Politically (in)correct

We Americans are sensitive creatures. We're a culture that analyzes, over-analyzes, misinterprets and twists words. An innocent comment becomes a vicious, racist, elitist, insensitive, bigoted or inarticulate attack in one swift cycle through the media wringer. 

Source

We have an intricate and delicate PC code that, when violated, gets you 1). fired 2). blacklisted or 3). praised. In America, “rich people” are “people of means,” “illegal immigrants” are “undocumented,” “trailer parks” are “mobile home developments,” “crazed extremists” are “activists”, and “Easter eggs” are “spring spheres” (that really happened).

In America, we’re weird about ethnic terms or nationalities, so we generalize to the point of ridiculousness. In our attempt to be politically correct, I’d argue we become incorrect, or at least unclear. Instead of referring to Spanish-speaking people by their precise nationality, we call them all Latinos. Yes, let’s just lump them together because they’re all the same, right? What's the difference between a Mexican and a Costa Rican anyway? (*sarcasm*)

I don’t mention all of this to sound like I hate being sensitive to discriminatory speech. Rather, my point is this: While we try to find an acceptable way to say exactly what we don’t mean in English, Spanish-speakers don't beat around the bush so much. 

In Spanish, it’s not uncommon to refer to an Asian as a “chino,” to your somewhat chubby girlfriend as “gorda” (fat), to an obvious foreigner as a “guiri” or "gringo" and to a man as a “maricón” (a derogatory term for a homosexual).

It’s dangerous to translate these words literally into English because the words don’t carry the same weight in Spanish. It's not that Spanish-speakers are bigots who litter their colloquial speech with epithets, although when thought of in terms of English it may seem that way. 

It's just that language is perceived differently. They don't give words so much gravity, and therefore they're not as upset when potentially offensive words are used. Heck, insults in English ("gorda" (fatty), for example) can be terms of endearment in Spanish (my Spanish roommate tried "gorda" once with his girlfriend, who is my English roommate, and it didn't go over so well).

An anectdotal example of directness in Spanish: A Spanish-language podcast I listen to is hosted by a couple – the guy is British (but speaks in Spanish), and the woman is Spanish. On one episode they were discussing how Madrid has changed since Ben moved there nine years ago. As he describes the evolution, he is tiptoeing around saying there are more people of different races, especially black, in the city than when he arrived. Marina, the Spanish wife, tells Ben in Spanish, “Ben, they’re black. Just like you’re white. It’s OK to say that.”

But perhaps the most convincing anecdotal evidence is this, which admittedly made me cringe a bit:

This is a real page from a Spanish publication (thanks to my friend Sam over at Segun Samantha for showing it to me). It says, "Why don't Chinese people party?" ("hacen botellon" in Spain actually means drinking outside.) It continues, "They don't like to party, they work 12 hours a day, they start businesses with wedding money and they don't want their kids to be like Spaniards because they think we're lazy."

Wow. Sometimes straight-forward Spanish is jarring, like the example above. Sometimes it's comical. Sometimes it's uncomfortable. Sometimes it's mildly disconcerting.

But perhaps we uptight folk should recognize it as at least a little bit refreshing, eh?

Un saludo, 

Teresa

A beautiful mess

For my trip through Paris, Amsterdam and Belgium, I had everything meticulously planned. I studied public
transportation timetables for hours, charting the most economical times and locales.
I pored over hundreds of hotel reviews for four different cities. Everything went off
without a hitch. Our lodging was great, and transportation plans were spot on.

Meanwhile, I neglected the week-long trip I would be taking with my little sister and my
roommate through Barcelona and the south of France. I made a few lodging plans and
browsed bus schedules to sketch out a rough itinerary. I figured we could solidify things
when the time came.

Then the time came, and things were as unsolidified as ever. We didn’t know how or
when we’d get from Madrid to Barcelona; Barcelona to Nice, France; and from Nice to
Marseille to catch our return flight to Madrid.

I'm a planner by nature. I'm always the one to take the initiative and plan projects and
trips. I obsess over details and am a slave to Internet reviews. But, as this trip proved,
sometimes it's good to loosen my compulsive grip on control and let things work
themselves out.

French Riviera

For lack of a more articulate description, we did a lot of stupid things during the trip.
Like assuming we could buy Madrid-Barcelona bus tickets for a prime departure time
mere minutes before said departure.

Like arriving in Barcelona at 1:30 in the morning and hauling our luggage through the
city’s notoriously thief-laden streets (we didn’t get robbed, so there’s a nod for faith in
humanity).

Like sitting down at the computer at 7 p.m. on New Year’s Day and assuming it was
possible to buy tickets for an international overnight bus for the same evening.

Like, after realizing that wasn’t possible, scrambling to find any company with buses
headed to southern France, then buying the tickets and deciding to wait until the
morning of departure to print said tickets and look for lodging.

Like buying tickets for a train we could see would be departing any second, and
watching it pull away as the machine spit out our passes.

Like getting off a train in a random French port village without double-checking
because a random man told us that was the place we were looking for.

The whole trip was one beautiful, frenzied misadventure. But what's travel without a bit
of panic?

The only mess we encountered that wasn’t provoked by our own irresponsibility was
a train delay between Nice and Marseille, where we needed to catch an evening flight.
The train ahead of us had an electrical problem and blocked the tracks. We sat stalled
in the train for an hour or more, listening cluelessly to the intercom progress reports in
French, which none of us spoke. At one point an Italian passenger and I were talking, he
in Italian and I in Spanish, about what was happening. Ultimately, the issue got fixed,
we made our flight, and we caught the bus home from Madrid to Don Benito.

Even considering the time and money wasted because of our imprudence, I don't regret
neglecting the planning (although I would like to have some of that lost time back to
visit more of the ridiculously amazing French Riviera). We have a handful of disaster
tales to keep us giggling for years to come.

Here’s to embracing every fiasco as an opportunity to learn or laugh.

Un saludo,
Teresa

Sagrada Familia, Barcelona

Gaudi house on the right, Barcelona

Park Guell, Barcelona

Marseille, France, port

Beach in Nice, France

Harbor in Monte Carlo, Monaco

Drugs, sex and (no) rock 'n roll

With all the weed, sex and general debauchery, Amsterdam isn’t exactly the ideal place to celebrate the birth of the Lord Jesus. But that’s where we were on December 25, so we did what anyone would do: We ate Turkish food and went to bed. Festive, eh?

As you can imagine, winter in Amsterdam is not ideal. It’s worse than that, really, but I don’t want cold, gray, blues-inducing weather to cloud my overall judgment of the place. It rained intermittently each of the four days we were there. It was cold, sometimes through-the-coat bitingly cold.

Even so, Amsterdam maintains a certain charm. It’s enjoyable enough to spend a day wandering alongside the winding canals, breathing in the generally pollution-free air (thanks to all the bikes) and window-shopping. But of course, you have to be careful what you’re window-shopping for and what you’re breathing in, if you catch my drift. Any “merchandise” in windows backlit in red is best avoided if you’ve got a wife, girlfriend, religion or conscience. 

And about breathing…puffs of marijuana smoke wafting out of the ubiquitous “coffee shops” are unavoidable. “Coffee shops,” as you may have gathered, don’t specialize in caffeinated beverages. I’m not sure if they even offer coffee at all. Even so, contrary to popular belief, marijuana is not legal in Amsterdam. The Netherlands are part of an international pact to keep weed illegal. But the law just isn’t enforced – it’s not to the country’s economic benefit to do so.

You see, coffee shops do hundreds of millions of euros’ worth of business every year. And a fair share of tourists flock to Amsterdam to get high. When they get high, they get hungry. When they buy food, they buy drinks. After they drink, they pay 50 cents to use the bathroom at KFC (yes, you have to do that). Then they realize it’s cold, so they buy an “Amsterdam” stocking cap (seriously, they’re all over the place). While in the tourist shop they give the postcard rack a couple of twists and high-ly laugh at the postcards of graphic genitalia and cannabis leaves. They decide they’ll send a couple to their friends who couldn’t make the trip. Then they dip back into the coffee shop to repeat the cycle. Surely there’s a trip through the Red Light District (and perhaps a purchase) in there somewhere, too.

Are you following me? As our walking tour guide explained, Amsterdam tolerates just about anything that is to its financial benefit, with weed and prostitution being the most prominently taboo income sources.

You gotta admit it's pretty, regardless of how you feel about the way it financially thrives.

Prostitution – legal since 2000 – is regulated like any legitimate business. The ladies must register, they must be legally eligible to work in Holland, and they pay taxes on their earnings. (Interesting side note: Because weed is illegal, coffee shops don’t pay taxes.) We were told the women charge 50 euros for 15 minutes, in case you’re curious. The owners of the windows where the ladies flaunt their “goods” aren’t pimps but rather businessmen who rent out the windows for 75 to 100 euros a day. In sum, the “landlords” aren’t sex traffickers and the ladies aren't victims. I’m not trying to justify prostitution here. I’m just explaining how Amsterdam does so.

Regarding marijuana…Amsterdam decided against enforcing anti-weed laws in the ‘70s because the city had a raging heroine problem. Police decided to stop worrying about potheads to focus on the harder drug, heroine. Dealers realized they could sell reefer without issue instead of the riskier heroine and voila, the city’s heroine problem eroded and weed exploded. Now, one could argue Amsterdam has had a “weed problem” ever since, but that sort of debate is beyond this scope of this light-hearted blog. 

Clearly not a coffee shop.

So, in sum, Amsterdam isn’t necessarily tolerant because it’s a liberal, progressive city but rather because money makes the world go ‘round. Tolerance equals euro signs. Does getting rich off of industries seen as social ills in other parts of the world make Amsterdam exploitative?

I pose that question rhetorically, and now I’ll tread into less-controversial waters and regale you with way less-interesting adventure tales.

We paid 11 euros at a tourist shop for a boat ride through the canals. I knew better than to pay that much because I always read blogs and guidebooks before travelling, and they insisted I shop around. I went against my better judgment and coughed up 22 euros for the both of us. Then we walked by a company hawking tours for 8.50 euros apiece. Lesson learned the hard way. And we ultimately didn’t get 22 euros of enjoyment out of the ride. A big group of shouting, cackling tourists ruined that one for me. If you’re ever in Amsterdam, I’d recommend you forgo the canal tour and do it on foot for free. 

A “free” walking tour is a much better investment. The name is a bit of a misnomer, however, because it really isn’t free – you’re expected to tip the freelance guide at the end because that’s the only way he or she gets paid. For ours, we paid 10 euros, but it was admittedly worth much more than that. The dang thing lasted for three hours, and our guide did a fantastic job of explaining the intricacies of laws, economics and tolerance.

Interesting tidbits learned on the tour:

-         Catholicism was banned for a couple of centuries in the Netherlands back in the day. Protestants took over the Catholic churches and knocked down the statues of saints adorning the buildings. But remember what I said about financially driven tolerance? The ban on Catholicism was a ban on the books but merely frowned upon in practice because they didn’t want to drive away the wealthy Catholic businessmen, who hid churches inside their homes. 
-    The building that now houses the University of Amsterdam was the birthplace of the modern stock exchange. The mighty East India Trading Company, which was given a monopoly on spice shipments from Asia, began selling shares of its company in the 17th century and was the first business to do so. 

-         There’s a church in the center of the Red Light District. It seems blasphemous, sure, but it was strategic. Sailors would come into Amsterdam and do one of two things: Visit a priest and pay for forgiveness in advance for sexual sins he was about to commit with the lady in the window across the street, or he’d commit said sins with said lady across the street and repent at the church afterward. 

Aforementioned church in the Red Light District

 We took a quick stroll through the Red Light District during the tour, and Todd and I took a few more by ourselves. Everything you've heard about that area of Amsterdam is true: Women really do set up shop in windows illuminated in red. And men really do take the bait (it's a bit awkward because the entrances are right off the street, so you can see the men as they go in). There are also plenty of blush-inducing blow-up dolls and sex toys screaming in the shop windows. But being perhaps the most famous neighborhood of prostitutes in the world, I had high expectations for the ladies. I thought maybe there was fierce competition for spots and there'd be some sort of beauty standards. Let's just say my expectations exceeded reality.

I hate to jarringly and insensitively transition from prostitution to the Holocaust, but unlike Amsterdam's ladies, the Anne Frank House didn't disappoint. The young author behind the world famous WWII diaries hid from the Nazis in Amsterdam with her family and family friends. The building still stands today, albeit as a museum. I've read her diary, and I'm generally fascinated by Holocaust history, so I really wanted to visit. It's a well-planned museum with a ton of information about Anne's life and, ultimately, her death at the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp. Her original diaries (her writings overflowed into multiple notebooks) are there. You actually walk through the rooms where they hid from - and were eventually discovered by - the Nazis. The original photo-covered wall from Anne's bedroom is in there. So is the original bookcase that concealed the door that led to their hiding space in the back of Anne's father's company building. 

The Anne Frank House

  Unfortunately, the furnishings were taken away after the family's arrest, but scale models and photo recreations are on display. It's a somber place and should be treated as so. The worst part is the crush of people moving through the museum simultaneously. I felt rushed and crowded, and I was annoyed by some visitors' ignorance; after multiple mentions of Anne's death at Bergen-Belsen, one guy asked his girlfriend at the end of the exhibit what Bergen-Belsen was. Even so, it's worth a visit.

I would say Amsterdam in general is worth a visit. It's a funky, eclectic place loaded with character and characters. Just stay away from the canal boats and the Amsterdam Dungeon (a haunted-house like attraction that is supposed to recount the city's dark history but really doesn't). Neither are worth your money. It's not a culinary capital by any means, either. However, if you're up for some raw ground beef sandwiches or pea soup, you're in for a treat. 

Before

After

Un saludo, 

Teresa