Can You Spare a Minute of your Time?

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 spent some time in Libya before the fall of the Ghadaffi regime. Among the many almost surreal aspects of the Green Republic, one of the things that most called my attention was the complete lack of advertising in public spaces. Apart from North Korea, I think it was one of the only places on earth where you could walk the streets and not be constantly reminded of the fun that Coca Cola can bring to your life. Apart from the dictator’s face ubiquitously staring out from billboards, no one was allowed to try and sell you things from silently shouting billboards as you walked down the street. The refreshing absence of this near constant yet silent commercial noise made me realize the unconscious effort that one makes every day to filter out the messages of 20% off this and 40% that as you move from point A to point B in just about any city in the world. Caceres is no different. But what I have noticed is that, like some terrible late-night science fiction horror movie, the once immobile signs have come to life. Walking up the pedestrian street from the Gran Teatro to the Plaza Mayor has become an exercise in dodging moving ads. Whether you are absorbed in conversation with a friend, fiddling with your phone or making sure your toddler doesn’t get trampled by the oncoming crowds, it doesn’t matter. Suddenly a smiling face blocks your way and is politely demanding just a few minutes of your time to sell you on the merits of their NGO, above of course the four others that await to pounce on you before reaching your destination. Driving rain or searing shine, they're ready for you. I have observed first-hand the great work that the Red Cross does and have also seen Chechen women being resettled in Azerbaijan with the help of the UNHCR but at the risk of endearing themselves to people as much as the telephone sales person who calls at seven in the morning on a Sunday, wouldn’t it be wiser to spend the time and energy lobbying for a change in the distribution of the 0.7% income-tax-pie from the government, than harass people trying to get where they are going in the streets?

Spanish Sunday Afternoons #7

Neighborhood vetting committee.
@ Caceres, Spain

Do We Want to be the Same?

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.

It seems like the mighty New York Times can never quite get it right when writing about this country. Many paella-moons ago I remember a diplomatic meltdown that almost took place when a Times travel writer published an article that happened to make a passing comment about how more than a few Spanish parents dressed their children in clothes that wouldn’t look out of place in colourized World War II photographs. The then nascent social media was set ablaze with indignant Spaniards whose pride had been mortally wounded by a fleeting line in an article that then went on to praise the modernizing wave that was then sweeping across the peninsula. According to the protesters, Calatravas and Guggenheims were the New Spain and frilly dresses and short trousers no longer fit in on the modern Zara streets. Now comes another NYT article that, according to some, once again dares throw stones at glass houses. The piece, along with many others in papers around the world, echoes some of the findings of the parliamentary commission set up by Mr. Modernity’s government that is looking into the possibility of returning Spain to its pre-Franco time zone and attempt to increase productivity by bringing Spanish work habits, and more precisely hours, more in line with the rest of Europe. Op-Eds spilled ink about the revival of the black legend and one again the tweetsphere was set abuzz with furious attempts to prove the falsity of siestaing Spaniards in 140 characters or less. Praise from both sides of the political spectrum rained down on the modern Ibero-European workers who, like their Nordic counterparts, are chained to their desks with soggy sandwiches and Starbucks coffee for sustenance. 7 minute lunch breaks and competition among our electric companies are now the norm. Conclusive proof that Europe indeed continues beyond the Pyrenees for some, harbingers of the coming apocalypse for others. Once upon a time in this country, yet not so long ago, you were allowed to make an adult choice between syrupy American sweetness or a cold beer from vending machines on sweaty August cercanias platforms. People once trusted their neighbour’s craft rather than being handed down the definition of safe cheeses and wines by some tax collecting EU bureaucrat. Butane bottles cost less than a trip to Ibiza and we could boast of a truly public healthcare system second to none, not to mention of course, the audacity of a month’s vacation. Accountants weren’t needed to tally everyone’s consumption after those old-fashioned long lunches and people tended to bond with other people rather than dogs. Hurray for sameness, ‘regular’ schedules and someone telling me when to go to bed. Well, at least here in Caceres we still have the kids in uncomfortable shoes and doilies, and of course, the odd siesta in July.