Dawn

Dawn

Saturday, May 19, 2018

Thoughts from Galicia, Spain: 19.5.18



Spanish life is not always likeable but it is compellingly loveable. 
- Christopher Howse: A Pilgrim in Spain. 

If you've arrived here because of an interest in Galicia or Pontevedra, see my web pagehere.

Spain
  • El País has published a paean of praise to Spain and the Spanish from the British pianist James Rhodes. Click here for it in Spanish. Or see the (machine-translation) below. Being very happy living here, I agree with it as far as it goes. But it does represent only one side of a coin and is, therefore, more than a tad unbalanced. I doubt Vincent Werner would go along with all of it but it will certainly allow many Spaniards to preen themselves. And it will doubtless be much tweeted.
  • Incidentally . . . When I searched El País for this article under all the obvious words, all I got was No se han encontrado resultados. No idea why. Has it been withdrawn?
  • Remember that rugby match in which Spain claimed that they'd lost out on the world championship because of some Rumanian skulduggery? Well, it turns out that both Spain and Belgium – inter alia – were fielding illegitimate players and have now been disqualified. See the article below for details of this fiasco, and its bizarre consequences. You might have to read it twice if you really want to understand what's happened. 
Life in Spain
  • Come the warmer weather, come the bull-taunting events around Spain. Such as this one. It's hard to imagine they'll still be taking place in 50 years' time. 10??
  • Here's The Local with a list of 10 fascinating museums around Spain. As opposed to the 8 hidden museums in Madrid of March this year.
  • The largest of the Oasis class cruise ships can accommodate more than 6,000 passengers. Imagine the impact of 2 of these at once in the ports of, say, Cádiz or Malaga. Or even just one. Spring 2021 will see the launch of a 5th Oasis class ship and it will be even larger. As yet without a name, perhaps it should be called Excess. Though I can easily think of rather ruder names.
THE USA
  • Yet another school massacre, this time in Houston, with 9 pupils and 1 teacher left dead. So routine, it didn't even make page 1 in the UK papers. Cue more pro-NRA nonsense from Fart, I fear. Bullet-proof school uniforms, perhaps. So far, all we've had is his usual twitter banalities: This has been going on too long in our country. Too many years. Too many decades now. He might well have added. But I've no real idea how to stop it and certainly won't do anything about the conditions which produce these maniacs, nor their access to firearms of prodigious capability.
  • The Washington Post reports that, so far, 2018 has been deadlier for students at US schools than Americans in the military. There have been 29 deaths in 16 incidents at schools and 13 deaths of service members in seven incidents. So, American kids would be safer joining the armed forces when they reach 11 than going on to high school.
The UK
  • Apparently there's nothing happening there today except a royal wedding.
  • That TSB/Santander IT problem . . . I'm not sure it's been solved but yesterday's news was that other banks are reporting up to an 8-fold increase in the number of customers joining them from TSB, as droves of customers abandon the bank after its IT meltdown.
Galicia/Pontevedra
  • A temperature of 31 degrees yesterday. Too high for us Gallegos.
  • The one-chord guitarist has given up one even that. Last night, he was sitting on the floor, smoking, with his guitar leant against the wall and a cap on the floor in front of him. Empty, of course.
Duff Cooper
  • After mentioning, back in the 1920s, that his then fiancée was fond of injecting herself with morphine, he writes of a 'new drug' which she and her socialite friends are now into. It's not named, so I guess it was cocaine. Though later on DC writes of friends who are opium smokers.
  • Later on, in the 1930s, when his now wife was acting in a play in the USA, DC satisfies his needs with 2 mistresses in parallel. But no one spoke about this in public, so no rules broken. Hard, nay impossible, to believe his wife didn't know about these affairs. She later told her son that she hadn't been much interested in sex and that all DC's women had been only flowers, while she had been the trunk around which they flourished.
  • In the 1940s, DC has to act an intermediary between Churchill and de Gaulle each of whom had an an enormous ego and could be very difficult. One gets the impression that, on balance, DC felt that De Gaulle was the more difficult of the two. Though French historians probably disagree.
Finally . . .
  • A travel tip I forgot to mention: Buy a universal plastic plug. Spanish hotels (even 4 star ones), seem to have a problem with the theft of the original sink and bath plugs. Or deliberately remove them.
© David Colin Davies, Pontevedra: 19.5.18

THE ARTICLES

1. Debacle in European rugby sees Russia qualify for the World Cup

European Rugby has been left embarrassed after Romania, Spain and Belgium all fielded ineligible players in the Rugby Europe Championship. All three teams were deducted five competition points for each game that they had ineligible players on the field, regardless of the result. This meant that they each finished with negative points.

Georgia, which went through the competition undefeated, had already secured a place at next year’s Rugby World Cup. This meant that the next best team would gain direct qualification to the tournament, while third place would enter a playoff series with Samoa for a spot.

Romania, Spain and Belgium were the second, third and fourth ranked teams in the Championship. Their penalties meant that Russia, which only won two games in the tournament, moved into second place and claimed a spot in Japan. Germany, which finished last with no wins and zero competition points, took out third place and will play against Samoa.

This farce followed on from an earlier European rugby scandal in the game between Belgium and Spain. Romania was, at that point, in second place and needed Spain to win in order to guarantee them entry to the World Cup. The referee was a Romanian who allegedly penalised Belgium out of the game, effectively handing Spain the match.

World Rugby declined to intervene at this point, which infuriated the Belgians – and then Belgium discovered that Spain had used ineligible players in that match. They again tried to have the match overturned, and the International Rugby Board (IRB) decided to investigate. They found that Spain had indeed been fielding ineligible players throughout the tournament – but so had Belgium.

Romania was also caught up in the scandal, which meant that they lost their qualification spot and will miss the world cup for the first time ever. European rugby will be represented by Georgia and Russia along with the Six Nations teams, and Germany will enter for the first time if they can beat Samoa in a home and away playoff series (which they won’t).



2. The open letter from James Rhodes in El País.

"You may not believe me, but I'm not lying if I tell you that in Spain everything is better" 

I've never really understood the whole home thing. Okay, it's the place where you sleep and you're under cover, but other than that, the concept of home didn't make much sense to me. I guess I've spent half my life running away. Me or the disasters I've caused myself, as a rule. But nine months ago I stopped running. I settled in Madrid. I found a home. And I found out what it's like to have it.

It is one thing to know that Madrid that the Prado, the Thyssen and the Reina Sofía offer us. Escape at lunchtime to go to see the Guernica and then have a picnic at the Retiro, visit the Royal Palace and have a drink in the Plaza Mayor. But falling in love with the Cava Baja or the street of the Holy Spirit, which to you will seem most normal but which for me are full of magic, is another level.

Seeing people walking, so quiet (impossible in London), or waiting for the light to turn green (I've never seen it before). Count the number of couples that go hand in hand. Smile at the majesty of Serrano, where a jacket costs the same as a car. See an incredible play at El Pavón Teatro Kamikaze, chop up a few croquettes that can literally change your life at the Santerra restaurant, laugh at how good the croissants are at the Café Comercial, watch the professionals at Sálvame analyze Letizia's body language in front of an enthralled audience.

The differences between this country and the United Kingdom are countless. I am writing this sick, from bed, at two in the morning, after a three-day trip to the UK in which I caught the Brexit flu. When I arrived in Madrid, I called my health insurance. An hour later a doctor showed up at my house and prescribed antibiotics. Here I pay 35 euros a month for health insurance (it may seem like a luxury, but I need it for my past back operations). In London he paid 10 times more. And there the medical visits in your home cost about two hundred euros.

You may not believe me, but I'm not lying if I tell you that everything is better here. The trains, the subway, the taxi drivers, the very friendly strangers, the quiet rhythm of life, the amazing ability to insult each other (passing from mother to mother or from anyone's sexual activity, you resort to fish, asparagus and milk, an art worthy of Cervantes), the incredible language (you have fussy, scuffle, ñaca-ñaca, sob, left-handed or tiquismiquis, which could be my nickname). Your dictionary is the verbal equivalent of Chopin. I think it's guay de Paraguay the amount of heavy smokers here, telling all the doctors and moralistic assholes in Los Angeles to fuck off. The cordiality of living and letting live and the generosity are amazing. The Croquette of the Year Award. The respect that books, art, music inspire in you. The time you devote to family and rest. The things that matter.

Also impressive is the number of talented people called Javier (Bardem, Cámara, Calvo, Ambrossi, Manquillo, Del Pino, Marías, Perianes, Navarrete, among many others). Guess what I'm going to call my next child.

You invented the siesta, and yet you work more hours than almost any other country in Europe.

I have met strangers in the subway with whom I have ended up playing Beethoven, grandmothers who have made me toast and have told me about when they played the piano, psychiatric patients whose bravery has left me amazed, a boy who plays the piano much better than me at his age and whom I have been able to give some free lessons to. Even Slowly it sounds great in the subway at half past eight in the morning if it is touched by a smiling old man, and when I watch the other passengers I realize that it is a contagious smile. I have spent hours in the Carrefour de Peñalver overwhelmed by the colours, flavours, smells and freshness of everything (in London something like this is unthinkable), I have seen tomatoes the size of a football in the fruit shop on my street, I have received biscuits from some neighbours who, instead of complaining about the noise, ask me to play the piano a little more loudly. And I discovered natillas.

And I could go on for hours.

There's a lot of good stuff here, sometimes hidden. I have witnessed the extraordinary work done by organizations such as the Fundación Manantial, Save the Children, the Vicki Bernadet Foundation, Plan International and many others, large and small, capable of alleviating some of the pain in this world. And they don't ask for praise, prizes or acknowledgements.

Obviously, there are also problems. How could there not be? The frightening, offensive and inhumane laws that apply to sexual assaults (seen in the case of The Herd) that of course have to change. Drugs, destitution, human trafficking, abuse, cuts in health care, mental illness, economic problems. Corruption in power. Politicians (seriously: why don't we let Manuela Carmena, the super grandmother, take care of Spain for a few years and fix it?). The daily scourges and from time immemorial. However, all this has not made you insensitive, cold, unpleasant and closed as it has happened in so many countries, but it has made you open, it has brought to light a little bit of the purity and goodness that there is in the world, and, hell, how proud I am to be a tiny and lonely figure that wanders around this country amazed by its collective vitality.

This year, for work, I'm going to Ibiza, Sitges, Seville, Granada, the Costa Brava, Cuenca, Vigo, Vitoria, Zaragoza and many other incredible places. I've visited dozens of cities over the last two years. I am a foreigner, a guest, and as an Anglo-Saxon, I do not think I have the right to speak about politics, but what I can say is that in Barcelona, Gijón, Madrid, Santiago or Girona, everywhere, I have always found the same thing: affection, hospitality, smiles, generosity. There are also different gastronomies: the Valencian paella is the only real, obvious one, and the same goes for the churros in Madrid and the salmorejo in Andalusia. The best thing you can put in your mouth is in San Sebastian (well, maybe I'm messing around, so I'd better leave it alone). I have found different accents (Galicia, I'm sorry, but I don't understand a single word of what your inhabitants say, not even when I watch First Dates with subtitles; it's my fault, but they speak too fast), but behind every accent there was always a huge heart, dedication to work, hugs, tremendous hospitality.

I love this country. For me, it's at the top. Metaphorically and literally. Before, I never looked up; I walked with my eyes fixed on the sidewalk or my mobile phone. Here in Spain I look at everything with amazement. I look at you and your beauty blinds me. Now I'm looking up. Because I feel safe. And visible. And supported. And welcome back.

I was in London recently and I visited Billy, my psychiatrist. He told me that 10 years ago he doubted my survival. That even a year ago I wasn't quite sure, and rightly so. And that I've never looked as good as I do now. And you know what? I owe a lot to Spain.

Some will say that people treat me differently because of my relative success, the fact that I stay in nice hotels and dine in good restaurants. So let me finish with a memory.

A long time ago (too long), when I was very young, we spent our summers in Mallorca every year. In August we stayed for a couple of weeks in a shitty little apartment on the beach in Peguera. In my memory, that vacation is the safest, most perfect and incredible refuge of my childhood. It meant moving away from the war zone that was my life in London: violent, monochromatic, dominated by the rapes I suffered. For a brief period of time, when I was eight or nine years old, I was able to buy tobacco (a packet of Fortuna for a few pesetas), in the little shop on Pedro's beach. I was able to drink Rioja calentorro (thanks again, Pedro), contemplate the stars, swim in the sea, trick someone from time to time into inviting me to go water skiing, enjoy the sun. And, above all, enjoy the feeling of being safe, protected. 30 years later, you give me the same thing. And I can never express my gratitude to you for that.

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