Would you, could you read books on trains?

My friend John has been here for over fifteen years so I reckoned if anyone would know it would be him.
-Why, I asked him, do people in Madrid put covers on their books?
I’d noticed on the metro that a lot of the readers wrap covers on their books, usually pages from newspapers (not the brown paper my dad used for my school reading books).
-That’s a throwback from the days of Franco, he told me, when you didn’t want other people to know what you were reading.
I thought:
-Franco’s been dead for a long time. What are people wanting to hide now?
Looking at the books on the metro without newspaper covers, I’d say a lot of Ken Follett. Not only do the book shops have his novels, you can also buy them in the quioscos (where you buy your newspapers, DVDs and models of the world’s taxis, “This week: Albania”) and they are even given away free by Spain’s equivalent of The Guardian newspaper. Which is a lot more than The Guardian would do. The books I see being read have titles such as The Thief of Donkeys, The House of Carrots and The Holy Sisterhood of Socks. I exaggerate but, as my observations on the metro tell me, not by much.

What people are clearly not reading are the books that they are told to read by Metro de Madrid. Under the title Libros a la Calle (Books to the Street) most carriages have stuck by the doors an illustrated poster with an excerpt from the chapter of a book. Where the text ends in an ellipsis there is a strap line encouraging us to search for the book and read it in its entirety. These admonitions vary. It might be Leer nos hace libres. Y mas felices (Reading make us free. And happier) or Si quieres conocer, pregúntale a los libros (If you want to know, ask books). The posters with poetry always end with Ni un día sin poesia (Not a day without poetry). Looking at what they do read it is clear that the people of Madrid, at least those who use the metro, don’t want to be free, happy or ask a book a question and it is very possible that months go by without even a hint of poetry.

This state of affairs, at the very least, is unnecessary. One of the many reasons for living in Madrid is that the metro system has its own library system. Even better, they do not call the libraries “branches”, instead they are called “modules”. I would have preferred “pod” myself but I imagine we will have to wait until the 22nd century before every bus stop has its book pod. There are eleven of these modules and they go under the name of Bibliometro. They are self-contained, sealed, I have to use the word “pod”, pods that stand on the stations’ platforms, curved and asymmetrical in the modern fashion, staffed by two Biblionauts (I’ve made that word up), usually women, and they are open Monday to Friday from 1.30 to 8.00. You can take out one book at a time (consult the computer screen on the outside of the module because you cannot browse as the books are kept inside under the watchful eyes of the Biblionauts). Everything about them says “speed”, “efficiency” and, of course, “books”. They even have their own logo, a B on its side, two trains head-on in each of the semicircles.

I decided that it was time to play my part to get more books to the street. I would apply for my library card and read the books I had seen on the posters. I decided to go to my “surface” library staffed largely by Elois (I’ve made that up to but I suppose you saw it coming) here in the barrio. With my reader’s card I would be able to take out books from there and from the realms of the Morlocks (Oh God, there’s a whole novel here where youthful and innocent Eloi librarians in bikinis are eaten by subterranean Morlock librarians who are then burnt alive). What can I tell you about my experiences so far? To begin with, it is pleasing and reassuring to note that public libraries in Spain are as much a refuge for the timid, the socially inept, people who are “special” and those that are quite clearly insane as they are in Britain. I’m talking here about the staff and the public. It’s possible that libraries here have an even more important role in this respect. Given the level of noise and physical contact in any public space in Spain, libraries give their staff an environment where they can be free of the compulsion to curl up into a ball, rock back and forth while making soothing animal noises. As for the books, I do have some slight criticisms. The book I took out on the writer Miguel Unamuno had no details (date of acquisition, cataloguing information etc.) on the back of the title page nor did it have the book number stamped on page 21. Some pages had been stamped with the libraries’ stamp of the Communidad de Madrid but apparently at random and after page 43 the person charged with this task had simply given up. Most serious of all, not only was the book cover not stuck with sellotape there was no clear plastic cover on it. I’m happy to say that the book I borrowed that same day from the Bibliometro in Nuevos Ministerios, La lluvia amarilla (The Yellow Rain) by Julio Llamazares, had a stout cover on it and was clearly identified with a very fetching sticker. However, once again, it was let down by a lack of cataloguing details. Those of you accustomed to the rigours of the British public libraries’ cataloguing protocols will share my disappointment. The rest of you will not give a monkey’s.

I have to add that I have also been disappointed by the reaction of my fellow Madrileños. Basically, there hasn’t been one. However, it is early days yet and I’m sure I can expect a letter of thanks from the President of the Communidad any day. At the very least, a cheery wave from the driver of the next metro train I go on and a jolly:
-Hoy un día mas bueno y acuerdate, ¡ni un día sin poesia!
(Turned out nice again and remember, not a day without poetry!)

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.