Regrets? Well, Yes and No–2/2

DSC_4796strt

The Road to Barcelona

We did actually make a couple of sales, one to the Spanish stock market (by inviting their tech director down from Madrid and getting him drunk) and the other to the Catalan health service, which took an excruciating year to pay. That was the high point of what turned out to be a long slippery slope. From there I resorted to a strategy that the Spanish refer to as la huida hacía adelante, fleeing forward. Since my team understood computers, sound cards and telephone lines I decided to try selling audiotext, a system that permited users in those days to phone a number and, for a fee, hear the latest news straight from the source. It was a natural ap for a bigtime football (soccer) team and I contacted the Barcelona Fútbol Club. They expressed interest and we spent the next year pursuing that terrific lead, nearly wearing out my car zooming back and forth over the thousand-kilometer distance between Granada and Barcelona. I got it down to six hours and three quarters.
.
In one meeting with the club’s communications director we actually closed a deal. But the agreement had a hook in it. We had to pay them a million pesetas up front for the privilege of mounting and running the system for them. That was the log that broke the elephant’s back. It was a shame because the Barcelona team had (and still has) tremendous draw and the deal would have been a life saver for us. Then, of course, along came Internet and changed the whole ball game. Today they’ve got an online TV channel.
.
There were more projects on that slope, including a telephone-wine-sales business in which 13 young women offered fine wines to Spanish gentlemen who liked wine and talking to girls. Nor were my shrewd girls about to miss a lucrative business opportunity themselves. Towards the end of the fiasco I discovered that few of them were also selling their own services. Now when I see a beautiful girl walking her dog I look at the dog. Then there was the communications agency, which was a modest success. In that business I learned to make websites.

Sometimes The Pearl Is Right Under Your Nose

Meanwhile, during all the years that I was losing money hand over fist careening around Spain in a suit, my sweet wife–who had told me when we met that she wanted to be a painter–continued unobtrusively to paint and sell her work. At the end of the 70´s she was admittted to study printmaking in the the Rodríguez-Acosta Foundation under  José García Lomas, a wonderful maestro who was formed in print studios in Rome and Paris. The foundation studio closed in 1980 and Maureen bought one of the big etching presses, the tables, the tools and the inks and installed everything her own studio on the hillside below our house. From then on she was on her own and with time and hard work she became one of Spain’s best fine-art printmakers and and graphic art educators.

Spain dedicates itself intensely to all of its fiestas and Christmas celebrations are extravagant. They last for 14 days, from December 24 (Christmas dinner) till January 6, the Epiphany, the Day of the Three Kings, when children receive their Christmas presents. During these joyous holidays normal business slows to a halt, so there’s some free time available. On one of those occasiones at the end of the 90’s I asked Maureen if she would like me to make her a website. “Me, a website? What do I want a website for? I’m an artist!” So I made her five, one for her, another for her artists’ apartment, and three more on printmaking themes where she was featured heavily.
.
So my sweet wife, who had only modest business ambitions, started to lift off as an international fine-art printmaker with exhibits in Spain, the US and various European countries. Besides that she began to receive commissions to do editions for companies in Europe and the US. When she got her first big commission she hired an assistant. When he returned to Argentina she found a friend from a nearby village, trained her, and has worked with her ever since. Everyone who works with Maureen remains devoted to her for life.

When Crisis Hits

When the economic crisis hit the whole world in 2008 art sales suffered mucho, and she asked me one day how much trouble it would be to convert our renovated henhouse into an apartment. “What for?” was my naive reply. She had a plan. We revamped the chicken coop/tech lab again and called it El Gallinero (“The Henhouse” in Spanish). Since then it’s been a creative refuge for artists from around the world who come to Granada to study printmaking techniques with Maureen. I’m her dog’s body. And her first admirer. I’m so proud of her. We celebrated our 50th anniversary last year. Now our grandchildren are having children. Time flies.

Another Look at the Scoreboard

Remember the scoreboard? Let’s have another look at it. Yes, my failings were great and my regrets are sincere. But on balance my mistakes and missteps took me to a far, far better  place. Ironically, my time spent in the military was one of the best things that ever happened to me. That sounds insane but the army for me was both bitter and enlightening. I discovered that life in the USA was turning into a nightmare. When I was discharged from the army after almost two years I left convinced that I had to leave the country. And I did in November of 1968. All of the misery and frustration I thus evaded during the Nixon, Clinton, Bush/Cheney, Obama and Trump years; as well as all of the richness and wonder that I experienced in Spain, I owe ultimately to Uncle Sam because he was the one who convinced me I had to leave. I owe him for a wonderful new country with enchanting people and gentle customs. I owe him for a perfect English wife whom I found on a Mediterranean beach, for an old stone house on a sunny hillside and a flock of kids and animals. I owe him for encouraging me to find an unexpected space where we could create our own homemade lifestyle. So thank you, Sam, I wish you well and I’m trying to help you out, though it may not always seem so.

A Little Bit of Satisfaction

My most recent contribtion to human life on this planet is a modest one but it makes me feel good every day. For the past few years I’ve been publishing a photo blog site of events in our pueblo. (This morning it was the hatching of eight goslings on the river’s edge beneath the village square.) It began with black and white pictures of our early days in the village at the end of the 60’s and continues with color photos of current events here. The site has been a surprising success. In its fourth day online it received 18,000 hits and has been going strong ever since, this in a village of 1,200 people. So our neighbors get to see how their pueblo has evolved over the past half century. There’s a bundle of nostalgia in those pictures.
.
As for me, I would love to continue documenting our village for a few more years before I’m relegated to that great darkroom in the ground.
Back to Part 1

 

Thanks for following commenting and sharing

Regrets? Well, Yes and No–1/2

DSCF5786_1200

Don’t Sign Off on Your Regrets Yet

It helps to get old before you start thinking about regrets because something you regretted a long time ago may turn out to have been a blessing in disguise. You have to see the scoreboard at the end of play before you can judge the game. And never lose sight of the Spanish proverb: “No hay mal que por bien no venga”. “Nothing bad ever happens that doesn’t bring something good along with it.”
.
I’ve been regretful more than a few times in my life but I didn’t realize at the time that those were the twists and turns that made life interesting and, ultimately, worthwhile. I think too many people try to control all the variables in their lives. If they don’t succeed–and they can never do so completely–they wind up distressed or, in the unlikely event that they do succeed bigtime they’re more often than not disappointed with their trip.
.
Surprises, both pleasant and not so much, are like all the other changes in our lives. They help to keep us on our toes, to keep coping. Embracing change also helps us to stay young and is increasingly important as we grow older. I’m fond of saying that a rewarding old age is not about drinking mint juleps on the veranda. It’s about starting a project you probably won’t be around to finish. Start some bonsais from cuttings, write a book about the family for your great, great grandchildren, train your chihuahua to be a better person.

Does it Move?

I’m often reminded of something my 10th-grade biology teacher said regarding the definition of “life.” One of the requisites was motion. Does it move? I have forgotten the other two but today, umpteen years later, I’m convinced that if you’re not moving, both mentally and physically, you’re not wholly alive.
.
So, what do I regret. I regret losing my first girlfriend who was a gentle, sensitive girl. I regret being jealous and possessive. She was also smarter than I was and went through high school scooping up all the academic honors ahead of me. That might have been the underlying cause for our unhappy ending. The end was like almost every other big setback in life–casually random and utterly devastating. The summer after graduating from high school I was working as a dishwasher at a Lake Michigan summer resort. In a surprise visit she walked into the ramshackle cabin that was the abode of the dishwasher and the handyman, and found a long-legged Norwegian-American chambermaid folding my clean underwear and stacking it in a neat pile on my bed. That was the end of life as I knew it when I was 18 years old.
.
I regret letting myself be drafted into the Army. It was 1966, the year after I graduated from college. It was also the depths of the Vietnam war. My deferrment scheme had failed, and I received orders with three weeks notice to report to the Detroit induction center. I should have defected to Canada, which was just across the bridge on the other side of the Detroit River, but I was too stunned to react.
.
In the end I wasn’t sent to Vietnam. I spent my military service working days on an Army newspaper at Ft. Campbell, Kentucky and nights as a bartender at the big non-commissioned officers’ club there. In all it was pretty cushy as military service goes but, even so, I was subjected for the first time in my life to sordid, brutal, mindless America. I was also acutely aware of the gratuitous horror we were loosing on an innocent fairy-tale country in southeast Asia. I should have deserted and not allowed myself to become an accomplice in that macabre business enterprise that was the prototype of the Americans’ permanent-war project . But I didn’t, and I bitterly regret it.
.
I regret having been so self centered, when time has shown I didn’t have a foot to stand on in that respect. My father was always saying to me, “Mike, you only think of yourself.” I thought he was crazy. Who was I going to think of if not myself? Much later I was reading Mark Twain (Letters from the Earth, I think) and something he said hit home hard: “The older I get the smarter my father gets.”

Study More, Read More

I regret not having studied longer. We live in our heads and it pays rich dividends to have them well furnished. Throughout life I was aware that I was insufficiently prepared for every project I undertook, and I am a project person. I constantly found myself relying on guesswork and improvization. And I wish I had read more. A shockingly simple axiom maintains, “In order to write you have to read.” One of the consolations of my life is that my son did study enough. He got a  PhD in geology at the University of Granada, did his post-doctoral work at Geomar, the principal European oceanographic center in Kiel, Germany, and works as a geology professor at the University here. He was also lucky enough to inherit his mother’s sweet character. My cup runneth over.
.
The cast-your-fate-to-the-wind attitude that I subscribe to presuposes a bit of risk, though not that much. My advice to young people is always the same: Imagine your wildest dream and go for it. What’s the worst that can happen? You have to go home and get a job. What playing fast and loose does require is lots of optimism. One of my favorite people, Harold Evans, the great crusading British newspaper editor (The Sunday Times, The Times) made the reverse of my own journey. He moved from the UK to the US, eventually taking American nationality. He coined a great phrase: “the Americans’ reckless optimism.” I always knew I was optimistic but I never suspected that was a particularly American trait, though I have noticed that my Spanish paisanos have a decided aversion to risk. Maybe I should have paid closer attention to them.

First Steps on the Slippery Slope

In the early 1990’s, after years of watching semi-literate construction magnates driving around Granada in 800-series BMW’s, I decided to leave my job as a hotel inspector and start a business of my own. I was, after all, a bright boy. The last time I had reviewed the Paris hotels I attended a technology fair there and discovered an ingenious computerized fax system that was as yet unknown in the Spanish marketplace. This seemed a formidable business opportunity. I was mesmerized and decided to bet the farm on it. (Advice for young entrepreneurs: Don’t step into the swamp when you’re mesmerized.)
.
When I got home I hired a couple of IT guys and a graphic designer, bought some expensive computer fax hardware and installed them in a renovated henhouse. My team of bright kids was great and they soon had a working prototype which was capable of attending a helpline 24 hours a day by automatically sending out documents requested interactively from a menu. (Remember, this was before Internet.)
.
I soon found myself travelling around Spain presenting our revolutionary system to Spanish businesses with special communications needs: banks, travel companies, ski resorts, tourism promotion entities… I might as well have been selling snake oil. With few exceptions my prospective customers didn’t understand the usefulness of the system for their busineses. Or they pretended not to understand. They were wary. They had never heard of anything like interactive fax and didn’t want to risk spending any actual money on it. The rough equivalent in the US would have been a Mississippi-based Eskimo offering your company high-tech solutions.
.
Later (always later) I learned  that Spaniards and Americans occupied opposite poles on the technology-acceptance continuum, the Spanish being extreme late adopters and the Americans just the opposite, rabidly eager to be the first on their block to boast the latest technology. I was the latter trying to sell gimcrackery to the former. We were all alone in the marketplace with no competitors for more than a year. Then a single competitor appeared. It was only one but it was Telefonica, the Spanish telephone company. You can imagine.
Go to Part 2

 

Thanks for commenting, following and sharing

Remembering Spain 2/2

3-DSC_3814

Time Flies

Then half a century slipped by. Maureen became a fine-art printmaker who gives master classes in her studio below the house and laments not having time to paint. I discovered you can’t really live from freelancing and wound up as European editor of a hotel guide. Ask me about any hotel in Europe. I can’t remember. Then I started up a couple of businesses. Don’t ask. Now I’m Maureen’s secretary, photographer, driver and publicist. Whether it’s artists coming for Maureen’s etching courses or friends, when visitors descend the stairs into our placeta we notice their blood pressure dropping as they are affected by the aroma of jazmine and the view across the valley.

We used to have two strapping lads–and a girl who was tougher than either of them–who helped with the garden and a lot of other things. Everybody loved the luxury of open fires and meals prepared on that woodstove–which we still have and still use in wintertime. But those helpful kids are long gone, stoking their own fires, so a couple of creaky grandparents now do it all. Maureen says it helps keep us young but my back hurts. That said, I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s a great excuse to go three times a week to the nearby spa with it’s high-pressure hot-water jets and boiling Turkish bath.

It’s Not About Sunny Spain

I didn’t come to Spain for the climate. Like most everything else in my life, I got here by accident. Nor is this the Caribbean. The weather here can get pretty stroppy if it wants to. If Andalusia is one of the hottest regions in Europe, how is it that thousands of people every year come skiing at a ski resort that is just 18 miles up the hill from our house, and why does the temperature in our bedroom drop as low as eight degrees centigrade (46ºF) in wintertime? (Don’t worry about us, we ordered a tog 14 duvet from England and they send us two by mistake. And on really cold nights we light the fireplace in the bedroom.) The climate here has to do with altitude. People from flatland places like Michigan–me for example–tend to think that climate is mainly determined by latitude: The farther north you go (at least in the northern hemisphere) the colder it gets. But in mountainous regions the climate is more-often determined by altitude. The higher you go the colder it gets and we’re in the mountains. Even so, even when the winter nights are below freezing, the days can be balmy.

Summer here is hot, with highs around 40ºC for several days each year, but with relatively cool nights (the altitude again). The secret of dealing with the heat is to go to bed late, get up early, and spend the hottest hours of the day in bed under a slow-rotating ceiling fan with a good book. This is the much maligned–by the barbarians–siesta. One of Maureen’s artists from Australia said, “It’s great, like an excuse for having a nap!”

(Click on photos to enlarge them.)

Another of her students, this one from Seattle, had actually gone to a sleep center to cure her insomnia. They had her spend a whole night there with her head wired up with sensors. But she still couldn’t sleep. She arrived here just past lunchtime after a long series of flights . Maureen settled her into the cabin we have for her students and suggested she lay down to rest a while before they went into the studio. “Oh no,” Michelle said, “I don’t take naps; I hardly sleep at night.”

“Well, you don’t have to sleep. Just lie down for a little rest.” Three hours later a sheepish American girl tapped on our door. “I don’t know what happened. I just lay down on the bed and went to sleep.” She slept that night, too, and all the rest of the two weeks she was here, siestas included. The day she left I said to her, “Michelle, you know what is the best medicine for sleeplessness? She wrinkled her brow inquisitively. “Happiness.”

“Ohhhhh yes,” she replied.

Michelle isn’t the only one to have had that sleep experience here. Maureen attributes it to the sound of the river rushing and the birdsong.

Kisses

We live at the upper edge of our village and we both work at home so we don’t really have that much daily contact with the outside world. Occasionally we get a bit of cabin fever. I get snappy; Maureen gets mysterious. When I notice that it’s starting to happen–usually one snap too late–I know exactly what to do. I say to her, “Fancy some dead fish?” She gives me that knowing smile and we get in the car and drive ten minutes to our favorite tapas bar, where the fish is plenty fresh the dry white Rueda wine plenty cold, and Monica, the welcoming Gypsy waitress, greets us with kisses on both cheeks as if we were her parents. That makes our day.

Andalusia, the region comprised of Spain’s eight southernmost provinces, is a huggy-kissy place. A kiss on both cheeks establishes an immediate relation, a recognition that we are two human beings trapped on the same planet. Starting from there good things can start to happen. You know who else I get kisses from whenever we meet? My son, Bill, who will be 47 in February. Occasionally, when a member of a Spanish soccer team scores a great goal, one of his teammates will give him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. Imagine that in an NFL game.

The Pueblo Photographs

 

When we first arrived here I found everything fascinating and I photographed it all: the old timers and the kids, the plaza, the river, the olive and almond groves, the fiestas and romerías, the harvests and the conversions of pigs into sausages. I did that for a few years and then got distracted doing other stuff. But I always promised myself that when I got old I would go through all those black-and-white negatives and print up some of the best pictures. A few years ago I finally got around to dealing with those old negs. But in the years since I had resolved to print them, photography had gone digital and I hadn’t made a print in years. So I decided it would make more sense to digitize them.

I started looking at high-quality negative scanners. It turns out they were slow, with not-so-hot image quality and hellish expensive–a few thousand euros for a good one.
Just at that point Tariq Dajani, an excellent photographer and friend, turned up to talk with Maureen about rendering some of his photos as photogravure prints. I mentioned my project to him and commented on the scanner problems. His reply was a lifesaver, “You may not believe this, Mike, but you don’t need a scanner. All you need is a copy stand, a light source, your digital camera, a negative holder and a good macro lens. It’s much cheaper and faster than a scanner and actually gives better quality.

Tariq was right. The process was quick and easy and the resulting image quality was excellent. There were a lot of negatives to copy but what kept me going were the historic black and white images of life in our village 40 and 50 years ago. There were treasures in those pictures, people and scenes, many of which I didn’t even remember shooting, including many old folks who were no longer with us. How my neighbors would enjoy seeing them. Maybe I could organize an exhibit in the town hall. Then it struck me: They’re digital, I can publish them on Internet.

That’s how my SomosPineros.com (We’re from Pinos) photo blog came about. And my neighbors, all 1,300 of them, did love it. On its fourth day it received 18,000 hits. I had created a lot of websites but none of them had ever done so well on their fourth day online. I was bowled over. After a few months of daily posts I ran out of photos. What then? I was so enchanted with the unexpected success of my project that I started casting about for some way of keeping it going. That’s what got me back into photography. I started shooting life in the plaza and in the bars, the village fiestas, the grandparents, the children and all the rest all over again, this time in color. And the formula still works. My posts of a village event, whether it’s the Christmas parade (La Cabalgata de Reyes) or Book Day (El Día del Libro), receive up to 25,000 hits. Now they include visitors from all over the world. There’s no money in it, but I am a local hero, with my own parking place in the town square beside the local police car.

 

Back to Part 1
Thanks for liking, commenting and sharing.
Happy New Year

 

Remembering Spain 1/2

photo18_1_big

Two Spains, the Coast and the Rest

The Spanish real-estate brochures produced for unsuspecting foreigners like to sell “Gracious living in the South of Spain,” which conjures up visions of pseudo sophisticates drinking endless gin tonics on a bouganvilla-draped veranda.  Most of the Brits fleeing to Spain to escape immigrants who can’t speak the Queen’s English properly become migrants themselves, who can’t speak any Spanish and are hemmed in by golf courses on narrow strips of land along the Mediterranean Coast.

Our experience of inland Spain was different. It was about learning and working, about forming a family and staying alive in a society where practically nobody spoke English. There was so much to learn, even beyond the language. We had to learn what to eat and how to cook it. We were put off by the taste of olive oil, we didn’t know what to do with a persimmon, a quince, or a calamar. We also learned to make two great Spanish cold soups which alleviate the summer heat: ajo blanco with almonds and garlic, and the tomato-based gazpacho.  Continue reading “Remembering Spain 1/2”

Toxic American Billionaires

Mike Booth looks at the political role of American billionaires’ money, both at home and abroad.

Are They Entitled to Determine Who Governs?

billionaires2

As Things Stand Right Now It Seems They Are

The power of money in the United States is nothing new. There have always been powerful monied interests and they have always wanted to feather their nests. But in recent times–coinciding roughly with the rise of the Internet–the number of the super-rich and their companies and their level of wealth has grown so dramatically that it’s no longer a question of quantitative change. We’re looking at qualitative issues. It’s a whole new world. Continue reading “Toxic American Billionaires”

Neo-Nazis, Police and Prosecutors: Strange American Bedfellows

PaulRevere2

It’s a Revolutionary Morning

I feel like Paul Revere this morning and I haven’t even had my coffee yet. It’s not that the British are coming. It’s way worse. The Nazis are coming. I mean they’re here. That is, there. In California. Home-grown American Nazis have been on the march for some time in California and other places across the country, infiltrating police departments, but I just discovered it yesterday morning in an article in The Guardian and I urgently need to alert the citizens. Continue reading “Neo-Nazis, Police and Prosecutors: Strange American Bedfellows”

What I Remember from the States 2/2

This is Part 2 of Mike Booth’s rapid account of his own “short pants, romance” story.

Quiet Places for Reflection and Regrouping

New Aspen library
The new, enlarged Aspen library. The old one was more “Aspen.”

I always loved American libraries, first the one in my hometown, even though the 175-year-old spinster librarian prohibited high-school kids from reading Hemingway or Steinbeck or Faulkner. The ones she should have censored were Mark Twain and H.L. Mencken, America’s most surgical truth seers and tellers. In that same town I lent my girlfriend my prized collection of books by contemporary American authors and later found that her mother had burned them all because they were “paperbacks.” Continue reading “What I Remember from the States 2/2”