Ever since
I was a young man in Tehran, I've firmly believed that a siesta is a good
thing, if only because it allows me to get by on an hour's less sleep
than usual. And now Spanish scientists have come up with the evidence
and with tips on how to do it. Twenty six minutes is the optimum,
they say. And never in bed.
The
curse of the blog . . . No sooner do I stress how un-violent are the
drunken revels downtown after the bullfights than some youth is
arrested for dragging a broken glass down another's face. But at
least he wasn't from Pontevedra but from Marín next door.
Talking
about bullfighting . . . Until the late 1920s, the average number of
horses killed was 6 per bull. Or 36 per corrida. Around this
time, protective cladding was introduced and equine deaths were
eliminated. The motivation, however, wasn't humane. The measure was
introduced after the guts of a horse had landed in the laps of the
dictator, Primo de Rivera, and his elegant French companion. Better
late than never, I guess.
A
possible solution has emerged to the problems of pigeons under your
feet and seagulls nicking your tapa. Get the gulls to eat
the pigeons. As here.
The
challenge appears to be in training the gulls. They're just not
natural learners.
I
was approached yesterday by a man wearing a T-shirt saying SYSTEM OF
A DOWN. Suggestions as to its meaning welcome.
Talking
of meanings . . . In a Vigo park today, we came upon a Parque
Infantil de Tráfico. I thought it was a school to teach kids the
drug business but am probably wrong. And here's a few fotos of
said city.
More conch-blowing. Possibly by the offspring of a Viking raider.
Naked fishermen, dragging a net and clenching their buttocks. Or so our guide insisted. Whom I won't name.
This statue on Gran Vía used to display a flag in the mouth of the top horse and was called "The Landing at Iwo Jima".
And this is something you rarely see in Spain - an accurate English translation of the original Spanish. Albeit with a typing mistake.
And here's the view from the Castro towards the Atlantic Islands. Near the spot where George Borrow was arrested - briefly - for spying, back in 1838. Or thereabouts. When it didn't look much like this.
And, finally, here's the foto that was missing from the series of the graffiti alongside the drive up to the Pontevedra albergue.
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