Gold Fever
I assume that since the young woman offered to sell the locket, that such transactions are possible, that perhaps she herself had successfully completed one or more such. But outside of hock shops, where would you go to raise money by selling your (or anyone else's) jewelry?
In Madrid, you don't have to look far.
"I buy gold," the signs say. "We pay the highest prices. €14 per gram." Despite the big signs, these businesses have rather marginal facilities. To get to one, you have to go through the souvenir store in front to get to the entrance. For the other, you have to walk up to the second floor—meaning, for we Americans, the third floor. You can bet there's no elevator.
What's notable is that there are several such enterprises within a block or two of each other. Is there enough gold for sale in Madrid to support more than one buyer?
Competition must be fierce. The buyers employ men wearing sandwich signs for promotion.
They offer to buy gold, silver, jewels and watches by Rolex, Cartier and the like. If you're wearing a Seiko, don't bother.
So what's going on here? Do pensioners cash in their jewelry to meet the spiraling cost of living? Are young people down on their luck trying to meet another month's rent? Maybe there are so many street thefts that it takes a whole block of buyers to handle the volume. Maybe they buy credit cards, too. in that case, they might have handled one of mine.
Whatever it is, it's weird. The streetwalkers don't hassle you. They just stand around smoking cigarettes all day, doing what has to be one of the world's most boring jobs. Sometimes they stand in clumps, two or three guys promoting competing buyers. They talk to each other, maybe about last night's game. Nobody seems to care.
The New Spanish Eroticism
During the Franco Dictatorship, most civil liberties were curtailed. In addition, a dreary puritanical moral regime was imposed. Imagine the joy when the old Fascist died and democracy came to Spain. Apparently, the Spanish people, unleashed from the old restrictions, took full advantage of their new freedoms.
James Michener writes in Iberia about the post-Franco arrival of Suecas, blonde Northern European girls visiting Spain, looking for vacation romances. Competition with Suecas quashed the traditional reticence of Spanish women to pair up with their boyfriends unchaperoned, and today you see a lot of public smooching—unthinkable in the '60s.
The new morality finds expression in public art. The façade of the Casa de Panaderia pictured above contains what have been described as "playfully erotic" frescoes.
Maybe one of you knows of another place where government-sponsored works of this nature are commissioned. I can't think of one myself.
The group of images in the Plaza Mayor is not an isolated instance. Apparently those randy Spaniards can hardly contain themselves. Here, a couple of amply-endowed nudes grace the front of a store.
Quick, Henry! Cover the kids' eyes! And stop gaping! (Sheesh. I bet they teach evolution here, too.)
Culinary Arts in Madrid
Iberian fishermen were a major source of codfish in post-medieval Europe. Mainly it was the Portuguese that caught, salted and dried these fish, providing a major source of protein to Europe. The cod were caught on the Grand Banks, raising the question: Where were they salted and dried?
It had to be on land somewhere. You can't dry fish on an open boat, and fresh fish won't last a day without refrigeration. So where? Well, Newfoundland is the land closest to the Grand Banks.
Portuguese fishermen had to have landed in Newfoundland prior to Columbus's first voyage. Codfish were familiar in Portugal and Spain well before the 15th Century, and this has huge implications for primacy of discovery of the New World. The Portuguese explorer João Vas Corte-Real may have reached Newfoundland prior to 1470, beating out Columbus. And a Muslim Spaniard, Khashkhash Ibn Saeed Ibn Aswad, a native of Córdoba, sailed east discovering new land in 899, well ahead of Leif Ericson. It may have been he who tipped the Portuguese and Spanish to the new fishing grounds.
So, who discovered America?
In any event, Cod has long been an important food south of the Pyrenees, although with the collapse of the Grand Banks Cod stocks, the best cod is becoming scarce and expensive. So I was surprised and delighted to run across this store just off the Puerta del Sol:
This store sells nothing but dried, salted cod. In New York, it might be called "Just Cod," but in Madrid, it's called La Casa del Bacalao—The House of Cod. Hmmm.
For anyone unfamiliar with dried cod, the flavor and texture is superior to the fresh fish. Iberian recipes often combine dried codfish with potatoes and onions, sometimes adding tomatoes and capers. Real comfort food, and you can get it right here in Madrid.
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In Mexico, the expression for "hot dog" is—"hot dog." Kind of disappointing to see loan words used here, when a transliteration into Spanish could be so delightful.
Well, in Spain, they didn't miss the boat.
Perritos calientes. ¡Perfecto! What a great name.
You can see the heavy hand of the Spanish Royal Academy here. Gotta keep the Language pure. Can't be letting any foreign words in. Especially not Ingles.
Someone should clue the Academy in. There's what—maybe 40 million Spanish speakers in Spain. There's at least 350 million in Latin America, and that's not counting Miami. Latinos are all so busy trying to communicate with the English-speaking world that they'll bend their language any way that works. Don't believe me? Just check out the auto wreckers' yards near Nuevo Laredo. The ones with the signs saying Yonke (pronounced "JON-keh"). No, on the left side of the ocean, the Spanish Royal Academy is irrelevant.
Perritos calientes indeed. Taste just like hot dogs.
Lives of Crime
Fodor's Spain 2007
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When I was a kid, I used to cut school and hop the Lackawanna Railroad for the 30-mile ride into New York City. Through a number of such trips, I developed modest street smarts; for example, keeping a $10 bill in my shoe so that if I were rolled or otherwise ran out of money, I could manage the fare back home.
Six years ago, after 40 years of corporate travel, Jean and I rented an apartment in Paris for a two-week vacation. Not without a little pride, I considered myself to be a seasoned world traveler, overlooking that I had usually been met by a host and whisked here and there without having to give a thought to finding my way or personal security.
So I was unprepared and vulnerable when, climbing the stairs out of the Barbès Rochechouarte Metro station, I was jostled by a man while his accomplice abruptly stopped in front of me, kneeling down to tie his shoe. Annoyed at the rudeness of Parisians, it wasn't until I reached the top of the stairs that I realized that my pocket had been picked.
Having left my brains in my Sunday pants, I was carrying everything of value in a single wallet: cash, credit and debit cards, California Driver's License and my passport. Une désastre!
Pickpocket "photographing" his "wife." C'mon! No woman would pose dressed like that.
When I told the police inspector that the theft had occurred at the Barbès Rochechouarte Metro station, she rolled her eyes and said, "Ooh la la! Barbès Rochechouarte! Of course! All our robberies occur there." When I repeated my tale to the U. S. Consulate officer, she said, "Oh yeah! Barbès Rochechouarte. Everybody gets robbed there."
It occurred to me that if everybody knew about the thieves at the Barbès Rochechouarte Metro station, why the hell wasn't the place saturated with cops. The only patrols I ever saw were in Les Halles; trios of cops strolling aimlessly, sucking on cigarettes and cokes. (But then, it isn't good for one's serenity to question the priorities of the French Civil Services. That way lies madness.)
One week later, carrying two new wallets, a temporary passport, a new Visa card and €100 carefully distributed in different pockets, I was getting off the metro, again at Barbès Rochechouarte, when a man stopped suddenly in front of me, while from the left, I felt a hand go into my pocket. Furious, I grabbed the hand and yelled at the top of my lungs, "Pickpocket! Pickpocket!" (Actually, I tried to use a sort of French accent: "Pique Poquette! Picque Poquette!")
All of the bystanders immediately turned their backs. (Ya gotta love the French.) The thief pulled his hand out of my grip and sped off, this time at least without profit. I was so proud to have foiled him that I strutted for weeks. Ain' no pickpocket gonna mess wit da man!
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Travel-savvy, Jean and I arrived at the airport in Madrid yesterday, where I decided immediately to master the subway system rather than take a taxi to our hotel. I bought a Madrid Metro ticket good for ten fares from a machine, fumbling with my bag and wallet and change before getting everything back into my pockets.
I wound my way through the subways of Madrid flawlessly, arriving after three transfers at a station within one block of our hotel. I slept for a couple of hours, then I got up and reached into my pocket. No wallet!
Impossible! We checked all our pockets, all our baggage. No wallet!
I was enraged. Hadn't I learned how to handle myself in Paris? I'd been in Madrid for less than an hour, and some creep made his way undetected into my pocket. He was so smooth that I didn't notice the theft for several hours.
Pickpockets work the crowds at Puerta del Sol. Note the Metro sign.
On reflection, I figure the thief saw me fumbling at the ticket machine, observed me putting my wallet into my (supposedly secure) left front pocket, and got it during the crush at the train door.
It could have been worse. Well I had learned the lesson about distributing valuables about my person. The pickpocket got cash and a couple of bank cards. We immediately cancelled the cards. Meanwhile, we had carefully preserved more cash and other cards, so that we wouldn't be in a crunch if something like this happened.
Compared with the trauma in Paris, this incident was more of an annoyance than anything else. And I learned a little more about how to maintain security while traveling. Like never flash your wallet in a train station.
—§—
"Men should carry their wallets in the front pocket..."
Fodor's Spain 2007
Bienvenido a Madrid Bonito
Our hotel wastes no money on an elaborate lobby or elegant public spaces. It's a walk-up located on a narrow side street. Across from the front door are a number of convenient small businesses.
OK. The neighborhood ain't much, but c'mon: we're only a couple hundred yards from Puerta del Sol and our room is neat and clean. Anyway, what do you expect for under €100 a night?
I ventured out to get my first impression. It became obvious that the bus system was broken. For example, this poor girl must have waited for a couple of hours, but hers never came.
A few of doors down from the souvenir shop, I was shocked, shocked to encounter this establishment in a Catholic country:
A pair of young women waved enticingly at me from the entrance until I brought my camera up. The blonde, in a most sudden change of heart, turned her back on me. A brunette scuttled behind a post. As I walked off, they shouted insults. Apparently, I broke some local taboo.
Note that this Shop offers Copenhagen Sex, presumably more alluring than frumpy old Castilian Sex. Although I must say that the promise of the svelte blue silhouettes on either end of the sign is hardly met by the blonde out front. Kind of like the difference between a menu picture of a Big Mac and the sad, soggy reality you find in your Value Meal.
Speaking of McDonalds, is there no escaping these things? The first restaurant Jean and I saw as we emerged from the subway was not a tapas bar, not a paella restaurant. It was this:
That's it! I'm gonna stop traveling to places where there are McDonalds. That eliminates Europe and both of the Americas. How about China?
Oops. That won't work either. I guess we're doomed. I always thought you could stop these things by voting with your feet. Just walk away. Apparently the Madrileños feel differently. The place was jammed.
Looking around for a meal, Jean noticed a Ham Museum. That is not a typo. Here she is, in her red jacket, peering incredulously inside.
The place turned out to be a sort of deli and restaurant combo. There were no pork galleries, no 18th-century smoke-cured masters. No browsing allowed. "Buy something and eat it!" That was their policy.
It was 9PM, the beginning of dinnertime. We went inside, and found half of Madrid with their feedbags on.
Look at all those hams! We found a table in the back and ordered—you guessed it—a plate of sliced ham. Deep red Andalusian acorn-fed ham. It was chewy and intense.
Oh. And to top off, I ordered a plate of fried sardines. Stunk up the whole dining room. It was worth it, though. I wonder if they serve any vegetables here...
Viajes Vértiz
We like to travel at this time of year because 1) May is the hottest and dustiest month in San Miguel, 2) the weather is pretty nice in much of the rest of the world, and 3) we can avoid the summertime crush of vacationers.
In the past, I've booked flights and hotels over the internet. At one time, you could find better deals that way, plus you could play a lot of "what if" games without annoying your travel agent. Lately I've had second thoughts about this. For example, whenever I build an itinerary, I get a gnawing feeling I'm a greenhorn in a professional poker game. Am I getting a good deal? Have I found a hotel I'll really like? Is there a simpler route or better flight times?
A while back I needed to change a flight I had booked through Expedia. Expedia is difficult to reach via telephone, so I called the airline instead. Whoops! Airlines can't make changes if you bought your tickets through Expedia. Why? Well, you're actually buying your seats from Expedia, not from the airline. So it is they who have to request any changes. Good luck trying to get them on the phone.
My friend Judy mentioned that she always books her trips through Malinda Vértiz, a travel agent who has been in the business for many years and who has done a great deal of traveling herself; in other words, a pro.
"Sure, Malinda charges you a $25 fee for booking your flight, " says Judy, "but it's worth it in terms of convenience and helping to make good decisions, and besides, you have a person to call if problems" come up.
Well, all right then. So for the first time ever, I used an agent for pleasure travel.
I wish I'd done this years ago. Malinda booked the same Mexico City-Madrid flight I would have, but she found a feeder flight from Léon that I couldn't find, with pricing that saved me money over the cost of taking the wretched four-hour bus to Mexico City or paying hundreds of dollars for a shuttle van. So, even paying her fee, the trip cost less, and she cut out hours of transit and hassle.
But that's just the beginning. She made itinerary and hotel recommendations I never would have found myself, greatly enhancing our trip. I can't say enough nice things about her. If you live in San Miguel de Allende, you'll really do yourself a favor if you enlist Malinda's aid in planning and booking your trip. Check it out.
Viajes Vértiz S. A. de C. V.
Hidalgo #1-A Centro
San Miguel de Allende
GTO, México 37700
415-152-1856 (Voice)
415-152-1695 (Voice)
415-152-0499 (Fax)
(Dial prefix 011-52 in the USA.)
info@viajesvertiz.com
I'll be posting regularly while we're traveling.