On Spain - the subjective and the objective

Spain. Where to begin? So much to write, so little time. It is a bundle of contradictions. It is secular, and yet incomplete in its secularism. Very social, and yet almost clannish. Socialist, and yet some of its newly-implemented economic policies puts Britain or even the U.S. to shame. Traditional, but highly fluid, techno savy, and ever-changing with its youth.

One of the first things that takes one aback is the high percentage of its elderly population. Everywhere. Hordes and hordes of them; sitting on bench tops eating their kestanes, walking in arm and arm with a fellow elderly person, spontaneously gathering at conspicuous spots of the town gossiping on the latest developments in such serious matters as politics or the more trivial ones like the mishaps and endeavors of their grandchildren.

Unlike, their American counterparts, they look fulfilled. The encumbered, mummified or just plain lonely faces of the elderly in the United States is nowhere to be seen. It is a good place to be if you are old.

For someone accustomed to the American or even Turkish family dynamics, familiar arrangements can appear very tight-knit. Family was ranked as the number one priority for Spaniards in a recent poll. Strangely, work appeared somewhere at the bottom of the list. Most families, here, know no to oscillate between excessive individualism (American style) and excessive authoritarianism (Turco or Arab style). They seem to have achieved a good balance in terms of familial relationships. Certainly, there are exceptions to the rules in that domestic violence is still a major headliner in the news.

A very, very social country. Every café, restaurant or any other gathering venue is packed wall to wall. They are endlessly solving the world’s or Spain’s problems, whining about their work, or how meagerly they are paid, the acute unemployment problem in Europe or simply bitching about life’s little annoyances and nuances. When I first arrived here, now almost 3 months ago, I was certain they were bickering or fighting. No, no, they are not fighting, they are just being human. Unlike their American counterparts, they are being natural. They know not to bottle up their emotions deep, and go and see a counselor for 200 euros/hr and take comfort in artificial means such as Paxil, Prozac or Zoloft. Very few people are even aware of such drugs. Why bury your woes in a bottle, when you can go to the nearest café and bitch? That is the Spanish way. You’ll have to admit it is a lot healthier than the American way.

Speaking of drugs, they are dirt-cheap here. Because the government heavily regulates the pricing of medication, costs are kept to a minimum, enabling the poor to have access to even the most expensive medication. Also, under Spanish law, every citizen is guaranteed health care coverage. What do you say to that America?? Your system treats the lower, middle-lower and increasingly middle-upper class citizens as subhumans by leaving out 50 million Americans out of the system all together..and another 100 million without adequate healthcare coverage. Europeans get health care coverage, an excellent public transportation, an adequate safety net (though it is being threatened with each successive generation), for their taxes, we get stellar B-bombers and helicopters to divide and conquer. Divide and conquer. What a buch of illeterates Americans are!

That is not to say that Spain is not a major seller of arms and weapons. It is well-known to be a 'provider' to such countries as Venezuala, Cuba or Morrocco. But at least the vast majority of the public has access to one of the most basic human rights - health care.

The sheer hell of insomnia

It has been a while since I wrote. I am in the grips of yet another insomniac plague. Yes, it is a plague..It keeps you from living to your fullest. You are merely existing, stuck in some twilight zone, waiting for it to vanish the same way it appeared.

I imagine it is the transition that is utterly ensettling to my already system. I don't know who I am here; I don't know how I am relevant to the overall structure, culture, people..I don't know anyone, and not a soul knows me..It is peculiar, this feeling of being almost invisible. You are flesh and blood to yourself, and yet nonexistant to others.

It is also peculiar conducting 90 percent of your life online..be it work, or communication. Perhaps it is this very fact that lends itself to an inordinate number of depression or anxiety cases. As much as I dislike humanity, there are times I long for the companion of someone outside the boundaries of my partner. Poor girl, what she has to put up with day and night!

I need to eradicate the root causes of this troubling period. In order to do that, however, I need to ascertain the root causes. Am I grieving the loss of my old profession? Hard to tell - the long, unbearable commutes coupled with the meager pay made it a living hell. No, I haven't forgotten the times I sat hungry and cold at endless bus stops trying to get from one lecture to the next. And yet, dreams of lecturing to crowds at nights haunt me. I wake up with a pit in my stomach, knowing I might never see the countless faces looking at me in utmost admiration, knowing that I might never adorn myself in preparation for the "stage." Silly me, all those years living only on stage and neglecting the rest of life.

Perhaps, the anxiety is no other than the mere symptom of re-evaluating one's life. Dramatic changes have a way of forcing you view the past in a different light. I can't help but wonder what could have been had I remained in one place, with similar set of circumstances, encircled with familiar faces and bodies. No interruptions. No alineation. No unfamiliar languages, values, customs to contend with.

Who knows, if that were the case, perhaps I would be sitting here lamenting the very monotonous, dull, stagnant nature of my life and asking - how would my life be today had I ventured outside the comfort zone?

9 weeks later

Yes, that is how long it has been here, in sunny, scrumptous Spain. Or so I believed prior to arriving here. The sun escapes me, as I spend my days indoors, a prisoner of these four, rather porous walls, manufacturing a seemingly endless array of pitch letter for my editors-to-be.

I am afraid to venture out. No, not for fear of being mugged, or attacked, or raped as is the case in the land I've effected my escape from, but for fear of being mistaken for a Spaniard. For fear of being in frozen motionless each time a passer-by stops to ask me something; direction, the time, the nearest pharmacy. 'No hablo espanol,' might elicit the kind of reaction I despise; ignorance or implicit aversion. Every foreigner is here to snatch a job from the well-entitled Spaniard or overburden their extensive welfare system right? Yes and no. Certainly, there are those who wish the exploit the system just as any other nation. But nothing could be further from the truth in my case as I could not be more isolated from the 'system'.

George Dumbya's face just popped up on the flat screen of my television set. I remember why I left the 'land of the brave and free.' ..or is it 'the land of the free and mighty.' Could be 'the land of the wicked and crazy.' It evades me en momento. Blame it on the lack of sleep.

Surely, I will be more coherent tomorrow.