Do We Want to be the Same?
Writing in the local paper. Local issues with a global take. I never translate literally and the editor trims at will to make it fit. Here’s my version, then theirs.
It seems like the
mighty New York Times can never quite get
it right when writing about this country. Many paella-moons ago I remember a
diplomatic meltdown that almost took place when a Times travel writer
published an article that happened to make a passing comment about how
more than a few Spanish parents dressed their children in clothes
that wouldn’t look out of place in colourized World War II
photographs. The then nascent social media was set ablaze with
indignant Spaniards whose pride had been mortally wounded by a
fleeting line in an article that then went on to praise the
modernizing wave that was then sweeping across the peninsula.
According to the protesters, Calatravas and Guggenheims were the New
Spain and frilly dresses and short trousers no longer fit in on the
modern Zara streets. Now comes another NYT article that, according to
some, once again dares throw stones at glass houses. The piece, along
with many others
in papers around the
world, echoes some of the
findings of the parliamentary commission set up by Mr. Modernity’s
government that is looking into the possibility of returning Spain to
its pre-Franco time zone and attempt to increase productivity by
bringing Spanish work habits, and more precisely hours, more in line
with the rest of Europe. Op-Eds spilled ink about the revival of the
black legend and one again the tweetsphere was set abuzz with furious
attempts to prove the falsity of siestaing Spaniards in 140
characters or less. Praise from both sides of the political spectrum
rained down on the modern Ibero-European workers who, like their
Nordic counterparts, are chained to their desks with soggy sandwiches
and Starbucks coffee for sustenance. 7 minute lunch breaks and
competition among our electric companies are now the norm. Conclusive
proof that Europe indeed continues beyond the Pyrenees for some,
harbingers of the coming apocalypse for others. Once upon a time in
this country, yet not so long ago, you were allowed to make an adult
choice between syrupy American sweetness or a cold beer from vending
machines on sweaty August cercanias platforms. People once trusted
their neighbour’s craft rather than being handed down the
definition of safe cheeses and wines by some tax collecting EU
bureaucrat. Butane bottles cost less than a trip to Ibiza and we
could boast of a truly public healthcare system second to none, not
to mention of course, the audacity of a month’s vacation.
Accountants weren’t needed to tally everyone’s consumption after
those old-fashioned long lunches and people tended to bond with other
people rather than dogs. Hurray for sameness, ‘regular’ schedules
and someone telling me when to go to bed. Well, at least here in
Caceres we still have the kids in uncomfortable shoes and doilies,
and of course, the odd siesta in July.
