With A Little Help From My Tech

          The other evening, while walking home alone from a meeting, I inadvertently activated the voice recorder on the phone in my pocket. During the journey of about fifteen minutes, I had started to sing, loudly and heartily, as if to an imagined audience, an old favourite from my folk-club days, Cyril Tawney’s Sally Free and Easy. Mind you, I wasn’t just indulging in the joy of unrestrained vocal expression (fortified by the two pints of porter consumed in the pub after the meeting); I was consciously practising, or rehearsing so that, in the admittedly unlikely event of my being called upon to perform a party piece (the festive season approaches), I should have something acceptable to offer. I thought, at the time, that I had pretty much nailed it but when, the next day, I discovered and listened to the soundtrack, my bubble was burst. Even the muffled, distorted background, could not disguise the fact that I have work to do on hitting the notes (in the coda, particularly) and on mastering the lyrical phrasing (which came across as a bit ragged). Technology sometimes sneaks up behind us.

          I deleted the file, but not before skimming through the latter hour-and-a-half, which comprised sounds of my arriving home, helping myself to supper and watching Car Rescue until my Other Half enters the room and ‘suggests’ a change of channel – all of which was also disappointing, in so far as it highlighted just how many hours of our lives slip away in the mundanity of routine existence. Surely this is what Alfred Hitchcock was referring to when he defined “drama” as “life, with the boring bits left out.”

         There are some mornings – yesterday, for example – when I wake up feeling less than on the ball. “Groggy” would be an apt description. There are ways to haul oneself out of this state of mental sluggishness – cold water in the face is one – but why they occur in the first place and so randomly is a mystery to me. Yesterday’s grogginess lasted most of the day, despite my applying fresh air, physical exercise, caffeine, a shave and even a haircut.

          When, at last, I did feel sufficiently alert, I tackled some of my administrative backlog and followed up a few of my miscellaneous notes, one of which was to look up the word, ‘lachanaphobia’. (I know, some of you may be thinking there are more productive ways to spend five minutes, but bear with me.) According to my AI app, it means “an irrational fear of vegetables”, so while I was at it, I asked whether there is such a thing as an irrational fear of salads (having been lately in several Airbnb flats where there is every imaginable piece of culinary equipment except for salad bowls and servers) and it answered, “Yes. The word is deipnophobia”. Whilst I would never dispute the irrationality of these or any other phobia, I do question why there is a vocabulary dedicated to their description; I mean, you could just use “irrational fear of (whatever)” and not have to remember all the Greek prefixes. Still, if you’re a clinical psychologist, I guess the use of ‘scientific’ terminology to explain human irrationality lends a degree of credibility and gravitas to your diagnoses.

          AI assistants are useful, but they do have a sinister side to them. Today, when I opened mine up to ask it something, it was already displaying the answer to a question I had not put, but which was relevant nonetheless: “How do you shake off morning grogginess?” By way of answer, it listed all the remedies already known to me (except the haircut). Can it somehow sense when I’m being slow-witted?

          And can you blame me for feeling somewhat monitored this week? If I wasn’t feeling paranoid, I would be tempted to have another go at rendering Sally Free and Easy, loudly, heartily and publicly.

 

Barcelona Vs. Paris

          We were sitting at a café table in a leafy square just off the Ramblas, with the morning sun falling in patches between the buildings and the day’s business slowly gaining momentum around us. As we sipped coffee, we watched a short, stout woman at the café across the way singlehandedly set up her big parasols, drag the chairs and tables outside and arrange them neatly. We’d had only two days in Barcelona and were feeling reluctant to leave, even though Paris was our next destination.

       Having ‘done’ the main tourist attractions on previous visits, we were inclined only to explore the streets and enjoy the vibe, though we did swing by La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi’s eccentric cathedral, just to see how the work is progressing. They’ve done a lot since last I saw it, though the result, to my eyes, has spoilt the weirdly imposing structure that I remember. From every aspect, the new facades present a complicated mix of richly detailed but incoherent ornamentation. Are the builders working to a plan, or making it up as they go along? It looks to me like the latter.

          The excessive number of us tourists presents the city with certain difficulties, as is well known, but it’s problematic for us as well. When we look for the ‘authentic’ Barcelona – in so far as such a thing exists – we find ourselves searching through the wreckage wrought by our very presence. But all is not yet lost, at least when it comes to eating and drinking, both of which pastimes are abundantly and publicly indulged on almost every street (although, strangely, obesity is not evident). And, if you are brave enough to explore the neighbourhoods behind the main drags, your antennae soon become attuned to the places that are not devoted to the tourist dollar but owe their living to the locals who live in the apartments above them. It was in such establishments that we ate the best food, reasonably priced and served with friendly yet business-like service, such as would encourage regular patronage.

          We looked for the same sort of experiences in Paris and, I’m happy to report, with some success. The cold, wet weather did not put us off venturing out on foot, though it may have caused us to spend more time in cafés than we might usually. Then again, any excuse would have done. A memorable plat de jour lunch was had in a bistro that, apart from contemporary-style cuisine, had the style and feel of a bygone era, including tiny tables for two that were so close together it was necessary to move them to get seated. This also presented difficulty in removing one’s coat without sweeping the adjacent tables clean. Then, when settled, there was the question of to what extent you should acknowledge the other diners, strangers just a few centimetres from your face. Fortunately, we had each other to talk to, but those on either side were dining alone and determinedly minding their own business. On the one hand was a woman who was consulting a guidebook in Japanese, Chinese or Korean script and, on the other, the French-speaking spit of Barrack Obama.

          Politely, each table respected the others’ privacy, up to the moment when Barrack inadvertently knocked his water carafe over. He caught it deftly and elegantly – as you would expect him to – but water splashed onto my coat, causing consternation on his part and the swift appearance of the waitress to smooth things over. He apologised profusely (in English, with no hint of an American accent) and I joked that it was of no consequence, as it was a raincoat anyway.  He finished his meal before us and, as he left, said sorry once more and flashed me his big Obama smile. Paris, of course,  was no disappointment at all.

Coping In The Campo

          Ten days in the campo (as they call the countryside here in north-east Spain) have done nothing to persuade me to adopt the rural lifestyle. Not that it’s been uninteresting or in any way unpleasant; just so unrelentingly, well, rural. There has been many an occasion when, outnumbered in company by agriculturalists, I’ve had nothing to contribute to the conversation; though, on reflection, I have now, through osmosis, acquired sufficient knowledge of olive harvesting and pressing to hold my own in a lightweight exchange on those subjects.

          True, most things you can do in a city, you can also do here: it’s just more convoluted and involves driving. For example, I went to a yoga class one day (I know, one scratches around for something to do) though it was only with the aid of Google maps that we were able to locate it, set as it was in a yurt, on yet another finca amid acres of identical-looking olive trees.

           Actually, I have had yoga lessons a couple of times before, once in the 1980s, then again, a decade later. On the first occasion the classes, funded by the local council, were abruptly discontinued after a budget review. And in the second instance, I found the teacher so disagreeably arrogant and impatient I could not bear to go back for more. This last experience, however, has revived my interest. The yurt was comfortable and the fee reasonable. More importantly, the teacher was charmingly considerate of my age-related inflexibility. I couldn’t bring myself to join in the “ommmm” but otherwise followed instruction as best I could.

          The campo is between the mountains and the Mediterranean, so, since the weather was conducive, we went one day for a swim down at Miami Beach (the original, I assume), at a cove designated for nudists. Not that we had intentions to skinny dip, it just happens to be the best place for swimming. Fortunately, it is out of season and the few diehards there made no objection to our clinging to our modesty. Then, on another, fresher, day, we took a hike in the mountains and got a panoramic view of the region, including the river Ebro and its delta.

          But, for everyday exercise, I’ve been stretching my legs for an hour or so along the access road that serves the tracks leading off to the individual fincas. It is here that I noticed a striking resemblance to the UK, not in the flora but in the amount of litter scattered amongst it. Yes, even on this land dedicated to agriculture, the drive-by tossing of beer cans and fag packets is commonplace and a walk along the lanes without a collection bag is a wasted opportunity to clean up and feel indignant.

          Otherwise, I have taken every opportunity of a lift into town, most frequently to Tortosa (population 33,000), where there is a museum of local history housed in a surprisingly handsome and ornate collection of buildings that once had been the region’s main slaughterhouse. There I discovered more about this seemingly sleepy region, particularly what happened during the civil war. In 1938 the German Luftwaffe did General Franco the favour of dropping 54 tons of bombs on Tortosa, intending to destroy its three bridges over the Ebro and thwart the Republican forces. The fascists prevailed and subsequently erected a monstrous victory-commemorating structure on a pier in the river. It looms over the city even now, a subject of controversy.

          The next day, in our local village, we bumped into the yoga teacher. I immediately straightened my posture and tried to look loose-limbed. She probably was not fooled, but she smiled and greeted us warmly. We’ll be leaving for home soon, but we have an opportunity to go to one more yoga lesson. I’ve put my name down. This time, I might even brave a discreet “ommmm”.

On The Move Again

          I will admit to being a bit of a grump about Halloween. The way I see it, what started as an ancient Celtic festival marking the end of harvest season was subsequently hijacked by the Christian church, then popularised and commercialised in the USA, before being exported back to Europe as a mock horror tableau. It serves no useful purpose in my universe. Still, having spent the night of 31^st October in the centre of Santander, Spain, I can see it’s a lot of fun for a lot of people. The local populace dressed up and stayed up, partying in the streets for most of the night – and so they might, as the following day is a holiday, designated by the Church as All Saints Day (which sounds like an all-purpose excuse for a party).

          We’re currently on a leisurely round-trip, staying for a week or so with a friend who now lives off-grid on a finca – or smallholding – that she acquired in NE Spain some five years ago. Although hers may sound like an isolated existence, she is in fact at the centre of a networked community whose social life would be the envy of many a city-dwelling nine-to-fiver. Get-togethers are frequent and laughter abounds, though underlying anxieties related to battery capacity and rainfall often dominate the conversation.

          In fact, just before we arrived, a storm had brought them much needed rain, though in such vast quantities that it ran down the rivers to Valencia and caused catastrophic flooding, leaving the country in mourning for the death of hundreds of its citizens. The event was covered by news media in the UK, but distant tragedies are usually only of passing interest to those who are not immediately affected. Such is the extent of human empathy. Being in Spain at this time makes it feel a little more personal, but only to the extent that my touristic pleasures are tinged with a vague feeling of guilt.

          If measured by the extent of human suffering, then every news bulletin contains greater tragedies than this, though that does not deter us tourists from carrying on regardless. Life goes on. It used to be easy to maintain a state of oblivion while on holiday, working abroad or travelling. I recall being overseas for months at a time and losing touch with current affairs for want of an English language news-source. It was as if geopolitics had been suspended, such was the degree of my ignorance.

          But the internet has changed all that and not necessarily for the better. I have been able to continue following the US presidential election as reported by CNN, the Guardian, the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Financial Times and various free news sources. Where once there was famine, now there is feast, which is a marvellous thing but, in the current circumstances, does nothing to lift the spirits. The geopolitical storms don’t look like abating. Wars, the depletion of nature and climate change are driving the migration of millions from their homelands. It's not surprising that we humans take care of our own welfare before we give much consideration to the suffering of others: it might so easily be our turn next to fall victim to the cruelties inflicted by others acting in their own self-interest.

          Anyway, my leisurely trip can be likened to a circular hike: assuming all goes well, I will find myself back at home, safe, sound and satisfied. It’s quite unlike the linear, open-ended journey that I contemplated, just for the sake of adventure, at the age of eighteen. And it’s in a different league altogether from the desperate, dangerous setting forth of the migrants who seek sanctuary from the all too real horrors they face in their homelands.

Out Alone

          There’s a pub in Totnes that has the best food menu ever: bring your own! The concept makes a lot of sense, leaving the publican free to concentrate on curating the bar and the jolly pub vibe, while not having to take responsibility for a potentially cantankerous chef in the back. This formula for success may not be a novelty, I know, but it works especially well in this instance because it’s next door to a very fine takeaway joint that will bring your order, when it’s ready, to your table in the pub. That is, if you can get a table.

          I was there last week, on my own (by design), having arrived too early for a relatively obscure gig at a nearby venue. So, what better way to pass an hour than to eat and sup beforehand in a jovial, old-fashioned pub? Well, to have had company is one answer. A lively taproom can be a lonely place. And there is never a table for one. I was obliged to hang around until I got lucky and, when a couple vacated their table-for-four, I was quick to move in and claim it.

          Predictably, of course, I was soon approached and asked, politely, if I would mind sharing. Two blokes in their sixties, clutching full pints and wearing hopeful expressions stood before me. “Of course,” I said, “feel free.” But, in situations such as this, there is an assessment to be made about whether it is just the space you’re about to share or if conversation is included. I was engaged with my phone – the modern equivalent of reading the newspaper, a traditional way of being alone in a bar – but I paused to allow for any further verbal exchange.

          It became clear, however, that these two chaps had met up specifically to catch up. They had not seen each other for a while and they had no need to leaven their conversation with contributions from a third party. I reverted to my phone until, thankfully, the harried-looking girl from the takeaway appeared with my order, a family-sized chicken shwarma (without napkins), which I consumed, messily, as a captive audience to my table-fellows’ conversation. Although, ‘conversation’ is not really what I would call the lengthy and detailed account by one of the men of how he went about consolidating his various pension funds into a single, drawdown option. And that was before he started on his wife’s financial situation. Before long, I had the impression that his companion was beginning to regret not having invited me to join in, but it was too late to switch topics and, anyway, I was fully engaged in battle with a monster, dripping shwarma.

          But the monster had me beaten and I went in search of a bin for what remained of it. When I returned, the dynamic at the table changed. As the pension bore shifted his chair, it produced a loud cracking sound which alerted me (being an ex-furniture-maker) to looming catastrophe. I urged him to stand so that I could examine the structure which, sure enough, was on the verge of collapse. Manfully, I lifted it with the intention of effecting a temporary repair and, in the process, ripped open a fingertip on a protruding nail. The others gawped as I fished out a pocket-tissue to staunch the blood, then set off in search of first aid.

          The barman, mistaking the look of urgency on my face for thirst, launched himself towards the beer-pumps and enquired after my preference. “Actually, it’s a plaster I need”, I said, brandishing my finger. Although taken by surprise, he acted with alacrity and produced the necessary dressings. One of my table-fellows helped me apply the plaster (it’s difficult to do with one hand) and then it was time for me to leave.

          Going solo is a bit of a gamble, I reflected: one’s fantasies of exhilarating adventures don’t always materialise. Even the gig turned out to be a disappointment, though that’s another story...