Spanish Shilling

There’s the story to frighten the sick and the elderly – the one about the free social health system being wound up in favour of a capital-friendly insurance-run arrangement like they have in the USA.

The scary story from America goes something like ‘A new study from academic researchers found that 66.5 percent of all bankruptcies were tied to medical issues —either because of high costs for care or time out of work. An estimated 530,000 families turn to bankruptcy each year because of medical issues and bills’.

Here in Europe, at least, whatever treatment you get will be (could be) available for free. You might prefer a private doctor, and avoid a long wait, and have a comfy private room, but the national health is available for one and all.

Sort of.

In Europe, we love our national health service. Indeed, the cynical Brexiteers even won their rebellion on the back of a message painted on a red bus. No one wants to lose their free health cover, even as the lobbyists are agitating for profit-run health solutions – for those who can pay for it.

Most of us in Spain have a health card (a treasured thing as one gets older) and we hope that it will continue to work, and that there will be someone to attend to us at the local consulta, the health centre.

But the vultures are circling.

‘A storm is devastating the public health system in Europe and in Spain. Economic interests are eating away at it against the evidence about its importance for the population’ says a Spanish editorial adding, ‘Powerful business groups intend to manage with business criteria what is one of the pillars of world stability: universal health care for the entire population’. Well, money talks; and politicians listen.

Already some regions of Spain are budgeting less per inhabitant on public health issues than others, with Andalucía spending the least (1,546€ per person per year) against the Basque Country’s 2,012€.

Indeed, both Madrid and Andalucía have recently seen major protests over the drop in standards in the regional health services and a collapse in primary health. How long will we have to wait for an appointment… or for an operation?

Conservative lobbyists are always hard at work trying to persuade politicians to adopt some (inevitably capitalist) policy. However, facing their baleful influence is the most powerful lobby of all: the voter.

Taxi drivers always have trouble in those countries where they change the names of things. Prithee take me to such and such on the 'General Mola' became the day after Franco keeled over, please take me to the 'Principe de Vergara'. The General was an old mate of the Spanish führer's and no one can remember who on earth the Prince was.

Somebody nice, no doubt.

Name changes in Spanish streets, public buildings and so on are indescribably popular, especially when there's nothing better to do. No doubt President Sánchez is working hard on this. Well, with all the current efforts to remember or honour certain parts of the ghastly Civil War of 1936 to 1939, we know he is.

A waiter once approached me in a club in Washington DC and held out a $100 dollar bill. ‘Your father’, he said, ‘gave me this as a tip’. My father was, you see, a bit worse for the weather after a few glasses of bourbon (and after all, all dollar bills look the same). I snatched the hundred dollars from the honest server and gave him a five-dollar bill instead.

Let that be a lesson for him.

Tipping in the USA is necessary because the wait-staff only get as little as $2.13 an hour (a preposterous amount, and apparently frozen since 1991) and they must make up the rest of their take-home earnings with tips. These are generally accepted as running at 15 to 20%. Even the credit card receipt asks you how much to add. Everyone over there seems happy enough to pay this.

In Spain, where we foreigners often wonder about the intricacies of tipping, the rules are different. To start with, the staff should be getting 10€ an hour from the owner, plus social security and time off for the odd smoke around the back. Many of the employees evidently are listed as part-time by the employer even if they’re not. Since tipping is a voluntary act rather than an institution, we sometimes do, and then again, we sometimes don’t. After all, apart from taking a photo of us on our smartphone, a waiter's main job is to stop us going into the kitchen and getting our own plate of chicken and rice off the cook.

The cheaper places don’t seem to show much interest since they’ll pass you the change from their hand to yours along with a friendly hasta la próxima – see you soon. Others, a bit more on the ball, will return your change on a small saucer. You are left with the options of either leaving it bare as you get up to go or else decorated with a bit of calderilla – pocket change. It’s never going to be more than five per cent or so.

No wait, I’m being told by an upmarket Spanish magazine that one should leave ten per cent, unless they’ve already added a gratuity to the bill. Fancy places huh!

Of course, some waiters make a decent amount of cash on the side – and no doubt neglect to declare it to the tax-man.

An article at Wiki regarding tipping in Spain says that ‘In 2007 the Minister of Economy, Pedro Solbes, blamed excessive tipping for the increase in the inflation rate’. Quite a claim! 

But let us drop into a bar in Madrid for a beer and a sardine. There, a new campaign has been launched by the conservative regional leader Isabel Díaz Ayuso, to encourage tipping – as (we read), she doesn’t want to raise the minimum wage. There’s a TV campaign to encourage the practice – a few extra coins could help the waitress pay for piano lessons for Elenita, or maybe English classes for Roberto… This remarkable commercial, called #YoDejoPropina, can be found at YouTube.

Useful if you mistakenly leave them a hundred euros…

There's an old bath up at the stables that does for a drinking basin for the horses. It started out as an old, empty and rusted out tub with the plug 'ole missing, but a trip to the ferretería on the beach soon fixed that. For a couple of euros, half an hour's work and a skinned knuckle, plus some cementing and a bit more work, the old bath had became a handy trough.

A second trip down to the ferret to get a longer piece of hose (it was either that or move the bath somewhere nearer the tap) and all was well. The bath filled up, didn't leak, and the horses got their drink.

As it happens, one of the nags is a playful brute and one day, it pulled the plug out of the bath and emptied it. This meant, apart from the mess, that there was no water until someone were to come by and fix the problem. It turned out to be me and, casting about for the bung, I found a half chewed bit of hard rubber tossed under some straw, chewed and perforated too.

Back to the hardware store. Can I have another plug... this size please. The plug was flattened and hard to measure. Take a 48 and a 54 said the lady, one of them will fit.

As it happened, neither did. One was too big, the other too small. The smaller one is now in our bathroom at home, having taken over from an old and manky bung we've had for thirty years. The new one, with a shiny metal back to it, has rusted already.

So, back to the shop. Look señora, you sold me the unit, so you must have a plug that fits. No comprendo, she answered. When in doubt with angry foreigners.

Thus, to another shop. This one is the ferretería from Hell. It's a giant and wildly overstocked place where shoppers get lost. You can sometimes hear their pathetic shrieks late at night as you drive quickly past. The quality of the merchandise is highly suspect, boxes with bits missing, old stuff made in countries that no longer exist, wooden hammers that break on the first whack... and I don't like going there without a piece of string and a guide-book.

Apparently, their plugs are down in the eighth aisle, turn left, second aisle, right and right again. I eventually discover, a little later that morning, that they don't have anything except 48s and 54s either.

I went back to the first shop. Sell me another unit please, I said, with a spare plug. We've run out of units, she answered with a certain satisfaction, I think you bought the last one.

So, to the next door town and its lonely ferretería. 

The story about the horse, tee hee, and could I buy a unit with a spare bung, por favor.

Well, looky here, yes I could.