Washington, D.C. January, 1, 2009

Published in the A Year in Repose: May 15, 2008-March 15, 2009, Journal

Today I rode to Dulles in an Airporter, along with two bureaucrats from Spain, who were already in the car when I got in, and who continued their conversation with the Cuban driver as we drove off. I was impressed by how much the Cuban knew about Spanish politics. He knew that Zapatero was the leader of the opposition when Spain agreed to send troops to Iraq. He knew that the bombing of a train in Madrid right before the election was in response to the Spanish government’s support of the invasion of Iraq. He knew that Zapatero refused to stand in the presence of President Bush at an important summit and instantly became an international hero. He knew that the European Union is experiencing a worse financial crisis than the United States because their bylaws prohibit them from printing money, and they can run a no greater than 3% deficit. He knew that under Franco, Spain basically remained an isolated colony—like Cuba today. He knew that today’s Spaniards never mention Franco by name and refer to him only as “The Tyrant.” He knew that after Franco died Spain was able to accomplish in 19 years what it took the other countries in Europe 54 years to accomplish—rising to the political and economic and technological and educational standards of the other members of the European Union after World War II. He knew that the Spanish ate a light breakfast, and then would spend the late afternoon in a long, leisurely lunch, and then they would siesta, and then around three or four in the afternoon would go back to work and work until after dark. He knew that the evening meal was usually eaten outdoors after 10 p.m. and that it was the longest meal of the day, extending through several courses. He knew that each evening was filled with unrushed good conversation, with different wines designed for every course, followed by desserts, coffees, cigars, and aperitifs. Paella—and he wondered if his pronunciation would be acceptable in Madrid, and the diplomat waved at him and nodded “of course!”—was the choice meal at the seashore. He knew that if a Spaniard sees someone eating alone in a restaurant, they are apt to invite themselves to join them—or if they are already seated, to call out across the restaurant to invite them to sit at their table, pulling a chair from another table and waving at them. How for a Spaniard there was nothing more satisfying than entertaining and being entertained by a stranger while sharing food. He knew everyone in Spain—whether in the city or in the country—was expected to be an expert storyteller or joke teller or singer. That if you were a woman and entertaining enough, someone would often pay for your dinner. He knew that the Spanish are among the longest lived of any nationality, and that their longevity is often credited to their low anxiety and their superior diet, high in vegetables and fish, cooked in broth rather than sauces. Many credited their low anxiety and good health—and even the low level of alcoholism—to the broad use of wine, because it was only acceptable to drink with meals. The Cuban driver didn’t know that Spain—or Espana, as the ambassador called it—was for a short period of time returning Spanish citizenship to anyone who could document that their grandparents were landed Spaniards who had fled under Franco. “Why don’t I know about this?” the driver shouts, looking over his shoulder, “My grandparents fled to Cuba in the Thirties!” But he was suspicious: “Why is this happening now?” “Ah,” the bureaucrat smiled, “That I cannot say.”