Sal DeTraglia

Remember when you were ten years old and learned that you could mimic the sound of flatulence by cupping your left hand, placing it under your right arm pit, and pumping your right arm up and down wildly? Pffffft, pffffft, pfffft, pfffft, pfffft…

And remember how, a few months later during summer, you learned that you could do the same thing by placing your hand behind your knee? Pffffft, pffffft, pffffft, pfffft, pfffft…

Keep this hunk of childhood nostalgia in mind while I tell you a story.

Today I enrolled in a yoga school and attended my first class. Yes, they have yoga in Spain—and it’s a blast.

I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Midway through class, we did an exercise that was intended (I presume) to stretch and relax the spine. We were sitting on the floor with our knees drawn up to our chins. The instructor told us to put our hands behind our knees and fall backward so that we would rock back and forth on our backs like a cradle.

Well…as I rocked back the first time, suction was created between the palm of my left hand and the back of my left knee. And yes, you guessed it…PFFFFFT!

Panic-stricken, my first reaction was to leap to my feet and say, “Hey folks! I know what you’re thinking, but I swear to God…it wasn’t what you’re thinking!!!” But the room was so silent and the students so serious in their yoga practice, that such a discourse would’ve been inappropriate. Besides, my classmates would’ve likely found this explanation no more believable than if I’d blamed it on the family dog.

Suffice it to say, I’ll be wearing sweatpants to all future classes.

The four graying, balding, elderly men pictured above are a running team known as Fiel al Tao. This team competed in the half-marathon relay race that took place in Miraflores, Spain last weekend. Needless to say, they struck terror in few hearts on the other teams.

The race was structured as a relay. Each team member ran a five kilometer course, then passed the baton—which, in this case, was a polyester sash worn Miss America-style across the chest—to the next team member. Sounds easy, but there was an unexpected surprise—the first 2.5 kilometers were all uphill.

Given the steepness of the terrain, my time might have improved had I been wearing crampons. But alas, all I had were cramps.

Despite many years of library-lounging and alcohol abuse, team Fiel al Tao finished a respectable 39th out of 68 teams.

And to those 67 other teams, I’d like to issue the following plea: If anyone stumbled across my pancreas on or around the course’s 2.5 kilometer mark, would you kindly return it?

I recently made the decision to begin jogging and—having survived the first two tortuous weeks—it’s now part of my daily routine. But being a jogger in Spain is a lonely life.

Contrary to the US (a nation in which 99.98% of the population practices some form of aerobic exercise—yet, curiously, drive their cars two blocks to buy a loaf of bread), jogging hasn’t gained a foothold in mainstream Spanish culture.

Sure, you’re apt to find some joggers amidst the yuppified hordes in Madrid’s Retiro Park—but things are much different in the pueblos. I can assure you, for example, that the only other joggers to be found here in Sanchoville aren’t those who wear Lycra® shorts and Nike® trainers—but rather, those who wear woolen coats and swaying, milk-engorged udders.

Given this cultural bias, I often feel self-conscious when jogging through Sanchoville. Granted, nobody has ever taunted me. Such ill-mannered behavior simply doesn’t happen in pueblos. But I can, nonetheless, feel the confused or incredulous stares upon me as I wheeze my way past the town square.

Old men gathered on benches in front of the Casa de Jubilados look at me with faces that say, “I’m too old to do that now. But even if I were his age…I still wouldn’t do it.”

Construction workers exiting Bar Alcázar seem to be thinking, “I spend my days hauling buckets of cement up scaffolding because I’m paid to do it. Is someone paying this lunatic?”

Then there are the teenagers. They completely ignore me—which, in retrospect, probably means that they view me as a father figure. But even if these fresh-faced, soft-bellied kids wanted pass judgment on my jogging activities, they’d have no right to do so. How could they? The muscles in their own legs haven’t been used since the day they received their first Vespa® at age four.

Having established that jogging isn’t a popular pastime in Spain, the question that dogged me was…why? Why aren’t there more joggers here?

My initial hypothesis was simple—Spaniards don’t jog because it’s difficult to do while smoking a cigarette. Lighting a fresh one could cost you an eyebrow. But I was forced to retract this theory after recalling the dozens of Spaniards that I’ve seen smoking cigarettes WHILE driving motorcycles AND wearing helmets.

I then decided to consult my friend Fernando—a Madrileño whose analytical dial hasn’t seen the “off” position since ABBA won Eurovision. His explanation—on behalf of himself and his country—was enlightening: “Except for the Greeks, I’m aware of no decent civilization that has praised more physical exercise than is strictly necessary. What in hell led a man who was not being chased to stand up and run purposelessly?! You MUST admit that this goes against any animal instinct.”

Then again…Fernando explained this theory to me via his car phone while driving home with a loaf of bread.

I was jogging through Cabanillas yesterday—decked out in running shorts, running shoes, a Sony Walkman® and little else—when a man walking down the street signaled me to stop.

I removed the headphones from my ears and he asked, “Can you lend me a cigarette?”

Now, just think about that for a minute.

The bars and beauty salons of Cabanillas are abuzz with excitement. Why? Because Prince Felipe—Spain’s heir to the throne—and his wife, Letizia, recently announced the conception of their first child.

Yet for all the interest that this news has generated in Spain, none of my friends or family from the US have written to offer their congratulations. Or acknowledgement! I suspect, in fact, that 85% of them aren’t aware that Spain has a royal family. The other 15% believe that Fernando and Isabel are still on the throne.

But why? Why are my countrymen so well-versed in the exploits of Windsors and Grimaldis, while the Borbóns fly under the radar of US popular culture?

The answer is simple: Spain—through sheer stroke of dubious luck—has the world’s most well-behaved royal family!

Just think about it. Other countries have royals that would rather cut loose than cut ribbons. They punch photographers in the nose. They make cheesy music videos. They run away with traveling circuses. And on really, really good days—they are photographed having a toe inhaled while sunbathing poolside.

But what images come to mind when one thinks of our royal family? Let’s compile a short list:

* King Juan Carlos is a jolly old man. The phrase, “It’s good to be the king!” was clearly written with him in mind. He couldn’t be more gregarious—or more cuddly.

* Queen Sofía is noteworthy for having picture-perfect hair. Never a strand is out of place. She makes George Hamilton look like Eraserhead.

* Princess Elena (the eldest daughter) is a bit of an enigma. As far as I can tell, she only appears in public during equestrian events. And even then, I suspect that the figure riding the horse is a computer-generated image.

* Princess Cristina (the youngest daughter) and her sportsman husband, Iñaki, are notable for their startling fertility. They’ve just given birth to their 57th child.

As you might imagine, none of the above are likely to capture the world’s attention—at least, not until a reputable scientist proves a link between the ozone-layer’s depleted state and the Queen’s hairspray consumption.

In an effort to inject a little spice into royal matters, some media outlets tried to fabricate a scandal a few years ago when Prince Felipe dated the beautiful Norwegian, Eva Sannum. What was the scandal? Well…it seems that Ms. Sannum’s professional endeavors included prior work as an underwear model. But few people viewed this as scandalous—presumably because a woman walking around in her underwear still wears 50-70% more clothing than the average sunbather on a Spanish beach. Besides, underwear models perform a valuable public service.

Now, I’m certainly not saying that a member of Spain’s royal family should appear at a costume ball dressed as a Nazi…or drink such enormous quantities of alcohol that he/she nearly dies of pancreatitis. But just once, I’d like to see Prince Felipe drive a Harley-Davidson® through a crowded market? Or overturn a table full of drinks at a Kuala Lumpur disco?

Or—if he’d prefer to start slowly—just wear his shirt untucked?

Just once? For the folk back home?

Unlikely, indeed. I suppose, therefore, that I should—on behalf of my American friends and family—extend my congratulations to Felipe and Letizia on their impending childbirth here and now. Why? Because when the blessed event happens six months from now, it’s unlikely that anyone in the US will hear about it.

Unless, of course, the baby bears an uncanny resemblance to Cristina’s husband, Iñaki.

Photo Credit: © by SeeiMages, 2005.

When I lived in the US, I’d visit the dentist every six months for a check-up and cleaning. Each visit was startling in its consistency.

The dentist would bounce into the office holding a dozen dental hooks in each hand. He’d thrust them into my mouth—probing, prodding and tapping like a jazz xylophonist on his fourth can of Dr. Pepper®. When every square millimeter had been poked for soft spots, he’d snap his fingers and an assistant would appear carrying lead-lined blankets. They’d mummify me from toes to scalp in 97 kilos of lead, then take several hundred x-rays of my mouth.

We’d then rush into an IMAX® theater where images of my teeth—dwarfing those of King Kong—projected onto the screen. The dentist would inevitably whip-out a laser pointer and say something like, “Here on the upper-right incisor, we see a slight discoloration two microns in diameter. This could be the pre-pre-beginning stage of plaque formation. Brush and floss this area carefully, or it might develop into a small cavity seven to nine years from now.”

This was the level of dental care to which I’d grown accustomed in the US. And my experience was by no means unique. If you don’t believe me, then buy a Carly Simon CD and look closely at the cover photo.

My first visit to a dentist in Spain, however, was a different story. The dentist entered the room and demanded, “Tell me where hurts!”

“Nothing hurts,” I answered. “I’m just here for a check-up and cleaning.”

Looking puzzled, he grabbed a dental hook and tapped the nearest bicuspid—not so much to probe for soft spots, but rather to confirm that this calciferous object rising from my gum-line was indeed a tooth, and not the hallucinogenic by-product of a morning’s worth of second-hand nitrous oxide.

He then leaned forward, put his hands on his knees, and—from a distance of approximately two meters—gazed into my mouth like a truck mechanic pondering the source of a strange rattle in a diesel engine. Finally, he stood upright and confidently announced, “I see no cavities.”

I was taken aback by this relaxed approach to dentistry. And I started to wonder whether, as a result, the average Spaniard has problems with his teeth—or indeed, has teeth at all.

I thus embarked on an earnest—albeit unscientific—survey. For weeks thereafter, I carefully observed the teeth of every Spaniard with whom I conversed or had close contact. This was an endeavor that undoubtedly caused many Spanish women to wonder, “Why is this strange man *not* looking at my breasts?”

In the end, however, my survey yielded a startling conclusion: Most Spaniards have very nice teeth. Certainly better than the specimens one is likely to find in places like rural Arkansas or Windsor Castle.

How could this be? Well…I have some theories.

Perhaps US dentistry is unnecessarily conservative.

Perhaps the Mediterranean diet—with its abundance of fresh fruits and vegetables—is nature’s recipe for keeping one’s choppers in good health and working order.

Or perhaps the secret is the Spanish grappa known as orujo. Orujo does, after all, look, smell and taste like Listerine®. And based on a different survey that I’ve recently conducted, an awful lot of people gargle with it several times per day.

Adding another instalment to this egotistical and self-serving series, I’m proud to announce that my mother-in-law’s new book, English Through Movies: The Wizard of Oz (published by Dykinson Press), came hot off the presses this week.

The book is intended to help students improve their English through the history, story and script of the famous MGM movie and the L. Frank Baum book upon which it was based.

I didn’t write the book, but I edited it and wrote the Foreword. Sure, I had the easy job. Sure, my contribution was 1/1000th that of my mother-in-law’s. But hey…I still feel entitled to a MOMENT OF SHAMELESS SELF-PROMOTION!!!

Umm…right?

Don’t I?

Well…I guess that I’ve teased enough.

Why haven’t I published much on this blog lately? Because I’ve been chosen to be the “Expat Blogger” for the Expatica Spain website.

It’s an exciting opportunity. Expatica is a news website for English-speaking foreigners living in Spain. It has a readership of 30,000+. Expatica has sister sites for Germany and France—each with its own “official” in-country blogger.

My Expatica blog is located at the following URL: http://www.expatica.com/source/site_content_subchannel.asp?subchannel_id=184&name=Spain+Expat+Blog

Please check it out. The style and content of my Expatica posts will be the same as those to which you’ve grown accustomed—i.e., silly essays about life in Spain.

So…what does it mean for THIS (the original VTB) blog? Well…I’m certainly not going to retire this site. I’ve grown fond of this blog, and (I promise) will continue to publish on it. However…I’ll likely publish with a bit less frequency. And the stuff that I do publish may be more “out there” (i.e., stuff that would likely cause Expatica’s editors to scratch their heads).

The Virtual Tapas Bar will not only continue, but has multiplied.

A few weeks ago, this blog broke the disturbing story of a water bottle lynching that occurred here in Cabanillas del Campo. Then—earlier this afternoon—I stumbled upon the gruesome scene pictured above.

Ya know…it’s one thing to string-up a filth-encrusted Evian® bottle. But when people commit random acts of savagery against Pookie…that’s taking it too far!

Somebody call the A-Team! I hear that Mr. T comes cheaply these days.

In all seriousness (or, at least, as serious as I’m capable of being in print), this photo is of a vegetable garden located around the block from my house. The owner—an energetic man in his ‘70’s—surely intended this teddy bear to serve as a make-shift scarecrow.

I don’t know if it has scared any crows, but one thing’s for sure—it has definitely scared all the three-year old kids in the neighborhood.