Dublin: Rethinking our Drinking

In a city where half the pedestrians you see are carrying a musical instrument, a city with four Nobel laureates thus far (impressive for its relative size) and connections to hundreds of other incredible writers, it was surprising to Hilary and me that advertising in the great city of Dublin has not lived up to the musicality or poetry it is so famous for.

We noticed this on our first night in Dublin when we went to a pub after dinner. Our Lonely Planet guide asserted that the pub, Dawson Lounge, was the smallest pub we would find in the city. Dawson Lounge itself was shooting for grander recognition, but employed Irish modesty in its slogan: "Probably the smallest pub in the world." Probably? Perched on stools in the tiny, green-carpeted pub, Hilary and I agreed that there could indeed be a smaller pub in, say, Malaysia. The owners of Dawson Lounge simply couldn't know. Better to be truthful than exaggerate your own superlative status. Still, we couldn't help but think that the word "probably" in an advertising slogan is probably not the best tactic.

The next day, while walking around the city, we ran into several small clumps of people carrying signs proclaiming, "Official dispute." Nothing surlier than the word "dispute," that's for sure. I couldn't tell you who was actually disputing, either, though it was clear they were upset over the current financial crisis. As though someone had made the choice to send the world into an economic tailspin, but would now reverse the process once they saw these sock-it-to-'em slogans: "Tax the rich, not the lower-paid," "Stop top bankers from putting their hands in our pockets," and "You do the maths" (okay, the last one was actually a sign for a bagel shop, but that UK "maths" gets me every time). It seemed as though the protesters were trying to light a fire with damp wood; if only they knew to add a spark! And change the wood.

Finally, we found a slogan both memorable and to the point: "Rethinking our drinking." This phrase is at the center of a national campaign that, unsurprisingly, encourages Irish citizens to change their habits of imbibing. Unfortunately, we didn't find any of the supporting phrases to have as much zing or memorability. And, while the website drinkaware.ie calls it a "hard-hitting campaign," we spent more time being confused than being roused to action.

After rethinking, Hilary and I decided to do some drinking; we spent an afternoon in the Guinness storehouse, which is really just a huge interactive advertisement for the drink. No slogans necessary: I was thirsty for Guinness the whole time. However, when we came to the advertising section of the tour (a history of Guinness campaigns) we were left wanting when we read what was obviously meant to be an impressive story. Two advertising executives were locked in a hotel until they came up with something stunning. After three days they emerged with one word: Genius. Hilary and I scratched our heads. Sure, "genius" is a good word for Guinness--they share so many letters! But how did it take these execs three days?

On our last full day in Dublin, Hilary and I bought ourselves green scarves before heading off to a pub ("The Bleeding Horse"--makes you thirsty for a pint, right? But of what?) We'd been excited for the upcoming rugby match since we'd checked in on Wednesday and our receptionist told us the town would be "jammers" for the game. The match was between Ireland and England and we were pumped to root green. Our spirits were only slightly dampened by a large banner proclaiming: "It's about being the best rugby team in the six nations." Why not "It's about winning!" or "It's all about Ireland"? Anything, really. Anything you could say without having to refill on breath. In any case, we made it to the Bleeding Horse, cheered Ireland on to victory, and enjoyed pints of Guinness with the crowd. Genius.

Hilary and I enjoy pints at the Guinness Gravity Bar; shamrocks were etched into the foam of these free pints!

Saga of Malaga

When my parents lived in Morocco, they would often show up to take a bus to a neighboring town only to find out the bus had left long ago. Having filled to capacity, why wait around until the scheduled hour of departure?

Apparently Morocco's northern neighbor employs similar logic. My friend Hilary and I showed up at the bus station this morning at 7:45 am to catch the 8:05 bus to Malaga, as it was listed online. We waited around until just after 8; I asked another bus driver about the trip to Malaga (it's always best to let someone know where you're going at the Arcos bus station) and he informed us the bus had left probably around 7:40 am. Frustrated, I explained that the time had been listed differently on the bus company's website. He looked at me pityingly, as if to say "why would you trust the internet?" Better that than the Arcos' tourism office, which had told me that there was no direct connection to Malaga, and that we would have to take the bus west to Jerez instead (thereby losing ground). At least the internet had informed me that the Jerez-Malaga connection actually goes through Arcos...but still, it had let me down.

Luckily, this bus driver, this new ally of ours, had plenty of suggestions. First he mentioned going to Ronda, but decided against it since there wasn't an Arcos-Ronda bus for a while. Another random man joined in the conversation, suggesting we go to Algeciras and take a bus up the coast from there. The bus driver and I looked at each other, rolling our eyes. Algeciras? No thanks. Finally the bus driver decided we should take a bus to Villamartin, a town to the east of Arcos on the Sevilla-Malaga route. Besides, "In Arcos," the bus driver said, looking around conspiratorially, "There's nothing. Look around! Nothing here. Just a cafe. Now, in Villamartin, there's a guy."

Hilary and I raised our eyebrows to show appreciation of that fact. "A guy?" I asked.

"That's right," he said, and folded his arms and held his chin up. "He'll look like this. He'll be walking around. You can ask him anything--he knows it all. He'll help you."

Needless to say, we were sold. The bus to Villamartin would be leaving in about an hour. I casually mentioned to the bus driver that maybe we would drink some coffee in Arcos' cafe until the bus showed up. He shook his head.

"Now's not the time," he assured. "It's not the time to drink to coffee. When you get to Villamartin you can drink all the coffee you want." I shrugged. The weather in Arcos was nice enough to Hilary stayed outside and waited for our Villamartin bus. When it showed up an hour later, our bus driver ally rushed out of the cafe. "Where were you?" he asked, in surprise. "I was drinking coffee that whole time! And you were out here!"

Our ally lit up a cigarette and stood around talking with the Villamartin bus driver, a handsomer, taller, and more Spanish-looking version of George W. Bush. When asked if the bus was leaving soon, GW shrugged. He didn't seem to be in a rush. Still, as Hilary was trying to pay for her ticket at the front of the bus just after I'd gotten on, GW closed the door immediately, started up the engine, and started pulling out of the station. "There's no time!" he told Hilary, as she was trying to get out the exact change for her fare. "Just sit down--we're outta here!" Hilary stumbled to her seat as the bus lurched backward.

Hilary and I spent the trip to Villamartin in eager anticipation of meeting this famous "guy." We wondered if the legends could be true. We soon found out: they were. The "guy" was an older man seated in a small information booth at the Villamartin station, who looked up from the article on Obama he was reading to address us merrily. I told him we were on our way to Malaga; he let us know when our bus would be leaving and then proceeded to discuss the merits of taking the route through the mountains, full of beautiful white towns, instead of the coast, full of garbage-dump-inspired developments for Europeans on holiday. I agreed, shuddering over what would have become of us if we'd taken the Algeciras route up the Costa del Sol (seriously: Costa del Trash-heap is more adequate).

Having gotten our information, Hilary and I sat down to long-awaited coffee and sugar-coated churros. We noticed the guy leave his information booth and flit through the station, greeting friends, giving out information, ushering customers to the correct buses, calling drivers to make sure they were on schedule. We were impressed. If only Arcos had a guy, we lamented, we wouldn't be in this mess to begin with. Still, if we'd caught our original bus, we'd never have met our original ally, GW, or this guy. And, as the guy shepherded us toward the bus to Malaga, and we shared tearful goodbyes, we knew it had all been worth it. Besides, losing three hours of exploration time in Malaga is not exactly unfortunate...but that's another story.

Carnaval Caroling

One of the most popular parts of Carnaval in Cadiz is the caroling done by costumed choruses. As our guide around the city on Sunday, Jose attempted to explain what was going on. The songs are, in general, supposed to be funny, but we often missed the jokes (as is common not only for foreigners but even Spaniards who are not from Cadiz). After laughing particularly hard, Jose would turn to us and translate what he'd heard, which would only make us more aware of how much we were missing ("So the punchline is...I want a sandwich? Hmmm....")

We stood in one plaza for about an hour as choruses on flatbeds were pulled past us by utterly bored-looking tractor drivers. After listening to the Indian group (my PC self cringing, though it was already weakened from the previous night's costumes), and a group of sailors, a tractor pulled up with a flatbed full of men in short wigs and overalls with pastel T-shirts and thoroughly Spanish scarves. Patra and I ventured a guess: cross-dressing Spanish hill-billies? No, we found out, they were "lesbians." Ah yes. Obvious.

Principal of Tides

When I tell Spaniards about Minnesota, sometimes I start with the Mall of America. Then they find out the Mississippi River begins in Minnesota, and they wonder why I didn't start with that fact. With some irony that is no doubt loss, I assure them the Mall of America is very big (there's an amusement park inside! A walk-through aquarium below!) Truthfully, I am much prouder of my state's claim to the origins of one of the world's most important rivers. I have visited Lake Itasca, the source of the Mississippi, several times. A friend of mine and I once walked the first few hundred meters, the river shallow and narrow around our ankles. We walked until the water reached our knees; when it reached our thighs, we turned around. It was only then that we realized the strength of the downstream current. Every step against the current was laborious.

Last night I experienced a similar sensation, except the tide was one of humans (reeking of alcohol, covered in face paint, shouting, slurring, spitting) and it was not constricted to my calves. Welcome to Carnaval in Cadiz, arguably the largest celebration of its kind in Spain.

I arrived in the center of Cadiz last night around midnight with Patra, Hilary, and my Spanish friends Ana and Jose (who own an apartment in Cadiz and invited us to witness the spectacle). In such a crowd, you quickly learn to recognize the costumes of your friends, and thus I spent much of the night making sure I was near Patra's blue and orange homemade (awesome) mask, Hilary's pink flower and matching pink coin-embellished skirt, Jose's silky turban, and Ana's red devil cape and trident. We pointed out other costumes to each other (my favorites were three boys as Munch's "Scream;" we also saw inordinate number of chickens and cows), but mainly just tried to stick together. In the plaza in front of Cadiz's cathedral, this was almost impossible. As we were exiting the plaza through a ridiculous bottleneck, I contemplated seriously the amount of pressure it would take be squeezed to death. Somehow I felt strangely comfortable, though, knowing I hardly had to place my feet on the trash-, liquid-, scum-covered ground to be moved along. The five of us held hands, linked elbows, and followed Jose's upheld trident to guide us out of the fray.

In the midst of this mess, I witnessed my favorite sight of the evening. Not an ingenious costume, no, but two old women in their regular clothes moving slowly toward the plaza we'd just fought our way out of. They were so small the tops of their heads barely met my shoulder, and I noticed the bright speckles of confetti adorning their white hair. They looked determined, yet calm, and I hoped the currents would be kinder to them than they had been to us. We were sand in the spray of the waves, they the rocks at the ocean's bottom, moving inches every eon...perhaps they knew what they were doing after all.

Bring a paella

There is to be no flamenco the week after I return from Dublin because it's the "week of women;" my teacher, also a marriage counselor and advocate for abused women, is running many of the events. At flamenco tonight she read out the schedule. One event, listed as 10 am to 6pm, provoked indignant shouts from my fellow dancers. "When would we eat?!" they asked. Maria Jose, my teacher, looked up in annoyance. "I was just about to get to that." She continued reading. "This event is limited to 100 participants. All participants should bring a paella to supply the lunch-time meal." Hilary, who had accompanied me to rehearsal, and I looked at each other in surprise. 100 paellas? Seems like there will be more than enough yellow rice to go around...

It's a small town after all

My friend Hilary, who teaches English in Paris, is currently visiting me. Our worklives are similar, our homelives not. She has constant access to internet, constant access to English bookstores, constant access to foods from around the world. I: do not. I felt a little country-bumpkin as I eagerly pointed out the features of Arcos: "Here's the bakery--it's fantastic" (I bought a croissant; obviously biased, Hilary decided not to sample something her own town is renowned for, though I swear these croissants are just as good), "This is the main street...well, the street," "Here's the Italian restaurant. Italian! Can you believe it?" In truth, Arcos--at 30,000 residents--is not such a tiny town. And it has everything I need: organic vegetables, yoga, flamenco classes, a fantastic bakery and an adorable wireless cafe. Sometimes, though, it's small-town character is more obvious.

Hilary, Patra, and I had just exited the adorable wireless cafe en route to a flamenco class when we saw a familiar face: Antonio, our landlord. Although Antonio is a little crazy, spits on us unintentionally, is difficult to understand, and keeps asking about our marriage prospects (still thinking we're going to settle in Arcos indefinitely), we were glad to see him. Our shower hasn't been the most trustworthy when it comes to hot water, and we wanted to ask Antonio to check it out. After a few awkward minutes of spittle-filled communication, we reached an agreement about when Antonio would come by. We continued walking. To Patra and me, this sort of meeting is unsurprising, almost necessary for getting business done (we originally got our apartment by unintentionally running into Antonio's wife Angela in the street an hour after she'd shown it to us). To Hilary, the chance encounter was nothing short of extraordinary. "Wow," she said. "This really is a small town."

I speak their language

Not Spanish (well, I try). No, I'm becoming fluent in the language of young children. The other night I walked into my flamenco class--held in the back of a bar--and started putting on my shoes. A boy, maybe 5 or 6 years old, walked up to me and stuck out his tongue, perhaps thinking to intimidate me. I stuck my tongue back out at him. He looked surprised for a moment, then nodded in approval. He held out a piece of gum; "for me?" I asked. He nodded again. I could see the conclusion in his eyes: I'd passed his test, and thus was aptly rewarded.