Expatiperro

I normally don't post news articles on this blog, but something caught my eye today while I was browsing the New York Times:

Spain's top investigative magistrate opened an investigation into the Bush administration Wednesday over alleged torture of terror suspects at Guantanamo Bay.

Judge Baltasar Garzon said documents declassified by the new U.S. government suggest the practice was systematic.

Garzon said he was acting under Spain's observance of the principle of universal justice, which allows crimes allegedly committed in other countries to be prosecuted in Spain. [...]

In a 10-page writ, he said documents on Bush-era treatment of prisoners, recently declassified by the Obama administration, "reveal what had been just an intuition: an authorized and systematic plan of torture and mistreatment of person denied freedom without any charge whatsoever and without the rights enjoyed by any detainee."

There's a lot that I can (and probably should, but won't now) write about this, like whether the torture memos were justifiable, or whether Obama's decision to release them was wise. But since this blog focuses on Spain, I'll hold off on a US-centric angle and write instead from an across-the-pond perspective.

Judge Garzon might be the closest thing that Spain has to a government celebrity. He is Spain's preeminent jurist, and everyone that I've talked to not only knows who he is, but also seems to have a good opinion of him. You might have heard of Garzon before- he was the one who ordered the arrest of Augusto Pinochet, the former military dictator of Chile, on human rights abuses charges, which eventually lead to Pinochet's five-year detention in London.

I'm still not 100% clear on what legal authority he has to order the arrest of non-Spaniards who commit crimes outside of Spain, but he's known as a crusader for justice and for impartiality. That the Bush administration is in his crosshairs doesn't mean that it's a given that anyone will be brought to trail (even Pinochet returned to Chile, and the US would surely resist any extradition attempt); nevertheless, it can't be a good sign fo anyone, not the least the US' image in Europe and around the world.

Yoo, Bybee, and the other torture memo authors better not have any European vacations planned in the future. At least not any that don't have a Spanish jail on the itinerary.

It's a bit embarrassing that even after seven months here, I haven't written about Catalunya's number one obsession- el futbol. But over the past week, there have been two major matches which have given me a good look at the depth of this obsession, and I'm starting to grasp exactly why soccer is such a powerful force in this little corner of the world.

Bigger than ham, mushrooms, and pooping peasants, soccer is what Catalan life revolves around, and the most important team in its universe is FC Barcelona, or Barça for short. Barça plays in the top Spanish league, and this year it's sat atop the rankings since the season began in the fall. From what my flatmates tell me, this year has been an exceptional year- Barça routinely destroys its opponents, no small feat in La Liga, which is widely considered to be one of the top leagues in the world. Even to the untrained eye, you can't help but be impressed by the way that Barça plays. Its passes are crisp; the ball moves across the field with ease; the players look like they're toying with their opponents; and goals can only be described as spectacular. As an inexperienced soccer fan, there's no better way to become passionate for the game. Still, I wonder if I'm just setting myself up for disappointment. It's like learning to appreciate classical music by listening to Mozart play his own concertos: there's no better education, but afterwards nothing else can compare.

(As an aside, I'm surprised that soccer hasn't caught on in the US. It's not difficult to draw parallels between it and other American sports. Like baseball, it's a relatively static game punctuated by rapid spurts of action, and points/goals are few and far between. Like football, it's a physical sport with a rabid, involved fan base. And like basketball, there is consistent movement, with little stoppages of play. [Note: last comparison not valid in the 4th quarter of most NBA games.] )

Barça's success this year is not just of interest to those who are rabid soccer fans. Instead, the entire city is following the team's exploits, reading about the previous game on the Metro, talking about it at cafés, and watching every game on television. Tonight's game was demonstrative: a semifinals match in the Champoins Leage (a competition of the best club teams in Europe), and the city streets were deserted, stores closed early, and bars were packed with people watching the hometown team take on Chelsea, a top British club. Even the kids that I teach follow the team. The first thing my 8 year old asked me today was if I was watching the game. (Another student, a 6 year-old, can name Barça's entire roster.) If there is such a thing as a non-soccer fan in Catalunya, I'd love to see it.

The key to understanding Barça's appeal to Catalunyans can be found in its slogan, "Més que un Club." While many teams claim to represent more than just its owners desire to make money by overcharging on tickets and consessions, to people here, Barça is more than just a club. It's a symbol of Catalan sovereignty and pride, dating back to the Franco years when Catalan culture was severly repressed and nearly stamped out. Deprived of the ability to openly speak their language and celebrate their traditions, Catalans of all types gravitated towards the Barça football club to project their nationalist feelings and protest against the Dictadura. That's why today, the most heated rivalry in all of Spanish soccer is between Catalan Barça and the formerly Francoist RC Madrid, which was heavily supported (and even today still is) by the military and conservative types. When these teams play, life in Barcelona comes to a stand-still; the glow of TVs can be seen out of nearly every apartment window, and tensions run so high that normal conversation is impossible in the days leading up to a game.

If it's possible to read more into soccer than what's presented on the field, then the Barça football club reflects not only the Catalan identity as we see it today, but also it's development and self-definition over the past 75 years. It's not only a club, but a point of difference between Catalans and other Spaniards, who might never have had to experience the suffocating repression and subsequent rebirth of their culture. But enough about this; despite these deeper meanings, to Barça fans, only one thing matters: the final score of the last match.

No, this post does not refer to confusion regarding racism or the KKK (though these costumes found in Holy Week processions could lead to that uncertainty). But what does have me wondering if I have been transported to the South is some bizarre weather that's struck Barcelona this past week- namely, thunderstorms and hail.

In normal years, Barcelona doesn't get much in the way of rain. The large amount of rain that the city's received this year has been an anomaly, surprising the locals, though it's pretty normal by San Francisco standards. But things have gotten weird since I've been back from Sardinia. Last Friday night, there was a huge thunderstorm that hit the city for a few hours. For someone who hasn't heard thunder for almost a year, it was a shock for me, but oddly enough also made me feel less homesick, like I was visiting my relatives in Louisiana and not 5,000 miles away. Anyways, this storms caused some massive beach erosion, lots of fallen trees, and the papers even dropped a few mentions of the "G-W" phrase as a possible cause (if you're having difficulty, think Al Gore, not George W.).

This was followed up on Thursday by something even weirder: a hail-storm. In a span of five minutes, the day went from sunny and warm, to cool and end-of-days-ish. Pellet-sized bits of hail fell for about 5 minutes, completely interrupting a class I was holding, though no one really cared. And just as soon as it started, the hail stopped, the sun came out, and everyone acted as if nothing had happened (which might have been even more surprising than the weather in the first place).

At the least, the wild weather has made me feel a little more at home, and has made my days a little more unpredictable. It's also giving me a great excuse to plan some weather-themed lessons, which for an idea-starved teacher is the greatest gift of all. So it's time for my students to put their wellies on and go outside- though sadly there's no Southern BBQ as a reward for getting through class.

Though one might think otherwise from reading my blog, my life's been more than working, produce shopping, and enjoying the mostly sunny springtime weather (though I would be completely happy if it were just the last one). Two weeks ago, taking advantage of a week off of work, I went with my friend Grant to Sardinia.

Sardinia is one of the melting-pot areas of the Mediterranean, and as a result, its history is incredibly fascinating. It boasts a huge number of prehistoric remains, some of them massive in scale and probably testaments to a well-developed civilization that inhabited the island over 3000 years ago. The language is unique as well- while all Sards speak Italian, they also speak their own language, which has influences from Latin, Arabic, and other tongues, but sounds nothing like any of them. (We got a first-hand experience with Sard from the lady that ran our hostel, who might have been the only person on the island not to speak Italian. SO FRUSTRATING.)

But one thing about Sardinia that is especially appealing to Catalans is that it contains the only place outside of Spain where Catalan is spoken. The official language of the town of Alghero (or l'Alguer) is Catalan, and it was definitely a surprise to be able to read street signs and talk to the taxi driver (though he also spoke fluent English, which we quickly reverted to). Alghero's Catalan status seems to be a big source of pride to Barcelonans, almost to the point of them fetishizing it- in the travel bookstore I found a surprisingly large number of travel guides to Alghero, which became even more surprising once we got there and found a definite dearth of things to do. So let's get onto that...

We flew into Alghero on Friday night and went straight to our bed & breakfast, where we would spend the next four nights. We had chosen the Mamajuana not just because its name sounded illicit, but also because the guidebook had given it rave reviews, especially singling out its breakfast, "served at a cafe across the street," for special mention. Imagine our surprise the next morning when we discovered that not only was there no cafe across the street, but that the breakfast was actually served from a VENDING MACHINE located under the B&B's stairs. While a breakfast of Fanta and Kinderbueno candy bar made us feel a little better, we did feel let down by the guidebook (Rough Guide, you will rue the day you were printed), and set out to explore the city on partially empty stomachs.

Disappointment was the theme of our trip for the next three days. The day trip I had planned to visit Neptune's Grotto, "without a doubt the post popular excursion" (sic) from Alghero, was scuttled when we discovered that it was closed for "renovations," necesitated by a freak storm three months earlier. (How a natural cave can be renovated is beyond me, but I digress.) Grant's ATM and credit cards refused to work, which turned me into a sugardaddy, and turned our trip into an exercise in thriftiness. A dinner became a let-down when I ordered a pepperoni and melanzane pizza, expecting an exotic meat and melon delight, but instead received a peppers and eggplant (apparently the correct translation of the menu). And the 5 movies I had downloaded onto my computer before leaving were rendered useless when I forgot my recharging cable at home. Instead of the movies, our nightly entertainment was tag-team solitare and six episodes of Project Runway Grant magically had on his iPod.

Things changed for the better at the midpoint of our trip. After a 4-hour search involving two long bus trips and much groveling, we managed to rent a car that promised to liberate us from the mental captivity we were feeling. But before we could drive freely on the Italian roads, we had one more difficulty to overcome: the manual transmission. Undaunted, our intrepid adventurers tackled the challenge head-on. Armed with nothing more than guile, confidence, and printed instructions from eHow.com, Grant and I conquered our vehicle with only a minor mental breakdown to show for it. (N.B.- Avoid driving in medieval Italian cities at all costs. This is from experience.)

The last three days of the trip were a complete change from the first three days. We explored the northern coast of the island, which was blissfully empty of tourists and the high prices that they bring. We saw prehistoric ruins, walked on amazing beaches, ate meals that didn't come out of a vending machine, and stayed in hotels with ocean views and cheap prices to boot. For an exampe, the photo on the right was taken from our €60 a night hotel room, overlooking the Mediterranean, and with views of Castelsardo, a hilltop fortress dating from the 14th century.

But my far the coolest, and most photogenic part of the trip, was out day visiting Capo Testa, the northern-most part of the island, and the site of some of its most dramatic scenery. Blue-blue water, light-sand beaches, and rocks strewn all around. In Grant's words, "It looks like where Gaudi practiced his designs." Anything else that I can write can't do it justice, so I'll leave you all with some pictures to get a sense of the scene.


After spending four hours playing on the rocks, everything else was just gravy. We had a celebratory bottle of wine (or three) at dinner, retired to our room which overlooked the beach and had views of Corsica, and woke up the next day to make it back to Alghero in time for our return flight.

All in all, it was a fantastic trip. One not-so-good effect of great trips, however, is a bit of a travel hangover, which has hit me hard and made it next to impossible to get back into the swing of things at work. Oh well, worse things have happened (like, say, breakfast out of a vending machine). Just 2 more weeks until our next adventure (MALTA!), and then possibly a trip with Jason to Istanbul in June. Updates to come!

As much as I would like to think that English instruction is so vital that it's resistant to the economic crisis, so far it's turning out to be just as vulnerable as Coke (a-Cola) parties on 30 Rock. Last month, I lost 3 hours due to budget cutbacks at companies where I taught; today, I just found out that I'm losing another 2.5 hours a week for the same reason. This makes me sad for a few reasons, least of which financial; Fernando was one of my favorite students, class was fun and easy to prepare, and now I have another chuck of my week with nothing to do. Free time is deceiving: the more of it you get, the less idea you have of what to do with it.

It's not hard to see all the ways that Spain is suffering because of the economic crisis, especially from my foreign, English teacher perspective. Companies are cutting back on expenses, and those that haven't canceled their English classes have cut back on other costs, like flower purchases, bottled water, and according to some of my students, writing implements (bring your pen to work day!). The amount of for rent signs up in empty store windows is staggering- in fact, the car dealership that used to be on the ground floor of my building moved out a few months ago, and I doubt that anyone will move into the space while I'm still in Spain. And the gym that I go to is packed with middle-aged adults during the afternoon, when one would imagine that most of them would be at the office.

From what I hear from family and friends, the scene at home is similar, which makes me all the more hesitant to go back. It's a bit ironic that it has been easier for me to find work living illegally in Spain than it has been back home in the US. But if my recent lost classes are any trend (and I suspect that they are), I might be equally unemployable on both sides of the Atlantic. And if that's the case, what difference does it make where I live?