Monday 28 March 2011

Day of Rest

Cádiz likes to play hard to get. Initially, she tried to keep me away from her. Turned her back on me, gazing at the glistening sea that surrounds her. I used every trick in the book, trying to soften her, to woo her with sweet nothings, to impress her with my perseverance. I failed miserably. In the end, only sheer cunning got me there. And when I had finally conquered her, she didn't want to let me go.

It started with the bridge. There is only one bridge connecting Cádiz, situated on the tip of a long and narrow peninsula, to mainland Spain. On my map the bridge and the road leading up to it were highlighted in red. For cyclists, red means: stay away, unless there is no alternative. So I examined the alternatives. There was one: a 27-kilometre detour, all motorway, around the Bahía de Cádiz.

The math was fairly simple. All troops to the bridge! However, finding the blasted thing proved somewhat problematic. I got lost in the backstreets of dreary Puerto Real. Fortunately, I ran into a mountainbiker. 'Ah, the bridge,' he said, his eyes turning slightly watery. 'Can't cross it on your bike. They made it cars-only a year or two ago.' I managed to suppress a little blasphemy. 'So what do I do?' I asked him. 'Swim?' 'There is another way,' he said. 'A gravel road that runs parallel to the railroad track, all the way around the Bahía de Cádiz. I'll show you how to get there.'

He was right about the gravel road. There it was, ready to carry me to the place where I wanted to spend a day of idleness. What took us by surprise was the bulldozer chewing away on big chunks of road surface. Cortado, a sign read. Closed. Instead of blaspheming I now lifted my eyes heavenward, trying to invoke the help of some kind of cyclists' deity. I think it worked, because at that very moment my little mountainbiker turned out to be a very resourceful little mountainbiker. 'Wait here,' he said, and pedalled off. As always when standing still, I immediately started munching on something. But before I had finished whatever it was I was eating, my two-wheeled guardian angel returned. 'Follow me,' he called from a distance.

He must have found a secret entrance, I thought as I tried to keep up with him. It turned out he had, but first we had to trespass someone's property and climb a low wall. Not funny, when your bicycle, with all the bags strapped to it, weighs as much as a grown woman. Alone again I set off, carefully slaloming the crater-like potholes.

Cádiz itself was pleasant enough. A maze of narrow alleys, limestone buildings crumbling under the influence of the salty sea-air, and laid-back people who can't be bothered with something as trivial as consonants. (Gaditanos refer to their town as Cá-i. Or something similar.)

Upon leaving Cádiz, I was greeted by the Levant. I had always thought of the Mistral and the Levant as pleasant phenomena: a welcome breeze after a scorching day, something that makes life in the arid parts of Europe just a bit more liveable. Little did I realise that the Levant is more like the hold-your-hat-where-are-the-children kind of wind. It would put any Dutch autumn storm to shame.

But Cádiz hadn't finished with me yet. All of a sudden I found that the work on my gravel road had spread like a nasty infection. Now really having no other option I ducked red-and-white tape, opened gates that were supposed to remain closed, crawled through a ditch, all the while smiling innocently at frowning roadworkers.

More than three hours later I found myself back in Puerto Real. Exhausted and feeling like a criminal. So much for a good old day of rest in a picturesque town...

Sunday 20 March 2011

Double-Parking

It puzzled me for a few days. A conundrum I couldn't solve, no matter how hard I tried. How on earth do they do that, I asked myself every time I left my flat in Seville. There it was, as clear as day: one side of the street lined with two parallel rows of neatly parked cars, bumpers almost touching. Double-parking done to perfection.

Now, it's all fine and dandy if your car is in the road-side row, I said to myself. But what if you park your car at the kerbstone, only to return a day later and find it jammed on all sides? What do you do? Ring the doorbells of the neighbouring apartment buildings? Take to the pavement, only to find your way blocked by a lamppost? Shrug your shoulders and make a dash for the bus? Sit down and cry?

Because I could never catch them at it the problem remained unsolved. Besides, it seemed I was the only one who cared. No old geezer shaking his head in disbelief. No rookie police officer feverishly calling for backup to bring a halt to this massive display of civil disobedience.

Sometimes you have to face the facts and admit that your mental capabilities are limited, if not stunted. I couldn't work it out myself, so I turned to one of my flatmates. 'It's very simple,' he said. 'When you double-park, you're supposed to leave the handbrake disengaged. Now, when somebody wants to pull out and your car is in the way, he just pushes it a few metres forward or backward. Carefully, you hope.' And damn if it isn't true, a few days later I chanced upon a live enactment of his words.

Sadly though, it's always the same with mysteries. Once you know the trick you quickly lose interest. I didn't bat an eyelid when I recently came across this pretty scene: cars parked in the middle of the road. A big fuck you to the local authorities, who prefer to waste funds on a futuristic vantage point smack-dab in the middle of the historical city centre? Or resourceful citizenship at its best?

Meanwhile, Seville's famous orange trees are involved in their own little act of double-parking. While last year's wrinkly oranges still colour the branches, frail blossoms start to appear, spreading the heady scent of spring. Slowly Seville is getting ready for its annual moment of glory, when thousands of tourists flock to the city to witness the Semana Santa processions and the Feria de Abril madness. But I won't be there to join them. I'm pulling out and riding off!

Saturday 12 March 2011

Pig Out

Happy pig in the Sierra del Norte (Andalusia)
Ah yes, the sweetness of being a black Iberian pig. What could be better than spending your days in the gently sloping hills of Extremadura or Andalusia, taking a siesta in a shady clump of bushes when the temperature rises, making strange barking sounds at passersby before toddling off to the next mouthful?

Because that's what it's all about in the life of a black Iberian pig—stuffing yourself. And how convenient that the thing you like best grows on trees spread across your meadow like polka dots on a summer dress. In fact, this gnarly type of tree, encina or holm oak, owes its very existence in this neck of the woods to you. You munch away on its acorns, and, a few years later, when the meat has been cured to perfection, people munch away on your hind legs. That's the deal. Of course, you won't find out about that until the man with the lorry comes to whisk you off to the slaughterhouse.

Jamón ibérico de bellota is to the Spaniard what caviar is to the Russian or foie gras to the Frenchman (albeit somewhat less controversial). Many people know how to appreciate this type of cured ham, few can afford it. Twenty euro buys you about 150 grams, enough for a bocadillo or two. But then we're talking about the prepackaged kind you find in supermarkets.

Not-so-happy pig being butchered by me
Making my way through Extremadura last November, I had the chance to try a few wafer-thin slices. Oh my… It reminded me of the time I had my first proper whisky—half a glass of something terribly old and terribly Scottish, for which I had to cough up an equally terrible amount of money. It was one of these eye-opening moments when you suddenly realise you have been fooled all along. So this is how it's supposed to be, you whisper to yourself. Of course, these experiences spoil you for the rest of your life. Going back to the cheap stuff is like being slapped across the face. Hard.

But the jamón. You'll just have to believe me when I tell you that you can actually taste the pig's strict acorn-only diet. Let's say there's a distinct nuttiness to the flavour. And let's forget that I actually ate an acorn to prove my point.

Wednesday 2 March 2011

Pirates and Astronauts

Anyone looking for a grammar book seeks to map uncharted territory. He's a pirate, an astronaut, a mad adventurer, ready to discover an entire universe. Nothing is more daring or rewarding than learning a language. It's a limitless, overwhelming undertaking, worthy of heroes. Like Adam in paradise you're about to give everything its name. Now you're here and hold this grammar in your hands, you're one of us. Thank you.

How about that for a 'Hello, Dear Reader'? This is the opening paragraph of the preface to Gramática Básica del Estudiante de Español, a grammar book that's proved to be a fine companion on my exploration of the terra incognita that is Spanish. Of course, like every serious grammar, the entire thing is written in the language you're trying to master, so it took me a while to figure out what the hell the authors were rambling on about.

Encouraging as it may seem, the preface paints a picture far more glamorous than anything I've experienced so far. Most of the time you feel like a toddler when you screw up your tenses again or say things like "Soy un poco enfermo" (I'm something of a lunatic) instead of "Estoy un poco enfermo" (I'm a bit under the weather). I've tried it, though, the 'mapping uncharted territory like a pirate' thing. In the classroom of the language institute, for instance. "Arrr, bring it on, matey! I'll slit yer throat! Takes more than a scurvy subjunctive clause fer me t' go havin' the Davies!" All it got me was a puzzled look from my teacher.

The language situation in Spain is rather straightforward. Unless you want to spend your time in splendid isolation, you're more or less forced to tackle the basics of Spanish. Because the fact of the matter is: no one seems to care a bit about English. As far as I can tell this has nothing to do with snobbery, as, some might argue, is the case in France. Many people speak a second language, often French or Italian. For others, Spanish comes after Catalan, Basque or Galician. But English remains problematic, even for youngsters. The question is: why? Lousy English teachers, as someone suggested? Of course, it doesn't help that everything on the telly gets dubbed, from films to sitcoms to soundbites on the news. Perhaps it's me, but somehow Los Vigilantes de la Playa doesn't sound half as sexy as Baywatch. And I had to blink a few times before I realised that people refer to a certain band from Ireland when they say 'oo-dos'.

However, all is not lost. A few weeks ago I came across a television channel called Aprende Inglés TV. I only needed five minutes to get hooked. Think of it as a grammar book with talking heads instead of pages. It deals with the intricacies of the English language in half a dozen formats: snappy conversation classes, twenty-minute in-depth explorations of various grammatical head-scratchers, a kids' corner with a guy in a crappy dog suit singing stuff like Hokey Pokey, and even a late-night talk show.

Now, this might not sound overly intriguing, but wait until you see some footage of Richard Vaughan, founder and anchorman of Aprende Inglés TV. Over the years, this middle-aged Texan has managed to build his own language-training empire here in Spain. Radio, TV, DVD's, books, websites, iPhone apps: you name it, it's out there. And no talk of pirates and astronauts with this guy. Richard Vaughan only believes in one thing. Well, three things, to be precise. Repetition, repetition, repetition. Which, in my case, leads to something close to hypnosis. But why not have a look yourself, as Richard explains the difference between 'this' and 'that'. Blimey, I wish they had this in Spanish, too…