Los estereotipos (Regional stereotypes)

With each passing day I learn that you underestimate Spain’s diversity at your peril. From the fog-enshrouded cliffs of the North-East to the completely barren deserts of the centre, the richness of this country goes far beyond the stereotypes seen on the Brit-infested Costa del Sol.

Last week I was given a crash course in Spanish regional stereotypes, so I thought I’d share. Never mind Geordie vs. Mancunian – here people look different, talk differently and behave very differently.  

(Included below is a handy map, in case your geographical knowledge of the Iberian Peninsula isn’t what it once was.)

Spain is divided into 17 Comunidades Autónomas (Autonomous Regions), self-ruling provinces with independent governments and local laws. Some have more power than others – Cataluña has famously been seeking independence for some time, spurred on by the prevalence of the local dialect (Catalan) and the fact it’s Spain’s economic powerhouse.

Let’s start with the madrileños. Residents of Spain´s capital city are most typically immigrants to the region. True locals (third-generation or more) are distinguished with the coveted title of gatos (‘cats’). Through the eyes of the rest of Spain, madrileños are arrogant spendthrifts, prone to consider themselves better than everyone else. This phenomenon doesn’t seem too surprising, as capital city dwellers in many countries often have this reputation. Yet here it’s also curiously mixed with a general acknowledgement of what welcoming people they are too – something I’ve experienced first-hand.

Heading south we find the andaluces (from Andalucía). These conform to the foreigner’s stereotype of Spaniards – lazy, cheerful, often laughing and always exaggerating. They also seem to have a strong aversion to the final syllable of words, so that elsewhere in Spain their accent is rarely understood. People from the East (catalanes) are, by contrast, said to be extremely tight with money. They often have a gift for business too, which may explain why the vast majority of Spain’s industry can be found in or around Barcelona.

Gallegos are from Galicia, Spain’s freezing Northwestern wasteland (I jest – although the terrain may come as a surprise to those expecting sandy beaches). Elsewhere in Spain, gallegos are considered highly superstitious and generally quite odd. They’re also unafraid of getting stuck in with hard work (unlike their southern counterparts!). Strangely, those that I’ve met can be very affectionate and open with their close friends, whilst remaining closed to foreigners.

The tiny País Vasco (‘Basque Country’) is home to the vascos, who are fiercely proud of their regional heritage. Racial tension has been bubbling away for generations, fuelled in the 20^th century by Basque separatist terrorists ETA. A stereotypical vasco is frank and brusque, to the point of being rude. Not ones to cross, then. 

Further down the Spanish border lies the province of Aragón. The locals, aragoneses, are notorious for answering questions with questions – from my experience, a friendly “How are you?” can be greeted by the roundabout response, “Why are you asking?” They’re also known to be unafraid of hard work.

Last but not least, castellano is the adjective referring to the spiritual, linguistic and ideological heartland of Spain, and it also describes the inhabitants of the central regions. Traditional in their ideas and customs, the castellanos laugh little and spend even less. Austerity rules in these empty desert lands... yet only several hundred kilometres to the south and east, the coastline bubbles away with life all summer, thanks to Spain’s still-strong tourist industry.

If only half the tourists would head inland a bit, where old Spain can still be found, sitting around a dusty card table in the midday sun.

Less rambling and more scribbling to come...

Spain's 17 Autonomous Regions

Spanish of the Day

meter la pata - to put your foot in it. Literally.

cantar las cuarenta a alguien - to give someone a right telling off (Lit. 'to count 40 at someone' - originating from the traditional Spanish passion for card games).

Touchy-feely

The concept of ‘personal space’ simply does not exist in the Mediterranean mindset. From amiable slaps on the back to the typical cheek-kissing greetings, everyday life between friends and family is filled with this phenomenon of ‘interpersonal touching’.

There’s far more of this here than in the UK. It’s not something you’d normally perceive, but the invasion of personal space is something we feel more acutely. It’s simply not normal to go around touching people, especially strangers or people you’ve just met. Unless you want a slap/punch.

Robin Dunbar (of “Dunbar’s number” fame – 150 is apparently the number of people with whom our brain is capable of having meaningful connections at once) constantly stresses how interpersonal touch conveys emotion more powerfully than language. We’re hard-wired for touch. So why do we run away from it, when our European counterparts do not?

It’s a classic comedy scenario: the British guy dying from awkwardness, surrounded by his ‘touchy-feely’ European counterparts (this guy is most commonly me). It doesn’t matter if they’re from Spain, Italy, Brazil... people may never have met before but within minutes, out comes the affectionate shoulder-patting.

Several months after I moved to Paris, one of my French friends decided I was ready to be greeted à la française. I nearly died as he walked up to me and confidently planted a kiss on one cheek and then the other. Having only ever followed this custom with the fairer sex, my reaction was apparently ‘a classic’.

Some Spaniards and Brazilians I spoke to today could not understand how something as natural as touching could’ve disappeared from Northern European (and to an extent, US) culture. They have a point.

I’ve lived outside of the UK for 12 months now. Each time I return, that game of people-dodging we play in busy airports and stations seems more and more ridiculous, an awkward ballet routine performed to a backing chorus of muttered “sorrys”.

They had an extreme example, telling of how they watched an adorable, excited three-year-old in Norway get off a train to be greeted by a formal handshake from his grandma. Had the grandmother been Spanish, the kid would have been covered with kisses, whisked into the air and probably held aloft like the European football trophy.

I’ve made some extremely close friends out here in a very short space of time. From noisy bars to laughter-filled sessions around the guitar, I’m sure an awful lot of back-slapping was involved in there somewhere.

Next weekend, as I retake my position in the awkward ballet of Luton’s arrivals hall, I’m sure the whole thing will seem comical by comparison. 

Less rambling and more scribbling to come...

Spanish of the Day

estar constipado - to have a blocked nose. (No... not what you were thinking. I made that mistake today.)

estar en el séptimo cielo - to be on cloud nine. (Lit. 'seventh heaven')

El culture vulture (The culture vulture)

Another week has flown by under the Madrid sunshine... I had friends over to visit almost constantly, so this is my excuse for neglecting the blog!

Madrid is not the first place to come to mind on the list of the world’s great tourist cities. This is in fact a topic I highlighted back in my first post, unbelievably almost a month ago.

Yet Madrid’s crop of museums acts like a magnet for art lovers the world over. The art scene revolves around the ‘Golden Triangle’ in the south east of the city centre: the Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, the Centro de Arte Reina Sofía, and the world-renowned Prado.

Every day during these summer months, crowds of tourists and aficionados alike descend on these enormous, imposing buildings, to get their fill of everything from Canaletto to Velázquez. Somewhat surprisingly for large tourist attractions, I’ve found that each museum has a unique and memorable character. Rather than scribble in a vaguely informative manner – there are guidebooks for this and they do the job better than I can – I thought I’d share my personal impressions, now that I’ve become intimately acquainted with these three galleries (hooray for free student entry).

The Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza is a private collection of artworks that belonged to the esoteric German-Hungarian magnate, Baron Thyssen-Bornemisza. (There’s even a garish glass-and-steel extension next door, built to house the copycat collection of his widow).

It doesn’t compete on the level of world-class museums such as the Prado or the Louvre, simply because it’s trying to do something altogether different. Here you won’t find the stereotypical museum curators engaged in their perpetual game of international one-upmanship, constantly striving for the most exhaustive assembly of works from a particular artist in one place. Instead you have before you the most comprehensive, high-quality overview of Western European art I’ve seen anywhere.

Ordered chronologically from early Renaissance through to the latest in pop art kitsch, movements in art are represented by two or three seminal works from the leading artists in a particular style. It’d be the perfect place to do a ‘beginner’s guide’ for the completely uninitiated. And for those more in the know, the names inscribed on the gallery plaques read like a ‘who’s who’... the big names are too many to mention. Such a high-altitude overview makes for an invigorating gallery experience – and for this alone, it’s my favourite.

The Centro de Arte Reina Sofía is best-known for being home to Picasso’s wartime masterpiece, Guernica. This enormous canvas is infinitely more moving in the flesh than it seemed when pasted into the pages of my year 8 art sketchbook. The rest of the second floor makes for a superb collection of modern art (often with a Spanish twist); so there’s plenty of wacky Picasso, disturbing Dalí, and the occasional splash of Kandinsky. As for the rest... well the third floor is like a mystery, an inaccessible slab of concrete bypassed by all elevators and stairwells. The remainder comprises a lukewarm collection of either extremely experimental or box-checking boring modern art – a sombre atmosphere to match the forbidding sheer walls of this cavernous old hospital.

The Prado is huge. Much like the Louvre, one day is impossible for a full appreciation (a three-day ‘tapas’ approach works much better). This self-satisfied cousin of its Madrid counterparts sits proudly on the Paseo del Prado in Antonio Villanueva’s purpose-built palace. It has all the swagger of a world-class gallery, not to mention better translated blurbs.

I happen to have acquired quite a taste for 16th and 17th century Italian art, as well as a mild obsession with El Greco. Both can be attributed to this classy landmark, in whose elegant corridors I’ve spent many an hour wandering, mildly incomprehensible guide map in hand.

Less rambling and more scribbling to come... 

El Prado

Spanish of the Day

me aburro como una ostra - I'm bored to death. (Lit. 'you're boring me like an oyster'.)

escurrir el bulto - to bury your head in the sand.