of Eurocentric, dead-white-male-loving cultural chauvinism if you must, but let me go on record here as saying that a universe in which one can have access to one of the pinnacles of human achievement for about twenty bucks and change ain't all bad.

Maybe it's a result of just being in a different milieu, maybe all of one's senses are heightened while traveling (see the earlier "fruits of the forest" post), maybe active listening during the daytime has a residual effect late at night. Whatever the reason, I find myself listening to this music with a heightened sensitivity, discovering it with fresh ears, as it were. And having a hard time describing what I mean without resorting to the stalest of clichés.

So I will finish with a concrete example. Last Sunday night - Easter Sunday. It's been a long day. I´m a little wiped out. Lying there listening to the second movement of the Eroica, I don't think I've ever heard anything as desolate, or as haunting. There's no escaping the despair that permeates this music. Except, of course, that he does. He brings you down about as low as it seems possible to go and still go on, and then lifts you back up. With those simply awesome variations through to the triumph at the end. Though I've listened to this particular symphony dozens of times, I've never found it anywhere as thrilling. Shivers up the spine.

And now you know why I will never work as a music critic. The point, if there is one, has something to do with a heightening of one's senses while traveling. Or openness to new ways of perceiving. I don't know. Go figure. No pretty bow around this post - sorry.

With that, I bid you good night.

Escape route

It's a glorious day here in Andalucía, so I spent the afternoon wandering around the Albaicín. Definitely not as flat as Seville, so a little harder on the feet. For those of you who sent e-mails wondering about the lodging situation, I can finally report some progress. The hotel situation in Granada turned out to be a little tighter than I had anticipated, so it proved difficult to get a hotel for two weeks uninterrupted. The only possibility seemed to be the most expensive place in town, where the snootiness of the reception-desk personnel didn't particularly inspire me to want to give them my business. (What part of the word "hospitality" do you suppose these people don't understand when they give out attitude like they do? It's always puzzled me. You would think that the more expensive the lodging, the more helpful the staff, but the inverse relationship seems to be the norm more often than not). Anyway, to cut a long story short, since I didn't want to have to change hotels once I move, I ended up settling for spending the last 10 days of my time here in Granada at the friendly 3-star hotel around the corner from my current lodgings. It will be easy to transfer next Friday; I will have stayed the best part of 2 face-saving weeks en la casa de señor Rosa, and once I've moved to the hotel, I won't have to move again until leaving for Madrid.

I also made some useful progress on the question of getting from Granada to Madrid. Initially, I had some idea at the back of my head that I would do so by train, but given that my dealings thus far with RENFE, the Spanish railway network, have been fraught with the wrong kind of excitement, I was only too open to other options. It turns out that Granada does have an airport, albeit a very regional one. Indeed, its provincial nature was pooh-poohed by more than one of the teachers during this week's classes. Basically, the message was, unless you are flying to Madrid or Barcelona, don't waste your time. But.... I do want to fly to Madrid. In that case, they had to admit, it might be worth a try.

¡Bingo! When I tried farecompare.com (or whatever it's called) and similar sites, they all came up with Iberia flights in the range of 120€. Sparing you the gory details, I'm happy to report that I now have an e-ticket from Granada to Madrid which cost only $49. Given it cost me almost 30€ to get from Seville to Córdoba and back by train (for evil-RENFE-duplicity-related reasons), this seems like a pretty good value.

So, for now, I am pleased that arrangements to reach the next stage of my adventure are in place, leaving me free to enjoy the rest of my time in Granada without worry. And with only five more mystery dinners to endure at Casa Rosa.


The plain people of Ireland: You expect us to care about this kind of stuff, do you?
The management: No, you ignorant peasants, I do not. But some of my real friends might. Now be quiet, you whining wretches, before I set the dogs on you.

Window shopping in Granada

Finally, a few more photos. For the full set (the good, the bad, and the ugly) see the link top right.

I like the jaunty, brook-no-argument, tone of this menu. Espaguetti to the sailor, codfish to the La Riojan, skipped mushrooms. But one cannot help wondering about the slightly ominous sounding Gulas of the North. Any relationship to the Wicked Witch of the West?

The kindness of strangers

Friday the 13th in Granada. About 4pm. I'm having a late lunch (class runs until 3) in a café on the Gran Vía, fairly close to the cathedral. Not too many people in the café - myself, a couple of people at the counter, a Canadian family at the table next to mine, three workers on break at one of the other tables. The place is small, maybe six tables in all, but welcoming. The waiter has been very patient with my Spanish, correcting me ever so gently.

I´m feeling at home, so when I'm done with my bocadilla, I linger, reading El Páis, which I find is at a level that I can generally understand, with only a little fumbling for the dictionary. There's an article on Kurt Vonnegut, which I read with interest. augmenting my vocabulary with such words as pianola, pájaro de celda, matadero cinco, and - of course - desayuno de campeones. Suddenly, I find myself tearing up, noticeably. Unexpectedly, because I would never have considered myself an avid fan of Vonnegut, though I have read most of his books, a long time ago. But somehow I suddenly feel his loss keenly, perhaps not so much the man, but what he stood for. Or I'm just a long way from home, and tired. Or a little of both. Idiotically, now I´m actually sitting there in the café crying, willing myself to stop, but not entirely succeeding.

Then, a voice, from the next table, Canadian. "Is everything OK?" Curious, but with a note of genuine concern. I gesture, and try to explain the Vonnegut thing. Through some kind of cosmic grace, the reaction is more than I could have expected. "Oh, gosh, I know exactly how you feel. When we heard the news yesterday, I was all shaken up too. He was just such an important figure for people our age." All of this from the mother. Then, unexpectedly, from her husband. "Here, why don't you come and join us - we´re just sitting here for a while, taking in the view".

For some reason, this kindness threatens to unhinge me altogether, but I pull my chair over to their table. The waiter approaches, asks if everything is OK. We say yes. But he reappears a minute later, with a brandy, which he puts in front of me with a flourish. Courtesy of the house.

We chat for ten or fifteen minutes, pleasantries mostly. I drink the brandy, pay my tab. We go our separate ways.

The kindness of strangers. An unexpected gift on a rainy afternoon in Granada. I am blessed.

¡ ya basta !

Warning: rant directly ahead.

So, I am aware of the bizarre health claims made on behalf of cruciferous vegetables, broccoli in particular. This doesn't mean I like to eat them. Sure, if I slather on enough ranch dressing, I can choke down a few - what's that vile word - florets of uncooked broccoli. With the cooked stuff, it's touch and go at best. If I remind myself that it could be worse (think brussels sprouts), I might just manage a mouthful or two, before cunningly hiding the rest under the mashed potatoes, or stuffing. But, let's be quite clear, where cruciferous vegetables are concerned, I have certain quite well-defined limits.

And - I can barely bring myself to type this word without throwing up in my mouth a little (borrowing a nauseating phrase to describe a nauseating concept, and an even more nauseating vegetable) - cauliflower simply goes beyond the pale. Surely one of nature's bastard spawn (of broccoli and what - tapioca, semolina, tadpole fetuses?), there is simply neither excuse nor justification for this malformed birth defect of a 'vegetable'.

As for the notion that one should somehow allow this vegetal ordure into the kitchen to be prepared for some unsuspecting victim to eat, only a deranged person could think that this is acceptable behavior. No matter how much mystery white sauce you slather on there.

So, señora Rosa, dueña de casa of my nightmares, what I want to know is - just what diabolical connection do you have to the demons of deprivation, to allow you to zero in so perfectly on the one item of "food" in this world which actually causes my gorge to rise. ¿Do you want me to vomit in your kitchen? Because, I swear to God, bruja - keep this up and next time I will.

But guess what, lady. ¿Do you know how many napkins it took for me to wrap the white-sauce covered cauliflower-offal so that I could dispose of in the garbage, where your demonic powers would not sniff it out? ¡Three! That's right, señora. Mark that down in your little notebook.

I'll be in my room, trying not to throw up in the wastebasket. Planning my escape.

Anyone out there who wants to mount a defence of cauliflower - don´t waste your time and effort. I will delete your post without compunction, you sick twisted prevert.

Religion and Money

I know, I know - two traditionally taboo topics, which any blogger with a sense of self-preservation should probably learn to avoid. I´ll keep my remarks brief.

Yesterday, the internet café was populated largely by Mormons. Without deliberately eavesdropping, I was nonetheless quickly able to figure out that next Monday must be the deadline for signing up for fall courses at Brigham Young, as there was much discussion of the relative merits and demerits of various elective courses. Also of the relative pros and cons of carrying out one's mission in Sevilla versus Granada (clear consensus that Granada is preferable, because of its more compact size, notwithstanding the steepness of the terrain in some sectors). What fascinated me was the discussion about which course one should take to satisfy BY's mandatory "diversity requirement". Having worked in corporate America for over 20 years, my natural inclination is to be slightly leery of "diversity requirements" myself, but given the nature of the conversation, I have to say I found myself rooting strongly for the university in this case. The casual racism of some of the comments, and apparent ignorance of, or indifference to other cultures was frankly breathtaking, particularly here in Granada, once the center of Menocal's "Ornament of the World". Unfortunately, for some of these clean-cut young men, one had the distinct sense that a single course in fulfilment of a well-meaning diversity requirement was not going to be enough to make much of an impact.

While writing the preceding paragraph, I realise, of course, that the issue has very little to do with religion, but is rather one of mono- versus multiculturalism. I can't really wrap this vignette up with a pithy bow, so forgive me if I leave it at that, and move on to this morning's incident, which also left me a little baffled.

As a child of privilege, I have learned to be extremely respectful of frugality in others. I am fully aware that very few people share the advantages that I've been lucky to have in life, which are not limited to having been born into a loving, upper-middle class family, and getting a terrific education. For instance, I was lucky enough to receive a talent (for mathematics) which, when developed, allowed me to choose a profession that afforded considerable financial benefits. I won't belabor the point - I've been lucky, and I'm generally smart enough to count my blessings, and know that not everyone is as lucky.

Differences in background mean that people have different attitudes toward money, and different views of the virtue of frugality. Without wishing to offend anyone here, I will say that travelling with someone whose views about money are way different from one's own is likely to be difficult. (And without having direct experience in the matter, I am guessing that the same thing is likely to be true about marriage).

So I would never say that my attitudes toward money are "right", because there is no universal "right" in territory as complicated as financial matters. Nonetheless, cases of extreme frugality, by which I mean frugality taken to extremes that seem to defy commonsense, baffle me. A case in point. Last night I stayed up reading until about 1:30am , so before turning in I gave myself mental permission to skip today's first class. Accordingly, I waited until the hordes of my emaciated fellow-boarders headed out to class at 8:55 before making my appearance in the kitchen. As luck would have it, Madame Rosa shuffled in just as I had put the bread in the toaster, so I started mentally to dust off a few little nuggets of small talk. When the meltdown occurred.

Not being particularly quick in the mornings, it took me a while (a) to figure out that a meltdown was occurring (b) that it was not directed at me, and (c) - much harder - what the proximate cause actually was. This was over an hour ago, and I've been puzzling over it ever since.

See, every evening before retiring, Madame R lays everyone's breakfast place - individual juice for everyone, communal stale toasting bread, margarine and jam, teabag for Joey, coffee for me (to be microwaved, yum!), communal paper napkins. Ay, there, apparently was the rub. The number of paper napkins is apparently precisely calibrated to the number of students. And someone, prior to my showing up in the kitchen, had used two, instead of the one to which they were by law and birthright entitled. Leaving me napkinless (a state of affairs of which I had been blissfully unaware, because - gentle readers - I assure you that my use of the word "paper napkin" to describe the wafer-thin wisp of tissue in question is being generous here - we're not talking triple-ply Bounty here). I was not bothered in the least by this. Rosa, on the other hand, as she unlocked the cupboard where the napkins were kept, peeled off another to give to me, went into an all-but-catatonic state, cradling the remaining napkins to her bosom, as if they were €100 notes. As she did this, she appeared to be keening under her breath. With horror, I realised that she appeared to be repeating the names of the other student boarders, presumably obsessing about who the likely culprit might have been.

I finished my breakfast in record time this morning. Because, to be honest, I found the whole thing a little bit scary. It may be time to cut my losses and move to plan B (the hotel option).

Huddling in Granada

The more evil the weather, the more meandering the blog entries. Because, realistically, what are my options on a brutally cold, viciously rainy night in Granada, one that's reminiscent of Cork in late November? I could huddle back at Madame Rosa's, exchanging hunger anecdotes with the emaciated Dutchwomen. I could huddle in my room and watch inane Spanish game shows, which seem to rule the airwaves until 9pm at least. I could take in the movie that's showing at the theater down the street. Oh, wait, let's see - it's a comedy, by Lars von Trier. Let me repeat that, in case you missed it. A comedy. By Lars von Trier.

Three words. Breaking The Waves. That Lars von Trier. You know, suddenly, updating the blog seems like a fine option indeed. So here I am, huddled over a terminal, bringing you the latest from bone-chilling Andalucia. Trust me, there's not a soul in here who isn't huddling right now.

Let me check my little Moleskine notebook (with a big shout-out to noted urban nomad and Moleskineer, Dr Heidi P!). What did I want to tell you this evening? I'll take Spanish bureaucracies for €800, please, Alex.

If you were thinking, uh-oh, here comes a tirade, think again! The tirade comes later on, and you will be given ample warning to allow you to bail out if that's what you would like.

Let me start with the Spanish postal system, or Correos. I have nothing but the highest praise for the fine bureaucrats who make this system work. Because work it does - in my experience thus far, flawlessly. I have mailed several packages to the U.S., a bunch of postcards, dealt with the post offices in both Seville and Granada, and have met with nothing but courtesy, efficiency, and genuine helpfulness. I realize even as I type this that it makes for a somewhat boring blog entry, but credit where credit is due. You have nothing to fear, gentle reader, should fate require you to take a trip to your local Spanish post office.

Warning: imminent tirade. Directly ahead. Beginning now.

Those of you who enjoy a good rant will be relieved to know that there is indeed another kind of Spanish bureaucracy. One that truly merits the clichéd designation "Kafkaesque". Old Franz would be proud of this particular bunch. But we must look to another writer to find words adequate to capture the true horror.

Abandon hope, all ye who enter here

These words do not, to my knowledge, appear over the entrance to RENFE offices throughout Spain. But they should. (to be continued)

Travel - does it really broaden the mind?

I won't keep you in suspense. ¡Yes, yes! A thousand times, yes. Of course it does. Everything they told you is true. And a few things they probably didn't tell you as well. But, of course, that's why you're reading this blog. Because I will spill the beans on the stuff that you can't find in the travel guides.

"Spill the beans" ...... an unfortunate choice of metaphor, perhaps, in view of this evening's lentil stew letdown. But let's not go there. Suffice it to say that there are some scenes of Dickensian deprivation too delicate to be captured in this, or any, blog. But 'tis a sad scene indeed, gentle readers, when one's dinnertime reverie is interrupted by the delighted shriek of a rail-thin fellow-boarder upon sight of a couple of rock-hard, week old crusts "Oh great! There's bread tonight!", as she and her equally emaciated compatriot fall upon it with the alacrity of two particularly famished locusts. I, of course, have the wherewithal to augment the meagre workhouse fare with provisions obtained elsewhere. But what are my moral responsibilities to the other, less fortunate boarders, who - gaunt-faced and hollow-cheeked - glide noiselessly like wraiths through the bleak corridors of Señor Rosa's Granadan outpost of DoTheBoys Hall? If I attempt to smuggle them in some extra victuals, will Señor Rosa exert some dreadful revenge? (Note to self: cut back on the Dickens intake before next road trip). For now, we draw a veil over these sad boardinghouse vignettes....

Because nobody likes a whiney blogger. Let's shift gear, and let me offer you a couple of eternal travel banalities instead.

1. Umbrellas and travel.

It's a given that you will forget to bring your own. Also, that you will live to regret this omission, probably within the first 48 hours of leaving home, while your defences are still down, your system confused by jetlag, and your reflexes groggy. You will stumble forth into the pouring rain, in a strange city, surrounded by people who speak a language with which you are still dangerously unfamiliar. In your pocket are notes and coins that look and feel suspiciously like Monopoly money. You will think to yourself: "I can do this. I can buy an umbrella in Spanish (Finno-Hungarian, Serbo-Croat, Mongolian dialect of choice)".

Indeed you can. Unfortunately, the sad law of the road is that you will not make a good choice during this purchase. You may come away flushed with the triumph of temporary success (because - look, ma - an umbrella!). But in your haste, unless you are a truly seasoned road warrior, you will forget the cardinal rule of umbrella valuation, which is that

durability trumps portability

In your foolish, lemming-like, haste to acquire an umbrella that is portable (you visualize yourself boarding planes, trains, buses, boats, hovercraft, funicular railroad cars, taxicabs, unencumbered by the bulk of truly effective rain protection), you will forget the basic fact, that a portable piece of inferior crap is still a piece of inferior crap.

And so, inevitably, days or weeks later (the day will come), you will find yourself in some unfamiliar city (like, for instance, Cordóba), where an ill-timed gust of wind, or a nudge from another pedestrian's entirely superior umbrella, causes the intrinsic inferior crappiness of your purchase to blossom forth in some altogether hideous fashion, typically involving the shearing of cheap metal and the subsequent exposure of some seriously dangerous sharp pointy bits.

At this point, unless you are a complete moron, you will follow the only sensible course of action: immediately seek out the nearest wastebasket, deposit the entrails of your former pride and joy, find the nearest store of quality, and do what you should have done in the first place, which is to buy the largest, sturdiest, umbrella in the store.

Then retire to a local hostelry, order a stiff drink, and ponder why it is that you seem to have to learn this lesson over and over again, every three or four years, throughout your life.

One other umbrella-related travel observation is that the guys on the street who appear miraculously to sell them to passers-by all come from Senegal. It is not well-understood why this is the case, but it does appear to be a universal law, at least here in Spain.

2. Laws of the internet café

Any internet café of appreciable size will have among its employees one of each of the following distinct types. For reasons which are not entirely clear, each will be male, in his twenties. They may or may not be related. It is in your best interest to figure out who is who as early as possible, for obvious reasons.

The surly guy who knows about computers:

this guy may ultimately provide you some useful help, but will exact the same type of emotional price that you associate with the worst kind of tech support prima donna at your last workplace. Between the eye-rolling, muttering under his breath and resolute refusal to acknowledge your efforts to speak the language, he may be more trouble than he's worth. Avoid, except in case of real emergency.

The surly guy who knows nothing about computers:

this guy is a total jerk all around, and worthless, to boot. He will waste your time, try to make you feel incompetent, and answer any question you might pose in whatever language in pidgin English intended to make you feel small. Avoid at all costs. If he speaks to you, simply ignore him.

The friendly guy who knows about computers:

this is your guy. Once you figure out which guy he is, you will never need to bother with his loser buddies. He is the guy who will come crawl under the desk to make sure your camera is properly connected to the computer, who will listen patiently to your questions without interruption, who will laugh and compliment your Spanish. If it is a family operation, he will be the youngest brother, though one might have predicted the middle child to fill this role. Stick with him, and you won't go far wrong. (He will also be the cutest, but one has to bear in mind the possibility that this is just projection).

Logic suggests the existence, in theory at least, of the fourth possibility, the friendly incompetent, but experience to date does not bear this out.

unos snigletes nuevos

"Nuevos" may be redundant, but here goes. Inspired by the warm breezes of Andalucía -

• toreador - a member of the Tori Spelling fan club
• matador - a member of the Matt Damon fan club
• picador - what Monte Hall might say to a contestant

The plain people of Ireland: "This is an outrage. We want our money back. Yer man is really scraping the barrel today".

The management: "Refunds graciously offered. Now, how much was it you paid to read this again?"

Griping in Granada

In brief, here's my gripe. In every city of any size, anywhere in the world, one of the earliest survival skills one learns is how to be a pedestrian. That is to say, one recognizes that the orderly ebb and flow of pedestrian traffic requires that each member of the crowd make certain accommodations, that people learn to anticipate and to allow for the movement of others; eventually, adjustment to the pace of traffic becomes as automatic as breathing, or walking.

Apparently nobody thought to mention to the fine citizenry of Granada the advantages that flow from good pedestrian behavior. Frankly, I question the right of some of these people to walk the streets, so hazardous is their behavior to themselves and others. I'm not referring to jay-walking here, which one simply accepts as a normal facet of Spanish life. No, it's the random stops and starts, right there on the sidewalk, for no conceivable reason. The completely unheralded 90-degree turn, without so much as a glance in the direction taken. The trajectory that appears designed to mimic nothing but pure Brownian motion.

Get a grip, people! This is not an exercise in statistical mechanics. In any other city in the world your licence to walk the pavements would be taken away from you if you continued in this fashion. And for God's sake, caballero, watch what you are doing with that umbrell.....OW!

(editor's note: the remainder of this post has reluctantly been cut short, as being inconsistent with content guidelines for blogger.com)

N0 8 D0

It would be remiss of me to move on from Seville without including at least one image of the ubiquitous N0 8 D0 sign that adorns anything even remotely to do with the city. "Ubiquitous" is not an exaggeration: it's on municipal buildings, on the buses, on police cars, public toilets, possibly tattooed on the mayor, there's no getting away from it.

What could it possibly mean? Well, pull up a chair for a little semiotics lesson, the only one you will encounter in this blog, I feel reasonably safe in promising. According to my superior guidebook, the explanation is as follows. The sign means "No me ha dejado", in English, "She has not deserted me", words attributed to Alfonso the Wise (no comment) after the city of Seville remained loyal to him during a dispute with his son Sancho (no information available on the astuteness, or otherwise, of Sancho, but I think we can draw our own conclusions) during the time of the Reconquest.

Here's the fun part. What you might first interpret as a figure 8 is, upon closer inspection, a stylized skein of wool, the Spanish word for which is madeja. Hence No m'a deja do.

If you don't find that even a little bit interesting, maybe this blog's not for you.

Easter Sunday in Granada

Things are pretty uneventful so far, but the main point of this post is simply to say that I am in Granada. Managed to get up at six, to drag myself to make the 7am train; after a little siesta to make up for lost sleep, found this highly superior internet cafe within 10 minutes on my stroll. Now, if only the network of cash machines would relent and stop giving me the same message, that they are unable to disburse cash "for temporary technical reasons", I'd feel a little more at home.

But (touching wood), so far so good. Granada appears to be quite a bit smaller than Seville, and not quite as obsessively clean, but arriving on a major holiday is probably not likely to show any city in its best light. I'm just happy to be here safely.

Wishing anyone reading this a happy Easter, without too much chocolatey indulgence.

David