I Remember Franco

I haven’t been to Spain since June of 1972, and who knows if I will ever get back. I don’t remember every day, or even most of them, but I remember enough. Franco still had a few years left in him. His police regularly raided the University, mostly the Medical School. I attended the Facultad de Filosofia y Letras at the Universidad de Complutense de Madrid. The secret police patrolled the Facudad, not that they were very secret, they were big heavy-set guys with crew cuts, tight shinny suits with the tell-tale bulge under their left arm. I’m not sure if students ever dressed in tight shinny suits but in those days the students in Franco’s Spain had adopted the haute couture of the hippie culture of the times.

Our literary criticism professor, Carlos Bustamente, assigned a student to keep an eye at the door to listen for the heavy footsteps of Franco’s minders. We were young we couldn’t take them very seriously, we only knew of Franco’s crimes from stories – we hadn’t really seen any of it. Most of us were from liberal democracies we thought most the ideas were tame.

I love Spain, I miss it. It was intense, relaxed, happy and sad all rolled up in one. But I remember Franco.

Photo Courtesy of the following site:
www.educared.net

Learning Spanish

Over thirty years ago I spent a year at the Universidad Complutense de Madrid – my junior year abroad. Over the years I lost most of what I had learned. I made attempts to keep up, but mostly to no avail. When my children began to take Spanish lessons in middle school; I decided to bring it back, and actually get good at Spanish this time. That was almost nine years ago. Since then I’ve been working on improving my Spanish, mostly half-heartedly. I could get by; I could almost understand ‘las noticias de la televisión.’

It became a minor focus of my life. I’d pickup a throw-away newspaper, some of them good like “Tiempos del Mundo,” others dreadful. Occasionally I’d pick-up El Pais, or read ABC online. I’d watch Telemundo y Univisión; but that didn’t last too long, the news was at an inconvenient time, the soaps were over the top, and confusing to boot. I learned later that many of them are produced in Brazil in Portuguese and dubbed, which explained my confusion - the lips didn’t match the sounds; my ear and eyes went into over-drive trying to resolve the discrepancy. The variety shows were pre-Ed Sullivan.

I was too unfocused to pull out the grammar books. I had 501 Verbs in Spanish, a few good dictionaries spread around the house, and a Franklin electronic dictionary I kept in my bag. At various times I’d concentrate on reading, phases, listening; it was all an unorganized jumble, and for the most part unproductive. I did make progress, my reading improved, even my listening abilities improved; but it wasn’t quite enough. It was slow. I guess I assumed that I’d learn through osmosis.

Next I discovered Destinos, a beginner’s language course in the format of a telenovela (Spanish soap opera). It’s a great series; click the Destinos link to learn more. It was advanced beginners so I didn’t learn much, but I could understand it; it was a big boost. I began to understand with what I was struggling. I knew about my problems with grammar; it was the struggle to understanding that was frustrating. I guess I understood intellectually that I was trying to learning Spanish by listening and reading from all the different countries of the Spanish speaking world, but when I could understand Destinos clearly I knew there was hope. Simply put it helped, I watched it for a while just for the pleasure of understanding everything.

This is only the beginning of the story of my adventures learning Spanish, next time I'll tell you ablout exploring podcasts and intercambios.

Logo Courtesy of Universidad Completense de Madrid
http://www.ucm.es/

Destinos Photo courtesy of Annenberg Media
http://www.learner.org/resources/series75.html

El Rastro

I was recently wasting some time at work reading a story about pick-pockets at El Rastro market in Madrid. The story reminded me of my student days in Madrid; I had spent my junior year at the Universidad Complutense de Madrid. One Sunday Mike Sweeny and I decided to check out the market. Mike and I went to high school together and when I decided to spend my junior year in Spain Mike tagged along.

El Rastro was famous but it was only open on Sunday - my one day off school; so it was months before we got around to visiting the market. We were looking for some gifts for our families. Spain was famous for linen, and we were told that El Rastro was the place to get it cheap. I vaguely remember the street, it was a wide street, cobbled I think, and on a hill. It must have been winter because I remember a winter sun; it was low in the sky and in my face. I remember squinting.

As you would expect it was crowded, and vendors were everywhere hawking their goods. We were trying to be smart bargainers. This was my first time bargaining, it might have been my first visit to a real flea market. We were accosted from all sides by vendors and con artists. I know I bought the linen I was seeking, but I have no memory of purchasing it. I do remember the diamond ring. One of the street people approaches us – it was the usual story – have I got a deal for you - a genuine diamond ring. We said no but he dragged me by the arm in to one of those glass showcase vestibules. He told me he’d prove the stone was a genuine diamond. He drew it along the glass of the window. And sure enough it left a mark. I’m not sure it I was suspicious or just wanted to feel the scratch on the glass. As I ran my finger over the scratch is disappeared and so did the salesman. It seems he had covered the stone with wax or soap so that it’d leave a mark.

It’s been over thirty years since my experience with the diamond salesman, and while I’ve told the story many times, this is the first time that I’ve bothered to look up the name of the market.