La Virgen de los Guiris

Welcoming the Virgen

In this week's Camino a Ítaca a look at one of the more hermetic aspects of Spanish culture. It's a facet that is impenetrable and somewhat incomprehensible for outsiders looking in to understand. Click over to read the original article published in el HOY in Spanish or read the English translation below. (PDF en castellano abajo)

There’s something bizarre, a bit ludicrous and perhaps even a touch sad about observing a Scottish immigrant to Spain vociferously defending delusional secessionist arguments about their adopted home in Catalonia on Twitter. The facility with which these holier-than-thou newcomers adopt the hoary tropes that the Catalan bourgeoisie use to maintain their power and status, or assimilate the half-truths repeated by thieving politicians to cover up their corruption, solely to appear integrated, is disconcerting to say the least.

Less alarming efforts by immigrants to go native and incorporate into the prevailing culture can be seen when we do things like adopt the local football club, change the way we dress, write for regional newspapers or become involved in local festivities. These are all undertaken in the protracted, convoluted process of adapting to a new place, acculturating and becoming a full-fledged member of society.

But while attempts to acclimatize come in many forms there remains one facet of Spanish society that is cut off from outsiders. It’s a barrier that persists as impenetrable, impervious and impassable: the cults of the Virgin.

Whether it’s Argeme, Castillo, Guadalupe, Montaña, Puerto, Soledad, or Valle, these metamorphized Matronae cults are the essence of local. They are quintessentially from the tierra and in some ways are the tierra. They are inextricably linked to stars, caves, trees, springs, rivers or rocks and are essentially the local representatives of a foreign creed born on another continent more than three thousand kilometers away.

And for someone who wasn’t born into the tradition, it remains entirely abstruse.

What are the worshippers worshipping? Is it the idea of the Virgin Mary, somehow beyond the image? Or are they, in a pre-Christian, idolatry way worshipping the statue itself, even if this is uncomfortably close to the worship of images expressly prohibited in the second of the ten commandments?

Marianist images like these seem to serve as telephone operators for the faithful with a direct line to a more distant divine. These Virgins are interlocuters that intercede and relay people’s prayers to God. They act as perceptible go-betweens with the Almighty while providing a convenient out when prayers aren’t answered. For those of us on the outside, the adoration of these charismatic mediators with the supernatural is recondite and obscure.

The power these Virgins perceive is equally perplexing to an incomer. Believers and non-believers alike proclaim to be followers and even the most ardent agnostic can claim to be devoted to their local deity.

This influence extends beyond the personal sphere too. Politicians of every stripe and color flock to their ceremonies and in places like Caceres, article 14 of the constitution is blithely ignored for a week as the image is presented with the baton of the city. In some cases, they are even granted the status of being mayors in perpetuity. However, dare to question the privilege these manifestations wield and the numinous meekness of the faithful quickly turns to ire at the mere mention of these incongruities.

I can only imagine if so much fervor and energy were spent defending our health services, securing non-flammable train service, quality education or clean ground water withoutlithium mines. The miracles we could produce. 

Socks with Sandals

In this week's Camino a Ítaca a look at an unusual fashion statement, complete with fearsome canines in tow. A Spanish comedian once said that the Spanish would rather give up a kidney before admiting they are wrong and there just might be a bit of truth to this. Click over to read the original version in Spanish in el HOY or read the English translation before. (PDF en castellano abajo)

Up the hill, two distinct, dangerous breeds of dogs ranged across the length and breadth of the wide sidewalk. Their unfastened muzzles audibly dragged along the ground as the one on the right left a trail of saliva streaming behind it. Both animals flanked their twenty-something owner, their leashes attached to the drawstring that barely held up his grey sweatpants, leaving his heavily tattooed arms free to use his phone and smoke.

Complete and utter pandemonium was just a stray cat away. The slightest tug from either of the muscular brutes would have caused an immediate cartoon-like scandal, bringing his pants down to his ankles faster than a house of cards in a hurricane. Sweatpants that just happened to be tucked into a pair of high white striped sports socks that led down to the most surprising accessory yet, a pair of bathroom-style flip flops. Effectively proving that it isn’t only guiris (foreigners) who opt for the socks and sandals fashion statement.

As he reached the gated entrance that leads to both the nursery and public schools, he untied the pedigrees from his pants and then hitched them to a lamppost. Only then did he loosely fit their muzzles over their powerful jaws.

The small groups of parents outside the gates awaiting the school bell uneasily edged away from the reach of their leashes, past the line of cars parked in the yellow no-parking zone and into the street with moving traffic.

The scene was almost comical in its absurdity. The dogs, the leashes, the muzzles, the cigarettes, the cars parked where they shouldn’t be, the parents waiting in traffic… yet no one, myself included, raised their voice in concern, no one said a word. No one complained.

I’ve often admired Spain’s laissez-faire attitude to social matters and towards what is socially acceptable. Rarely do you find people putting their nose directly in other people’s business, even if they profoundly disagree. Sure, they will comment and criticize the matter with others, but unlike some other countries, it’s not common to find someone directly confronting and criticizing someone that they do not know and much less in an individual capacity.

This reluctance is also perhaps due to the reaction that they might receive if and when they do venture to comment. On the few occasions that parents have mentioned that something like parking directly in front of the doors is prohibited, rather than offering an excuse or an apology, the infringer often goes vengefully on the attack instead of apologizing and meekly admitting their wrongdoing. On more than one occasion I have seen someone standing directly under a sign prohibiting parking, vehemently defending their ‘right’ to park where they please when they have to pick up their little one.

Pandemonium that day was averted. No small dogs or children were eaten, no stray cat appeared and the dog owner’s pants thankfully remained in place. After picking up his toddler and once again fastening the dogs to his waist, he parted the seas of families and went on his way between the illegally parked cars. Nothing happened.

That is until the day the stray cat does appear and something does.

The Procession of the Holy Ice Cream

Creepy Ice Cream

A precipitous ice cream stop in today's Camino a Ítaca. In Spain, often calendar dates have more sway and are more important than what is actually happening out on the streets. Click over to read the originally published article in Spanish in el HOY or read the English translation below. (PDF en castellano abajo)

The queue trailed out the ice cream shop, past a rather villainous looking statue of an ice cream cone, down the pedestrian street and into the square. Short sleeves and the odd tourist in shorts rubbed shoulders with puffer vests and jackets in the narrow lane. The relative coolness of the shade contrasted sharply with the sun’s warm glare that shone down on those sheltering under a shock of blooming trees at the far end of the line.

I was passing the crowd, when a little girl around four years old ran up to her mother with her jacket tied around her waist, and repeatedly pleaded, “Mommy, can I have an ice cream!” The entreating mother conferred with her eyes with the father in his puffer jacket across the crowd. “An ice cream!” he exclaimed, somewhat heedless of the growing queue and much to the dismay of the little girl, “whoever heard of having an ice cream in March?!”

His categorical response was reflected in the mirrored shutters of the closed up ice cream shop on the opposite side of the street. A casualty who also thought it was too early to be serving vanilla, chocolate and strawberry frozen treats.

I’ve always been intrigued by the near obsessive attention and importance placed on dates here in Spain, regardless of what is actually happening outside your window. The calendar year revolves more around saints and oracular processes like the shamanistic way of determining when Semana Santa falls, rather than the actual temperature. Even if spring thermometers creep into the thirties, it takes a brave nonconformist to break out the sandals before the socially acceptable time. Social conventions that are becoming even more atavistic with global warming and the earlier onsets of spring.

But the most incomprehensible date is the opening of the swimming pools.

The month of May can be scorching but the relief of a swimming pool remains a distant reality for most due to some arbitrary date set in the town hall.

It reminds me of an anecdote a friend of mine told me that happened while he was living in another country with deeply ingrained traditions, Japan.

In the land of the rising sun, like here, the swimming season doesn’t open until late June. That year, the month of May was unseasonably hot and he lived in a town in the north that had a wonderful lake. One day he could stand it no longer and decided to go for a swim.

In the heat of the afternoon, he went down to the lake, dove in and started to swim. While he was swimming a small crowd began to gather on the shore, astounded at what they were seeing. As this rather large, heavily bearded Caucasian man emerged from the waters, a noticeable gasp arose from the crowd.

Realizing the faux pas he had made, he opted to salute the gathering. “Fear not, despite my appearance am not a ghost and am simply a man who could not take the heat any longer.”

If the heat continues to rise in the coming weeks, I too may feel forced to commit a similar indiscretion. That, or at least my toes will.