Pichas and Chochos [MARCH 26, 2006]

If there’s one thing responsible parents the world over don’t tolerate in the least from their young ones – apart from incest – it’s cussing. Whereas playing doctor with lil’ sis’ or big bro’ is about as naughty as it gets, an inappropriate vulgarity uttered in the presence of Mommy or Daddy will sometimes get that temper going just as much. Sure a few curses slip through in the older kids but, at least while they’re still young, most attempts are made at keeping "potty mouth" exposure to a minimum. Parents and neighbors alike take precautions to watch what they’re saying and what is said around toddlers and the easily-impressionable ones. For the most part, everyone around the child takes care to adhere to this rigid censorship of F-, A-, and C- words. Even, horror of horrors, "Big Tits" and "Pussy" are normally vocabulary that’s out of bounds too. In fact, their usage might cause you to be approached by a stranger and told, "Hey buddy, watch your mouth!" if you’re not careful when there’s a baby carriage around. It even happened to me once back in Pennsylvania when, while at a shopping mall food court, I was extolling the virtues of two recently viewed feature-length films aptly named Night of the Giving Head and Lawrence of Her Labia. Apparently, the soccer moms seated behind me didn’t appreciate the humor involved.

I haven’t really noticed this much care being taken to preserve a child’s innocence here in Spain though. Everyone from Great Grandma to Neighbor Pablo from across the street curse a blue streak – children in the vicinity be damned. The first discernable Spanish word I heard and learned upon first visiting this country nearly two years ago was in Barcelona. I was exploring the architecturally rich metropolis and stopped at a lovely little neighborhood park to watch a group of stereotypical Spanish old men (checkered dress shirts, Panama hats, and all) compete in a friendly game of bocce-ball. Their frail, silver-haired wives sat on the benches behind them gossiping away while minding the grandchildren innocently playing at their feet. "¡Coño!" exclaimed one sweet old pensioner as an opponent knocked one of his balls out of the way. A minute or so later, another "¡Coño!" flew out of a different retiree’s mouth as his ball was also, in turn, displaced. By the time the fifth "¡Coño!" had made its appearance, I knew it was time for my faithful little bilingual dictionary and the first true Spanish lesson of my life. [COÑO:- (1) vulgar cunt (2) vulgar interjection fuck me!; for fuck’s sake!]


"Run for the hills, children! Cover your ears! GranPa's playing bocce-ball."

The extensive use of coño throughout the Iberian Peninsula, however, is well documented. It’s the one swear word – well, at least the nastiest – that seems to slip effortlessly into the daily conversations of fellow Spaniards from the Canary Islands to the Pyrenees Mountains. I think that because it is used so often, the word has simply come to lose the power of insult and vulgarism that its English equivalent still possesses. Coño, in my opinion, is now about as much an insult in Spain as "darn" is to a Kansas City grandmother. You use it when you over-bake an apple pie crust and you use it when someone knocks your bocce ball out of the way – whether there are kids around or not.


"¡Coño! This kitty won't sit still. And to top it all off,
I burned my filthy coño of an apple pie this morning too, dang nabbit."

In Cádiz, though, it’s a different story. My neighbors and fellow residents in this city encircled by the ocean are so vulgar that a simple coño will never do. It just doesn’t quite pack that much of a punch down here. Think about it. We’re talking about Cádiz: The oldest port in Europe; Columbus’ point of embarkation on his second and fourth voyages across the Atlantic; Home of the invincible Spanish Armada; Harbor for Napoleon’s mighty Franco-Hispanic fleet (which the British Royal Navy defeated a few miles down the coast at the Battle of Trafalgar); And the Spanish Empire’s only trading link to its vast overseas possessions for well over two centuries. If this city hasn’t seen its fair share of sailors over the years, then I don’t know what city has. The result? These people have sailor-talk pulsing through their veins. Sure they use the ubiquitous coño in the same manner and respect as their fellow countrymen, but the people of Cádiz have come to incorporate the vastly more graphic picha and chocho (locally pronounced piSHa and SHoSHo due to the accent) into their everyday speech as well. Bilingual Spanish dictionary lesson number two: [PICHA:- (1) extremely vulgar cock; prick] [CHOCHO:- (1) extremely vulgar cunt; pussy]


Cádiz: A harbor of sailor-talk for nearly three millennia

So how do the people of Cádiz use these little linguistic treasures? Well, they don’t save them for the occasional game of bocce-ball or apple pie bake, that’s for sure. Picha and chocho are so wide spread in their local usage that I would roughly equate them to my own "man," "buddy," or "pal." Picha for males. Chocho for females. It’s a bit shocking when you first hear it and realize what’s being said, but one eventually grows accustomed to such statements as: "Could you please pass me the menu, picha?" and "Good morning, chocho. That’s a nice dress you’ve got on." Everyone from your grandmother to your newborn baby daughter turns into a chocho and all the men from your crippled veteran grandfather to baby Juan become a picha. I once heard a 12-year-old girl talking to her grandmother and ask, "Where were you yesterday at dinner, chocho. We missed you!"


Nothing says Home, Sweet Home like a "Here lives a piSHa from Cai [Cádiz]" plaque

The simple fact that an observer can overhear a 12-year-old girl calling her Granny a chocho in the middle of town just goes to show how widespread the use of these most vulgar of words is. Customers call shop assistants chochos who in turn tell the other picha customers to wait their turn in line. Wives call their husbands pichas and the husbands call both their mistresses and wives chochos. Each time I’m stopped in the street and asked for either a cigarette, a light, or the time, the request inevitably includes a well-placed picha somewhere before the question mark. But that’s adults and teenagers. What about the kids?


Always an appropriate rear-view mirror decoration for the family car:
"[We're] From Cai [Cádiz], PICHA!"

Well, the little ones’ language here in Cádiz is just as bad as their elders and, no doubt, because of them. A twelve-year-old doesn’t learn chocho by watching Sesame Street. She learns it by listening to her mother and father who probably call her one all the time. And even if they don’t, there are plenty of places to see these words displayed throughout the city. Souvenir shops sell t-shirts with picha and chocho scribbled on the front. Football slogans and local songs incorporate the cussing into their lyrics. Hell, if Cádiz had an anthem, I’m sure it would even be included in that. And as for the Doubting Thomases amongst you, who may believe that one 12-year-old’s foul mouth was probably the exception and not the norm, I should remind you that both my finacée and I teach the little children of Cádiz on a daily basis. Trust me... They’re all well versed in the use of coño, chocho, and picha by the time they hit their eighth birthday.


Mommy, Daddy! Can I please get a "Sorry, PICHA, the whole world can't be from Cádiz" t-shirt!
I'll be the most popular kid in GC Philo's English class!

At the end of the day, though, there’s nothing one can do about it. As vulgar and crude as this may seem to the occasional outsider or tourist with a basic knowledge of Spanish, you eventually realize it’s just the way these sailor descendants speak. If you want to be a part of Cádiz and truly experience its culture, then you have to learn to embrace it and join in the "potty mouth" fun. It may be difficult at first but – as long as you’re not a Bible-Thumper from Mississippi with an innate hatred for anything unGodly – you’ll eventually adapt and learn to let go of any initial inhibitions. Take me for example. I used to punish my pupils for using bad words but have now come to see the error of my ways. What’s the point of me trying to clean up their language in the classroom when their parents use it every five minutes at home? ...An apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. If you can’t beat them, join them... I’ve even come up with my own little Cádiz-style proverb: "A picha in the hand is worth two in the bush." Unfortunately, in translation, these words of wisdom are somehow lost on the undiscerning ear.

Mein Home, Sweet Home [MARCH 19, 2006]

As expected, the south of Spain attracts quite a mixed lot of residents. Nearly permanent sunny skies, miles of golden beaches, mountains of fresh seafood, and the cheapest wine this side of that boxed stuff Hobo Joe usually carts around (although of vastly superior quality) all meet up at a crossroads here. The result? Colorful characters from the industrialized world over.

While most of these non-Spaniards flock to Andalucía’s Mediterranean coast, known as the Costa del Sol, we still get our fair share here on the Atlantic side, the Costa de la Luz. The guiris (local slang for foreigners) on the Costa del Sol have brought with them ugly utilitarian condo complexes and have inadvertently been the cause for everything from billboards to street sings that are no longer written in Spanish, but in German and English. Thankfully, we’ve been spared this mass invasion and conquest of Spanish culture here on the Costa de la Luz. Most of our guiris only come here as Spanish students and end up staying for the duration of their course – usually six months or so – before returning to Ireland, Norway, Russia or whichever other far-flung corner of the globe or continent they came from.

Of course, there are exceptions but these usually come from the dregs of society: Moroccan migrant laborers, African pirate DVD street merchants, Chinese brand-name design counterfeiters, German homeless alcoholics, and American English teachers. The last lot, though, are by far the worst... They haven’t showered in months, stink of cheap booze, stumble through the streets at night hurling drunken epithets in a language the locals don’t understand, and contributing nothing to society... I just re-read that sentence and sorry about the mix-up. I meant to say the second to last lot, the German homeless alcoholics, not the last lot, the American English teachers, do those things. We English teachers contribute a lot to society and, believe it or not, take a shower every now and then too.


Come on now... He doesn't REALLY look like an English teacher, does he?

Honestly though, I really am amazed at how many homeless Germans there are here. (There aren’t really any homeless Spaniards due to the fact that family bonds are so strong in this country and, no matter what, your parents will always give you a roof over your head – even if you are in your mid-forties, alcoholic, and unemployed.) My first roommate in Cádiz was a Brazilian doctor who has been working in a local clinic for years. He told me how, when he had finished work one day in 2002 and was walking home, a bunch of ragged German street-dwellers started following him and hassling him. It turned out, that evening was the final match of the World Cup (Germany versus Brazil) and they had seen the Brazilian flag on his backpack. They followed him all the way home and continued yelling in German and broken Spanish, "We’re gonna kick your ass tonight!" The one thing I couldn’t understand was, Where the hell do drunken, squalid and homeless Germans from the streets of Cádiz go to watch World Cup matches?


"Wake up guys... Günther, Hans. The big game's on in a few minutes!"

Besides, isn’t Germany supposed to have one of the best welfare states in Europe, if not the world? Aren’t Germans a stereotypically industrious lot capable of building superior-quality automobiles and creating order out of the most random chaos? Why do homeless Germans need to come to the Costa de la Luz when their country is large and rich enough to accommodate all of their numbers and then some? Maybe, the Fatherland is in search of some new Lebensraum. Poland proved too difficult to tame over half a century ago so now the mass armies of destitute, alcoholic Aryans have turned their expansionist dreams to this little corner of Andalucía. Or, more likely and who can blame them, they prefer being homeless by the sandy beach and in the warming sun to living is some half-frozen subway station in Frankfurt. Either way, they’re here to stay.


Screw Deutschland - The bums in Spain get siestas!

This brings me to my main point and the focus of this article. The only German that I know, personally, in Cádiz isn’t of the street-dwelling variety. She isn’t even a temporary student. No, she’s a full-time guiri like me and my only guiri neighbor. Her name is Roswitha and she lives two floors above me. As I previously said, she isn’t of the street-dwelling variety... but she might as well be. She always stinks of cheap booze, hardly speaks a word of Spanish, and stumbles through the narrow streets of the city at all hours of the day. I guess the sunny skies, golden beaches, and inexpensive wine drew her to Andalucía too. Fortunately for me, and for you dear reader, she must have been too sozzled up on the journey down from Deutschland because she ended up here on the Costa de la Luz instead of the immensely more popular, and Germanized, Costa del Sol.

Where to begin with Roswitha... She’s simply incredible. My girlfriend and I met her about a year ago. It must have been a few days after she had moved into our building when she first rang our doorbell. I opened up and saw a skinny woman with short gray hair and sunken cheeks. She appeared to be in her early fifties, "Perdone las molestias. Soy su nueva vecina. [Excuse the disturbance. I am your new neighbor.]" As I continued speaking to her and introduced myself, I realized that her knowledge of Spanish was basically confined to those first few words she had managed to spit out. The rest of the conversation was conducted on her part in a form of pidgin Spanish – using what little she knew of the local tongue and filling in the gaps with German or French. As it turned out, she was unable to open her door and needed some help with the locks. I went upstairs, put in the key, and opened the door on my first attempt. That’s when I smelled the booze on her breath and realized why she must have been having such a rough time getting the damn thing open. "Danke! Gracias! Danke!" she thanked me profusely. I told her it was nothing and, before I had a chance to go, she asked if my girlfriend and I were local Spaniards. I told her I was American and my girlfriend was Czech to which she replied, "Ohhh! Praga! Das ciudad is muy bonita! Muy bonita! [roughly, Ohhh! Prague! That city is very beautiful! Very beautiful!]" Apparently, she had visited Prague in the early Nineties. She said that she was from Cologne, thanked me again while expressing how beautiful Prague was, and bid me farewell with her whiskey-tainted breath as I descended the stairs to my apartment.

A week later. Thursday night. A buzz at the front door. "Si?" I responded through the intercom. "Perdone las molestias. Soy su nueva vecina..." Low and behold, it was Roswitha. She introduced herself once again and told me that she had problems with her lock – if only I would be kind enough to help her with the keys. She had no idea who my girlfriend and I were and asked me the same exact questions as before. When I told her that we weren’t Spanish but American and Czech, a look of surprise descended upon her bloodshot eyes and she began extolling the beautiful and breathtaking qualities of Prague. She then leant forward and told me, with a breath of booze that could have gotten an Irishman drunk, that she was from Cologne.

I think you know where this is going. At least once a fortnight, for the past year or so, Roswitha rings our buzzer and, after the "Perdone las molestias" routine, asks us to help her with the keys. She then inquires into our nationality and ends the conversation by praising the beauty of Prague. We finally had enough on Carnaval Tuesday when she pressed our buzzer at four in the morning. Half asleep, I answered the intercom to see who it was... "Perdone las molestias. Soy su nueva vecina..." That’s when my girlfriend and I let her have it. We told her we were trying to sleep, her locks worked fine if she would just sober up and learn how to actually put the key in the keyhole, and, for God’s sake, she wasn’t our new neighbor. She had been living in the same building as us for nearly a year now and – Yes, we knew – she was from Cologne, she had once visited Prague in the early Nineties and it was a beautiful city. She was taken aback by our sudden explosion of emotions and, when she had finally absorbed it all, asked us how it was possible that complete strangers knew so much about her. I told her to forget about it, grabbed her by the drunken arm, and helped her up the stairs and with her keys once again. By the time she rang our doorbell a week or so later, she had forgotten about the entire incident and the same ol’ routine had resumed.

My girlfriend (or I should now say my lovely fiancée!) and I have now come to terms with Roswitha’s little visits and learned to accept her drunken quirks, whiskey odor, and memory loss. She’s our own little piece of homeless Germany here in the very building we occupy and adds to the general experience of living in Cádiz. After all, the city has to put up with throngs of street-dwelling Aryans and we’ve only got one middle-aged booze-guzzling amnesiac who, for some reason, prefers pressing our buzzer when there are five other just as shiny buttons directly next to it. Didn’t you know? She doesn’t disturb our Spanish neighbors with her "Perdone las molestias" routine, just us. It’s like we share some sort of a cosmic guiri connection here in this foreign land... those wacky Germans and American English teachers like myself must have more in common than I initially thought (except for – and I swear – the whole not showering thing).

The Bohemian - A Novel

Hey everyone, I finally ended up transferring my entire novel, THE BOHEMIAN, online. So while I keep looking for a publisher, give it a read and let me know what you think!

http://thebohemiannovel.blogspot.com/

Good News Everyone!

I asked my lovely girlfriend to marry me yesterday, and she said yes!

The Thirteenth of March, 2006

Three joyful years do pass this eve
Since Love first had Her way
Yet from that moment did conceive
A passion burning to this day

This fire in my heart does dwell
It dances and leaps about
Your beauty has cast its wondrous spell
Of that there is no doubt

Those sapphire eyes first struck my nerves
And then your pearly smile
By the time I reached your buxom curves
Well... I had to stare a while!

The blaze these things did once ignite
Has only seemed to grow
For this fire I speak of – this eternal light
Every day does brighter glow

Three joyful years do pass this eve
Since Love first had Her way
And seeing as Her flame won’t leave
Why not asking it to stay?

A Carnaval For The Masses [MARCH 5, 2006]

To the people of Cádiz: Pack up your costumes, wash off your alcohol-stained coats, and drink a strong cup of coffee to get rid of that hangover. I’m sorry to inform you, but Carnaval has officially come to an end today. The final fireworks just went up in the distance and the traditional giant witch has been burnt on the evening beach. (A very windy beach that nearly killed some people when the entire thing went up in flames. Haven’t you people ever heard of safety measures?) I don’t want to hear any whining either. After all, you’ve had your ten days of fun and produced around 136,000 kilos (approximately 300,000 pounds) of trash in the process. It’s time for you to go back to work tomorrow... Sorry, I forgot Cádiz has an unemployment figure of over 30%... It’s time for those of you who actually have work to go back to work tomorrow.


The fireworks I understand, but isn't burning a 15-foot tall witch on the beach some sort of a fire hazard?
Screw it, this is Spain and Carnaval... Burn Baby, Burn!!!

The thing that strikes me as most odd when it comes to the Carnaval de Cádiz is how long the damn thing lasts. Last time I checked, carnivals were supposed to end on Mardi Gras, or Shrove Tuesday. Carnival originated as, and is meant to be, a celebration of eating meat and doing all the other stuff you’re not allowed to do during Lent before the fasting actually begins. And Lent, as far as Catholicism is concerned, starts the day after Mardi Gras on Ash Wednesday. So does that mean the devoutly Catholic Spanish of Cádiz were lined up outside their local church on Wednesday waiting for the priest to solemnly place an ashen cross on their foreheads? Hell no! They were still boozing in the streets, taking a piss on alleyway corners, and trying to get laid by the first drunken member of the opposite sex that crossed their intoxicated path. Whereas New Orleans, Rio de Janeiro, and Venice all ended their carnival celebrations on Tuesday night, Cádiz kept on going until the following weekend. This is a fiesta... The beginning of Lent be damned!


Welcome to Cádiz, where Carnaval is King!

But I’m getting ahead of myself. You see, Carnaval technically started about a month ago. These groups of singers known as coros (chorus) compete each year in the city’s elaborate theater in order to be crowned that year’s cherished Coro de Cádiz. The contest goes on each night with a new group of contestants singing their hearts out. The only problem is that the music sucks. I’m talking seriously sucks. Every coro performance has more or less the same rhythm and they all play that most wonderfully versatile instrument of all instruments, the kazoo – although the clave sticks were also sometimes thrown in for a bit of spice. The only thing that changes with each performance are the costumes and the lyrics but seeing as the local accent is so difficult to understand (native-speaking Spaniards from Madrid and other regions of the country have problems understanding the Cádiz accent too), I don’t stand a chance of deciphering what they’re singing. Anyway, this revolting music goes on for about a month and is even broadcast – live in the evenings in addition to over and over again through daytime re-runs – on the local TV stations. I would rather listen to Celine Dion do an interpretation of some AC/DC hits than the coros of Cádiz so I’m more than happy when all of this madness comes to an end the day before Carnaval begins.


Just another bunch of street-corner coros: Do you guys know how to play FreeBird?
Nah, I didn't think so...

On that Friday, the finals of the contest are held and that year’s coros champion is selected. More importantly, the crowning of the new victors signals the official beginning of Cádiz’s beloved Carnaval. The people of Cádiz absolutely adore this fiesta. It is a celebration to call their own and a chance to show off their city to the rest of Spain – Cádiz holds the largest Carnival in the nation – and the globe. People from all over the world come here for the festival. Technically, Carnaval is meant to be a showpiece for the winning coro and the numerous runner-ups as they play their horrid, monotonous, toneless songs on various street corners. But people don’t come from Italy, Russia, Germany, and Argentina to hear some stupid coros. My friend from the Czech Republic definitely didn’t come for that. No sir, he came for one thing and one thing alone. To get piss drunk.


"Ja, I come from the Nord' to drink your women and rape your wine."

The drinking starts on Saturday and it continues for nine days. That first day, everyone gets senselessly sozzled and wanders the streets in crazy costumes. Most costumes are home-made and, for that reason, many people continue to wear them throughout the nine days of festivities. But not all of them. That first day, however, everyone is dressed up from Grandma Martinez to Baby Pedro. Revelers on the streets are disguised as anything from a Roman soldier to a seductive nurse, regardless of gender.


Everyone gets dressed up the first Saturday of Carnaval, from the Masked Mutt of MonteCristo to ChickenLittle himself


Then, at night, the nine days of street-boozing begins

The vast majority of costumes, though, are of a sexual or religious nature and, more often than not, both. I couldn’t begin to count how many pregnant nuns or priests with bulges in their pants I saw that evening and this past week. One night, I even saw this little old Sister – who I first assumed was an actual nun – with a rosary dangling from her neck and a portable altarpiece in her frail, wrinkled hands. She stopped in front of me and my Czech friend, opened her altarpiece to reveal a huge, glowing, red penis inside, and proceeded to bless us with the latex phallus and the sign of the cross. We solemnly thanked her for such kind words in the name of the Lord and went humbly on our way. Amen.


That's sacrilegious... Nuns arent't supposed to wear mini-skirt. Or ride those crazy triple-bikes!


And priests DEFINITELY aren't supposed to mention vagina, let alone talk to it and pose for pictures with it!

The next day, Sunday, was when the City of Cádiz was to show that it wouldn’t be outdone by its own citizens. It staged the enormous Gran Cabalgata Magna parade which must have had at least twenty floats and hundreds of costumed participants. The floats varied from kiddie-theme ones – like the Tele-Tubbies or the immensely popular Los Lunnis – to more adult ones like the disco-strip float where topless teenage boys danced in Speedos as girls of the same age dressed in bikini tops and thongs grinded against them. (Although most of these Lolitas made for excellent eye candy, I must admit that a few of those half-naked porkers should have been jumping up and down in an aerobics class and not on a float traveling through the city’s business district.) What must have been twice the city’s population and then some lined the wide Avenida where the parade took place and cheered on as spectators. When it was all said and done, those of us still recovering from the previous day’s hangover headed back into the old city center to start drinking in the streets again. Those with no hangovers, i.e. the die-hard Carnaval enthusiasts who had been drinking for 24 hours straight, kept on at what they had been doing since the weekend began. A hangover could wait for the next day.


Set up chairs along the Avenida, La Gran Cabalgata Magna is starting soon...


Extravagant floats ranging from Teenage Strippers to SpongeBob SquarePants...
Whether you're a seasoned pedophile or a budding toddler, there's bound to be something that catches your eye!

Universities and schools were lucky enough to be closed the entire week. Even banks were only opened for three hours on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. The rest of Cádiz, however, had to make do with less and only shut down on Monday and Tuesday. Tuesday just happened to be the regional Dia de Andalucía but Monday was a true Cádiz holiday of its own. No other city in Spain treats that Monday as a public holiday but here where I reside the store fronts are closed and calendars have it marked as El Lunes de Resaca. For those of you who don’t speak Spanish, that translates into Hangover Monday. You may have heard of Holy Monday or Easter Monday, but here in Cádiz the only Monday that really counts is Hangover Monday. Grandparents, parents, and children all gather together under the same roof on this most sacred of holidays in order to overcome the effects of Carnaval weekend’s near alcohol-poisoning. They drink strong cups of black coffee together and take the ritual cold shower after asking Granny to hold their hair as each respective family member dry-heaves into the toilet. My Czech friend, my girlfriend, and I just stayed in bed until about two in the afternoon... moaning and sucking down as much water as possible.


"Give it a rest Granny, it's Hangover Monday"
(This is an actual bus-stop poster advertizing the local beer)

A quick word concerning hangovers is in order at this point. When my Czech friend first arrived in Cádiz, we went out for a few of the best beers Spain has to offer. He spat them out in disgust and pondered how a nation of forty million could drink such foul-tasting barley water. I told him that a lifetime of drinking premium Czech Pilsner had ruined all other beer for him. Be that as it may, he refused to drink anymore Spanish beer and turned to the best alcohol the Province of Cádiz has to offer – sherry. Now, I can easily drink a bottle, or five or six, of beer and have no problems. But give me a few glasses of fortified wine, let alone the bottle we ended up drinking each night of Carnaval, and I’m gone further than Hemingway on a Parisian bender. And, trust me, the heads you get from having one too many glasses of sherry are as strong as they come – worthy of Hangover Monday itself.


After a bottle of sherry, who knows what you'll end up doing

However mighty that morning after the night before feeling may be, though, it’s no reason for a good Spaniard to slow down his or her Carnaval activities. The yearly fiesta to end all fiestas simply kept on going strong for six more days until it finally ended today, March the 5th also known as El Domingo de Piñata, with the pyromaniacal witch-burning and closing fireworks that went up at around midnight. My girlfriend, on the other hand, had had her fill of the entire thing days ago. To be honest, I was sort of fed up with all of this fiesta as well (After all, how much sherry can one drunken expat English teacher be expected to drink?) but continued going out as the week wound on just to keep my vacationing Czech friend company. While I stayed out late into the wee hours of the morning, my girlfriend found it impossible to sleep with all the banging and drunken racket from the streets outside permeating our bedroom. Worse yet, each time she or I ventured out to walk the dog, we ended up dodging mountains of beer-soaked garbage and shards of broken bottles so that the mutt’s paws wouldn’t get cut up. Our door even got urinated on so many times that its facade began to emit a pungently acrid odor. I’m only thankful no one defecated on our doorstep. But my girlfriend and I weren’t the only ones that had to put up with these despicable acts of dishonor to both home and neighborhood. Besides, we’ve only been living here for a year. Imagine those poor neighbors of ours that have been enduring this Carnaval carnage for decades.


Yeah, yeah, you got a beautiful voice, Toots. But try to keep it down a bit, will ya'?

You see, for every four residents who absolutely adore Carnaval, there’s at least one who wholly detests it. Nowhere is this truer than in our barrio (neighborhood), La Viña, where Carnaval revelry is at its wildest. Remember that extra 136,000 kilos (300,000 pounds) I told you about that was dumped on the streets over the past nine days? Well most of it fell on La Viña outside my door. Then it got pissed on. This neighborhood is also the traditionally working class quarter so the houses are a bit shabbier and the unemployment is even higher than the city-wide average of 30%. The result of all this is that a number of the barrio residents are angry with the local government and letting their woes be known. A day before Carnaval erupted and the streets of La Viña flooded with tourists and wealthier Spaniards, an unhappy brave few ventured out into the narrow streets that would see the most fiesta action and blanketed the walls with graffiti. "Una semana cantando, todo el año tragando" ("One week of singing, an entire year of putting up [with this bullshit]"), "Bienvenido a la Capital del Paro" ("Welcome to the Capital of Unemployment"), and "Carnaval en la calle porque no hay viviendas" ("Carnaval in the street because there are no homes" [Local housing prices have increased by 145% since 1997 while salaries have remained relatively the same]) all appeared on numerous street corners and alleyways mostly in La Viña but throughout other barrios as well. The City of Cádiz spends hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of Euros putting on parades, buying fireworks, and hiring extra security and cleaning firms to take care of the filthy mess produced by Carnaval revelers and ensure that they are having a good time but won’t address the critical issues of unemployment and ridiculously high housing costs that threaten to overwhelm its residents every other day of the year. It comes as no surprise that a few locals that I know actually use Carnaval as an opportunity to escape from the city and go on holiday. They would rather be hundreds of kilometers away in a hotel than party in their own neighborhood streets and partake in the hypocrisy that hangs over it.


Welcome to the Capital of Unemployment...


...And what it looks like every morning for 9 days as Carnaval rages on at night

However most of the local residents, the vast majority in fact, celebrate Carnaval to their heart’s content and let the hypocrisy be damned. Perhaps this says a lot about the local character too: When life’s looking down and you feel like a frown, just fiesta!, fiesta!, fiesta! away. Then again, maybe Carnaval is the easy way out. It’s a lot easier to buy a bottle of whiskey, sherry, or beer and drink it down in the streets than to address pressing social and economic issues. In fact, sometimes, having a few glasses of the strong stuff and wearing a wild costume may seem like the only possibility.


"We ain't got jobs, but it's cool. Can ya' dig it?"

But, as I announced at the opening paragraph, it is time for you – the few people of Cádiz who actually have a job – to get back to work. El Domingo de Piñata has come and gone and those nine long days of Carnaval, one of the longest carnivals the world has to offer, has finally bowed its last curtain call. Whereas a few locals are, I’m sure, eager to return to life as usual, the overwhelming majority of you probably can’t wait for next year’s Carnaval to begin. After all, when you don’t have a job, are in your mid-thirties, and still live under the same roof as your grandparents, what else do you have to look forward to? Don’t fret just yet though! I’ve been told that this coming Sunday, a mere week after the largest street party Spain has to offer, the very same City of Cádiz is planning to organize a one day Mini-Carnaval. I swear it’s true folks so forget about your woes! I guess nine days just wasn’t enough and Town Hall has come to realize it... You know, Karl Marx must have never visited Cádiz in his day because, as far as this town is concerned, Carnaval is the true opiate of the masses. The local government better keep its fingers crossed and hope the downtrodden residents never come to realize it.