the word on the street

Gossip is the thread that holds small towns and villages together. Or so it seems. (Or sew it seams. thread....Okay, I am cracking myself up over that pun, especially because I'm still on my first cup of morning coffee....methinks I have been living with Big Jim for too long because the bad jokes are rubbing off.) I didn't have to move here to know this because I grew up in a town not much bigger than this village. I'm probably going to get in trouble for saying this, but when I was in high school I believe my mother was less worried about the trouble I was getting into and more concerned with what her friends would have to say about it. The gossip here is different though. The expats in the village have made it a sport, extreme gossiping. One can find oneself embroiled in a gossip controversy without even trying. Take our friend V. A few months ago, she went to have her hair cut. At the time, V. was having a lot of work done on her house, which the stylist asked about. V. replied that it was slow-going but that she was happy with the work. The next morning, her builder confronted her, "How dare you complain to everyone in the village about my slow work!"Someone had overheard her, told two friends, and so on (like in the Pantene commercial), and in less than 24 hours, it had gotten back to the builder. And of course, her positive comment, that she was happy with work, was dropped along the way. I think part of the reason that gossip is so pervasive in the village is because so many of the expats have nothing better to do. Many who have come here are retired or at least semi-retired, apparently hobby-less, and spend most of their days sitting in the cafes yapping with other expats. After they finish moaning about the decreased values of their investments back in the UK, the horrible teenagers and their mopeds, and their complaints to the town hall regarding the fireworks (there was a recent letter from an expat published in the village newspaper, demanding that rockets be outlawed because every time one goes off, he fears the village is under attack by terrorists....oh pulease. Go back to reading your tabloid newspapers so that you can worry about more serious topics, like the poison you're eating in salmon and all the invading Romanians who are trying to steal your pension benefits back in the UK.). One of the reasons I love M.A. is because although she's retired, she's not idle. She reads several books a week. She and our neighbor R. get together every Saturday night to practice music (R. plays the cello, and M.A. may have the only baby grand piano in the village---I would have loved to watch the movers that day because M.A. lives at the top of the village on a street with no car, yet alone truck, access). She has a bridge club, Spanish lessons, etc. There is one couple who practically lives at one of the cafes. They often occupy the same table from 10:30 in the morning, when they arrive for breakfast, until 11:30 at night, when the cafe closes. They apparently eat all their meals there and only seem to move when their dog needs to go a for walk. They gab nonstop, passing the latest "news" to the rotating cast of expat characters who stop off briefly for a coffee or cerveza during the day. Another group---we call them the Usual Suspects---meets up every day at 5:00 at another cafe, hangs out for a few hours, goes home for a quick dinner, and then meets up for more drinking at one of the restaurant bars. Don't get me wrong, I am not completely averse to the occasional fat-chewing or drivel-filled conversation---but these people do it everyday and for hour after hour! In the past, Big Jim and I did pull up a chair sometimes and join them; we've stopped though because we were bored stiff most of the time. The major topic was complaining about the Spanish this or the Spanish that. At one point I nearly bit my tongue off because I wanted to shout "Well then go back to the UK already!" There have been polls that say more than 50% of British would move out of the UK if given the opportunity. There are also reports that 50% of UK expats who come to Spain move back in the first two years. I think this is because vacationing in Spain and living here are two completely different animals. Very few of the UK expats here have learned Spanish or have even tried to. Their solution is just to speak English at the Spanish in a very loud voice. One brilliant UK tosser (I have picked up quite a bit of slang from Big Jim) was quoted in the news yesterday, on the topic of working as an expat in the EU without speaking a second language, "Well, if I have to use their currency, they should have to use my language." I'm realizing this entry has turned into a bit of an English bash, which wasn't my intention. But perhaps there is a connection somewhere. Many of the expats have come to Spain because they were dissatisfied elsewhere. A new locale, even one with many sun-filled days, does not cure all preexisting conditions, especially that of discontent. And maybe it's easier for some to go on about the problems of others rather than addressing their own. Big Jim returned from walking the dogs last evening with news. During the day, speed bumps have been put up throughout the village in attempt to slow down the crazy kids and their mopeds. One would think the gossip cronies would be happy about this, but rest assured, they'll find something to complain about. "Why now, they'll just use them to pop bigger wheelies!" And then they'll turn to more scurrilous subjects of who's shagging whom and who had too much to drink last night. Me personally, except with Big Jim and good friends like M.A. and J. and M., I keep my mouth shut unless I'm comfortable with what I'm saying being recirculated and transformed many times over. Returning to sport analogies, I've found defense is the best offense to combat the never-ending rumor mill of these elite gossip professionals. hasta manana, mylifeinspain