New Year's Revolutions

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’s hard to tell which Americanisms will get adopted in foreign lands and I suppose it’s even more difficult to predict just how these foreign trends will morph as they become fixed in the host culture. Unfortunately, these days it seems that my old neighbor to the south is exporting less Thomas Jefferson and more baggy pants and Miley Cirus. Even things that don’t necessarily originate in the good 'ol US of A often get rebranded in Hollywood and are exported via the latest blockbuster. A perfect example is Santa. The popular myth that Coca Cola turned the monk from Turkey red still holds fast with many but the influence the Americans have had on the figure the Dutch call Sinterklaas can’t be denied. Spanish cabalgatas de reyes (xmas parades) are far from being under threat but the fat man’s presence here in Spain grows every year. I’m always amazed at how easily Santa and the semi-autochthonous Reyes Magos coexist together in the minds of the great majority of Spanish children, but I suppose when you are getting presents from two sources, why ask questions? One holiday tradition that is particularly popular in the Anglo-Saxon world and that hasn’t really taken root here in Spain is the insistence on making New Year’s resolutions every year and then shouting them out to everyone who will listen. I guess I have seen some of the Spanish press taking AP lines and adapting them to the local market but they never really venture deeper than quitting smoking and improving your English. Reflection, while seemingly unpopular amongst the political class here, isn’t a bad thing and at times it can help when trying gain a clearer perspective on things to come...when bread and circuses no longer cut it. A new year lay ahead of us after more than half a decade of very hard times. There’s talk of brotes verdes (green shoots) but on the streets where I live and work, I only see the rain that continues to fall in Extremdura. It’s time to ask questions, and not about the provenance of Balthazar and crew nor whether Saint Nicolas is a CIA plot. Tough questions that uncover answers to why we’ve fallen so far need to be asked and a little more investigation into the who. Here’s to hoping the new year brings to Spain a little more Greenwald and Woodward and a little less American Idol.

Stale Bread Before its 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.

My father-in-law, a wise and decent man from a small village in the northwestern corner of Extremadura called San Martin de Trevejo, tells a tale from years ago, climbing the mountains that surround his village. 

It was early in the morning and they walked into a bar to pick up some bread to go with the homemade chorizo they were carrying with them. The barmaid was happy to serve them coffee but told them that there was no bread because it was still in bed. This seemed a bit odd but his brother-in-law, who was never short of words quickly retorted, ‘well tell it to get up’! 

This was obviously years ago when life was perhaps simpler and people, and the bread they ate, got more rest. Here in Extremadura, you invariably sit down to wonderful foods dripping in divine sauces that beg to be swept clean from your plate but when you look around for the appropriate tool for the job, you almost always find the most uninspiring companion. Festering in the basket next to you, you find a supposedly wheat-based product boasting the visual appeal of a bleached sock that dusts your palate like a spoonful of dry bread crumbs. 

Dress them up as Italian chapatas, sprinkle them with a bit of flour and call them 'rusticos', or even claim they have been fired with loving care in a wood stove in a quaint nearby village, but the end result is always the same, the gastronomic equivalent of elevator music. 

A recent tour through France reminded me of what bread can be. The Gaul’s have started a movement to reintroduce ‘real’ bread, golden, crusty loaves that retain their aroma when cool and whose crusts beg to be enjoyed rather than amputated and thrown to the dogs. Lovely yet, irregularly shaped pieces of art that, when opened, reveal uneven cavities made to order to clean your dish. And in true French style, this tradition has even been enshrined by law. 

But there’s no need even to travel so far, in neighboring Portugal, which lies about 100kms away, they have a popular refrain, 'Only in Hell is soup served without bread' and by bread they mean something that accompanies the dish rather than the disguised cracker sold as pan de pueblo all over this region. In a city that takes its rest seriously, regulating noise limits during the summer siesta hours, even today, perhaps it’s time to not only stop musicians from keeping up the neighbours but also insist that our daily bread gets some rest too. 

Spanish Time Zones

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.

One of my first memories of Spain is how time felt completely different here than it did anywhere else I had ever been. During my first few visits I remember feeling like I was always an hour or two ahead and it couldn’t have been the jetlag because most of the times we had just come from France or Belgium. True, this was almost twenty years ago while I was touring with a band from New York City called Little Mike and the Tornadoes. I can remember being thrown off by the late dinners and starting concerts around midnight whereas we would normally start around nine or ten in the United States and would have probably eaten two hours before stepping on stage. I recall getting a few hours sleep and getting up early to explore the streets and wondering where everyone was at nine and then being confused when they disappeared again at two. That was a long time ago and now my stomach doesn’t start to rumble til two and my wife complains that I eat dinner later than most Spaniards on holidays do. It now no longer seems strange to me to say buenos dias at 1pm and buenas tardes at 9pm and I definitely think twice before calling someone at 4pm (siesta?) but there are still times when I feel an hour or two off. That is until this recent time change. The other day when the clock fell back, it seemed to slide into place. True, my two and a half year old daughter hasn’t recognized the change and is now getting up at seven rather than eight but when we step outside, the light seems just right for going to school on a brisk autumn morning. One thing I am sure of, tomorrow night, two decades later, I’ll step back on stage at 11.30 here in Caceres with my old New York friend and I’m sure it will feel like time hasn’t gone by at all.

Pay as you Pick Trust in the Okanagan Valley, BC

Your automatic gut reaction is to peep over your shoulder and think, 'Okay, where are the cameras?' But out here on these lush green hills rising up from the deep blue of Skaha Lake, the only CCTV eyes trained on you are those of the sleepy horse shading under the leafy cherry trees. During the summer all along this bucolic valley near Okanagan Falls that stretches more than 90 miles, crowded supermarket aisles and churlish check outs are replaced with self-serve fruit stands complete with colorfully painted honesty boxes. The produce is fresh and in season, you pay for what you take, and the only carbon footprints are those you leave in the dust. As for trust, surely they haven't taught the horse to count, have they?

#unusual #lakes #market #summer #roadtrip #valley #farm #roadside #fruit #food #produce #farmersmarket #rural #cheap #countryside #quirky #fruits #hills #fresh #offbeat #trust #painted #verdant #tasty #artsy #stand #fruitstand #honesty #veggies #self-serve

Originally published on Trazzler

The views from the Alcazaba de Reina

The Sierra Morena wrinkles behind off into Andalusia while the patchwork plains of Badajoz merge with the sky in front. Depending on your perspective, this is either the beginning or end of Extremadura. The Romans would arrive at this crossroads (complete with amphitheater entertainment, good luck finding it open) while trying to catch a ride to either Merida or Cordoba. Centuries later, when the Muslim armies came storming northward, they knew a good thing when they saw it and built an enormous adobe castle to keep the sometimes unruly locals from their nasty habit of rebellion. Though an ocher shell of what it used to be, just the fact that you can see the castle from more than 20 miles away makes the detour worthwhile.

#archaeology #architecture #history #mountains #plains #views #historic #roadtrip #farms #castle #roadside #getaway #ruins #muslim #castles #romans #war #detour #offthebeatenpath #remote #forts #hills #amphitheater #crossroads #andalusia #moorish #rebellion #ancientrome #panoramic #battles #islamic #muslimspain #battlesites #conquest #sierramorena #muslims

Originally published on Trazzler

Do Booze Border Runs Still Exist?

What's the difference between an A and an O? Cross the border at Oroville and see how a thin line can change more than just the spelling of a valley. North of the 49th parallel in the Okanagan lies a string of some of Canada's premier tourist resort cities. Canadians migrate here every summer to enjoy the sun and sand in one of the warmest areas of the country. To the south, in the Okanogan, you suddenly find yourself in a quiet corner of the United States where fruit trees outnumber people ten to one. Canadians no longer flock across the border for cheap booze and tobacco due to stricter controls and higher cigarette prices, but some real Mexican food, followed by a visit to a real roadhouse in an old gas station just across the line, still makes the border guard's grilling well worth the effort.

#bar #valley #roadhouse #escape #getaway #fruit #quiet #isolated #food #rural #resorts #border #secluded #countryside #offthebeatenpath #authentic #remote #mexicanfood #orchards #localculture

Originally published on Trazzler

Ironman in Penticton B.C

The last Sunday in August sees Penticton pretty much shut down as even the geese flock to Lakeshore and Main Street to watch the thousands of competitors in this grueling event that turns everyday muscle into metal. The alchemy in question is in fact a punishing triathlon that includes a 3.8 km (2.4 mile ) swim, 180 km (112 mile) bike race, and finally, a full marathon of 42 km (26.2 miles), clearly brutal enough to make the transformation. If the ancient science of turning flab into flat isn't your thing, volunteering is a great way to get up close and personal to those who do. Remember to book early as the fowl may have a place to stay but if you don't plan ahead, your only place to sleep may be on the beach with them.

#festival #outdoors #nature #race #competition #triathlon #ironman #event #running #august

Originally published on Trazzler

Fire and Water

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 remember watching with amazement, and not just a little discomfort, as the young men in pointy shoes leapt through the air over the huge bonfire. One slight misstep or worse, one glass of vodka too many, would have meant a trip to the one and only hospital in the city. It was spring and my neighbours were gathered in the warm night air in the courtyard of our flat in Baku, Azerbaijan. They were celebrating Noruz, a spring festival shared throughout the region. When I questioned them about what they were doing, they told me that they were following the dictates of their religion and placing wishes as they jumped. True, Islam had only recently been reintroduced to the area after the fall of the Soviet empire, but I don’t recall anything about fire jumps in the Koran, let alone vodka. No matter the case, spring is welcomed with open arms around the globe and is always a time of renewal. Even in tropical countries, the equinox is greeted with the washing of temples and your neighbours dousing you with water when you leave the house. A rather difficult proposition when I was walking to work in Laos but at times a welcome relief from the suffocating heat of the end of the dry season. Here in Extremadura it’s the carpet of green rolling out under a limpid, clear blue sky. Dehesas spotted with wildflowers and migrating birds, and of course the deep thud of the processional Easter drums. However, this year both processions and blue sky were rarer than spotting the elusive black stork. The whitewash in my patio has turned a golf green and there are flowing rivers where I once rode my bike. I tremble every time it rains when I think of the UNESCO age of my rickety roof and can only guess where the next leak is going to spring. If this rain doesn’t stop soon I’m going to have to adopt the Azeri way and jump over a few flames and be thankful that the hospital is nearby.

Enter At Your Own Risk

Time ago I took a walk through the many castle ruins that scatter the hilltops of Extremadura, Spain. Where the pictures the paper chose to accompany the piece came from? Well...mine are of Caceres and the bull. I can't say I know who the other people are? Click over to the piece in the Khaleej Times.

Gone but not Forgotten

I've been writing for a Spanish paper for the past while and haven't put up any posts because...well...the articles are in Spanish! To make matters worse for blogging, the pieces only appear in the print section or the pay section online. As soon as I can get ahold of some of the material, I'll put it up.
'Til then...still lots to see 'round here!

What's the Secret Password?

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 tell my North American friends that I live inside a castle and I suppose that I’m not technically lying, though I suppose fortress would be closer to the truth. My house is across a narrow lane from those crumbling walls that the Romans built so long ago that encircle the old town of Caceres. Ochre coloured earthen barriers that once proved extremely problematic to attacking armies and now prove to be the same for urban planners. As recently as the the 19th century, politicians of the day decided to knock down a stretch of the wall near the Plaza del Socorro in order to 'let the bad winds out' (and no, it's not some sort of proveb), not to mention to enable one of their benefactors to build a huge palace along the wall.

The more things change, the more they stay they same it seems. 

Thanks to that brilliant bit of early urban planning, evil winds and just slightly less evil cars now have four ways in and out of the UNESCO core and if you aren’t a taxi, one way in and two out. Gone are the days of sentries at the gates, now bollardoes stand guard and decide who comes in and who doesn’t. I once watched as a fire truck sat and waited for the police to open the old city to them. I have since found out that every emergency vehicle has a card to let them in, but that day it must have been left in another pair of pants. But this is the problem, who can come in and when. Understandably, the town hall has passed a law mandating that deliveries can only be made in the morning. A good policy for the bars, offices and government buildings that are found in the old city, but what about the people who actually live here? In a country with just under 6 million unemployed, there are still people who do work and contrary to what some believe, not all are civil servants who fit the black legend profile and can leave work to do the shopping or wait at home for their latest Amazon order without fear. The newly appointed commission to better the Old Town's problems rightly worries about the state of the wall and the ways to pretty it up at night, but before doing so, maybe we need to make it a little easier for those who do live inside this fortress before they, like the 19th century evil winds, are forced to move out.