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Ever since reading this post by our good friends Canadian-Swiss and Orange-X, I’ve been suffering from an acute case of in-home sauna envy.

I’d LOVE to have one of those in my basement, but I don’t think it’s going to happen during this fiscal quarter. I did, however, have a near-sauna expeience this afternoon.

It was a sunny day and my car had been sitting outside for a few hours with the windows up. I needed to go to the supermarket at 3pm, and when I sat down in the driver’s seat…I had a “moment.”

The car was about 100 degrees. 100 dry degrees. Kinda like…you know…a Finnish sauna.

My body got all tingly and I just sat there for awhile…very happily.

Then I had a vision. A vision of an Internet video that somebody needs to make. I had a vision of…

Cool, eh? As I said, some budding young Internet video director really, really needs to make this film. And if he does, then I predict that it will soon find its way into the email Inbox of every corporate lackey in the northern hemisphere.

So…who’s gonna make it?

How about you, Walt? You have a flare for this sort of thing. And besides, you’ve already dropped your pants for the Internet once before.

[Note: This is an essay that was recently published in Expatica Spain.]

I’ve been watching Spanish teenagers a lot since I moved here in 1999. And it’s not just because they refuse to talk with me. They are, in fact, fascinating creatures to observe—and, contrary to some of their US counterparts, are unlikely to be concealing weapons.

Whether it’s due to curiosity or age, I’ve amassed a number of conclusions about their behavior that I’d like to share. So let’s begin this discussion on a scientific note. Evolution!

Within the next one hundred years, evolutionary forces will render the average Spanish teenager’s legs non-existent. This will happen because those legs are, in fact, redundant appendages—having been replaced long ago with the two-wheels of a Vespa® motorbike.

Spanish teens ride motorbikes everywhere. They ride them to the supermarket. They ride them to the park. They ride them to the toilet at 3am. But do they ride them responsibly? The answer is…“kind of.”

Spain has a mandatory helmet law, which teens strictly observe in spirit—if not in letter. The problem, you see, is not whether they wear their helmets. It’s where.

Half of all teenage motorbike drivers wear an unstrapped helmet balanced gingerly atop the crown of the head. This has the dual advantage of allowing the sun’s nourishing rays to penetrate the driver’s scalp, while freeing his face to smoke a cigarette at eighty kilometers per hour.

The other half wear their helmets on the elbow.

Arguably, however, Spanish teens don’t *need* to wear helmets because they’ve devised other, ingenious ways of making the motorbike experience a safer one. Foremost amongst these is to remove the muffler from the motorbike’s exhaust pipe and replace it with an empty beer can. This modification effectively notifies other motorists on the road—and in fact, across the entire province—that a teenager is in the vicinity and all lane changes should therefore be made with extra care.

They then take safety-consciousness one step further by driving these modified screamers between the hours of midnight and 3am—a time during which they’re likely to have the roads all to themselves, because the rest of the populace has long-since gone to bed and is trying to sleep.

But enough about science. Let’s move on to fashion.

A few years ago, my then-thirteen year old cousin from Nashville, Tennessee visited me in Barcelona. It was his first trip abroad. After twenty-four hours in town, he looked up to me and said, “Gosh!” [Apparently, they still say “Gosh!” in Nashville.] “The kids in Spain sure wear tight jeans.”

“What do they wear in Nashville?” I asked.

“The same thing, but six sizes bigger.”

And he was right, as I learned upon returning home the following Christmas. US teenagers wear ass-crack-to-floor length blue jeans so baggy and tattered that even Charlie Chaplin would be reluctant to don them; whereas their Spanish counterparts prefer jeans that appear to have been fashioned from Lycra and pulled from the wardrobe of a Barbie Dream House®.

I’m not sure why teens on each side of the Atlantic choose to dress so differently. Aren’t teenagers supposed to be the same the world over? I do, however, see logic in each side’s position. On the one hand, it makes perfect sense for teenage girls to flaunt their newly-budding bodies by wearing form-fitting jeans. On the other hand, it makes perfect sense for teenage boys to conceal their delight at such flaunting by wearing enormous, loose-fitting jeans.

And speaking of newly-budding bodies, let’s move on to our next topic…PDA.

Spanish teens are great aficionados of PDA. By “PDA,” I don’t mean Personal Digital Assistants. No teen would be interested in one of those, unless its screen displayed images of muscular bald men hacking each other to pieces with samurai swords. Rather, the PDA that I’m talking about is Public Display of Affection.

And when it comes to THAT type of PDA, Spanish teens are performance artists without out equal. Indeed, they’ll seize any opportunity to launch into a well-rehearsed pantomime of two carp pursuing the same piece of bread…and they’ll do it anywhere. They’ll do it in a commuter train. They’ll do it on a park bench. Or—as happens all too frequently—they’ll do it in a restaurant…at the table in front of me…while I’m trying to eat dinner.

Which brings us to our final topic for today—the botellón.

When the weekend rolls around, Spanish teens take to the supermarket. And what do they buy? They buy two-liter jugs of Coca-Cola, Tetrabrik boxes of low-grade red wine, bottles of the cheapest simulated Scotch whiskey on the shelf…and potato chips. Lots of potato chips. Then they congregate at a pre-arranged location for a “botellón.”

Botellones are informal, open-air parties at which several to hundreds of teenagers compete to see who can achieve the most skull-crushing hangover for the least amount of money. Botellones used to be a widespread occurrence throughout Spain—usually taking place in public parks of major cities. But alas, Spanish authorities began clamping down on these parties because—amongst other reasons—the kids failed to remember what their parents had taught them: Always pick-up after yourself.

Botellones still happen, of course. But they’ve moved on to more discrete venues. Here in Sanchoville, the weekly botellón takes place in the cornfields up the street from my house.

I was tempted to join these Children of the Corn during last Friday’s festivities. You know…for journalistic reasons. In the end, however, I decided against it—as being caught drinking Calimochos (i.e., red wine and Coca-cola cocktails) with peers who were wearing diapers when I was wearing university robes might not bode well for me when it comes time to renew my residency visa.

And anyway…they probably would’ve refused to talk with me.

Explains a lot, don’t you think?

…Slim Whitman?

That’s right, Slim Whitman! You’ll never believe it, but he helped me fix a flat tire on the highway this afternoon.

Actually…you shouldn’t believe it, because it’s not true. What IS true, however, is that I was sitting here thinking that I really needed to post something new on the VTB…but had no ideas and even less motivation. So I assumed the lotus position and dropped a hook into the deepest recesses of that surreal part of my brain. You know…the one with the Latin name.

I felt a nibble on the hook, gave it a sharp tug, reeled it in and found Slim wiggling on the end of the line.

So…who is Slim Whitman? He’s a country singer that yodels.

And why, you may be wondering, has a yodelling country singer been honored with a star on my Subconscious Walk of Fame? It’s because the commercial for Slim’s greatest hits album aired on late night TV every seven minutes during the two years that I was in Junior High School.

If you’ve seen the commercial, it’s impossible to forget. Slim stands in front a barn dressed as a matador…or something. The barn isn’t real. It’s obviously just a low-budget prop on TV studio sound stage. He begins yodelling, and a voiceover begins.

“This country superstar has sold more records than Elvis or The Beatles.”

That claim always struck me as a bit suspect, since I couldn’t find a single person who had heard of Slim before those TV commercials began airing.

Anyway…Slim continued yodelling through a medley of his hits as the commercial proceeded. And at one point, Slim’s face appeared in a box at the lower corner of the screen…and the man himself spoke!

“All the songs on this album have touched my heart. I hope they touch your heart, too.”

Viewers were then informed that a check or money order would be required. Sorry, but no C.O.D.’s.

Slim quickly became a hot topic amongst my classmates and I. Not because we wanted to buy his album. Heavens no! But simply because his commercial was so damn kitchilicious.

“Slim rocks!” Began appearing on chalkboards and bathroom walls.

Thirteen year old boys began asking thirteen year old girls if they could, “Touch your heart, too.”

If our pre-prubescent bodies could muster the testosterone, I’m sure we all would’ve grown pencil-moustaches.

Think I’m nuts? Well then…go find yourself an American guy who is more or less my age (39) and say the words, “Slim Whitman.” Then step back and gauge his reaction.

Whatever it is, I’ll betcha it involves a yodel.

[Note: This is an essay that was recently published in Expatica Spain.]

As I type these words, my laptop and I are sitting on the strikingly uncomfortable seat of a Cercanias train en route from Guadalajara to Madrid.  This is the standard mode of transport for those of us who are too far from the city to walk, yet too smart to drive. 

But liberation from the tyranny of traffic and parking isn’t the only reason that I like taking this train. There’s another. Each train ride reminds me of how much Spain’s face—and faces—have changed since I moved here six years ago. Let me explain.

One of the first things I noticed when I moved to Spain in 1999 was the homogeneity of its people.  Street after street, block after block, bar after bar…everybody looked the same. Short, thin people with dark hair, dark eyes and olive skin. In other words, everybody looked like ME—but with much nicer shoes.

Perhaps I would’ve taken such homogeneity in stride if I were an expat from—say—Japan or Iceland. But I moved here from the US—a country that prides itself on being a melting pot (or perhaps more accurately…a mosaic) of cultures.  Worse still, I came from Chicago—a city that is diverse even by the US’s lofty standards. In Chicago, it’s rare to walk past three consecutive people that have the same color of skin, hair or eyes.

This was, in fact, one of the things that I liked best about Chicago.  I could throw a dart at a world map and whichever country it hit, I could find that type of restaurant, store or neighborhood somewhere in the city.  In a single day, I could eat kielbasa sausage at a Polish buffet…then drink ouzo at a Greektown bar…then fill my shopping cart with kimchee, dried cuttlefish and barley tea at a Korean strip mall…and then watch belly-dancers until 3am at a Lebanese cabaret while smoking a hookah pipe stuffed with apple-flavored tobacco.  A night on the town in Chicago was like a vacation with Michael Palin.

Which brings me back to the train. The homogeneity in Spain that so shocked me in 1999 seems to have long-since evaporated—and I’m reminded of it every time that I ride this commuter train. During the one hour journey, my ears are bombarded with Slavic languages and Spanish spoken with South American accents. I see Africans and Asians and Hispanics. Lamentably, I’ve yet to find myself seated next to a belly-dancer…but I remain hopeful.

These observations are not, of course, limited to the train. I’ve noticed plenty of evidence of the demographic shift elsewhere. I was shopping recently at the Alcampo hypermarket in Alcala de Henares—a distant suburb of Madrid…by my standards, at least. The store had a huge “Welcome” sign over its entrance.  The sign was written in three languages. One of them was Polish.

One of the Guadalajara-area newspapers includes a regular supplement written in…Romanian!

And I was a resident of Barcelona during some of the heaviest waves of immigration from sub-Saharan Africa—including the period when the mass-squatting of black Africans in Plaza Catalunya was making national headlines. Rarely has a walk across a Spanish square seemed so exotic.

From my perspective, this is a good development.  I say that not just because I’m an expat here myself.  Rather, I truly believe that Spain’s expanding cultural mosaic makes it a much more interesting country. 

Many—if not most—of these new immigrants are working low-skill, menial jobs like construction, agriculture or house cleaning. But I’m REALLY looking forward to the day when these Poles and Russians and Nigerians lay down their hammers and feather-dusters, and start opening…restaurants!

And then—for the first time since Chicago—my days will be filled with kielbasa and kimchee and hookah pipes stuffed with apple-flavored tobacco.

But until that day arrives, I guess I’ll have to be content with fantasizing about belly-dancers on the train.

This is Nicky-baby. He’s my eleven year old nephew from the US. And he has a blog, which you can find HERE.

I started this blog for Nicky-baby a year ago and have written a bunch of posts for it. Slowly but surely, however, he has been picking up the pen himself—which, of course, was my intention from day one.

But alas, blogging has met with stiff competition for Nicky-baby’s heart. His main passions—soccer and eleven year old girls—have been jealous mistresses. So I thought I’d do a little PR today, in the hope that some extra traffic (and comments!) to his blog might inspire Nicky-baby to resume his blogging with renewed vigor. And, in the process, allow Uncle Sal to retire from his ghostwriting duties (not that I mind ghostwriting).

A few of you—like Kim, Thomas and their son Pickles—have already found their way to Nicky-baby’s blog. And I hope you do, too. Why? Because the future of blogging lies with today’s youth.

And I’m sorry, but with the exception of Pickles…none of us qualify as “today’s youth.”

Since today is April Fool’s Day, I’d like to take a moment and pay tribute to a great Dane—Mr. Samuel Soren Sorenson.

Sorenson didn’t invent April Fool’s Day, but he did found S.S. Adams Co.

While other corporations were wasting stockholder capital by peddling crap like iron lungs and antibiotics, S.S. Adams Co. invented and marketed such world-changing, life-altering products as Sneezing Powder, the Exploding Cigarette Box, the Snake Nut Can, Itching Powder, the Dribble Glass, the Joy Buzzer, the Bar Bug Ice Cube and the Squirting Nickle.

Sorenson died in 1965, but his memory lives on each time the buttocks of an 85 year old woman touch a Whoopee Cushion.

Those little yellow balls that are floating in jars of pickles. What the hell are they?

The first to answer correctly wins my eternal gratitude…and the contents of that Buster Brown shoebox in the back corner of my closet shelf.

[Note: This is an essay that was recently published in Expatica Spain.]

I come from a long line of great wine drinkers. This should not, however, be confused with coming from a long line of drinkers of great wine.

My paternal grandfather made home-made wine in the basement of his New York home. According to family archives, it tasted better in a salad bowl than in a wine glass.

My maternal grandfather attributes his longevity (ninety years old and counting!) to a lifetime of jug-wine consumption. That, and managing not to get blown-up during World War II.

My parents inherited the old geezers’ passion for wine, and mercifully raised the bar on quality. They refuse to drink any wines poured from a bottle with a screw-off cap.

But I, alas, have outdone them all. That’s because I am living in Spain—a land of outrageously good wines at outrageously low prices.

According to several websites that I consulted, Spain is the world’s third largest wine producer—trailing only Italy and France, respectively. I feel somewhat responsible for this achievement. Supply is, after all, driven by demand—and I contribute a helluva lot of demand to our domestic wine industry. If I should move to another country, Spain might quickly drop to fifth place.

This wasn’t always the case with me. When I moved to Spain six years ago, I was a confirmed beer drinker. My greatest passion was Belgian ales…with the surprisingly excellent US microbrews coming in second, and British Real Ales (bless you, CAMRA!) a close third. I wore this as a badge of honor. I was proud to be a connoisseur of fine beers, and rejected the perceived pretentiousness of the world’s wine drinkers.

My first brush with Spanish wines after moving here did little to realign those passions. Where did that first brush occur? At Spain’s many “menus del dia” (i.e., those ultra-cheap, three-course lunches that nearly every Spanish bar and restaurant offers during the workweek).

I was delighted to find that a half-liter of wine—and in some cases, an *entire* bottle—is included within the price of each menu del día. And I was even more delighted to find that I could drink this wine during lunch without fear of being branded a degenerate—as would surely be the case in the US. My delight evaporated when I tasted those wines, however, because they generally came in one of two categories—vinegary and overpoweringly vinegary.

On the bright side, at least I learned that the vinegar flavor could be tempered by drinking the wine ice cold. If only Grandpa had known this little trick.

But my attitude toward Spanish wines quickly changed when I ventured out of the bargain lunch sphere into the retail one. There was a small wine shop in the neighborhood in which I lived in Barcelona. In a small room at the back of the shop, the proprietor—a man whom I credit for showing me “the light” about wine…and whom I discredit for revealing himself to be a pathetic, drunken ass shortly thereafter—operated a tiny, hidden bar for “select” customers. This bar featured a small, ever-changing list of wines by the glass—each of which was hand-selected for its excellent price/quality ratio. It was as brilliant a marketing gimmick as it was an educational experience.

In tasting glass after glass—many of which the proprietor was too drunk to remember when tallying my bill at night’s end—I was able to explore (and finally appreciate!) the depth and quality of Spain’s vast offering of wines and wine regions.

The exploration continues to this day—although I have, by this point, developed some strong preferences. My favorite wines at the moment are from the region known as D.O. (Denominación de Origen) Toro—which produces a growing selection of big, strong, deep purple wines at ridiculously low prices. I am also deeply in love with the wines from D.O. Somontano, D.O. Costers del Segre and of course…my local D.O. LaMancha.

[Note to all wineries in the aforementioned regions: Please send the complimentary bottles and/or cases directly to my home—rather than to those Fanta drinkers in Expatica office.]

Apparently, I’m not the only one who believes that Spain’s wines are world-class bargains. At least once per month, some friend or co-worker from the US forwards me an article from the New York Times, Washington Post, Chicago Tribune or other publication in which the food critic or wine editor gushes about his latest “find” from Spain. If only they knew that I’m buying the same wines locally for 25-50% less.

If there’s a downside to Spain’s outstanding-yet-cheap wines, it’s that they are so…so…outstanding-yet-cheap. When I lived in the US, at least I could rely on my own tendencies as a world-class cheapskate to keep my wine consumption under control. A reasonably good bottle from Napa or Sonoma costs at least $10 in the US…and that hurts! But here…I can—with a little bit of research—buy a fantastic bottle of Spanish wine (for example, Finca La Estacada joven) for under 4€.

4€!!! That’s less than a bottle of Night Train, for God’s sake!

So…what’s my incentive to moderate? Some people may say “health reasons”…but I’m not convinced. If you want to debate this point further, however, then go talk to my ninety year old grandfather.