A Little Less Selfishness...please

Writing in the local paper. Local Issues with a global take. I never translate literally and the editor trims at will to make it fit. Here's my version, then theirs, which can now be seen online  (in Spanish) as well. 

Good Drunks?

Writing in the local paper. Local Issues with a global take. I never translate literally and the editor trims at will to make it fit. Here's my version, then theirs, which can now be seen online  (in Spanish) as well. 

Road Tripping in La Raya (Blurry Boundaries)

"Heading west again as you pass through Valencia de Alcántara, leaving the last remaining Spanish villages behind, a jagged dorsal fin rises out of the surrounding green patches that cluster around courses of water that feed into the river. Like some sort of prehistoric Border Wall, this granite fence signals that the border is near..."

Super George

Writing in the local paper. Local Issues with a global take. I never translate literally and the editor trims at will to make it fit. Here's my version, then theirs, which can now be seen online as well. 

Nothing To Envy

Writing in the local paper. Local Issues with a global take. I never translate literally and the editor trims at will to make it fit. Here's my version, then theirs, which can now be seen online as well.

Filling Potholes with Empty Promises

Writing in the local paper. Local Issues with a global take. I never translate literally and the editor trims at will to make it fit. Here's my version, then theirs, which can now be seen online as well. 

We had just crossed the street when my youngest daughter looked up at me and said, “Daddy, why is the whole city being fixed? Was it so broken before?” I smiled to myself as I fondly thought back to the fact that she would have just been learning to walk the last time the election repair cycle had taken place. At five years of age, she had just had stumbled upon her first political insight. A realization that, long before the smiling yet anodyne faces of candidates adorn the lampposts and the official political campaigns begin, roads begin to get torn up in a clumsy attempt to remind the electorate that those in charge are in fact getting things done. A political maneuver that is definitely not case specific to Caceres, nor even Spain. I’ve seen this crude sleight of hand the world over, but it is a phenomena that seems particular acute here due to the strong association that Spaniards seem to hold between roads and progress. In the months and weeks leading up to the elections, political agendas brim with openings, rushed inaugurations and the plaques that accompany these ceremonies and it’s precisely the wording on these dedications that pique my curiosity. The words ‘excelentisimo’ and ‘ilustisima’ may seem normal to Spanish speakers but to someone new to the language like me, they have always struck me as somewhat noble sounding. I’m certainly no Spanish major, but these routine protocol formulae appear to me as though they are titles bestowed onto someone born into a royal bloodline rather than someone who has been elected into public office by their fellow citizens. I’ve lived here long enough to know that the black legend of a supposedly anti-democratic Spain, propagated by those like the Catalan separatists, couldn’t be further from the truth, but words have power and often betray perspectives. In a country that doesn’t allow for open electoral lists and abhors the liberty to vote against the Party, I wonder if indeed there is some truth to my hunch. From the mouths of babes come damning truths and there are deeper things that need addressing than patching up patches. 

Secondary Training Day, Escuelas Catolicas Madrid

Harnessing the Visual Zeitgeist

and

Stories Beyond the Images

In Madrid today.

Before We're Uberized

Writing in the local paper. Local Issues with a global take. I never translate literally and the editor trims at will to make it fit. Here's my version, then theirs.

I have a soft spot for the Spanish postal system. Back at the turn of the millennium my mother and I decided to walk the Camino Santiago...in January. 

By the time we finally got started the weather was fine enough but what did become painfully clear after our first day’s walk was that there was absolutely no way my mom was going to make it with the mobile home that she was carrying on her back. 

The next morning she hobbled into a post office and mailed the backpack to herself in Santiago where it awaited us after our pilgrimage. It all seemed so efficient and I have carried that impression with me ever since. In fact, one of the first places I remember seeing a numbered waiting line here in Spain was at the post office. 

Before these magic machines were introduced, I had always suffered trying to figure out whose turn it really was or worse, explaining in my rudimentary Spanish to elderly women in the fish shop that I had been waiting much longer than they had. So imagine my surprise when I walked into the post office the other day and asked for a book of stamps and was met by a surprised look. 

I had already been to two or three tobacco shops where I was told they no longer sold them, so I thought I would go directly to the source. It’s not that they don’t sell stamps at the post office, it’s just that it isn’t very common anymore and the teller wasn’t even sure where they were kept anymore. Fifteen minutes later, after a thorough search, I had my stamps in my hand but the entire episode made me think of how quickly things can change. 

It wasn’t so long ago that those magical stickers were the only way to share news with far away friends whereas now, ideas are shared faster than it takes to drop a letter into a postbox. Taxis aren’t the only ones facing extinction in the uberization of society but until letters disappear completely, I’ll keep believing in the magic of the mail.

Why Granada is our favorite city in Spain

Revisiting one of my favorite cities in Spain. A trip though Granada for Matador Network where the Alhambra isn't the only stop.

Almost 10 years now since another piece I wrote for them about the same city through a much different lense.

Ideas on Empty

Writing in the local paper. Local Issues with a global take. I never translate literally and the editor trims at will to make it fit. Here's my version, then theirs.

What color is an idea? It might sound like a strange question but in today’s hyper-polarized world, one that needs to be asked. Are ideas blue? Do they suddenly appear and reflect the pure, clean sky above us? Are they maybe more red, filled with the blood and energy that courses through all of our veins? Or are they maybe newer colors like orange, bright as the fruit hanging off of the trees in winter or perhaps a bit darker and more difficult to define, like the reflection of the clouds as the sun sets during the same season? How about purple, like that wine stain that stubbornly refuses to come out in the wash? Or even an unlikely green, lush, brief and violent as the dehesa that surrounds us when a little rain falls here in our beautiful yet forgotten Extremadura? It seems to me that if indeed ideas are made up of colors, they would be a mix of shades rather than one solid hue. If indeed ideas were colored, they would be a blend of the different shades that reflect the different influences behind them rather than some sort of pure, single thought. So why is it that we, for some reason, attribute ideas to political currents rather than to the people who actually come up with them? Of course it’s impossible to completely excise someone’s political beliefs from the ideas that may occur to them but, especially at the local level, ideas should be judged on their content and how they would make our city a better place to live rather than the color behind some political ideology. Would a brilliant idea that brings much needed investment and employment to our region only be blue? Or would an ambitious plan to energize our youth only be red? To paraphrase the great Duke Ellington when asked about the kinds of music he liked, to me there are only two types of ideas: good and bad. To which I’d add those that can be bettered. I’m not sure if ideas in fact are made up of colors but I do know what a city and a candidate for mayor without them will look like and that’s a dark, scary place indeed. 

Reluctant Prophets

Writing in the local paper. Local Issues with a global take. I never translate literally and the editor trims at will to make it fit. Here's my version, then theirs.

I’m starting to hear voices. Not the scary ones that tell you to do naughty things nor those deep and ominous tones informing you that you’ve become the new prophet of a new religion, but familiar ones, in English, as I walk through the streets of the city. Voices that I’ve heard my entire life around about this time of year. There’s Frank Sinatra reminding me that Christmas probably won’t be white here and next is Mariah Carey somewhat ironically rallying against consumerism with her amazing range all the way from the Plaza Mayor up to Canovas. I walk past a robot Santa who wishes me ‘Merry Christmas’ in perfect English and I see pictures of his reindeer in shop windows; it’s definitely navidad. It comes at a time when more and more voices can be heard blaming immigration for the problems the country faces. Angry voices claiming that imported customs are destroying the fabric of traditional Spain and replacing things deeply ingrained in the cultural DNA of the land. I then hear a song about fish drinking in a river and see images representing the three kings of the orient that had traveled so far in search of a refugee child born in a manger in far off (and obviously not Spanish) Bethlehem. The mix of the different songs and images reminds me that change and the crossbreeding of traditions is inevitable, like it or not. Once upon a time Christmas carols in America were solely religious but as society became more varied, a need arose for songs that celebrated the season but were not necessarily religious and some great music was created. Christmas trees started off as pagan symbols and now Cacereños flock to the Plaza Mayor every weekend to take selfies in front of the metallictree-cone. Adopting and adapting is how I will be spending Christmas, enjoying some jamon iberico, wine from la ribera del Guadiana, some English cheese with a drop or three of irish whiskey by the fire while reading a Portuguese author and of course listening to Frank remind me of the snow that I’m certainly not missing.