Back to the Barricades

With relief I realized that I hadn’t been thrown back in time.

One morning early this week, as I looked out over the Plaza del Humilledero from our Madrid piso’ bedroom window, I was mildly startled: a hastily erected barricade covered part of an apartment building across the way — patrolled by what appeared to be one of Franco’s Nationalist soldiers.
 
Seeking enlightenment, I hastily dressed and descended to the street. Behind the news kiosk where I purchased a copy of El País, the Calle San Francisco, a busy thoroughfare one usually must cross with caution, seemed eerily desolate. Peering down the hill, I discovered why: the police had cordoned off the street and were attempting to manage a rather large gathering of onlookers.
 
Not one to avoid a mysterious episode of such public interest, I tucked my newspaper under my arm and made my way towards the crowd. There, at the corner of the plaza, beneath Spain’s national colors as well as the Falange’s yoke and arrows, a squadron of red-bereted soldiers had assembled.
 
I noticed a tangle of cables running around my feet, then saw the cameras, light stands, and sound equipment. Opening my paper, I saw the headline: “Nationalist troops enter Madrid again for the production of ‘The Thirteen Roses.’”
It seems my neighborhood, La Latina, was being dressed up to look 70 years younger for Emilio Martínez-Lázaro’s film about 13 girls executed by Franco in August of 1939—apparently with no real evidence—for their political ideas and alleged role in the assassination of a military officer.
I stuck around for a few minutes but didn’t see any shooting—of film or innocent girls—so I headed back up the street, leaving unfinished another episode from the Spanish Civil War.

ALMENDRO 

Yes, Manolete, There is a God

 
"It's going to be a 24-7, three-dimensional experience," said Trevor Horwell, chief hotels officer for Hard Rock International. "You're going to have moods happening within the rooms, vibes going on within the restaurant and another vibe in the bar."

Vibes within vibes. Just the thing for a hotel that used to house bullfighters like Manolete and their retinues before and after corridas at Las Ventas--a sixth-floor suite functioned as the dressing room where they would don their trajes de luces. Just what the Plaza de Santa Ana, one of the most delightful squares in Old Madrid, needed. The corporate lackies at Hard Rock International tried to pass off their transformation of the once-famous Reina Victoria Hotel as sophisticated. I guess that someone realized that perhaps mirrors etched with David Bowie lyrics and pillowcases decorated with Hendrix-style guitars fell a little short of hip.

But happy day, Hard Rock Hotel Madrid is not to be. The hotel's owner, the Tryp corporation, backed out of the partnership earlier this month. The reason, they said, was because the Hard Rock brand was about to be sold to another company. But I like this quote from Tryp's Dommunications Director. "No one really understood what being a Hard Rock Hotel meant." Least of all Manolete. 

Curioser and Curioser

The fires that have consumed large swaths of Galicia were put out last week, but the controversy over who started them—and why—blazes on. At first it was the odd woman found in the woods, matchbook in hand, then the town drunk, then a few out-of-work firefighters who were arrested. Now, there are more than 30 people behind bars—ages 17-70—but no one seems any closer to an answer.

Which hasn’t kept anyone from voicing suspicions. In addition to the reasons we discuss here, a lot of academic-types are floating the idea that the fires represent a form of social protest, with modernization (whatever that means) as the likely culprit. The 20,000 people who showed up in Santiago yesterday to protest against impunity for “incendiary terrorists” (and broke out their old “Nunca Mais” t-shirts for the occasion) suspect something else is up: a vast conspiracy of greedy developers eager for the land.

And then there are those who argue that there isn’t anything new going on here at all, just regular Gallegans solving their land claims and petty jealousies and village outrages the way they always have. Very Fuenteovejuna-esque. As one anonymous Guardia Civil told El Pais last week. “Galicia is a culture of fire.”

What Could Have Been

Like nearly every expat looking for change, we briefly toyed with the idea of opening an inn. Back before we bought the molino, we came very close to buying the Casona del Tilo, a big old Asturian farmhouse not far from Villaviciosa that two Spaniards had turned into a bed and breakfast.

We spent one night at the Casona, as sort of a trial run. The next morning, on our way out, we visited El Malain, a self-serve berry farm nearby where I eventually made myself sick from eating too many raspberries. The whole time we were there picking fruit, I fantasized about inn-keeping life, fantasies that mostly revolved around collecting fresh eggs daily from the chicken coop out back and making jam for our guests' breakfasts from the blackberries we could get at El Malain.

Eventually we remembered that innkeeping also involved a lot of dirty sheets and few days off, and that, more to the point, the Casona's price tag was several hundred thousand euros to the north of what we could afford. But I still have those homesteading impulses, which is why we spent the morning earlier this week back at El Malain filling far more boxes with berries than we could eat. Or at least with more than we could eat before mold overtook them--another lesson in keeping one's fantasies in proportion to one's reality.

Downbeat

Saturday we drove to San Martín de Luiña for its mercado vaqueiro, where each year the townspeople evoke their agricultural past in clothing and cuisine. We encountered a sly priest, who never strayed far from the stand selling home-brewed spirits, a couple of hapless guardia civil, and some roving minstrels. All were jolly except for a solitary drummer, who--no matter where we found him--never lost his scowl.

Invasion of the Blobs

It is no secret that Spain witnesses a mass exodus (or 'Operacion Salida', as the traffic cops call it) every August as most of the population leaves one place for another. Up in Asturias, we've watched with amazement as lines form at our tiny grocery store, and campers fill the parking lots. But of course most Spaniards head to the Mediterranean coast, the better to bake themselves on a beach during the day, and spend their nights drinking in tacky bars by night. Ah, vacation.

There is not much that could tempt us to visit Benidorm or its ilk in August. Between the traffic, the heat, and the hordes of British and German tourists toasting to a bright lobster red on the sand, I, for one, would just as soon forgo the vacation all together. And now, in case we needed it, we have one more reason to avoid the lemming-like trek to the sea.

New Shrooms

Asturias being an especially fertile place, things grow well here. Nonetheless, I was somewhat taken aback by the pair of mushrooms sprouting from the stone floor of the Cabaña (formerly the stable).

I suppose it's only fitting that this week we finally begin our renovation of the building, a thorough makeover that will include replacing the roof, rebuilding the rear wall, and laying down a new floor--beneath which will exist a drainage system to prevent moisture from settling.

The Cabaña's floors have been sweating since we purchased the property, making it largely uninhabitable as a guesthouse. We hope that in two months' time we'll be telling a different story.

Boared

Saturday morning I arose quite (in-the-dark) early so I could squeeze in a run with Levon on the San Pedro beach before the hordes of August vacationers descended (the arrival of this summer swarm of humanity has occasioned the appearance at San Pedro of several new "PERROS PROHIBIDOS"--"DOGS PROHIBITED"--signs, so these days I have to get in and out before anyone's the wiser).

As we drove up the steep incline from the Molino, and then sped along the road that winds through the forest and fields before reaching Oviñana, the nearby town, my scheme was thwarted--temporarily, at least.

Since taking over the Molino nearly two years ago, various locals had spoken of a jabalí, or wild boar, that stalked the woods surrounding our place in the nocturnal hours. We had never seen this creature, however, and so had thought little of the rumors. Today that changed.

Smugly anticipating the empty beach ahead, I was stopped short as the car's headlights caught not one, not two, not three, but four jabalí, walking leisurely in a pack along the road ahead.

The sight alone startled me and got Levon, who was sprawled sleepily across the back seat, up on all fours, hackles raised. But I was further astonished when the group turned and began--fearlessly, almost curiously--to approach the car.

As the jabalí surrounded us, I had visions of an ugly, sensational, and most unexpected demise. My instinct was to gun the engine and get past these brutes, but I didn't really want to run one over (both for fear of raising the ire of the others, and because I was technically outside the limits of the nearby hunting zone and would have no justification for my actions later, should I need it).

For a very long three minutes, I sat still, mostly listening as the beasts brushed along the front, sides, and back of the car, only occasionally glimpsing their raised dorsal bristles through the windows.

Finally, they reappeared as a group a few feet in front of the car and, as if following a practiced routine, turned as one and trotted off the road through a gap in the brush to the left.

After a brief pause, during which I thought with regret how I had nearly brought my camera to get a shot of the sun's first appearance at the beach, I put the car in gear, and we proceeded, still in darkness, to San Pedro.

Buskers

For years, it seemed, Madrid's street performers were confined to your run-of-the-mill accordionists and wistful travelling Germans strumming out slightly off-key Beatles songs. But now, every summer seems to bring a new addition. First it was the Thai massage people, who would congregate at the Plazas del Oriente and Mayor and corral weary tourists into sitting on a stool and getting their muscles rubbed. (You may not think of the massage as performance, but believe me, the sight of an overweight, sunburned, somewhat embarrassed American having her limbs pulled this way and that by a wiry Asian man is nothing if not a spectacle.)

Then came the living statutes. On this front, Madrid continues to lag far, far behind Barcelona, where the rivalry among performers who stand around in outrageous costumes (my favorite: a talking head nestled in a big pan of paella) is fierce. Not only are there fewer in Madrid, but they tend not to do much.



This summer's addition to the scene appears to be guys playing water glasses. In one afternoon I spotted two of them, each dressed in a white shirt and tie (because, after all, water-glass-playing is a formal business), each rubbing his finger around the rims of water glasses until they released the dulcet strains of, why yes, Hey Jude.

More Adventures in Spanish Medicine

I went to the doctor's last week and was directed down the hall to the waiting room. When I walked in, there were about six or seven people already sitting in the small room, male and female, most of them older. As I sat down, I felt a little uncomfortable, as if they were all looking at me expectantly. I couldn't figure out why until the next patient walked in. "Buenos dias," he said, as he took a chair. "Buenos dias," they all replied in unison. Same chorus with the next patient, and the next. Apparently I am the only one who doesn't know waiting room etiquette.

After I had to get in a taxi to go for a blood test (these are almost always done in separate labs, far from your doctor's office). "You haven't eaten anything, right?" asked the technician who took my blood. When I told her that no, I hadn't, she handed me a voucher for breakfast at the corner bar. Because no one should suffer the hardship of going more than a few hours without food in Spain.

Seeing: Cristina Garcia Rodero

For years, a book called Espana Oculta has sat on our coffee table in Oberlin, there even when we aren't. A collection of photographs by Cristina Garcia Rodero, it's always been one of my favorite art books, filled with gorgeous black and white pictures of widows in black and first communion girls in their wedding dresses, horsemen pulling off the heads of dangling chickens as they (the horsemen) gallop by, fierce demons jumping over newborns set in a line on their backs in the street. All the weird, fascinating rituals that make up Spanish popular religion, in other words. Through Garcia Rodero's lens they seem especially mysterious, even terrifying.



So it's interesting to see her latest work, which isn't about what goes on during festival days in small Spanish towns, but what goes on in the Nevada desert for a week each summer: Burning Man. The exhibition is part of this year's PhotoEspana extravaganza, and its subject--strangely dressed (or undressed), participating in a ritual of their own making--is just as fascinating. It's at the Juana de Aizpuru gallery until Monday.

Juana de Aizpuru Gallery, Barquillo 44

Taxi Driver - the sequel

The diversity of Spanish cab drivers may only be matched by their willingness to tutor you on whatever topic you bring with you into their vehicles.

Whereas the last taxista to earn a place on this blog had waxed long in the tradition of esoteric philosophical critics, the man shown above deserves notice for being an acute observer of contemporary popular culture.

At my mere mention of movies, this gregarious fellow, presuming that I was from the U.S. (a place he made clear he'd never visited), spent the entire half-hour ride not only affirming that Hollywood films offer an accurate portrayal of American society, but insisting that what such movies reveal is just how puritanical Americans really are.

Then proposing that Spain was more advanced in such matters, he proceeded to describe, in quivering detail, his favorite scenes from Spanish films in which Penélope Cruz disrobes.

I'm not taking issue with the man's views, and I certainly can't fault his passion, which seemed to prevent him from noticing (or caring) that he, alone, did all the talking--or that I snapped a picture of him at his pontifical best.

Why Politicians Need Image Consultants

Photographs involving Heads of State that provoke the question 'Whatever Were They Thinking?': the Monica-Clinton Beret Clinch; the Bush Assault on a German Chancellor's Shoulders, and now, Zapatero Dons the Kefiya. Given the expression on his face, I tend to think that he was just trying to fit in with all the cool kids at the International Socialist Youth Conference. But still.

Regardless of whether Zapatero's momentary predilection for ethnic wear was accidental or intentional, I found myself agreeing with the editorial in this morning's El Mundo that chastized him for not knowing better. In part because that little sartorial decision has only fueled the shrillness coming from the other side (e.g. "We demand to know why a ruling party in Europe, for the first time since the 1930s, has patronized an anti-semitic demonstration," said Eduardo Zaplana, PP spokesman, referring to Thursday's peace march). But mostly because when you start wearing one side's logo, you pretty much rule yourself out as a mediator. Unless, of course, Zapatero shows up to work tomorrow in a yalmulke.

Zapatero, Politics

No, I didn't try it

Just last week one of our editors requested anecdotes from all her correspondents for a story on international ice cream-eating habits. At the time, we couldn't come up with anything quirky or endearing that Spaniards did with their helados, (although there was a segment on the nightly news last year about its health benefits: "Ice Cream: As Good for You as Ham and Coffee"). But today, for the first time, I traveled to Valencia, where along with the fantastic modernist market (live eels, ostrich eggs, one stall selling nothing but different varieties of beans); the Plaza Redonda, where a dozen ladies sat tatting, their wooden spools clacking; the soaring Gothic interior of the old silk exchange; and other unexpected delights, I found Gelateria Llinares.

Gelateria Llinares has regular flavors (chocolate, vanilla, strawberry) and exotic flavors (papaya; blueberry cheesecake--or as it's known here, 'Philadelphia'). And then there is something else. Gazpacho ice cream, for example. Lentil ice cream. Tortilla de patatas ice cream. And my personal favorite, Mussels in Vinaigrette Ice Cream. All of them piped and swirled into attractive swirls, and garnished beautifully with key ingredients (a handful of raw lentils sprinkled like confetti on one; a black shell propped jauntily on another.)

Eating in Barcelona: Bubo

Earlier this year I noticed that the candle shop that used to be on the corner next to our first apartment in Barcelona had changed into a bakery. It was just as well; I never saw too many customers in the candle store, or, for that matter, too many candles (that's Barcelona minimalism for you).

In truth, 'bakery' doesn't seem like the right word for Bubo: there is no smell of yeast, no warm air coming off the ovens. What it does have, however, are gorgeous cakes--some of them individually sized, some of them not--all of them decorated and displayed like some kind of postmodern jewel. Sacher torte, vanilla cream wrapped in white chocolate, tiny lemon sablee tarts. Also: swirls of chocolate and pistachio turned into lollipops, and homemade sugared marshmallows, that to my mind (if not my mother's) taste like really good, papaya-flavored Peeps.

In the course of doing research on Bubo for this piece, I learned that the name comes either from 1)a children's word for "yummy" or 2)the abbeviation of bueno and bonito. I almost volunteered the information that in English, at least, bubo also refers to the boil-like extrusions caused by the plague, but thought better of it.

Bubo, 10 Carrer Caputxes; tel 93 268 7224

In the Kitchen

About this time a week ago, I was standing over a hot stove in a stifling kitchen, watching Carmen Barrios (above) prepare her trademark meatballs with squid. Carmen is one of the Cocineras de Sils (they used to be called The Grandmothers of Sils, but that was before a couple of 38-year-olds joined the group), a collective of about 100 women dedicated to preserving the traditional cooking of Catalonia. She is also the sort of woman who brings to mind the word "pistol."

When I met Carmen, she was cooking for The Cocineras' annual dinner. The Cocineras have published cookbooks, demonstrated how to prepare pollastre amb salsafins at the Hotel Ritz in Barcelona, received awards in Madrid, and appeared on television and radio with Arzak and Adria. But the dinner is what they most look forward to: the spiffed-up gym as dining hall, the adulatory speeches, the band with two female singers in matching dresses who complement their repertoire of pasodobles and foxtrots with synchronized dance moves. And of course, there's the food: 94 tortillas, 94 casseroles, and a whole lot of cake, all made by the Cocineras.

Carmen didn't waste any time. As soon as she saw me at the dinner, she marched up--recently coiffed hair bobbing, high heels clicking--and demanded in that machine-gun voice of hers, "Don't I look great?" Then she went off to ask the table that got her casserole if they didn't love her meatballs.

Back

Sorry about that. We went off to Guatemala with the best intentions of posting regularly from our backlog of ideas for wry observations on Spain. Somehow we never got around to it.

In the month that we've been gone, Catalans approved the Statute that will grant them more autonomy, Barcelona banned bullfighting, the Pope visited Valencia, (in the process giving Zapatero yet another chance to prove his Socialist creds by refusing to attend the Mass), and Spain startled everyone by actually winning games at the World Cup before reverting to its usual habit of inexplicable losses.

Closer to home, our normally deserted beach is packed with vacationers as half the country goes on its month-long holiday (the other half will arrive in August). A new, somewhat-better-than-Arbol grocery store opened 10 minutes away. And thanks to Geoff and his dad, our bedroom is looking a lot nicer.

Decentralized medicine

Geoff and I first got to know each other in a Red Cross hospital in Cordoba (a mutual friend had a sudden attack of appendicitis), so I've always had a soft spot for Spanish medicine. Especially the pharmacies, where the job is taken very seriously, and prescriptions are only occasionally necessary. Spanish pharmacists fulfill a role somewhat closer to doctors than they do in the US: often you can walk in, describe your symptoms, answer a few questions, and walk out with just the thing for what ails you. And in general, we've been delighted to learn that things like heavy-duty cough medicine with codeine (it's allergy season and the whole country is suffering from the highest pollen counts in the past 20 years) are ours just for the asking.

But I have to admit to being more shaken than pleased when we discovered that the way to secure the hepatitus vaccine we need for an upcoming trip was to go to the pharmacy and request it. For 25 euros, a pharmacist will hand over a loaded syringe, packed in ice so that you can get it safely (these are live viruses after all) home to your refrigerator. A Spanish pharmacist will not, however, no matter how much you beg, actually inject the vaccine for you. For that, you're left to your own devices ("Try the clinic," ours recommended. "Or you can do it yourself.") And while I appreciate the apparent trust in my medical capabilities, I couldn't help but wish on this one occasion for a little more oversight.

Death of a Diva

You can live in a country for years, you can start to think that you really get a culture, and then, blammo, something like this happens to remind you that, no, you are always and will always be a foreigner. Rocio Jurado, famed singer of that unpalatable sap known as cancion espanola died yesterday after a long battle with pancreatic cancer. If you happened to be in Madrid, you could have joined the 22,000 people who turned out to pay their respects as her body lay on display in the Centro cultural de la villa.

Cancion espanola singers tend to be of a type: buxom, leaning toward stocky and away from pretty (though you would think they all looked like Giselle Bundchen from the way they carry themselves). They marry bullfighters and have children who grow up to cause them heartache, and then, as if in middle-aged revenge, they adopt one or two more, usually from Latin American countries. They squeeze into flamenco dresses for their annual pilgrimage in honor a favored Virgin. They mount expensive comeback tours. They are regularly featured in the pages of Hola!. And when they die, their passing is greeted with the fervor that normally accompanies dead popes and dictators.

When Lola Flores, another cancion espanola singer--she also dabbled in flamenco and appeared in a number of films--died a little over a decade ago, her son was so overcome that he killed himself. And no one here, no one , thought to suggest that perhaps that response was a little extreme. So perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised yesterday that the morning news was completely--I mean, not one second devoted to anything else--given over to Rocio's death. Perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised that among those who paid their respects yesterday were the King himself and Pedro Almodovar, just back from Cannes. And I probably shouldn't have been surprised that her remains, already viewed by those tens of thousands in Madrid, are again on view this morning in Chipiona, her hometown. I shouldn't be surprised, but instead I keep wracking my brain for a corollary that will make sense of it all. Would Americans have this response to the passing of, say, Barry Manilow?

Rocio Jurado

Marking Time

On Monday I visited the plaza de toros in Alicante, where a crew is shooting part of a film about "Manolete"--perhaps Spain's most iconic torero, who died in 1947, shortly after a bull gored him in the groin on a hot summer afternoon in Linares' plaza de toros.

In the film, Alicante's bullring stands in for Linares' plaza, as the latter has become surrounded by tall, modern buildings that would make it difficult to shoot scenes depicting 1940s' Spain.

Alicante's ring was a study in contrasts, its bleachers draped with advertising banners and political symbols evoking a different era (including national flags bearing the yoke-and-arrows of the Spanish Falange, a group that provided crucial support for Francisco Franco before, during, and after the civil war (1936-1939) that brought the Generalísimo to power), its earthen floor smothered by the film crew's tractors, cranes, and dollies.

When I left the plaza in the evening, I headed directly to the airport, and as I awaited the departure of my flight to Madrid, I looked down at my feet and realized that anyone familiar with the world of bullfighting would, at a glance, know where I had spent my day.

The sand in Spanish bullrings is almost uniquely fine in texture and yellow in color, and my pants and sandals were covered with it.

I bent to brush off my feet, then thought better of it, wondering if Manolete's Spain and mine shared much beyond the sand underfoot.

Historic Preservation

One of the great charms of the molino is, of course, that it was a mill. An actual, functioning mill, complete with a massive, hulking millstone. A massive, hulking millstone in which shards of petrified corn husk--the precious sustenance of some hard-working Asturian peasant, indisputable evidence of some simpler, more bucolic life--can still be found. A massive, hulking millstone right where our kitchen table should go.

We have contemplated getting rid of the millstone ever since we bought the place because 1) it is way too big for the room it is in and 2) it leaves no space for a kitchen table. Yet we have lived with the millstone for all this time because 1) our albaniles assured us that it could not be removed without knocking out an exterior wall and 2) everyone who heard heard that we (okay, one of us) was considering removing the millstone reacted as if we had just casually suggested that the pages of a Gutenberg Bible might make good rolling papers. "Oh, but you can't do that," they would exclaim, aghast, yet condescending at the same time.

Well, we did. And before anyone calls in the goons from Patrimonio nacional, let me emphasize that the millstone has not been destroyed, just moved to the patio where it awaits reassembly.



After last year's summary rejection, Jose Maria has changed his mind. Today he showed up with the same crew as before (Calisto as jovial as ever, Borja having grown his hair so that he now looks vaguely like Fernando Alonso) plus an ill-tempered Eastern European who has apparently taken Borja's formerly abysmal spot on the totem pole. The four of them lifted the grinding stone out with little problem, but things got dicey when it came time to move the 500-kilo basin that holds the stone. They cut it from its cement moorings, and got it on a dolly, only to find that they could not then move the dolly. They tried putting down boards and rolling it out on crosswise logs, but that got them only as far as the front door. Eventually they tied a rope between it and the bumper of Calisto's truck, and with much pushing and pulling, got it across the patio.

Right now, there is a hole where the mill used to be. I like to think of it as the yawning chasm of progress.

The Burro

Most days, year round, as we come and go from the Molino, we pass by this friendly fellow, whom we refer to simply as “the burro.” His age is unknown, as is his vocation. Is he retired from pulling carts, literally put out to pasture? Or is he defective or lame in some way, unable to perform normal burro tasks? The burro seldom moves, mostly stands, occasionally lies down. Surrounded by flies, munching grass, enduring whatever the skies pour down on him, he is a notably solitary creature. Personifying him as we do, we fear he is lonely, tired, uncomfortable. But we hope we are wrong and that, in the way of burros, he is content.

Spadrille Eseason

It's espadrille season again (or as a sign I passed today, clearing shooting—if perhaps not very effectively—for the English-speaking market says: "Time for Spadrilles from Spain." Not far from our apartment, the crowds are again gathering around what I think must be Madrid's most popular footwear store, Casa Hernanz. I wrote about the shop about a year ago, but what were in my opinion the best parts got cut out. So I thought I'd print the original here:

Around the first of May last year, long lines began forming outside a little shop just off Madrid’s Plaza Mayor. I had walked past it for months but never really noticed the place before: a non-descript awning reading “Casa Hernanz” and a pair of smudged display windows were the only signs of commerce. But now, suddenly, an ever-present trail of people led out from the door. Morning and night, every day but Sunday, lines snaked around the corner. What were they after? Was this a secret outlet for U2 tickets? Was someone handing out free hams?

Casa Hernanz, it turns out, makes espadrilles. A thousand stores in the city sell these homely, rope-soled shoes, but there is only one Casa Hernanz, where the long wooden counter dates to the nineteenth century and the shoes are made by hand. Come summer—a season which, according to local fashion norms, calls for rope-soled footwear—it is the place for madrileños to buy their authentic espadrilles.

The Hernanz family has been in business for five generations. Today, brothers Jesus and Antonio still make the basic kind of espadrille—two pieces of sturdy cotton sewn to a flat hemp sole—by hand, although they have improved on the original model by gluing a piece of rubber to the sole in order to make the shoe more durable. They also make truly traditional pairs—Jesus calls them “artisanal” –whose soles are unadorned and which are sewn with hemp instead of cotton.

Lightweight and inexpensive (at Casa Hernanz, a basic pair costs about $5.70, and the artisanal $19.50), espadrilles used to be footwear for peasants and laborers, but these days, they are more likely to be worn at home as a kind of warm-weather slipper. They’re not confined to indoors, however. “They’re very popular among young people who wear them to nightclubs,” says Jesus. “And you see them more and more on the street. They’re much better than those horrible plastic things.”

Even the humble espadrille, then, is subject to the whims of fashion. These days the Hernanzes also sell factory-made espadrilles in a variety of styles: some, called “valencianas,” tie around the ankle, others have wedge heels and pointed toes. “When I was young,” says Jesus, “there were only three models and maybe five colors available. But today they come in suede, silk, leather and you can get them to look like any other shoe.” The Hernanzes will even custom-make espadrilles in a fabric of the client’s choice.

But it is the basic espadrille for which those lines of people wait. Once inside the store, they line up at a counter squeezed between bolts of cloth. They state a size and a color, and Jesus or Antonio searches the floor to ceiling cases behind, where the sizes are handwritten directly on the shelves, for the proper pair. Only first-timers—foreigners, mostly—retreat to the small bench tucked near the entryway to try on the shoes. For everyone else, there is no need: this is an annual purchase, like suntan lotion or (heaven forbid) flip-flops.

Casa Hernanz, located at Calle Toledo, 18, is open Monday-Friday from 9am-1:30 pm and 4:30-7:30pm, Saturdays from 9am-1:30pm. Tel: 91 366 5450

And those Hubbel dolls will pay for your kid's college education

Last week, 350,000 Spaniards learned they may have lost their life savings when it came to light that two companies that were supposed to be investing their money in valuable postal stamps were actually operating big 'ol pyramid schemes.

Here's what we have to say about it.

Castellers

Spent one evening last week at castellers practice in Barcelona, and decided on the spot that of all the symbols of Catalan identity (the sardana, the striped flag, the Barça), those precarious towers of men are by far my favorite.

The first thing I realized upon entering the gym-like (polished cement floor, bleachers, smell of sweaty socks) space, is that they're not all men. Women, it turns out, make for perfect upper tiers. Children are on top, and they scramble up the adults like monkeys.

I learned a lot of things. That a bandana tied around the waist, for example, makes a good foothold. That the music that accompanies any tower-building display has signals in it that tell the guys on the bottom when the kid on top is ready to come down. That teams of castellers do not compete against other teams, but that the local papers rank them anyway. And that some people think castellers got their start in the Middle Ages, as a means of seeing what was going down on the other side of the castle walls. But that, says Toni, head of the Barcelona castellers, is the romantic version.

Viva el

Taxi drivers the world over are a curious group, and Spanish cabbies are no exception. I learned many years ago that most taxistas are more than happy to engage you on virtually any topic, and generally they are friendly, even if they disagree with you.

One of the first drivers I met here, in fact, became a devoted friend despite our differing political views when, after he told me that he played on a local baseball team (not a common sport in Spain, and one with little proper equipment), I had my soon-to-visit dad bring him a Louisville Slugger -- he nearly wept with joy.

Several years later I discovered that I could charm most taxistas if I simply mentioned how well one could eat in Spain. No driver has ever challenged this, and I recall leaving one literally gurgling, Pavlov-style, in his own saliva, as I mentioned, one by one, a few of the cheeses, hams, and wines to be enjoyed in this country.

Riding from the airport to my apartment in Madrid the other night, however, I encountered a taxi driver who genuinely confounded me. Bald, elderly, and seemingly mild-mannered, he was silent during most of the ride.

But when we hit a traffic jam entering the Plaza Santa Ana, things began to go awry. We were stuck for only fifteen minutes or so, consigned to observing the tides of chatting Spaniards that passed by on their evening walks, yet this incident somehow ignited my driver, who, without warning, exploded into a diatribe against "the masses," the media, and the mindlessness of contemporary Spaniards that went uninterrupted (it was uninterruptable, really) for the duration of our journey.

I was at first merely surprised by the outburst. Soon, however, I was flabbergasted, for the longer he held forth, the more complex and theoretically formidable became his rant. As he backed his claims by carefully quoting Marx, Hegel, Adorno (above), and an array of other political philosophers, I sunk lower and lower -- in my seat, and in amazement.

By the time we reached my apartment, it was all I could do to timidly offer him a handful of Euros and slink quietly from the cab. Hours later, I was still in shock -- NOT that a taxi driver would sound off, but that he could do it so eruditely as to plunge me into the kind of intellectual submission I haven't felt since graduate school.

We interrupt this blog...

for a technical note. For some time now, we've been meaning to mention that, um, there are two of us here. But it all seemed far too complicated until a helpful reader mentioned that things were getting a wee bit confusing.
So from now on, we'll use different nicknames to sign our posts: Almendro (him) and Almendra (her). And since you asked, yes, we split our time between Madrid and Asturias

Viva yo

Spaniards have a talent for groups. They are delightfully social creatures--able to talk to anyone about anything, and never happier than when surrounded by crowds of other Spaniards all jabbering away. They learn this skill at a young age--a British acquaintance of mine describes with mild amusement watching his children's daycare teachers chastise them for spending too much time on their own.

But they are also inveterate rule-breakers. They may enjoy spending time with other people, but Spaniards never think that the those same people's rules apply to them.

I was reminded of it twice on the same day last week. First, I went to the post office to pick up a certified letter. I stood there alone for the first 20 minutes or so--even though the post office was 'open,' it was also 3pm, right in the middle of lunch time--and when the guy finally showed up, he asked for my passport. I didn't have it with me, but offered my driver's license and credit cards as ID. He insisted that I needed my passport. I started to to recite the number, which I'd memorized. One more time, he told me he needed the passport. And yet all the while, he was filling out the form that showed receipt of the letter. "You always need your passport for mail from the municipal government," he said, handing me the letter. "Hasta luego."

A few hours later I was shopping at a department store. I brought a bunch of clothes into the dressing room, but the attendant stopped me, saying "That's too many." I asked how many I was allowed to take in. She started counting and said, again, "That's too many." I made a gesture like I would leave some with her, if she would just tell me how many I could take in. She said, one more time, in case I had missed it, "That's too many." And then she handed me the chit, and ushered me to the dressing room.

A Tad Late, the Heat Arrives

Yesterday Nacho, our good-hearted but somewhat-scattered electrician, and his brains-of-the-operation mother, Encarnación, pulled up to the Molino around 9 a.m. and announced they had with them the two heaters we’d ordered (and that Nacho had promised to install) months ago -- during the winter. A great procrastinator myself, and in generally good spirits, I welcomed them in to execute a task they assured me would be finished within a few hours.

Two days (and couple of housecleanings)later, the Molino boasted its first-ever built-in heating system, complete with two two new outlets -- one tucked into the corner of the kitchen on the main floor, the other greeting you at the top of the stairs to the second floor -- and a thermostat on the living room wall. Now if we're cold, we simply reach up, turn a dial, and warm the entire house.

We can only imagine how much we'll enjoy this next winter.

Closet to Hell

This week I began what I thought would be a simple and brief project: paint the closet in the Molino's master bedroom. It seemed a good way to do a test run with the new paint we bought (a color in the "Kenya" family at the store here) while spending relatively little time.

Monday afternoon, with enthusiasm and false hopes, I began scraped the walls, ripped out the old wall hooks, fixtures, etc., spackled and mortared the cracks and holes. At this point things seemed dandy, and it occurred to me that, since I was all set up, it would be logical to paint the inner closet too (in addition to the walk-in area I'd just prepared).

With boldness and a vain sense of heroism, I began by tackling the upper part of the inner closet -- a moldy area that we’ve never used and that has been the ugly repository for only items we neither want nor use. I began to scrape, and the trouble began. This closet sits in the corner of the house and apparently it has, over the years, absorbed a great deal of moisture. Unsurprisingly, everything I touched fell apart, rotten. This didn't make me happy, but I pressed on, figuring I could scrape away the decayed material and get to the bare wall, which would be easy to paint.

But the more I scraped, the further I penetrated a world of mold that appeared to have no end. Soon, the closet area as well as the adjoining bedroom were filled with a storm of pungent, grayish-brown mold dust whose eye swirled around my head. I kept scraping, and it kept getting worse. I feared I’d not stop until I hit the roof.

I finally donned my painting mask, something that I -- now quite lightheaded -- should have done much earlier, and bore down. A couple of miserable hours later, I felt as though I'd been dipped in putrid cocoa powder. (Indeed, in my feeble condition, my mind flashed to a television show I’d been watching, "House," in which a fabulously misanthropic and brilliant diagnostic physician, Gregory House, solves complexly mysterious cases while abusing his underlings. Each episode is, in effect, a new mystery, a physiological crime to be solved. The patients' maladies are bizarre and often harsh, in my mind’s eye I imagined myself as one of those unlucky patients -- the mold dust entering my airwaves, traveling to my lungs, into my blood stream, straight to my brain. I decided to stop watching the show until I'd finished this particular task.)

Soon I had to resign myself to the fact that before painting this part of the closet, I’d need to do a bit of carpentry. Exhausted, angered, and not feeling terribly well, I did my best to remove the piles of detritus from the upper closet, and called it a day.

This story, unfortunately, will be continued....

Another Saturday, another protest

Actually there were six yesterday, and that's just in Madrid. The biggest was in the Plaza Mayor where thousands (5,000? 12,000? The process of counting demonstration participants is an art in Spain that, despite its clearly stated formulae, produces wildly divergent results) of Guardia Civil called on Zapatero to fulfill his campaign promise and de-militarize their organization.

A lot of ink has been spilled about this country's astonishly rapid social and political changes. Just the other day a friend and I were reminiscing about the fact that when we started coming to Spain in the 80's, the toilet paper had the consistency of crepe paper and was, for reasons I never discovered, usually mauve in color. And of course there are more serious changes as well, the things that long-time visitors say they never thought they'd see: gay marriage, domestic violence courts, trains that run on time, bare midriffs.

Yesterday's protest ranks right up there. Long before Franco came to power, the Guardia Civil, with their signature patent-leather hats, were a feared mechanism of state control; under Franco, they were nothing short of an instrument of state-sponsored terror. For however many thousands of them to be demanding that, effectively, they be stripped of certain kinds of power (admittedly in exchange for others: demilitarization means that they'll be able to form associations and join unions), well, that's an astonishing thing indeed.

NOW PLAYING IN OVIÑANA...

...Splendor in the Grass.

The Señoras de Almendro

Though in our Madrid apartment we are five stories off the ground, living far above the active life of the streets below (I often think of the apartment as a tree-house), we are but a few meters from our fifth-floor neighbors in the buildings across the street in any direction. Our windows — one in the bedroom, two in the living room, one in the dining area, and one in the kitchen — have afforded a number of interesting visual encounters with people familiar by sight but anonymous in every other way. From the two windows — one in my bedroom, one in the living room — on the west wall of our apartment, I am often looking directly at two elderly women, sisters I have always assumed, who regularly watch what is taking place in the Plaza San Andrés below. Something about their timing (always in the morning), their manner of dress (bathrobes, housecoats), their way of standing (bent forward, arms resting on the window bar), their gaze (left, right, straight down, up into the air), and their facial expressions (frowns of disapproval, mostly, with occasional smiles of recognition or eyes widened in surprise), has made these two neighbors more interesting to me than the others. They served as a barometer of sorts for what was happening in the neighborhood, and from watching them I could tell when there was misbehavior in the plaza, when a construction project was too loud or bothersome, when a wedding at the church (held most Saturday evenings) had let out, or when street musicians were particularly good or bad.

One day over a year ago, I took some pictures of these two women, who almost always appear together. I never thought about photographing them again until a few nights ago when, during the height of Semana Santa, one sister appeared alone, late in the day, all dressed up. At first I didn’t recognize her, and I realized that I had never seen her or her sister in anything but informal morning attire. Given the rarity of such an appearance, I quickly grabbed my camera and took another picture. Holy Week has a remarkable effect on Spaniards of all ages and affiliations; they’re suddenly well-scrubbed, dressed up, and somehow more reverent in their never-ending street parties. From now on I shall think of Semana Santa as the quiet holiday, for the movement and noise below is noticeably more restrained than the hustle and din of virtually all other fiestas (most weekends during the late spring, summer, and early fall).

I’ve always felt that the figure of a Señora on a balcony in Spain is somehow mythical, more than a woman merely standing at a window. They are a town’s observers, a neighborhood’s eyewitnesses. Last week, watching one of my own señoras, I think I began to see a little differently too.

Eating in Madrid: Cañas y Barro

There are a few basic rules for finding a decent paella that, if you are a foreigner, you learn only through harsh experience (I suspect that for many Spaniards, these rules are innate, like their ability to keep all the soccer leagues straight).

Rule #1: No matter what its bearer may call it, nothing that anyone ever brought to a potluck in Boston, or Ann Arbor, or, say, Oberlin, Ohio, is remotely close to real paella.

Rule #2: Never eat paella on a menu del dia--it's been made ahead. Same goes for those massive paellas on display at tourist restaurants along Echegaray and most every paseo maritimo on the Costa del Sol. You only want paellas that are made to order. And for that, you usually need to eat in an arroceria

Rule #3: Purists will tell you that paella should only have rabbit, snails, and those massive beans called garrofa in it. But in truth, most combinations are pretty tasty. Chicken and chorizo; shellfish and chicken; vegetables and squid--they're all good. The only exception to this rule are those vegetarian restaurants where they start getting funky on you with the verduras. Carrots do not belong in a paella. Ditto for broccoli, yellow squash, and tofu.

Rule #4: The best paellas, the ones that will stick with you longest in memory, are cooked over an open fire on a dia de campo with friends.

I'm frequently asked where to get a good paella in Madrid. And, since I assume the asker is willing to ignore rule #4 for the moment, my answer is usually Cañas y Barro. It's a small place, decorated in a romantic style whose excesses border on the ridiculous, but the rices, including the authentic (rabbit, snails, garrafo) paella, are expertly made and thoroughly delicious.

I found it the first time when I was working in the municipal archives at Conde Duque. That day, I was on my own for lunch, and since I am a bigger fan of paella than Geoff is, I decided to take advantage of my solitude for a little rice. It was a risk, since some restaurants require a minimum of 2 people per arroz. And I was the only person in there, which made me a little nervous. But the menu assured me they made rices for one, the waiter was solicitous, and the bright yellow dish of aioli he brought to start things off was reassuringly valenciano. And indeed, the shellfish paella that finally emerged from the kitchen was the best I'd ever tasted. Admittedly, I've never been to Valencia. But trust me, it was good.

For the longest time I thought that Cañas y Barro was my personal discovery, mostly because the place was always empty or near-empty when I was there. I've since been proven wrong by the CNN bureau chief. But he also turned me on to the restaurant's zucchini and bacon appetizer, so I can't hold it against him.

Cañas y Barro, Amaniel 23, Tel. 915 424798

Madrid restaurants

A Good Birth

Yesterday, Spain rather quietly marked the 75th anniversary of the declaration of the Second Republic. There’s been some controversy about whether and/or how to celebrate this day. Those favoring celebration tend to fall farther left on the political spectrum, are not admirers of Franco and his dictatorship, and are content that the right-leaning Popular Party lost the national elections in 2004. Those who resist or outright oppose any celebration are largely more conservative, have (at least in private) mixed feelings about Franco and his legacy, and are not supporters of current Prime Minister Zapatero, who speaks often of his grandfather, a Republican who was killed by Franco’s Nationalists during the civil war (1936-1939) that followed the collapse of the Republic. In any case, I have spent much of one of my careers—a college professor—studying and writing about things related to the Republic and the civil war, and so yesterday's events interested me. I was traveling from Madrid to Asturias and didn’t get much news, but I did read that the head of the United Left party was attending a Republican flag-raising in Grado, not far from here. But it seems that the Republic’s banner was raised in just one other Spanish town. And Zapatero’s governing Socialist party appears to be making conciliatory gestures towards the PP on legislation that makes this the “Year of Historical Memory.” Editorials have appeared all week, both praising the Republic for its achievements and even pointing to it as the precursor of today’s democratic state, and criticizing the Republic for its many errors while suggesting that those who remember it fondly are given to nostalgic fantasy. How to make peace with the past? That's a never-ending question. All things considered, the Republic's anniversary seemed a bit understated. I'm not particularly sad about this, but I will tell you that the first time I saw a photograph that for me has come to symbolize the birth of the Republic—delirious throngs of people flowing through the Puerta del Sol on April 14th, 1931, as a brazen few hoist the new government’s banner, all enshrouded in an inexplicable mist--I was moved.

Drink From the Cup

It's Wednesday of Semana Santa. In our Madrid neighborhood, people are getting ready for the four days of religious celebration that begin in earnest tomorrow and continue through the weekend. From my fifth floor window, I observe the San Andrés church, lit up by the sun, lying back against an azure sky, ready for the days of worship. I descend to the street and, upon leaving our building, notice that the preparations have begun. During this Holy Week, no one will go thirsty.




Holidays, Semana Santa

Connected

A dear friend from college and two of her three adorable children have been visiting, and in all the excitement, I forgot to mention the most important news. I was sitting at the Cafe de las Vistillas two weeks ago, having just dropped off said friend and children for a jetlag-induced nap. I was feeling pretty happy because 1)it was such a beautiful, warm day that even the normally surly waiters at the overpriced Cafe de las Vistillas were in a good mood and 2)although no one official would tell me where they were, I had just managed to track down some of the recently transported undocumented immigrants at a homeless shelter near the Royal Palace (not that it mattered in the end, since most of what we wrote was abandoned in favor of reporting from Mauritania).

So I was sitting there on this beautiful day, looking at the still snow-capped mountains in the distance and drinking my agua con gas, when my phone rang. It was Geoff, and he was giggling. "I just sent you an email," he said. It took me a few seconds before I realized he was calling from the molino. And then I began to giggle too. Because although it took buying a cheap PC and temporarily abandoning our lifelong devotion to Macs, we do indeed, finally, have internet at the mill.

There is No Foot Kissing

That, roughly translated, is the note attached in boldface capital letters to the Good Friday procession schedule issued by the Archdiocese of Madrid: NO HAY BESAPIES. Semana Santa has its serious side (see below), but there are also, at least to this outsider, some thoroughly comic moments. The image of anyone attempting to prevent hordes of se~noras from kissing the feet of a Jesus statue is just one of them.

My first introduction to Semana Santa came, properly, in Andalusia, home to all forms of religious excess. There, I experienced the peculiar shock that Americans feel when they first witness the cofrades in their modified KKK garb. I giggled as the crowds shouted piropos at passing statues of the Virgin: ay, que guapa estas!. And, I have to admit, I felt something strange and mysterious at night, when drums fill the air, the streets glow with candlelight, and a single voice pierced the dark with a saeta.

In Madrid, Semana Santa is somewhat different. A couple of years ago, my parents and I caught one procession in which the cofrades wore not the ordinary robes and pointed hoods, but some kind of 18th-century military garb. It was the strangest thing: there were the drums, the candles, the same ladies in their mantillas, and in the middle, a bunch of guys dressed up like Paul Revere. It lacked, shall we say, something of the spooky mystery you get in a place like Cordoba or Sevilla. But then, I doubt that those cities prohibit foot kissing either.

Holidays, Semana Santa

Who's Kant?

It’s Semana Santa in Spain, and this year I am struck by the way that Spaniards seem to live closer to the ground, their spirits, minds, and bodies more fluidly part of an overall scheme. Traditionally, that scheme is Catholic. Friday was “Viernes de Dolores” [“Friday of pains”), today is “Domingo de Ramos” (“Sunday of branches," of Palm Sunday). People, mostly men, are carrying large, heavy Virgins through the streets of cities and towns across the country. Many children are still named José María or María Jesús. Rituals of devotion to the body of Christ. On a more mundane level, people here simply like their bodies and their bodily pleasures. Spaniards gather in bodies, they eat and drink to fill their bodies and sate their desires, they dance with a holy (or unholy?) passion, their beaches are filled with topless women (of all ages and appearances). I think that they are just not terribly self-conscious about their bodies. This makes me both more comfortable with my physical self and appearance (I care little about what I wear when I leave the house, especially up here in Asturias) and more aware that I am an outsider, not a Spaniard. The mind/body split? I’m not sure what it means here, or that it means much at all.

Holidays, Semana Santa

Elbow grease and a bright flash

After a couple of 70-hour weeks of painting and cleaning (plus a few furniture acquisitions), we've made habitable--even welcoming--the two bedrooms on the Molino's third floor. This inspires us, since these rooms--damp, dingy, peeling, dirty, and very, very, moldy--were among the spaces we generally avoided during the last year. As may be evident, both rooms have taken on distinct personalities and are currently the quarters of friends visiting from the U.S. The "blue room" faces the stone courtyard, while the "green room" looks over the many things growing behind the Molino. Without a wide-angle lens, I can offer only photographs that present incomplete views of the rooms (though Levon can be seen lying sleepily on the floor to the left in the green room). On the other hand, the flash makes it difficult to detect our limitations as painters.

Weather or not...

Asturias’ weather is mercurial--like a god who seems angry but is actually playful. Sunshine, clouds, wind, and rain all come and go on a moment's notice. The sky looks different every single night. This morning Levon and I ran along San Pedro Beach in the pouring rain. The sky was a swirling gray, the ocean dark green and violent. Just a narrow strip of sand was visible between the grasping waves and the rocky shore. By the time we arrived back at the Molino, drenched, the rain had stopped. Throughout the day, clouds, rain, and glimpses of sun have appeared and fled again. A temperamental world here, but never boring.

Corruption

Marisol Yagüe became the third Marbella mayor in a row to receive a jail sentence for corruption on Wednesday when police showed up at her home (she had taken time off from work to recover from weekend liposuction) to arrest her. And she wasn’t alone: across town, officials at city hall were told to step away from their keyboards as police evacuated the building to search for evidence. Eventually they arrested an additional 21 people, including the lieutenant mayor and the city’s advisor on urban growth, and froze some 2.4 billion euros in assets. The latest detentions brings the number of Marbella’s top officials investigated to 14 (out of a total of 27).

Unrestrained construction has a history in this Costa del Sol resort town of making politicians unwarrantedly rich. Ever since Jesús Gil, shady real estate magnate and flamboyant owner of the Atlético Madrid football team, became mayor in 1991, developers have operated with impunity, secure in the knowledge that building licenses can be theirs if they’re willing to line a few official pockets. In fact, 30,000 out of Marbella’s 80,000 homes are illegal. And although Yague herself was ordered by the regional government of Andalusia to review the questionable licenses granted by her two predecessors, the mayor— an ardent disciple of Gil—has repeatedly avoided taking any action.

The investigation into city hall’s latest shenanigans began in November 2005, when wiretaps in a money laundering investigation—this one directed against local businessmen and lawyers—produced evidence that implicated the mayor and her cohort. Last week, the regional government of Andalusia stripped the Marbella government of its oversight powers over real estate development, and today, Zapatero's Council of Ministers met to decide whether to simply dissolve the entire municipal government. With local elections just 14 months away, it’s anyone’s guess whether this latest exposure of wrong-doing will be enough to break Marbella's long tradition of corruption. Disgusted citizens have been marching through Marbella to protest their government’s greed. But they did that in 1999, too, and seven years later, graft remains as much a part of the Marbella scene as tummy tucks and year-round tans.

Why am I so interested in this tawdry story? Because in college, I dated Marisol Yagüe's brother. Who knows what riches could have been mine had I stuck with that relationship?

Vanguardias rusas

I haven't quite figured out the relationship between the Thyssen Museum and the Fundación Caja Madrid, but whatever it is, I like it. They've been co-sponsoring shows for awhile now, spreading the goods between the new Thyssen space and the Fundacíon's small gallery in front of the Convento de las Descalzas. Right now, they've got an impressive show on Russian vanguard going on. I haven't made it to the Thyssen, but last night, in between finally seeing 'Capote" and buying 2 pounds of good coffee at El Mexicano and 2 boxes of vacuum bags at our hardward store (both items hard to come by in Asturias), I rushed through the show at the Fundacion.

And left it, as always, quite taken with the place. It's small--just two rooms—but I like the intimacy, and the fact that you're not beating back hordes from the walls. It's free. And the Thyssen doesn't hog all the good stuff for itself; there was a Malevich series, and some Rodchenko, and a reproduction of that great monument to the III International. Go see--it's there until May 16th.

Terms of Endearment II

I'm not the first person to delight in her counter's ability to deduce which search terms bring readers to her blog. But I've noticed that the most common referral lately is from people googling "spanish" and "terms of endearment", and that most of those doing the looking come from countries where Spanish is not the first language. Which has me imagining hundreds (okay, dozens) of people throughout the world searching for the sweet words to whisper in their Hispanic beloved's ear.

So, in the interest of public service, a few to help you along the way: media naranja (literally, "half-orange", or other half); rey/reina de mi alma ("king/queen of my soul">, and my all-time favorite, the simple but effective mi vida("my life"), which can also be adorably abbreviated to mivi.