800 Years of Wooden Crosses

The history books and monuments of Spain will tell you that the around the year 700 Muslims started to settle; mainly in the south Al-andaluz as it was called and as we know it now Andalusia. But what happened to them? Well you may come across statues, carvings, monuments of Santiago riding a horse with the heads of slain Muslims under the hooves. The Spanish  are contradictorily proud that it took 800 years to rid the country of the Muslims. But of course some of the best monuments in Toledo, Cordoba, and Granada are Muslim built.  Nowadays Toledo is know as the city of three cultures, Islamic, Jewish and Catholic as at one time they all lived this small ancient capital. Like all countries there has to be a dominate power and once the catholic lot got stuck in the Jews didn’t last long either.
So what you say, well until recently the catholic cross was to be found in all school classrooms, I have one in mine along with a picture of the King, By now I'm teaching in  the military academy in Toledo, apparently the law states that no other picture can be on the same wall as the King’s – I have a poster that reads ‘In the Monkey We Trust’ sarcasm is not often understood.

So to try and bring Spain in line with other European countries and the fact that in the 21st century not everyone is catholic and a wooden cross may offend especially vampires. Vox- pops were done in the street and the public approved and disapproved of the removal of the crosses. But one woman made me laugh I’ll paraphrase ‘I thinks it’s disgusting Spain has always been a catholic country’. This is just ignorance and tolerance doesn’t exist in Spain. For those of you that are wondering were the UK fits in with this, we told Rome to poke it around the same time Spain was kicking out the last Muslim. Henry VIII want to divorce one of his wives and the best way to do it was setting up the Church of England, so we have 500 years of development where other countries got weigh down by wooden crosses.

the KGB and El Greco

Any sock and sandal wearing blond, blued eyed foreigner, general holiday maker is a girri this is what the Spanish call us. Similar to the Isle of Wight,  the locals call all the tourists grockles. But the Spanish don’t stop there, the French The Gabachoes (the frogs), like the UK over the centuries the French and Spanish have fought; meaning a tag slightly more bitter, but a worse deal is anybody not from a northern European country or the States.
The Chinese are chinos (chinkies) the Chinese have many corner shops like the Pakistanis in the UK. Anyone from Romania or Russia is instantly branded as a criminal, basically organised crime is now dominated by eastern nationals that have a different ethic, steal and kill. The consequence of this is mistrust of any otherwise law abiding Romanians living in the neighbourhood.
Perhaps the worst deal are people from Morocco The moros. Because of the 800 year re-conquest they will never escape this disrespectful title. If you have any art history knowledge you may have heard of El Greco 17th century, a Greek painter that lived and worked in Spain for most of his life, But ask for him by his real name Domenikos Theodokopouls, you’ll receive the international shoulder shrug expression of ‘I don’t know’. Like any country prejudice and racism exist but perhaps the Spanish are rather less subtle in there dislikes.

I moved into a block of flats in a small northern city, going up in the lift just me and a Spanish couple in their 40s reluctantly said good morning I tried to be friendly talking about the weather, eventually the woman ask where I was from, I told her London, ‘Oh that’s all right then’ what a response as I’m sure she thought I was a Russian criminal. I have known a Scottish girl who was spat at because they presumed she was a Russian prostitute and all this from your friendly Pedro and Maria. 
I lived with a body builder from Ecuador, very friendly giant and softly spoken, when I met up with my friend Gonzalo I told him who I was living with and he reacted with the same mistrust as it I had said a member of the KGB. Truth is that the south American cousins though they speak the same language they get a rough time, lower pay and worse conditions doing the jobs that the Spanish don’t want to do. The construction boom meant there were a lot of building jobs and population increased by an artificial 5 million, people from Columbia, Venezuela, Peru, Honduras however once this bubble burst the dole queues shot up giving Spain the worst unemployment figures in Europe. The South Americans rank very low in the pecking order I feel rather privileged to come from a wealthy and modern country.
Although having said that being blond and having blue eyes means that no matter how good I can speak the language or understand the customs, to your average Spaniard I will always be 'el inglés'. I do have some very nice and educated Spanish friends who like most of us realise that this integration problem all over the world takes two to tango.

So here is a verbal dance:

One test of how I was progressing with my Spanish was loosening my rag. I often train in the gym especially in the winter, and yes the winters inland can be very cold. Using the work bench and dumbbells to begin my morning routine. The usual faces were there, the Romanian gym owner, shit house door, the Colombian plumber two shit house doors, Kiko Spanish Kick-boxer, these guys were chatty but we cracked on with our workouts. There was one wana-be kick-boxer there too I had seen this prick a few times doing his 1970 stretching and generally flapping about. So that morning he piped up a tell me to add more weight in a you don’t know what your doing tone. I just glared. The second and third comment came, I can’t remember what I said exactly but I let him have it in Spanish, this tosser then gave it the you’re not Spanish etc which I thought was rather rich as the dude that owned the place wasn’t Spanish either. So pal I told him in his language that unless he can speak another language that he should zip it. He grumbled on so I recalled a situation where and Irish friend had a row with a guy about driving and as soon as my mate gave him abuse in English the guy bottled it and sped off. I thought I’d try some of that so I strung together some fuck yous and fuck offs etc until the gym own had heard enough and dinged the bell. nobody won but it did feel great to test my Spanish language skills under pressure.

How to Sh*t yourself Thin

Snails. Baby garden size, they are kept in a bag alive for few weeks till they crap themselves clean. Frank from the veg shop had invited me over for a meal with family. His bent double six-thousand year old mother-in-law had been preparing the 'Caracoles' all day, soaking in vinegar then cooked and re-cooked, the sauce made. The table was laid out, bread, wine, salad – enough to keep us going. There was a meat smell coming from the kitchen, the shadow of the old bent woman and dark pots flicked in the background – I wasn't worried, Frank was a top sort and if he said they were good then I trusted him I had no reason not to. 

A large wok type dish with steaming snails was put in the middle of the table, I was shown how to dig the flesh out of the shell with a cocktail stick while not to pull out the guts at the end to nip that off with your thumb. Dip them in the garlic butter and get them in ya. They tasted like tiny cuts of beef, the garlic butter was a bit strong but that was ok, so I picked away that these critters alone with the rest on the family, Frank's kids loved them, Cruela stayed in the kitchen with the dark pots. Not much time passed and I started to feel a bit of a rumble. 

 

I was in the toilet on time, I did a bit of both from up top and down below, my holes were burning, what was happening inside, would I ever walk again, what if I had to get the lower hole sewn up and carry my shit in a bag 'cos I'd nuked my guts, arr-nother wave. I was in there for what felt like days, I wondered what was the record for self-cleansing. Frank called to see if I was ok? I stabilised myself and opened the door. 'I have to go home mate' Frank looked worried, he went to the kitchen and came back with some camomile tea. 'here take these and call me later, ok?'.

Two days later, I put my less pale face into the their shop as Frank had called a few times but I was in no state to answer. 'We though you might have died, they can be poisonous you know.' No shit! 'Thanks Frank, everyone else was ok, your boys, Nurea?' As always it's the newbe that has to suffer.

Shit your self thin, that is the answer, it's happening all over Europe, How?

Strong coffee in the morning, snails if you're brave enough, and lots of olive oil. It's very common all the coffee drinkers I have met take a dump a short while after their morning cup. Olive oil is also very good though much slower. The benefit of this oil is that as it passes through your system it picks up saturated fats and moves them along, stopping you getting clogged. So with a morning coffee and plenty of olive oil on your salad you can shit yourself into a super mode and if you don't like coffee, try the snails.

TV, blood, death and disaster The Pope & la Prensa Rosa

The pope died that year, not that it really meant anything to me, I mean in the UK we celebrate Christmas and have a long weekend off work at Easter but we know nothing about being Catholic – Spain however does, even though its 30 years after the death of Franco who was a well into it.
The modern Spain like Italy and southern Ireland takes it more seriously or better said it’s the norm to have a first communion when you’re 12ish. So you can imagine there might be more press about the old dude popping off. The TV channels here zoomed in on the open coffin to see the washed out face of a very old and very dead man – it was a shock. Atena 3 and Tele5 here are the blood thirstiest media I have ever seen, if there is a road accident you see the squidge marks up close if there has been a bombing in the middle-east you’ll see more that just the feet like you do back home.

On Roads 

To be honest I was actually quite afraid of driving in Spain. Back in the UK I had broken both legs in a motorcycle accent due to a high speed failed overtaking manoeuvre, I’d travel through the Egyptian desert by night in the back of a Lada with no lights and also survived, driven a lorry in Manhattan, but Spain worried me. As a pedestrian waiting at a crossing it is like waiting to get served in a bar that you’re not welcome. The traffic doesn’t stop, you have to step out in front of a moving vehicle make eye contact with the drive, wait for him to lock up the wheels and then cross. The women of course don’t stop. The point system has only recently been introduced along with speed cameras and prison sentences for drink driving so watching the daily news would be accents, muti-pile-ups an all number of shocking statistics that made any traveller without a death wish to take the train. Buses were also highly dangerous method of travel, constantly leaving the highway via the crash barrier so I limited my contact with these too. 

 

One Spanish friend, Paulo, has a joke with his mates where they mock the presenter of Tele5 news ‘Blood, Death and Destruction’ the classic opening lines to the lunchtime news. If we have the Sun, here it’s all done on the TV bit like America and it’s called the Prensa Rosa – hours and hours of junk, gossip, tripe and stupidity.