MEMO FROM THE MEDITERRANEAN JAVEA, SPAIN NOVEMBER 30, 2014
(Listening to “Juxtaposition” by The Hitpoints)
It’s well and truly autumn in Javea, and the temperature has dropped precipitously. For the past week the nights have been hovering around 45 degrees fahrenheit and the days not much above 60, which may not sound cold, but in a Mediterranean beach village where homes don’t often have central heat, much less air conditioning, outside temperature becomes something to be more acutely aware of. The sea, almost always placid and blue green, has turned a steel gray color and huge waves have been pounding against the tosca, exploding with enough force to shake the ground and sending white spray forty feet in the air. The sound is constant and awesome, in the biblical sense of the word.
I am not sure how normal these temperatures are for November on the Costa Blanca, and can’t seem to get a straight answer from the locals. When I ask they all shrug their shoulders and stare at me with wry smiles on their faces, as if to say: “What difference does it make?” I suppose they have a point.
The flip side of course is that the surf is up. Strong winds have been blowing in off the coast, whipping up set after set of six and seven foot curls, and although they break a bit ragged, these are damn good waves by anyone’s standards. In typical fashion the word is out, and every surfable beach up and down the coast has been clogged with dozen of riders dropping into wave after wave, showing off their cutbacks and floaters for anyone who might be standing on shore. It’s like a colder version of Rincon, Puerto Rico, and the surf shops are doing booming business.
Still, no matter how you slice it, Javea feels different now. When you leave the beach (and the sound of the surf), it’s more peaceful these days. More deserted. You can feel the machine grinding down to a halt as winter approaches. The Red Cross lifeguard towers are no longer manned. The frozen yogurt shops are boarded up. The showers at the edge of the beach, which used to wash the sand off your feet, are empty and dry. Even though the famous Iberian sun still blazes down reliably, and you can feel its warmth on your skin within seconds, the seasons have definitely changed and Javea is preparing to hibernate.
With school on and the kids occupied, our days are quiet, allowing Altamira and I to get things done or take time for ourselves. She rides horses twice a week, I play tennis and take Spanish language lessons. In our free time we take hikes up into the nearby mountains or go out on our two-person sea kayak and explore the coasts to the north or south of Javea, many of which are not accessible any other way. People are friendlier now, saying “hola” and “buenas dias” in the streets more frequently, perhaps because everyone who is still here is presumed to be a neighbor at this point, not a tourist.
It feels like a small town again.
“If you don’t know where you’re going, you might not get there.” - Yogi Berra
We took a trip to the north of Spain a while back. Up the coast past Valencia, then inland a bit to the ancient Moorish city of Alcañiz. From there up to La Molina in the Pyrenees, then west to Jaca, with a detour to Andorra for the day. On the way out of Andorra we picked up a hitchhiker. A young Spanish kid not far from his home. We were his first ride, in fact, but he was trying to make it around the world. We drove him a hundred kilometers or so, discussed the Catalunyan quest for independence, and bid him godspeed.
In the United States, people spend their money and their time on things, but Spaniards spend it on travel. I haven’t yet met a Spaniard who doesn’t travel frequently, and when you get to talking to them, it turns out many of them have been all over, from the Caribbean to China and from Brasil to Budapest. Ask them if Myanmar is dangerous and they scoff. “No! It’s just like anywhere else.” Ask them if you need to watch your back in Columbia and they laugh. “You’ve been reading too many stories!” Most Europeans are like this, actually. They travel every chance they get and see everything they possibly can, entirely without fear and entirely without reservation. If they have money, great, and if they don’t, they figure out how to go anyway, but on the cheap.
The exception, perhaps, is the English. I have been here now for… what? Half a year already? Wow. Okay, having been here for six months, I am astonished to find that Americans and English are, essentially, the same. In almost every meaningful way. I grew up thinking of the English as so… European and different, but they aren’t. They’re the same as us. Shockingly so. Sure, their idea of football is a bit different and they spell “color” with a “u”, but beyond that, we’re punched out of the same mold. I haven’t bumped into another American yet here in Javea, but you can’t swing a plate of bangers and mash without hitting ten Brits, and you can pick them out immediately, particularly if you’re from the USA. They’re heavy like us, and pale. They’re bigger and louder than Europeans, wear more American style clothes, and have more tattoos. But almost to a person, and this is something I find astonishing, they don’t learn to speak Spanish. I have met English people who have lived here for twenty years and don’t speak a word of Spanish. Not one word. I don’t know if it’s a colonial mentality or what, but the English make no substantial effort to assimilate. They have their own radio stations, their own press, their own bars and restaurants, and their own groceries. They eat English food and watch English soccer in bars surrounded by dozens of screaming Englishmen. If they need an attorney or an insurance agent or an auto mechanic, they pick up the (English language) “Costa Blanca News” and find the ex-pat Englishman here who does it.
The French don’t do this. There are a few French bars and such, and you can hear French spoken on the streets pretty regularly, but by and large the French people who have moved here permanently have embraced Spanish culture and have integrated themselves into it as best they can. The same is true of the Germans, of which there are a substantial number. And the Russians, of which there are fewer. It is true of everyone, in fact, except the English.
I find it odd. Not necessarily horrible, just odd.
“I know my own nation best. That’s why I despise it the most. And I know and love my own people too, the swine. I am a patriot. A dangerous man.” - Edward Abbey
The Ferguson, MO situation has me tied up in knots. I am truly stunned that a cop can gun down an unarmed black kid, in the middle of a city street, and not even stand trial for it. NOT EVEN STAND TRIAL. Some people probably think I have said too much and written too much about it already, but is that even possible? Being removed from the United States by physical distance has brought into even starker contrast how insane some aspects of life in the USA have become, and I have a creeping feeling that it might get worse before it gets better.
Here in Spain, when I drop my kids off at school in the morning, there are two police officers on duty every morning. Not the same two, they change almost every day, but two police officers always. They are there, pretty much exclusively, to keep an eye on traffic, man the crosswalks, and make sure the kids can get from the parking lots into the building safely. They are, not to be derogatory, glorified crossing guards.
They had these officers in the USA too, but with some major differences. The officers in the USA were well armed, and kept to themselves. They’d stand with an intimidating posture and stare out blankly from behind sunglasses, emitting a rather serious “keep your distance” vibe to everyone around. Say hello to one of them and they stay silent, but perhaps nod curtly. Very serious. Very scary. Here it’s totally different. Most of the officers who come to school don’t bring their sidearms, or if they do, they leave them in the car. Further, they’re often talking to the kids and the parents, interacting with everyone. People slap them on the back and joke around with them, and they slap people on the back in return and joke back. It is a very friendly, cooperative atmosphere and a very positive one. The result is a close relationship between the police and the people, and a bond of trust and cooperation. Half joking, I quipped to Altamira: “What’s the likelihood of one of these guys shooting a kid today?”
She responded very seriously. “I honestly don’t think it would ever, even for a second, cross any one of their minds to pull out their weapon and point it at a kid. Short of being actually shot at, I can’t envision a situation where they would draw their weapon. It would never, ever happen.”
And she’s right. It just wouldn't happen here. For a LOT of reasons. Kids aren’t viewed as dangerous problems here. Cops aren’t trigger happy. The population isn’t armed, so police officers aren’t worried that everyone on the street could be a potential shooter. People view the police as friends and members of the community, and the police earn that respect by being courteous and helpful, but also by being approachable and friendly and human. There is no “I’m a badass and you’re a potential criminal” posturing. It just doesn’t exist here, and the whole mood is different.
This attitude of cooperation doesn’t end with the police, either. I’m currently working to become a legal resident of Spain. I made the mistake of letting my tourist visa expire, and I was sweating my appointment with the “Oficina de Extanjeras,” or immigration office, seeing as how I am now technically in the country illegally.
Appointments with the Oficina de Extranjeras are made through a government web site, and within a day or two the site kicks you back an email with a time you are to appear. There is no phone number to call, no email address for questions, no one to speak with. My first appointment was perfectly timed, but I slept through it. (Ooops!) We made a second appointment but it was scheduled when I drop the kids off at school, and I couldn’t see any way to change it, so I just skipped it. So far, not a terribly auspicious start. The third appointment came good, however, and we made our way down to the seaside town of Altea, about forty minutes south of Javea. I was now, just to be clear, more than three weeks past the expiration of my visa.
Ever been to an immigration office in the USA? The mosh pit at a speed metal concert is more orderly. And cleaner. But here? The building was beautiful and calm and quiet. I handed my printed appointment confirmation to the security guard at the front desk and he handed me a small slip of paper with an alphanumeric on it. Then he smiled warmly and told me to have a seat in the waiting room. I walked through the metal detector and it beeped. I froze, but the guard just smiled and waved me through, with a look on his face like: “Somehow you just don’t seem like the type.” I took a seat.
Within five minutes, almost exactly at my appointed time, my number was called and I moved to a desk with an immigration specialist. He was smiling and wearing a t-shirt and jeans. Even though there were a half dozen other people meeting with a half dozen other officials, you could have heard a pin drop. I handed him all the forms I had brought with me, which Altamira and I had filled out beforehand. I told him my son was living in Spain, and I wanted to live here to be with him. “Okay,” he nodded solemnly. This was a serious reason. He clearly wasn’t interested in splitting up a father and son. “But you filled out the wrong forms, and applied under the wrong heading.”
“Oh, no. I’m sorry. We were confused.”
“I understand,” he said. Then he showed me exactly how to file a new application and exactly what documents I would need to bring with me.
And then, the kicker.
“Ummm… there's one other problem,” Altamira said hesitantly. “I, uhhh… think his tourist visa has expired.”
He shook his head and made a throwaway gesture with his hand. “Don’t worry about that. Just don’t leave the country right now. That’s the only time it might get complicated. But as long as you’re here, you’ll be okay.”
I don’t think I need to tell any of you that, had it taken place in the United States, this is a process that would have gone quite a bit differently. And sure, the United States has a larger immigration issue than Spain does, but Spain has its own immigration struggles, believe me. With a magnificent social safety net and nothing but the straights of Gibraltar separating it from Morocco, Spain has oceans of Africans flooding into the country in search of work and healthcare. Displaced persons from Eastern Europe and the Middle East are also finding their ways in large numbers to most of the enlightened countries of Western Europe. So it’s not like no one wants to come here. They take immigration seriously. The difference is one of being cooperative versus being adversarial. He could have said to me: “Your visa expired?! YOU’RE ILLEGAL. Go back to the USA and wait five years, and then reapply.” That’s what likely would have happened in the states. Or he could have looked at my documents and said: “These are incorrect, and therefore your application is declined. NEXT!” But he didn’t. He behaved like a human being. He offered his expertise and his help, from one human being to another.
We can all learn from that, but particularly in the United States. Something is broken in the United States right now, and I’m not sure how to fix it. There are too many guns, too much hate, too much polarization. Too much “us versus them.” Too much craziness.
“‘Cause we only got one life to live, And I don’t want to waste it on this, And you don’t want to waste it on that, Tell your boss that you quit, grab your shit and let’s pack. Let’s drive. And never come back…”
I took the little Lancia fast along the mountain road, letting the engine spin to the rev limiter and listening to the wail of the engine. It’s gutless at low RPM, but winds up beautifully and makes lovely noise, which means you really have to work the gears to keep things on the boil. There is something inspired, and inspiring, about virtually every Italian motorcar I have ever driven. They’re almost always quirky, and almost always unreliable, and they can be downright maddening to own, but when you see a twisting two-lane in front of you, an Italian car is a very good companion indeed.
I bent it into a tight corner and felt the steering load up and the rear start to rotate, and changed down a couple gears before giving it a boot full of throttle and letting it scrabble for grip on the exit. Then I did the same thing again and again and again, with the hulk on the Montgo just off my right shoulder.
There was no one else on the road, and I drove for fifteen or twenty minutes, very quickly, without seeing another car. No police either. Just me, the Lancia, and a challenging stretch of road. It’s good therapy, and I felt spoiled to have the road all to myself. So I floored the throttle.
Javea feels like a small town again.
