In which Fraz learns the subtleties of Mediterranean culture

My prepaid cell phone sent seventy-five blank text messages to Miles this morning, and I’m not happy about that. Seventeen cents a text—I don’t even take the metro unless I absolutely have to. That’s not really an experience particular to Spain, but it’s on my mind anyways.

Here’s something particular to Spain: old ladies who love the monarchy. I was reading El Mundo, which is a more conservative paper, in the living room the other day, and the big, above the fold article is about these protestors who, during the King’s visit to Catalunya, burned his picture. Now, this was an event, and all the other newspapers covered it, but what was funny was that this paper gave it the most prominent section of the paper, and was absolutely livid that this could happen.

Now, I’m an American, as you may know, and the only monarchs I am at all familiar with are the British ones, who seem to be made fun of constantly, so I find this indignation on the part of El Mundo kinda funny. I turn to the old lady with whom I’m living (who I’m calling Rosa from now on, because any nominative phrase that refers to her is always far too long) and say something to the effect of “It’s so interesting to me that something involving the monarchy could spur a legitimate political debate.” Thank God I was that vague, because she shoots forward in her chair, her eyes burning with passion and her index finger gesticulating towards heaven, and starts going “Oh I know! You see, up in Catalunya, they’re all Republicans---but not like you’re Republicans that you have, they hate the monarchy! They say that Spain is a Republic, and that the king shouldn’t have political power, and that’s why they don’t want him to be the leader of the army any more.”

At this point, it’s important to know that, usually when I’m being spoken to, I continuously nod and stuff to show that I’m understanding. Nodding was the incorrect thing to do here.

“But no!” she says, responding to a particularly poorly timed nod. “The King is very important! He’s a national leader, he’s a symbol of unity!” and she keeps going on in that vein, while I’m all the while falling over myself, trying to correct my mistake, which I can’t do because I’m speaking Spanish and I don’t have that level of subtlety yet. But hey, I got no problem with the King. I’m an American, I love kings. Spain can totally have a king; the Republican flag is ugly anyways. I eventually get this point across (leaving out the fact that the main reason I think the King should stay is because I think it’s adorable) and she calms down, satisfied that I am adequately monarchist. This entire episode caught me off guard, though, since she’s really pretty progressive in all of her other politics, so her devotion to the King totally caught me off guard.


I don’t know why I was that surprised, though, since everything else about my experience in this house makes me feel like I’m living on the set of some movie. The apartment is one of those “Welcome to Europe,” belle époque buildings, with little balconies on the windows that look out at the (butter yellow) cathedral, and the interior windows are centered around a little courtyard, in which Rosa hangs the laundry out to dry. As she does so, she can talk to her sister, who lives on the floor above and actually does that thing where she throws the shutters open and says hello to you in the morning.

Lunch is an equally theatrical affair, since there is always at least one family guest, and oftentimes many more. The other day, we were eating with one of the daughters (like early forties) and a granddaughter (sixteen), and, since I had been to the bullfights the day before, the conversation turned to bullfighting. The daughter asked me what I thought of them, and I said something about how interesting it was so see a ceremony that had been around for centuries. This was apparently the right answer, since this woman was all about the bullfights, and she starts rhapsodizing. She is soon interrupted, however, by the granddaughter, who says that she can’t believe that they still have bullfights, and how fundamentally cruel they are. This, of course, sets off the daughter, who launches into an obviously oft-delivered rant, going on about how bullfight bulls live longer, more pampered lives than regular bulls, and how you can only be a hypocrite if you’re against the fights but eat meat, since on the whole the bull’s life is so much better. The granddaughter, in response, goes “Yes, but then it dies to the sound of…” and then she actually does the dramatic slow clap from gladiator.

I love them all.


Also, I feel the need to tag on here that we went to the opera last night, and because we’re under 27 and bought are tickets at the last minute, we got to sit in the center of the second row for 14 Euro a pop. Life is good.