If You're Skeered, Say So

1 April, 2014

Without trying to be antagonistic or patronizing, I believe that the USA has shifted considerably in the last two or three decades. I don't pretend to know why, nor do I have any answers. I am just making anecdotal observations from afar.

Let's take a look at the year 1980:

• Ronald Reagan was President.
• The enemy was the U.S.S.R.
• Cartoons were on Saturday mornings.
• Space Shuttle Columbia was preparing for an April 12, 1981 liftoff.
• We were between Rocky II and Rocky III.
  
• Nobody locked their doors.

How about the 90's?

I remember coming home from college one weekend and standing, bewildered, at the back door of my home. The door was locked, and I didn't know what to do. I had never encountered a locked door at my house in my entire life. The year was 1992. I knew Linda and Louis would be home, so I went to their house and ate dinner, while waiting for my parents to return home. Something was changing in my world.

The 2000's?

Susan and I finished building our house in 1997. Her family lived in a gated community, behind locked doors, safeguarded by an alarm system. Susan would attach the "Club" to her steering wheel when pumping gas.

We needed to reach a detente about the front door. Our compromise was that the door would remain locked at all times, but I was free to tell everyone that the key was ingeniously hidden under the ceramic rabbit right beside the door. Every night before I went to sleep, I would check all the doors in the house and close the garage for the night. We lived in Pinehurst, North Carolina, home of golf retirees and Special Forces soldiers.  Why did I need to lock the doors?

Now?

Everybody in my family back in South Carolina and most of my friends in Pinehurst, NC tote at least one weapon at all times. Don't get me wrong. Where I come from, gun control means you have a steady hand. I believe in the right to bear arms, and to use them, if needed. What disturbs me, however, is the culture of fear that seems to be permeating our society. We always believed in the right, but never thought we would need to exercise it. Somehow a boogieman has arisen among us, and we no longer feel safe at night, or really at any time, even when surreptitiously toting a .45 through Wal-Mart. 

I didn't realize how pervasive this attitude was, until I moved to Spain. I was shocked that good Spanish parents allowed their sons and daughters to roam the streets without a guardian. I was nonplussed to find out that nobody coordinated play dates, where parents could watch over their little ones. I was disabused to find no hand sanitizer and that they drank water straight from the hose.

Then I realized that this is exactly how I grew up. My parents did not have one clue regarding my whereabouts, until I slinked back home. The entire town of Hartsville, South Carolina was at my disposal. I could pedal or drive anywhere I dang well pleased, and I was not alone in this privilege. It was normal. What happened?

Statistically, nothing has happened. If anything, Hartsville is a safer city, overall, than a decade ago. To be sure, there are pockets of danger, as is the case with every town or city. If you go looking for trouble, you are sure to find it. The change, in my opinion, is occurring in our minds and in our perceptions of risk. We are scared.

Somehow, we are changing from a nation of achievers and risk-takers to a nation of nonstarters and milquetoasts. We would rather watch other people try something, experiencing a rich, fulfilling virtual life. Red Bull has capitalized on this obsession by promoting death-defying sports. Their athletes have become modern day gladiators.

We cheer whether they succeed or fail, reveling equally in their glory or demise. Perhaps we are following the way of other great civilizations, falling into decay and debauchery. In our case, however, we seem to be traveling at incredible speeds.

I don't know what to do with this. Perhaps I am seeing what is not there, but I don't think so. I am no bastion of virtue, to be sure. I love the Red Bull sports and I am inclined to partake in debauchery at certain levels as well, depending on your definition, so please don't blow up my inbox with invective.

Many people thought we were crazy for moving to Spain. The risks were too great for minimal and questionable rewards. Perhaps. Or maybe we are just vestiges from another generation, looking more and more antiquated by the day.

How to Survive as an Expat

10 March, 14

When we decided to move to Spain, we really had no idea what we were about to do. Moving to a different town is difficult. Moving to another continent is ridiculous. If somebody could have told me ahead of time some things I needed to know, it would have made the transition much easier, so I am carrying it forward and writing a Top 10 on how to survive as an expat.

1. Learn the language as fast as you can. Susan and I enrolled in free classes given by the local government. They were very good, but only two times a week. We opted to add more intensive lessons, which can be a little costly. The tradeoff, however, has been a dramatic improvement in our Spanish skills. After only six weeks, we can have decent conversations with people on a variety of subjects. In addition, we have made several new friends from China, Brazil, Poland and Germany.
2. Be humble. There is a God, and you are not it. Make fun of yourself, not them. If a stranger came into your house and immediately started criticizing the way it looked, how dirty it was and your obvious lack of taste in furniture, you would be rightly offended. That is what it feels like to a native, when an expat tells them their streets are dirty or their cuisine is inferior. Nobody invited you to come and give a report on the status of their country. If you don't like it, leave.
3. Zip your lip. I am sure that you were appointed by President Fillintheblank to be his economic and political adviser, but the citizens of your new country really don't want to hear what you have to say. You are an ambassador for the entire country. It is fine, even expected, for you to be proud and passionate about your country, but they don't want to hear about it. When people ask you what you think about the President, tell them you haven't met him yet, but hope to one day. If you can't even order food at a restaurant without using a translator, how in the world are you going to explain democracy or fiscal policy? Keep your opinions to yourself, unless they flatter your new country and neighbors. Think about it.
   
4. Don't play the comparison game. The number one way to make people hate you is to compare them to your home country. Believe it or not, they are just as proud of their country and culture as you are of yours. Praise them for anything you can find. Where I live, they are very proud of their fruits and vegetables. I rave over their tomatoes and oranges. Now it is rare that we ever pay for oranges, as a friend gives us a big sackful whenever we need it. Be a sponge, not a hose.
5. Stop looking for McDonald's and Starbucks. In fact, stop looking for any chain stores and restaurants. The local shop owners are your neighbors, and some of them will become your friends. If you want to experience the true culture of a new country, don't waste your time going to some place that you already know. Hamburgers at a fast food restaurant really do taste just as bad here as they do everywhere else. When you go to a chain, you are making an implicit statement that you don't like the host country's food or culture.
6. Shop local. Eat local. Play local. Even if you live in a major metropolis, you can confine your daily routines to a small number of shops and restaurants, at least for the first six months. You will be surprised at the faces that you begin to recognize and the relationships you make. I know all the employees at the local grocer and butcher shop. They share photos of their children with me. Sometimes I get free stuff or extra cuts of meat. Even the customers recognize me and say hello on the street. 
7. Participate in everything. If there's a festival, go. If they invite you to attend some event, do it. I just finished an incredible weekend with 50 strangers. One of them had invited me to a pig processing day, where they made sausage and various other dishes. Some of the creations would not have been on my plate in a normal setting, but I tried everything. I now have 50 friends and a wider palette.
8. Sign up for classes. My wife is developing a great artistic talent that lay too long dormant by taking watercolor and pyrography classes. In addition, she is meeting people and learning the language. Susan is more shy and timid than I am, so a relaxed classroom atmosphere, with a shared focus gives her a safe way to interact.
9. Learn to laugh at yourself. I quickly learned every Spanish cuss word in the book. By accident. It is very dangerous to order cuts of meat at the butcher shop, because many of their "dirty words" are closely related to meat. Whenever I order, everyone gets quiet, so they can hear what I say next. Every time there is a roar of laughter, I know I hit a zinger. Instead of getting angry or embarrassed, I have learned to laugh along with them. 
10. Offer to teach English free. Most people in the world would love to learn English. In Spain, the children have a decent base from school, so they can read and write, and American movies and music dominate the screens and radios. All most people need is conversation. This is a great way to meet people and develop friendships. We are certainly not qualified as English teachers, but we can ask them to write and speak about their perfect mate or Utopia.

As I finished writing this list, I realized that it would probably work in a move across town just as well as a move to another country. We all yearn to know and be known. When we realize that we need to listen more than we speak, we will grow and develop into the kinds of people that are worthy of the title, "Friend". 

The Redneck Ambassador

11 February, 2014

I recently shared a blog post about the variety of views we have, without realizing that others have different views. It taught me a great deal about myself and my cloistered upbringing in the Deep South. To be clear, I lived a blissful, happy life in South Carolina. It just didn't have many windows to the outside world. My first encounter with unsweetened tea, bagels and real Yankees was in college. I still don't understand unsweetened tea. Why bother?

Recently in my Spanish class, my teacher called me el ombligo del mundo, which literally means the "belly button of the world." Her point was that I always put myself first, like an infant in the womb. 

In my defense, I have a predilection toward making jokes among new groups of people, as a way to break the ice. It is also a self-defense mechanism I acquired in elementary school and junior high, to protect me from getting picked on. I know that sounds weird, but I quickly learned to deflect criticism of my diminutive, nerdy side to other places that were not so fragile and could withstand ridicule. Now it is an automatic part of my psyche that I use to break down barriers. My crutch became a superpower. Most of the time.

When I poke fun at other people, it is never meant to disparage, but to incorporate them into my little safe bubble. Sometimes, I go too far, or make comments about the wrong subjects, not realizing how sensitive they are to things that have no effect at all on me. My green kryptonite is just another rock to other people and vice versa.

And that's where the "ombligo" comment arose. I stepped in a pile of poo and came out stinking. Again. 

Since that time, I have back-peddled somewhat, while also piling on the self-deprecating humor. It is working. 

Then I brought out the big guns.

Nobody can resist Susan. She is the sweet to my tart. As people begin to realize this, they inevitably wonder how such a woman could marry such a man. I ponder that myself quite often. 

It didn't hurt things when she made brownies for the class. Our teacher is a chocoholic, so they are kindred spirits. 

When the walls come tumblin' down
When the walls come crumblin' crumblin'
When the walls come tumblin' tumblin'
Tumblin' tumblin'
(Crumblin' Down. John Mellencamp & George Green)

Chocolate is the universal instrument of peace, unity and brotherly love. My work here is done.

Continents and Such

10 February, 14

It's a pretty innocuous question. How many continents are there on Earth? Of course, there are seven:

1. North America
2. South America
3. Europe
4. Africa
5. Australia
6. Asia
7. Antarctica 

It's clear and easy, unless you are from Spain or Brazil or China, like my teacher and classmates. They were shocked that I thought there were more than five. In fact, they were even a little perturbed at my obvious North American superiority bias. The next day I sent a link from Wikipedia dealing with continents, and the answers were all over the place, from four to seven.

It is very difficult to overcome your own preconceived notions of reality. It is even more difficult to accept contrary views. This particular question is fairly harmless. Nobody is going to die, if we maintain or change our opinions about the number of continents. What would we do if the question dealt with education, or water rights, or religion, or honoring borders? 

All of the students, as well as the teacher, are amicable and have a healthy sense of humor. What would happen if our class consisted of warring parties, opposing tribes, or ancient enemies? 

My daddy always told me, "Boy, you just open your mouth to switch feet." The big takeaway for me is that I need to be careful and humble with my opinions, not exactly a part of my genetic makeup.

Another interesting lesson for me was the fact that none of us had any idea that other people held opinions different from ours. We were all surprised by the variety of answers. We never seem able to see the holes and flaws in our own belief systems, yet we can quickly identify the problems in others' beliefs. 

Evidently learning Spanish will be more comprehensive than I thought. I am learning a new language, as well as a new way to see the world around me. By the way, the correct answer is six continents.

Field Trip to Antequera, aka Middle of NOWHERE

29 January, 14

There ain't nothing here but a hole in the ground.

DISCLAIMER:

Before I get myself into a world of hurt, I must say that I actually enjoy our little junkets to places unknown. Susan works pretty hard to uncover these little gems, so my descriptions are in no way a poor reflection on her, even if she thinks they are. (I hope this works.)

After driving three hours west from our home, we finally made it to our appointed destination. We have taken in much of what Spain has to offer in terms of tourist attractions. Madrid, Barcelona and Northern Spain are on the docket for this summer. Now we are at that awkward middle ground, where we are not sure which way to turn next.

Awhile back, Katherine's history book showed some pictures of an ancient burial cave that was located in Spain, dating sometime around 3000BC, just before Madonna hit it big with her first single, Holiday. You just dated yourself.

Antequera was the town closest to the cave, so we put a few more liters in the Micra and took off for another puente, or long weekend, since the kids did not have school on Monday.

If you remember my recent blog post about another field trip, you realize that the journey is more important than the destination, an aphorism for which we are eternally grateful, lest we spend endless hours in empty pursuit.

We were pleasantly surprised to find Antequera to be a pretty little town, with ivy-covered rails running along cobblestone streets. They even had a tourist information center. It was located in the parking garage. The tourist packet was free, but you could only get information if you actually parked in the garage.

We wandered aimlessly about town for about an hour, then struck off toward the cathedral at the top of the hill. The monks of antiquity must have been shrewd land developers. They always picked the best spots for a cathedral. You never find one in the bad section of town, even after 500 years. This particular cathedral overlooked the city below, like a great stone watchtower. You could see for miles in every direction.

Our next stop was the dolmens de Menga y del Romeral, or ancient megalithic burial tombs. The largest one, Dolmen de Menga, contained several hundred persons. One of the stones weighs more than 180 tons. It is incredible to even consider how people conceived of such a structure, much less built it. They date to 3000 BC, around the same time as the pyramids of Egypt. Evidently this was a busy time for construction.

Even though the actual construction demonstrated a mastery of engineering, it still was just a big hole in the ground, at least for my kids. They were underwhelmed. The fact that three of them lined up with a mountain that looked like a sleeping woman's face and also ran along an axis that lines up with the solstice and equinox didn't phase them much either. You can't blame them for not appreciating such abstract concepts. They can't even imagine life before cell phones and microwaves, much less electricity and the wheel.
Even though the sites were not all that exciting, we still had great fun. Our girls are great travelers, and we have enjoyed each other's company over the miles. That makes it all worthwhile.

After we left the burial mounds, we still had a pretty a lot of time in our day, so we headed back to Granada for a little impromptu trip into the city. You can read about that adventure on another post.

 

Looking for a Fiesta

18 January, 14

Susan got a wild hair up her butt and wanted to find a local fiesta. After a little Internet scouting, she found two that were in roughly the same area, near Caravaca de la Cruz, which literally means "cow face on the cross". You can't make this stuff up.

We juiced up the Micra and headed out for an adventure. After about an hour, we got out into the boonies. I mean out there, like they could have filmed the moon landings and NOBODY would know. We finally got to the first town, and started looking for the big party. And looking. And looking. Nothing but old NASA trailers.

Susan swears she saw at least five or six people around one corner, but we could not independently verify this information. After driving all the way through town, which took at least 15 seconds, the family reached a consensus that turning around and going back could invite some guy to start playing a banjo. I was in no mood to start squealing like a pig.

We got out of that fiesta-less armpit of Murcia and struck out in search of the second town on Susan's list. Along the way we saw a field full of sticks. They looked almost ready to harvest. I am not joking. They were all in rows, standing up like so many brooms-to-be. We were in the Sticks.

Who knew? We also found an old rusted out swing set that carried the child/victim out over the road, and a rope swing for dummies. With so much entertainment in one place, I started to understand why nobody ever leaves. How could your life ever get better? What would they do, if they knew about electricity and running water? The Internet would be pure magic, for which I am sure they would happily sacrifice a bundle of those fine sticks that were out growing in the field, to use as kindling at the witch burning. Nothing creates a festive atmosphere more than a good fire.

We did finally come across another town that was obviously in fiesta mode. They had a bouncy house and a six foot folding table full of knick knacks. The entire town showed up. Of course we did not even attempt to count, but a conservative estimate put the crowd well over 10 people, and one lady appeared to have all of her teeth. Again I didn't count, but she was holding them in both hands.

Of course, we arrived at the festivities too late to partake in any of the fiesta food, which undoubtedly consisted of some goat blood concoction over rice. Madre mia! We found the only bar in town. What do you get when you have two Spaniards in town? A bar and futbol club. They recruit the players from other countries. We ate some pretty decent lomo de la plancha, which is grilled pork tenderloin on little toasted bread.

After a gratifying round of fiestas, we took the road less traveled and ended up in the middle of a field. Turn around, you say? HECK NO! We're in this for the adventure. Soldier on. After about ten minutes of driving through the lunar landscape, we got back on the hard track, heading to points unknown.

This "road" is called "Old House Street". See if you can figure out why.

We finally got to a decent sized town, called Cehegin, which evidently means,  "Empty". Either we just missed the zombie invasion or Jesus came back, and we were not on His "A" List. We drove through block after block. Shuttered storefronts, closed homes and empty streets painted a pretty bleak scene, so we drove on to yet another town, called Bullas. Now this town is pretty important, but not for any particular Spanish thing. The "u" is always long in Spanish, like "oo". When you see the "ll" in Spanish, it is pronounced as "yuh".  We entered the town and saw some semblance of life, including more than 10 people. We were so excited at once again arriving safely in some vestige of humanity, that we all said in unrehearsed unison, "BOO-YAH!" You just never know where these words begin.

Modern transportation for the handicapped.

While we didn't find anything approximating a fiesta, we did discover that we had a lot to celebrate as a family. A fancy smart-box with a plethora of apps is not required for us to have fun. Sometimes all we need to do is get lost, in order to find ourselves. Score one for Susan and Spanish fiestas. Ole!