Well everyone, I'm off to Prague for the next month or so. See you back here when I return!
--GC
Monday, August 15, 2005
Sunday, August 14, 2005
One Scam For The Road [AUGUST 14, 2005]
You can see them no matter what city you live in. If there’s a museum or some landmark in your neck of the woods, then you’re no stranger to their clicking cameras and comments in some language you can’t quite place your finger on. And even though they may annoy us every now and then, all of us, in fact, have been in their shoes at one time or another. Horror of horrors, you may even be one at this very moment – a tourist.
Tourists on the prowl for the perfect postcard
But it’s nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, it’s something to revel in. You’re in a strange country, experiencing new sights and smells and tasting exotic food every moment you step out of the hotel. And, best of all, you have off from work. I myself used to be a tourist here in Cádiz, but then I got a job. Working is what differentiates a carefree tourist from an homesick expat.
I still remember my tourist days here in Spain very well. There are some things that every tourist experiences and I was no exception. The confusion of entering a shop and finding that the local behind the register doesn’t speak a word of English and you don’t know a word of Spanish except for "Adios" and "Por favor." Speaking with your hands is the one language every well-traveled tourist is fluent in. The food also struck me, especially when I first saw those greasy hind legs of some disgusting pig hanging from the ceiling. I never thought I’d have touched the stuff, but one taste of that delicious Jamón Serrano and I was hooked. Finally, the one thing every tourist experiences, whether they realize it or not, is getting ripped off. Scammers and tourists go hand in hand and, as a service to my readers, I’ve decided to classify them into three distinct categories.
Jamón Serrano:
A first-time tourist's disgust, A seasoned expat's delight
Entire economies have been founded on milking tourists out of every last penny and some sharks have amassed enormous private fortunes from their dubious deeds. Most of the time we never realize we’ve been ripped off until it’s well too late. In fact, I didn’t realize I was paying more for most of the things I was buying until I stopped being an tourist and assumed my expat identity. But that was just as far as paying a few extra cents here and there or "accidentally" being handed back the wrong change was concerned. Such petty thievery earns the perpetrator two extra quarters to rub together once in a blue moon and they go home at night donning a big, dirty grin acting as if they’ve just captured Gibraltar back from the British. These are the smalltime scammers and they’re the most prevalent.
Then there are the outrageous scammers. Many of them get caught due to their outlandish bravado and consequently enter the annals of Urban Legends – Globetrotter’s Edition. Have you heard about the Japanese tourist visiting Istanbul, for example, who ended up paying over six hundred dollars for a Turkish rug that should have cost no more than twenty? Or the friendly Parisian street-performer who offered to help the lost Australian lass, who had just given him a handful of change, while his accomplice emptied her pocketbook? Or, my personal favorite, the Englishman who flew into Athens and hired a taxi to take him over five hundred kilometers to a city in the north called Thessaloníki? The taxi-driver ended up driving in circles throughout the Greek capital, until the passenger doze off in the overwhelming heat, and then woke him up three hours later charging the full fare and informing his prey that they had arrived at their destination when they had in fact only gone as far as the Athenian suburbs. But these of course are the exceptions. The ones we hear about. The ones that often get caught and travel guides warn us to keep an eye out for.
The smalltime scammers and outrageous scammers, though, are just petty crooks and end up using all their wit and fast talk for nothing but a few extra pennies. They make maybe one or two big catches per year... but that’s it. Think about it. Taxi-drivers, those most infamous of highway robbers, can’t really be all that good at milking tourists out of their vacation money. If they were, they wouldn’t still be driving taxi cabs around in the searing summer heat, now would they? If you want to make real money out of tourists, you need to get them in herds and make it look legit. You need a company.
The smallest number of swindlers but, by far the most profitable, are what I call the syndicate scammers. These guys live off of tourists. They make mountains of money during peak tourist season (the summer months here in Andalucía), and then sit on their asses or in their villas during the rest of the year sipping sherry or sangria. As far as I’ve been able to discover, there are only three syndicate scammers here in Cádiz and they’re all in the same business.
TOUR DE CÁDIZ offers you the best view of the back of the Cathedral around!
The two that are at most at each other’s throats, because they do exactly the same thing, are the ones that run the tour bus swindle. Cádiz Tour has the red buses and Tour Por Cádiz has the green and yellow. These massive double-decker buses offer to take you around the city and show you the sights while saving your feet from all the walking and your head from hours of overexposure to the sun. How can that be a scam, right? They’re providing a useful service for the tourists, aren’t they? Well, normally I would say yes. A city like Madrid needs such a service and I’m sure it enhances the tourist’s holiday experience. But here in Cádiz, it’s a different story. This city is over three thousand years old – the oldest in Europe. People probably didn’t even know how to use a horse and carriage when the Phoenicians first settled here and you can see it in the city’s street plan. Most of the inhabitants either walk to their destination or drive around in mopeds because that’s the only thing that can steer through the maze of narrow and winding streets. You do see a car every now and then, but they crawl along at a mind-numbingly slow pace while offering you a chance to closely examine the many dents on the body and missing side-view mirror, both telltale battle wounds of how difficult it actually is to navigate a vehicle through these streets. The only large, two way street that cars dare to use is the one that goes around Cádiz... the one the tour buses use but, of course, there aren’t any monuments or sights of interest on that street. They’re all in the center.
I can just imagine how a tour on one of those buses would run: "Ladies and gentlemen, If we were to go down that street, you would see the Cathedral which is a beautiful example of 17th Century architecture. In front of the Cathedral you would see a beautiful square with an intricate marble pattern carefully laid into to stone. The narrow street leading off of that square leads to the beautiful flower market and the always popular fish market, which we, of course, can’t see from here. I would be more than happy to describe it for you though. Imagine... As you enter the market, you would probably see a number of fish to either side including octopus, prawns, and actual swordfish in their entirety. If you were to walk to the..." When the guide finally finishes talking, the bus just goes around the city once more and the tourists finally get off, having seen nothing from the bus except for the ocean to one side and the decaying buildings that line the city’s only two-way street to the other. Tourist milking verdict? Complete success!
Map of the tour route - Just follow the blue line around the city
The other syndicate scammer is a bit different but also offers tours. This one is always popular with the kids and the Germans. They can’t get enough of it. El Tren De Cádiz provides the same service as the tour buses, and exclusively uses the same two-way, ocean front street... but these Spanish Shylocks do it in style. Who needs an oversized double-decker bus when you can use an oversized, tacky white train? Just make sure you keep you hands inside the moving vehicle at all times, whether you’re a local or not.
Here come the Krauts... Make way for the tacky white train!
Come to think of it, if you ever find yourself zipping through the streets, I mean the street, of Cádiz one day in a white train, then you’re probably not a local anyway. You’re not even an expat. Face the facts... you’re just another tourist.
Tourists on the prowl for the perfect postcard
But it’s nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, it’s something to revel in. You’re in a strange country, experiencing new sights and smells and tasting exotic food every moment you step out of the hotel. And, best of all, you have off from work. I myself used to be a tourist here in Cádiz, but then I got a job. Working is what differentiates a carefree tourist from an homesick expat.
I still remember my tourist days here in Spain very well. There are some things that every tourist experiences and I was no exception. The confusion of entering a shop and finding that the local behind the register doesn’t speak a word of English and you don’t know a word of Spanish except for "Adios" and "Por favor." Speaking with your hands is the one language every well-traveled tourist is fluent in. The food also struck me, especially when I first saw those greasy hind legs of some disgusting pig hanging from the ceiling. I never thought I’d have touched the stuff, but one taste of that delicious Jamón Serrano and I was hooked. Finally, the one thing every tourist experiences, whether they realize it or not, is getting ripped off. Scammers and tourists go hand in hand and, as a service to my readers, I’ve decided to classify them into three distinct categories.
Jamón Serrano:
A first-time tourist's disgust, A seasoned expat's delight
Entire economies have been founded on milking tourists out of every last penny and some sharks have amassed enormous private fortunes from their dubious deeds. Most of the time we never realize we’ve been ripped off until it’s well too late. In fact, I didn’t realize I was paying more for most of the things I was buying until I stopped being an tourist and assumed my expat identity. But that was just as far as paying a few extra cents here and there or "accidentally" being handed back the wrong change was concerned. Such petty thievery earns the perpetrator two extra quarters to rub together once in a blue moon and they go home at night donning a big, dirty grin acting as if they’ve just captured Gibraltar back from the British. These are the smalltime scammers and they’re the most prevalent.
Then there are the outrageous scammers. Many of them get caught due to their outlandish bravado and consequently enter the annals of Urban Legends – Globetrotter’s Edition. Have you heard about the Japanese tourist visiting Istanbul, for example, who ended up paying over six hundred dollars for a Turkish rug that should have cost no more than twenty? Or the friendly Parisian street-performer who offered to help the lost Australian lass, who had just given him a handful of change, while his accomplice emptied her pocketbook? Or, my personal favorite, the Englishman who flew into Athens and hired a taxi to take him over five hundred kilometers to a city in the north called Thessaloníki? The taxi-driver ended up driving in circles throughout the Greek capital, until the passenger doze off in the overwhelming heat, and then woke him up three hours later charging the full fare and informing his prey that they had arrived at their destination when they had in fact only gone as far as the Athenian suburbs. But these of course are the exceptions. The ones we hear about. The ones that often get caught and travel guides warn us to keep an eye out for.
The smalltime scammers and outrageous scammers, though, are just petty crooks and end up using all their wit and fast talk for nothing but a few extra pennies. They make maybe one or two big catches per year... but that’s it. Think about it. Taxi-drivers, those most infamous of highway robbers, can’t really be all that good at milking tourists out of their vacation money. If they were, they wouldn’t still be driving taxi cabs around in the searing summer heat, now would they? If you want to make real money out of tourists, you need to get them in herds and make it look legit. You need a company.
The smallest number of swindlers but, by far the most profitable, are what I call the syndicate scammers. These guys live off of tourists. They make mountains of money during peak tourist season (the summer months here in Andalucía), and then sit on their asses or in their villas during the rest of the year sipping sherry or sangria. As far as I’ve been able to discover, there are only three syndicate scammers here in Cádiz and they’re all in the same business.
TOUR DE CÁDIZ offers you the best view of the back of the Cathedral around!
The two that are at most at each other’s throats, because they do exactly the same thing, are the ones that run the tour bus swindle. Cádiz Tour has the red buses and Tour Por Cádiz has the green and yellow. These massive double-decker buses offer to take you around the city and show you the sights while saving your feet from all the walking and your head from hours of overexposure to the sun. How can that be a scam, right? They’re providing a useful service for the tourists, aren’t they? Well, normally I would say yes. A city like Madrid needs such a service and I’m sure it enhances the tourist’s holiday experience. But here in Cádiz, it’s a different story. This city is over three thousand years old – the oldest in Europe. People probably didn’t even know how to use a horse and carriage when the Phoenicians first settled here and you can see it in the city’s street plan. Most of the inhabitants either walk to their destination or drive around in mopeds because that’s the only thing that can steer through the maze of narrow and winding streets. You do see a car every now and then, but they crawl along at a mind-numbingly slow pace while offering you a chance to closely examine the many dents on the body and missing side-view mirror, both telltale battle wounds of how difficult it actually is to navigate a vehicle through these streets. The only large, two way street that cars dare to use is the one that goes around Cádiz... the one the tour buses use but, of course, there aren’t any monuments or sights of interest on that street. They’re all in the center.
I can just imagine how a tour on one of those buses would run: "Ladies and gentlemen, If we were to go down that street, you would see the Cathedral which is a beautiful example of 17th Century architecture. In front of the Cathedral you would see a beautiful square with an intricate marble pattern carefully laid into to stone. The narrow street leading off of that square leads to the beautiful flower market and the always popular fish market, which we, of course, can’t see from here. I would be more than happy to describe it for you though. Imagine... As you enter the market, you would probably see a number of fish to either side including octopus, prawns, and actual swordfish in their entirety. If you were to walk to the..." When the guide finally finishes talking, the bus just goes around the city once more and the tourists finally get off, having seen nothing from the bus except for the ocean to one side and the decaying buildings that line the city’s only two-way street to the other. Tourist milking verdict? Complete success!
Map of the tour route - Just follow the blue line around the city
The other syndicate scammer is a bit different but also offers tours. This one is always popular with the kids and the Germans. They can’t get enough of it. El Tren De Cádiz provides the same service as the tour buses, and exclusively uses the same two-way, ocean front street... but these Spanish Shylocks do it in style. Who needs an oversized double-decker bus when you can use an oversized, tacky white train? Just make sure you keep you hands inside the moving vehicle at all times, whether you’re a local or not.
Here come the Krauts... Make way for the tacky white train!
Come to think of it, if you ever find yourself zipping through the streets, I mean the street, of Cádiz one day in a white train, then you’re probably not a local anyway. You’re not even an expat. Face the facts... you’re just another tourist.
Sunday, August 7, 2005
A wee dram of Scotch [AUGUST 7, 2005]
I’ve been working in Scotland for the past month with the officious title of "Group Leader". My duties entailed assuming responsibility over a group of eleven Spanish teenagers as they attended English Language Summer Camp along with some two hundred other students from all over the world. The kids could be problematic at times, but at least I got a free vacation out of it And besides, whenever things got a bit too demanding, as they often do when one is put into such a position of authority, there was always the local pub around the corner waiting with a refreshing glass, or two, of Scotch whisky and soda.
As far as Scotland itself was concerned, the country didn’t really surprise me all that much. Everything was, more or less, as I had expected. The weather was crappy, everyone loved golf, the true Scotsmen didn’t hide their manhood by wearing something under their kilts, there were a lot of castles on the rolling green hills, and the bagpipes blew – although the haggis, amazingly, didn’t. At the end of the day, the two things that required the most getting used to boiled down to the Scottish accent and the damn cars always coming from the right.
Every true Scot enjoys a nice round on the green
The accent... Aye lads, the accent.
"Aht’s forr poonds ahty sex pee."
"Umm..." I hesitated a bit "...Yes? Please?"
She returned my confused glance with one of her own. "Aye. Ah, no. Forr poonds, ahty sex pee." as she turned the register towards me and pointed at the display.
"Oh! Four pounds, eighty-six pence. Sorry. Here’s five pounds."
She took the five pound note and shook her head disappointedly as she mumbled, "Bloody turrists."
"Hey, wait a minute. I heard that! I’m not a tourist. Well, I am. But I speak English. I mean, I’m a native speaker. I just didn’t understand what..."
"Aye, aye," as she handed me my change. "Next, please!"
The thing I don’t get, and it only dawned on me halfway through my stay, was that if I was having problems understanding the locals, how the hell were my Spanish kids coping? Taking them to Scotland to learn English didn’t seem like exactly the brightest idea.
After the first few days had passed, my ears started to adjust and I began making out about fifty percent of what the local Scots were saying. I know what you’re thinking – fifty percent isn’t anything to brag about. But hell, that’s about as much Spanish as I understand in Cádiz and I seem to get by without any problems there. Just as I was about to complement myself on how much Spanish I must have picked up over the last year – seeing as I can understand a Scotsman and an Andalucían about the same – my first almost-accident happened.
"Bloody turrist!" he laid on his horn as the car came to a screeching halt.
"What the...? Oh right. Britain."
Well, knowing that Churchill once got hit by a taxi cab in New York because he looked right instead of left comforted me somewhat. Although I’m no Churchill, I’ve done a few significant things in my day to warrant being stupid enough to not look before I cross. Why just the other day I helped an old lady carry her groceries up a flight of stairs. It may not compare to single-handedly defeating Fascism, but it’s got its merits.
Meanwhile, as I was busying myself fine-tuning my ear and looking right, left, right, left, right each time I crossed the street, the students seemed to be getting along fine. They were making friends from all corners of the world and speaking English with all of them. To be honest, the Spanish speakers tended to hang out with the other Spanish-speakers, just as the Italians, Chinese, and countless others hung out with their own, but they were still forced to integrate through a number of entertaining school organized activities. Surprisingly, some of them even made non-Spanish friends of their own accord. And so, confident that all was fine and taken care of by the English Language Summer Camp, I did what anyone in my position of authority would have done. I abandoned the kids for a few days and went on a little private tour of Scotland.
The train rides through the countryside were breathtaking. Tall rugged peaks would slowly blend into dense forests and settle into lush, green pastures strewn with sheep and cattle. And then there were the lochs dotted with castles and ruins... Loch Lomond, Loch Tay and, of course, Loch Ness. I left early one morning from the neighboring town of Inverness, where I had arrived the night before, and trekked through the ancient evergreens to find myself peering into Ness’ deep blue waters and wondering whether some pre-historic monster was actually lurking below. A breath of crisp Highlander air cleared my mind as... what the hell? My mobile phone was ringing. They always pick the perfect moment, don’t they?
"Hello. Who is it?" I answered rather curtly.
"Aye, hellu." It was the school director of the English Language Summer Camp. "Well, Ah em surry ta disrupt ye, boot it seems we haev a wee problem wit two of yerr stoodents. They werr cot shoplifting."
"What? Shoplifting? Did you say shoplifting?"
"Aye, shoplifting. The police haev em noo, boot it dinnae look serious. Caen ye meet us at the constabulary?"
"The co-stib-u... The what?"
"Aye. Ye knoo. The police station."
"The police station? You want me to go there?"
"Aye."
"Well, umm... I’m a bit busy now. Do you need me now?"
"Busy... na, Ah suppose naught. Dinnae wurry. Ye need ta sign fer the police report. But ye caen git it in the morrning."
"Okay, good. And the girls?"
"Dinnae wurry. We arr gitting them noo. Ah jus wanted ta inferm ye aboot the inceedent."
The school director’s accent was too thick and I didn’t catch the end of her last sentence. "Umm... Yes? Please?"
"Aye, see ye in the morrning."
There's no shame in what God gave you
I immediately – after a cool whisky and soda and another almost-accident – got on the next train out of Inverness. The next morning I met up with the school director and the police. From our unintelligible conversation, I managed to gather that the girls had been caught shoplifting some stupid little trinkets. The were young and the police understood. The authorities simply gave the girls a slap on the wrist and the director would punish them by not allow them to go on any more school excursions or activities. When I spoke to the young ladies later on in the day, they were full of embarrassment and genuinely apologetic so I didn’t tack any rebukes of my own onto their sentence. After all, I couldn’t think of any better way to punish two Spanish teenagers than by having them sit in a "constabulary" and try to decipher a Scotsman’s accented reprimands for half the night. Bloody tourists.
As far as Scotland itself was concerned, the country didn’t really surprise me all that much. Everything was, more or less, as I had expected. The weather was crappy, everyone loved golf, the true Scotsmen didn’t hide their manhood by wearing something under their kilts, there were a lot of castles on the rolling green hills, and the bagpipes blew – although the haggis, amazingly, didn’t. At the end of the day, the two things that required the most getting used to boiled down to the Scottish accent and the damn cars always coming from the right.
Every true Scot enjoys a nice round on the green
The accent... Aye lads, the accent.
"Aht’s forr poonds ahty sex pee."
"Umm..." I hesitated a bit "...Yes? Please?"
She returned my confused glance with one of her own. "Aye. Ah, no. Forr poonds, ahty sex pee." as she turned the register towards me and pointed at the display.
"Oh! Four pounds, eighty-six pence. Sorry. Here’s five pounds."
She took the five pound note and shook her head disappointedly as she mumbled, "Bloody turrists."
"Hey, wait a minute. I heard that! I’m not a tourist. Well, I am. But I speak English. I mean, I’m a native speaker. I just didn’t understand what..."
"Aye, aye," as she handed me my change. "Next, please!"
The thing I don’t get, and it only dawned on me halfway through my stay, was that if I was having problems understanding the locals, how the hell were my Spanish kids coping? Taking them to Scotland to learn English didn’t seem like exactly the brightest idea.
After the first few days had passed, my ears started to adjust and I began making out about fifty percent of what the local Scots were saying. I know what you’re thinking – fifty percent isn’t anything to brag about. But hell, that’s about as much Spanish as I understand in Cádiz and I seem to get by without any problems there. Just as I was about to complement myself on how much Spanish I must have picked up over the last year – seeing as I can understand a Scotsman and an Andalucían about the same – my first almost-accident happened.
"Bloody turrist!" he laid on his horn as the car came to a screeching halt.
"What the...? Oh right. Britain."
Well, knowing that Churchill once got hit by a taxi cab in New York because he looked right instead of left comforted me somewhat. Although I’m no Churchill, I’ve done a few significant things in my day to warrant being stupid enough to not look before I cross. Why just the other day I helped an old lady carry her groceries up a flight of stairs. It may not compare to single-handedly defeating Fascism, but it’s got its merits.
Meanwhile, as I was busying myself fine-tuning my ear and looking right, left, right, left, right each time I crossed the street, the students seemed to be getting along fine. They were making friends from all corners of the world and speaking English with all of them. To be honest, the Spanish speakers tended to hang out with the other Spanish-speakers, just as the Italians, Chinese, and countless others hung out with their own, but they were still forced to integrate through a number of entertaining school organized activities. Surprisingly, some of them even made non-Spanish friends of their own accord. And so, confident that all was fine and taken care of by the English Language Summer Camp, I did what anyone in my position of authority would have done. I abandoned the kids for a few days and went on a little private tour of Scotland.
The train rides through the countryside were breathtaking. Tall rugged peaks would slowly blend into dense forests and settle into lush, green pastures strewn with sheep and cattle. And then there were the lochs dotted with castles and ruins... Loch Lomond, Loch Tay and, of course, Loch Ness. I left early one morning from the neighboring town of Inverness, where I had arrived the night before, and trekked through the ancient evergreens to find myself peering into Ness’ deep blue waters and wondering whether some pre-historic monster was actually lurking below. A breath of crisp Highlander air cleared my mind as... what the hell? My mobile phone was ringing. They always pick the perfect moment, don’t they?
"Hello. Who is it?" I answered rather curtly.
"Aye, hellu." It was the school director of the English Language Summer Camp. "Well, Ah em surry ta disrupt ye, boot it seems we haev a wee problem wit two of yerr stoodents. They werr cot shoplifting."
"What? Shoplifting? Did you say shoplifting?"
"Aye, shoplifting. The police haev em noo, boot it dinnae look serious. Caen ye meet us at the constabulary?"
"The co-stib-u... The what?"
"Aye. Ye knoo. The police station."
"The police station? You want me to go there?"
"Aye."
"Well, umm... I’m a bit busy now. Do you need me now?"
"Busy... na, Ah suppose naught. Dinnae wurry. Ye need ta sign fer the police report. But ye caen git it in the morrning."
"Okay, good. And the girls?"
"Dinnae wurry. We arr gitting them noo. Ah jus wanted ta inferm ye aboot the inceedent."
The school director’s accent was too thick and I didn’t catch the end of her last sentence. "Umm... Yes? Please?"
"Aye, see ye in the morrning."
There's no shame in what God gave you
I immediately – after a cool whisky and soda and another almost-accident – got on the next train out of Inverness. The next morning I met up with the school director and the police. From our unintelligible conversation, I managed to gather that the girls had been caught shoplifting some stupid little trinkets. The were young and the police understood. The authorities simply gave the girls a slap on the wrist and the director would punish them by not allow them to go on any more school excursions or activities. When I spoke to the young ladies later on in the day, they were full of embarrassment and genuinely apologetic so I didn’t tack any rebukes of my own onto their sentence. After all, I couldn’t think of any better way to punish two Spanish teenagers than by having them sit in a "constabulary" and try to decipher a Scotsman’s accented reprimands for half the night. Bloody tourists.
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