I am not entirely sure, but I think that the first of the Occupy Wall Street style demonstrations were the ones that took place here in Spain beginning last May 15th. The impetus was the announcement of major cuts to social programs, including education, just before local elections were to take place. The biggest occupation was near us, in Puerta del Sol. I was fascinated by the event and thought I'd see if I could get to the center of the square.
It was too packed.
So, I went back in the morning when there would be less action:
Normally, Sol looks like a sort of quaint version of Time Square, much smaller, but with a similar bustle of activity of tourists and commerce. For nearly a month it was packed all day and well into the night with demonstrations and encampments, makeshift kitchens and offices.
If you are interested, there are great photos of this event at the following site:
http://www.theatlantic.com/infocus/2011/05/a-defiant-spanish-revolution/100070/
Another personal brush with the economic prostests: One evening this past August, we had dinner in Barcelona. In the street in front of the reastaurant a parade, or demonstration made its way. People were carrying placards, shouting slogans and blowing on whistles. The next morning, back in, Vilanova, the little town on the coast where we were staying, two blocks from our apartment, I came across the startling effects of a small bomb that had gone off the night before, during a demonstration there that was associated with the one we had seen in Barcelona.
There was a funny conversation between some Spaniards that stood with me looking at the ruined car. As far as I could make out, the man was vilifying the rich criminals who had gotten Spain in such dire economic straights, and he was saying that the person who owned the car was probably one of those lousy criminals, and deserved what he got. These two women looked at him skeptically, and looked fearfuly at the effect of the bomb, but kept their mouths shut. Then a young man came by with keys to the car and said that the car belonged to the son of the owner of the corner bar. That took the wind out of the sails of the belligerent fellow. He looked sheepishly at the two women who smirked and shook their heads.
The biggest demonstrations this fall in Madrid have been over the cuts being made to education. Many teachers are being laid off; others' hours are being extended without any increase in pay.
I found myself in the middle of this demonstration two weeks ago as I was out shopping.
On the theme of paradoxes, thanks to Matt's company, which covers the cost of schooling, our children are attending what we have been told is the single most expensive school in the country. As a socially conscious, former anti-materialist (see blog post from last November) I am not always comfortable being a relatively well-off ex-patriot living in a country that is in a serious economic downturn.
at a restaurant in Avila
Another paradox is that as we look out of the windows of our lovely apartment with the glorious view (also company subsidized) we can make out a small but growing community of hobos, just on the other side of the street.
I guess I should feel good about putting money into the Spanish economy, but I still could not help but feel a little guilty when we decided to get a new couch, and have one of the old ones reupolstered. Shouldn't I be contributing instead to a homeless shelter? But one of our couches, an antique with a beloved fabric of purple and gold, had been irreparably damaged in the move, and the other, a sturdy and fantastically comfortable couch, but abysmally ugly with scratches and tears in the fabric, needed to be re-covered. And, meanwhile, our girls were feeling quite self-conscious about inviting their well-heeled friends to our eclectically decorated apartment. So, in the interest of beauty and comfort, though with a bit of a sense of guilt, we bought the new couch, I arranged for the city to pick up the damaged sofa, and I had met with a lovely Spanish woman, an upolsterer, to discuss fabrics.
Meanwhile, Matt and Claire got the old couches to the top of the stairwell in the building, just a floor above us. But the very heavy, damaged one had to be somehow carried 8 floors down and put on the side of the street to be picked up, and Matt was going to be off on a business trip. At different times, he and I both, with our poor Spanish, discussed this problem with Carlos, the ever-patient doorman. He assured us that he would move it with the help of a couple of friends.
So, Monday evening last week, I arrive back to the apartment expecting to see the purple couch by the street. It was not there, so I go in and ask Carlos "Donde esta el sofa?" His reply uses the word "estan," implying more than one sofa is involved. I rush back out and notice a pile of wood and fabric that looks strangely similar to the couch that I planned to have re-covered.
I quickly realized the hopelessness of the situation. I let it go - just another victim to the language impasse - and assured Carlos that all was bien, todo bien. And where is the other couch? He did not know. When I went up to the apartment the girls told me they could see the purple couch on the other side of the street - with the hobos.
Just as they expected, I went rushing out of the house with my camera.
I thought I would show off my new aquistion of the past tense and tell these fellows that I had owned that couch just this morning, that I was happy to see them enjoying it, and would they please allow me to take a photo? They looked at me blankly, and, after another stumbling attempt on my part, the fellow on the left said, with just the slightest eastern European accent, "Why don't you try that in English?" Ahh.... All was quickly explained and they kindly allowed the photo.
This one, I admit, I procured without permission, soon after I got up the next morning.
So, I guess I did end up making a contribution to the homeless. Though the sofa soon disappeared, hopefully because they took it under a bridge, and not because the city removed it.
