Spanish life is not always likeable but it is compellingly loveable.
Christopher Howse: A Pilgrim in Spain
Spain- Oh, dear. The newish Vox party has gone one further and announced that one of its candidates for the imminent elections will be a Holocaust denier. Trying to out-Trump Trump, is seems. What next? Someone who promotes eugenics?
- Less seriously . . . Spanish foody phrases translated for you here by The Local
- Carnaval is well and truly over for this year but I've only just been able to retrieve the article posted below, which I wrote back in 2004 about the event in Pontevedra and really wanted to include a week or 2 ago.
- In Plaza Mayor yesterday there was a Spiderman with a huge gut, next to a small model of same. I'm not sure if this was some sort of joke or whether he was just fat. But I am sure he was waiting to be photographed - for a fee. However, in the 45 minutes we were there, there was nary a taker.
- Where there always so many blanket traders in this central plaza? The guys with sheets covered in fake wares, which can be speedily gathered up by strings attached to each corner, in the event of an approaching law officer.
- Ditto beggars.
- So, the EU has rowed back a bit and given Mrs May (a provisional) 3 weeks to come up with a proposal it regards as sensible. In which case they might give another but much longer extension for the UK to do something regarded by them as critically important. Such as a general election or a second referendum. But, yet again, who really knows.
- Here's the take of the Times' cartoonist:-
- These are bits from this article, which reflects my own long-standing view that the EU, notwithstanding its many legitimate aims, has tried to do too much, too quickly. And has, therefore, put the whole Project at risk, essentially as there's no democratic responsibility for huge errors on the part of Brussels:-
- It has never been completely clear what Britain was leaving. The EU and its overlapping subordinate economic regimes resemble a jellyfish more than a political and economic union.
- A conflict between economic integration and democratic politics has arisen.
- Convinced Europeanists have called for a United States of Europe. Only a genuine parliament holding an elected president to account can render the single market democratically legitimate. But a United States of Europe is beyond practical politics. One cannot make a democracy legitimate just by writing a new constitution. Voters have to internalize a sense of possession over their politics, and this sentiment of ownership and obligation grows organically, not prescriptively.
- The question is whether the UK can any longer choose meaningful self-rule. It seems to be stuck in a web from which there is no escape. If this predicament is ever felt more widely across the EU voting public, it will spell the end of European liberal democracy. And the return of the Demons – the further rise of illiberal democracy, if not worse – cannot be far off.
- The imminent EU elections are widely expected to prove the validity of this last contention. Will the technocrats learn? Or will they, under relentless French pressure, continue to drive for the 'ever-closer union' which has found so little favour with the British public? Who, it has to be said, have more experience with democracy than most (all?) of their Continental colleagues. From which, it can surely be argued, stems the 'madness' of the last 2 years or more.
- A propos . . A charismatic right-wing politician has stunned the Dutch by leading his party to become the largest force in the senate. Thierry Baudet, 36, has called for the Netherlands to quit the EU but has used his good looks and social media skills to soften his strong anti-immigration, anti-EU and anti-environmentalist message.
- Below is an article on today's acceptable pronouns. It's not a spoof. At least, I don't think it is. Just in case you think this is unnecessary, bear in mind that: The first person in Britain to be charged with a transgender hate crime has warned that the police and courts are being used to stifle legitimate debate on the controversial topic. This in a week in which someone else has been told by the police that they're[!] to be interviewed for using the wrong pronoun on TV, as they might be guilty of a hate crime. For upsetting a child. Or, really, the mother of the child, who made the complaint to the police.
- Word of the Day: Acuerdo
- Looking in the window of a shop catering for walkers, I noted the essential items included an ultrasonic dog-worrier. Or ayuhentador in Spanish. This has no English equivalent but the Spanish Royal Academy defines it as Something which causes flight. Another essential item, by the way, was a monocular (telescope), with or without a zoom. Modern walking seems to involve quite a few challenges.
1. CARNAVAL IN PONTEVEDRA
The council’s leaflet says that the parade begins at 5.30 but the town guide says 5.00. Suspecting that, even if the latter is right, it won’t start on time, I drive down to town around 5.15 and park near the 5-ways crossing on the edge of the old quarter – the one where there is no apparent right of way. I cross the road - carefully negotiating the traffic which is carelessly negotiating the junction - and head up a narrow street alongside a family group which contains a young girl dressed as Minnie Mouse. The mother asks whether anyone else felt the drops of rain so I retrace my steps to get my umbrella from the car. I am now laden with a camera, a dog on a lead, a dictaphone and a book with which to while away the inevitable discontinuities of a Spanish event.
I pass a young man gaudily dressed as a drag queen. I know this because the previous evening I had zapped briefly into the nadir of Spanish TV, the annual national drag queen final in which 35 hopefuls dressed in eye-popping costumes mime to some aggressive pop tune or other. Atop the obligatory boots with huge soles and 9 inch heels, the young man is making slow progress. But at least he is staying upright, which is more than one of the contestants managed the previous evening, providing the only moment of interest in the 5 minutes viewing I could stomach.
As I approach the town square, I notice that the spectators alongside the designated route are still sparse. The locals are clearly even more sceptical than I am about the time things will kick off. By now I have seen a large repertoire of characters – cardinals, witches, smurfs, red indians, Arab sheikhs, nuns and even a pope or two, one of them arm in arm with an abbess.
I consider taking up an early position on the steps of the church but I know this gets very crowded, making photography difficult, so I seek a more promising alternative. Just past the church there is a raised terrace in front of an elevated house but it is surrounded by railings and the entrance gate is padlocked. However, as there are already a few people on the terrace and as the fence is only a couple of feet high, I climb over it and encourage my dog to do likewise. Having briefly considered the challenge, he squeezes between two of the railings. No-one on the terrace looks at me as if they might have proprietorial rights so I move to the entrance steps of the house and position myself on the top of these.
I am now above my co-spectators and at the same level as the people on the balconies of the houses across the road. And my view is relatively unimpaired. My dog is doing his best to lie on one of the steps but he is distracted by a young boxer bitch which has dragged its owner over to us and which is trying to engage him in play. My dog adopts his normal approach of pretending not to even notice the boxer but when she puts two playful paws on his back, he swivels his eye balls towards her and curls his lip, letting out a low but vicious snarl. The boxer’s owner drags her back in some alarm. I act as if I have seen nothing and make some adjustment to the camera lens.
It is now 5.45 and there is no sign of the parade. Loud music is coming from a stage in the main square, where a group is practising for the ear-shattering show that will begin around one in the morning, or perhaps as early as midnight. The large LCD screen I can see at the entrance to the square says that it is 12 degrees but then changes to 11. I am feeling a little cold. Every now and then there is a sprinkling of rain and the umbrellas go up in unison, doing nothing for my view. One by one, they then come down again. The light is fading and I wonder whether I will be able to get any pictures at all, with or without umbrellas in the foreground. I try to read my book but it is more interesting watching the toddler wriggling in its mother’s arms on one of the balconies opposite and wondering whether it is going to fall into the crowd on the pavement.
The crowd grows and more fairy tale characters appear – Pinocchio, Robin Hood [or at least one or two of his merry men], Mickey Mouse and many others. Several men wear rubber face masks and are dressed in suits with a sash across one shoulder. I wonder whether these are meant to be local – or even national – politicians and whether there is a satirical intent. Most impressive are the couples in rich regency costumes, many of whom have their faces covered by a sort of yashmak. I ponder whether this is a relic of a Muslim past or a way to disguise the sex of the wearer. There is a great deal of cross-dressing during these festivals and the streets are full of men in Day-Glo wigs, false breasts and mini skirts. This rather lends support to the view that, in a society where the male and female roles are so well defined, it is ironic how fascinated the Spanish are by transvestism
The boxer bitch is becoming irritating. As well-disciplined as any Spanish child, she ignores the exhortations of her owners to sit still and strains to get close to my dog. Every now and then, one of her pseudo-handlers looks at me rather imploringly and I ask myself whether they are trying to suggest that I leave the terrace so that they can get some peace. But I ignore them and the husband finally takes her off. I hope that he is taking her home but he merely walks around the terrace a time or two. This achieves nothing except a few minutes’ respite. My dog, meanwhile, lies on one of the steps with his face in his paws. He starts to shake like a black jelly. I know that he isn’t frightened and, with his thick coat, he can’t be cold. So I decide that this is his – sarcastic – way of telling me that he is bored rigid. I ignore him too.
Some time after 6, the faint sound of a band arrives from the direction of the parade and a shiver of anticipation runs through the crowd. Faces turn, umbrellas waver and a gentle murmur rises to our terrace. and then… the first float. To my astonishment, this is a small truck draped in the EU flag and decorated with pictures of Euro coins. Very festive, I think. Not something that would go down well terribly well in the UK. But at least it means that things can only get better. And they do. A float containing the carnival king and his retinue appears and small bags of goodies are thrown to crowd.
These contain something soft like pastry, which is just as well as I am hit on the head by one as, in the rapidly failing light, I try to focus the camera. This seems to please my dog. Then a troupe of dancing girls appears and stops below the terrace. They are dressed in wonderful costumes but no one smiles. They remind me of their bonneted, thigh-slapping equivalents in the biennial midsummer carnival of my home town in the UK. But at least their skin is not blue with cold. In unison, they dance – if that is the word – on the spot, to the frenetic rhythm of a drum band on a float behind them. As ever with these parades, the participants are stationary for long periods, awaiting the whistle that will tell them to move on for a few yards before coming to another halt. No wonder they look bored. I can’t help wondering – with some sympathy – whether they don’t practice all year just so that they can spend 80 per cent of the parade going up and down on the same spot.
A glance at my light meter tells me that it would be hopeless to try to get any good pictures now. Which is a shame as down below me there is a bizarre group dressed in what seems to be an exaggerated version of the Galician peasant’s wet-weather garb of thickly plaited straw. One woman is ringed with enormous pine cones and I wonder whether they are genuine or not. The group is accompanied by the first bagpipe players of the evening, who are less well protected from the intermittent rain. They are not smiling either.
A school of mice goes past, eating huge corn cobs. Inexplicably, they are led by a man cross-dressed as a mini-skirted tart. Maybe he is their class teacher – and someone who would die rather than appear eccentric, or even unorthodox, outside the confines of a fiesta. Especially in this conservative town.
The rock music from the town square is now deafening but no-one seems to mind. A troupe of gaudily-dressed maracas players goes past, followed by six or seven Pierrot-type dancers in silky blue top hats, doing what I think is a sort of samba. Some of them are smiling. Then comes a little Dutch girl, complete with false blonde plaits under her white bonnet. She looks just like my sister did when she wore the same outfit for Queen Elizabeth’s coronation party in the field behind our house almost exactly 50 years ago. I look for the equivalent of me dressed as a Dutch boy in baggy pants and cardboard clogs but he doesn’t make an appearance. I am a little relieved as I would have hated to miss the photo opportunity because of the poor light.
Given the huge variety of colourful characters filing past me, it dawns on me that it is a little odd that I haven’t yet seen anything resembling an Inca or an Aztec. Or even a Mexican. But, then again, perhaps it isn’t so strange. As I ponder this, we are joined by a man with what looks like an ultra miniature Yorkshire terrier inside his coat, possibly a puppy. Inevitably, the people around him become all maternal and I feel like vomiting. I recall my brother’s comment that it’s amazing what you see when you don’t have your rifle with you.
A man passes, pushing a fish stall with what appears to be real fish on it. At least they don’t mind the rain. And then a weaving Chinese dragon, whose occupants are similarly care-free, being very protected from the elements. And then a truly huge penny-farthing bike which is supported by what were called stabilisers on the kids’ first bikes. My hand holding the dictaphone is getting colder and colder and I wonder whether to move on, possibly home. A man leans down to stroke my dog’s head. My dog completely ignores him. It is looking less and less of a good idea to have brought him. He’s well past the stage of being impressed by any interest in him, especially when he wants to demonstrate how bored he is. I am beginning to have some sympathy for him. But decline to show it.
Some parents just below me hoist kids on their head and look back at me on the steps, as if to ask me to give up my prime position. I adopt a Spanish - or canine - approach and ignore them. The young boxer tries to chew my umbrella. and gets smacked for her trouble.
I decide that it would be a good idea to leave my perch and walk towards the end of the procession, in the general direction of home. I raise my umbrella and take a short cut through the town’s newly pedestrianised centre, which the mayor assured us was going to be finished for Christmas but wasn’t. And, with Easter round the corner, still isn’t. My dog seems immeasurably happier, especially as I let him off the lead so that he can sniff the piles of rubble. Heady with pleasure he walks right into the path of an oncoming car. I suppose he thought that, this being a pedestrianised area, he was safe to wander. I rescue him and try explain to him that this is Spain but it seems to make no difference. It being way past the time of his evening feed, he ignores me and, with some success, proceeds to scour the pavement for food scraps.
In an electrical goods shop a woman is shaving her face in one of the TV screens and it strikes me that this is an ad – I suppose – that I have not yet seen. I walk on and emerge on the main street to find that I have been watching the supporting acts for the past hour or two. Here, at last, are the big floats – Eskimos emerging from igloos, a gallows enactment, a cabaret scene from the 30s, complete with Nazis, Sherwood forest [or something similar], a host of Elvis imitators, and many more. Infectious humour and great ingenuity on display. I realise that this is the way to do the parade – to compensate for the dreadful discontinuity of the event by walking along the pavement in the opposite direction to the floats. And suddenly I am no longer thinking ‘Rio or New Orleans this surely ain’t’ but ‘Well, this may not be quite Rio or New Orleans but it is certainly impressive’. I am helped by the fact that, while the rain may not be dampening the spirits of the float occupants, it has driven the spectators under the shop awnings, leaving the pavement free for me and my dog.
Fittingly, the last float depicts an Andalucian bullfight and is bedecked with Spanish flags. And a few metres behind this, two small machines are already hoovering up the considerable debris. An unexpected demonstration of civic efficiency. More content than I feared I would be, I cut through the old quarter – a place I love – in the direction of the Roman bridge that gives the town its name. I notice that there is a modern art exhibition in one of the old mansions recently converted into a branch of the town museum and I resolve to come back tomorrow to take a look. Being rather peckish, I am tempted to call in at my favourite tapas bar for some seafood. But, as I will have to leave the dog outside, I press on towards the compensatory meal of egg and chips I have been thinking about for the last hour. Quite why, I don’t know. It’s not something I eat much these days. Perhaps it’s the ‘Gras’ in ‘Mardi Gras’.
Being even more peckish, my dog is looking forward to the same dry food he gets twice a day every day of the year. It’s a dog’s life. But what can he expect? At least he gets out from time to time.
2. He, she, and ze: A guide to modern gender pronouns: Luke Mintz
You're due to meet somebody for the first time. Perhaps it’s a colleague for a work meeting, or maybe you've invited for child's new boyfriend or girlfriend over for dinner. You know the traditional rules of engagement: ask their name, shake hands, and maybe exchange some pleasantries about the weather.
But are you definitely using the correct gender pronoun? Is the person you are greeting a “he”, “she”, “they”, or even a “zie”? Until recently, this wasn’t a question that occupied many minds. But with the rise of the transgender rights movement over the last few years, gender pronouns have become a hot-button issue, with many well-meaning middle-aged people finding themselves caught in the middle of a very modern minefield.
Indeed, getting somebody’s gender pronouns wrong can have serious consequences, as Caroline Farrow, a Catholic commentator who debates the issue on television, may have discovered this week. The mother-of-five, who has strong religious views, claims she was asked by Surrey Police to attend a taped interview after she was accused of using an incorrect gender pronoun during a discussion on Twitter.
So, how do you navigate this new ethical quagmire? How do you know which gender pronoun to use? And why does it matter anyway? The University of Wisconsin, in the United States, released a ‘Gender Pronouns’ guide in 2011 which has proved popular, copied online all over the world. It gives some useful answers.
Caroline Farrow, a Catholic commentator, says she asked by Surrey Police to attend a taped interview Credit: Ken McKay/REX/Shutterstock
How do you know which pronouns to use?
According to LGBT activists, you can’t always tell what somebody’s gender is just by looking at them. Referring to a stranger as “he” just because they “look like a man” is a surefire way to land yourself in trouble, they say. Instead, it could be a good idea to ask somebody what pronouns they use when you first meet them.
Several British universities have gone further, trying to eliminate any confusion by introducing ‘pronoun introductions’, where students will routinely introduce themselves at seminars and student union meetings with their name and “preferred pronoun”. Edinburgh University went as far as handing out ‘pronoun badges’ at its freshers fair last year.
Why do pronouns matter?
“Misgendering” a transgender person can be a hugely unpleasant experience, LGBT activists say. The Winsconsin guide says that being referred to with the wrong pronoun can make transgender people “feel disrespected, invalidated, dismissed, [and] alienated”. They say it can also trigger a person’s gender dysphoria, which is defined by the NHS as the discomfort or distress somebody experiences when their biological sex does not match their gender identity.
Indeed, “misgendering” is taken seriously by police in the UK. Last February, an unnamed schoolteacher was told by police she may have committed a hate crime after she refused to acknowledge that a transgender pupil in her class identified as a boy, failing to address him as “he” and “him”.
Which pronouns should you use?
The most common pronouns are the traditional gendered pronouns he/him/his, for people who identify as men, and she/her/hers, for people who identify as women. According to the Wisconsin guide, however, these should not be described as ‘masculine’ or ‘feminine’ pronouns, “because not everybody who uses ‘he’ feels like a ‘male’ or ‘masculine’.”
Next, there is a long list of gender-neutral pronouns, designed for people who don’t identify as a man or a woman.
The most common of these is they/them/theirs, which have become so popular that ‘They’ was voted as Word of the Year in 2015 by the American Dialect Society. The same year, the Washington Post made headlines after declaring that it was grammatically permissible to use “they” when referring to an individual, and “useful in references to people who identify as neither male nor female”.
Another advantage of “they” is that it already exists in English, a language that has historically lacked room for gender-neutral expression. As a result, LGBT activists have to had to invent their own words in recent years.
The most popular of these newly-minted gender-neutral pronouns is “Ze”, which is pronounced “zee” and can also be spelled “zie” or “xe”. Explaining how to use Ze, the Wisconsin guide compares it to the use of “she”, writing that she = zie, her = zim, hers = zirs, and herself = zirself.
Other less common gender-neutral pronouns include ‘ve’, ‘xe’, and ‘per’, the guide says.
What if you make a mistake?
It’s judgement day. You’ve swotted up on your ‘woke’ vocabulary, and you understand the ins and outs of gender pronouns. You can reel ‘ze’, ‘ve’, and ‘xe’ off your mind as if they were the names of your own children. But disaster strikes, and you make a mistake. What do you do?
Don’t worry, say most LGBT activists, it happens to everybody. All you should do is quickly apologise, correct yourself, and move on.
The Wisconsin guide writes: “Everyone slips from time to time. It can tempting to go on and on about how bad you feel that you messed up, or how hard it is for you to get it right. Please don’t. It’s inappropriate and makes the person who was misgendered feel awkward and responsible for comforting you, which is absolutely not their job.”
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