Never Argue with the Pharmacist

My sinus had been getting worse. I decided to go to the barrio farmacía and buy something to take the pain away. The pharmacist looked at me and I knew immediately the scale of the error I had committed. By saying “¿Hay algo para sinusitis?” (“Do you have something for sinusitis?”) I had just diagnosed my own illness. I had not only called into question his professional authority I had done away with the need to have a conversation. What I should have said was “Me duele la cabeza” (“I have a headache”) to which he would have answered “¿Donde?” (“Where?”). Over the next five minutes we would have discussed the intensity and location of the pain, the presence or absence of “la flema” and, if present, its colour. All this would be done in public and at a volume that I consider akin to shouting. At the end of the conversation he would diagnose sinusitis and give me an off-the shelf remedy. However, I was not prepared to play his game this time. I met his look with one of my own. Like two Wild West gunfighters we faced each other, waiting for the first move. “So”, he said finally, “You have sinusitis?”

It’s difficult to define just what a barrio is. You could call it a village except that there is already a word for village in Spanish: “aldea”. There’s no point in calling it a town because you’ve already got “pueblo”. The dictionary calls it a neighbourhood which will do except in English neighborhood takes on more of feeling of the layout, the buildings, everything physical. A barrio is more than that. Although for many of its inhabitants they would never call it home. For that you need the word “tierra” which also means earth. So someone might live in the barrio but his or her “tierra” might be in Oviedo up in Asturias. They may have lived in the barrio for fifty years but they will still visit their “tierra” every year. Spain is not a land of the abstract. Everything is very physical, visible, tactile: familia, amigos, tierra: family, friends, home.

But don’t think a definition is impossible. Spain may be difficult to understand for an outsider (how can a country have two verbs for “to eat”: “comer” for the afternoon and “cenar” for the night, for example?) but don’t make the mistake of overanalyzing what is basically a way of maximizing opportunities to talk. For example if I wanted to buy aspirin in Britain I might pop down to the local shop and buy it there. In my barrio I need to go the chemist and discuss it with the pharmacist. In Britain if I wanted to buy underwear I’d pop across to the supermarket and buy a pack of three for a fiver. Here, I need to go to the underwear shop and discuss my underwear with a complete stranger. I am prepared, sometimes, to talk to the pharmacist about my headache but I have no intention of discussing my underwear with anybody. But perhaps you are beginning to get the idea: aspirin or underwear, in themselves they’re not important; they only take on meaning because they provide an opportunity to chat.

The basic necessities for living are food , shelter and warmth. To this list the Spaniard would unhesitatingly add “talking”. My brother once asked at what distance would a Spaniard not call for the attention of a camarero, or barman. The answer is if you can see the barman it’s worth a try shouting even if they are at end of a very crowded bar. Or indeed in another bar altogether. It’s not the result of bad manners; it’s just that talking for a Spaniard is akin to breathing. So, for example, when I go to my local bar in the barrio for breakfast at twenty to seven in the morning, Pedro, camarero and son of the owner, is always there, unfeasibly cheery at this unfeasibly early hour. “Buenos días,” he says “¿Que hay? ¿Que tal?” “Good day. What’s up? How are you?” And we’ll chat about work, holidays or I’ll ask him about his wee girls – the two year old always “muy mala” (this “very bad” always said with a smile). We never talk about what it is I’m going have for breakfast because Pedro knows: café americano, toast and strawberry jam. He doesn’t bother with the butter because he knows I never use it. By the time he puts the toast on the bar there are other customers in the bar and he goes to serve them and, of course, talk. Now this could appear tiresome, this need to chat. But the barrio is a microcosm for Spain; a very social country where being part of a social network of family or friends is very important. You’ll never know when you’ll need your friends. As I found out the day when I went to pay for my breakfast and realized that I had forgotten my wallet. My apologies to Pedro were met with blank incomprehension. “You need to eat,” he told me. “And what is money between friends?”.

The pharmacist turned his back on me. He was deep in thought. I knew this because he joined his hands, fingertip to fingertip, and placed his index fingers on his pursed lips. “Look!” I wanted to shout. “There! On the shelf! That’s what you’re going to give me. So cut out this nonsense right now and give it to me!” But I didn’t. I had to allow him this exercise of professional authority. Also I knew if I even so much as touched anything that was on the shelves he’d call the police. Not because he’d think I was stealing but that I was prepared to self-medicate with something as dangerous as sinusitis and was therefore clearly insane. I paid for the medicine, thanked him and went to leave. Even with such a display of stubborn silence on my part the pharmacist couldn’t let me leave without saying something. “Remember,” he said, “You must only take one a day and drink it with plenty of water.” Now all this I could have read in the directions but as Sartre once said “Hell is other people”. For a Spaniard hell is other people but no one is talking.