Living Dangerously

Spaniards may be gradually adopting safer habits, but they're not going easily. Helmets on motorbikes: yes. Banning cellphone use while driving: yes. Giving up cigarettes: not so much. To wit: the strange behavior of cab drivers when it comes to seat belts.

I have never seen a cab driver wear a seatbelt while he is driving in the city. Maybe they think it would impede their ability to gesticulate wildly while discussing the important topics of the day (how Zapatero is flushing the country down the toilet; what went wrong with the Barça this year; ham).

Cabdrivers will, however, routinely buckle up as they pull out of the airport and onto the freeway. Probably there's a law requiring it. Sometimes they'll even check to make sure you've got yours on too. But then, as soon as they hit urban streets--that is, the very second they pull off the exit--off comes the seatbelt. As if they couldn't stand the crushing weight of restraint a moment longer. Because no one ever rammed into an oncoming car or rear-ended a parked vehicle on a city street.

Why it's the best restaurant in the world

I hope the few of you who get in to El Bulli this summer appreciate what you’re eating. I was in the kitchen at Adria’s famed restaurant on Saturday, and saw many fantastic things: cakes made without flour or eggs; mushroom broth turned into semi-solid spheres; snails escaping up the rim of the pot meant to cook them. But perhaps the most impressive sight was the first: right after the staff meeting, 25 young cooks, all in their chef’s whites, lined a center table and began peeling the tough outer shell from green pine nuts. Later, they would each go to their special tasks, but for the first hour, they slaved to free the tiny nuts—which would reappear in a pine dish as “caviar," about six to a plate.

Open Sundays

Leaving aside the convenience stores unfortunately known as "chinos," (which are roundly disparaged by Spaniards because their expanded hours tend to put the old fashioned mom-and-pops out of business. Roundly disparaged, that is, until said Spaniard needs a liter or beer or a box of cereal on Sunday. Then they're great. Viva yo.), there are only three kinds of shops open in Madrid on Sunday.

Bakeries, because no one should be expected to go a day without fresh bread. Florists, because you visit people on Sundays, and all the wine shops are closed so you can't bring them that. And book stores, because, well, I don't know why.

In the mood to spend money on a Sunday? All you can by are books, flowers, and cake. A perfect trifecta, I'd say.

Two steps forward...

After years of dispute over whether the extension of the metro to the new terminal at Barajas should be paid for by the national government or the regional government, after months of construction that indeed extended well beyond the opening of said new terminal, the new stations opened, as I learned when I recently flew back to Madrid. No longer is it necessary to take a surprisingly long busride to another terminal, and then a long hike to the metro station (from there, it still takes a long time to get home, but that is the way of airports). All for the good, except that amid all the hoopla about the new station, someone forgot to mention that it now costs an extra euro to board or disembark at the airport. And that to pay it, even if you have a metro pass, you have to stop and buy another ticket--coming and going. And that the charge applies to all the terminals, not just the old ones. Which, let´s face it, is just plain unfair.

Politically Correct in Andalusia

So I'm standing at the bar at Juan Peña in Córdoba, eating the best fried eggplant in the world and a delicious asparagus salmorejo, because all the tables are taken. And I'm surrounded by caballeros--those utterly recognizable Spanish men whose bellies stick out over the pants their wives pressed for them that morning and who are given to walking in the street with their hands clutched behind their back.

There is far too much eggplant, so I offer some to a caballero. He asks me if I'm on vacation, and when I say no, he asks what kind of work I do. When I tell him I'm a journalist, he asks if I'm a bullfight critic, a perfectly reasonable assumption since it is feria. I tell him no, but that I (truthfully we) did write a story once about a bullfighter. I couldn't remember his name. "He's French," I said, "and Muslim." The caballero turns to one of his buddies. "What's the name of that torero?" he asks. "You know, el moro."

Only in Spain is the word "Muslim" interchangeable with "Moor."

Eating seasonally

I pulled up to the cemetery on my way back to the molino the other day, and ran into José María, our contractor, with one of his Romanian assistants. At first I thought he had come to collect the bill for the tiling, but then I saw the bulging plastic bags he and Vlad were carrying. This being spring, I had of course noticed that the cemetery walls were, well, crawling with snails. But I hadn't realized that anybody else had noticed. Nor, to be honest, did I realize that these things I tried not to crunch underfoot on my daily walk with Levon were somebody else's lunch.

José María opened his bag somewhat sheepishly to show me his haul, as if he had been caught with his hand in someone else's cookie jar. What could I say, but buen provecho?

Why I Won't Be Voting for the IU

Not that I can vote here. But if I could, the fact that crews began setting up a stage for the IU (United Left party) campaign kickoff in the plaza outside our apartment at 4am, with much pounding and hammering, would make me think twice. And the fact that they hired what can only be described as a Spanish hair band—one whose guitars were screeching well into the night—to attract the youth vote would certainly give me pause. But then, a bit after midnight, Gaspar Llamazares and other party leaders got up on stage, held hands and swayed back an forth to their anthem, which I had hoped would be the Internationale, but sounded suspiciously like a Spanish version of "We are the World."

Stand by your woman

Back when the government decided to convert ETA member Iñaki de Juana's sentence to house arrest in order to save his life after a 4-month hunger strike, the PP claimed that the decision would lead to hundreds of other nefarious prisoners going on hunger strikes in order to get the same treatment. And what do you know, they were right. On Friday, one day after his beloved was arrested, Julián Muñoz, former waiter-turned-former-mayor, started a hunger strike. His motivation isn't clear, but we can imagine the noble cause for which he has jeapordized his very life. Just call him the Mahatma of Marbella

Stand by your man

Once, she was known as the widow of Spain. Isabel Pantoja, singer, (yes, of cancion española, how could you tell?) was married to Paquirri and pregnant with his child when the famous bullfighter died in the ring at Pozoblanco. She grieved, oh how she grieved. And then, many years later, her son grown into an overweight, balding teenager with no job, La Pantoja fell in love again.

So what if her new love, Julian Muñoz, was married? So what if he happened to be mayor of Marbella? There was no need to hide: she was in love. The two of them danced sevillanas together, held hands as they walked through the street, eventually moved in together. Apparently that's not all they did together.

Because when the police came to search Muñoz's house last spring as part of a corruption bust that would send the entire city government past and present of Marbella to prison, they found, oh, $50,000 in cash lying around. Julian has been in jail for the past year, and now, as of this morning, Isabel will join him there.

Today is the 70th anniversary of the bombing of Gernika. In remembrance, a piece that didn't make it into today's story:

Josefina Odriozola was 14 when the bombs rained down on her hometown. It was market day in Guernica, and she and her mother were selling cabbages. As the German planes released their cargo, devastating the Spanish Basque town and killing hundreds, the two ran home for safety, pulling the family burro behind them. They would spend the rest of the day hiding inside, listening to the explosions. "It was 70 years ago, but I remember every minute," says Odriozola.

On this, the 70th anniversary of one of the great atrocities of the twentieth century, Odriozola is not the only one remembering. The 1937 bombing of Guernica—among the earliest air attacks on a civilian population, and one carried out by German aviation at Franco's behest—was just one of the events in Spain's bloody civil war and 36-year dictatorship that, for decades, Spaniards didn't really talk about.

Old dog, new trick

On a hill not far from the Almudena, Levon has learned that if he lets the ball fall after I throw it to him, it rolls back to my feet. Thereby saving him the trouble of bringing it to me, and evening up the power dynamics in this game of catch we have.

Don't blame us

Sunday is botellón day in our neighborhood. Botellón: literally "big bottle"; figuratively: hang out in the streets with your friends and drink yourself silly. It must be a sign of my age, but I hate it--the drunken crowds who make it impossible to walk through the square, the ridiculous bongo players, the kids who set up tables to sell junk (okay, buttons and "jewelry") outside our door. So, every Sunday that I'm in Madrid, I call the police to complain.

During yesterday's conversation, I said, "This happens every Sunday. Is there anything I can do?" And the cop on the other end said, sighing, "We're trying." As if, somehow, the fact that thousands of people show up every Sunday to drink in the streets in flagrant disregard for the law, and, not coincidentally, to piss and vomit and leave trash everywhere was beyond their responsibility.

But speaking of the trash, if you get up early enough on Monday, you'll see it. Great swaths of rum bottles, and cartons of cheap wine, and crushed plastic liters of soda and the odd lemon slice. Then, the cleaning services come in and make it all disappear.

How To Improve Your Vocabulary

I learned the word for "ferret" this week. I got it by reading a handmade sign taped to a lamppost in the square where Levon likes to do his people-watching. As in: "Lost, hurona, white with black markings. Escaped over the balcony, may be injured."

Progressing, slowly

The newly-renovated kitchen of the cabaña, which, lacking only a paint job and some cleaning, will soon be available to rent.

Eating in Madrid: Sudestada

Even though I had read good things about Sudestada, I was skeptical. For one, because it is the second incarnation of a restaurant in Buenos Aires, and chains—no matter how small or international—make me nervous. For another, because the menu is all over the place, relatively speaking: Malaysian curry puffs, Singaporean dumplings. Kirin beer. But mostly because when it comes to Asian food (or Mexican, but that’s for another day), I wouldn’t trust a Spanish restaurant critic to know a good pad thai if it stood up and started shooting nam pla-flavored endorphins. Harsh, I know, but born of experience.

Though maybe it’s time to review my prejudices. Because Sudestada is great. It’s a small place, which meant we ended up eating at the bar because all of its eight or so tables were booked. And there’s zero décor. But the food is excellent: the Singapore dumplings light and flavorful; the Malaysian curry puff more samosa than anything else, but still delicious; the beef with peanuts glazed with a tangy sauce that had me licking my chopsticks. And for dessert, a dense coconut something—part cake, part pudding—that was achingly sweet, but irresistible. I can’t wait to go back.

Sudestada, Modesto Lafuente, 64; Tel. 915 334 154

Holy Arrivals, Holy Returns

Even now, Spain is a holy country. Today is Sábado Santo, Saturday of Holy Week. Yesterday was Holy Friday. Tomorrow is Easter, the holiest of the holy days in this holy week.

Last Sunday, many Spaniards walked the streets of their cities and towns carrying palms to initiate a week of welcomes for the country’s many saints, penitents, virgins, saviors.

Thirty years ago today, Spain gave a different, ambivalent welcome to a long-banished prodigal. On Sábado Santo in 1977, the Communist Party returned to the Spanish fold, legally recognized after four decades of enforced absence under Franco.

Communism’s official return to Spain heralded nothing so grand as eternal salvation, of course, and it surely distressed many Roman Catholics—then, still, the country’s national religion.

But this is a place where politics and faith have always had an intimate, if sometimes dangerous, relationship. And so it is perhaps fitting that the day marking the return of the “godless” was quickly christened Sábado Santo Rojo—Red Holy Saturday. Rhetorically, at least, Spain has never been much good at turning away a true believer.

As I was saying: Last night the news was filled with pictures of grown men sobbing helplessly, their capirotes clutched to their chest. Because of the rain, their processions couldn't go out.

In happier Semana Santa-related news, the town of Corleone (yes, that Corleone) has just allowed its nazarenos to once again wear their capirotes during their processions. It seems that not too long ago, all that face-covering enabled certain, shall we say, rivals, to get close to one another, with the expected violent results. But now, Corleone is ready to show that it has transcended the past. At least its recent past. Because those processions date, after all, to the time when Sicily was part of Spain.

Elegy

Is it my imagination, or do comings and goings happen faster in Madrid than elsewhere? I was walking around Chueca yesterday, and was moderately surprised to find that The Wok, which I'd swear I had eaten at just a couple of months ago, had metamorphasized into Original. No loss there, but still it was a bit of a surprise: white and beige instead of red and black, birch trunks growing from the floor instead of chopsticks on the table, and a menu whose main ingredients come sourced (partridge from Toledo, cheese from Extremadura) instead of invented by some poor Spaniard pretending to understand Asian food.

But the biggest shock was to see Taberna Carmencita, the old-fashioned bistro beloved by Lorca (and by me), transformed into an Italian restaurant. And not even Italian: Italo-Argentine. The tiles are still there in their astonishing voluptuousness, but what used to be squid in its ink and braised beef cheeks is now arugula pesto and empanadas. Worse, the exterior is as blue as it was once red. Look closely and you can still see the logo--Taberna Carmencita surrounded by a flowery border--etched in the door's glass.

Another Reason I Know I'm Not Spanish

It's Semana Santa, and you know what that means: posters of agonizing Virgins and Christs plastered to every shop window. There are a lot of things I've come to appreciate about Semana Santa: the dark, soul-stirring music, the devotion that the men (and women!) who carry the pasos through the crowded night, the solemnity of it all, the 10-day vacation. But the delight and adoration that images of these suffering...can I say it?...statues excites, well, let's just say it's another thing I still don't get.

Doh!

Not as bad as "Let them eat cake," but right up there. When Zapatero went on tv last night to answer questions live from ordinary Spaniards (a first for Spanish prime ministers), he made only one gaff. It was just an especially bad one. Asked what a cup of coffee costs by an otherwise not-very-coherent man intent on proving that the government was at fault for rising euro prices (note the cultural difference: in the US he would have been asked the price of a quart of milk), ZP made the mistake first of answering, and then of answering wrong: 80 cents. As someone who just yesterday paid 1.30 for a tiny shot of espresso, I knew he had just got himself into a mess of trouble. And sure enough, all the headlines today are gloating over the Socialist prime minister's clear estrangement from the people.

Still, thanks to a helpful survey provided by today's edition of El Mundo, it turns out that a cup of coffee does cost 80 cents--in the Congress of Deputies cafeteria.