My friend Colin wrote recently in his blog about changes to the law in Spain to make it obligatory for cyclists to wear helmets. I’ll be interested to see how well that works in a country where many people don’t see the need to strap their babies into their buggies and don’t always have functioning seat belts in the back seats of their cars. In any case, most of the cyclists I’ve seen out and about in Vigo recently have been on the pavement rather than on the road. Maybe they should make pedestrians wear helmets in case they are knocked over by cyclists.
Here in the UK I have heard that an increasing number of cyclists wear not only helmets but cycle helmet cameras. If they have any problems with cyclist-blind motorists they have instant video evidence of what happened. One case of road rage recently went viral when the cyclist put it into the public domain. He’s even had to appeal to viewers not to bombard the driver concerned with hate mail. He never intended to ruin the poor man’s business, he said. But there’s something rather wrong with our society if people feel such a need to gather evidence JUST IN CASE anything might happen.
On the other side of the world, in the USA, specifically in Colorado, parents are buying oversized bullet-proof rucksacks for their children and making sure that they know how to use them as shields in the even of another madman attacking a school. Tiny children of five years old are carrying rucksacks they could almost hide in. The schools’ administrators are joining in as well, equipping classrooms with bullet-proof white boards which can be wheeled into protective positions. They have stacks of bullet-proof clipboards for use in emergency as well. Someone has benefited from the school shootings then. And yet a lot of senators still block gun control measures which might make such protective efforts unnecessary.
I’m surprised they manage to recruit teachers at all.
Spanish film director Pedro Almodóvar has been speaking about violence as well, this time in his own country. He’s concerned that the continued repossession of houses in Spain as people can’t pay their mortgages will lead to out and out violence. Children seeing their parents forcibly removed from their homes and people watching their brothers, friends or neighbours pulled resisting from their homes are going to respond to that violence with violent protest, says Almodóvar. Former socialist president of Spain, Felipe González may well appeal to protesters to respect the homes of his fellow politicians but his appeal won’t work if their own homes are not respected.
The wild child of the "movida", the almost perpetual party that went on in the immediate past-Franco years, is speaking out. This is a man of principle who apparently once banned Berlusconi’s companies from distributing his films in Italy because he disapproved of he bunga bunga king.
I look forward to seeing Almodóvar’s new film, “Los Amantes Pasajeros” (“I’m so excited” is its English title), another outrageous story involving stories such as a call girl with a compromising videotape of the king – strangely reminiscent of the kind of troubles the royal family has been having lately. I saw a clip for it yesterday. It looks tremendous.
Monday, 29 April 2013
Thursday, 25 April 2013
Linguistic conundrums and old age.
Today in my Italian class we discussed the subjunctive, or the “congiuntivo” as they call it there, making it sound like a linguistic eye disease. Apparently there is quite a deal of discussion going on in Italy about whether it’s really needed any longer. It’s a little like the arguments for and against keeping the apostrophe in English. Personally I’m all for keeping both of them. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of clarity and sophistication in the language, any language. I have moments of despair about the reduction of the vocabulary, especially in English, to a simple, basic minimum. As people read less, for a variety of reasons, words slip out of usage. At the same time weird new terms are invented; politicians in particular no longer talk about what will happen “in the future” but make predictions “going forward”. Here’s a link to an article in the Guardian on that topic.
Our Italian teacher puts the endangered state of the subjunctive down to lazy speaking, some by politicians who shall remain nameless but who don’t know how or can’t be bothered to speak properly. She had a little rant as well about the fact that anyone at all can call themselves a journalist; all they need to do is write a little article, however poorly constructed, have it published in some newspaper and they call themselves journalists. Oh dear, I wonder what she thinks of bloggers!
Prospect Magazine has published a list of the top world thinkers. Here’s a link to the list. I know about this because a female journalist in the Guardian was getting a little upset at the fact that out of the top 65 only 15 are women. Yes, it’s disgraceful but it no doubt reflects the fact that men still hold the majority of the top positions in just about all walks of life and so are more likely to have made their thoughts more publicly available.
I’ve just heard that Margaret Thatcher’s funeral cost over £3,000,000. A good deal of that was police presence on the streets but a fair amount went on receptions after the event. Whatever the truth of the matter, it seems an awful lot of money to see someone off to the next world. Funnily enough, I was talking about this to an old gentleman on the bus this morning. His funeral, he told me, is already paid for. It was a cheerful topic of conversation for a Thursday morning bus ride.
I know this old chap because we used to live next door to his sister-in-law, about 25 years ago. At that time he seemed ancient; today he really doesn’t look much older. How can that be? Maybe it’s to do with older people being around more and being more active than in the past. Or maybe it’s just that he refuses to dress any differently from the way he did 25 years ago.
Anyway, he’s not letting age stand in his way or so it seems. And neither is the President of Italy, starting a second term at age 89, their oldest President ever! I wonder if he’ll manage a third term.
Our Italian teacher puts the endangered state of the subjunctive down to lazy speaking, some by politicians who shall remain nameless but who don’t know how or can’t be bothered to speak properly. She had a little rant as well about the fact that anyone at all can call themselves a journalist; all they need to do is write a little article, however poorly constructed, have it published in some newspaper and they call themselves journalists. Oh dear, I wonder what she thinks of bloggers!
Prospect Magazine has published a list of the top world thinkers. Here’s a link to the list. I know about this because a female journalist in the Guardian was getting a little upset at the fact that out of the top 65 only 15 are women. Yes, it’s disgraceful but it no doubt reflects the fact that men still hold the majority of the top positions in just about all walks of life and so are more likely to have made their thoughts more publicly available.
I’ve just heard that Margaret Thatcher’s funeral cost over £3,000,000. A good deal of that was police presence on the streets but a fair amount went on receptions after the event. Whatever the truth of the matter, it seems an awful lot of money to see someone off to the next world. Funnily enough, I was talking about this to an old gentleman on the bus this morning. His funeral, he told me, is already paid for. It was a cheerful topic of conversation for a Thursday morning bus ride.
I know this old chap because we used to live next door to his sister-in-law, about 25 years ago. At that time he seemed ancient; today he really doesn’t look much older. How can that be? Maybe it’s to do with older people being around more and being more active than in the past. Or maybe it’s just that he refuses to dress any differently from the way he did 25 years ago.
Anyway, he’s not letting age stand in his way or so it seems. And neither is the President of Italy, starting a second term at age 89, their oldest President ever! I wonder if he’ll manage a third term.
Tuesday, 23 April 2013
Getting around.
During our just finished visit to Vigo we discovered that the price of travelling on the local buses has gone up by ... wait for it ... 2 céntimos!!! Daylight robbery!!! To travel to the end of the street or to the other end of the city now costs €1.24. Amazing!!! If I didn’t have my bus pass here in the UK it would cost me about three times that much just to go the next village. I dread to think what it would cost me to go to the other side of Greater Manchester.
Yes, here we are, back in the UK. On Sunday we walked to the bus station, trundling our wheelie suitcases behind us, commenting once again on the fact that the paving stones are set to create maximum noise as you wheel something over them.
The newspaper kiosk in the bus station has closed. In its place there is a cheap clothes shop, with items piled in the window so that it looks like a jumble sale. Hand written notices stuck in the window announce items for €2. Clearly they are aiming for the top end of the market then!
An enterprising soul has set up a book stall on a group of tables just outside the ex-kiosk but appeared to be doing slow business.
The bus arrived in plenty of time for once. Our tickets were checked and our luggage stowed but we were asked politely to wait a while before getting on the bus. No explanation was given. A surprisingly orderly queue was formed. Eventually we were allowed onto the vehicle. We found seats – there were remarkably few lots of two seats free together, the bus having come from La Coruña and picked up passengers en route. But we were fine ... and then a large lady sat in front of us and immediately reclined her seat so that she was almost on Phil’s lap. This was thoughtful and considerate. It wasn’t as if you could expect everyone to want to sleep; the bus left at half past midday! Fortunately she got off in Braga so all was well.
Somewhere between Braga and Oporto the bus stopped on a roundabout, well on a kind of lay-by on a roundabout but still an odd place to stop and turn off he engines. We waited almost fifteen minutes. People were obviously wondering what was going on, getting up and looking out of the window, commenting to each other but none of us got round to asking the driver. Finally we set off once more. I think we may have changed drivers, which would be a logical explanation, but I am not sure.
We hung around the airport at Oporto for several hours and had some rather inferior pizza at a rather inflated price but at least it came with a free soft drink
After watching the sun go down we made our way to the relevant gate for our plane which appeared to have arrived early and was boarding early. We had some difficulty understanding the instructions about boarding. I can usually understand enough Portuguese to deal with those announcements but this time both the Portuguese and the English versions were incomprehensible. I just about made out the word Liverpool. What’s more, the announcements remained almost incomprehensible throughout the flight. The member of cabin crew chosen to make these announcements truly was a poor choice. If I had taught someone a foreign language and they had pronounced it in such a garbled fashion, I would have considered myself a failure. Mistakes like “yours own safety” and “passengers with children and asked to hold thems hands” were the least of it. “Any raaarbish?” has now gone into our vocabulary as a way of asking if there is anything else to be added to the rubbish bag!
Despite the early boarding we arrived a little late at Liverpool, slowed down by strong head winds by all accounts. Once on the ground in Liverpool, we could see the covered walk way and the doors by which we usually entered the airport from the plane. However, we were all shepherded onto a bus, driven rough the back ways of the airport complex and then had to walk miles and miles (all right, I exaggerate, but quite a long way) before standing in a long slow queue for passport control.
It was into the small hours of Monday morning when we went through our front door at last. And I had promised to be up at the crack of dawn to take the grandchildren to school.
I’ve still not caught up on my sleep. And we have left the sunshine behind!
Yes, here we are, back in the UK. On Sunday we walked to the bus station, trundling our wheelie suitcases behind us, commenting once again on the fact that the paving stones are set to create maximum noise as you wheel something over them.
The newspaper kiosk in the bus station has closed. In its place there is a cheap clothes shop, with items piled in the window so that it looks like a jumble sale. Hand written notices stuck in the window announce items for €2. Clearly they are aiming for the top end of the market then!
An enterprising soul has set up a book stall on a group of tables just outside the ex-kiosk but appeared to be doing slow business.
The bus arrived in plenty of time for once. Our tickets were checked and our luggage stowed but we were asked politely to wait a while before getting on the bus. No explanation was given. A surprisingly orderly queue was formed. Eventually we were allowed onto the vehicle. We found seats – there were remarkably few lots of two seats free together, the bus having come from La Coruña and picked up passengers en route. But we were fine ... and then a large lady sat in front of us and immediately reclined her seat so that she was almost on Phil’s lap. This was thoughtful and considerate. It wasn’t as if you could expect everyone to want to sleep; the bus left at half past midday! Fortunately she got off in Braga so all was well.
Somewhere between Braga and Oporto the bus stopped on a roundabout, well on a kind of lay-by on a roundabout but still an odd place to stop and turn off he engines. We waited almost fifteen minutes. People were obviously wondering what was going on, getting up and looking out of the window, commenting to each other but none of us got round to asking the driver. Finally we set off once more. I think we may have changed drivers, which would be a logical explanation, but I am not sure.
We hung around the airport at Oporto for several hours and had some rather inferior pizza at a rather inflated price but at least it came with a free soft drink
After watching the sun go down we made our way to the relevant gate for our plane which appeared to have arrived early and was boarding early. We had some difficulty understanding the instructions about boarding. I can usually understand enough Portuguese to deal with those announcements but this time both the Portuguese and the English versions were incomprehensible. I just about made out the word Liverpool. What’s more, the announcements remained almost incomprehensible throughout the flight. The member of cabin crew chosen to make these announcements truly was a poor choice. If I had taught someone a foreign language and they had pronounced it in such a garbled fashion, I would have considered myself a failure. Mistakes like “yours own safety” and “passengers with children and asked to hold thems hands” were the least of it. “Any raaarbish?” has now gone into our vocabulary as a way of asking if there is anything else to be added to the rubbish bag!
Despite the early boarding we arrived a little late at Liverpool, slowed down by strong head winds by all accounts. Once on the ground in Liverpool, we could see the covered walk way and the doors by which we usually entered the airport from the plane. However, we were all shepherded onto a bus, driven rough the back ways of the airport complex and then had to walk miles and miles (all right, I exaggerate, but quite a long way) before standing in a long slow queue for passport control.
It was into the small hours of Monday morning when we went through our front door at last. And I had promised to be up at the crack of dawn to take the grandchildren to school.
I’ve still not caught up on my sleep. And we have left the sunshine behind!
Saturday, 20 April 2013
Future plans and projects.
We were talking the other evening over a post-concert glass of wine or three, about books and things, as you do. The wine we were drinking was called Jacinta which brought to mind “Fortunata y Jacinta” by the nineteenth century Spanish novelist Galdós. This led us on to reminiscing about the Spanish TV serialisation of the novel, made in the 1970s, starring the actress/singer Ana Belén. Somewhere at home I still have the series on video cassette. If we ever get around to setting up the old television set with the old video cassette player in one of the now rarely used bedrooms, I might just watch it again. According to Wikipedia Radio Televisión Española re-released it on their webpage in 2009 and it may just be possible to see it there still for free.
How odd, I reflected, to come all the way to Galicia, get to know a French person who has herself come a fair way to settle her, and discover that we have a shared culture.
We went on to talk about Ana Belén and her husband Victor Manuel, also a singer-song-writer, and the fact that they have managed to bring up their children completely out of the public eye. How very different from other singers and celebrities whose children often seem to be designer accessories to be shown off wherever they go. As one of our friends put it, “son gente discreta”.
As we were talking about writers, we asked if our friends had read the local man, Domingo Villar, whose detective stories set in Vigo have been translated from the original Galician into Castilian Spanish and other non-Spanish languages. Another friend of ours back in the UK has read “Ojos de Agua” in English and thoroughly enjoyed it without being able or indeed needing to identify places mentioned: restaurants, bars, beaches, well-known buildings, well known around Vigo anyway.
Yes, our friends here knew the work and not only that but Emilio, the Spanish half of the couple, says he is a longstanding friend of Eligio, whose restaurant our detective hero frequently visits. We long ago located the restaurant, in a street behind Príncipe, but have never managed to find it open. Now we have half a plan to go there with Emilio. Are we going to become literary groupies? Dominique warns me, however, never to use the toilet there: not a good loo, much better to drink little and wait to go elsewhere.
These are all things for our next visit but before we head for home tomorrow I have a new word to add to my collection of Anglicisms in use in Spanish: el ranquin – Spanish spelling for ranking. And from reading the paper just now I have found that the English expression “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” translates into Spanish as “No tocar lo que funciona” – Don’t touch what works!
There you go!
How odd, I reflected, to come all the way to Galicia, get to know a French person who has herself come a fair way to settle her, and discover that we have a shared culture.
We went on to talk about Ana Belén and her husband Victor Manuel, also a singer-song-writer, and the fact that they have managed to bring up their children completely out of the public eye. How very different from other singers and celebrities whose children often seem to be designer accessories to be shown off wherever they go. As one of our friends put it, “son gente discreta”.
As we were talking about writers, we asked if our friends had read the local man, Domingo Villar, whose detective stories set in Vigo have been translated from the original Galician into Castilian Spanish and other non-Spanish languages. Another friend of ours back in the UK has read “Ojos de Agua” in English and thoroughly enjoyed it without being able or indeed needing to identify places mentioned: restaurants, bars, beaches, well-known buildings, well known around Vigo anyway.
Yes, our friends here knew the work and not only that but Emilio, the Spanish half of the couple, says he is a longstanding friend of Eligio, whose restaurant our detective hero frequently visits. We long ago located the restaurant, in a street behind Príncipe, but have never managed to find it open. Now we have half a plan to go there with Emilio. Are we going to become literary groupies? Dominique warns me, however, never to use the toilet there: not a good loo, much better to drink little and wait to go elsewhere.
These are all things for our next visit but before we head for home tomorrow I have a new word to add to my collection of Anglicisms in use in Spanish: el ranquin – Spanish spelling for ranking. And from reading the paper just now I have found that the English expression “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” translates into Spanish as “No tocar lo que funciona” – Don’t touch what works!
There you go!
Friday, 19 April 2013
Time to go home?
I wrote the other day that the bluebells in Castrelos Park were coming up white. Today I have read in the Guardian that bluebell woods in the UK are on the decline. Well, I thought that was already the case with all sorts of restrictions on picking them because they are an endangered species and so on. Now, however, I read that they are under even more threat because some unscrupulous people have been introducing Spanish bluebells to English woods. Imagine, Spanish bluebells!!! I never realised that plant piracy took place on this scale. But it seems that Spanish bluebells, paler blue and not so perfumed as the good old English variety, are perhaps taking over and making sights like this a thing of the past.
I’d better hurry home and see them before they disappear for good.
I also read that they arrested Rolf Harris as part of the Jimmy Saville investigations. This rather odd man painted a portrait of Her Majesty, for goodness sake!! What is the world coming to? It’s a good job Margaret Thatcher is gone or they might be investigating her as well. We managed to miss all the fuss of her funeral although we did see some of the newspaper coverage. One of the oddest items I came across was the Independent’s feature on fashion on show at the funeral. Here is a link to the pictures, if it still works now , including a photo of her granddaughter, Amanda Thatcher, suddenly thrust into the limelight by doing a reading at the funeral.
We may have missed that event but our social life has suddenly improved in this last week of our current stay in Vigo.
Yesterday we had lunch with our friend Colin from Pontevedra. He’d come to Vigo to visit the Apple store, trying to replace the missing cable for his i-pod shuffle. Neither the Apple store nor MediaMarkt were able to provide him immediately with what he needed. He may have found it by going back to the Apple store, such as it is, a poorly equipped little shop on Puerta del Sol, later in the day.
This inability to find electrical items is one of the peculiarities about life here. I was recently in MediaMarkt with another friend who wanted to buy a new battery for her digital camera. They told her they had sold out and were not expecting a delivery for another month. Another whole month!!!!
Then yesterday evening we went to another concert at the Centro Social Nuevacaixagalicia. We purchased our tickets online on Wednesday. It’s just as well we did. Had we relied on turning up to buy tickets we would have gone tonight instead because the webpage told us it was Friday. It was only when we tried to purchase tickets that we found out the truth of the matter. A friend of ours suggested that we had misread the webpage as the concert is being repeated tonight in Pontevedra. We are not convinced, however, and think their webpage manager needs some training.
Anyway, we made it to the concert, lots of Tchaikovsky and very good too, and then went on to have “un vinito” and some nibbles with friends. It’s quite amazing that at 11 o’ clock in the evening a bar will cook you a tortilla, not just serve you up something they made earlier but make you a fresh one. English bars who grudgingly sell you a packet of crisps should take note.
Finally today we had lunch out with yet another friend. All good but perhaps it is time we went home before our waistlines expand.
Sitting now in the cafetería on the corner near the chess club, I have just seen one of those oddities of Spanish television. The news reporter went seamlessly from a sports report to an advert for some brand of milk and its related products. As she told us of the benefits of drinking milk and eating yoghurt there was nothing to show that this was not some mini-documentary apart from a little sign in the corner saying “publicidad”. And then back she went into something about Rafa Nadal. Astounding! I wonder whether the milk company pays her to do this. Somehow I don’t see Kirsty Walk doing the same thing on British television.
Another thing to look out for when we head back on Sunday.
I’d better hurry home and see them before they disappear for good.
I also read that they arrested Rolf Harris as part of the Jimmy Saville investigations. This rather odd man painted a portrait of Her Majesty, for goodness sake!! What is the world coming to? It’s a good job Margaret Thatcher is gone or they might be investigating her as well. We managed to miss all the fuss of her funeral although we did see some of the newspaper coverage. One of the oddest items I came across was the Independent’s feature on fashion on show at the funeral. Here is a link to the pictures, if it still works now , including a photo of her granddaughter, Amanda Thatcher, suddenly thrust into the limelight by doing a reading at the funeral.
We may have missed that event but our social life has suddenly improved in this last week of our current stay in Vigo.
Yesterday we had lunch with our friend Colin from Pontevedra. He’d come to Vigo to visit the Apple store, trying to replace the missing cable for his i-pod shuffle. Neither the Apple store nor MediaMarkt were able to provide him immediately with what he needed. He may have found it by going back to the Apple store, such as it is, a poorly equipped little shop on Puerta del Sol, later in the day.
This inability to find electrical items is one of the peculiarities about life here. I was recently in MediaMarkt with another friend who wanted to buy a new battery for her digital camera. They told her they had sold out and were not expecting a delivery for another month. Another whole month!!!!
Then yesterday evening we went to another concert at the Centro Social Nuevacaixagalicia. We purchased our tickets online on Wednesday. It’s just as well we did. Had we relied on turning up to buy tickets we would have gone tonight instead because the webpage told us it was Friday. It was only when we tried to purchase tickets that we found out the truth of the matter. A friend of ours suggested that we had misread the webpage as the concert is being repeated tonight in Pontevedra. We are not convinced, however, and think their webpage manager needs some training.
Anyway, we made it to the concert, lots of Tchaikovsky and very good too, and then went on to have “un vinito” and some nibbles with friends. It’s quite amazing that at 11 o’ clock in the evening a bar will cook you a tortilla, not just serve you up something they made earlier but make you a fresh one. English bars who grudgingly sell you a packet of crisps should take note.
Finally today we had lunch out with yet another friend. All good but perhaps it is time we went home before our waistlines expand.
Sitting now in the cafetería on the corner near the chess club, I have just seen one of those oddities of Spanish television. The news reporter went seamlessly from a sports report to an advert for some brand of milk and its related products. As she told us of the benefits of drinking milk and eating yoghurt there was nothing to show that this was not some mini-documentary apart from a little sign in the corner saying “publicidad”. And then back she went into something about Rafa Nadal. Astounding! I wonder whether the milk company pays her to do this. Somehow I don’t see Kirsty Walk doing the same thing on British television.
Another thing to look out for when we head back on Sunday.
Wednesday, 17 April 2013
Street people
There is a violin player – if you can really call his scraping playing – on Príncipe. He’s there most days, come rain or shine and he’s been around at least since we first came to Vigo about five years ago, possibly longer. We’ve also seen him in Sanxenxo in the summer time. Maybe that’s his summer residence. His repertoire doesn’t change much year on year: a bit of badly played Carmen, an equally badly played Ode to Joy. Practice isn’t making perfect. As for him, he’s not improving either, looking a bit more wrinkled and a bit more weathered than when we first saw him. Mind you, other beggars have come and gone but he remains.
So does the old chap who sleeps in a shop doorway on Urzáiz. He’s been there more than a year now. He seems to have survived the winter with his bag of belongings and a rather disreputable-looking blanket. I see him reading at times – maybe the people who stop and talk to him give him books – but mostly he’s sleeping.
The sun has brought out the bench sleepers in the last few days, stretched out in the warmth, oblivious of the street life around them. It has also woken up the traffic light clowns. In minimal fancy dress, usually loose, brightly coloured clothing and dreadlocks, when cars stop at traffic lights they step out into the middle of the pedestrian crossing. Then they do the smallest amount of juggling possible, a couple of tosses of their batons into the air, before haranguing the car drivers for a contribution in payment for the entertainment provided.
Our regular supermarket beggars in the doorway to Mercadona just next to our block of flats – a young woman who looks pathetic and asks for money and a young man who pursues you and asks you to buy something for him while you’re in there, preferably meat – have either disappeared or changed their schedule. One way or another, I’ve not seen them when I’ve gone to the supermarket. Maybe I just go too early in the day.
I’m not too early, however for the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Twice in the time we’ve been here I’ve been stopped and asked if I want to learn how to make my life simpler and better. And it’s happened on other visits to this fair city. Maybe they have their headquarters – Kingdom Hall – somewhere near our flats.
Or maybe it’s my face. Do I really look so much like a sinner in need of redemption?
So does the old chap who sleeps in a shop doorway on Urzáiz. He’s been there more than a year now. He seems to have survived the winter with his bag of belongings and a rather disreputable-looking blanket. I see him reading at times – maybe the people who stop and talk to him give him books – but mostly he’s sleeping.
The sun has brought out the bench sleepers in the last few days, stretched out in the warmth, oblivious of the street life around them. It has also woken up the traffic light clowns. In minimal fancy dress, usually loose, brightly coloured clothing and dreadlocks, when cars stop at traffic lights they step out into the middle of the pedestrian crossing. Then they do the smallest amount of juggling possible, a couple of tosses of their batons into the air, before haranguing the car drivers for a contribution in payment for the entertainment provided.
Our regular supermarket beggars in the doorway to Mercadona just next to our block of flats – a young woman who looks pathetic and asks for money and a young man who pursues you and asks you to buy something for him while you’re in there, preferably meat – have either disappeared or changed their schedule. One way or another, I’ve not seen them when I’ve gone to the supermarket. Maybe I just go too early in the day.
I’m not too early, however for the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Twice in the time we’ve been here I’ve been stopped and asked if I want to learn how to make my life simpler and better. And it’s happened on other visits to this fair city. Maybe they have their headquarters – Kingdom Hall – somewhere near our flats.
Or maybe it’s my face. Do I really look so much like a sinner in need of redemption?
Tuesday, 16 April 2013
Signs of summer.
For the last two weeks people have been telling me how awful the winter has been here: rain, rain and more rain. And then suddenly it’s summer. Forget about spring. Galicia has gone almost immediately into summer. Saturday was pleasant. Sunday had a little hiccough with a beautiful day followed by rain in the evening but since then apparently it’s summer. Orense has had 25°, Lugo 22° and La Coruña 21°. The folk who’ve come in on a cruise ship today have had a lovely day. We think we saw some of them on one of those Vigo tour buses up at Castrelos Park. They really should have got off the bus and had a stroll round but clearly they were badly advised and the bus just went on its way.
Yesterday up at the Castro the old men were back playing cards on the top of the hedge: a sure sign that summer had arrived. The frogs didn’t seem to have made it back to the fountain but maybe they’re more pessimistic than the card players. The chestnut trees are coming nicely into flower up there as well.
Today we walked to Castrelos Park. On the way there I saw this notice:
It translates as “Walls are the people’s press”. Around Vigo they certainly appear to believe in the freedom of the press as there is graffiti all over the place, not all of it very clever stuff either. But then, not all the stuff you read newspapers is all that clever. As regards graffiti, I much prefer this sort of thing, which I saw in Pontevedra on Saturday:
Anyway, Castrelos is looking very lush and green after all the rain. I thought at first that the bluebells were not yet in flower but then I realised that in fact they are but they’ve all come up white this year: all the colour washed away by the winter rain perhaps.
Everything else was coming along nicely although they have not yet finished whatever treatment they’ve been giving the maze in the gardens. It’s looking very good but there are still signs saying not to touch the box hedge. That’s almost two year’s treatment it’s been having. It should look excellent at the end of it.
Summer might seem to be here for most of us but some of the rich and famous are still deep in winter. I read that there are suggestions that Iñaki Urdangarín should have his passport taken off him. This is to prevent him running off to take up the promised job in Qatar. He has told the King of his intention to go but it seems that some people don’t think he should be allowed to do so. Surely it would be better for him to be out of the King’s hair and actually earning some money but who am I to comment on such things?
In my newspaper readings about the parlous state of the monarchy here, I came across this expression: “la Corona se cavará su tumba” – more or less “the monarchy will dig its own grave” – if it doesn’t begin to set a better example in facing the crisis. No more African hunting trips, no more corruption scandals, please, is the message. There have already been anti-monarchy demonstrations in Madrid to mark the 82nd anniversary of the Second Republic and debates on TV about monarchy versus republic. The honeymoon period is definitely over.
And parliamentary people aren’t faring much better. Pachi Vazquez, leader of the Partido Socialista de Galicia has been saying that Feijóo should probably go to prison because of those photos with smuggler turned drug baron Marcial Dorado. Mind you, they still have to prove that there was anything untoward going on. That has never stopped opposition parties shouting though.
They probably shout in a very cultured and polite fashion, however, observing all the formalities. When I was working as a Spanish teacher I was often asked if the Spanish really used the subjunctive. Did they actually remember to do so? Well, last night in one of our preferred local free wifi, free tapas venues I saw this notice on the wall:
“Señores Clientes, se ruega no muevan mesas ni sillas por su cuenta.
Pídanles amablemente a los/las camareros/as.
Por su comodidad y la de todos.
Disculpan las molestias.
Gracias.”
“Dear Customers. You are requested not to move tables or chairs on your own behalf.
Kindly ask the waiters/waitresses.
For your comfort and that of everyone.
We apologise for the inconvenience.
Thank you.”
It’s on a par with the formal letter writing we used to learn in schools before writing letters became a lost art and everyone sent texts and emails. And we know what difficulties the electronic media can get you into.
Yesterday up at the Castro the old men were back playing cards on the top of the hedge: a sure sign that summer had arrived. The frogs didn’t seem to have made it back to the fountain but maybe they’re more pessimistic than the card players. The chestnut trees are coming nicely into flower up there as well. 
Today we walked to Castrelos Park. On the way there I saw this notice:
It translates as “Walls are the people’s press”. Around Vigo they certainly appear to believe in the freedom of the press as there is graffiti all over the place, not all of it very clever stuff either. But then, not all the stuff you read newspapers is all that clever. As regards graffiti, I much prefer this sort of thing, which I saw in Pontevedra on Saturday:
Anyway, Castrelos is looking very lush and green after all the rain. I thought at first that the bluebells were not yet in flower but then I realised that in fact they are but they’ve all come up white this year: all the colour washed away by the winter rain perhaps. 
Everything else was coming along nicely although they have not yet finished whatever treatment they’ve been giving the maze in the gardens. It’s looking very good but there are still signs saying not to touch the box hedge. That’s almost two year’s treatment it’s been having. It should look excellent at the end of it. Summer might seem to be here for most of us but some of the rich and famous are still deep in winter. I read that there are suggestions that Iñaki Urdangarín should have his passport taken off him. This is to prevent him running off to take up the promised job in Qatar. He has told the King of his intention to go but it seems that some people don’t think he should be allowed to do so. Surely it would be better for him to be out of the King’s hair and actually earning some money but who am I to comment on such things?
In my newspaper readings about the parlous state of the monarchy here, I came across this expression: “la Corona se cavará su tumba” – more or less “the monarchy will dig its own grave” – if it doesn’t begin to set a better example in facing the crisis. No more African hunting trips, no more corruption scandals, please, is the message. There have already been anti-monarchy demonstrations in Madrid to mark the 82nd anniversary of the Second Republic and debates on TV about monarchy versus republic. The honeymoon period is definitely over.
And parliamentary people aren’t faring much better. Pachi Vazquez, leader of the Partido Socialista de Galicia has been saying that Feijóo should probably go to prison because of those photos with smuggler turned drug baron Marcial Dorado. Mind you, they still have to prove that there was anything untoward going on. That has never stopped opposition parties shouting though.
They probably shout in a very cultured and polite fashion, however, observing all the formalities. When I was working as a Spanish teacher I was often asked if the Spanish really used the subjunctive. Did they actually remember to do so? Well, last night in one of our preferred local free wifi, free tapas venues I saw this notice on the wall:
“Señores Clientes, se ruega no muevan mesas ni sillas por su cuenta.
Pídanles amablemente a los/las camareros/as.
Por su comodidad y la de todos.
Disculpan las molestias.
Gracias.”
“Dear Customers. You are requested not to move tables or chairs on your own behalf.
Kindly ask the waiters/waitresses.
For your comfort and that of everyone.
We apologise for the inconvenience.
Thank you.”
It’s on a par with the formal letter writing we used to learn in schools before writing letters became a lost art and everyone sent texts and emails. And we know what difficulties the electronic media can get you into.
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