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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.

It has happened again. I’ve just had a five-minute conversation in Spanish, without knowing what the hell we talked about.

This time it was with Sonia—the woman who owns the beauty salon in downtown Cabanillas del Campo. She snagged me as I passed her storefront, en route to Bar Gema for a café con leche. This much I know—she wanted me to relay a message to my wife regarding a scheduled massage. But that’s all I know.

Our conversation went—more or less— as follows:

At least, that’s how my brain processed the conversation. I can’t speak for Sonia, however. She seemed—much to my surprise—thoroughly satisfied with the outcome of our chat. She smiled appreciably and displayed none of the eye-rolling or tongue-clicking to which I’ve grown accustomed during past flirtations with conversational Spanish. Perhaps I unwittingly complemented her on her clarity of skin and firmness of thigh.

Anyway…the point of this tale is to illustrate that, after five years of total immersion, my Spanish-language skills remain almost as bad as those of President Bush.

I used to joke about this. When people would ask how my Spanish was progressing, I’d say, “Right on schedule! I’ve lived here for five years, and speak Spanish like a five year-old.”

But alas, the joke is on me. And humiliation has come from a most unexpected source: my two year old daughter, Inés.

For the past month, Inés has been giving ME vocabulary lessons. I knew this would eventually happen—but not so soon! The first hint of my impending doom came during a recent trip to Cantabria. We were hiking along a muddy trail, when the following conversation ensued:

Inés: Papá! I want to play in the charco.

Sal [whispering to wife]: What’s a “charco?”

Wife: It’s a puddle. You might also be interested to know that “hola” means hello and “adiós” means good-bye.

But the humiliation hasn’t ended with vocabulary. Inés’s mastery of Spanish grammar—including verb tenses and reflexive pronouns—surpassed mine around the time that she graduated from diapers to underpants.

Such is my dilemma. But what is the solution? My wife and I have slightly different opinions on how to address my linguistic shortcomings.

Hers is that I should enroll in Conversational Spanish lessons at a nearby language school, and also participate in our local library’s Spanish-language reading group.

Mine is that I should give up.

And Inés’s? Well…she told me her opinion last night during dinner. But to be honest, most of it went over my head.

Just another quirky delight of living in Spain.

Where else can you look up while stopped at a red light, and see a huge rotating billboard touting suckling lamb and pig roasted in a brick, wood-burning oven? To go!

Thanks, but you can keep your McNuggets®. I want a hunk of that pig!

This is the view from my home-office window. Is it just me, or are my neighbor’s trees giving me the finger while I work?

I was watching Floyd Uncorked on The Travel Channel tonight, when I suddenly remembered this photo. It was taken after our 7th anniversary dinner at Restaurante Arzak in San Sebastian last July.

So I decided to post it. Simply to post it. Accompanied by neither entertaining anecdotes nor witty banter.

That it provides conclusive evidence of my left hand touching the right shoulder of Juan Mari Arzak—Spain’s greatest (and in the case of this photo, most demented-looking) chef—seemed reason enough.

This was my finest hour.