On Poetry and Culture Shock

A definite sign that I spend way too much time working on the computer is that when I made a small mistake in the kitchen I visualised the Undo button in the upper-left of my field of view. 

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La señal clara y definitiva de que paso demasiado tiempo al ordenador es que cuando hoy me equivoqué en algo en la cocina,  visualicé el botón de Deshacer, arriba a la izquierda en mi campo de visión. 

Overheard a second ago; it's hard to translate this into English, but you get the idea:

-Bastard!! Faggot!! Immigrant!!

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Oído hace un momento, tal cual:

-¡Hijo de puta! ¡Maricón! ¡Inmigrante! 

On a cafe's toilet door:

IF I HAD THE TIME,
I WOULD LOVE YOU.

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En la puerta del servicio de una cafetería:

SI TUVIERA TIEMPO
TE QUERRÍA.

From PC Bloggs, but the emphasis is mine.

It's not the first time that I'm shocked by British attitudes on rape, and I know that things are worse in other parts of the world, but seriously guys, you invented the modern police and the modern detective story. We want to believe that the British police, of all security forces in the world, is doing some sort of a decent job. This is such a disappointment.

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Esto es de PC Bloggs, pero el énfasis es mío.

1. Incidente:
El denunciante declara que su hija de 17 años fue violada la noche anterior por dos hombres, a los que nombra, tras haber acudido a un pub de la zona. La hija presenta lesiones y daño emocional.

Del Supervisor:
Los agentes deben personarse y establecer lo siguiente:
1. ¿La hija va a presentar una denuncia?
2. Nombre y descripción de los supuestos agresores.
3. ¿Cuánto alcohol se consumió?
4. Si se va a presentar denuncia, localizar lugar de los hechos.
5. ¿La víctima asistiría al juicio?
6. Si la denuncia es verdadera, ¿va a someterse voluntariamente a reconocimiento médico?

2. Incidente.

El denunciante declara que su hijo de 18 años fue violado la noche anterior por un conocido, después de una fiesta en su casa. El hijo presenta lesiones y daño emocional.

Del Supervisor:
Los agentes deben personarse y establecer lo siguiente:
1. Localización de la escena del crimen.
2. Pedir hora para examen médico y llevar a la víctima al mismo.
3. Nombre/Descripción del agresor.
4. Conservar pruebas forenses, incautar la ropa.

A photo has caused Microsoft to close down a Window Live Space, "El ojo de Guadix" because they considered that it was pornographic. The photograph, a close-up of the face of a woman breastfeeding, has recently won a prize on a photographic competition on breastfeeding by a hospital in Spain.

The moral of the story to me is not, as Zifra's source point out (links in Spanish), that Americans have dirty minds. The moral is that before you get a blog, you should read the terms and conditions of the blog provider you're considering, and if they say that partial nudity equals pornography and that they don't allow pornography in their blogs, please go and get a blog somewhere else. Not because you want to post porn, but because maybe one day you will want to post an arty photograph and the blog will be killed for that reason.

The conditions in this blog are ideal because all I have to do is comply with Spanish law. I can't promote terrorism, any sort of discrimination, or show child porn. That's about it. I'm not so happy about my other blog, because the conditions are too vague.

On a more visceral level, news like this make me want to have a baby ASAP and breastfeed her in public just to annoy dirty minded people.

UPDATE: The photographer gave up all rights on the picture to the organisers of the price she won, but now that bloggers have made her famous she demands we pay reproduction rights. That is why I have taken out the picture and her name.  

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Una foto ha hecho que Microsoft cerrara el Window Live Space "El Ojo de Guadix" porque consideraron que era pornográfico. La foto ha ganado un premio de un hospital español por su promoción de la lactancia materna.

La moraleja no es, como dice la fuente de esto, que los Americanos tienen mentes sucias. La moraleja es que antes de hacerte un blog más te vlae que leas las condiciones generales no vaya a ser que por poner fotos de la playa con el bikini te cierren el quiosco. Infórmate antes de firmar, en esto como en todo.

Por lo que pueda servir, las condiones de Blogia son inmejorables porque lo único que hay que hacer es cumplir las leyes españolas: ni porno infantil, ni apología del terrorismo ni promoción de la discriminación. Lo demás es campo libre. Sin embargo, reconozco que las condiciones de mi otro blog son malas porque son demasiado vagas.

A un nivel más visceral, esta clase de noticias me dan ganas de tener un bebé y darle el pecho en público para fastidiar a la mente de mente retorcida.

NOTA: la fotógrafa cedió los derechos de la foto a los organizadores de la competición que ganó, pero ahora que los blogueros la hemos hecho famosa,  quiere que le paguemos derechos a ella, por lo que prefiero eliminar su nombre y la imagen. 

I have been to many clubs and many concerts in my life. Isn't it shocking that the only time someone apologised for spilling a drink on me and made sure the damage was minimal was yesterday, at a gothic rock / heavy metal concert? Gothics are such lovely polite babies. 

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 Después de haber estado en muchos bares, discotecas y conciertos, ayer me quedé sorprendida cuando por primera vez en mi vida alguien se disculpó por echarme encima su bebida y comprobó que no me había manchado mucho. Lo raro es que fue en un concierto doble, de rock gótico y de heavy. Qué bien educaditos están los góticos, ¿no?

The problem of believing in epic, soulmate-type frienship is that it can be easily dissapointed. That has happened to me several times in the last few months. One of my disappointments is as epic as the friendship used to be; another one is a rather silly series of very small accumulated offenses. It was refreshing to listen to these words a couple of days ago:

You can't choose your friends; the most you can do is to choose who you refuse to go for a coffee with, and that's an awkward thing to do because it is very convenient to have many people available for a coffee with you.

Edited to add: I wanted you to read those words without prejudices and that's why I didn't mention the speaker. I heard them from  Felipe González, former Spanish President. 

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El problema de creer en amistades épicas para toda la vida es que más dura será la caída cuando salen mal. He pasado por dos de esas decepciones en los últimos meses: una tan épica como lo fue la amistad (aunque haya quien diga que se veía venir) y otra que es más bien una serie muy larga de ofensas pequeñísimas (aunque habrá quien diga que la que es inaguantable soy yo). Fue un respiro escuchar estas palabras tan inteligentes hace un par de días.

No se escoge a los amigos; como mucho se escoge con quién no se toma café, y eso es incómodo porque es práctico tener mucha gente con la que tomar café.

Postdata: no indiqué el autor de tan sabias palabras porque quería que las leyerais sin ideas preconcebidas. Son de Felipe González.  

In Spain, there are many monasteries and convents dedicated to comtemplation. Traditionally, the nuns and monks never went out, but currently, depending on their Order, they can leave the building for justified causes that aren't always emergencies. For the last century or so, they have had to support themselves because people didn't give them big donations anymore. So, the nuns often turned an activity that provided gifts for big donors in important occasions into full-time jobs. This is why many sweets made by nuns are well-known in my area. Certain recipes tend to be associated with certain Orders or convents who have done them for decades.

You can go and buy a box of biscuits or marzipan at a convent, but today I have discovered a new way to get a sugar fix. A website selling only convent-made food. Rose petal jam, anyone?

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Me imagino que todo el mundo sabe que aunque estén bastante escondidos y sean discretos, aún quedan muchos monasterios y conventos de clausura en España. Tradicionalmente las monjas y monjes no salían nunca a la calle, pero desde hace años, dependiendo de la Orden, sí salen si lo necesitan, no necesariamente en una emergencia grave. Desde hace más o menos un siglo, necesitan mantenerse económicamente con su trabajo (antes les bastaba con donaciones y limosnas). Los dulces de las monjas que se pueden comprar en lugares con esa tradición son recetas que antes sólo preparaban para hacer regalos a sus grandes benefactores.

Ahora puedes ir a un convento y llevarte una caja de mazapanes, pero hoy he descubierto por casualidad una nueva manera de endulzarse la vida: una página web dedicada exclusivamente a comida elaborada en conventos. ¿alguien quiere una mermelada de azahar , por ejemplo?

There is a Spanish saying, "to mix speed and bacon", where speed means velocity not a drug, which means "to draw very wrong conclusions because you assume that unrelated things are related". This is something that maybe RaveN or the Testblog guys would have blogged, since weirdness-and-computers is more their field than mine, but I can't resist. 

 A website for the Christian geek.  Hey, they can't be that bad, they use Linux!

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 Esto sí que es mezclar la velocidad con el tocino. Es la clase de cosa que bloguearían RaveN o los chicos de Testblog, que están más puestos que yo en líos frikis, pero no me resisto: 

Una web frikocatólica. Como lo oyes.  No pueden ser tan malos, si están usando y promocionando Linux, ¿no? (y la verdad es que quiero una o dos camisetas, pero no os voy a decir cuáles)

I don't measure this blog's birthday according to a day of the month because it's easier to remember that I started in on Thanksgiving Day, 2004. So we are two years old today, two years that started with a lot more culture shock and a horrible template. The proportion of commedy of manners and poetry and this template have been the only major changes. It makes sense because I had considered the idea of a blog for long enough, so when I started I had a clear Idea of what I wanted to do with it. 

Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate it, and to everyone, thanks for coming.

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No mido los cumpleaños del blog según el día del mes porque es más fácil recordar que empecé el Día de Acción de Gracias del 2004. Así que hoy cumplimos dos añitos, que empezaron con muchos más posts sobre choque cultural y con una plantilla espantosa. La proporción de comedia / poesía y esa plantilla son los únicos cambios grandes que ha habido, quizá porque pensé en hacerme un blog durante mucho tiempo y así, cuando lo hice, tenía una idea clara de qué quería hacer con él. 

Feliz Día de Acción de Gracias a quienes lo celebren, y a todos, gracias por venir.

The way Spanish women have children, and the way the work market treats them during and after the process, could be culture-shocking to foreign readers. Americans, for example, might be envious that we get four full months of maternity leave. Great, isn't it? The problem is that it's very hard to keep a job if you get pregnant, because your bosses will fire you if they can. Spanish Law says that they need a good cause to do so, so they normally allude to "low performance", a legitimate cause to fire people. Of course, if you get a job that pays you enough to kmake you think that you can afford a baby, and they fire you on grounds of low performance immediately after you come back from your maternity leave, you can consider yourself lucky that you got a job in the first place, being a young and therefore marriageable, fertile woman. Friends of mine in their twenties have been asked if they had boyfriends, husbands, plans of having babies, in job interviews. It's supposed to be illegal, I think. 

For the last year or so, Spanish law allows the father of a baby to take a paternity leave of 10 weeks. This means that now, according to my newspaper, Miquel Mitjans has the chance of knowing how it feels being a woman: that is, being punished for having a family. 

Mr Mitjans got a rise immediately before the summer. He had his holidays in the month he applied for (the law says you can have your holidays but the company decides when, unless they are very happy with your work). The company he works for sent flowers to his wife at hospital, in July. Before his holidays, he applied for paternity leave. The first work day after his holidays, he was fired for "low performance" and he was accused of having missed work three days in June, a claim that can be easily proved false because there is an attendance diary. Do you see a few incoherences here? 

I'm very sorry for Mr. Mitjans, and sorry for the way his bosses think. The problem is that the law wanted to make people more equal, giving men a women's right so that companies wouldn't discriminate against either. But it turns out this is no longer discrimination about women, but against people who behave like women traditionally do, and against families, and against men who want to be more that the breadwinner, and against people who think that their jobs come after their lives and not the other way around. Shame.  

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Un rápido resumen de la situación de las mujeres trabajadoras en España: es estupendo contra con una baja por maternidad de cuatro meses, pero claro, es difícil conservar un trabajo si te quedas embarazada, porque tus jefes te echarán si pueden, aludiendo a “bajo rendimiento”. Aunque bueno, si tienes un trabajo que puedas perder ya tiene suerte, porque difícil será que te contraten si eres una mujer en edad fértil. Damos miedo. Tengo amigas de ventimuchos a las que preguntan en las entrevistas de trabajo si tienen novios, maridos, y planes de tener hijos.

Desde hace más o menos un año, la ley española permite a los padres cogerse un permiso de paternidad de diez semanas. Eso quiere decir que desde ahora, según mi periódico, Miquel Mitjans ha tenido la oportunidad de saber qué se siente cuando se es una mujer: es decir, cuando el mundo te castiga por tener una familia.

Este señor consiguió un ascenso antes del verano. Se fue de vacaciones el mes que pidió (sabéis que las empresas te dan las vacaciones cuando a ellos les da la gana, a menos que les caigas bien), y la empresa para la que trabajan¡ba le mandó flores a su mujer al hospital, en Julio. Antes de las vacaciones, pidió permiso de paternidad. El primer día de trabajo, lo echaron por bajo rendimiento, y lo acusaron de haber faltado al trabajo tres días de Junio, algo falso y fácilmente demostrable porque hay un control. ¿Veis unas cuantas incoherencias, o soy sólo yo?

Lo siento muchísimo por Miquel Mitjans, y por la forma en la que piensan sus jefes. El problema es que la ley quería igualar a la gente, dándole a los hombres un derecho de las mujeres para que las empresas ya no pudieran discriminar. Pero ahora resulta que la discriminación no es sólo contra las mujeres, sino contra hombres que se porten como tradicionalmente lo han hecho las mujeres, y contra las familias, y contra los hombres que quieran ser más que el que trae dinero a casa, y contra la gente que intenta que primero venga la vida y luego el trabajo y no al revés. Qué triste.

Yesterday I was listening to Sting's classic song (yes, classic: I was born in 1977 and my father was a Sting / Police fan in the early eighties, so everything Sting did up to the year 2000 is canonical rock history, right?) Russians and it struck me how little the world has changed in some respects... and how much in some others. This song, about the futility of Cold War and the hoarding of nuclear weapons, was released in 1985, twenty years ago and four years before the end of the Cold War. Back then, I was old enough to watch the news but not old enough to understand much of what had gone on in the previous thirty years. The central issue was that we on the West side of the divide seriously believed that if one day, the American or the Russian president woke up in the wrong kind of mood, a bomb would make us all burst in the air in little bits. We also thought that the rulers on our side of the divide took the matter too seriously and that it was just not possible that the people at the other side was as monstruous as the media sometimes presented them. I have no idea of how normal people felt in the UK or in North America, but I guess their view were a little more polarised and less sympathetic to Russians than ours.

Let's jump to 2006. We have even scarier worries than the nuclear bomb, at least to me. A nuclear bomb would come with some sort of warning, but the current version of the cold war, the absurd war between some practitioners of Islam and Western countries, has taken the form of a constant threat of terrorism, coming without warning, and attacking the most vulnerable and powerless people with the intention of intimidating the powerful. Shockingly useless.

I think there is hope because the biggest difference between the Cold War, 1945-1989, and the War on Terrorism, 2001-present, is that in the 21st century there are lots of people on both sides of the divide with a serious interest on the other side's culture. Twenty or thirty years ago it would have been hard to show an interest in Russian culture in the West, and doing so would have been a brave political act; nowadays, at least in some circles, we can talk about many fascinating cultural aspects of Islam and Islamic countries. That much we have learnt.

"Russians"

In Europe and America, there's a growing feeling of hysteria
Conditioned to respond to all the threats
In the rhetorical speeches of the Soviets
Mr. Krushchev said we will bury you
I don't subscribe to this point of view
It would be such an ignorant thing to do
If the Russians love their children too

How can I save my little boy from Oppenheimer's deadly toy
There is no monopoly in common sense
On either side of the political fence
We share the same biology
Regardless of ideology
Believe me when I say to you
I hope the Russians love their children too

There is no historical precedent
To put the words in the mouth of the President
There's no such thing as a winnable war
It's a lie that we don't believe anymore
Mr. Reagan says we will protect you
I don't subscribe to this point of view
Believe me when I say to you
I hope the Russians love their children too

We share the same biology
Regardless of ideology
What might save us, me, and you
Is that the Russians love their children too.

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Ayer iba yo conduciendo y escuchando el clásico de Sting (sí, clásico: nací en el 77 y mi padre era fan de Sting y de The Police así que todo lo que hiciera Sting hasta el 2000 más o menos es historia del Rock, ¿está claro?) “Russians”, y me llamó la atención lo poco que el mundo ha cambiado en unas cosas, y cuánto en otras. Esta canción, sobre la inutilidad de la Guerra Fría y de los arsenales nucleares, es del 85: hace 20 años, y cuatro antes del fin de la Guerra Fría. Por entonces yo tenía edad de ver las noticias, pero no era lo bastante mayor para poder entender casi nada de lo ocurrido los treinta o cuarenta años anteriores. El problema central parecía ser que los que estábamos al Oeste de la raya creíamos que si el presidente ruso o el americano se levantaban por el lado malo de la cama, una bomba nos haría estallar a todos en cachitos. También creíamos que nuestros gobernantes se tomaban las cosas demasiado en serio y que no era posible que la gente del otro lado de la raya fuera tan terrible como nos la pintaban. No tengo ni idea de cómo se sentía la gente normal en el Reino Unido o en Norteamérica, pero supongo que sus opiniones eran un poco más extremas y menos interesadas en los rusos que las nuestras.

Salto a 2006. Tenemos problemas que a mí al menos me dan más miedo que la bomba atómica. Una bomba nuclear nos imaginamos que vendría con alguna clase de aviso, y la destrucción sería completa e inevitable. En cambio, la situación que tenemos, en forma de una amenaza constante de terrorismo, viene a atacar a las personas más vulnerables y sin poder alguno, con el fin de intimidar a quienes sí tienen poder. Absurdo, inútil.

Sin embargo, creo que hay esperanza porque la mayor diferencia entre la Guerra Fría, 1945-1989, y la Guerra Contra el Terrorismo, 2001-presente, es que en el siglo XIX hay mucha gente a ambos lados de la Raya con un interés serio en la cultura del otro lado. Hace veinte o treinta años habría sido peligroso mostrar un gran interés en la cultura rusa. Hoy día, al menos en algunos círculos, podemos hablar de muchos aspectos fascinantes de la cultura relacionada con el islamismo y los países islámicos. Es una mejora.

I've said it many times and I will say it again: I'm sick and tired of my University's libraries.

Yesterday I went to the English and Spanish Departments' Library, a research library with very few reading space. It works like a pharmacy: you search on a computer for a book's ID code, you give this code number to the librarian, who sometimes is just a student with an internship and maybe a few hours of training (last year there was an unbelivably rude young man and I do hope he was not a professional librarian). The librarian has no idea of the book's title, and doesn't want to know. S/he looks for the ID code you've given, and brings the book to you.

If you think you need to look at the real books because you don't know what exactly you're looking for, a professor can give you an authorisation that the library will file and then you can have relatively free access to the shelves. It is considered a rare privilege. Last year I had such a privilege, and because I am a graduate student, and grad students tend to be around for a long time working on the same project, I assumed that last year's authorisation would still be valid.

Hah.

The librarian believed I had had a permit, but she said it needs renovation, and she said that from now on the librarian will always come and chaperone me as I browse the shelves. I explained that I can easily be up there with the books for half an hour at a time, and on the afternoon shift there is only one member of staff for the whole library. Who will deal with the public coming and going if the librarian is watching me? This enlightened young person answered that if I want to be upstairs alone because that was the norm last year, I should speak with the Head Librarian, or the English Literature Librarian (my field), because she is the Spanish Literature librarian and she wouldn't know how to deal with me.

Then I asked to consult a book that cannot be checked out of the library and I took a seat that coincidentally gave me a very good view of her computer screen. She spent the following 50 minutes watching Youtube at full volume. I had felt so troublesome that I didn'tdare asking her to turn it down.

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Lo he dicho muchas veces y lo volveré a decir. Estoy harta de las bibliotecas de mi universidad. Ayer fui a la biblioteca que comprarten los departamentos de lengua y literatura inglesa con los de española, una librería pensada sólo para sacar libros, on muy poco espacio de consulta. Funciona, como casi todas en la Universidad, como una farmacia: no te dejan ver lo que vas buscando, sino que en un ordenador buscas el código del libro que te interesa, le das este número al bibliotecario, que en ocasiones es un estudiante con una beca y algunas horas de entrenamiento (el año pasado habia un chico increíblemente maleducado y espero que por favor no fuera un profesional). El personal nunca sabe los títulos de los libros, ni falta que les hace. Buscan el libro con el código que les has dado y te lo traen.

Si crees que necesitas mirar los libros en la estantería porque no sabes exactamente qué vas buscando, un profesor te puede hacer una autorización, y entonces tienes un acceso relativamente libre a los estantes. Se considera un privilegio bastante escaso y especial. Yo lo tuve el año pasado, y como soy doctoranda, y los doctorandos suelen estar dnado vueltas por el edificio unos cuantos años, di por hecho que el permiso aún valía.

Ja.

La bibliotecaria creía que yo tenía un permiso, pero dijo que tenía que renovarlo, y dijo que de ahora en adelante el personal subiría a vigilarme mientras yo mirara los estantes. Cuando le dije que puedo pasarme allí mirando libros media hora seguida, y que por las tardes hay una sola persona y que si me vigilaban el mostrador quedaría desatendido, la bibliotecaria me dijo que si quiero que me dejen sola, que hable con la jefa, o con la bibliotecaria de inglés (mi área de investigación), porque ella es del departamento de español así que mejor que la duda la resuelva alguien de inglés.

Entonces pedí consultar un libro que no se puede sacar de la biblioteca, y por casualidad me senté en un sitio donde podía ver perfectamente la pantalla de su ordenador. Se pasó los siguientes 50 minutos viendo Youtube con el volumen al máximo. Me daba tanto corte haberle complicado tanto la tarde que no me atreví a pedirle que lo bajara.

Anyone would think that Spain woke up one morning to find that all the women had become nordic. At least that's what you'd guess if you saw the news over here. For a while now, there are two types of faces you can see on TV news:

The Letizia: Long face, long nose, fine chin, slightly Greco-like, with dark blond, highlighted hair. Long hair with long layers is a must. There was Letizia, but also Marta Reyero. And more.

The Helena Resano: Eyes as light as humanly possible, ice green or ice-blue. Hair MUST be short, and sprayed stiff in all directions (the effect you're looking for is fingers-on-electric-socket). There's María Casado, and also Raquel Martínez (can't find a recent photo)

I'm exaggerating a bit; in the page I'm linking for Marta Reyero (blandness personified as a news anchor) there are a couple women with darker, more normal hair (even so, they can't escape the Letizia haircut), but it's summer and my three neurones can't do much more.

Se diría que las mujeres españolas se levantaron una mañana y resultaron ser todas nórdicas. Al menos es lo que se puede deducir si se ve cualquier noticiario. Hace algún tiempo que en las noticias de televisión se ven dos clases de presentadoras: 

El modelo Letizia : Cara larga, nariz larga, barbilla fina, una pintura del Greco toda ella, con el pelo castaño claro y mechas rubias. Es imprescindible el corte de pelo laaargo y con capas largas. Estaba Leticia, pero también Marta Reyero. Hay más.

El modelo Helena Resano: Los ojos tan claros como permita la naturaleza, azul agua o verde agua, y además el pelo tiene que ser necesariamente corto y peinado de punta, estilo dedos en un enchufe. Además de María Casado, y alguna más como Raquel Martínez (no encuentro fotos recientes).

Bueno, estoy exagerando un poquito porque mismo en la página donde veis a Marta Reyero (la sosez hecha presentadora) hay un par de presentadoras con el pelo oscuro, más normal (eso sí, el capeado largo Letiziario es inevitable),  pero es verano y las tres neuronas que me quedan no dan mucho de sí.

I have talked before of how hard it is to shop for a bra in Spain if you do have breasts (because most bras do not take into account that the wearer is tridimensional); I also talked about how in Spain, most women wear bikinis and full swimsuits are an exception. I have a nicely tridimensional bra size (which is in no way extreme, I can assure you), and I need a bikini in order to swim, run, walk and jump around on the beach. You would imagine that such a relatively modest aspiration, that is, a nicely fitting bikini, the shops in town would be eager to tempt me with offers I could not refuse. 

Not so.

Shop number one didn't have a single model in my size. I don't mean models I liked. I mean models my size. So I thought, let's go to the Corte Inglés sports department: I can get myself a sports two-piece. Yeah, right. Will you believe me if I tell you that all the two-pieces there were triangle bikinis? Why? Can anyone explain to me why a sports shop is selling bikinis that give zero supports? The only sport practice I know that uses them is bodybuilding.... will it go suddenly in fashion?

So I go to the swimwear section of El Corte Inglés. I try on not one, not two, but seven different models. And at last I find one that doesn't strangle me, doesn't leave me to take a walk in the direction of my waist, and hides all the bits that shouldn't see the light. The surprise comes when I look at the label, and I read: 

PROSTHETIC.

That's it. The only bikini in town that comes in my size was meant for mastectomised women. I don't know if I want to laugh or cry. 

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Ya he hablado en alguna otra ocasión de lo difícil que es comprar un sujetador en España, porque los fabricantes no tienen en cuenta que quien lleva puesto un sujetador es una persona tridimensional, que tiene un ancho de espalda proporcional al ancho del pecho (es decir, a mayor tamaño de las copas es necesario aumentar el tamaño del contorno). Y como todo el mundo sabe, las españolas llevamos bikinis, y los bañadores enterizos son una excepción. Yo, que tengo una talla de sujetador tridimensional (y os puedo asegurar que no es ninguna locura sino algo más bien normalito), y necesito un bikini para correr, andar, nadar, y saltar si hace falta. Cualquiera pensaría que teniendo una necesidad tan razonable, es decir, una prenda de vestir que sea de mi talla, que no es muy grande ni muy pequeña, las tiendas de la ciudad estarían llenas de ofertas que yo no podría rechazar. ¿verdad?

Pues no.

La primera tienda no tenía ni un solo modelo de mi talla. No quiero decir que me gustaran, no. Digo simplemente de mi talla. Así que pensé que podía irme a la sección de deportes del Corte Inglés y comprarme un dos piezas deportivo. Sí, claro. ¿Me creéis si os digo que todos los dos piezas eran de triangulitos? ¿Por qué? ¿Alguien me explica qué hacen en una tienda de deportes un par de cientos de bikinis que no sirven para sujetar nada? Que yo sepa, el único “deporte” en el que se utiliza es el culturismo... ¿habrá en Sevilla una repentina moda culturista?

Así que me voy a la sección de baño del cortinglés. No me probé ni uno ni dos, sino siete bikinis. Por fin encuentro uno que no me estrangula, no se marcha de paseo a la cintura, y oculta todos los cachitos de mí que no deberían ver la luz. La sorpresa viene cuando miro la etiqueta de este bikini milagroso y leo:

PROTESIS.

Ya está. El único bikini de la ciudad que viene en mi talla está pensado para mujeres con una mastectomía. No sé si reír o llorar.

Fanshawe has written an excellent essay rant essay on the nature of power . It is true that having a great power over a small area can be a very dangerous thing. Reducir al mínimo, his blog, is in Spanish, and I like that entry so much that here you have my translation.

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I was wondering why I had such a violent, furious reaction against all this Wikipedia business*. The previous post's title, the addenda, everything, shows I was raging in a situation which, at least in theory, doesn't affect me that much. I mean, I don't know Cisne Negro (well, now I know him a little bit more) and I have nothing to do with Lovie's cartoon (beyond the fact that I'm a reader), therefore it would have been a logical reaction to report on the case and show my disagreement with Wikipedia's management.

But it wasn't so. I was angry; furious. It has become a personal issue and I would like to know why.

A few days ago, my boss, a short-sighted, bad-mannered guy, ordered me to change my seat at work. I began to tell him why I preferred to stay where I was and he cut me short saying, "here, we do as I say", and left, leaving me mid-sentence. I went out after him, like a hyena, and I accused him of having bad manners, of not respecting me, of being unable to talk to anybody to their faces, of being authoritarian, of power having gone to his head. Anyway, he just repeated "do as I say because I say so". It's a comfort to know that he spend a couple days aching about this argument.

But let's stop at the "power going to his head" bit. This is Palazzo Paleotti. A study room and computer lab at [Bologna] University. My boss's domain is... minimal. Tiny. Insignificant. But he's all full of himself, al full of that little bit of power, and he uses and abuses it. I rebel, get angry, give notice (actually, tomorrow's my last day). But it doesn't matter, he thinks he has the right to yell, to bully, and repeat once and again things like "I'm the boss here", "I represent to the outside the study rooms of Bologna [University]". When someone doesn't tolerate his shouting, he gets crazy. He's the boss, period.

There are even smaller areas of power. The bus driver that closes the door on your face just because he can. He is in charge of his bus and he decides you can't go in, even if he saw you running all the way to the bus stop, it doesn't matter. He uses and abuses his power. The University secretary who makes your life hell when you register beecase she doesn't feel like working. When you complain, she gets mad and decides that she's not going to register you. Because she's in charge. It's her area of power and she squeezes it, as abusively as possible. I used to date a girl who got angry with me when I was nice or friendly to restaurant staff, when I helped them to clean up or lifted things so that they coupld wipe underneath. She used to say, "they are working for you, you're his boss".

I realise now that I have reacted like a rabid dog to something that I've considered an abuse of a tiny area of power, Wikipedia. Arrogance, bad manners, condescendence, not listening, not discussing, shutting oneself up in stubborness and using "I am the boss, so shut up" as a weapon. It sounded like an Internet version of nouveau-richness, of someone who has been a nobody all his life and suddenly finds himself with power in his hands, even a tiny bit, such as a bus, a study room or a Wiki. And then I think about how these people, simple and normal with virtues and flaws, with a little bit of extra power become dictators, tyrants, horrible people who try to be always on top, treading on no matter who... just because they can. And in that case, what happens to those who get real power, power over something big? It has always been said that power corrupts, and I begin to worry that it is true in 9 out of 10 cases.

I wonder what would happen to me if I had power, even a little bit, how I would behave, if I would forget my ethics and would bully everyone, as so many others do. I think of the times I have been a teacher, in charge of a class, if I have ever said "because I say so".

Sometimes I am afriad of giving up , either way. Giving up the fight against this and giving up the fight against myself so that I don't fall into the trap.

*To cut a long story short, Fanshawe was angry because a Spanish wikipedia entry on a comic book was deleted by the Wikipowers that be.

Talk about culture shock! I found this on a very good joke site. Not to be taken seriously... or is it?

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Anda que, para choques culturales.... encontré esta viñeta en un sitio de humor que está muy bien.  Esta viñeta no hay que tomársela muy en serio... ¿verdad que no?

I cannot show you just now the best photograph I've ever been in. I'll describe it to you. 

It's in black and white and I'm in a living-room, on a big armchair,  next to a balcony, which is on the left of the picture and floods the room (and me) in light. I'm sitting on one of the armchair's arm, feet on the seat, legs open at a right angle for balance. My body is facing the camera, but I'm not at all aware of the photo being taken. I'm eating a yoghourt, looking at the pot, and I look very happy, with a sort of Mona Lisa smile. My memories, other photos, my haircut, allow me to infer that I must be less than ten years-old; almost ten at the most. Nevertheless, since I was a big tall child I look a few years older even though you cannot see or guess the tiniest trace of puberty.  

In this photo, I'm stark naked.  The picture was taken by my father.

I wish I could show this picture to you; I wish we lived in a world that appreciated innocence as it deserves.

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No os puedo enseñar ahora mismo la mejor foto que nadie me ha hecho nunca, así que os la describiré.

Es en blanco y negro y estoy en un salón, en un sillón grande, al lado de un balcón, que está a la izquierda de la imagen y llena la habitación de luz (y a mí, así que salgo blanca brillante). Estoy sentada en un brazo del sillón, con los pies en el asiento, con las piernas abiertas en ángulo recto para mantener el equilibrio. Tengo el cuerpo dirigido de frente a la cámara, pero no me estoy dando ni cuenta de que el fotógrafo está ahí. Me estoy comiendo un yogur, tengo cara de felicidad y una media sonrisa en plan Mona Lisa. Mis recuerdos, otras fotos, y sobre todo mi corte de pelo me ayudan a determinar que en esa foto tengo como mucho un poco menos de diez años. Sin embargo, como era una niña alta y grande parezco varios años mayor a pesar de que no haya ni rastro de signos de pubertad. 

En esta foto, estoy completamente desnuda. La tomó mi padre. 

Me gustaría poder enseñárosla. Me gustaría vivir en un mundo que apreciara la inocencia como se merece.

This is worthy of Merece la Pena , the cutest blog in the world, but I saw it first so I'll post it. 

Two young people, with mid-teens acne, although they seemed to be slightly older. Both chubby. He had his arms around her shoulders and she had her face cradled on her neck in such a way that she could hardly see the street. Even though their position sounds awkward, they were walking in perfect unison, one of those couples that seem to have been designed so that their bodies fit each other. But the thing that called your attention was that both were wearing matching Blind Guardian T-shirts.

Because geeks also have the right to find love and a shoulder that fits.  

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Esto debería estar en Merece la Pena, mi nuevo blog favorito, pero yo lo vi primero, así que allá va.  

Dos adolescentes, con el acné brutal típico de los diecipocos, pero con cara de más mayores. Los dos tirando a gordos. Él tenía un brazo echado por encima del hombro de ella, que tenía la cabeza encajada en el cuello de él de forma que iba andando sin ver nada. Aunque pareciera una posición rara para andar, iban andando perfectamente sincronizados. Una de esas parejas que parece que los han diseñado uno a la medida del otro. Pero lo que llamaba la atención es que los dos llevaban camisetas casi iguales de Blind Guardian. 

Porque los frikis también tienen derecho a enamorarse y a encontrar un hombro de su medida.  

What I'm going to say doesn't apply to children at all. Some little girls have a preference for active, sporty, or rough games and it is natural that they gravitate towards little boys and "boys' games". This only applies to women over 14.

Sometimes, you find a woman who tells you that it has always, always been easier for her to make friends with men than with women; some even say that they have no female friends at all. The second part of the statement tends to be that they make friends with men more easily because men are more sincere, more honest, more trustworthy and a lot less frivolous than women. These poor male-friendly little things are misunderstood by evil backstabbing women. Sniff.

What I see once and again in women who say this is that they are a very specialised type of attention seeker: to them, only male attention counts. They are mysoginists, not because they assume women to be shallow and treacherous, but because female attention, love or care can never be good enough.

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Lo que voy a decir a continuación no se cumple en niños. Siempre hay niñas chicas que prefieren deportes, juegos activos o directamente un poco bestias y es natural que se lleven bien con los niños y los "juegos de niños". Esto sólo va para mayores de 14.

A veces te encuentras a una mujer que te dice que para ella siempre ha sido mucho más fácil llevarse mejor con hombres que con mujeres; algunas dicen que no tienen amigas-mujeres. La segunda parte de esa declaración tiende a ser que es asñi porque los hombres son más sinceros, más directos, de mayor confianza, y mucho meons frívolos que las mujeres. Estas pobrecitas chicas tan amistosas son unas incomprendidas, maltratadas por mujeres malas. Sniffff.

Lo que veo una y otra vez en esta clase de mujeres es que son un tipo muy especializado de gente necesitada de llamar la atención. Para ellas, sólo cuenta la atención masculina. Son misóginas, no por dar por sentado que las mujeres son superficiales y traicioneras, que también, sino porque para ellas, la atención o el cariño de las mujeres no es suficiente, ni lo bastante bueno.

I have heard "Art is what makes us human" "humans are the only animals that laugh" and similar proverbs. Today after a long lunch with a lovely friend I ended up thinking that friendship make us human.

In purely animalistic /materialistic terms, there is no need for the existence of friendship. Workmates are necessary: we need to cooperate in order to survive. Families are necessary: we live with other people to make the most of the resources. Love is a glorification of the sex drive. But... friendship? there is no cooperation-in-order-to-survive and no sex involved. So, in animal terms, there isn't much of a point. 

Do animals have friends? I don't think so. For that to be possible, a couple of animals wouldn't need to cooperate in order to obtain food. Gregarious birds, or a pack of wolves, even without blood ties, are not friends but workmates, because the essence of friendship is the fact that it is not necessary. Like Art and laughter....

Today is Geek Pride Day, a bit of a joke that some people are taking very seriously. The celebration is today, I think, because it's the anniversary of the 1977 release of Star Wars. I'm never been much of a Start Wars fan; as a child, I associated it with kids older than me. I mean, I was born that year.

Anyway. Zifra gives us a meme to tell what is the geekiest object we own. Do I count? Am I a geek, a "friki" as we say in Spanish? Friki is sometimes used to mean "fan, fanatic, obsessed", even about things that are not tipically related to geeks. Anyway, I'll pretend I count as a geek in several different counts.

Fantasy Literature: I own a photo of Terry Pratchett holding my ID card because someone took the picture as a surprise for me while I was at work. I also have two books signed by the man himself.

Music: I have Peel Slowly and See by the Velvet Underground, a humungous CD set. And I do listen to it, but I'm careful, so the banana is still attached to the front.

Blogosphere: I own a Limited Edition Gapingshirt. Mine is the "I can't take this shit anymore" one. And I have worn it to work. It was a mistake to throw away the limited edition certificate, but I think mine is number 17 or so.

Literature: A very early edition (1943) of T. S. Eliot's Four Quartets; it's identical to the first edition but it doesn't say "First American Edition" on the copyright page.

Random: is a Swiss Army Knife a geeky thing if I carry it on me at all times?

Edited to add: How could I forget my collection of the Cookie Monster stuff? According to Raven, I have the geekiest wallet in the world. It's black and the Cookie Monster is embroidered on it. I also have a cookie monster metal box, two frosted glasses, and a Sesame Street mousepad with the Cookie Monster, Elmo, Ernie and Big Bird on them (el monstruo de las galletas, Elmo, Epi y Caponata). 

"Guiri" is local slang for foreigner, especially a tourist. My friends disagree on whether foreigners who aren't Caucasians are guiris. The term is humourous and mildly negative.

The last trend I have seen in guiris: when a family has little girls, they are wearing the traditional dress that us locals only wear on a couple of holidays a year. Definitely not on a normal day out. Besides, the dresses look odd in the children because they are supposed to be very, very tight, but the guiris wear them like you would a normal dress, slightly loose. I still haven't decided if this is all ludicrous or kind of cute.

It's not that I'm the biggest expert on New York City; far from it. But yesterday I was shocked (culture-shocked, of course) when I was driving, listening to the radio, and I heard a truly absurd description of New York in a Spanish pop song. The song was good enough in itself, a bittersweet complaint from a man who has left his life in Spain behind in order to go and live in NYC with the woman he loves. The chorus says: 

Iré tan pronto como pueda donde hablen español
estoy viajando, como un tonto que ha llegado a Nueva York
Hay mil tiendas de pistolas, rascacielos de cartón,
y la verdad es que tuve miedo en el avión

I'll go as soon as possible somewhere where people speak in Spanish,
I'm travelling, like a fool in NYC
there are thousands of gun dealers, cardboard skyscrapers,
and the truth is, I was afraid during the flight.

Erm... I didn't see a single gun/weapons shop in my stay in town and I think it's not easy to buy weapons in New York State. Besides, it is obvious to anyone who has spend more than an hour in New York that all you have to do to find people who speak Spanish as a native language is maybe go to the north of Manhattan. It's amazing what people will assume when they apply a stereotype to a whole country.

In a previous Seville bloggers meet, Zifra and Luis taught me The Prisoner's Dilemma. In the most recent one, Zifra made me think again about human relations in challenging ways. 

When a couple hugged I said that the more happy couples are there in the world, the more statistically probable it is that single people will end up in a happy couple themselves. Zifra, who happens to be a Math professor, said I was wrong: the more couples there are, the less chances single people have of ending up in a couple because there are less singles available. Who is right?

Both of us are because we were talking about different things. Zifra referred to available, single people: evidently, in a world with plenty of singles it is easier to find a partner. But I was not talking about simply pairing up: I believed that every happy couple is a small piece of evidence of the existence of love. The more loving couples there are, the likeliest it is that true love exists. Zifra never said a word about love, though...

As on a previous occasion, an excepcional bilingual post because this is mostly of interest to local readers but I can't bring myself to make it Spanish only. Scroll down for the English version.

Ayer asistí a la Novena Zifras y Letras, nombre que damos a las reuniones de blogueros de Sevilla porque se convocan en el blog de Zifra. Esta vez había dos convocatorias, día y noche, y se daba por hecho que los mañaneros iríamos a las dos. Lo curioso de una quedada de blogueros como ésta es que lo único que, en principio, todos tenemos en común, es entusiasmo por un tema concreto, entusiasmo bastante como para tener la paciencia de escribir gratis sobre el tema, y por otro lado, exhibicionismo. Si juntas a un montón de gente que es inteligente, entusiasta y exhibicionista es como estar en una fiesta de Hollywood, pero sin la neurosis de la competición por el próximo contrato. Ayer estaba la gente especialmente inspirada y todos teníamos complejo de Oscar Wilde. ¿A quién le damos el premio a la frase más lapidaria?

En fin. Quedada diurna: llego tarde, con Tulio, que conoce a varios pero nunca ha ido a una quedada. Cervecería Macarena: Allí nos esperan Zifra, RaveN, marh (aún sin blog) y Maruja. Luego llegan Hamlet, Luis Rull y la chica que deja que lo acompañe, que está más guapa de lo que yo la recordaba, que ya era mucho. Conversaciones sobre navajas: la de Maruja es más grande pero la mía es más práctica. Sobre tiro con arco: resulta que para practicarlo hay que hacer un ejercicio que te cambia de sitio un músculo del brazo. Ayyyy qué repelús, prefiero seguir practicando los brazos de serpiente. Tulio ha ido de caza una vez en su vida porque hay afición en su familia, y el fantasma de una codorniz que mató aún le persigue. Pobrecito. Se desahoga llamándome fenicia porque estoy vendiendo pendientes. Maruja se va a comer a su casa, prometiendo que vuelve después de comer. Mientras, hay pelea por su mechero, porque es naranja...

Le enseño a Tulio y RaveN qué es el Masmoudi de dos dum (es un ritmo de danza oriental) con una demostración práctica. Zifra dice que la realidad lo supera. Vamos a comer a donde dicen RaveN y Marh. Se equivocan de calle: hemos dado la vuelta a dos barriadas y creado el Trekking y Letras. Se nos unen el Arcángel y Guille. Nos ponemos púos de comer y empezamos a hablar de blogs, un poco, no mucho. De trolls, de Menéame. Decidimos que si son grandes, verdes, y no son dulces, entonces son plátanos macho. Alguien dice "Hay gente muy cochina que son muy guays". No, yo tampoco lo entiendo. Pasamos revista a grándes éxitos de los 80, cuando los presentes teníamos entre 5 y 15 años. Intento convencer a Eva de que se decida a bailar danza oriental ya.

El mendigo que llega y nos dice algo así como que es un día precioso. Se pone a cantar. Cuando acaba, dice que "como nos ha visto así en familia, pues se ha dirigido al cabeza de familia". ¿alguien adivina a quién se refería?

Empezamos a decaer, el calor no perdona. Tetería, cachimbas, siesteo, más frases lapidarias. Casi todos se dispersan, y sólo RaveN, marh, Tulio y yo nos vamos al Utopía. Pufs, más siesta. Y así llegamos a la segunda convocatoria.

Cuando los cuatro Utópicos volvemos a la Cervecería Macarena, ya estaban allí Marcos, Pablo, uno que toma servesita y Coquevas. No sé si fue Coque o quién, que se juntó con Tulio y sacaron a relucir vena friki: recitadores de Les Luthiers. Se pusieron a hablar en su idioma particular y tuvimos que dejarlos solos hasta que se calmaron. Después, la inevitable conversación sobre Lost. ¿por qué los fans de otras series hablan de la serie y los fans de Lost sólo hablan de cuándo van a poder ver más capítulos? ¡Son adictos peligrosos!

Va llegando tanta gente que pierdo la cuenta. Nos disgregamos en grupitos pequeños: los que hablan en un extraño idioma que creo que es linusero, los que han estudiado letras, los que se conocen fuera de la blogosfera. Me quedo fascinada por la acompañante de un bloguero: todos los niños tienen terrores, y uno de los míos cuando chica eran las alergias. Soy hija de médico y de un alérgico a mi fruta favorita, así que pensaba en la posibilidad de que alguien pudiera ser alérgico a todo. Esta chica es alérgica (creo) al contacto de todos los metales y todos los animales. Dice que la reacción cutánea a casi todo se llama "síndrome de piel de princesa". Google no lo sabe. Es como si me hubieran dicho que verdaderamente existen los monstruos de debajo de la cama .

Tardamos un siglo en ir a cenar porque somos casi treinta. Zifra me dice que necesitan un líder y creo que me toca: me junto demasiado con RaveN, ¿esperan de mí la misma decisión? RaveN nos busca dónde cenar. Mientras tanto, lesiono sin querer a JaMaRiEr pero me perdona y se pone a hacernos trucos de magia a Coque, a Maruja y a mí. ¡Le salen muy bien! A RaveN le da envidia y se pone a hacer figuritas con globos (que también le salen muy bien, no se me vaya a poner celoso).

Cenamos por fin. Los recitadores de Les Luthiers se ponen a cantar algo que no es de Les Luthiers pero lo parece sobre uno que quiere ser cura. Panda frikis. Encima se ponen a hablar del Día de la Toalla y a hacer chistes de autoestopista galáctico. Huyo de una conversación sobre el estado de la Universidad española...

y aterrizamos en La Caja Negra, un bar demasiado pequeño para bailar y demasiado ruidoso para hacer otra cosa. Digo que me voy y alguien que no nombraré me hace un chantaje emocional digno de una mujer, y además estoy en medio de un abrazo de oso colectivo, así que me quedo. Nos vamos a Alamey, que tiene unos sofas larguíiiiiiiiisimos. Resulta que la chica de piel de princesa también baila la danza del vientre. Uau. La gente se ha ido marchando poco a poco, a goteo. Cuando yo me voy, quedan menos de diez personas, todas diciendo que se irán enseguida.

La próxima, ¿cuándo?

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Yesterday I attended the Ninth Zifras y Letras, the name we give to Seville blogguer's meets because they are announced in Zifra's blog. This time there were two meets, day and night, and it was taken for granted that lunch people would go to the dinner. The funny thing about a blogger's meet is that the only thing we had in common, to start with, was enough enthusiasm about one topic to be willing to write about it for free, and exhibitionism. If you get together a lot of intellingent, enthusiastic and exhibitionist people, it's like being at a Hollywod party but without the neurosis of competition for the next big role.  Yesteerday everyone was especially inspired and everyone wanted to be Oscar Wilde. ¿Who gets the prize for the wittiest punchline?

Anyway. Day Meet: I get there late, with Tulio, who knows some people but hasn't been to any previous Z & L. Cervecería Macarena: There we find Zifra, RaveN, marh (not a blogger -yet) and Maruja. Later, Hamlet, Luis Rull and the girl who lets him follow her around. She's prettier than I remembered, and that's a lot. Conversation on knives (the sort that bends on itself and you can carry on yourself) Maruja's is the biggest but mine is so practical. On shooting with a bow & arrows: it turns out that to have to do some exercises to change the natural position of a muscle in your upper arms. Eeek, I'd rather keep doing snake arms, thank you.  Tulio has gone hunting once in his life and the ghost of the partridge he killed still haunts him. Poor little dear.  He takes out the stress on me, calling me phenician because I'm selling jewellery. Maruja leaves and promises she'lll come back in the evening. There's a bit of a row about her lighter, because it's orange...

I show Tulio and RaveN what's a Masmoudi and why it is great (it's a belly dance rhythm) with a practical demonstration. Zifra says we're weirder than any fiction. We go for lunch to the place recommended by RaveN y Marh, but they get lost: we go all the way around a whoe neighborhood, inventing Trekking and Letras. Arcángel and Guille join us. We eat loads and loads of nice food and we start talking about blogs, but not too much. Trolls, Menéame. We review Greatest Hits from the Eighties, when all present were 5 to 15 years old. I try to convince Eva that she should try start bellydancing ASAP. 

A beggar comes and sings to us. When he finishes, he says that he thought it appropriate to sing to the head of the family. ¿guess who he meant?

Everyone's sleepy, it's too hot. We go to a Moroccan-themed tearoom, with those funny water-filled smoking things. More laughs. Nearly everyone leaves; only RaveN, marh, Tulio and me go to Utopía. And so we get to the evening meet. 

When we four Utopians get back to Cervecería Macarena, Marcos, Pablo, servesita and Coquevas were already there. Maybe it was Coque, I'm not sure, joined Tulio and they sang Les Luthiers songs for a while. Later, they had the obligatory Lost conversation. ¿Why fans of other shows talk about the show, but Lost fans talk about when they'll be able to watch new installements? ¡They dangerous addicts!

So many people arrive that I lose count. People dissolve into small groups: the ones who talk weird foreign languages that sound, I think, like Linux; the ones that know each other from outside the blogosphere; the ones that have studied Humanities. I'm fascinated by a blogger's friend: all small childrne have terrors, and of of mine as a little one was allergies. My mother's a doctor and my father's allergic to my favourite fruit, so I used to think about the possibility of somone who was allergic to everything. This girl is, I think, allergic to the touch of all metals, and all animals. She says that the skin reaction to nearly everything is called "princess skin syndrome". Google doesn't know a word about it.  I feel as if I had found out that there actually are monsters under the bed.

We take forever to figure out where we're going to have dinner. Zifra wants me to choose: I'm spending too much time with RaveN and they want me to be like him. RaveN eventually finds us a Mexican. Meanwhile, I inadvertently kick JaMaRiEr, but he forgives me and does some magic tricks for Coque, Maruja and me. ¡He's good! RaveN is envious and makes a few ballon animals. (he is very good at that, I must say, so he doesn't get jealous) 

We eat dinner at last. The Les Luthiers fans are singing similar songs about someone who wants to be a priest, and then they talk about Towel Day. What a bunch of geeks. I run away from a conversation on the state of Spanish Universities...

and we land in the Black Box, a bar too small for dancing and too noisy for anything else. When I say I'm leaving, someone I won't mention gives me emotional blackmail as good as a woman's, and then I'm in the center of a group hug, so I have to stay. We go to the Alamey, which has looooooong sofas. It turns out Princess-Skin girl also bellydances. Yay! 

People have been leaving in twos and threes. When I go, there's less than ten people left, and all are saying they'll leave very soon.  

The stereotype is that young women are not interested in studying Engineering, or, Sciences unless they are Health Sciences.

My town has a Sciences Campus with most of the sciences and engineering degrees, and I told a friend of mine to go to the Pharmacy School. He got lost and he asked a man for directions. The man told him, "Walk straight ahead until you see a crowd of gorgeous babes".

My friend reported he had no trouble at all locating the building.

It feels me with joy that the Alameda, home of the trendy and refuge of alternative types (you know, the sort who is "artistic" in a general, hazy way but is too busy going to the right bars to ever actually make something creative), the Alameda avenue, as I say, now has a bookshop among the bars.

It has been open for a year, it has the quirky name "Punto y Coma" (that's how we say it in Spanish; dot-and-comma is a much nicer name than semicolon), and it doubles up as newsagent. It is not surprising that about a third of the book section is on communism. Best of luck to the brave owner.

I have to say this in Spanish because it really doesn't translate.

Pues nada, sábado por la noche y he quedado en la Alameda (!). Aparco donde puedo y según salgo del coche, veo a un tío mayor y canijo, de pinta arrastrada. ¿Yonqui? Da igual, el caso es que está gritando "¡la luna, la luna!" como si fuera suya y la hubiese perdido. Pufff... aprieto el paso y me imagino invisible.

La calle es larga y bien iluminada. Hacia el final, otro hombre más joven, y de pinta más arrastrada que el anterior dice 

"Cachin la má! Cachin la má!"

Patea el suelo y mira al infinito. Me ve, se levanta,  (hoy no es mi día), y me pregunta:

"Perdona, ¿Has visto a una perrita blanca? "

"¿Luna?" 

"Sí". 

La que se queda blanca soy yo. No eran yonquis con alucinaciones: habían perdido a la perrita que se había cruzado delante de mi coche un minuto antes. Porque claro, todas las perritas blancas y pequeñas se llaman Luna. Espero que la encontraran, los pobres.

I have the impression that Spanish policemen tend to be a lot more lenient on women than on men. This happened to me on Friday night.

Policeman  waves about a light to make me stop and carries an alcoholimeter in his hand.

Nia. Good evening again, officer. 

Policeman: Have you been already tested?

Nia: No, I was the copilot on a car that passed by a minute ago. 

Policeman: Right then, go ahead. Good evening.

He didn't test me. A driver in her twenties with loads of smudged make-up on a Friday night at the hour the bars close.

An exceptional bilingual post because I couldn't make up my mind about what language to use. Scroll down for the English version.

Me he puesto al día con los blogs habituales y resulta que la crónica del mitap que Zifra empezó se va a quedar inacabada. Hasta tiene la cara de pedirnos a los demás que hagamos nuestra propia crónica! Pero bueno, como a todo el mundo le gusta un poco de cotilleo (o un montón), y ninguna quedada está completa si su crónica, allá va la mía.

La noche anterior, me acuesto a las dos de la mañana. Creo que he soñado con mi tesina. Me levanto antes de las nueve. Portátil. Tesina, conclusión, email a mi directora, son las 12.30 del mediodía y voy cerca de una hora tarde. Da igual. Bailo por mi cuarto, me pongo ropa que guardaba para una ocasión especial, y voy para allá conduciendo a lo loco.

Daba por hecho que conocería a poca gente. Por lo menos estaba allí Zifra, agradable como de costumbre. Echo de menos a Carboanion y me siento perdida con tanto desconocido, pero el vino y la euforia post-tesina me hacen sentirme un poco menos fuera de lugar. Al cabo de un rato, alguien me da trabajo! Seguro que esto no era en lo que Hugh pensaba con aquello de que los blogs son buenos para conseguir que las cosas ocurran de forma indirecta, pero a mí me vale.

Hasta donde pude escuchar en un grupo tan grande de gente, algunos se conocen ya y hablan más bien entre ellos, de sus cosas... y de chismes raros para el ordenador. Parece que todo el mundo tiene alguna relación con la Universidad, incluidos varios profesores. Quemamos y reconstruimos el sistema universitario español con tiempo para ir a comer. Todas las opciones eran exóticas y al final decidimos que coreano. El restaurante no era de verdad coreano-coreano, más bien una mezcla de cosa asiáticas. Nada me recordaba a mi compañera de piso coreana y sus cinco or seis platitos individuales para cada comida. Bueno, a lo que iba, la comida estupenda y además tengo la suerte de estar sentada con Raven y Stalker ; cotilleamos sin vergüenza ninguna y hablamos del piercing de Raven y de la gente de la que uno no debería fiarse jamás.

Almuerzo exótico, bebidas frikis: fuimos al Dragón Verde, el sueño húmedo de cualquier fan de Tolkien hecho bar. La gente mariposeaba en grupitos, la niña de Zifra (y un par más, creo) juraron por el mismísimo dragón verde que se portarían bien (y lo cumplieron). Hubo oportunidades para destripar la escena artística local (sí, el rollo neosurrealista-intimista con el que pierdo tanto tiempo) con Raven, que pertenece a ese mundillo; y la relación entre religión y política, con dos ateos militantes. Pues eso. Empezó a largarse gente; Habíamos llegado a ser más de 20 y quedábamos como la mitad. Demasiado temprano para cenar; Raven sugirió un bar moderrrrrrno en la Alameda (cuna de la moderrrrnidad modernísima y de su propio sabor de esnobismo, pero no quiero que Raven piense que no me gustó su elección; al fin y al cabo me invitó a un par de copas).

El bar no tiene sillas ni sofás sino pufs. Genial. Escribo un poema, me echo una siesta; entre los demás, las cosas ya han pasado a la fase tonteo (Zifra, ¿a cuántas les pediste que se casaran contigo?). Hablo de mi tesina y mira qué sorpresa, Eva (no es bitacorera, es la mujer de uno que sí lo es) trabaja en el mundo real con lo que yo analizo en teoría en mi tesina. Toma ya. Casi me peleo con la Caminante (lo siento si soné muy bruta, corazón, ya sé que no me estabas tocando donde duele queriendo), pero con reconciliamos enseguida.

Tenemos hambre. A cenar. Alguien escoge un italiano y nos las apañamos para pedir pizzas, todas para compartir, que a todo el mundo le gustan: ¡la prueba definitiva de que nos hemos hecho los mejores amigos del mundo! Me siento con Zifra y Luis , que hablan de tangos y jazz, y me enseñan el Dilema del Prisionero. Compruebo que tienen razón.

Creo que para entonces quedábamos: Luis y Eva; Raven y Stalker; Zifra y Hamlet; La Caminante y acompañante; y yo. Hamlet, Luis and Eva se fueron justo después de cenar, y los demás nos fuimos a otro bar. Se llamaba Ego? Creo que sí. Otro sitio en La Alameda todavía más modernísimo que el anterior. Adivina quién lo escogió. La Caminante casi se queda frita en una silla, Raven me invitó a un cocktail estupendo, y los interesados en escotes discutieron los méritos relativos de los que se exhibían por el local. Una noche fantástica.

* * *

I read what's going on in other people's blogs after coming back and it turns out that Zifra's meetup chronicle is unfinished and he doesn't seem to have any intentions of completing it.HE even has the nerve of asking others to finish the story! Anyway, Ssnce everyone likes a bit (or a lot) of gossip, and no meetup is ever complete without a chronicle, here's mine.

Bed at two a.m. the night before. I think I have even dreamt of my dissertation. I'm up before nine. Laptop. Dissertation, conclusion, email to advisor. It's 12.30 noon, and I'm about an hour late. It doesn't matter. I dance about the room, pick clothes I was saving for a special occasion, and drive like a maniac.
I counted on knowing very few people. At least Zifra was there, as friendly as usual. I miss Carboanion and I'm lost among so many strangers, but the wine and the dissertation-is-over euphoria help me feel less awkward. Minutes later, someone gives me a job!

As fr as I could tell in such a big group, the conversation of people who alread knew each other was about themselves... and about computer gadgets. It turns out nearly everyone has a connection of a type or another with university, including several professors. We burn and rebuild the Spanish University System in time for lunch. All the options were exotic and we finally decided it'd be Korean.

The restaurant wasn't really Korean, but a mix of Asian things over a Korean base. Nothing reminds me of my Korean roommate and her carefully laid out set of tiny dishes (she served herself a bit of five different things on five different saucers and picked from them all). The food's lovely anyway. I'm lucky enough to be sitting accross Raven and Stalker we gossiped scandalously and talked about Raven's recent tongue piercing (eek) and about people who should never be trusted.

Exotic lunch and geeky after-lunch drinks: we went to El Dragón Verde. Yes, the Green Dragon, the wet dream of any Tolkien fan. People fluttering about in small groups, and Zifra's wee one (and two other wee ones, I think his nieces) taking an oath by the sign of the Dragon to be well-behaved (they all were). There were opportunities to tear apart the current arty/poetic scene (yes, the whole Lyrical Neosurrealism I waste so many entries and time satirising), with Raven, who belongs to it; and the relationship between religion and politics, with militant atheists. Yay. People started to leave; we had been about 20 at some point and there was about half left now. Too early for dinner; Raven suggests some trendy pub in the Alameda (home of local trendiness and its own brand of snobbishness, but I don't want Raven to think I didn't like his choice; after all he invited me to a couple drinks). The pub turns out to have not sofas or chairs but huge cushions you can sink to. I write a poem and take a nap; among everyone else, things have already gone into the flirting stage (Zifra, how many women did you propose to, you shameless thing?). I talk about my dissertation and  surprise, surprise, Eva (not a blogger, the wife of one) works with the real-world aspect of what I research in fiction.  I almost fight with La Caminante (sorry if I sounded to harsh sweetie, I know you weren't prodding my bruises on purpose, but we made up easily. 

We're hungry. It's dinnertime. Someone picks an Italian restaurant and we manage to order pizzas to share that everyone will like: the definite proof that we're all the best friends in the world! I sit with Zifra and Luis, who talk about tangos and jazz, and teach me the Prisoner's Dilemma. I check its truth.

I think that at that time we were: Luis and Eva; Raven and Stalker; Zifra and Hamlet; La Caminante and the one that came with her; and me. Hamlet, Luis and Eva left after dinner and the ones left went to, what was the name of the place? Ego? Probably yes. Another place in the Alameda even trendier than the previous one; no prices for guessing who recommended it. La Caminante nearly fell asleep on a chair, Raven gave me a lovely cocktail, and those interested in cleavages discussed the relative merits of several nearby ones. Not a bad night at all. 

Hello, I'm back! I'm disappointed with myself, but I have to say that I have found nothing in Glasgow to culture-shock me. Maybe I shouldn't be: I haven't lost powers of observation, it's just that anything shocking comes from not knowing the place, and anything amusing happens when I'm in one place, not rushed, for long enough. A three-day stay in my second home has neither element.

Well; while I took my parents to see beautiful things in lovely museums, and bought second hand books, and chocolate from brands I cannot buy in Spain, I saw street ads with one thing in common. "kids die because there aren't enough organ donations: donate". "kids get worse treatments because there aren't enough murses: become one". But wait, the kids are always little girls. Always.

Is it because female children look more pityworthy than male ones? Let's see. I don't think that the UK as a whole treats its girls very kindly. The alarming rate of teenage pregnancy tells me that parents and educators don't bother teaching them sexual education, or self-respect, to say nothing of the boys who make them pregnant (no, I'm not taking any responsibility away from the girls but to get a 14 year-old pregnant you need at least six people to have made mistakes: two sets of parents and the teenagers involved). Children finish school two or three hours before the usual adult time for finishing work, so either kids or parents have to make a compromise about what the children can do those hours in the day. Those are just two facts I'm very familiar with. But still, if you want to get pity in order to sell something, nothing beats a blond female under ten. Ah, tha paradoxes of the modern world.

Zifra told me yesterday "the prisoner's dilemma". According to him, it rules all human relationships. All of them. We used an example close to my own experience and he managed to convince me that yes, he was right.

This is the dilemma: you have two collaborating thieves. They get caught. They are put on isolated cells and each one is told that there is no evidence against them, so the police tries to get any of them to testify against the other one. Under these conditions:  

If no one betrays the other, both will go to prison for 6 months.
If both betray each other, both will go to prison for 6 years.
If one betrays and the other doesn't, the accusing one will go free and the other one will go to prison for 10 years.

What is best to do? Easy. The moral of the story is that cooperation in good faith is advantageous for both parties. Mutual hostility is disadvatageous -to some extent. If one party is hostile and the other is not, the hostile will win more and the cooperating one will lose more. This is not exactly like this all the time: in the situation from my own experience I referred to previously, mutual cooperation led to advantage, far greater than one-sided hostility.

What I as a writer and a reader find very interesting is that the prisoner's dilemma does not apply coherently to fiction. There is always a narrator with plans of his own.  

I have talked about the incompetence of librarians and other public services in my town before . Today's adventures with the University of Seville information system:

ME: Can you give me the English Library phone number? (everyone knows there is an English Library and a Languages Library).
INCOMPETENT 1: Wait a minute... (a few minutes pass). It's the 1001 and the 1002.

ME: Hello, the Library?
1001: Yes?
ME: I need to know when these books I have are due, can you look at the file?
1001: You have to call 1003 for that.
I'm puzzled because I know the library is very small and if I am calling the library the files and the phone are on the same desk. But I call 1003 anyway.

ME: Hello, The Library File System?
1003: This is not a Library, this is the office of a History professor.
ME: Oops, sorry.

ME: Hello, is this the library?
1002 (which I know for a fact is picked up by the same person as 1001): Yes, how can I help you?
ME: I need to know which of my books are due this week.
1002: I can't give you that information on the phone.
ME: but you have done so before, and the file is in front of you!
1002: OH! you're trying to call the English Library! This is the Languages Library. The phone number of the English Library is 1004.

Yes, they made me call three wrong numbers before giving me the right one. Isn't it fun.

Let's see.  If you owned a school and you wanted to hire a teacher, where would you put an ad? Now, if you owned a clinic and you needed to hire a doctor, where would you put an ad? If you owned a cinema school and you wanted to make an audition for actors and actresses, where do you think you should put an ad?

Yesterday it made the local news that a private cinema school is precisely doing that. And a young woman, a producer I assume, said with zero irony: "We weren't looking for anyone especifically. We just put plenty of poster ads on bars".

I confess I am posting this because I need to rant, and I am certainly shocked, although the connection with culture shock here is flimsy at best.

Yesterday I commited a stupid mistake: I went to an underwear shop that specialises in fashionable, cheap, very colourful and almost never "sexy" stuff. There are at least three different chains in Spain that do exactly that, and the shops are appearing like mushrooms after a rainy night. The thing is, I don't understand who buys in them. Who can fit into their bras? Certainly not me.

Let's see. For the information of readers who do not use bras, this is what you need to know: a bra size has a number, which means circumference in centimetres (in Spain) or inches (in the UK and USA), and a letter, which means how big the breasts are.  A is almost flat, the average woman uses a B, and so on.

First bra I see that I really like: cups A or B. Sizes: 70 to 85 (that is 28 to 34). Look here. The skinniest of East Europe supermodels are a size 85 (34). When I was twelve years old I had a 80. Who needs a 70 size bra? I'm not asking the right question. Who in bloody burning hell needs a 26/28 size bra? Seriously?

There was more fun awaiting me. I tried on bras of three different sizes and cups. It turned out that all sizes were too small: the back was more or less always the same, and the only front was wider and wider. It is as if the people who designed them forgot that bigger breasts tend to come attached to wider chests and stronger ribcages.

It is also as if we lived in a world in which suits came in assorted lenghts for taller or short men, but always with the same wide shoulders and narrow waist, to fit athletes. Or as if male underwear came with different sizes for genitals of different sizes, but with the back made to fit _only_ tight little buttocks. There are days in which, if I could ask for one wish only, I'd ask that the quality/pricing/sizes of clothes for men followed the tendencies of clothes for women and viceversa.

The world insists in shocking me. Those of you reading from outside Spain should know that people in Southern Spain are said to exaggerate a lot and that is considered a vaguely negative, humorous thing; the underlying thought is that people from more civilised, sophisticated countries, tell it like it is, or believe less is more. Spanish does not have a word to say "understatement".

I wonder is there is a word to say "understatement" in Swedish. The Swedes, in their wisdom, use the polite, discreet word that means "Hidden", instead of the blunter "illegal". That does not mean that unwanted foreigners are treated any better; if they go to the hospital, for example, the doctors are likely to call the police. There are 15,000 hidden people in Sweden. Out of these, 400 are children who have simply lost the will to live. These children one day refuse to do anything, get out of bed, eat. One such girl was on TV yesterday; she had a tube down her nose through which her mother injected a yellowish liquid food. If there is no place to go and the countr