A View of Madrid

Marmite and what's this Radio Four?

2011-12-12T13:02:00.002+01:00

By Richard Morley

We all have ourrituals. One of mine is to start each Saturday with coffee, toast andMarmite and to listen to either the News Quiz or the Now! Show on BBCradio channel 4. (They alternate.) Both programmes give a satirical slant to Britishpolitics. Why should I be interested in British politics when Ihaven't set foot in the country for five years is a good question, towhich the answer is that one can never really escape your homecountry.

I mean, did you noticethe reference to Marmite. In the UK this foodstuff divides thenation. For the uninitiated, it is a dark, salty, almost black,paste made originally from the grunge found at the bottom of brewer'svats. You could almost describe it as industrial waste! And we eatit. No one would ever say, “Well, I sort of like Marmite”. Youeither love it or hate it. But in the rest of the world that thick,gooey paste is almost universally despised. I remember some Frenchex-colleagues throw several jars in the trash because they sniffed it and assumedit had gone bad. When we Brits explained it's meant to taste like that thelook that passed over their faces was one of relief that they hadeventually won the hundred years war, otherwise the perfidiousEnglish would be forcing it down their throats as a form of heinoustorture. (Much like they do to geese!) My Spanish landlady asked me for a taste once. She's neverasked again! It follows then that if you like Marmite you will,probably, be British. The opposite does not apply – it divides theNation, remember!

All nationalities havetheir own tastes. US residents in Madrid make this plain with theirown store called, openly, “A Taste of America”. Us British tend to bemore subtle, so the shop that caters to our food predilections iscalled, “Things you miss”. This shop sell everything from FreyBentos Steak and Kidney pies to Sherbet Fountains and Wine gums,Tetley's Teas to Branston Pickle.They don't seem to haveupdated their website recently, hence the archive link, but you canfind the shop in the Calle de Juan de Austria, 11. Nearest Metro isBilbao.

Spain has a wonderfulcuisine. Those of us that live here permanently, as opposed to theten day holiday-makers on the costas, learn to appreciate and embracethe tastes that the country has to offer, but from time to time it isnatural that us guiris want a taste of home. Just last Saturday I wasasked if I knew where one could buy porridge. I have no idea as I amnot fond of the stuff. Perhaps one of my readers could enlighten us.

But the Spanish arevery chauvinistic about their food. For them, all other cuisines areat the least, suspect, and at most, horrible. I have a friend whowhen visiting Ethiopia, lived on sandwiches and completely missed thedelicious, spicy dishes of that country. Another, who while tellingme she liked foreign food, back-tracked quickly when I suggested anIndian in Lavapies. And when I first arrived here, just six yearsago, a taste of anything British usually came in the form of foodparcels sent by concerned relatives.

Parsnips - You can see why one of the assistants in Gold Gourmet calls them "Zanahorias Blancas" or "White carrots".

That, I am happy torelate, has changed, but not by a lot. When I posted last year onFacebook that I had obtained Parsnips I was inundated with requestsasking me from where? I have to admit I was of two minds whether topass on the information. Suppose I went to the shop and found someearlier Brit had cleaned them out – on my advice? The shop, GoldGourmet, (actually shops – in the plural, forming as they do a short highstreet of their own,) can be found at Calle José Ortega y Gasset,85. Don't worry about that address – it's the cheap end of JOyG.Not anywhere near the Diors, Jimmy Choos, Burberry etc at the poshend. Nearest Metro is Lista (L4).

Muchthe same happened when I posted about mature cheddar cheese andBranston Pickle. Where, where, where? Were people that desperate?

Branston Pickle and Cheese.

Someof the larger hypermarkets on the outskirts, Carrefour et al, (butnot their smaller branches in the centre,) now carry many food itemsof foreign origin. Since they finally extended line 2 of the metro toLas Rosas, my expeditions in search of British products have taken meto the Carrefour hypermarket there. The nearest metro stop isactually Alsacia and then its a two minute walk. There, recently, Iloaded my trolley with English cheeses, Branston Pickle (they hadpiccalilli, but I didn't buy it), proper English back bacon, (Spaindoes ham very well, but not bacon,) Marmite, Bovril gravy granulesand, amongst other things, it being Christmas, Mr Kipling's MincePies. Moving along the aisle a little I picked up a selection ofSharwood's Indian sauces. I have been experimenting with “fusion”food, which I call “Spindian” - Spanish - Indian. My albondigasjalfrezi are delicious! Even my Spanish landlady's kids like it! AndBovril seems to have replaced the Spanish caldo as a hot drink on acold day. Spanish tastes can change!

Alongthe same aisle were Filipino and Mexican delights. It just annoys methat I have to travel out of town to buy this stuff from a Carrefour,when my local Carrefour, just thirty metres from my apartment block,does not. It does sell HP baked beans though – another successfulchange in tastes I have brought to my Spanish family.

Butloving Spanish food as I do, most of these items will last quite awhile. So I can happily shop locally. But I despair of my localshop-keepers. Gold Gourmet, mentioned above, requires a half-hourwalk for me, but there are three vegetable shops just minutes from myhome. Shopping in my local market last week I asked Pepe, of VerdurasPepe, if he had Parsnips. (This was a repeat of the conversation Ihad three years ago which you can read here. )History repeated itself as he shrugged and replied that, no, hehadn't, but then added that I was the third person who had asked himthat day. An Englishman and a German Lady had also been searching forthat wonderful vegetable. “So perhaps you will stock them infuture”, I enquired. It seemed a market for them was developingwithin the barrio. “No”, he replied, “There's no demand”.

Ok,perhaps us three do not a “demand” make, but we surely cannot bealone?

Butto return to the other half of my Saturday ritual – listening tothe BBC's radio 4 programmes.

ShouldI not be listening to Spanish Radio to improve my listening skills? Ishould, and I do. Other rituals include always watching the earlyevening news on TV and occasionally tuning in to COPE radio. (I don'tshare their politics,but they do speak clearly!) But as a teacher of English it is also necessary to keep my skills in that languagecurrent. I am surrounded all day with such English as, “My sister,she work in Barcelona”, or “I am very fluently in English”. IfI didn't have regular doses of mellifluous BBC English I might notnotice those lapses in grammar and syntax. In fact, out of lessons Idon't, so normal have these mistakes become to my ears. Myprofessional life maybe in English, but I live in Spanglish.

Incidentally,the English of visiting British youth could also do with infusions ofRadio 4. I was sitting opposite some English youths on the metrorecently and could hardly understand a word! And the double negativesin their sentences made me wince.

PerhapsI should return home to teach English there. It seems to be needed.But then I would miss all that wonderful Spanish food and that issomething up with which I shall no longer put.

Incidentally, if you live in Madrid and know of places where you can buy your favourite "missed" food or other items, perhaps you would like to tell us where in the comments below. If you are looking for something, you could ask and someone might have the answer.

Trains of Thought

2011-11-27T17:26:00.001+01:00

By Richard Morley.

JohnLennon said, “Life is what happens when you are busy making otherplans”. Well, I have made a plan. It faces me from the cork boardon the wall behind my computer. It is a printed spread sheet tellingme where I have to be from now until the end of the year. My life hassuddenly become more than busy.

Toobusy, I am afraid to maintain this blog in the way I would wish. Goneis the time I could devote to the visits and research I love to do. Ihaven't stopped completely as life always brings new questions to beanswered, new places to see and wonder about.

Thisyear I have visited parts of Spain very new to me. I have experiencednew delights and met new people. I have tried new food and learnedmore about local cultures. All of which are recorded for future blogposts and I will try to find the time to write something about them.

Onechance encounter led to a twenty five percent increase in my teachingduties – and took me to new areas of Madrid I had not seen before.I have written about Madrid's public transport system, it'swonderful Metro, both heavy and light, and its convenient busservice, before. One thing I have only mentioned in passing isMadrid's local commuter rail network known as the “Cercanias” -the system that brings thousands of workers into the city each dayfrom the neighbouring suburbs and towns. It was this rail networkthat was attacked by terrorists on March 11th 2004, thattook the lives of nearly two hundred people. If the metro and busesare the arteries of the city of Madrid, then the Cercanias are itslungs and throat, bringing into the city the “alimentación”that keeps it alive.

Ihave only occasionally used the Cercanias up to now. Now I have tocount myself as a regular commuter, well, on Tuesdays and Thursdaysat least.

Ihowever, go in the other direction to most commuters. Madridcontinues to expand. The cost of establishing a business in thecentre of town is high and companies are setting up on the fringes.My job takes me from one office to another. I spend quite a lot of mytime on the move. I enjoy this. I wouldn't like to be set in oneplace all the time. For me, each day's commute is in a differentdirection. But this new job is taking me, twice a week, to the verylimits of the city.

Yetits cost to me is the time it takes to travel. In monetary terms thefares here are so ridiculously low I can pay for my journey with thechange I get from buying a pack of cigarettes.

Thefirst railway line of the system, and indeed the first anywhere inSpain, was the line that ran from Madrid to Aranjuez, forty eightkilometres south of the city, which was completed in 1851. From thoseearly beginnings the Cercania system has now grown to almost threehundred and fifty kilometres of track reaching out over most of thegreater “Comunidad” of Madrid, and oneline takes you into neighbouring Castille y Leon.

On the way to the mountains north of Madrid.

Youcan find a map of the system here.

Oncea diverse amalgamation of different companies the Cercanias werenationalised, like all the other railway companies, in 1941, and comeunder the control of RENFE, (RedNacional de los Ferrocarriles Españoles). Some of the local lineswere narrow gauge and continued to be so until 1970.

Unlikethe commuter trains of other cities, the Cercanias do not stop atterminal stations,leaving the journey to work to be completed byother modes of transport. The Cercanias come right into the heart ofthe city, underground, and completely hidden from the sight oftourist who might not even suspect the system exists.

Ok,that last statement is not as true as is used to be. Following fourlong years of tunnelling and construction, the Cercanias arrived inthe Puerta del Sol, the most central point in the city. Visitors maywell have noticed the signs directing those using the Metro todescend even deeper into what has been called “Europe's largestman-made cavern”, but they will have passed through towards theirsubway line and not really given it a thought.

Similarly,if you have ever changed metro lines at Nuevos Ministerios, and youwill have if you have travelled into the city by metro from theairport, you might not have noticed that part of that sprawling messis a very extensive series of platforms for the Cercanias. From thereyou can travel south to Aranjuez or north to Colmenar Viejo. You cannow, if you wanted to avoid the four stops on line 8, take theCercania to terminal four at Barajas.

Theyhave been promising us this direct link from the airport to the citycentre for years. Up to very recently the only way, using publictransport, into the city has been via the metro, with at least one,sometimes two changes of line depending on the destination, or on theregular, but subject to traffic, shuttle bus. Now we have a directline Cercania – BUT IT GOES TO THE WRONG PLACE!

Thenew line, C1, from the airport passes through Nuevos Ministerios, butfrom there, instead of going to Sol, where most tourists will want togo,being a) central, and b) within walking distance of hundreds ofhotels and hostels, and c) connects to three Metro lines, it passesthrough Recoletos, which has none of those three advantagesmentioned. In fact Recoletos is pretty useless unless you worknearby. Sol, on the other hand is the most used station in Madrid. Sowhy RENFE, why? The main advantage of running a direct link from theairport to the city centre has been lost. And Recoletos connects withnothing. If you alight there, you will have to carry your bags threehundred metres down to Cibeles where you can catch a bus or a singlemetro line. On behalf of several friends who visit Madrid often Ifeel annoyed at this stupid bit of routing.

Oh,and you can only take the Cercanias from Terminal 4. So if you arriveat 1,2 or 3, won't have the option anyway.

Butif you do arrive at terminal 4 and take the Cercanias, you willeither have to change at Chamartin station, (as recommended by RENFE)Nuevos Ministerios, as you did before, to Cercanias lines C3 or C4,or travel on to Atocha to change to line 1 of the metro – possiblethe worst and most over-crowded line on the network. At great expense,nothing has been improved.

Bethat as it may, the Cercanias are clean, cheap and are only crowdedduring rush hour. They are also quiet. Totally electrified andrunning on the smoothest track imaginable, you can read or listen tomusic in peace.

The inside of one of the carriages. Obviously this is not rush Hour.

Theyalso run on time – and in the mornings, very frequently. On theroute I use, at least, a train leaves for my destination every tenminutes. And I always get a seat!

Changingthe subject:

Iwas attending a meeting with other teachers recently. All of themwere reporting, like me, if they wanted it, an increase in workload.We may well be in a recession, but language teaching seems to behardly affected. It's not just English. French and German are also,it seems, needed by Spanish businessmen and women. Not all companieshave been affected by the crisis. They might not be enjoying the boomtimes of recent years, and this is probably, and not too late, makingthem reflect on their marketing strategies. The companies I teach atare telling me something very interesting: it is not a priority fortheir employees to pass an exam in English. They want their employeesto close the deal, sell, get the contract signed, advertise andnetwork – and whether this is done grammatically or not is notimportant, so long as communication is established.

Grammarteachers – don't send me hate mail. I will state here and now thatconjugation and syntax are vitally important when communication needsto be precise. Dates and terms of agreements have to definitelyunderstood on both sides. What these employers mean is they want toconcentrate on practical communication. And if that means slippingout of the grammatical and into the vernacular, then that is whatthey want.

Luckily,that is exactly what I teach. Coming from a technical / scientificbackground that morphed into management seems to have worked in myfavour. The business student wants useful language skills and I havelost count of the number of times one of my students has commentedthat vocabulary within that business context that I introduce into mylessons was never taught to them at any “academic” languageestablishment. And they wonder why?

BusinessEnglish (BE), English for Special purposes (ESP), and other forms ofuseful language skills should be our priority if we have those typesof students. Get away from the academic and into the realms of thepractical. And if you don't know the vocabulary, you can learn it. Inrecent months I have taught British and American Legal, Accountancy,Marketing, Technical and Scientific, (where I had to learn all theterms needed in meteorology incidentally!) and Financial English. Inbusiness, a basic vocabulary, while useful, is not enough. Andemployers here know it.

Inthe light of that, one of the teachers I met with thinks that themarket for business English will remain strong for at least the nextdecade. That should see me into my dotage nicely!

Anotherchange of subject:

Ibought Parsnips andBrussels sprouts a couple of days ago. A sure sign that Christmas isnearly with us. After the aforementioned teachers' meeting, Iwondered down to the Plaza España and lunched on Chestnuts.

TheChristmas illuminations have been turned on and nativity scenes(belens) arestarting to appear in shop windows. I love this time of year inMadrid. Everyone seems to be even more friendly than normal and theChristmas parties, at least for me, begin next weekend.

Ijust hope I can find the time to enjoy them!

Madrid Suburbia - On Route 66

2011-10-05T16:45:00.001+02:00

By Richard Morley.

ThePoet Antonio Machado claimed there were two Spains. He was writing about thedivide caused by the Civil War, but as I wrote in my last post, there are stilltwo Madrids:The one the tourist experiences and the one in which we live. The visitor knowsthe centre of the city including the infamous “Three Ps”. Away from that centrethey would get a different, and more truthful perspective of the city.

So,putting shoe-leather where my mouth is, I thought I would take my little cameraout there and actually show you. And Antonio Machado’s quote is apt because myfirst expedition led me to his eponymous calle and Metro station.

Weare in the extreme west of the city proper. A few hundred metres west theconcrete and brick open up to green countryside. Golf courses and the“Hipódromo de la Zarzuela”, Madrid’shorse racing course, find their home here among the rolling hills where, aftera half hour’s walk you can forget the city exists.

Here,the city is bounded by the multi-laned M30 ring road. And the city comes rightup to its edges.

Exitingfrom the metro station, serving the two Colonias of Saconia and the charminglynamed Valdeconejos, or “Valley of the Rabbits”, we find a broad, open road lined with well spaced and modern apartmentblocks. These buildings utilize modern materials in bright and light colours.No grey granite canyons as seen in the centre. Between road way and residenceslie green, grassy gardens and children’s play parks.

Theroad runs along a natural valley that exits from a tunnel that brings thetraffic underground from Castellana. Thanks to this program of taking thetraffic under the city these residential areas are mercifully free from exhaustfumes and grid-lock. Yet, not too far away the looming bulks of the CuatroTorres peer over the roof tops.

You are out of the city, but still part of it.The metro will have you in Sol in twenty minutes. As Mason Cooley wrote, “A suburb is an attempt toget out of reach of the city without having the city be out of reach”.

Looking across the valley to the Barrio del Pilar.

Oneither side of that valley the land rises quite steeply, revealing a cascade ofapartment blocks, one behind the other. A lot of people live here.

Thisis a recent development. As we climb the sides of the valley we begin to findolder areas. Here are found the abominations of sixties concrete and glass.Architecture can easily be divided into three classes: The Good, The bad andthe Ugly. These older apartment blocks are not pretty. They were built, at aprice, to house a rapidly increasing population. The passing years have lent amaturity to the streets. The shops, the bars, those little plazas where the oldrelax in the sun and the young play, give a sense of community. There isnothing for the tourist to see, but this is where we live.

Newdevelopment in the Valley of the Rabbits has basically reached its western limit,but head north and there is lots of space.

Iwork a bit in the northern suburbs and so come with me on a journey.

Headingto the northern end of the Paseo Castellana the traveller arrives at the plazaCastilla. This is deemed a gateway out of the city. The leaning towers of the KIO buildings are amore modern expression of the historical Puertas of Alcala and Toledo, but perform the same function. Afterseemingly endless years of construction the Plaza now boasts a modern publictransport interchange boasting three metro lines and countless town and countrybus routes and is one metro stop from Chamartin mainline railway station.

Icould have taken the metro the four stops to Tres Olivos, but instead chose totake the bus. Just about the first things we pass are the towering CuatroTorres. Built to take advantage of a business boom that now will arrive laterthan planned these buildings are magnificent. Approaching two hundred and fiftymetres in height their glass shimmers in the sun. As they stand on the highestpart of the city their pinnacles are higher above sea-level than any otherbuilding in Europe. On cloudy days the topsjust disappear.

Apartment blocks give shade on a sunny day.

Oppositethem, we turn sharply and enter the Colonia of San Cristobal that I wrote aboutlast year. Crossingthe M30 we head into Fuencarral and already the city of Madrid is forgotten. The winding streets andlow old buildings betray its earlier independence from the city. You could beeasily passing through an old English Market town built years before townplanning was a reality. Through the built up area and now we pass into newdevelopments and eventually into Tres Olivos.

Builtin a natural hollow the concept is interesting, but lacking in imagination. Awide elliptical plaza fill the bottom of the hollow with streets radiating awayin higher concentric ellipses. Around the plaza, cutting it off from itssurroundings, stand two rings of high apartments. East and south the concentricstreets boast modern “Chalet” (and in Spain they pronounce the final “t”)style housing with walled suburban gardens.

Atground level the blocks surrounding the plaza contain small shops. Several areout of business and boarded up giving a slight air of dilapidation. This is aresidential area. Commerce tends to be limited to groceries, hairdressers, andbanks. Perhaps it was better before the metro with it fast service into thecity opened, but now it seems a little forlorn.

Theplaza rejoices in the name of the “Ronda del Ingenioso Hidalgo”. Of course, a reference to thatfabulous knight, Don Quijote. Knowing that whoever gets the job of naming Madrid streets tends togo in themes I looked around for other street names.Working concentrically outwards I found the “Ronda del Caballero de la Mancha”.Hey! Wait a minute. Surely these are both names for Don Quijote? But moving onthe next street was named for his horse, Rocinante, but then I discovered the“Calle del Caballero de la Triste Figura”. That’s another name for the ingenious knight.Either the person who names streets was being very ingenious him or herself, orjust being plain lazy. Or perhaps they just feed Spanish literature into acomputer and expect it to come up with random, or not so random as it turnsout, street names.

Eitherway it would annoy the heck out of me if I had to write ““Ronda del Caballerode la Mancha” or “Calle del Caballero de la Triste Fugura” every time someonewanted my address. My landlady agrees and thanks providence that our address isa single two-syllabled name.

Eventuallyother Quijote characters popped out of the street naming procedure. There isthe “Calle del Caballero de los

Leones

”,“Calle del Caballero de los Espejos”, and the Calles “de Casildea de Vandalia”,and “Bella Altisidora”, but those last two are the same person as well! No surprisethen that I eventually came across the “ Bar Quijote”.

However,repetitive street naming aside, this small neighbourhood seems a pleasant placeto live. The streets give a sense of space and respectability. Climbing quite alot of steps I arrived in neighbouring Fuencarral park that looked down on itall and gave splendid views across the city to the south. Then I wandered up tothe Tres Olivos Metro Station that did have three trees planted outsidealthough none were actually olives and went on to the next part of the suburbsI want to show you.

Fuencarral Park. It's difficult to escape the Cuatro Torres, even this far out.

Butbefore I do: That bus route I took to get there? Well, I got my pics – on route66. Sorry about that!

It’sjust two stops on the metro to get to Las Tablas. Again the central area is alarge ellipse bisected by the crossroads of two underused four lane highways.Las Tablas is very new. The first time I visited most of it was underconstruction. Some still is! There are no suburban “Chalets” here, but gatedblocks of six and seven storey apartments encircling their own private gardens.Some boast swimming pools and tennis / paddle courts and lawns for relaxing andtaking the sun. Ideal for raising small families in relative security as one ofmy students, a very recent mother of twins, is doing.

Las Tablas

Theapartment blocks are pleasing on the eye, if not beautiful, and the spacesbetween blocks is immense with plenty of sunlight and a sense of totalunconfinement. If it wasn’t so far out of the city I would move there. Youreally need a car, and then, with the M40 encircling the neighbourhood just afew hundred metres away, you can get anywhere quickly. If you don’t have a carthen there are three ways to get into town: Bus, Metro and Metro Ligero, or theover-ground light railway.

Madrid boasts three lines of lightrailway. There are two quite long ones to the west of the city, leaving fromthe Colonia Jardin, that will take you a long way out of the city. The linethat arrives at Las Tablas is comparatively short, only nine stations and halfof its route is actually underground, putting the “light” railway in the“dark”, so to speak. The trains consist of five short, flexible carriages,enabling them to be steered around some quite tight bends.

Thisline, 1, of the metro ligero takes you from Las Tablas into the city where itconnects with lines 1 and 4 of the real metro. I write “real” as the metroligero reminds me a fairground ride; Not very fast and you feel every bump andtwist as you seem to chug along, but it’s clean, comfortable and very wellair-conditioned and so a pleasure to use and, unlike the metro, enables thepassenger to view the city passing outside.

Ranks of Apartment Blocks in Sanchinarro

Line1 takes you through the neighbourhood of Sanchinarro. It is here the northwardexpansion of the city began. Old Madridslowly merges into new. Narrow streets become wide thoroughfares. Maturepublics gardens are replaced with scrubby, sapling planted, open spaces. Butmost of “old” Madridhere is scarcely more than fifty years of age, so the next generation willenjoy it.

Mostof the apartment blocks are around eight stories, but soaring above them is abuilding that up until recently intrigued me. Seen from a distance from theinside of the metro ligero, the “Mirador Building” is fascinating.

Twentystories high and looking like it was built from left over Lego blocks I am surethat this is a design you either love or hate. Designed to be a self-containedvertical village it has an open area for kids to play in (on) on the twelfthfloor. It is a plaza with amazing views I am sure, but as to whether it fulfilsthat purpose, (is there a bar, fountain, swings and climbing frames?) I am notsure. Walking round it I found just one entrance which seemed severe andunwelcoming and resembling the entrance stairway to some science fictionspaceship. It is a building out of the pages of Brave New World. I personallydon’t think it belongs in this one.

Iam not sure how it fits into the categories of Good or Bad, but now I have seenit close up, I am convinced it is Ugly. As the link here says, it is certainlyinnovative and striking in its outward appearance, but some have remarked it’snot really suited for its purpose. I can see what Prince Charles of England means when he speaks of a “carbuncle onthe face of a well-loved friend” while describing a modern extension to one of London’s classic buildings.The Mirador Buildingin Madrid isnot beautiful and not in the right place. It is totally out of keeping with itssurrounds.

Butas the tall apartment blocks of old Madridtestify, going up is the only solution to a housing crisis where space islimited. (Ask those living on Manhattan in New York!) When thebuilding boom began in Madridin the fifties and sixties it suffered from the same architectural solutionsthat were being muted in other cities across the world. Steel, Glass andreinforced concrete were regarded as low cost solutions whose problems and lackof aesthetics did not truly become apparent until time had taken its toll.

WhenI wrote about the “Colonias” of Madrid Iapplauded the movement towards low cost housing. But that was on a small scale.The greater problems that came mid-century together with the new “wonder”building materials, contrived to produce slums for the future. This is evidentin parts of Madrid today, such as in San Blas and the Barrio del Pilar (whichdo have better examples of building design before anyone complains) and theBarrio of Conception, which I can unfortunately see from my apartment fifthfloor window.

Bad and Ugly in The Barrio de Concepción

Same Barrio, but better.

Today’sbuildings appear to have had more thought gone into their outward appearance(mostly), although residents in them complain of paper thin adjoining walls,and are a far cry from those depicted in Pedro Almodovar’s film, ¿Qué he hecho yo para merecer esto?, which wasfilmed, incidentally, in those same ugly blocks in the Barrio de Conception.Greater planning control and more rigorous building regulations might mean thattoday’s solution to housing results in a more attractive city.

Unlike cities in the UK,Madrid does seem to be avoiding inner-city blight with the flight to thesuburbs, for which we can thank the tourists who come to see “HistoricalMadrid” and the young and not so young who keep the barrios of Chueca and LaLatina alive as there is precious little night life in the suburbs. Whichperhaps means that Madridhas struck the right balance. Although it might keep the Metro running a bitlater to allow us to get back home.

Butmost of us can’t afford to live in the centre. The “afueras” (outskirts) offeraffordable, secure housing at a good price. I hope some of what I have shownyou here demonstrates that. I only went, out of convenience, to threedistricts. There are many more just as good. Perhaps the more enlightenedvisitor might like to board the metro ligero and see them now, before they toobecome “Historic Madrid”.

PSThe visitor who would like to explore more but needs to be pointed in the rightdirection might like to read these other posts:

September Song

2011-09-09T12:44:00.001+02:00

By Richard Morley.

The Cuatro Torres on a sunny day.

The guy who plays the accordion has returned to his pitch halfway up the double escalator at Cruzco metro station. His dreary renderings of Ave Maria once again accompany my ascent from platform to pavement as I strive to arrive on time for the lesson. Like most of the population of Madrid, he’s been absent for the past month. Their place was taken by tens of thousand of camera snappy, culture vulture tourists, who just have to “do” the Prado, oh!, and a million and a half of the pope’s groupies.

Now, except for a few stragglers, the visitors have gone home. I hope they have happy memories of this most wonderful of towns, but I am glad they’ve gone. (With a notable exception who I am going to miss! Ah! No name! I have to maintain an air of mystery.)

I suppose many who live in places deemed “tourist destinations” have similar thoughts. What the visitor comes to see, those things I famously call the “Three Ps” of the Prado, the Palacio Real and the Plaza Mayor, with maybe a side trip to the Retiro Park or the new Madrid Rio embankment park (if they venture that extra half kilometre out of the centre,) all assiduously recorded on a million digital cameras, are what they will tell their neighbours and colleagues about when they return home. “Madrid is so historical! ”, they will exclaim.

And that includes that monolithical concrete lump of an eyesore called the Bernabéu Stadium, which happily, might not be around for much longer as there are plans by the club to replace it with a steel and glass monolith including a new shopping mall. I am not detracting from the sporting skill of the club, just their choice of architects! And to be honest, there are a few other buildings in that area that hark back to the concrete and glass heyday of the sixties and could well, should be, replaced.

Possibly Madrid's ugliest building

Travel more than a kilometre from Sol and, with a couple of exceptions, that sense of “historical” Madrid disappears. Most of what constitutes the city dates back not much further than the 1950s. Gran Via itself is only a hundred years old. Yes, a lot of it is a Jungla Cristal of not very attractive apartment and office blocks, which is not what the tourist has come to see. Yet that is where the people are, and it’s the spirit, the friendliness of those people which is the essence of this city I now call home.

Like all large cities the majority of the population are immigrants. Madrileños who can trace their ancestry back two or three generations and stay within the city are few and far between. These are the so-called “gatos”, or Madrid cats. I do have a friend who can go back five generations and when I mention this I am met with expressions of amazement. It is very unusual. But the spirit of the city imposes itself even on us new-comers and we don’t, in the main, live in “historical” Madrid. We live in a modern, bustling, vibrant town that, yes, like any place that predates 1776 actually has some history!

The Business District in Castellana

From the soaring Cuatro Torres, Europe’s highest skyscrapers, to the bottom of Castellana this spirit is evident in the architecture. But who is the brave tourist who ventures north of Colon? Or west of the Palace, east of the Puerta de Alcala, south of Atocha? Yet that is where you’ll find the real Madrid.

I want to drag our visitors out to the Parque Juan Carlos Primero to see new thinking. I want to lead them around the streets and markets of Carabanchel. I want them to see some fantastic modern architecture in Alcobendas and Alcorcon.

Instead, when a tourist wishes to escape the town centre, where do they go? Toledo! I am sure history is fascinating to those who have little history themselves, but just because we in Europe do, they shouldn’t ignore our more modern achievements.

I know on this blog I tend to write about the historical myself, because it fascinates me. But in the same way that I tell people to cross over the Paseo de Prado and visit the Thyssen-Bornemisza gallery (much more interesting than the Prado) I want our visitors to see beyond the “Three Ps” and experience a real Madrid, the living city, not the time capsulated centre where even the modernisations look old.

Men in suits.

But they’ve gone now, these interlopers. We have returned to our offices and classrooms (or soon will). We still have clear, brilliant blue skies with thirty degree plus temperatures, but the shorts and patterned shirts have been replaced with business suits and ties (reinforcing my belief that Spanish men are nuts as the ladies are still sensibly wearing thin strapped summer numbers), the metro is crowded and the lines for the Menu del Día are long.

Mind you, we break into our work schedule gently here in Madrid. The first full week of work ends ……… in a bank holiday. I mean a full five days would be too much for the poor things!

And the accordionist sits on his stool halfway up the escalators at Cruzco and plays Ave Maria. Madrid is ours again.

Don’t worry. We will lend it to you again next year.

Suffer Little Children to Come Unto Me!

2011-08-18T15:53:00.000+02:00

By Richard Morley.

As I write this the Pope has just arrived at Madrid, Barajas airport and on my TV screen is being greeted by the great and the good. He is here to lead the celebrations for la Jornada Mundial Jóvenes, or World youth day.

His arrival has been preceded over the past few days by an estimated one and a half million pilgrims. Most of them are in their teens or early twenties, although there are a few that most definitely are no longer in the throws of juventud. They seem to be enjoying themselves. As I travelled into the centre of Madrid yesterday evening my Metro carriage was stuffed to the walls with young people wearing the official yellow tee-shirt emblazoned with a giant M. As we alighted at Gran Via station one of their number started to sing and the refrain was picked up by EVERY OTHER similarly clothed person on the platform. The serenade continued as we slowly rose on the escalators to the surface.

There, the normal residents of Montera, famous for its ladies of “negotiable affection”, had been replaced by groups of singing, cheering, flag-waving kids. The neighbouring McDonalds burger joint was packed with hungry youth, the pavements of Gran Via, and side streets, heaving with visitors.

This is August. Normally at this time the streets of Madrid are comparatively quiet as most residents are on their annual vacations. Seats on the Metro are obtainable as are tables in the restaurants. This week is different.

I walked along Gran Via to Callao where I was meeting a friend. Both of us are fans of Harry Potter and we had arranged to see the ultimate film or the eponymous young wizard. The newly rebuilt Plaza Callao that now boasts an acre of rather boring flat grey stone (criticised in the local press, together with the other newly refurbished plazas of Sol and Isabel II, as “ugly deserts of granite” with little character,) was also crowded with the young pilgrims. Each waved their countries flag around which they grouped. One group of young Filipino boys held a sign optimistically offering “Free hugs and kisses”, another group chanted in time to a noisy vuvuzela. Last year’s world cup in South Africa has a lot to answer for! Another burger joint, Pans and Co and Starbucks next door were packed to the doors. Wherever you looked there were smiles. There was laughter from all directions and in all accents. (Yes, laughter has an accent!)

And it was infectious. It was impossible not to smile. As I said to my friend when she arrived, “There’s are lots of people who have no idea where they are going, but are singing as they go there”.

It has been billed as a “party” for Catholic youth. Unfortunately, every party has its “party-poopers” or “aguafiestas” as they say here. They are saying that it is wrong for Madrid to host such a party at a time when more than twenty percent of the population is out of work. They are claiming that while the government has cut funding for medicine and education the state should not be spending an estimated sixty million euros on just a few days of celebration. Knowing quite a lot of teachers who have felt first hand the effects of the cuts in the education budget it is difficult not to sympathise.

The Government cut 40 million euros from the education budget, yet it is claimed they are spending 50 million on the pope's visit. AMAL thinks the church should pick up the tab.

Leading the protests against this event has been the Asociación Madrileña de Ateos y Librepensadores, (The Madrid Association of Atheists and Free-thinkers), AMAL. They have been leading a campaign against the use of public funds from taxation being spent for this purpose. There are many who agree with them.

The political sweep though my friends here swings from right(ish), - the days of far right wing in Spain are still active in many people’s memories, - to quite left. I know people who attend mass every week, though those who go for “special occasions” to those who hate any form of Church intervention in affairs of state. As an atheist brought up non-conformist protestant I tend to agree with the latter.

Yet is was hard last night not to join in the obvious joys of the faithful who today will meet their leader. (The TV now shows me that the pope has now arrived in the centre of town. He zoomed from the airport to the centre in the pope-mobile, which travelled at a quite alarming rate. He shot through my barrio so fast that the faithful who had been waiting on the roadside for hours would have missed his passing if they had blinked!) Interviews with people in the waiting crowds displayed an excitement not seen since the victorious Spanish football team returned from the World Cup along the same route.

But last night AMAL thought it was a good time to make their voices heard. They had been organising the protest over several days on Facebook and more than six thousand had declared their intention to attend. The march would begin in the plaza Tirso de Molina and terminate in Sol. This was bad news for my friend and I. Our cinema tickets were for the Cine Ideal, one of the cinemas that shows movies in VO, or original language, and was on the marchers’ route. So I got a close up view of the parade and heard the shouts of the protesters.

They made me angry!

It was meant to be a protest again what they see as a misuse of public money and I am sure that is what the organisers intended. Yet among those who attended the protest were members of the 15M, Democracia, ya! Movement and suddenly the demonstration ceased to be a legitimate protest of taxpayers into a revolt against the church and the pope. Indeed this morning the newspapers are headlining it as an “Antipope protest”, which it was never meant to be.

Within the march were those who held banners proclaiming the moderate atheist view that “you don’t have to believe in a god to be good” and so on, and those who criticised the Catholic Church’s attitude towards contraception, gays and abortion. Unfortunately there were also those who chanted insults, including a ribald rhyme claiming the Virgin Mary to have been a lesbian. This was designed to provoke and insult those who held different opinions. I hope the organisers were ashamed. I hope they point out to their “supporters” that invective and insults can never replace intelligent debate. And it has to be said that today their Facebook page laments the idiocy of some of the marchers.

It has to said that it is reported the government is also a little concerned about what the pope might say during his visit. Spain’s liberal views on gay marriage, abortion and with a contraceptive machine on nearly every street corner and in every metro station has drawn criticism from the Vatican in the past. They are hoping he keeps his orations on matters of youth and away from politics.

Voltaire did not say “I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend your right to impose your views on others”. That said though, I have met religious people who feel they do have that right. There’s a right that is wrong. It was probably the case that the “mal educado” in the march were a small minority. The police made a few arrests and there were a few wounded in scuffles. It is also worth a mention that earlier this week a Mexican Catholic youth was arrested by police for threatening to throw acid in the face of any protesting against the pope’s visit.

Official declarations claim that most of the cost of this celebration will be borne from the fees paid by the celebrants, but there are reported to be fifteen thousand police on the streets of Madrid this week. The use of government property for the celebrations does not come cost free and neither do the conversion of Cibeles and Recoletas into a grand outdoor cathedral. All attendees have been given an eighty percent reduction on public transport while those of us who live here are now suffering a fifty percent increase on the cost of a single ticket. The church and state claimed that donations from Spanish companies would also ameliorate the cost, but played down the fact that those companies would be getting an 80% tax break on those contributions. So, that’s more money the state won’t get. One of what I consider to be one of AMAL’s legitimate demands is that the Catholic Church pick up the tab for everything. After all, it is their party!

But theses facts and the protests of the “antipapistas” seem to have no effect whatever on the gathered, celebrating catholic youth in Madrid last night. They continued to sing and dance. The film finished just before midnight. As my friend and I walked through the plaza major en route to Opera metro (Sol station having been closed yet again!) the groups of pilgrims continued to sing from their seats on the terrace cafés and a fairly large group in the centre danced the Macarena - loudly. Scenes on TV right now of the crowds patiently awaiting the pope show lots of high spirits and enjoyment of their life.

In fact TV is showing little else right now. The protesters had their fifteen seconds of fame on the news broadcasts, but its all about the pope. I hope the celebrants will leave for their home countries with good memories of their time in this wonderful town. Judging by the joy on the faces of one and a half million young people, life is meant to be enjoyed and Madrid is a great place to enjoy it.

We can cry “Bah Humbug” when they’ve all gone home.

How to steal a wife.

2011-08-08T18:49:00.000+02:00

.By Richard Morley.

I have been researching the reconquista of Spain. That period when the Catholic Spanish rose up against their Muslim masters and took their country back. In one particular town, Colmanar de Oreja, in the south of the Comunidad of Madrid, the successful siege by the forces of Alfonso VII sent the Muslim residents packing and then required a repopulation of the town by new people. But how do you encourage them to come?

Well, one way is to grant sanctuary and immunity from prosecution to every murderer or thief who was on the run. You have to remember that medieval laws were almost excessively severe. Your crime could be minor by today’s standards, but the penalty would be harsh. Even if your crime was murder, it could just be that you were the survivor of a fight in which your opponent was unlucky enough to die. But there was no mitigation. If you wanted to live, you had to flee. Luckily there were places you could flee to.

You have to remember too that Medieval Sanctuary law was widespread in most of Europe and seen as a way to ameliorate not just those harsh legal responses to minor offenses, but also used by rulers to grant protection to those who did their dirty work for them. One way to lessen the expense of keeping an army was to allow it to benefit from the spoils of war, the taking of which could be considered a crime.

One of these crimes was abduction of another person, or kidnap. And it might be that you kidnapped a female. But did you commit a crime? Remember that women were regarded as property. A wealthy family would see their daughters as assets that could be traded for alliances, either political or in business. Conquering armies would see women as the spoils of war. And in some cases some young love struck Romero would spot the beautiful Julia across a market square and want to make her his own, and it’s possible the desire would be reciprocated, but not possible due to lack of wealth or status on the part of Romero.

If the couple chose to run away together the law made the man a kidnapper and a criminal, even though his stolen bride had colluded in the crime.

But, criminals from one place could make desirable citizens in another, especially when they arrived with a woman in a town where females were in short supply. It meant that the new arrival would not compete with the men already there for the existing women.

In fact, in the new town they might not be seen as criminals at all. They might have been technically guilty of kidnap in the town the woman came from, but if she came willingly in the event that the supposed “abduction” was in fact an elopement and while her parents might be screaming “kidnap” and the abductor a criminal in their eyes, in the new town he would be seen as a welcome and able citizen.

So, in 1133 Alfonso VII granted the “Abduction Privilege” to Guadalajara. A fugitive who sought sanctuary with an abducted woman was protected by a royal fine of 500 sueldos on his accusers. The crown could hunt down murderers, thieves and traitors, but abductors were hidden away from pursuers. Then, in 1139, Alfonso also allowed similar laws in Oreja, now known as Colmanar de Oreja, where a “colonist-abductor” could bring into the town any willing and marriageable woman, so long as she was not already married, a relation or was being brought by force.

But in fact this had been going on for years. In 986 Count Ramon Borel of Catalonia banned incoming abductors, but only those who came with women who were already married or betrothed to another. A girl free of obligations was therefore fair game.

And in 1076 Alfonso VI granted protection to the colonisers of Sepúlvada when they brought in a “woman, girl, or other stolen goods”.

Towns close to the border with Aragon admitted killers, thieves and explicitly those importing women. In 1131 the town of Calatayuz granted asylum to known murderers and men bringing in abducted women. The townspeople would then vote as to whether to allow their pursuers admittance.

In some places this “abduction” was not even what it purported to be. In Lower Navarra it was said that a noble could make any girl a noblewoman by undertaking a ritual of abduction. He only had to carry her nine steps away from her home, provided she was dressed in a chemise and her hair was let down. She then became an infanzona forever. It could be claimed that our modern custom of carrying a new bride across the threshold of the couple’s new home is no more than an extension of this “rite”. And surely her “deshabile” would make it pretty clear she was a willing party to the abduction.

In some of the newly established communities a daring young abductor would be seen as just the sort of man they needed.

And how could it be wrong when the church allowed it. The Decretum Gratiani, a code of canon law decreed by the Roman Church in 1240 defended the validity of the marriage even though no parental consent had been given. Incidentally, this code lasted until 1918 although legal statutes had banned the practise of “Bridal Theft” (I love that phrase!) centuries before.

Communities, ironically even those who had been founded by abductors, sought remedies to stop the practise. One of the ways this was done was by the enforcement of arranged marriages where all parties consented to the union. But still kidnappers had to be dissuaded with the introduction of very severe penalties including large fines, exile and death. The death being carried out by the avenging family.

At Alba de Tormes the penalties were worst when the daughter of a property owning citizen was abducted. Apparently this distinction was made in cases of rape as well. And as virgin daughters were the main target, Castilian custom tended to disregard widows and the marriage of a widow against her family’s wishes was considered less offensive.

Where an abducted bride was in fact a runaway bride, in that she had colluded with her abductor, she was now considered a party to the crime and would be punished. In Cuenca disinheritance and exile were the normal penalties for the woman. Cuenca also made provision for the abducted women already being someone’s wife. In which case the abductor, if caught, could expect to be burnt at the stake and all his possessions confiscated. This punishment was also exacted on the woman when she colluded with her kidnapper.

But now the law of the land came into conflict with the church. If vows had been exchanged and the marriage consummated the church decreed the union was legal. To the State, though, it was a crime and several kings sought to increase revenues by imposing severe fines on the perpetrators.

But you had to catch them before you could punish them. If a couple had slipped away unnoticed and travelled far, they could live happily ever after without fear of punishment. However, any property the man possessed in the town would be confiscated and the family were saved the cost of a dowry, which was recompense of a sort and perhaps a blessing for the father of the bride, who would remain that much richer.

The right of “Abductors Privilege” in towns like Guaralajara and Colmanar de Oveja did much to encourage the settlement in new or depleted town taken from the Moors after the reconquista and probably did much to mix the gene pool of Spain. I imagine that many Spanish Romeros and Julias did live happily ever after.

I doubt us single males could get away with it now!

I’m learning Spanish, not trying to offend you. Honest!

2011-07-30T19:23:00.000+02:00

By Richard Morley.

I think it was Oscar Wilde who said, “Experience is the name we give to our mistakes”. Experience can be a good teacher, unless you are a politician, but that’s another story! I also think there’s some truth in saying the greater the mistake, the greater the learning possibility.

Actually, I would like to rephrase that: The greater the embarrassment potential within the mistake, the chances are much higher that the learner won’t ever repeat that mistake. Again with the caveat that this does not necessarily apply to politicians!

And what greater source of potential embarrassment could there be than that of attempting to communicate in another language.

In another post I wrote a long time ago I high-lighted the danger of accent blindness when reading Spanish by confusing “Inglés” with “Ingles”. That the difference was explained to me before I committed the blunder publicly was a close shave indeed!

But that was a couple of years back. I have plenty of opportunities to disgrace myself linguistically since then.

How well I remember the time, when enjoying a coffee with a sweet lady in a crowded café, I declared quite loudly that a certain Spanish politician needed a penis. I meant to say he needed support. The word I needed was “Apoyo”, but I mispronounced and said something else entirely. Aforementioned sweet lady quickly amended my pronunciation.

And what confused mental dyslexia had me pointing out to the same sweet lady, while we were walking across a sunlit meadow, all the “testicles” running about in the field. Rabbits in Spanish are “conejos”. Bilingual anagrams are a minefield when you learn new vocabulary from reading and not from listening.

I am convinced the Spanish have so designed their language to get maximum humorous entertainment from us guiris as we stumble through their lexicon. I mean, what could be more innocent than wanting to lend a hand in the kitchen by declaring that you will sweep up the mess. The verb in question is “cepillar” (the double “ll” is pronounced like the y in yacht or young) – to brush, to sweep and in woodwork, to plane. If you check it on Wordrefernce.com those definitions are there plus the act of finishing something, cleaning the teeth, and, surprisingly, killing someone. It’s only at the bottom of the list you find, “vulg. Tener relaciones sexuales con alguien.” Yes, to have sex. Now tell me they haven’t done this on purpose!

Actually, I report that last with gleeful schadenfreude. Last week I was with a group of Spanish schoolteachers and one, as part of a presentation, gave us a talk on first aid and in particular, Cardio Pulmonary Resuscitation; the method of using mouth to mouth breathing and chest compression to resuscitate a drowned or unconscious person or “CPR”. The way she pronounced those three letters had the Spanish members of her audience convulsed with lascivious laughter. These paragons of educational virtue took great delight in explaining the fun found in their colleague’s slight mispronunciation, particularly while demonstrating on a muscular, and quite handsome young man.

On a similar note, it is perhaps not a good idea to tell a lady you have only just met that you want to run away with her. The list of meanings in Wordreference for “Correr” is quite extensive!

Now I know that Spanish ladies tend to speak their mind. “Eufemismo” exists as almost the same word as “euphemism” in English, but it doesn’t seem to exist in practice. Spanish ladies do not call a spade a wooden handled digging device. I consider myself a man of the world. It takes a lot to shock me. But I was surprised when my female friends spoke about “making their bikini” or “working on their bikini”. All sorts of inappropriate visions came into my head. I am not the only one. When mentioning this to a newly arrived lady teacher from the UK, she too assumed waxing, shaving and unwanted hair was involved, when in fact it means no more than losing a bit of winter weight to look good in their swim wear.

It has got to the stage now that I am suspicious of new words – or new uses of old ones. If I come across a new idiom or hear a familiar word used in an unusual context my vulgarity antenna goes up. Not that it should worry me. See above, man of the world etc etc, but I do have some, shall we say, “old-fashioned” acquaintances who might be either shocked at the word / idiom, or embarrassed to explain it to me.

These words come from surprising sources. I have been working my way through the fictional autobiographical stories of eight year old Manolito Gafotas, who lives in Carabanchel (alto), a district of southwest Madrid.

The books were written by a Journalist, Elvira Lindo, in the nineties and quickly became a huge literary success, followed by a TV series, a couple of feature films and awards for Children’s literature. But in the books, when Manolito wishes to express his frustration he frequently uses the word “Joé”. My dictionary does not have this word. Neither does Wordreference. So I asked, because she was there, a lady of “a certain age” to tell me what it meant. She flustered and was a little embarrassed to explain that it was the kids’ version of “Joder”, the Spanish “F” word, used in much the same way that “Miércoles” replaces “Mierda” in children’s speech – at least when adults are listening.

These stories have very quickly become classics of Spanish Children’s literature. I am sure that good parents the Spanish speaking world over buy these books for their children, or read the stories at bedtime. I hope they are ready to explain to their little darlings the meaning of some of the words. But I have struck this particular lady off my list of “Spanish explainers”. I would not wish to embarrass her again.

I could, of course, consult my copy of “Pardon my Spanish”, which is a complete guide to the less polite words of the Spanish lexicon and in which the words are graded from “Able to use in front of Granny” to “ONLY EVER use with close friends!”

Of course there less innocuous words to confuse. I remember a Dutch friends who asked an optician to check her “eights” (ochos) instead of her “eyes” (ojos). I recently told a dentist I had lost an “embalse” (dam) instead of an “empaste” (filling). The look of perplexity on his face was a sight to behold. Trying to be more clever than I actually am I thought baby pigeons ( little “palomas”) were a “palomitas”, which is really “popcorn”.

But it’s the big bloopers that stay in the mind. The ones with such embarrassing consequences you will never forget them.

Experience might be a hard teacher, but it’s a good one.

I have a PS, but it’s x-rated, so if you are of a nervous disposition do not read any further.

At one of the English Villages I attend, a rather straight-laced American lady had bitten the inside of her cheek while eating and this had raised a painful blister. Finding out, illegally, from one of the students that the word for blister is “empolla” (but not quite hearing it correctly) she visited a pharmacy and explained she had “a polla” in her mouth, while jabbing a finger in and out of her open mouth to demonstrate. The student nearly collapsed in laughter, particularly when retelling the tale later. “Polla” (pronounced poy-ya) is slang for penis. The student reported the pharmacists was quite surprised!

You continued reading, didn’t you. I told you not to!

What embarrassing mistakes have you made??

Spain Rocks

2011-07-13T15:26:00.002+02:00

By Richard Morley

The snow capped peaks of the Gredos mountains. Part of the "Sistema Central" of Spain's Mountains.

I wrote recently in my post about the source of the Manzanares river that today’s tranquil landscape had been, a long, long time ago, a rather turbulent place. That while today the pink, or Rose Granite lends a colourful hue to the peaceful slopes of the Yelmo, at the time of its formation it was a place of volcanoes and heaving rivers of lava. It’s a nice place today because it’s been a gneiss place for ages. (Geological joke! – Look it up.)

A (very) close up picture of the rose granite through which the young Manzanares runs.

The Manzanares’ source lies in the Sierra de Guadarrama, part of the central system of mountains that stretches from Portugal to just north of Madrid, incorporating the sierras of Gredos, Avilla, and Guadarrama (among several others) and delineates the divide between northern Spain and the south. In geological terms they are quite young mountains. A famous mountaineer, when asked why he wanted to climb a mountain said, “Because it is there”. Me, I want to know why.

The Iberian "Sistema Central" mountains running more or less West-East until terminating at the perpendicular Iberian system, formed 40 million years earlier when Spain faced in another direction.

Today we tend to think of dramatic geological events in terms of unpronounceable Icelandic volcanoes and havoc inducing tsunamis. That’s because they happen quickly; over days, or even hours. Most geological events happen much, much slower. For us, and the world in general, that’s a good thing. For Spain, it has been a blessing. The country that we know and love has taken a very long time to reach it’s present state. It has travelled – and will continue to do so. It has been subject to amazing forces – and still is. Geology has shaped the world and shaped us. We respond to our surroundings. Geologically, the country went it’s own way for eons. Historically, it did the same. Perhaps this says something about the tenacious spirit of the Spanish, of their, sometimes, fiery “carácter” , but also their more often seen tranquil nature.

Weathered peaks of the Pedriza in the Guadarrama mountains.

Let’s see the events unfold. (But in a really, really simplified form. I don’t want comments telling me that I have forgotten such and such an event. As an old tee-shirt of mine once said, “Geophysicists do it deeper!”, but here I am just scratching the surface.)

Cast your minds back to, oh, let’s say, 600 million years ago. We will have to speculate a bit. I’ve attempted to do the research, but, as I have discovered in a long career in one particular branch of earth studies, if there is one thing that geologists can’t agree on – it’s EVERYTHING! So, there are competing theories. Quite a few of them have had to be formulated relatively recently. After all, it’s just exactly one hundred years since Alfred Wegener, noticing how the coastlines on opposite sides of the Atlantic fitted together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, published the first paper on how the world’s landmasses seemed to drift across the Earth’s surface. Perhaps because he was an astronomer and meteorologist and not a geologist many did not take his ideas seriously. Plus, there were competing theories (the discredited “expanding Earth”) and the fact that there seemed to be no driving mechanism behind the continental movements. They were still arguing about it in the early seventies when I was a student.

But it seems to go a bit like this. Prior to 600 million years ago the World’s landmasses had been forming and reforming into groups until on almost opposite sides of the globe two super continents, one called Gondwana and the other Laurasia, had come into being. Slowly they drifted together and at about 600 million years ago they met and formed the giant extra-super continent, Pangea.

Pangea looked like a letter C, or a very distorted 8. A bit like a knobbly Pac man figure facing right, it’s mouth agape. But think of the 8, bent into a C shape. Where the two halves of the 8 meet, or perhaps where Pac man’s tonsils could be, were a few independent landmasses which had been crushed together and bridged the gap between the two continents. They are known as the Avalonian, the Amorican, and the Iberian plates. You might like to bear in mind the “Iberian” plate. It’s sort of important in this article!

To the east, ie, within the Pac man’s gaping jaw, lay the Tethys sea.

Then several things happened. Firstly, the pressure of Gondwana pushing up into Laurasia compressed bits of the northern continent and pushed them upwards, forming mountains. Today, these mountains are so eroded it’s not easy, except by using reflective seismic techniques, (a bit like sonar on land) to find the evidence, but some can be found in Spain’s north west, on its corner with Portugal, in south east Galicia.

As the southern continent pushed against Laurasia, it subducted, meaning it slid underneath. This, as today can be seen around the Pacific’s rim, leads to volcanic activity. This can be seen in ancient volcanoes found in Spain’s northeast, but in the centre, where the Iberian plate was thin and weak, a great intrusion of magmatic rock oozed to swell into a huge globule of granite. It is as if the rivers of fire from hell rose to the surface and, in fact, we call that action “Plutonism”, named for Pluto, the ancient Roman god of the underworld. That’s what I was gazing at in the last post. But 600 million years ago it didn’t break the surface, so at the time there was little evidence of what was going on below. On the Avalonian plate, however, there was huge amounts of violent volcanic activity, which had already been going on for 100 million years and would continue for another 100 million.

Moving forward in time this volcanic activity would lead to a splitting of the left hand side of Pangea. (Incidentally, I write of left and right rather than east or west, north or south, because even though geologists speak of “Laurasia”, “Amorica”, even “Euro-America”, those land masses were nowhere near their present geographical locations – and after which they are named. (Laurasia became, after the splitting off of north America, Eurasia.) All of what I am writing happened when these land masses where deep in the southern ocean. Spain at that time was thought to be around 55º south of the equator and probably not in its current orientation relative to north and south. Events are hard to construct from the historical carousel of continental drift. But not impossible.)

But I digressed.

The splitting off of the left hand side of Gondwana led to the formation of South America. Parts of Avalonia are found in the British Isles south of Scotland and continue through northern Europe. Other parts are found in eastern Canada, from where it took its name from the Avalonian peninsular in Newfoundland.

For the next 250 million years the great continent drifted northwards. 450 million years ago the Tethys sea began to close. So, as Pac man’s mouth slowly closed, the land mass of Laurasia turned clockwise. In the middle of this upheaval the two plates of Iberia and Amorica thrust together. Amorica is the land mass where today you find France, and you will think that Iberia and

France

, were, from that moment on, like co-joined twins tumbling around in the centre of global activity. But wait, there’s a twist, very literally, to their tale. But that’s for later. Right now, well 450 million years ago, extensive mountains were being built by the squeezing of the plates. The remains of this mountain building can be found today in Portugal, Galicia and Northern France. (Remember that little fact!)

Meanwhile Iberia and Amorica were passing though tropical regions. During this time they became great jungles of vegetation which died and their remains laid down in great belts of carboniferous strata. That’s coal to you and me. The coal is found in seams between layers of limestone and sandstone showing that the landmasses were alternately above sea-level (and covered in trees) and below sea-level, where oozing sand from eroding land and the shells of sea creatures created intervening limestone and sandstone strata. The bodies of those sea creatures, the soft parts, decomposed to give us oil. The great explosion for this was after the carboniferous, mainly during the Triassic and Jurrasic periods.

Limestone strata found in the Cordillera Iberica near Soria in northeast Spain.

It was in the Jurrasic, around 180 million years ago, that Pangea began to split up. The Tethys sea was closing rapidly. The Indian plate was sliding across to bump into asia. The Antarctic plate, with Australia and New Zealand still attached headed southward. They didn’t have far to go! The major landmasses were still travelling northwards. Laurasia, soon to become Eurasia with the loss of North America, was revolving clockwise. What was left of Gondwana, basically Africa, was continuing to push north and the two joined landmasses of Armorica and Iberia were rolled anti-clockwise and to the left between them.

The theory of much of what I have written is pretty common knowledge these days. The Discovery channel and others present documentaries about how these giant plates; the Pacific Plate, the African Plate and so on, are rolling around the earth. These giant plates are, in fact, “cratons”, meaning they are composed of lots of smaller plates that seem to have permanently joined together; the completed parts of a jigsaw puzzle, if you like. It is where the constituent plates rub against each other that we get seismic activity like earthquakes and volcanoes.

Iberia swivels under France to open up the Bay of Biscay.

For many millions of years the Amorica-Iberian landmass had formed a bridge between Northern Laurasia and Southern Gondwana. About 120 years ago they made their choice and Amorica, with its twin, became a craton of Eurasia. But the forces that had split North America away, first a volcanic rift then the spread of the Atlantic ocean, were pulling on Iberia and the clockwise motion of Eurasia was pulling on Amorica. Eventually they swung apart, but hinged at their southern extremity. This is the, literal, twist in the tail. As Amorica moved north and clockwise, Iberia twisted anticlockwise under it. The resulting gap opened to become the Bay of Biscay and about 65 million years ago, when the Iberian swing terminated by crashing into southern France, the beginnings of the Pyrenees were formed.

NASA photograph of the Pyrenees. Notice the compression folds as Iberia was pushed into Armorica.

A glance at the geological map above shows the continuation of the north-south oriented western Iberian mountains continuing oriented east-west in Brittany and Normandy in northern

France

. Geologists have used paleomagnetism, a technique that indicates the original magnetic orientation of rocks when they were formed. I used to think the similarity between those two parts of Europe was their love of cider, but it obviously goes much deeper – and further back – than that!

Europe basically had now taken the shape we are familiar with.

But things did not stop there. Africa, divested of south America, India, Antarctica, continued, and continues, to move north, still pushing into Europe. With Europe now more or less in its current position this northern movement of Africa exerted such pressure that ridges of mountains were formed all over the place. The mechanism is known as the “Alpine Orogeny” (mountain building) and, obviously, the European Alps are its main manifestation, but it is responsible for the rolling south downs of England, the Apennines in Italy and the Atlas mountains in Morocco, Algeria and

Tunisia

. In Spain this action is responsible for the Cantabrian mountains, including the Picos de Europa in Asturias and the Sierra Nevada in Andalucía.

The black lines represent the fold lines, showing how Iberia was squeezed while the plate rotated in its travels.

Squeezed at both ends the centre of Spain buckled like a sheet of paper. Mountain ranges rose, then collapsed. There is evidence that much of this time was spent below sea-level, with the peaks of the ranges existing as island chains. Signs of this are shown in layers of sedimentary rock around the slopes of the Guadarrama chain in the central system, but not at their summits. And the “Plate” of Iberia is also a craton, made up of smaller plates. It is through such a gap between plates that the Granite mass of the Pedriza finally pushed its way to the surface – and beyond – around 25 million years ago – hundreds of millions of years after it originally formed.

Elevation model of the central system and it's location on a general map of the Iberian peninsular. Notice how the land is raised higher to the north of the mountain range.

The Tethys sea had completely closed up at its eastern end by the land masses of

India

and the Arabian plate, what we now call the middle east. What’s left of that early sea is the Mediterranean. By any standard the Mediterranean is a substantial body of water. It has a surface area of 2.5 million square kilometres, an average depth of 1500 metres. It nearly 3000 kilometres from end to end and around a thousand wide, not including its sub seas; the Adriatic, the Aegean and so on. It borders 21 countries and has many important sea routes.

Imagine it empty.

Slightly less than 6 million years ago that happened. In an event named the “Messinian Salinity”, after the city of Messina in Sicily. Africa’s relentless push actually closed the access of the Atlantic through the straits of Gibraltar. Within a thousand years, apart from a few very salty lakes, some more than 3Km below present day sea levels, the Mediterranean was dry. And it stayed that way for nearly 700,000 years! The fossil record shows evidence that animals used the dried up sea bed to migrate between the two continents. The mineral record, achieved by studying core drilling samples show typical shore line mineralogy from the sea bed hundreds of kilometres from modern day shorelines.

Almost as abruptly, in geological time-speak, as it had begun, 5.3 million years ago, due to yet more geological shifting, waters once again poured through the straits in an event called the Zanclean Flood. Zanclean is the name geologists give to that era which begins the modern geological age. Geological studies show that the straits of Gibraltar were not the only water course open. There was one through Morocco and another across the Betic Plain, around modern day Seville. (Think Betis football club!)

These carried water of a much higher volume than is carried over Niagara Falls today, and over a drop of several kilometres. Some scientists have proposed that the rate of flow was as much as a billion cubic metres per second and the Mediterranean refilled in as little as a few months to two years, with water levels rising ten metres a day. (To compare: Niagara’s rate of flow is just under 2000 cubic metres per second.) However, Niagara’s waters come from the narrow confines of the Niagara river, the waters pouring into the Mediterranean had the force of the entire Atlantic ocean behind them.

Of course, that was not the end of Spanish seismic activity. Since written records began there has been a long history of seismic destruction. To mention the more famous – or infamous, there is the Lisbon earthquake of 1775. It struck in the morning of All Saints day, November the 1^st. Its six and a half minute duration caused huge fissures to open up in the city centre and the sea water receded from the harbour revealing long forgotten wrecks. Forty five minutes later the water returned as a tsunami. Estimates tell of between 60,000 to 100,000 dead and the complete destruction of the city.

These staples were used to repair a crack in the Church in La Alberca, Salamanca. The crack opened after shock waves from the Lisbon earthquake reached the town. La Alberca is some 330 km distant from Lisbon.

In 1884 the town of Arenas de Rey was struck by an earthquake reckoned to be around 7 on the Richter Scale. Eight hundred people were killed and a further 1500 injured. 14,000 homes were destroyed.

I take no joy from the fact that, following reading a few reports, I posted on my Facebook page on May 1^st this year that Spain could expect a major earthquake “soon”. Twelve days later the town of Lorca was rocked by a severe earthquake that killed eight, injured many and rendered many families homeless.

Earthquakes, having been part of my life for so many years, means that I often get asked to speak about them. By coincidence, I was doing just that on the 12^th of August 2007 when news came in that there had been a mild(ish) earthquake in Ciudad Real.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. I monitor the website of the Spanish geographic institute which reports on all quakes around the Iberian Peninsular. You can see it here.

That’s the downside of living on top of active geology. The advantages have been enormous. Spain’s mineral wealth is huge. The chemical reactions that occur within molten rock produce some useful stuff, like gold (4000kgs annually), silver (20,000kgs annually), feldspar (600,000 tons annually – that’s what all that granite gives you, as well as expensive kitchen tops) and of course historically Spain has been the world’s number one producer of Mercury from the mines at Almadén, which have produced 250,000 tons since Roman times.

The carboniferous era laid down coal in Galicia and Asturias. Current reserves suggest there is 530 million tons waiting to be mined, but apparently the work there is difficult. The damned geology gets in the way! Erosion of rock over the millennia has led to Spain being pretty much self-sufficient in sand and gravel, and the limestone deposits means that cement production is nearly all home grown. Years of shallow submergence, particularly during the Messinian salinity has given Spain untold quantities of gypsum. If you look at the map of the Messianian refilling above you will see the town of Sorbas marked. The Mediterranean used to flood and then recede in this shoreline area, leaving behind each time more minerals, known as evaporates (for obvious reasons), including gypsum, that would later be mined. Used in building everywhere (plaster walls and ceilings, fairground plaster of Paris statuettes!) Spain is Europe’s largest producer and the second largest in the world.

There’s iron, bauxite, and a long list of other minor stuff. Not much oil sadly. Some oil shale which kept the power stations of Spain running for many years and a small field off the coast of Cantabridgia.

And all that mountain building has given Spain super fertile slopes for grapes and olives, not to mention the skiing. After Switzerland, Spain is the most mountainous country in Europe.

The continents will keep moving. Some think that Iberia will become so squashed by Africa’s relentless push that it will be squeezed out into the Atlantic like a geological zit. Perhaps it will become an island drifting who knows where. I read one report that suggested in 30 million years it will be somewhere near where Iceland is now. That’s a long time. You don’t have to pack the winter wear just yet, but enjoy the ride!

Just as a serendipitous postscript I was amused to find a shop specialising in "Geological Jewellery" (if there is such a thing!). Many long eJstablished businesses like to boast of their year of foundation. They are never going to beat this place.

Find decorative geodes, fossil fashion, minerals and meteorites 72, C/Hermosilla. (Near Goya metro.)

Madrid's River Manzanares. Where it begins....

2011-07-01T14:38:00.000+02:00

Or Out of the frying pan and into the Fridge,
By Richard Morley.

When I wrote, a couple of posts ago, about Madrid’s new park running alongside the Manzanares River as it lazily glides though the city, I gave little thought to where that water came from. Like the crowds happily picnicking on the river banks in Goya’s famous painting above, I was quite happy to spend a cool evening beside the cool water.

Not many days later and Madrid stopped having cool evenings. The numbers on the electronic temperature displays at the bus stops climbed way up into the thirties and refuse to come down. Madrid is hot and sticky. The washing machine seems to be continuously on, removing the perspiration from several shirts a day, with the shower doing the same thing from my body. (I wish the guy on the Metro this morning had followed my example. It must have been yesterdays shirt. What a stink!)

Last week one of my students injured himself playing football and limped into Monday’s lesson wincing as he walked. On Tuesday he called and cancelled, claiming his ankle needed the expertise of a doctor. And so, with a free evening ahead, a friend suggested an escape to Madrid’s northerly mountains.

Now I like a walk in the hills, but I should have smelled a rat when she also suggested that I bring my swimming trunks.

By six that evening we had parked the car in an almost deserted car park in the Parque Regional de la Cuenca Alta del Manzanares, a nature reserve high in the Guadarrama mountains, recognised by UNESCO for its unique biological heritage and overlooked by La Pedriza, a huge granite uplift that dominates the region.

Geologically speaking, the Spanish word “Cuenca” means valley or bowl. Hence the town of Cuenca, which has nothing to do with this post, but where houses precariously hang from cliffs over-looking a deep valley. In the case of the Parque Regional de la Cuenca Alta del Manzanares, the “bowl” here signifies the confluence of several small streams into one main river valley which officially becomes the Manzanares river.

On the drive up to the parque I took in the scene of boulder strewn slopes and thought that at sometime in the past something pretty serious had happened to the geology. Granite is an igneous rock, spewed out by volcanoes, and here was several cubic kilometres of it. In places the granite was fissures and the cracks were filled with black basalt, again of volcanic production, and then it had been uplifted and split asunder. The area would have been pretty uninhabitable at the time. Now the parque is a peaceful retreat from the heat and bustle of the city. A place of shady pines and scented bushes, riverside walks and picnic spots. And, my friend told me, of places to bathe in the cooling water.

We left the car and strolled down the slope to the river. A handy sign informs you or where you are and what you can see. Beyond, a narrow wooden bridge, half submerged in the shadows of high tree – don’t ask me what they are, I am no botanist – led us across a narrow stream that tripped lightly over a few rocks and a fallen tree trunk.

A pretty little river I thought. But as we progressed up stream the rocks became boulders, the trickle turned into competing flows of white water. There was a water fall around every bend, and behind each fall a pool where people picnicked and splashed in the water.

Now, if you were to dip a toe into the waters of the Manzanares as it meanders though the city you might remark that the water is “refreshing”. But when the water reaches the city it is well on its way along its eighty-three kilometre journey from its source to where it joins the Jarama river. Yes, the “mighty Manzanares” is but the tributary of another. On the first half of its journey it has had time to relax under the warming sun while it dawdled in the Santillana reservoir, near the town of Manzanares de Real, and then slowly tumble along its lazy route, past courses for golf and horse racing, into the city.

Cooling off in the cold, cold waters.

Up near its source, in the Parque Regional de la Cuenca Alta del Manzanares, the water is not “refreshing” but BLOODY FREEZING. A few degrees cooler and those sparkling water trickles would be icicles. It is not many days since the tumbling water of the Manzanares headwaters was snow peacefully at rest on the peaks of the Guadarrama mountains. Then summer arrived and raising the temperature by not very much sent the snowmelt in a raging torrent over the granite boulders where it splashed and tumbled, eddied and pooled as it squeezed through the rocks.

A local resident basks in the evening sun.

Still unaware of just how cold this snowmelt was, as my friend and I walked along the river banks under a burning sun from a cloudless blue sky, I looked on with envy as groups of family and friends paddled and splashed in the water. The car park we had used was not the only one. My friend stopped a passing dog walker and asked him how far up river did the picnics and pool parties continue. He laughed sardonically, remarking that on a Tuesday evening he had hopes of having the woods and banks to himself, but that he thought most of Madrid, us included I suppose, had come out to spoil his evening.

Going ...... going ........ soon to be gone. A boulder balances precariously over the river bank.

My friend remarked how nice it was to be able to walk unencumbered with a back-pack through the shady woods. I, being a gentleman, had volunteered to carry the back pack and grunted that I was happy for her. A language difference means that irony sometimes gets lost in translation!

The open and flattish woodland walk soon gave way to a more rugged and narrower path. There were cracks to be squeezed though, boulders requiring giant steps to surmount, sticky, snagging bushes to circumvent. All the while the laughter and joy of those who had already found their little pool of paradise rose up from the river.

Eventually we found an empty spot. A place of washed pink granite, known appropriately as Rose Granite, that had been eroded over millennia into broad, smooth beds which the acrobatic water washed with sporadic waves. We changed into our swimming stuff and dipped a toe in the water.

I shall not record the first word I used. Children might read this! Suffice it to say the coldness of the water came as a surprise. The second surprise was that the smoothness of the eroded rock allowed for no grip and I slid into the water. My friend was greatly amused by this, until the same thing happened to her and it took us a while to scramble back on to dry rock, which, compared to the water, was positively hot. Half on and half off the rocks we dangled our feet in the water. We had possibly walked four or five kilometres so the cold water gurgling though our toes was a welcome relief. Later, now with anticipation than ignorance, we let the water console more of our bodies.

A couple of degrees less .....and this would be an icicle!!!

From the backpack she produced tortilla and bread and something to drink. Like others in their own personal paradises along the river bank we let all thoughts of hot and sweaty Madrid pass from our minds.

Walking back, with the sun casting long shadows and dappling the wood floor with light and shade, we noticed birds hovering on thermals over the Pedriza. The mountains here claim the title of the largest expanse of Granite in Europe.

On the way from Madrid I thought I was being clever and spotted the shape of a face in the rocks. My friend gave me that look which means I will for ever be a guiri and remarked that gazing at the slopes of the Pedriza is like observing shapes in the flames of a fire. She pointed out a tortoise, a helmet, which is what this particular peak, El Yelmo, is named for, and even a mammoth, while above us the rock formation known as the Canchos de los Muertos contemplated the living below.

I am told that there are nearly a thousand different routes for hill walkers and rock climbers within the thirty two square kilometres of the Pedriza. I had already had enough exercise for one day and the only exercise I was now contemplating was raising a glass or two of cold beer.

This was achieved after we drove out of the park into the small town of Manzanares el Real where stands a real medieval castle and a church tower swarming with storks.

Below that tower, in a small plaza, lay a bar. Around me kids, lots of kids, probably something to do with the storks, played in the plaza. A beer sat in front of me - but not for long!!

Now that was paradise.

Not a quiet revolution.

2011-06-20T10:46:00.003+02:00

By Richard Morley.

The times they are a-changing.

Something is happening here is Spain, and I am not sure what it is.

Now, not being a native, but a guest, I do not feel it has been appropriate for me to take sides with the “indignados” (the indignant ones) who have recently been encamped in the Pueta del Sol here in Madrid and in public squares around the country. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have an opinion.

Before moving to Spain permanently I would compare the control being imposed by central government on the people of the UK with the relative laissez faire attitude of the Spanish authorities. However, recent events here, for whatever reasons, have inculcated a feeling that the state is sticking it’s nose in where it’s not wanted. And in the minds of those who can remember a time when the Government very much imposed its will on the populace, this latest interference is not welcome. Particularly when the activities of that government seem to be doing nothing to relieve the very real and current concerns of a nation with massive debt, high unemployment, and a lack of confidence in the future.

Even though the next general election will probably see a change of political will in congress, the indignados don’t think that will change the direction in which the country is going.

Of course, part of the problem does not lie with central government, but with each of the autonomous regions where each creates their own problems. The workers’ unions must also take some of the blame. The “sindicatos” have been engaged in negotiations with the government in order to come up with some sort of policy that would make the creation of jobs easier. The employers say that the cost of employing people is high under current legislation and the social packages Spanish workers are entitled to make it expensive to fire people also. As the sindicatos have been refusing to relinquish workers rights and the employers have also dug their heels in, the negotiations reached an impasse. As the government want to be seen doing something, they will now impose an employment policy that no one will agree to.

Last year Esperanza Aguirre’s Comunidad de Madrid said it would cut fifty-eight legal steps from those needed to create a new business. They cut fifty-eight! How many are left? A friend of mine involved with starting a new business here in Madrid can answer that. Too damn many!

Many are not taking those steps. The ex-construction workers who want to put a roof over their family’s heads and food on their table can’t afford the luxury of time or the cost of legally starting a new business, so the lamp post are adorned with computer printed, or hand-written, advertisements for their services to decorate your home or replace a kitchen or bathroom. I am sure that most cannot afford the €3000 payment that must be made when starting any form of business, or the very high social security payments demanded of the self-employed. Not being legal, I doubt they are declaring their earnings for tax. They can’t legally take on employees either, so the unemployment numbers don’t get reduced and the hacienda, the tax office, loses revenue. But to make the process easier would mean that government funcionarios, civil servants, (a misnomer in many cases!), and notarios would have nothing to do. Except get a proper job, of course!

So, the indignados have been protesting. Firstly in the month long encampment that formed in Sol and other plazas around the country. Then in small demonstrations everywhere and culminating last weekend in street protests all over the country. They claim to want “Democracia, Ya!”, or democracy now, but enticed voters to spoil their ballot papers at the recent local elections. I don’t follow that. A young protester that recently gate-crashed the inauguration ceremony for the swearing in on the newly elected representatives of the Comunidad and managed to demand from Señora Aguirre what right she had to represent all the Madrileños as voter turn-out was far from 100% and there were so many spoiled papers. She replied that, “This is a free country and …… each is entitled to vote ……. and the nature of elections is to renew the mandate of those who had done a good job and throw out those who had a done a bad one.” She went on to remark that voting was the one important responsibility of a country’s citizens. I agree and will also say that those who did not vote, or enticed others not to vote, were not supporters of democracy.

As Winston Churchill said (I think) “democracy has many faults but it’s better than the alternative”.

The protesters’ camp in Sol had their own problems with democracy. They had lots of noisy protests, but couldn’t actually agree an anything. Apparently their decisions needed everyone to agree. Just one dissenting voice meant they would not reach concensus, because the voice of the majority was not the voice of all. As Abraham Lincoln remarked, “…….. you can’t please all of the people all of the time”. In a democracy the minority have to lick their wounds and wait for their turn.

But whatever the demonstrators protested about, they did it very noisily. Walking though Sol one Saturday evening at the height of the protests I was struck by the sheer volume of the voices raised in anger and was pleased that I wasn’t living in that neighbourhood and trying to get to sleep. It would have been impossible. And it would have been impossible for four long weeks. The erection of the encampment brought with it, despite the best efforts of the organisers to impose some order, a hygiene problem and restricted free passage though, and free use of, the Plaza. Many businesses reported a severe drop in trade because the “Democracia, Ya” protesters had imposed their own, un-elected will on the area.

And just as an aside here, When I wandered though the encampment which was set up to highlight and publicise the plight of so many, I noticed many notices restricting the taking of photographs. What were they afraid of? Surely they wanted all the publicity they could get? If you want someone to take notice, you have to stand and be counted.

However, Spain is, whatever the protesters say, a democracy. They have the right to protest and freedom of speech. Having lived and worked in countries where neither of these things is a “right” I probably value them more highly than those under forty here do. Perhaps they should ask their parents and grandparents what the country was like before 1975.

But did they have the right to disturb the sleep and business life in Sol during their month long protest? You see, while the authorities let them do what they wanted, those same authorities are prohibiting loud music in the street in Chueca during Gay Pride weekend – because the local residents have complained.

And it’s not just Chueca. Over thirty barrios that traditionally have “fiestas patronales” such as the Verbena de Poloma in La Latina, in Tetuan for the Fiesta de Victoria and for the Fiesta de Carmen in Vallecas. All of them are being reviewed regarding the loudness of the entertainment that will now be allowed. A spokesman for the barrio of Tetuan commented,”…. In the first week of July there will be concerts and fairs in the plaza de Remonta. Of course they are noisy and some residents have already complained”. But “What would become of Madrid without the streets fairs?” said Fernando Garcia of the Cuatro Caminos neighbourhood association.

Suddenly Madrid’s, and Spain’s, live and let live attitude is undergoing a sea change. After years of smoking being allowed everywhere, now we have had to adjust to being restricted. Most of us smokers have happily taken that on board, but it must have affected sales as twice in two weeks the price of cigarettes came down recently.

Yes, that’s right. They came down! Amazing.

My recent remarks regarding a speed restriction on cycling in the new cycle lanes in Madrid Rio meant that I watched with some amusement interviews with cyclists on TV last week. They were angry. “Six kilometres an hour is hardly enough to allow you to balance”, claimed one. Another, echoing my point, argued that painted lines delineating walkers from those on wheels was the sensible solution. One more made the point that the cycle lanes were designed for the users to enjoy exercising on their machines and introducing ridiculous speed limits was not a proper solution. After all, they are called “Cycle Lanes”. Were these of a similar age to the young “indignados”? No, they senior citizens wanting to enjoy a bike ride in the sun.

The smoking restrictions, noise controls (on a normally noisy city), reduced speed limits on the motorways and now other petty rules are seen by many here to be unwarranted intrusions into the citizens’ right to enjoy life. Non-smokers, those wanting peace and those who like to walk without fear of accident will all have their opinions – as do those who think otherwise.

Shouldn’t we all learn to live together?

Madrid New Riverside Park - Madrid Rio.

2011-06-12T15:36:00.005+02:00

By Richard Morley.

Six years ago when I first came to Madrid I had no idea the city had a river. Today’s metro maps feature a zig-zag of pale blue giving an impression of the river’s route, but this doesn’t appear on maps until after 2007. The free street map given away by the tourist office also showed a blue squiggle in its bottom right corner with the word “Rio”, but no actual name. The delights of the Prado, the Plaza Mayor, Sol and Gran via are so far removed from the watercourse that the river hardly registered in the mind. While Paris and London were built on the flood plains of their great rivers early settlements in the Spanish capital tended to be on the high plateau, which was probably much better for defence than confined in the river valley.

While it might have supplied water for a small community, the Manzanares River has never carried enough water to provide for a thirsty city. I admit to having been rather scathing about the waterway in past posts, referring to it, ironically, as the “Mighty Manzanares” and quoting the wag of a couple of centuries ago who wrote that “The Manzanares is eminently navigable by a coach and horses”.

Could it be that the city was a little ashamed of its river?

Certainly the history of the river seems to be one of slight utilitarian use to the city and so little regarded as to be isolated between the north and south bound lanes of the M30 ring road. The river ran, hidden, between them. In short, compared to the other delights of this wonderful town, the river was far from being regarded as one of its attractions.

It was the forgotten river.

That has now changed! But it took a while.

In 2006 I made a friend who told me she lived close to the Puente de Pragua in an area of the city I had not visited before. So now I had a new part of Madrid to discover. My trusty Michelin Map told me to head on metro line 5 to Piramides and cross the river by the Puente de Toledo. What a terrible scene of devastation awaited me.

In 2004 a decision had been taken to redirect the M30 underground. Madrid’s alcalde, (mayor) Alberto Ruiz-Gallardón, or at least his advisors, had determined that the motorway was “a barrier to movement in the urban areas it ran through”. The old road was anyway in disrepair and it was thought that tens of thousands of vehicles polluted the air and the waters of the river.

I could have agreed with this. I live on the other side of the city where the M30, all eleven lanes of it, does not exactly contribute to a healthy atmosphere.

Diagram of a section of both tunnel and Park. Walking through the new park you have no idea of the traffic passing below your feet.

The project began in 2005, using one of the largest tunnel boring machines in the world, and was opened to traffic on the 5^th of February 2007. I had arrived on the river bank at about the halfway point in its construction. It was a mess.

I took photos. See the “before” pictures in this sequence.

But now look at those I took a couple of weekends ago. The river banks have been transformed into a rather wonderful park known as “Madrid Rio”. It’s all very new and immature at the moment, but the trees will grow, the stone will develop lichen and the yellow cycle-paths stain.

This project has not been cheap. The tunnelising of this section of the motorway cost €237 million out of a total project budget of €3.9 billion. The actual cost of this new green area seems to be buried somewhere within those figures.

But whatever the cost, Madrid has a new park and the statistics are astounding.

23 new pedestrian bridges have been constructed.

3,200,000 square metres of new green areas have been developed.

26,263 new trees have been planted.

30 kilometres of cycle lanes and pedestrian paths

11 play spaces for kids

6 quiet spots for the elderly

Competitions were run in schools to find out what the kids wanted to have and it truly is a place for all the family. I am particularly impressed with the way the play areas, safely placed under the traffic overpasses have been used to provide shade and how the bridges themselves are used to secure the chains for incredibly high swings and some form of bouncy elasticised activity for which I have no name, but it involves strapping yourself to a bungee cord crucifix and bouncing around on a trampoline. It looks fun.

And very energetic!

The Puerta de Toledo. Now cleaned and open to pedestrians.

Unfortunately I am no longer a kid. I prefer something a little more relaxing, and the new walkways through newly planted woods and flower gardens provide just that. A walk along the river bank with a friend would be the ideal way to spend an evening.

But the aforementioned friend had other ideas! (And not for the first time do I wonder why I seem to choose my friends from sadists!) “Madrid Rio is seven kilometres long. We should cycle. There’s a place we can rent bikes,” she announced, cruelly.

There is, and you can find it here.

The Puente de Segovia with the Catherdral and Royal palace in the background.

It’s five minutes walk from the Puente de Segovia. It says on their website you could get there from either Príncipe Pio (Metro lines 6, 10 or R(from Opera) or Puerta del Angel (L6). Trust me when I tell you to only use Puerta del Angel, unless you want to walk what you will later be cycling.

Not a sight you will ever see again. The author on a bike beside the Manzanares River. Note the upside down boat bridges in the background.

I calculated I hadn’t actually ridden a bicycle for fifteen years, but riding a bike is like, er, riding a bike. You don’t forget how it’s done, even if ones backside has become used to more comfortable seats.

It was a warm, sunny Saturday evening. My friend and I were not the only people to consider a camino along the river bank a good idea. This was disadvantageous to our bike ride. During my first visit, on foot, to Madrid Rio a couple of weeks previously I had thought that the bikers were a little inconsiderate in wanting to cut a swathe through the massed ranks of us walkers. Now the foot was on the other pedal. The walkers were getting in the way of us bikers. For this I blame the ayuntamiento. Whoever decided that allowing pedestrians and those on wheels to share the same space needs seriously to think again.

The most modern of the new bridges accross the Manzanares. This is, officially, El Puente Arganzuela. It allows crossing between either side of the river in the new Parque Arganzuela. For strength it uses a helix design and so I think it should be known as el Puente del Sacacorchos, or "Corkscrew Bridge".

Spanish walkers spread themselves, as anyone who’s tried to walk along Gran Via will attest. Threading a strange bicycle while still a bit wobbly through years of no practise was precarious to say the least. I did not want a confrontation with a mother, or worse, an abuela, after little Juan or Jauna had been crushed under the wheels of my machine. What should have been done, of course, and has been done on the newly constructed cycle lanes in my part of the city, is to designate areas. A simple painted line is all it would take. Indeed, they have actually made this designation on one of the new bridges, but the pedestrians took no notice.

However, breaking news: Today it has been announced the Señor Ruiz-Gallardón, the aforementioned mayor, has decided that the solution to this is to restrict the speed of cyclists to six kilometres and hour. It will be interesting to see how this is enforced as the cycles we hired did not have any method of measuring out speed so arguments with uniformed park police pointing accusatory fingers could come to an impasse. Maybe we shall have to have a man with a red flag walk in front – or will that just add to the log jam?

But, pedestrian / bicycle gridlock aside, it was fun to ride these new lanes. The main problem is in the area now known as the parque de Aguanzuela, where most activity seems to take place. Once past that and it was almost the joys of the open road, cycling along side the river as far down as Legazpi / Usera.

Now the park is open the sluice gates have been raised and the river has an appearance of actually containing water. It’s not very deep water as exposed sandbanks attest, but it’s a far cry from the polluted days of before. Mother ducks led lines of chicks, a heron stalked the sandbanks and near the Puente del Rey a fisherman looked optimistic.

While construction was going on the Ermita de Virgen del Puerta was buries in a sea of rubble. Now it is approchable though broad green parklands.

In a two fingered gesture to past criticism, most notably in a twenty year old pop song by the Refrescos which proclaimed the many attractions of Madrid but bewailed the fact it had no beach. “Vaya, vaya, No hay una playa en Madrid”, the song’s chorus proclaimed. This is no longer true. As part of the new park, Madrid has a beach – of sorts.

But some don’t need one. A stretch of grass will do. Crossing the Puente de Segovia one warm and sunny Monday afternoon I spied two bikinied young ladies working on an early tan. Encouragement indeed, if any were needed, to pay Madrid’s new attraction a visit.

Who needs a beach when a lawn will do. Bikinied ladies work on their tan bedside the river.

Ana-gram from Madrid

2011-04-13T18:42:00.000+02:00

I have just put the phone down. It was a pleasant conversation arranging a meeting tomorrow, but it started with a small confusion that, it seems to me at any rate, to be typical of my life here in Spain.

After answering with my cheery “Hello”, the person on the other end asked, “Do you know who this is?” I have to admit the voice was not one I immediately recognised and the consequent hesitation in my voice must have given the game away, because my caller identified herself with, “This is Ana”.

It is a pointer to the confusion in my life that this information was not immediately helpful.

You see, I know several Anas. However, usually, after a few seconds I am able to put name together with the voice and work out which Ana it was. Not this time. It may help you to visualise my initial uncertainty that this Ana was introduced to me by me friend, Ana. If it had been that Ana, who I have known for a long time, I would have recognised her voice immediately. Had it been Ana with whom I used to have lunch every Wednesday for more than two years until her company moved her to an office in Pozuelo, an expanding suburb to the west of Madrid and where, she claims, “Jesus lost his sandals”, I would have known at once without her having to tell me. There is my student, Ana, but she has a very distinctive voice, so I knew it wasn’t her, and I knew it couldn't have been the Ana the inebriate, who I see at my local from time to time. I have never had, nor will have, reason to give her my number. But the Ana on the phone is relatively new in my life. In fact I have met her only three or four times and that was late last year. Since then she has travelled to, and around, South America and has only just returned. I should feel flattered that she has called me to meet. She has, she told me, many things to speak about.

This phenomenon is not unknown at the English Villages I attend. (See last post.) Once with a plethora of Anas present the organisers decided to include the first letter of the family name to help differentiate the ladies. This led to one unfortunate wearing a name tag with “AnaL” on it. This was quickly changed to “Anita”. Another time we had five, yes five, ladies named Eva. We just numbered them, except for the last who was bulging in the eighth month of pregnancy. She was named “Eva Mummy”.

Last summer it was neither a sequence of Anas (would this be an “Ana-logue”?) nor a plethora of Evas (an Eva-luation?) that was making my mind reel, but a quickly growing row, or should that be column, of Pilars. In fact in the month of July alone I entered the numbers of four ladies of that name into my telephone. There, they joined five ladies called Eva, three called Julia, two called Marina, two called Mayte and, of course, a long long line of Marias.

In case you are thinking these list of ladies' names are some indication of a more prurient side of my life I might point out that at one time or another my phone has also contained copious Pedros, Davids, Juans and Pablos.

And, as I like to point out to the Christians who berate me for my evangelical atheism, unlike them I also have a Hot Line to Jesus. In fact several of them – of both sexes. Although Jesus Maria outnumbers Maria Jesus three to two. One of the Anas mentioned above is Ana Jesus and one I only know as Jesus.

My list of Marias that I could say “Ave” to would be much longer, but fortunately Maria Eugenia chooses to call herself “Mariu”, ( and thank goodness for that. Four distinctly pronounced vowels in a row, followed by an “h” sound, is not easy for the English tongue: i-a-e-u-hah!) Maria Isabel is Maribel, another similarly named is Marissa and Maria Teresa number one is Mayte, number two is Maite.

It would seem that the naming of children in Spain has, in the past, seemed a little repetitive. But there would seem to be only a limited number of saints and new testament personages and those are the names that are most favoured. That religious side to the Spanish carácter has had great impact on the giving of names. I have been told that at one time the church, or at least individual priests, demanded that every girl child was baptised Maria, whatever name her parents had chosen. There were, and are, whole families where every woman is officially named Maria Something.

I have also met a family where all four offspring bear the name Maria – and one of them is male!

When a male child is born I can almost guarantee that I know the child’s name before I am told. It will be the father’s name. Sometimes, in this freer age, I will be wrong, but Miguels beget other Miguels and Fernandos beget Fernandos, two examples I am familiar with.

However, this will not necessarily cause confusion as a) the children will have a slightly different surname to their parents, and b) nick-names will be used. I know of three generations of Maria Soledads who each answer to a different contraction of that name.

The Spanish seem slow to change in this respect. There are plenty of Albertos running around in school playgrounds here. I doubt there one Albert in any school in the

I am told that there used to be a list of “official” names and any not included were just not allowed. That has changed, but not necessarily for the good. I have heard that the children of immigrants are being given the most outlandish names; usually after well-known personalities and actors. However, my own country seems to be following this trend with a vengeance. I am sure their will be just as many Catherines born this year as there were Dianas in 1981. As a boy in the 1950s I remember sharing classrooms with a plethora of Annes and Elizabeths. No Charles though! I cannot remember one boy called Charles.

And the double Christian names are no longer required, although I know of only one person with just a single first name.

Occasionally though, I find the odd unusual name. Three years ago I met my first Covadonga, named after the 722 battle of Covadonga, a battle which is said to have kindled the reconquista of Spain from the marauding Muslims, or the place where the battle took place. Apparently it is a relatively common name in Asturias. Now I know three, the third only a week ago, in comparison to the many tens of Marias. I know just one Amparo, which I am told is now very old fashioned, although the lady herself is far from fitting that description. I am jealous of my friend Rafael. What I would give for such a dignified and culturally important, name.

But one particular memory has stayed with me since my early days in Spain. Sitting with friends in a bar I suddenly realised that at either end of a short sofa sat a Maria and a José, and sitting between them was a Jesus. I couldn’t resist. I got down on my knees and ……

Son of the Moon

2011-03-21T16:07:00.000+01:00

By Richard Morley.

A few days ago I came head to head with a Pope. Or, to be more accurate, an Antipope.

Let me give you a little history.

In the fourteenth century the French town of Avignon, up to then a place of little importance, became the residence of the Pope. Actually several popes when the Holy See moved, for it's own security, out of Rome. The last Pope to reign there was Pope Gregory XI, who, in 1377, was persuaded by Saint Catherine of Siena to return to Rome. One of his followers was a certain Pedro Martinez de Luna y Pérez de Gotor, a man born to a noble family in the Kingdom of Aragon. A member of the Aristocratic Luna family, he had been born in the small town of Illueca, about halfway between Calatayuz and Zaragoza. As a child he had lived in the family castle set on a hilltop overlooking the tiny village. When he came of age he studied law at the University of Montpelier in France, where he obtained a doctorate and taught Canon Law. His noble birth and high education caught the attention of Pope Gregory, who appointed Pedro as Cardinal Deacon of Santa Maria in Cosmedin, a minor basilica in Rome, in 1375.

So, two years later when Gregory restored the Holy See to Rome Pedro Martinez de Luna was one of his greatest supporters. Unfortunately, the following year Gregory died and was replaced with Urban VI with the assistance of this new cardinal. Urban, however, was not a great Pope. He was seen as haughty, superior and completely dismissive of the advice of his cardinals and the will of the people. In fact one of his critics went so far as to say he was “completely lacking in Christian gentleness and charity”. Hardly admirable qualities for the head of the Christian Church.

Meanwhile, the French, not particularly happy to have lost the seat of the Pope from their country, began to conspire against him. The Catholic church split into two factions. On the one hand the countries of England, The Holy Roman Empire, Denmark, Northern Italy, Hungary, Poland, and Ireland came out in support of Urban and Rome. On the other, France, of course, Scotland, Aragon, Castille and Leon, Burgundy, Savoy, and Southern Italy wanted to see the Pope back in Avignon.

And, if Urban wasn't going to move there, and he wasn't, they were going to elect another Pope who would.

So, a few months after Urban was elected Pope in Rome, at a conclave of Cardinal in Fondi in Southern Italy, Robert of Geneva was elected and set up as Pope in Avignon, becoming Pope Clement VII.

With Urban in Rome and Clement in Avignon, so began the start of a forty year period known as the Western Schism.

Pedro Martinez, obviously seeing which way the wind was blowing, decided to go to Avignon with Clement. This proved to be a good move because twelve days after Clement's death in September 1394, Pedro was elected Pope, taking the name Benedict XIII. Well, that’s the official name. If you talk about Benedict XIII, the Catholict church will assume you are talking about the one who was pope between 1734 and 1730.

From the 1377 return from Avignon until the present day, only the Roman popes are recognised as the true inheritors of Saint Peter’s legacy. History being written by the victors, the popes of Avignon are known for posterity as “Antipopes”. And the antipope from Illueca is known more commonly known as “Papa Luna”.

Urban had died in 1389 and was replaced with Boniface IX and a decade later the perfidious French decided their allegiance was, after all, with Rome, and Pedro, or Pope Benedict XIII, or Papa Luna, lost most of his support. He was left with just five cardinals although he was still regarded as the true Pope in Scotland, Sicily, Aragon and Castille. So he stayed in Avignon. This did not please the French who, in 1398, began a five year siege of the Papal Palace.

In 1403 Benedict escaped under the protection of the Duke of Anjou. Boniface died the following year and his successor, Innocent VII, died in 1406. He was replaced by Gregory XII, who magnanimously suggested both he and Benedict should resign to make way for a Pope that was agreeable to the whole Catholic church. To this end the Council of Pisa was set up to organise a peaceful transition. But Benedict wasn't having any of it despite both Gregory XII and his successor, John XXIII, agreeing to resign. Exasperated, no doubt, by this obstinate priest, John declared Benedict a “Schismatic” and excommunicated him. He had been pope for twenty eight years and two hundred and thirty eight days. Benedict, living up to then in Perpignon near the eastern French side of the Pyrenees, now fled to the castle at Peñíscola near Valancia under the protection of Alfonso V. It was there he died in 1423. If you have seen the film of El Cid, the castle at Peñíscola played the part of Valencia.

Benedict's body, on the orders of the Aragonese king Alfonso, was brought back to the family castle in Illueca and laid to rest. But in the early 1800s when Spain was under French rule, Napoleon’s army attacked the castle and, maybe because the French have long memories, the remains of Papa Luna were disinterred and unceremoniously thrown into the river. The only part that was rescued was the skull and this was spirited away to the castle of the duke of Anjou, in Sauvignon, France. Remember, the duke of Anjou was his only French supporter. In the year 2000 the skull was finally returned, with much pomp and ceremony, to Illueca and the castle

(A small digression here. The current Duke of Anjou is a Great grandson of Alfonso XIII, the king of Spain who abdicated in 1931, and a Grandson of Francisco Franco. He is a claimant to the French throne. It’s a small world in European aristocracy!)

The castle is now a hotel. I was staying there courtesy of Pueblo Inglés, the company that brings Spanish students of English into direct contact with native English speakers in an immersion programme to improve their use of the language. There, in a rather gruesome illuminated display in the hotel reception, sits the skull of Papa Luna. It was with this that I came to have a nodding acquaintance a few days ago.

This weekend all our students were teachers of English, or teachers who teach in English, (there is a difference!) from the state schools of

Aragon

Before I went there I was told by several Madrileños that the people of Aragon have a reputation for stubbornness. This was confirmed by one of the teachers who told me a joke. “How do you get twelve Aragonese in a mini car? Tell them they can't”. So, given the history above, I was delighted to find that there is a Spanish idiom that is used to describe a stubborn person: “Seguir en sus trece” - to stay in his / her thirteen, which is a direct reference to the intransigence of antipope Benedict XIII, who just didn't want to go.

Illueca is still a small town. The population in 2004, at the last census, showed just 3,396 inhabitants. I doubt it's not much more now, for a number of reasons.

The early morning sun settles gently on the hills around Illueca. In the foreground is a small industrial site where the remnants of the once important shoe industry is still continued.

Historically the town relied on agriculture and the manufacture of textiles. Apparently at one time it was famous for its production of dusters. A strange thing to base an economy on! Since the 12^th and 13^th centuries, when the name of the place was either Illicata or Illoca, there has always been some form of textile or leather trade. It was the latter that brought the greatest income and until very recently shoe and boot making was the town’s bread and butter. As recently as the last decade it was trumpeting its different styles of industrial safety footwear. However, as seen in other European towns that produced boots, that trade has largely migrated to the far east. It was not that long ago that I lived a short distance from the home of Doc Martins in Northampton in the UK. Those boots are now produced in South Korea!

From the high vantage point of the Luna castle the visitor can look down on two aspects of the town. Nestled directly below the castle is a tangle of narrow streets and alleys of the old town. Some of the streets are stepped as they slope steeply up to the castle. Wandering through this labyrinth I found the Calle Mayor – and found it to be just three of my paces, about two and a half metres, wide. Not very mayor! On both sides of these tiny streets the houses are small and narrow. Looking down from the castle can be seen collapsed roofs and vacant lots where a building once stood. There is an air of weary dilapidation about the place, although there are a few houses where a lick of paint and cement rendering has kept the house alive, you can also see houses that have irredeemably died on their foundations.

Beyond the old town lies the new. A development of new apartments, some utilitarian, some with some thought to their design, lie along the flatter valley floor. The main street is the normal mix of bars and shops. A shoe shop sells far eastern imports, piled high and sold cheap. A pair of plastic trainers for €8, football boots for €12. Irony in a town that once produced quality leather goods. Trading on its history, there is a factory outlet that sells proper leathers shoes, but no sign of where they are made. Mind you, a quick check of industries in the area shows there is still a great connection to the supply of footwear. Just how much is actually manufactured in the town is debateable.

The teachers I spoke to that weekend told me the town had a bad reputation for its schools. This has not been for lack of government spending. The teachers told me this: That due to the money that could be earned in the shoe factories the kids left school as soon as legally possible. Very few went on to further education. Illueca, having little in the way of nightlife, except bars, and the money earned by the young workers led to drug taking and alcohol abuse. This trickled down to the kids still at school, who already having little interest in academic learning, made life difficult for the teachers. The education authority invested eight million euros in a school of design and art – appropriate for an area that relied on the changing whims of footwear fashion – but apparently not many students applied.

This is, of course, always a problem when a town depends on one local industry and that industry disappears.

The community of Aragon is divided into three provinces, Huesca, Zaragoza and Truel, which are subdived into thirty three comarcas, or counties. The population is slightly less than one and a half million, with half living in Zaragoza. Mostly the community is a collection of small, isolated, villages. Illueca is the head of the Arranda Comarca, named for the river that flows through the town. The meeting rooms for the council are also in the castle. We actually had some of our meeting and classes in the council chambers, a smallish room that was none-the-less filled with microphones.

Down in the valley, where the old town merges with the new, the local town council offices overlook a sunny plaza in an otherwise narrow street. It was here they debated on whether the fate of name of the Calle Franco. There is a movement, largely successful, to rid the towns of memories of the Civil War and Franco’s legacy. But if they were to change the name, what important event or personage could possibly replace that of Franco. Well, there was a faction in the town who wanted to celebrate the great achievements of one Rodolfo Chikilicuatre, the singer (if that’s the word!) of Spain’s 2008 entry in the Eurovision song contest. I suspect this was a publicity stunt to bring the town some prominence. If so, it worked as it’s the only bit of news to come out of the town for years. As it happens, the motion was not passed and as far as I know, the street named for the dictator. (At least according to GoogleMaps.)

In these days of economical crises, a small community like Illueca will be struggling. However, they are Aragonese, and given their propensity for stubbornness I am sure they will “Seguir con sus trece”. I mean, Papa Luna outlived five “proper” popes. The people from Illueca are obviously survivors.

One Hundred Small Pieces

2011-02-27T12:52:00.003+01:00

By Richard Morley.

A “Real” was a Spanish coin introduced by King Pedro I of Castille. Later on came the coin known as the “Peso”, Spanish for “weight” which was the equivalent of eight “reals” and legally weighed 27.468 grams of silver. Other names for the Peso were the “real de ocho”, “the eight real coin”, and the “Thaller” or “Spanish Dollar”. Worth eight reals, now you know where the phrase beloved of pirates, and parrots, “Pieces of Eight” comes from.

On the 23rd of December 1865 four countries, France, Belgium, Italy and Switzerland, formed the Latin Monetary Union and agreed to standardize their national currencies to conform to four and a half grams of silver, which allowed them to freely use, and trust, each others’ currency. So began an experiment with a currency while not international in fact, became one in practise. Indeed, France, Belgium and Switzerland did use the same name, the Franc, for their currency, although Italy used “Lira” because it was them, four years earlier, under King Vittorio Emanuelle II, who had decided to standardize the currencies used in that country to a coin of four and a half grams weight. Although originally a “Lira” was actually equivalent to a pound weight of silver. Rather too heavy for the average pocket!

The idea of monetary union in Europe was such a success that in preparation to join the LMU Spain, on the 26th of June 1864, decreed that a new coin, the peseta, replacing the old escudo, would also weigh four and a half grams of silver.

The name, “peseta” comes from a catalan word, paceta, meaning “a small piece of something”, and the peseta was meant to be small piece of the peso – a fifth, in fact.

Spain and Greece joined the LMU in 1868, followed by Romania, Bulgaria, Venezuela, Serbia and San Marino in 1896. The Vatican also joined, but when it was found its coins did not contain the requisite amount of precious metal the Swiss and French banks insisted on its ejection. Records do not tell if the pieces of silver inspected numbered thirty, but they were kicked out anyway! Later, the exchange rate of the member currencies was changed from a silver to a gold standard, but the LMU survived until the reorganization (if that could possibly be the right word) of Europe caused by the First World War.

So, monetary union in Europe is not a new thing. It remained a successful concept for more than half a century. I wonder if back in the 1870s people were blaming it for increasing prices and the ruination of their banking system. Perhaps not. Being the LATIN Monetary Union, Germany was kept out of it.

Spain, of course, continued to use the peseta until its eventual replacement by the Euro in January 2002, but remained as legal coinage until March. After which no peseta coins could be used - ever – again!

Repeat – EVER!

So why, when emptying trouser pockets prior to a spot of laundry a few days ago, did I find a one hundred peseta coin among my change?

I know how. I had only made one purchase that morning – a packet of cigarettes – from which the change from a five euro note would have been seventy five céntimos, usually consisting of one 50, one 20 and one 5 céntimo coins. The estanco that had sold me the cigarettes had slipped me, instead of the 50 céntimo coin, a hundred peseta coin. Almost totally alike in size and colour, although the 100 peseta coin weighs nine grams opposed to the 50 céntimo’s eight (according to our diet portion weighing kitchen scales), I had failed to notice the difference while sliding the change into my pocket.

So much too for that silver standard of the LMU. If we were still using it my rogue coin would have weighed four hundred and fifty grams – a pound of silver – and be worth around €400 at today’s prices. If only – sigh! I would be writing a different post if that were the case.

Evil thoughts began to cloud my mind. The estanco I had used was not one I had used before. Had they taken advantage of my unique guiri status to palm me off with useless currency? To be charitable, perhaps they had not noticed either. Maybe this coin has been circulating, masquerading as a fifty céntimo coin, for years, refusing to acknowledge its now worthless status.

It was minted in 1988 and bears the head of the King, Juan Carlos I, looking incredibly like his son, Felipe, does today. It is hardly worn, its aluminium-bronze composition having stood up to the test of time and jingling against other coins in pockets and purses very well.

Aluminium-bronze is mostly copper with varying degrees of aluminium, iron, nickel, manganese and zinc added into the mix. It is worrying to note that a maximum of 0.4% arsenic was allowed.

The composition of the newly hatched usurper, the fifty céntimo coin is something called “Nordic Gold” consisting of again, mostly copper, but with 5% aluminium, 5% zinc and 1% tin. Apparently this combination of metals is supposed to make the coins antimicrobial, that is, it inhibits the growth of bacteria, fungi and protozoans. (Sometimes this blog is just a mine of information!)

But whatever my one hundred peseta coin is made of, it is still worthless. And it remains so despite friends gleefully telling me that I have done well out of the deal. That my new possession, at the peseta / euro conversion rate is actually worth eighty-three of these new fangled céntimos.

Try telling that to the unsmiling, unhelpful check-out girl in Dia!

No one wants my coin. Not even machines. That, incidentally, was the only time I tried to spend it. It was not from dishonesty, but from curiosity. I wondered if the machine could tell the difference. It can. It fell through the metro ticket machine without even touching the sides, landing with a guilt ridden clunk in the tray. There was a security guard standing nearby. I glanced warily over my shoulder as I shamefully retrieved the coin and shoved it deep into a pocket.

It’s not legal tender. I would be breaking the law. There are already several tens of thousands of counterfeit fifty céntimo coins in circulation. In the first five years after the coin’s introduction more than thirteen thousand were found. Of course this is nothing compared with the forty three thousand one euro and three hundred and sixteen euro coins that were also found to be phoney in the same period. And my 100 peseta coin, despite its twelve years of perfectly legal status up to a decade ago, is now just a worthless disk.

Incidentally, most counterfeit coins are of German origin, which might be why they have the money to bail out everyone else. I’m not accusing – just thinking aloud, you understand.

So I cannot with good conscience attempt to spend the coin. During an unworthy second I thought about dropping it in the cup of the annoying beggar who molests every passer-by outside my supermarket and seriously contemplated giving it to the violinist who plays Bésame Mucho badly on the metro. But I am an honest man, I like to think, and could not do it.

I can’t change it in a bank. It’s too old. Apparently only coins placed into circulation in 1997 and commemorative 2000 peseta coins can be changed, according the Bank of Spain’s website.

It seems I am stuck with it. A souvenir of times gone by when it would have bought me a couple of coffees or even a pack of cigarettes. Like me, it’s old and past its prime. Unwanted and unvalued.

No wonder the estanco wanted shot of it.

Living off the fat of the land.

2011-02-20T14:46:00.000+01:00

By richard Morley

It not often that my actions lead to cries of, “That's disgusting”, but I managed it last week. In fact, twice in about thirty seconds, which has to be some sort of record. The first was when I told a student that I loved eating liver. Luckily, being Spanish she was not able to make the English pun, “Oh, but that's offal”, but she did say it was awful and added, horrible.

The second register of disgust came when I told her how I cooked it, but that's for later.

I have never understood why some people don't like liver. It full of iron, absolutely zero fat, and delicious. What is there not to like? Furthermore, there's liver and liver; from all sorts of animals and prepared in different ways. At the start of the English Villages that I attend the organisers usually arrange an activity that makes sure that we all meet each other. One of these is a series of questions about our fellow villagers' likes and dislike, their favourite activities, or whether they have met someone famous and so on. One of the questions is, “Do you like liver”, because they believe that it will not be easy to find anyone who does. And lots of people say they don't …....only to admit they do quite like paté. Well, that's liver folks, just processed.

I am no biologist, but I think most of the higher order of animals have livers and I have eaten a few in my time. There are all the usual suspects like cow, sheep and pig's liver, even kudu while isolated in a flooded African plain for a week with no food supply from our base able to get through, and my favourite, which is goat's. That comes from a long time of goat's liver and onions for breakfast while working in Africa. Here in Europe it seems goats are for milking and not for eating, so I have missed that particular delicacy for a while now. However, that is compensated by the wonderful goats' cheeses that Spain provides its consumers.

Back to livers and we have to work through the birds like duck, goose and chicken livers which while delicious when turned into paté, are superb in their natural state. My ex had a recipe from our time in Egypt of chickens' liver and rice that was outstanding. However, I think we should obtain our offal as a natural by-product of the animals' slaughter. The forced feeding of French geese just to produce foie gras, despite it producing a superbly delicious paté, is something I find as hard to stomach as much as the poor bird, so I won't eat it any more. But the French produce some Duck patés that are out of this world, so I won't complain.

It's probably too late to warn vegetarians that they probably won't like this post, but they should stop now, because if they are fuming at what I have written so far, they are going to hate what comes next.

You see, not only do I consume meat, I also like melting animals down and using then to cook with. What I mean, of course, is cooking with animal fat, which is how I disgusted my student a second time. Two or three times a week I will have a bacon sandwich for lunch. I throw a few rashers of smoked bacon into a non-stick frying pan and when cooked put the bacon between two doorstops of bread.

Smoked bacon seems to be difficult to obtain in Spain. They have so many delicious ways of curing hams and bacon and because the country is generally warmer, have no need of the northern European fires from which the bacon gets its delicious smoky taste. I used to have a problem buying it here in my little barrio, but since Carrefour opened a “Market” (and I do wonder why it is not a Mercado!) not half a stone’s throw from my apartment and which I treat as a walk-in larder, that problem has been resolved. So chalk one up for Carrefour, which is saying something as, smoked bacon aside, their “Markets” fail on so many levels. A vegetable section that does not sell carrots, no salted butter in the dairy section, no HP sauce in the condiments. Thank heavens for Eroski, a complete stone’s throw in the other direction that does sell all these things.

But back to my bacon sandwiches.

What remains in the pan after the cooking is all the melted fat from the bacon, which I store in a refrigerated container, and it's in that which I cook the liver. My student was disgusted.
“Don't you cook in olive oil”, she railed at me, as if by not using the oil of the olive I was committing some sort of sacrilegious or unpatriotic act.

And the answer is no, I don't.

I do like olive oil on my bread and on salads. Crusty bread dipped in rosemary flavoured olive oil is fantastic, but I don't like the taste when it is heated – and I can't stand the smell it produces when hot. So I will either use a corn or sunflower oil, or peanut oil in the wok, or use melted down animal.

By why do I resort to leeching the fat out of my bacon? Well, here in Spain its almost the only resource. The Spanish like their meat, with the exception of jamón, it seems, devoid of fat. Meat for sale in supermarkets has had all the fat trimmed away. A pork chop, or chuleta de cerdo, looks withered and naked lying on its polystyrene supermarket tray. It all lean meat. Steaks are trimmed, sausages, salchichas, are all meat, and nothing but the meat, and lamb, cordero, is the same. It's not a cry of, “Where's the beef?” that is raised when meat shopping, but, “Where's the fat?”

And don’t get me started on the unavailability of suet!

A friend who cooks a traditional English roast beef meal each Three Kings watched with dismay when buying the joint for the first of such annual treats when, after weighing the joint with its fat attached, the butcher proceeded to trim the fat away to be discarded before passing it over the counter. My friend protested, I am sure to the confusion of the carnicero, and got the fat back. And now each year the beef comes with it fat still firmly attached.

Now I am well aware that we should not consume quantities of fat. It clogs our arteries and piles on the weight. But meat should be cooked with its fat, or in it's own grease for the flavour.

And not just meat, but vegetables too. My friend, the chef of the Three Kings dinner, was delighted this year to find a jar of Grasse d'Oie, French goose fat, for sale in the El Corte Inglés specialist food section. (I think it was there. He'll correct me if I am wrong, but he found it for sale in Madrid never-the-less!) This was used for roasting the potatoes and parsnips that came with the beef. And they were delicious.

Which leads us to a study carried out in the south west of France where the consumption of goose fat and duck fat is probably higher than anywhere in the world and yet the population have one of the lowest rates of heart disease anywhere. Known as the “Paradoxe Français”, not only does the consumption of this type of fat not cause coronary disease, it actually seems to protect against it. I have spent some time in the French “département” of Gers where everything seems to come packed in containers of fat, even plums. When I first saw this I remember remarking, “My god, a heart attack in a jar”, but it seems I was very wrong.

And yes, I suppose that the fat from birds could probably have a different consistency to that from four legged farm animals, and that we should choose our edible fats with care. But food is more than just for nutrition; its taste is just as important.

And here, if you will pardon the bad joke, is my “beef” with Spanish food.

But before the deportation squad comes to manhandle me to the Pyrenean border I have to say I find most Spanish food fantastically delicious, with the exception of paella, but that's just me and my relationship with rice. Spanish food, and here I mean standard main courses, not desserts, has some wonderful flavours, but it has no spicy peaks or bitter lows.

A Mexican friend claims not to have eaten a decent meal, outside of his own kitchen, since he has lived in Madrid. Recently I have tried to entice Spanish friends to eat Indian or Thai, both of which are readily available in the capital, but to no avail. This is a land where HP sauce is considered “hot”. At the recent Three Kings roast dinner I persuaded a Spanish guest to follow my example and thinly smear English mustard on a slice of Jamon Iberico. I swear he then drank a whole can of Mahou Classic in five seconds flat just to put the fire out. So-called “sabor de curry” flavoured noodles on sale at my local Carrefour are bland.

Of course, I generalise!

Of course, Spain has a special relationship with olive oil. It claims to produce forty-four percent of the world’s supply. I have seen the serried ranks of olive groves while travelling south. There are dark tales of Italian produces buying Spanish oil in tanker loads and selling it as Italian oil, but that might be un mito urbano, but I know a lady whose sole job is to verify the quality of Spanish olive oil before it can be imported to middle-eastern countries, where it is prized apparently.

On bread, on salads, with fish, olive oil is wonderful. But nothing will crisp roast potato like goose fat or enrich the taste of liver like pig fat. My friends tell me that after nearly six years of living in Spain I am beginning to lose my “guiri” status, but old habits – and tastes – die hard.

I am having a large dinner this evening, so Sunday lunch was a simple bacon sandwich, which you can see at the head of this post. I do hope I haven’t disgusted anyone else!

Two more years of English Speaking

2011-01-16T15:54:00.003+01:00

By Richard Morley.

Last Friday a lovely señorita tried to teach me how to dance salsa. Have you ever heard the saying, “Never try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time and annoys the pig”? Trying to teach me, with legs like sticks, as the Spanish say, to dance is very much like that. Except I wasn't annoyed, just frustrated as I have never been able to dance – as my embarrassed children will testify.

Actually, the evening wasn't primarily about dance. It was about speaking English.

Two years ago I wrote about the Madrid English Speaking Group. That's not a snappy title, but what you see is what you get. An evening of English Speaking where those with a will to maintain or improve their English skills can come and practise. Oh, and drink a lot of beer in the process. Speaking is such thirsty work!

That article celebrated our first anniversary. Last week, after another one hundred meetings, we reached our third birthday and we seem to be as popular as ever. Nearly fifty people crammed onto the mezzanine floor of the Restaurante Salmantino and for ninety minutes discussed, debated, presented and listened to my terrible jokes.

My jokes don't get any better, which might be why the inmates are taking over the asylum.

For a long time I was frustrated by the lack of confidence in their speaking skills of our Spanish members. They came every week, collaborated, orated and related many a tale in various levels of English, but they happily allowed only the native English speakers to lead the evenings. It was amazing what we had them do: Solve puzzles, answer riddles and quizzes, tell short stories, play grammatical games of my own devious design and converse non-stop for the allotted hour and a half of the meeting and then, with no prompting from me, continue to natter away in English until the bar owners kicked us out. But when I suggested that one of them could actually run the meeting and come up with devious schemes of their own, they would all shake their head a tell me, very fluently, that their English wasn't good enough.

But I thought that if they wouldn't run an entire evening, perhaps I could persuade someone to take over for a part. This succeeded and if anything demonstrates that the Spanish can sometime be a little sadistic, this was a wonderful example. She led us in an exercise on Phrasal Verbs! The Spanish hate phrasal verbs, considering them a particularly torturous part of the English language. And here was one of their own subjecting them to an English Inquisition!

Actually this practise in grammar is very unusual. We have found out that no one wants a lesson on Friday evenings. We sincerely want people to have fun while using their English. I think we succeed as it’s the sound of laughter that predominates.

Perhaps it was a desire for revenge, but this opened the way for others to follow. Now, as well as having had evenings totally led by Spaniards, we have also had a Frenchman, a Dane and a Bulgarian. We believe in equal opportunities.

And last Friday it was a lovely Spanish lady and a Danish gentleman who not only instructed us, in English of course, how to dance salsa, but also gave us the history of the dance. As a discussion we broke into groups and had to come up with our best and worst dance experiences and then representatives of each had to relate these to the entire audience.

For many people, making a speech or presentation in their own language to a large audience can be daunting. Last Friday I watched as a dozen Spaniards did just this in English.

A year ago this would have amazed me, but now it is a regular occurrence. It takes a lot of courage to get up in front of so many people and throw caution to the wind and speak. Remember, there are several very fluent, native English speakers present. Our wonderful Spaniards know they will make mistakes, but they still do it.

One volunteer leader told me before the meeting that he was so nervous he had hardly slept during the previous two nights and that his knees were literally knocking. Afterwards he was so, deservedly, proud of himself he offered to do it again. That's confidence!

A great benefit of this is that now us guiris learn a lot about Spain and it culture from our Spanish leaders. Apart from learning to dance, we have heard stories of experiences on the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostella, a walking holiday in Finland, Spanish food, music and traditions.

I know it does wonders for their confidence in English because they tell me so.

But the English Speaking Group of Madrid is more than just a place to practise language skills. Judging by the smiles, the laughs, the cries of welcome that ring out when attendees arrive, it is a place to make friends. International friends. We have had visits from people from all over the world. We have a reputation of being somewhere that English speaking visitors can come to meet people in Madrid without any language barrier – and our native members take full advantage of that.

Shortly after I wrote the piece two years ago a gentleman arrived whose ability to converse in English was, to say the most, limited. To see him now you would not believe it was the same man. His easy use of English is amazing. His confidence inspiring. I would be lying if I said that it was only his attendances on Friday that have led to his now amazing confidence with the language, he has worked very hard at achieving the skills he now has. But I like to think that we had a hand in what he has achieved.

And he is not the only one.

Since then the membership has evolved. We have lost some and gained more. Some come every week and other less regularly. Our ages range from 21 to really quite ancient. We are not a club, there is no charge, except for the beers you consume. I like to think the Madrid English Speaking Group just provides a happy place that those who wish to improve can come without fear of feeling silly, without worrying that others will disparage their use of English. In fact, like the man in the last paragraph, I am happy to see those with a low level, but with a desire to improve, come along and try their best. And I get a real kick out of watching them improve. (And if you think your language skills are poor, you should hear my Spanish!)

And I would like to add that several ladies have commented they feel safe coming to our group, which is not always the case when attending venues where strangers meet.

The Bar Salmantino has changed owners and name. It is now called the "Rincón Santa Cruz"

Who - The Madrid English Speaking Group.

Where – Rincón Santa Cruz, Calle Santa Cruz de Marcenado, 13.

(Nearest Metro – San Bernardo, Lines 2 & 4.

When – Every Friday from 20:00 until they kick us out.

Contact – richf_morley@yahoo.co.uk or mikemonroy@hotmail.com

We also have a virtual presence on line. Join our group on Facebook or come along to the forum. For reasons best known to the creator of both they go under the name of “La Tienda de las Lanas”, which means “The Wool Shop” as he claims it is a place where people go to talk. You can find the forum here .

There's an advertisement on the right showing where we are. If you want to improve your English, now you know where to come. If you only speak English and want a friendly evening in Madrid, then you will be very welcome.

2010 revisited

2011-01-03T18:09:00.000+01:00

By Richard Morley.

My camera is my notebook. When something interests, amuses or annoys me, then I ususally have my camera to capture it for all time. I am not a good photographer - more of a record taker. I have used many photographs on the blog during 2010, but some, either because they were surplus to requirements, or just didn't reall fit anywhere as part of a post, were put to one side. But waste not - want not. These pictures had a meaning for me at the time of taking them and serve to jog my ancient memory. Here are some of those memories from last year:

During one of my lessons an important point was raised for discussion: The correct way to pour a beer. Spaniards seem to like a lot of head, which us guiris view with dismay as we see the glass only half full. So, when stopping off at a café en route to Andalucia, I couldn't resist taking the picture below. Sometimes I feel like showing it to the many bar-tenders that don't follow the rules and serve me a glass of bubbles instead of beer.

There are parts of Madrid that are still a work in progress. Three times a week I teach in a built-up suburb to the east of the city, but that still has building space available. Left to themselves they have become tiny oases of grass and wild flowers. Each time I walked past this miniscule meadow I captured the growth. Below you can see it in late spring.

The same barrio, but a few blocks distant, and I came across one of my favourite subject - graffiti. It wasn't the artistic quality that made me laugh, but the way the "artist" extended the figure out on to the pavement.

It was difficult to avoid stepping on his toes!

The Spanish word for "cowboy" is vaquero. In the UK a cowboy is not a horse-backed cattle drover, but is a description of a tradesman who does a poor, cheap job, rarely finished on time, and then disappears, never to be found again. Not someone you would want to employ in your home, particularly with something as potentially dangerous as electricity. So I was tickled to see this sign on an electrician's van.

It is only the sign that amused me. I am sure he is an excellent electrician.

Another that I couldn't resist snapping, if only for the lack of logic in the "construction" of something "natural", was this:

Strange juxtapositions also caught my eye. Why, for instance, do our fire-fighters get their own exclusive ashtray?

All of us guiris are trying our best to learn the language. It's always a problem to know exactly the right thing to say when, for instance, eating out. So, a huge vote of thanks to the VIPs chain of restaurants for this useful list of phrases.

A dear friend called me one evening. "I've won some concert tickets in a raffle", she told me. "Would you like to come?" What sort of concert? I asked. "I don't know, but it's at the Auditorio Naciónal, so it's going to be classical". Well, I had always wanted to see inside this place, but the cost of tickets is prohibitive. (The tickets my friend had won had a face value of €134.13 iva incluido!) So I said I would love to. "When is the concert?" I asked and the reply was, "In an hour!" Luckily The Auditorio Naciónal is about five metro stops from where I live so, after a quick change of clothes, I made it in time. I met my friend and we checked the tickets, which gave no indication of what we were going to hear. This was solved when we entered and were given a couple of glossy programmes that informed us we were going to hear Bruckner's Third Symphony played by the Staatskapelle orchestra of Berlin conducted by Daniel Barenboim. Our seats were so close to the front I could have yanked on the tails of the great man's frock coat. Quite a good prize, I think. Before the concert began I took this picture of the inside of the auditorium and its massive organ.

As spring turned into summer Madrid became the city we all love. The trees burst into leaf which cast shade from the sweat inducing sun. Even here, in the Paseo de la Castellana, it was possible to escape those searing rays.

Because, as this weather forecast on Sexta told us bluntly, summer was here to stay.

That picture was a direct photograph from my television screen. In April 2010 they turned off the old analogue signals and I was in danger of not having a TV as the set that came in my apartment was ancient with an indoor antenna, which would be useless with the new signals. I asked my landlady if she could arrange for me to be connected with the digital antenna on the apartment block roof so that I could then buy a special box to convert the signals. A few days later, a hole was drilled into the wall and I had my connection. But the following day, her father knocked on my door saying, "We thought you would like this" and removed from its box a brand new digital TV. Sometimes I just cannot get over the generosity of the Spanish.

I took a few more pictures off the screen this year as there was no way I could get the advantageous viewpoint of the cameras of the TV stations. Look at this helicopter's view of the crowds in the Plaza del Sol on the night Spain won the soccer World Cup.

And from an even higher viewpoint:

The feeling in Madrid that night was electric. It was if everyone on town came to Sol to celebrate.

In the spring we had the festival of San Isidro, the patron saint of Madrid. It is an excuse for everyone to put on their finest clothes and walk about town.

Although some had to stay at home.

Slap bang in the centre of Madrid is a huge reservoir. Not that you would know as it is below ground and above is a modern sports centre with a golf driving range. But water does feature in the above ground part as I discovered walking between lessons one bright and sunny September morning.

Spain does not really have any dangerous wildlife: A few wild boars and the odd wolf and bear. But when walking in the country you have to be careful not to disturb a creature that will sting, bite and cause painful swelling. This is the processional caterpillar. In the countryside is one thing. I did not expect to find them out for a morning's saunter in my local park.

No prizes for guessing why they are called "processional".

And finally - a load of balls. During the second weekend of September, for one night only, Madrid hosts hundreds of events cultural or silly. On the Saturday afternoon I wandered though the Plaza Dos de Mayo and found one of the silly, but fun, ones. My photograph shows only the early stages, but by nightfall the entire plaza was full of beach balls to wade though, play with, dive into. I went to a concert of the National Jazz Orchestra, but I am told by those who visited the plaza (where the best pizzas in Madrid can be eaten) a wonderful time was had by children and grown-ups alike.

Madrid can be silly or serious, highbrow or low, but never dull. Have I told you, I love it here!

A Happy New Year - with cost constraints.

2011-01-01T14:32:00.001+01:00

By Richard Morley.

Two years ago I celebrated the arrival of 2009 in Madrid’s Plaza del Sol. It was crowded, I was jostled, and I stood in one place for four hours. New year came, the bells of the clock on the casa de correos chimed twelve and we ate our grapes. There were fireworks, music and a laser show. It was great fun and a wonderful display of city pride, but it was now on my “Been there, seen it, done it – bought the tee-shirt” list and said I would never go again.

So what the heck was I doing there last night?

I have a friend who a few months ago moved to Spain for work. She is Scottish and therefore loves her New Year celebrations. Her Spanish friends and colleagues told her that most definitely she had to celebrate New Year in Sol. Enjoy the atmosphere, eat the grapes, drink, sing and be merry. It is a Great Spanish tradition.

And then all of her friends found something else to do!

So, instead of there being a crowd of us, it was just us two. We met early, planning to eat before joining the crowds in the centre. Her Scottish compatriot put it well when Robbie Burns wrote about “The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men, Gang aft agley”, because where we had planned to eat had closed its doors for the night. Nearby was a VIPs restaurant, which informed is they were not cooking that evening. (So why the heck were they open?) They did however provide a pancake postre and a couple of beers, which saw us through.

My Scottish friend was amazed that catering establishments would so willingly give up the chance make money from the tens of thousands who attended last night’s celebrations. In Edinburgh, she told me, when the masses gathered in Princes Street to welcome in the new year, the restaurateurs and pub landlords would not waste such an opportunity to fill their cash registers.

Walking along the Calle Mayor last night we passed bar after bar whose doors were shut and in darkness. Even McDonalds was closed.

But there was drink aplenty in Sol – so long as you had brought it with you. Early arrivals came with a liquid picnic and sat on the cold slabs of the plaza. Some near us, had bought twin packs of Coke and Red wine taped together to create the instant calimochó and of course, there was Cava, the Spanish champagne, everywhere.

After our meagre dinner, my friend and I found our spot in the plaza and began the long wait for midnight. Our legs weakening, we followed the example of the picnickers and reclined on the cold, stone slabs of the plaza while we waited until the thickening throng started standing on us. One picnic group generously passed us a can of Cruzcampo to share.

The television companies, who had set up al fresco studios on the balconies and rooftops opposite the clock would incite the crowd to cheer and wave as they sought to add colour to their broadcasts. Those wearing garish wigs of bright colours out-numbered those who didn’t. I noticed a new line in headdress this year with the inclusion of Venetian masks, richly decorated, worn by the ladies. Men tended to stick to orange afros. A guy dressed as the pope staged a one man protest against the catholic church’s opposition to condom use, another group sailed a huge banner in support of the right of divorced fathers. An annoying guy banged a drum non-stop.

By eleven the crowd had grown to jostling proportion. We had to almost fight, at least be really stubborn, to maintain our position on the two stone slabs where we had staked our claim. But it was a good natured crowd with only a couple of *¨/&$Ys who rudely shouldered others out of their way without a perdone. There was singing, restricted dancing, and much taking of photographs. You can see my blurred offerings on this page. (I really must get a better camera!)

A minute before midnight and the already deafening screams of the crowd rose to painful. People prepared their little bags of twelve grapes, ready to consume one for each chime of midnight. It was a slow minute, but then the minute hand clunked up to vertical and the preliminary peal from the bells began, catching out those who thought this was the actual midnight chime. A few first grapes were consumed before the twelve strident bongs rang out across the plaza.

A grape for each chime. Manage this small feat will bring you luck for the year ahead. The noise fell to a murmur until the last grape was swallowed. Then the crowd broke into song, shaken cava fountained, unconsumed grapes were thrown. There were kisses and hugs, back slapping and wishes of Feliz Año on all sides. And then ……

Nothing!

No fireworks – no laser projections – no music. Around us people watched the sky expectantly. It remained dark. Someone in the crowd let off a small rocket and there were a couple of thunder flashes. But no official celebration. There was a definite feeling of anti-climax. Within minutes the crowd began drifting away. Some glancing back to see if something would happen. But no.

My friend and I joined the exodus and wondered off in the direction of Plaza Santa Anna in the hope of an open bar. No luck, they were all closed. What sort of celebration was this? Eventually we bought some beer from a Chinese shop and sat in a plaza near her hostal drinking and chatting. Passing strangers wished us “Feliz Año”, one man stopped and kissed my friend – and then insisted on kissing me!

A dead Plaza Santa Anna. No celebration here!

I would be lying if I told you I had not enjoyed the evening. I had a good time and in great company. The generosity and joy of the people around us was infectious. But there was something missing this year. It must be “La Crisis”. It would surely be wrong for the ayuntamiento to spend Money on public entertainment when so many are without jobs or have had their salaries reduced.

So I am curious to see to what extent the parade of the three kings will be reduced next week. Last years cabalgata was a fantastic show which must have cost a fortune to stage. It is a night of colour, noise and music. It’s the night when the three kings come to bring the presents for Spanish children. I hope they come in style.

After leaving my friend I attempted to get a taxi home; A necessity when, after attracting tens of thousands into the city centre for a midnight celebration they still insist on shutting down the metro at one-thirty! I had no luck and walked back though the town to catch a night bus from Cibeles. I did pass open bars, but with others closed those that were serving were packed beyond limit. It seems strange that in a time of financial uncertainty business owners would deliberately give up the chance of profiteering from the thirsty.

Spain, still, is different!

This blog is on the cusp of being two years old. Last month it achieved a record number of hits from every time zone around the world. For that, let me say a huge thank you to all of you for reading what I write and, sometimes, writing such encouraging comments in return. I apologise to those who were caught out by my annual Diá de los Inocentes mischief. We will continue to alternately roast or be soaked in the Plaza Mayor for a long time to come, and there will be no bio-dome in the Retiro.

And of course, allow me to wish all of you a very happy and prosperous New Year.

A Roof Over Your Head

2010-12-28T01:48:00.001+01:00

By Richard Morley

It was bitterly cold. I didn’t want to remove my gloves to reach the cash in my pocket to pay for the caganer I had just bought for a friend’s Belen, the Spanish word for nativity scene. I love these little characters. They seem so irreverent during this Christmas time, yet they are funny. I was at the Christmas market in the Plaza Mayor. Darkness had fallen and the circles of illuminations swaying gently in the chill breeze above my head did nothing to relieve the cold.

The Caganeres often are used to poke fun at political figures or celebrities.

Summer visitors to Spain can hardly believe just how cold it can get in Madrid in winter. As I write this, the day after Christmas, it’s ten in the morning and there is still frost on the roof of the supermarket across from my apartment block. While I was out and about taking photographs of the Christmas lights for the previous post, the metal body of my camera was so cold I could barely hold it steady, and the ice-covered pavements first thing in the morning last week were a danger to life and limb.

When it comes to weather, Madrid, so centrally placed in the Iberian peninsular, is a city of extremes. So cold in winter and yet, so swelteringly hot in the summer months. I first arrived here one balmy May evening and fell in love with the city and assumed, so far south of a cool English spring, that this was normal in Madrid. My next visit, three months later in August soon dispelled that. The city was oven hot and sensible people took refuge in air-conditioned shops and museums.

And likewise, as soon as my business at the Christmas market was concluded, I escaped the bitter chill to a place of heated air and hot tapas. Albóndigas and Croquetas, steaming hot, was definitely something to be devoutly consumed.

It’s comforting to know that, at least as the plaza mayor is concerned, these extremes of temperature will soon be a thing of the past. Too cold in winter, too hot in summer, this jewel in the Madrid tourist crown will soon be a place of equitable climate all year round.

The Kagod Centre in Washington - designed by Foster and Associates.

Taking inspiration from more northerly countries, which have their own extremes of climate to deal with, the ayuntamiento of Madrid have decided to enclose the plaza under a roof of glass. The construction was put out to tender and the design of a Japanese firm of architects, Yono Creo and associates, has been chosen to do the work. Apparently they has stiff competition from an American company, Darel-Mentisa, who won the contract for the new bio-domes which will be erected at the south end of the Retiro park and which will incorporate the rose garden and provide a new home for the tropical garden currently housed at Atocha railway Station. The Retiro’s army of roller-bladers and skateboarders are said to be not happy at the prospect of losing their playground. The tropical garden at Atocha will become a business centre.

An example of how the southern half of the Retiro will look enclosed in the biodome.

This will not be the first time an open area has been covered with a glass roof. Just a block away in Sol the Casa de Correos, now the home of the Comunidad de Madrid, had its central courtyard covered long ago.

The Plaza Mayor however, covers a much larger area. The specifications for the new roof stipulated that there would be no central supports or pillars. One design proposed a light plastic roof supported by air pressure alone. This was considered unsuitable as it would have necessitated double-door vestibules at every entrance to the plaza to maintain the higher air pressure. The winning design was successful for two reasons. It incorporates a cantilever construction strong enough to support real glass. The glass chosen however, is far from ordinary. Reactive to sunlight like photo-chromatic sunglasses, the full glare – and therefore heat – of the midday sun will be mitigated. Every second pane will be a transparent solar panel generating electricity to power a climate management system, which will allow the plaza to maintain a comfortable environment at any time of year.

As someone who rarely goes to the Plaza Mayor, considering it a place for poor and expensive food, I think will make a great difference to this historic heart of the city. Just next door, the Mercado San Miguel has been converted from a run down food market into a sophisticated and up market food hall and the chosen meeting place of the Madrid elite. If the Plaza goes the same way it might begin to challenge the restaurants of La Latina, Chueca or Serrano.

A spokesperson for the ayuntamiento, Mentira de las Día de los Inocentes, has suggested that if the Plaza Mayor Project is a success, a similar roof will be provided for the bullring at Ventras, allowing corridas to continue all year round.

What do you think?

Xmas in the City

2010-12-19T17:45:00.000+01:00

By Richard Morley.

Madrid Graffiti. A winter scene painted on a wall near Arturio Soria.

Somewhere back in the archives of this blog, down in the comments section, someone once wrote a happily complimentary comment but finished with a suggestion that “You must certainly have a lot of free time on your hands”. I was cut to the quick. The couple of thousand words that he or she were commenting on had, as seems to customary for what I write, taken weeks of research, visits, photo taking and then the plain hard graft of actually sitting down and collecting my thoughts and research into a coherent whole.

This year, being the centenary of Madrid's (now slightly dowdy!) Centre Piece, the Gran Via, the sheer complexity of its history forced me into writing a trilogy. The finished result, liked by many, I am pleased to recount, reflected only the more striking, more interesting (from my point of view – this is my blog, after all) of all the stuff I had to sort through. Such is the complexity of the history of any great city. It was, in fact the culmination of seven months (on and off – this is not a full time occupation) of research on line, in my local library, asking people who had lived through that history and so on.

The history of the Madrid's water supply took almost as long. The Canal Isabel II, the name of the company that supplies Madrid with its water, is buried under a heap of its own self-congratulatory list of achievements. It will tell you how wonderful it is now, but how it began, using convict labour, poor geological surveys, and the usual Madrid political grumblings about its cost and who should take the credit, took ages to sift through. But I found the time. Nice comments made it all worthwhile.

Were that true now! As someone once said, “Time is like a handful of sand – the tighter you grasp it, the faster it runs through your fingers”. Can it really be that I haven't posted here for nearly a month? The trouble is that I have been plagued by that curse of life – work. Couple the offers of work with an inability to say “no” and suddenly “having time on my hands” is no longer an option.

So, apologies to those who have clicked on here expecting to find something new each week. But there are articles in the pipeline, so all is not lost.

However, here I am in that most majestic of cities, Madrid, at that most wonderful of times, Christmas, and Christmas in Madrid is always a huge pleasure. For a start, the roasted chestnut sellers are out in force. On your behalf I have been making my annual survey of many of the purveyors of this fine food. I have been disappointed in the Calle Goya, near to El Corte Inglés, where the dozen I bought were undercooked and three were bad, and astonished at the Puerto de Toledo where the lady there sold then in multiples of seven – so I was forced to buy fourteen. The choices were seven, fourteen, or thirty-five. Perhaps the latter is the “party pack”. But they were all good. Last year's winner, the man at the Plaza España was way up there in the rankings but a guy under the bridge at Nuevos Ministerios takes this year's award as the best chestnuts I have ever tasted. Perfectly roasted, he chose my solicited dozen with great care, segregating the nearly cooked from the over cooked until he filled the bag with twelve nuggets of sheer heaven. I was about to board the metro, which would have necessitated eating them in a rush, but I chose, after the first couple, to walk to the next station, savouring them as I walked.

I do despair for the poor street cleaners who have to follow in my discarded shell footsteps.

El Corte Inglés department store at Goya. The display is a sound and audio delight.

Due to “La Crisis” the illuminated decorations are, in many cases, the same as last year and there have not been nearly as many of those silly “Christmas Cones”, Madrid's mechanical solution to saving the fir-wood forests, as last year, although the monstrosity in Sol is there again. The thing about these metal surrogates is that they may look quite pretty all lit up at night, but their black ugliness during the hours of day light is no substitute for a real tree.

Golden Rings (ting-a-ling) along the Calle Naráez

And while the shops might be exhorting us to enter and buy, and with El Corte Inglés enticing us to “make a present of Christmas”, the shops have not been looking particularly Christmassy. There seems to be a dearth of Belens this year and although ECL have decorated the outsides of their stores, inside it is business as usual. The most successful shops seem to be those selling what I call “fire sale” goods. “Everything Ten Euros” proclaimed a shop in the Calle Alberto Aguillera this morning. I walk past these premises every week and each time it seems to be selling a different line of goods at knock down prices. Today, the last Saturday before Christmas, it was toys and games. Piled high and sold cheap. Inside was standing room only and a queue of expectant buyers stretched fifty metres along the pavement outside. A sign if the times.

Calle Goya all lit up.

At the other end of the financial scale, the finally finished Calle de Serrano, with its serried ranks of “posh” shops, seems to be doing an equally brisk trade. Serrano finally got rid of the workmen and machinery a few short weeks ago and, carpeted in pink, allowed its patrons to shop without fear of tripping over exposed pipe work or falling into deep trenches. In its first refurbished Christmas it has pulled out all the shopper attracting stops and illuminated itself like a fairy wonderland.

Serrano.

There is no doubt that “La Crisis” is biting into Christmas expenditure. One man, interviewed in the street on Madrid Direct, our local news channel, said that due to his unemployment “there would be no Christmas this year”, and I am sure that many will have to settle for less than before.

That said, the shops have been packed full of those who do have the disposable income to celebrate. Sol and its radiating streets have been jammed with package clutching shoppers since the start of December. I wonder what my friends have bought me!

If only they could buy me time.

Calle Principe de Vergara.

The Things That People Do.

2010-11-28T13:34:00.001+01:00

By Richard Morley.

I think it is time to book my room at the tanatorio across the road. The Tanatorio, for those of you who don’t know, is where they take the dead people en route to the grave. A grey, forbidding place, it is where relatives and friends to come and pay their last respects. When I eventually go there I want all my friends to come and shout at me, poke me, sing to me and make sure I am really dead before they do with me whatever they will. It’s just a precaution.

My local Tanatorio is about three hundred metres away from my apartment as the spirit flies and as I often walk past it I can say that I have already made my final journey many times.

But why do I have these thoughts about my own mortality? Something terrible happened today. A young man, sporting a New York Yankees jacket, Silver and blue Nike Trainers and an expert juggler’s set of rings in his left earlobe, offered me his seat on the bus.

Ok, my hair is grey and the skin around the eyes is showing signs of age, but inside I haven’t aged a bit since my twenty-first birthday, but by outward appearances obviously this young man thought I am getting on a bit.

As the bus emptied and filled as we went from stop to stop the young man would find a seat, but immediately offer it to some ancient who shuffled on board at the next stop. A well brought up, polite young man, who seemed to have a mission in life as a seat warmer for wrinklies.

I was on my way to give a lesson in Castellana. I was early and so found an empty banco, or bench, to while away the minutes with a cigarette and a quick review of the lesson of prepositions I was about to give. A few metres away stood a water fountain, a thing of cold, dull, cast iron with a sprung-loaded tap. A very dishevelled – unshaved, raggedly dressed – middle-aged man approached the fountain and removing a reclaimed yoghurt pot from his stained pocket, proceeded to rinse it out; throwing the water in all directions. He then took a drink and, thirst assuaged, stumbled a few metres to a tree and urinated, totally oblivious to my presence and that of passing office girls on their way to lunch.

I have a feeling that British office girls would have reacted with cat-calls and loud comments. Their Spanish counterparts walked past as if nothing unusual was happening.

A couple of hundred metres north, where Castellana intersects with Ayala an old man, his head swathed in a threadbare woollen scarf, a grubby raincoat flapping about his knees and a crutch, waited for the traffic to halt for a red light. He would then stumble his way through the stopped cars, leaning heavily on the crutch, while banging on windows and thrusting a plastic cup in the faces of drivers, begging for money. He would, perhaps, approach seven or eight cars before the lights began to change. As the engines started to roar he would make his way to the kerb and walk, quite unaided by the crutch, back up to the lights and await his next queue of victims.

The things people do sometimes astounds me. And travelling around Madrid from lesson to lesson, I see a lot of people.

Sometimes I am pleasantly surprised. Like the time a gang of leather-jacketed, chain jangling youths swaggered towards me taking up every centimetre of the width of the pavement as if they owned it. But just before they reached me, two of them stepped down into the gutter allowing me to pass while begging my “perdón, señor”. My landlady’s teenage son, who shouts and slams doors while at home, approached me in the local supermarket recently and insisted on shaking my hand before politely asking for a loan of my house keys.

Sometimes I am surprised by rudeness, like the old ladies who consider, unlike the youths above, that the pavement does belong to them and that four women walking abreast should not give way to oncoming pedestrians. And don’t get me started on their use of umbrellas or shopping trolleys.

And sometimes I am just perplexed. I watched a young woman the other Saturday morning try four different seats in an uncrowded bus until she was happy. I was reminded of the way that dogs go round and round in circles until finally flopping onto their beds to sleep, or will sniff every bush or tree before finding just the one to relieve themselves against.

Others board the bus and take an aisle seat, leaving the inner seat, next to the window, empty. At the next parada a new passenger gets on and despite there being a plethora of other empty spaces, insist on taking that free window seat. This sets me wondering on two levels: One, why did the first passenger not slide across to avoid the business of getting up, standing aside, and retaking his or her (and usually it’s a her) original seat? And two, why did the second passenger not just take one of the available empty seats?

And while I am on the subject of taking the bus. Why can’t those with abonos find their ticket before the bus arrives, instead of climbing on board and only then, with a queue behind them, begin to search pockets and handbags for that elusive red plastic wallet? ¡Qué fastidio!

Or those who hesitate before stepping on to a metro escalator, as if waiting for just the right step to come along before they will use it. As my Facebook friend Sophia once asked, “What are they waiting for? A shiny one?”

But worse are those who reach the top of the escalator, step off, and then stop, dead, while those coming up behind them have to swerve or leap around them. What are they doing? Planting a flag and claiming the lobby for Spain?

But it’s while they are riding the metro that you will witness the unexplainable. There seems to be an unwritten rules that the end seats of a row of four will not be left unattended. Imagine, four people sit in a row. The train arrives at a station and those occupying the end seats get up to leave. Immediately those in the centre seats will slide over to take the freshly vacated, still bottom-warm, seats of the just departed.

Ok, I’ll admit I have done it myself if, say, a couple get on and want to sit together. So I will ask the question of one of life’s little mysteries: Why do ladies leave warmer seats than gentlemen?

Then moving upwards to the surface and Madrid’s busy, traffic tangled streets, I might ask the purpose of traffic lights as at junctions not under surveillance by CCTV. No one seems to obey them at all. Red or amber lights seem to have the sole purpose of telling the drivers there might be crossing pedestrians to weave around. They don’t seem to be there to inform the driver he has to stop and let people on legs cross the road safely.

A few months ago I was actually hit by a car as, with the permission of the little green men, or flashing viejos verdes, I was crossing a road when this car swung round the corner and came straight at me. The driver slammed on his brakes and did manage to stop just as his front bumper came into contact with my leg. No harm done, no bruises, not even a scuff mark, but I left the driver in no doubt what I thought of his ability and, to give him his due, he signalled his apology with that praying hand sign they seem to know, and probably practise, so well.

My friends told me I could have sued. That I should have acted terribly hurt, leaping up and down while holding a supposedly injured limb, while promising the driver that if he slipped me a hundred euros I wouldn’t call the police. Hey ho! Another lost opportunity.

This has happened just once, but almost happened a hundred times. It might not be old age that books me that one way trip to the Tanatorio!

But why do drivers ignore the lights? And come to that, why do pedestrians? They step out on to the road at the first twinkle of changing colours with no thought to the tons of metal hurtling towards them as their drivers attempt to cross before the lamp turns irredeemably red. Perhaps they have a suicide wish. In fact I am sure of it. I know one lady who will grab my arm and say, “Quick, let’s suicidarse” at the slimmest break in the traffic. Another, given the choice of two crossings a hundred metres apart on the busy Calle Conde de Penlaver, thought the best place to cross was almost exactly halfway between them.

And sometimes the things that people do are just amazing. The generosity of the Madrileños is not confined to being quickest on the draw when it comes to picking up the tab. Ask directions and chances are you will be taken there, or at least to the right intersection and have a landmark pointed out to you. Admittedly their willingness to engage in conversation can be a little annoying when you are in a hurry, but you can’t fault them for friendliness. Then again, I have had many a Spanish lesson from waiters and waitresses in cafés and restaurants. I still remember the waiter in the Plaza mayor, in my early naïve days here when I thought that was a good place to eat, who taught me “postre”.

For that matter, I am amazed at the patience they show while attempting to improve my abysmally bad Spanish, sitting for hours speaking s-l-o-w-l-y and carefully so I can understand and putting up with the ungrammatical nonsense they get in return. And that includes the assistant in the pharmacy who wouldn’t let me pay for the painkillers I needed for a bad back until I proved I could pronounce “Ibu-pro-feno”. She made me repeat it three times before relinquishing her hold on the packet.

As I write this, although I won’t publish for a couple of days, it is Thanks-giving day in the United States. In the five and a half years I have lived in Madrid I keep finding more and more things that I should be thankful for.

My sister once asked me how I could live in a country where I felt like a “foreigner”? The answer to that is that I don’t. And for that, to all the people who reside in this fantastic city, with all their strange – and suicidal – ways, I want to say thank you.

And I should say it now, before I die. A thousand curses on that polite, well-bred young man. Why couldn’t he have just let me stand. The Tanatorio is not far, and should this be my Last Post, remember this, in that place, one room will be forever England.

Life in the Colonies

2010-11-09T11:56:00.004+01:00

By Richard Morley.

At eleven o’clock, one Monday morning, I boarded a number seventy-seven bus that took me all the way to the End of the Week. And when I got off, I found myself in December.

No, I wasn’t smoking something illicit. I had been searching for a bus route that would take me to one of Madrid’s large out-of-town shopping centres and noticed on the itinerary displayed on the EMT’s (Empresa Municipal de Transportes de Madrid ) website, that the final destination of this particular route was a place called the “Colonia Fin de Semana”, and the more detailed listing of the paradas de autobús named the final stop as the Calle de Diciembre.

The stop I was searching for, the nearest to the shopping mall, is actually half a kilometre away from the centre and why the public transport companies, EMT or Metro cannot provide a service that would actually take the shopper directly to a popular shopping centre is something I just can’t understand.. (The nearest Metro station is half an hour’s walk away on the opposite side of a busy motorway crossed by a high footbridge.) I was checking prices for a heavy printer I have my eye set on, but the sheer distance I would have to carry the thing to the bus stop has decided me against buying it from there. This failure to provide a good transport link to this part of Madrid is a rant for the future, but why was my eye drawn to the last stop of the route?

Scattered around Madrid’s neighbourhoods of high rise dwellings are some curious links to the past. I can look down on one from my fifth floor apartment window; A collection of some thirty, small, two storey houses set on about a hectare (roughly two acres for my non-metricised readers) served by two narrow streets. Each house has a high wall to protect the inhabitants from the eyes of the curious. Over every wall can be seen the straggling stems and branches of mature gardens. Peering through gaps one can see private patios and personalised entrances.

Surrounded on all sides by eight, ten and twelve storied apartment blocks these compact houses seem very much out of place. But in fact, it is the high rises that are the usurpers. This small colony of houses was here long before the developers began building in the mid fifties. And it has a name; La Colonia de los Carteros. Yes! The Colony of the Postmen (or mailmen – again for my US readers.)

These “Colonias” are dotted all over the city. As in the case of my neighbours, some were built to provide housing for workers in one sector or another. They are not all pretty little houses. Some are more utilitarian like the Colonia San Cristabal, occupying a few streets opposite the Cuatro Torres, and was designed to provide housing for employees of the bus company. Some were built just to provide affordable housing for anyone.

The Colonia de San Cristabal. Built in the first half of the 20th century, they are now dwawfed by the monsters of the 21st.

The key word here is “affordable”. Actually that’s not quite right. In December 1921 and July 1922 two pieces of legislation were passed known as “El ley del Casas Baratas”, or the Cheap Housing Law. These laid down in Spanish law some principles that were sweeping Europe at the time, which were to provide housing for workers that had to be of good quality, sanitary and low cost. The bywords were “Simple construction with economic materials”. In the late 1800s the United Kingdom has legislated the “Labouring Houses Act” and France saw the creation of la Societé française des habitations à bon marchè.

In Spain these laws specified minimum build quality, cost, and, and this really drove the movement, gave subsidies and tax breaks to companies who provided such housing.

The narrow streets of the Colonia de los Carteros

Given that low cost was the major factor, it is not surprising that these “Colonias” were built outside of the city on previously unused land. My neighbours in the Colonia de los Carteros, built in 1922, are nearly five kilometres from Madrid city centre. I have been told that prior to the 1950s my part of Madrid consisted of open fields with only scattered housing. It’s different now! The Colonia de Retiro, which was built on new land off the South East corner of the famous park is just three kilometres from Sol, yet at the time of its construction was completely isolated from the city and is now completely surrounded.

The Colonia de Retiro: Quite isolated when it was built (top), now, as shown in this Google Earth image (bottom), totally absorbed into the city.

Seven kilometres south west of Sol you will find the old Colonia Militar Arroyo Meaques. Lying within sight of Colonia Jardin metro station on line 10, it fiercely maintains its independence from the encroaching high rise apartments.

Colonia Arroyo Meaques seen across the carpark of the nearby Colonia Jardin metro station

Rows of pretty cottages in Arroyo Meaques

A stroll around the Colonia quickly shows that this was almost a self contained village. At one time the colony had its shops, its bar and it church. The old town hall reveals its village like status before the approaching Medusa like tendrils of the city. The cottages have been maintained or restored the way they were built and it really is like going back in time.

It would almost be a village scene if it wasn't for the high rise beyond

A fig tree escapes its confines. Away from the city's bustle, perhaps just two hundred metres away, it's like being out in the country.

There is a reason behind this. The reason why these tiny enclaves continue to exist and have not been demolished in the path of profitable high rise apartment blocks is because they are protected by law. In 1997 an act was enabled that enforced on them a “listed” status, as it is called in the UK. The insides may be modernised but their exteriors must be preserved. There are by-laws which protect and extend beyond the properties to the streets outside with restrictions on parking, and what you can and cannot do.

When you consider what the value of the land would be to a developer, these very houses that were built as “casas baratas”, have now become very valuable indeed.

What this has done, of course, is to create enclaves of small, expensive housing. If you were lucky enough to inherit, you would be sitting on a gold mine. Otherwise, if you want to live here, and I think I could very easily, then you will have to wait for that lottery win.

But the people who live in the Colonia Militar Arroyo Meaques are not so rich. A couple of blocks away is a disused army base and the houses are owned by the ministry of defence. The residents are ex military personnel who, amazingly, rent their homes for the grand sum of two hundred Euros a month. Originally built to house officers the houses are quite large. In recent years the colony has been refurbished at a cost of three and a half million euros. The pavements are neatly block-paved, the roads freshly asphalted and many of the one hundred and thirty three houses have been completely renovated, while still maintaining the old external appearance. There are a few houses still in the process of renovation and signs affixed to the walls of empty properties proclaim them to be “Almacén del Invifas”, which means they are the property of the “Instituto para la Vivienda de las Fuerzas Armadas”, or army property, and is a legal necessity to stop squatters.

A cottage in the (very) early stages of renovation

The cost of renovation, incidentally, was shared by the Ayuntamientos of Madrid and Pozuelo as the colonia lies on the boundary of the two, leading to the somewhat ridiculous matter of there being two different designs of lampposts in the streets. The military, whose personnel benefit from the renovation, paid nothing.

However, as well as providing living accommodation for workers, some of these colonias were nothing more than holiday homes. In the same way that well-off Madrileños today have second homes on the coast or in the cool hills north of the city, the pre-motorcar age required these week-end “get-aways” to be closer to home.

That very philosophy is, obviously, reflected in the name of the place where I began this article: La Colonia Fin de Semana.

Situated some twelve kilometres east of Madrid and a good couple of kilometres beyond the advancing tide of high rise apartments, this “Colonia” still betrays its origins as a “get away” place. It’s central plaza is wide and gardened.

The cetral plaza in Fin deSemana

There are open spaces used for growing vegetables and old houses with sprawling vines and crawling roses. But its artificiality is apparent. The streets are laid out on a strictly regimented grid and named, (by lazy, unimaginative planners) in order, after the months of the year. Hence my untimely arrival in “Diciembre”. Unlike the bucolic joys of the Colonia Arroyo Meaques, which strives to maintain a timeless quality, the Colonia Fin de la Semana is undergoing development.

Ancient dwellings resist the encroachment of new development.

Regimented rows of modern houses, obviously for the well to do, stand cheek by jowl with the ancient cottages. Untended wildernesses wait for the developer’s bulldozer. Much of the northern half of the Colonia is industrial, with builder’s yards and ironworks. Not as pretty as I thought a weekend retreat should be.

I suspect I was not the only one to be disappointed. Within minutes of arriving I was approached by a back-packing Australian couple who, with not even a faltering attempt at Spanish, asked me for directions. Am I so obviously a guiri? Well no, because their surprise was palpable when I replied in English, “Sorry, I haven’t a clue”, when they were expecting a Spanish reply. I would never, in any non English speaking country, approach a stranger without some attempt at the local language. I wonder why this couple, well, the woman, thought it was ok. However. I don’t think the Colonia was the tourist sight they expected to see.

Fin de Semana now provides housing for all of the week.

A close scrutiny at any map of Madrid will reveal many of these “Colonias”. There are, in fact, forty two designated, and protected, as “colonias históricas madrilènes”. Some don’t actually have “colonia” in the name, but they are there. And you don’t have to go far to find them. The top end of the Calle Serrano will put you right in the centre of where Madrileñillos used to spend their weekends. There are four just behind the Real Madrid stadium; El Visto, Cruz del Rayo, (built to house civil servants), La Prensa y Bellas Artes (to house writers, journalists and artists – obviously) and Iturbe IV for professionals.

The Chamartin district boasts seventeen. Prosperidad, a lovely name, for one, was built under the 1927 law of cheap housing for labourers. The list also includes Socialista, Jardin de Rosa, Los Pinares, Las Magnolias, Los Rosales and so on. While Iturbe III was constructed by the Cooperativa Madrileña de Casas Baratas y Económicas slap bang in the middle of the Salamanca district for who knows who, but just think of the prices these properties in that area fetch now!

I can sort of tell you, although the documentation I have found is about six years old. In Salamanca the prices for the houses in the three colonies of Carteros, Iturbe III and Fuente del Berro were around €4,800 per square metre. So, half a million each, which actually isn’t bad for that area, but the places are tiny.

Some of the properties protected by the 1997 law are not parts of colonies, but individual holdings. For this reason you will find many ancient, slightly rickety, little houses completely swamped in a sea of high rise blocks.

Some are quite charming, if not seeming a little lonely. However, a quick glimpse thought a chink in a wall, or through a half open gate, reveals well cared for properties and a view of how Madrid used to be before apartment living was the norm. Long may they last.

Below - Experience a year in a Weekend

Smoke and Morirse

2010-10-31T11:36:00.001+01:00

By Richard Morley.

The Main Street of my Neighbourhood.

I like my little bit of Madrid. My barrio is sandwiched between two major arterial roads and cut off from our neighbouring barrio by an expanse of wasteland where forty years ago they dumped the sandy soil known as Peñuela that was removed from the tunnel of our metro line. Google earth shows my barrio to be about one kilometre long by about a half a kilometre wide. Isolated by the roads and the dog-walkers wasteland we are, to all intents and purposes, a little village.

Running through the centre is our main shopping street. These days it seems to consist of hair-dressers, opticians and banks; lots of banks. In four hundred metres we have eighteen branches of one bank or another. You are never more than twenty metres away from a cash point. I suppose they must all find customers. Our barrio might be small in area, but it is high. Apartment blocks up to twelve stories high soar into the Madrid sky. From my own apartment window I have a glorious view of all of eastern Madrid.

Surprisingly, at ground level, our concrete jungle, or Jungla de Cristal (glass jungle) as the Spanish call it, is hardly noticeable. Our streets are lined with tall, leafy trees that effectively hide the brick and concrete beyond.

At either end of the main street are two small businesses. Both of them are estancos, or tobacconist shops. They sell more than cigarettes and cigars. Here you can buy bus and metro tickets, newspapers, birthday cards, stamps and envelopes and decorative wrapping paper for presents, which for some reason the gift shops where you buy the presents, don’t sell.

I tend to frequent one of these estancos more than the other, for the simple reason that is the closest to where I live. I have wished this wasn’t the case. The far estanco is run by an attractive young lady who is always polite, cheerful, and knows my order as soon as I enter. The only words of Spanish I have to use is “uno”, “dos”, “mechero” and, of course, “gracias”. She, on the other hand, likes to practise her few words of English, with a smile and a self conscious chuckle. It is a pleasure to go there on the odd few times that I do. Maybe I should move to the other end of the street.

My estanco, the one nearest me, was run, in the mornings, by a sharp chinned, sharp nosed and sharp tongued woman called Esperanza. Give her a black cloak, a pointy hat to hide her grey straggly hair and a broomstick and she would have been first choice for any of the three witches in Macbeth. In the more than three years I have lived here Esperanza never once remembered what cigarettes I smoke. Or at least pretended not to. I had to order them, by name, every time. Then she pretended not to understand and gave me a pack of some different brand. I know she did it on purpose. And when I pointed out the error, the look on her face suggested that I was the one who had made the mistake.

The Estanco.

It wasn’t just me. Others had a similar problem with the woman. Every transaction, whether for a simple purchase of a single packet of cigarettes or a more complicated postal matter, took time and frustration. All queries were answered with a snapped reply. The woman had the shortest syllables in the Spanish language. Queues would form, with much grumbling from those at the back when the unmoving line of people stretched metres along the pavement outside her tiny shop. It was not possible for more than three or four people to actually be inside together.

At two in the afternoon she would shut up shop for lunch. Not a second later. Leaving any proposed purchase to the last minute was a fatal mistake. More than once I was caught on the wrong side of the road, waiting for the crossing lights to change in my favour, when I would see her face at the window, dead on two, pulling the concertina security bars into place and slide the sign on the door to, “Cerrada”. No amount of gesticulated pleading would make her remain open for a few seconds longer.

Luckily, Esperanza only worked in the shop in the morning. From five, when the shop reopened, to eight in the evening, we would be served by Carmen, Esperanza’s daughter, but who certainly did not take after her mother.

Carmen has deep brown eyes, jet black hair and bee-stung lips that always carries a smile. Once she had realised that I stayed loyal to one brand of cigarettes I have never had to ask again. Unlike her mother she dealt with all her customers quickly and cheerfully and there was hardly ever a queue. Naturally, I tried to make my purchases in the evening.

Last August I was away from Madrid for the first two weeks of the month. Having broken from my normal routine I found myself without cigarettes after two o’clock on a Monday afternoon. I knew the estanco would be closed, but my local, the Elizabeth Bar, with its more expensive cigarette machine would be open. Being a Madrid summer, it was hot. I needed a break and thought a cold beer would be a good idea (when isn’t it?) and so set off for the bar.

Imagine my surprise when I saw, at approximately half past two, that the estanco was open. To buy the cigarettes there would only have saved me fifteen céntimos, but look after the céntimos and the Euros look after themselves as my mother would have undoubtedly said if we had lived in post euro Spain. So I entered the estanco fully expecting to see Carmen behind the counter. Surprise number two was that it wasn’t Carmen but Esperanza and therefore, even more surprisingly, there was no queue. Just her and me, but then it was lunch time.

But the greatest surprise, if not shock, was yet to come. “Hola, Buenas”, she almost chirped and then a strangely smiling Esperanza turned to the rows of cigarettes and turned back with my brand. The right brand. Then, while making change, talked about the weather, followed by a cheery “Adios”, when I left.

Twenty five hours later, meaning at three thirty the following day, the shop was open again. Esperanza stood alone in the door. I didn’t need any cigarettes so walked past on the other side of the street. She saw me, popped her head out, and waved. This was so strange I will admit to thinking that perhaps she was on some sort of medication.

That evening, when I did need cigarettes, I went to the estanco and was served by Carmen. Oddly, she was not her usual happy self. But then, I never did understand women.

For me, this was very welcome. If I was busy working in the morning and slowly working my way through a pack of cigarettes, I no longer had to keep an eye on the clock to ensure that I had renewed my supply before two. There are times when writing or researching a piece for the blog or working on interminable lesson plans for my students means I lose track of time. It gave me a new flexibility.

And so it continued for two weeks. September had begun. Vacation time was over and my students were back in their offices expecting me to arrive for lessons at fixed times. I had lost some of my flexibility, but if I timed it right, I had just time to get to the estanco before catching the bus to the first lesson of the afternoon. I left my apartment and walked the two hundred metres to shop. I crossed the small plaza opposite and saw Esperanza standing in the doorway and wiggled a hand in her direction, but the lights of the pedestrian crossing were against me. The nearest approaching car was still way off, and if I was quick I could have made it across the road, but that vehicle was a black hearse with a cherry wood coffin buried in piles of flowers in the back. I looked across at Esperanza and smiled. She smiled back. A rather strange, wistful smile I thought. And she returned my wave.

The Crossing.

As the hearse passed me by, I stood on the pavement in respect. In first car of mourners bringing up the rear I thought I caught a glimpse of jet black hair behind a sad face that stared unmovingly ahead towards the car bearing the coffin.

The slow procession passed and the road was clear. I looked across and began to cross. But the little estanco was in darkness. The security bars had been pulled across and the sign in the door proclaimed, “Cerrado”. I swore. Perhaps Esperanza had to go somewhere and couldn’t wait, I thought. But she had seen me. Waved at me.

I was puzzled, but thought what the heck, shrugged and recrossed the street and bought my cigarettes from the machine in the bar Elizabeth.

Returning from lessons a little after five the following afternoon I climbed off the bus and crossed over to the estanco. Carmen was just pulling back the security bars and opening for business. “Are you back to normal hours, now?” I asked. “Now that everyone’s back at work.”

A look of puzzlement crossed her face. “We haven’t changed our opening hours”, she said.
“But you have been open every afternoon at least for the past two weeks”, I protested. “I’ve been getting a pack nearly every day”.
She looked me square in the face. “Your normal brand?”
“Yes, of course”. I assured her. “You mother’s been serving me.” I smiled. “It’s been interesting talking to her. Usually she’s so busy. But she’s a different woman when the shop’s not crowded. Quite chatty, in fact.”
“My mother’s been serving you every day for two weeks?” she asked, uncertainly.
“Yes”.
“One pack?”
“Normally. Sometimes two.”

The blood seemed to drain from her face. She turned to the rows of stacked cigarettes. “For the past two weeks when I’ve opened the shop at five we’ve been a pack short from the end of morning count. One day, two packs. Your brand”.
“Perhaps Esperanza forgot to tick them off”, I suggested.
“Esperanza? My mother?” Her body suddenly shook and she grabbed the counter for support.

“Señor, my mother died two weeks ago. Because some of the family were on vacation the funeral was just yesterday. In fact I saw you standing at the crossing, opposite the shop. I remember seeing you wave, but I couldn’t see who you were waving to.” Her eyes narrowed and stared into mine. “Where were you going?”