Spanish Views from a Small Town

So, what will be the next move in this elaborate game of chess that no one will win? 

Back in the eighteenth century, Afghanistan appeared as a nation separate from Persia. Not much longer after that, the British appeared. They wanted to keep Afghanistan as a "friendly" nation to them, to act as a buffer state between Russia, which was expanding its power among the Central Asian countries, and its protectorate of India. (In modern times, much like Eastern Europe was kept as buffer states between Western Europe and the Soviet Union.) The British went through three wars in the nineteenth century, only to see Afghanistan be one of the first countries to formally recognize the newly formed Soviet Union. 

The twentieth century was a complicated one for Afghanistan, still a monarchy and impoverished. After the Partition, and the creation of Pakistan, the Durand line still held, and was a source of bad feelings between Pakistan and Afghanistan. The Durand line was an arbitrary line created in an office to divide then-British India and Afghanistan, and artificially divided the homeland of the Pashtun tribes. 

Since Pakistan was a U.S. ally, and had bad feelings toward its neighbor, the Americans mostly denied aid to Afghanistan, with only a few private companies setting up shop in the country after World War II. Most of the aid the country received to modernize and shore up a paltry economy came from the Soviet Union, who was only too happy to create a buffer state in Central Asia similar to those in Eastern Europe. The country stepped forward into the twentieth century from the 1950's onward. 

Mohammed Daoud Khan led a coup, with the help of the Afghan Communist party, made
up mostly of Pashtuns, against the Afghan king in 1973, and proclaimed Afghanistan a republic. He didn't do much for the economy, though he did try to advance women's rights. From his days come the pictures of women in Kabul looking like women anywhere in the Western world. He also promoted the inclusion of women in the education system, and opened many schools.

But he didn't rely solely on the Soviet Union, which was not to Brezhnev's liking. Daoud also asked for aid from the United States, and Middle Eastern countries within the Western sphere of power. So, in 1978, the Afghan Communist Party, helped by the Soviets, made its own coup, and murdered Daoud and most of his family, creating the Democratic Republic of Afghanistan. But these Communists were also nationalists and extremists. They immediately started a terror regime, killing all those they considered a threat, wanting to create the "social revolution" as soon as possible. Among their targets were also Soviet advisors. Moscow was thrown off guard. While they wanted a friendly "socialist" state on their border, Afghanistan was now completely unstable and easy prey for Western forces to subdue. So, they invaded Afghanistan in 1979 to try to stabilize it, their way.

The United States couldn't let things go. Neither the reign of terror imposed by the Pashtun communists, nor control by the Soviet Union was acceptable. So, they found a way to send weapons and advisors to local leaders, who rejected both the Afghan communists, and the Soviet invaders. That the leaders were mostly Islamic fundamentalists didn't much matter; after all, they were on the side of the West, and wanted to gain control of their own country. Once that happened, surely they would remember their friends in the United States, and grant them special friendship status, much like the Saudis, and the United States would succeed where Britain had failed. But the Afghan economy had no market in the West because they didn't have the oil, the natural gas, the rare minerals that the West needs to feed its beast. Their greatest crop was poppies, but the market for them does not depend on the West's industrial needs. So, once the Soviet invaders were driven out, it was the Americans' turn.

Now, those former friends became the Taliban, and enemies of the United States. After 9/11, that's where the focus went. Not the Saudis, nor the Egyptians, where the actual terrorists of that day had come from, not even the Islamic Republic of Iran, which had spent decades calling the United States the devil incarnate. It settled on Afghanistan, perceived as a weak nation, with barely any functioning army, who had played host at one time to the mastermind of Al Qaeda and 9/11, Osama Bin Laden. And the United States repeated the error that Britain and Russia had committed, and invaded Afghanistan.

Twenty years later, our generation's Vietnam has come to an end. U.S. and other NATO troops had gone in to root out terrorists, yet the terrorists are back in power, after two decades of destruction and loss of life. Now, it's the Russians' turn, again. Now, they are wary of the possible infiltration of fundamentalists into the Central Asia republics that once were a part of the Soviet Union. Now they are wary of the power vacuum that has suddenly appeared and not sure how to manage it after their fingers had been burned years ago.

I feel for the Afghan people who do not want to know anything about the Taliban and their impositions, especially the women. From being included in society, they are now being thrust back into the corners of their house, not even allowed to open an outside window and look out without covering their bodies completely. Now, they can't even go to market without a male member of the family accompanying them. What of the thousands of widows who have no brother or father left? Will they be whipped into their homes, locked up and dependant on neighbors' charity?

It is a sad part of the world. But the West can't fix it. Empires have tried, and empires have failed. That doesn't mean they won't try again, though. I wonder who the next ones will be to get their fingers smashed.

Life continues.

I've had an internet problem these days. Fiber remains elusive, though another company tells me they're working on getting Movistar to install the damned connection box. I won't be holding my breath. My wifi router, after two weeks since its billing period began, reached the maximum of the gigas it offers me, and my connection slowed to a snail's crawl. I shopped around, found a mobile package with unlimited calls and 100 gigas, that works with the antenna of the only provider that has coverage around here. I contracted it, inserted the SIM card in an old phone, and now use it as a hotspot. The fine print said the company allows tethering, so there should be no problem. Why else would they offer so many gigas? Still, I'll wait a month or two, paying for both services, until I finally get rid of the old one, which only offers 40 gigas a month. 

This week we have finally gotten summery weather. It's warm, and I'm not complaining. Yesterday, it reached around 30ºC/86ºF, but today the forecast is for 29ºC/84ºF. The rest of the coming week won't go above it, so we won't be suffering the hell of Córdoba province: 45.9ºC/114ºF. All of the Iberian peninsula is under orange, yellow, and red alerts for high temperatures, except most of the coast, from mid Portugal all around to the Basque border with France. 

There have been some fires in some of the Mediterranean provinces, but not like in Sardinia, Sicily, Algeria, Greece, or Turkey. It seems the entire Mediterranean basin is burning. And northern Turkey is being annihilated by flooding. Listening to weather forecasts used to be soothing and boring, because of the expectedness of the forecasts according to seasons. Now, hearing of spiking temperatures, strong rains, unseasonably cold weather, or forming cyclones, makes one's heart race and wonder if, perhaps, one should check one's household insurance, to make sure it covers just about everything. 

The fifth wave also seems to be on the mend, though the hospitals are still bearing a lot of pressure. As the vaccinations progress in younger people, the rate of infection begins to go down. The most important, the death rate has also gone down. Last winter, the ratio of deaths was 16 for every thousand cases. Now, it's 1.5 deaths for every thousand cases. Vaccinations work to make the illness less lethal. This weekend, though, is worrying to many. Today is the fifteenth of August, the Assumption of Our Lady, and many cities and towns celebrate this day, even if this year many of those fiestas are very watered down or outright cancelled. People will still get together and celebrate, and masks and social distancing are anathema to celebrations. We might end up getting a sixth wave out of this, like we got the fifth out of Saint John's Eve. 

In today's paper, there was an article on how the roads into Sanxenxo and O Grove have been filled with patient and impatient drivers, all intent on making it to the local beaches, to celebrate the Assumption and the day after, San Roque, Saint Roche, which is a holiday in many cities and towns. People have been trying to find a hotel room, but the places are totally booked. Our town was filled with visitors today, since there was a rowing competition this morning, too. Too many people. The only thing about the pandemic, before vaccination, that I miss, is the lack of crowds. 

All that discussion last year about learning from the total shut-down of tourism, and how we needed to restructure it and other industries, has been lost along the way. We hear on the news about economic growth and how it still needs to pick up after last year's pause. Constant economic growth is impossible. We have seen it to be so, but we continue to stub our toe against the same stone. It's not easy to change the system, but it needs to be changed or we will finish destroying our planet, while leaving the most impoverished to die from others' success. 

Life continues on a warm and sleepy Sunday afternoon.

A few days ago, I saw on a Facebook page about Boston, that they were asking where readers would go if they had twenty-four hours in Boston. Is it possible to choose?

I would go to my old haunts in Jamaica Plain. The triple decker where we used to live. I've seen pictures of it on Google Earth, and the cherry tree is gone. They've re-done the front porches, and the bushes and roses are gone. It looks tattered now. Or it did, when Google sent its car around. 

There are trees lining the street, now, to protect some of the houses from the afternoon glare. I would go down the street to the old Seaver School, where I attended kindergarten. It's long been converted to condominiums. I still remember the class I was in, with books lining one wall, desks and small chairs, an emergency exit door with glass panes, where the play kitchen was set up. I envied the play kitchen, but a group of friends had a monopoly on it, and would only sometimes let me, the outsider, play, if I asked nicely. I had more fun with two boys who became my friends. We would play cops and robbers during free play time. Once, when Mrs. Linero opened the chest where she kept beautiful wooden blocks, we were told to form groups and make our own creations with them. The two boys and I decided to make a city, laying out pavements and streets by laying blocks out flat, and standing them to create buildings. 

After that visit, I would walk up the street behind my back yard to reach the Francis Parkman School, which now seems to be called the Boston Teachers' Union Pilot School. I attended first and second grades here. I still remember kind Mrs. Matthews, and the stern yet loving Mrs. Lodge. I remember a girl I admired, Celeste. She was a bit like a mother hen to me, and I loved how calm and collected she was, and her pretty caftan blouses (it was the 70's, after all). Then, I was accepted at Saint Andrew's, and I went there until sixth grade. 

Saint Andrew's was our parish, just kitty corner from the Parkman School. I remember the church, cool and cavernous. My First Communion was there, along with the entire second grade class of the parochial school. Now, it's the Bethel African Methodist Episcopal Church Sanctuary. I don't know if they still operate the school building behind the church. There was also a building that housed the nuns that helped run the school, the Sisters of Charity. The school, and the parish, was closed in 2005. When my daughter and I visited in June of that year, I took her to see the school, and learned of its closing from Sister Mary, the last nun still living in the convent, and the first grade teacher for many years. After one of the parish priests had been convicted of child molestation in the years I attended, and been lynched in jail, back in the 1990's, parents weren't too keen on sending their children there. 

My visit would continue down Walk Hill Street back toward my street. I would cross at the corner where we would go on Sunday mornings to pick up a dozen doughnuts at Dunkin' Donuts. On the other side of the street, the tracks of the commuter rail ran, coming down from Forest Hills Station down the street. But, here, there was (I hope there still is) a wooden pedestrian bridge, which my mother and I would cross to get to Washington Street. There, at the stop in front of Wellesmere Monuments, down the street from Puritan Ice Cream, we would catch one of the many buses that passed through Roslindale Square.

We would go there on Saturday mornings to go to the bank. If my father didn't work, he would drive. If he did work, my mother and I would go on the bus. At the Square, we would go to the bank, to Sullivan's Pharmacy if my mother needed a refill, and maybe a visit to Kresgee's department store. The store where I bought my school uniform was there, on that street. Every year, my mother would take me to buy new shoes. The uniform would only be replaced if I really needed a new one or if the rules changed, because my mother believed in buying clothes to grow into them. She would pull up the hems at home, and, if I grew, then she would take them down during the year. There was no way I would have escaped hand-me-downs if I had had an elder sibling.

Some Saturdays we would visit the Roslindale branch of the Boston Public Library, where I first got a library card. Any book I would take out, I would start to read while waiting at the bus stop to go back home. Rare would be the day I wouldn't read forty pages in that piece of time.

On to Forest Hills station, and the Orange Line train into town. I still remember the rickety el, with the sharp, screeching, slow curves around Dudley Station. I loved to kneel on the seat and look at the passing attics, and the street below. As the train neared the South End, after Dover Street, I would see how the train would lower itself to street level, and then plunge into a loud blackness of the underground tunnel. Only then would I sit correctly on the seat, with nothing to see outside. When the new, below street level tracks were built, and the elevated tracks taken down at the end of the 1980's, travelling on the train was no longer magical. 

In town, I would visit the shopping area around Washington Street. I remember staring at E.B. Horn's window, marvelling at the jewellery sparkling in the lights, each piece with its price in big, bold numbers. I loved visiting Jordan Marsh and Filene's, especially Filene's Basement, which looked like it hadn't changed since twenty years before I was born. Crowds of people pawing everything, shoving merchandise aside, trying to find the perfect piece at the perfect discount. Because the Basement was a knockdown area. Forget outlets, this was the real deal. Merchandise that wasn't sold on the upper floors was taken to the Basement and sold there at a discount. The longer it stayed in the Basement, the bigger the discount, until it was finally taken away and either donated or thrown out. Unfortunately, both Jordan Marsh and Filene's are gone.

From there, I would probably go past the Old State House, past the new, atrocious City Hall and Government Center, to Haymarket, on a Saturday morning. When we visited in 2005, it was already missing part of its enchantment. When I was a child, there were also fish vendors, with their wares on old carts, stuffed with ice. There were fruits and vegetables of all kinds, and the market wrapped itself around the block, hampering cars that wanted to join the Southeast Expressway. There were butcher's shops along the street, where I would follow my mother, into the musky smelling interiors, dried blood on the counters, and a few flies finding the place. That never bothered me. There was also a pizza place, run by Portuguese immigrants, where my mother would sometimes buy me a slice, after watching the cook twirl the dough into a flat circle. I also remember coolers of ice filled with cans of tonics, root beer, Coke, ginger ale for sale on summer mornings. 

When my father was free on Saturdays, we would take the car into town, and he would park in the parking lot beneath the Expressway. There was a pedestrian alleyway that wound through the parking lot, connecting Haymarket with the North End. My mother and I would also visit shops there, and my 24 hours would continue into there.

We lived at Hanover Avenue, which, ironically, was a bit of an alley off Hanover Street, that connected with North Street, for my first five years. I remember going to the Green Cross Pharmacy nearby, with my father, where he would buy me a square of Cadbury chocolate, preferably with raisins and nuts. I also remember playing around the statue of Paul Revere, in a park there. There was a clinic nearby, where I got my obligatory shots as a child. With one shot, I remember some kind of marking on my skin, that I claimed was a tattoo, and I told my mother I wanted one, just like some of the men had. Little did I know then, that I would get one, one day. 

And Mike's Pastry can't not be visited. From the beginning, every birthday cake that darkened our threshold, both when we lived in the North End, and when we lived in Jamaica Plain, came from Mike's Pastry. We so missed their rum-soaked cake, that the first year we were here, we asked a local bakery if they could also soak a cake we ordered with rum. But Mike must have had a secret ingredient, because it simply didn't taste the same. 

The rest of the twenty-four hours, if any were left, I would spend wandering all over the place, from Beacon Hill, to the Common, to the wharves, to Back Bay, to my old alma mater, Boston Latin School, to the medical area, to the rest of Jamaica Plain, down to Dedham Mall, where we spent a lot of Sundays, and around the Jamaica Pond area, and the Arboretum, where we also went for walks in the nice weather. And, even so, there are many more streets and neighborhoods that would beckon to me to be remembered, some for past's sake, others for their own sake. Twenty-four hours in Boston is like twenty-four hours in Paris; impossible. 

Life continues, full of nostalgia.

If this had been a regular year, the Son Do Camiño festival would probably have taken place back in June at the Monte do Gozo venue, an open air amphitheater outside Santiago. Since this is a Jacobean Holy Year, big names would have come to the bash, which would have had record crowds. However, these are not regular times, even though it is Holy Year. The big names will have to wait for next year. 

Instead of a solid four day crush of concerts, they have been strung out into various weekends from July to August, with a maximum of two groups each Saturday evening. There is no tent city, no food trucks, no stages to choose from, no crush of people. Last night, Loquillo was on stage. We bought tickets for his concert, warily, not completely sure that in these times we should crowd into an amphitheater, even with our vaccinations complete. 

Loquillo is an old rocker from Spain's glorious movida years, those 1980's of explosion of youth and music, the first generation to grow into their teen years without the gray sky of the dictatorship over us. I never lived it except in short bursts of summer vacations, but the music still catches my soul. It was my husband's youth fare. So, we decided to go.

Gates opened at quarter to eight. We arrived about a half hour earlier, since everyone had assigned seats. In normal times, we would have allowed ourselves at least a two or three hour wait at the gates, so that in the rush for the choicest spots, we would have had a running chance. Back when Bruce Springsteen played at the Monte do Gozo in 2009, it turned into a mad dash past the guards, who wound up letting people in without checking bags, just to prevent a crush. We got nice spots that time, just to the right of the stage, looking down. But such was the lack of control of the organizer, that more tickets had been sold than people could fit, and angry ticket holders were left outside the gates. But that was pre-Covid.

There weren't many people at the complex when we arrived. The Monte do Gozo also houses a large pilgrim hostel, run by the regional government, with small pavillions lining straight paths leading up to a large restaurant and cafeteria. Most of the people about the area were pilgrims, not concert goers. It was surprisingly uncrowded. 

We went to the gates at opening time. The first singer, local Carolina Ruidosa, was to begin at quarter of nine. We followed the indications down to the gate we were supposed to enter by. Our tickets now contained our names and seat assignations. I had even had to enter our telephone numbers when I bought them online. The amphitheater was also split into different sections, divided with metal barriers. Each section had their restrooms and their bar. When we went in through our gate, an usher wearing a bright yellow raincoat showed us our row and explained we couldn't leave our section, couldn't smoke, and we had to wear our masks at all times, except when we were eating or drinking. To prevent a crush at the bar, there was a QR code on a sticker on the seat of our chairs through which we could place an order and then pick it up when it was ready. 

Not exactly a festive feeling was generated by these restrictions. But they were necessary. It was either that, or no concert. So, we sat in the seats I had reserved. When I had paid for our tickets, there were other seats around us that had been reserved, though, ultimately, not occupied. It wasn't a bad spot, just above the pit, slightly to the left of the stage. There would be no heads in front of us, just a clear view, except for the top of the barrier in front of us. The seats were separated by twos or threes, according to the groups of reserves made. No one would be seated excessively close to us. 

The problems were in the refreshments area. The QR code led to an app I had to download. When I did so, the app wouldn't open. Fine. Looking over to the bar, I didn't see many people, so I got up and went over to see what sandwiches they were offering. I should have packed one. My husband wasn't feeling peckish, but I was, so I bought an industrially prepared sandwich in its plastic holder. It was that or a hot dog. What they did have plenty of was beer, though. Estrella Galicia, the regional beer empire, had invested in the concerts, so they got the chance to sell as much of their product as they wanted, to the detriment of everything else, while plastering their name everywhere.

When the sun hid behind the trees, the freshness of the night hit us. I was wearing shorts and a long sleeved blouse. I pulled out a light sweater, but realized that the night was more proper of September than of August. In fact, the entire week had been highlighted by low temperatures and rain. We were lucky it had cleared up for the concert, but the temperatures hadn't had a chance to return to normal, yet. And we couldn't jump and dance to keep warm, either.

The first singer, Carolina Ruidosa, was okay. There was still plenty of daylight when she came on, so the stage lights didn't shine their magic, yet. She had some nice songs, others were nothing special, but she's starting out, so the nice songs might multiply themselves. I looked around the area, and saw many seats still empty. Two years ago, when we had gone to the Son Do Camiño concert one Saturday, the place was a sea of heads, watching both the main stage, and then the secondary stage between Vetusta Morla's and Iggy Pop's performances. Yesterday, it was a sea of empty seats except for the central area. To my left, two groups of chairs remained empty. Immediately behind us, there was no one. The closest people were to the right of my husband, and they were about two meters away. 

At practically ten on the dot, the music started to roll, and Loquillo came on stage, his toupée now white (he is 60) and wearing his usual black slacks, black t-shirt, and black jacket. He started in with, mostly, his newer songs, and gradually, the ambient started to heat up. By the time he got to Rey del Glam, and El Ritmo del Garaje, people were giving the chairs a workout. He passed through Chanel, Cocaína y Dom Perignon, various other songs, and wound up with Cadillac Solitario, with which he said good night. In the second half of the concert, some concert goers had so much energy, they had to stand and jump in place, waving their arms to the music. The yellow-clad ushers had their work cut out. At the last song, most of those who had contained themselves, stood up in their spots, clapping along and singing. Despite the restraints, the music was good, and watching one of the last rockers of the breakthrough years of the movida was worth it.  

After the lights on the stage went out, we were allowed to leave in different order, so as not to create jams of people at the exits. We walked down the hill to our car, which we had parked quite close. In fact, we had parked it right next to an empty field where I remember parking my father's car when my husband and I had gone to our first concert together, while we were still dating. That was in 1993, when Bruce Springsteen was not yet the music icon in Spain that he later became, the second time he came around, and it took a bit of time for all the people to fill the pit, and overflow upward, till filling the amphitheater. We had sat on the first concrete seats above the pit that time, just meters from where we sat last night. 

Maybe next year we can push through crowds of people again, though it was also nice not to have to do so.

Life continues.

This past weekend, in the Tokyo Olympics, two Spanish atletes won a silver and a bronze medal, each. Before them, a Spanish tennis player beat out Djokovic to win a bronze, and two sharp shooters won gold. (Since then, there have been more.) Congratulations were in order, and many politicians celebrated their achievements. 

Except those of these two athletes, who did not receive congratulations from everyone. The athletes are Ana Peleteiro, from nearby Ribeira, who won bronze in the high jump, and Ray Zapata, from the Canary Islands, who won silver in floor gymnastics (I'm not sure if those are the actual names of the sports they participated in; I don't follow the Olympics.). The only difference between them and the others is their skin. 

Ray moved to the Canary Islands with his mother and siblings from the Dominican Republic when he was nine years old. He has been a Spanish citizen for years. Ana was born in Ribeira to a single mother; her father was from an African country and disappeared from their lives. Both have dark skin, both were congratulated by everyone except by Vox and the Partido Popular. 

Oh, but these two political parties did congratulate the (white) winners in the other different sports. Just not these two winners. However, one politician from Vox did congratulate them, in his manner. This politician, with the surname of Steegman, published on Twitter, "Zapata y Peleteiro son un ejemplo de la emigración (sic) que España necesita. Y un ejemplo para todos nosotros. Per aspera ad astra." (Zapata and Peleteiro are an example of the emigration (!) that Spain needs. And an example to us all. Through difficulty to the stars.) Perhaps this gentleman should get his Spanish dictionary out, because they are not emigrants. To continue, though one of them once was an immigrant, he is now as Spanish as Señor Steegman of the German surname. The other was born on Spanish soil to a family whose ancestors hark back to the first Germans to intrude on this land, probably, the Sueves or the Visigoths. 

And what is that about the immigrants Spain needs? Spain needs immigrants, period. Spain needs people to combat the low birth rate, and contribute to the nation's wellbeing. So, if these two had been immigrants who only worked menial jobs (which few Spaniards tend to want), would they have been less useful to society? Or, perhaps an immigrant doctor, willing to substitute from place to place for years before getting an assigned place in a clinic, would not have been so inspirational? 

It seems Señor Steegman has also forgotten Spanish history. He's forgotten about Juan Latino, who had been born a (black) slave on Spanish soil in the sixteenth century, attended lessons with his master's son, who later freed him, and went on to become the Chair of Grammar and Latin at the University of Granada. He translated works from the Latin, and wrote his own poems. He went on to marry one of his (white) students, and they were happily married until his death. Back in the sixteenth century, the only thing which set him apart was being a slave. Once he was freed, no attention was brought to the color of his skin, he was simply another Spaniard.

Aside from the other medal winners, I am also happy for Ray Zapata and Ana Peleteiro, two Spaniards who have done incredible feats with their bodies I could never dream of. These are two Spaniards to be proud of, not the ones who despise them for the color of their skin, or their origin.

Life continues.

The new electric rates are wreaking havoc with my daily habits. 

I now use the washing machine in the shoulder hours of the afternoon, since I don't get up early enough for a load to finish by ten in the morning. On the nice days we have, that doesn't matter too much. The days are still long, and the second load, if there is one before the shoulder rates end at six in the evening, still has time to mostly dry before the sun sets; it's simply strung out again the following morning. 

In the winter, that means either hanging the clothes outside the next day, when we have sun, or draping it permanently every night around the wood-burning stove (No, we don't have a dryer, and with the electric rates going steadily in an upward direction, we don't need another major electric appliance.). 

Another habit is trying to wash my hair before ten in the morning. Not so much because of the electric pump that is bringing up water from the well, which uses little electricity, but because of the 2000 watt hair dryer. Five minutes with the dryer at full speed, and I'm sure it would turn out cheaper to wash and dry my hair at the hair dresser's. 

Then, there's the microwave. For short pings, fine, but my previous habit of defrosting meat or fish I pulled out of the freezer minutes before making lunch because I forgot all about it, is smoke. Now, I think about lunch as soon as I get up, and give the package time to defrost on the counter top, nicely covered. If I see it still needs more time, I put it in a bowl of cold water for a few minutes. 

Television doesn't bother me as much because it's only turned on for about three quarters of an hour at midday, and then in the evening. The computer has been programmed to hibernate if it's unused for a half hour, so that's not so bad, either. The air purifier isn't being used during my classes because I open the window now, in summer. Winter will be a problem. A greater problem will be the heater. I think this fall it might be a good idea to search for one with less wattage. The study, at least, isn't very big. If it weren't for the fact that kids would bump into it with their book bags and maybe set things on fire, a gas powered one that runs on a gas canister might have been a good idea. As things are, I think they´ll be keeping on their coats this winter.

Not that my bill has risen very much by most standards. Before the change in rates, my bill was around €21 or €25. The one that came after the change was over €28. But in winter I can see it climbing to €40 or more, if we give rein to our whims. Before anyone says, "how little you pay!", consider this: our house still has the same kilowatts my parents contracted when electricity was introduced to the villages over sixty years ago, 2.2kW. For our needs, it's enough, but we also have to keep an eye out. We can't run the microwave and the hair dryer at the same time, for example. Or the microwave and a space heater. Or, if it worked, the oven and a hair dryer. If we run those things at the same time, the switch says it's tired and switches off. My house next door, where my parents used to live, has 3.3kW, and the bill is at least ten euros higher with only the freezer and the washing machine being used in it. So, with both houses, I pay enough.

No one is happy with this rate change. Everyone is even more annoyed with the electric companies that have record profits, yet complain they aren't charging enough. Some people, especially on the political left, are calling for the formation of a public energy company, with regulated costs, just like the rapacious energy companies used to be. A good blog post to read about this matter, with the point of view of an Australian living in Barcelona, is this one. Once upon a time, the state participated in the companies, forcing them to charge set rates. But, with the liberalization of the market place (because, you know, the market should decide how much consumers should be fleeced), the state hied itself from the boards of directors, sold off its shares to the remaining share holders, and rates took off like the Concorde, into the stratosphere. 

Will anybody listen to us? Of course not. Just shut up and hand over the money.

Life continues.

This being summer, despite the weather, festivals are going on all over the place. Or, they would be, if it weren't for Covid. Today is the feast day of the Virxe dos Milagros, or the Virgin of Miracles over in the next parish of O Araño, my father's parish and where cousins of mine live. It's also the pilgrimage of the Vikings across the Ulla River in Catoira.

The Virgin of Miracles is another manifestation of the Virgin Mary. There are a few places that celebrate that aspect of her, the biggest in our region being the festival at the Sanctuary in Baños de Molgas, Ourense, at the beginning of September. The name, Virxe dos Milagros, can refer to different aspects of the Virgin. One is because she's simply who she is, the Mother of God, another is the aspect of the Virgin of Guadalupe, with the miracle of her statue being found, or the appearance of her image on the cape of an Indian in Mexico. Another has the feast day at the end of November, and refers to the miraculous medal the Virgin asked St. Catherine Labouré to create and have struck, in 1832 in Paris, which was later claimed to have miraculously cured some people in the following cholera outbreak. The one in O Araño must refer simply to the Virgin and the person she is, since it's celebrated in August, which is when the Feast of the Assumption falls. 

She's not even the patron saint of the parish, that honor being held by St. Eulalie, whose feast day falls in December. But, there's a small chapel near the church, within a carballeira, an oak grove, where Masses are celebrated in honor of the Virgin every first Sunday in August. Now, right next to the grove and the parish church, on the other side of a lane, are the remains of a hill fort over two thousand years old. Given the fact that later Christian priests decided to re-dedicate sacred groves to Christian saints, it's not a stretch of the imagination to believe that the area has been held sacred for thousands of years, for one reason or another. Possibly, our ancestors celebrated the Earth Mother there, once upon a time.

The doll of contention, 1974.

These days, Masses begin at eight in the morning and continue until the High Mass, at one. I remember going when I came here on vacation in my childhood, standing with the crowds in the hot August sun at the High Mass, waiting for the priest to finish, as well as the procession, so my mother would buy me the doll I wanted from one of the stalls that had set up shop nearby. I later left that doll to my small cousin, against my will, when we left for Boston in September. Another year, I got a toy guitar, and my small cousin got another one, so there was no question of me giving her mine. There would be bombas de palenque at the end of the procession, fireworks without the pretty colors, just booming sound that ripped through my stomach and scared the birds sheltering from the sun in the trees. The Virgin would be taken in procession, covered in money notes. I remember one year, she had a hundred dollar bill prominently affixed to her gown. After, we would buy a round, dark green watermelon, so unlike those we used to buy at Haymarket on Saturdays, from the truck parked by the side of the lane, awaiting the Mass goers. We would take it down to my grandmother's house, where we were invited to eat. I still remember sitting at the table in the cool kitchen, eating the sweet, crisp watermelon for dessert. 

In the evening, there would be a band or two, playing until three or four in the morning. My parents and I would go, and so would my older cousins, with my small cousin. We would play and run around the area lit by dim lightbulbs, and the colored lights from the makeshift stage, where the musicians would be belting out the popular tunes of the summer; the English songs massacred to a pulp, the only recognizable part being the music. Neighbors of my small cousin, similar to us in age, would join us as we played hide and seek. We would weave in and out of people standing around, or dancing to the music, and even under the stage, going carefully through the metal pipes holding it up. 

I have never been to the Vikings in Catoira. It is supposed to be an enormous melée of people and actors disembarking from Viking ships, simulating the attacks the Torres de Oeste once sustained from the North Men. It's been celebrated since 1961, when a group of men got together and asked themselves, "Why not have a historical reenactment of the Vikings attacking the Torres?" So, they organized everything, and everyone had so much fun, that it continued, year after year. 

It's held every year at the Torres de Oeste, the ruins of two towers built to protect the Ulla River from marauders who wanted to sail inland to sack Santiago de Compostela. The name was originally Castellum Honesti, or Honesti's Fort, but time and changing language has mutated the name. Thousands of people throng the bridge above that spans the river, watching as the Viking marauders land and terrorize the town folk, though the most dangerous weapon used now is the red wine used to douse everyone. Afterward, there's wine and food for everyone, or everyone who can pay the stalls or who brings their own. There's picnicking in the afternoon, among the ruins and the surrounding marshland. In the evening, there's also music. It sounds like a fun festival to attend, but the pull of family, and the enormous amounts of people, have always managed to stop me from going. 

Of course, this is Covid time, and the festivals have changed accordingly. Last night, there was music in O Araño, but the people who attended were few, and they were all sitting in folding chairs, spread out with the required meters. I don't know how the Vikings will roll, because there must be a limit on how many can attend, and the landing with its attack doesn't sound feasible. It's not really worth it, this year, to attend popular festivals, not if you have to fight for a ticket, and then watch your distance and wear a mask because of the numbers of contagion. 

When we will be able to live like we used to? I would love to have it be soon, but I doubt it will be.

Life continues.

A Virxe dos Milagros, 1982.