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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.

Photo credit: The cardiologist in the next booth.

My sister, Nina—concerned that I might be starved for American culture—sent me this photo of two men (undoubtedly tax partners from a large law firm) preparing to enjoy their Last Supper.

They are at a bar called Denny’s Beer Barrel Pub in Clearfield, Pennsylvania. For $30, Denny’s will serve you THIS—a 15-pound hamburger.

I’m not sure why anyone would want a 15-pound hamburger, but have long-suspected that if such a person did exist—he’d likely be living in Pennsylvania. This is, after all, a place where the first day of buck season is designated a state holiday.

What? You think I’m kidding?!

Certain people might cite this as a prime example of why the US has such a high rate of obesity; but I disagree.

A 15-pound hamburger is not responsible for the Airbus®-sized girth of Americans. More likely, it’s the 15-quart mug of beer that comes with it.

Theoretically-speaking, there are two kinds of barbers in Spain—those that talk a lot, and those that don’t. The reason that I say “theoretically” is because there are, in fact, no barbers in Spain that fall into the latter category.

But it gets more complicated still. Within the former category, there are two subgroups—those barbers that actually cut hair while talking, and those that don’t.

Sonia—who is my barber—don’t.

I go to Sonia for a hairtalk—I mean, a haircut—every four to six weeks, and each lasts at least thirty minutes. Now, this may not seem like an excessive amount of time for a haircut—until you realize that I only have about four hairs on my head.

Mind you, I certainly wouldn’t mind a little chit-chat in the barber’s chair—and in fact, it would be most beneficial for my abysmal language skills—if each sentence were punctuated by the sound of snip, snip, snip. But alas, punctuation isn’t her strong suit. And no matter how fidgety, dour or fatalistic I try to appear, it makes no difference. If Sal won’t talk to Sonia, then the lady on the left will. And the lady on the right. And the lady who just walked in the door. And the lady who has just called on the telephone. And the lady who has not just called on the telephone, because Sonia took the initiative to call her first.

I had my hair cut this morning, and arrived at Sonia’s ready for research. Tucked stealthily under my shirt were a pad, pencil and calculator—and yes, that *was* a slide-rule in my pants. I took diligent notes and, having just finished analyzing the data, hereby report that this morning’s haircut yielded one snip of the scissors for every 27 verbs, 14 predicates and 6.7 reflexive pronouns. If that’s not statistically significant, then I don’t know what is.

My wife says that I’m being an ass, and that I shouldn’t let any of this bother me. It is, after all, a “cultural thing.” We Americans put a high value on time, and are loathe to waste it. In this respect, we are like the Germans—except with much better taste in eyeglasses. But the Spanish, true to the stereotype, are a mañana, mañana, mañana culture—and no amount of pleading on behalf of an asymmetrical set of sideburns is likely to change that.

But after spending far too much time thinking about this (and on a vacation day, no less!), I’ve concluded that—perhaps for the first time ever—my wife may be wrong. Perhaps the reason behind the endless Spanish haircut is not a cultural one, but rather a business one. And a brilliant business one, at that!

Just think about it. By the time Sonia finishes my haircut, I’m in need of another.