97 Flat Earth in Times of Coronavirus

In the 16th century, there was no Flat Earth Society because almost everyone in the world, except Galileo and colleagues, was a Flat Earther. So, in the cosmic belief system, Flat Earth was the default value. Fortunately, times changed, and the pendulum eventually swung the other way. Even though it is difficult for people today to agree on anything, most of us believe that the world is a sphere. Incredibly, even Donald Trump and Joe Biden seem to agree on this point.

Nevertheless, there has always been a dissenting faction. The International Flat Earth Society (IFES) was born in 19th century England. Its founder was Samuel Rowbotham (1816–1884), who claimed that Earth was a flat disc centered at the North Pole and bounded along its southern edge by a wall of ice, Antarctica. Even though Rowbotham died (as all of us must), his ideas have lived on. From England, the headquarters of the Flat Earth Society eventually migrated to California (where else?), and at one time, had as many as 3500 members. 

Finally, the IFES found its niche on Internet, where it flourishes today in vivid proof that the human race has progressed very little since the 16th century. In fact, belief in flat Earth has become a creed, which has even garnered its heroes and martyrs. The most illustrious flat-Earth martyr is Mike Hughes, who was killed on 22 February 2020 while piloting a home-built steam-powered rocket in an attempt to prove his firmly entrenched belief in terrestrial flatness. (He had survived the crash of a previous experiment.) However on his second try, the rocket impacted on the Earth’s (flat) surface after falling from an altitude of several hundred feet. Not surprisingly, Mr. Hughes was killed instantly.

Now in Times of Coronavirus, flat Earth has once again come into the spotlight. Thanks to metaphorical extension, the term now refers to any sort of fringe belief or conspiracy, such as the assertion that 5-G telephone networks spread Covid-19, or that the coronavirus is a gigantic hoax invented by the government to control the population.

In various places in Spain, there have been protests against wearing masks as well as restrictions on nightlife, large gatherings, and smoking in public. Covid-19 has put a serious damper on Spanish social life, and many of Spain’s inhabitants are going into a decline. In Madrid (not the city of the same name in Iowa), there was recently an anti-mask protest of about 3000 people, who claimed, inter alia, that the coronavirus pandemic was fake news and merely a cover for a plan by Bill Gates to implant trackable microchips in everyone.

Even more recently, there have been other protests in Germany, France, and England against coronavirus restrictions implemented by national governments to stem the rising number of contagions in what appears to be a second wave. My sole comfort is that I personally do not know anyone in Spain or in other European countries, who is a Flat Earther (though they doubtlessly exist). In contrast, I do have various acquaintances in the USA, who rejoice in this belief or at least in its metaphorical extension.

This is hardly surprising. One rather expects people to protest masks and social distancing in places like South Dakota, Wyoming, and the White House. However, I am disappointed because I had expected a little more intelligence from people here on the other side of the ocean. But no, in today’s world, it is an inalienable truth that stupidity is exponentially contagious.

96 Ghosts in the Corridors in Times of Coronavirus

There is a widespread custom in times of plague that has persisted over the centuries. To avoid contagion, many leave the city and escape into the country. The Italian writer, Giovanni Boccaccio, lived through the Black Death as it ravaged the city of Florence in 1348. The experience inspired him to write “The Decameron”, a story of seven men and three women who escaped the disease by fleeing to a villa outside the city. His introduction vividly describes the effects of the epidemic on his city. 

“Others again held a still more cruel opinion, which they thought would keep them safe. They said that the only medicine against the plague-stricken was to go directly away from them. Men and women, convinced of this and caring about nothing but themselves, abandoned their own city, their own houses, their dwellings, their relatives, their property, and went abroad or at least to the country round Florence, as if God's wrath in punishing men's wickedness with this plague would not follow them, but strike only those who remained within the walls of the city…”

And so in Times of Coronavirus, and following the time-honored (though harshly criticized) tradition of many others before us, my husband and I took the decision to leave Granada and travel to a village two hours and various worlds away, where it was possible to at least pretend that the pandemic did not exist. 

Alhama de Almería is a town of about 3,500 inhabitants. It is so small that in a 30-minute stroll, one has seen everything there is to see. Anyone interested in painting the town red (or even a pale shade of pink) is out of luck. There is zero nightlife of any sort. In any case, this hardly matters because practically all discotheques, cocktail lounges, and nightclubs in Spain have closed anyway. 

The government has even announced its intention to shut down the houses of prostitution, given the difficulty of tracing clients in the case of an outbreak. Apparently, few men wish to admit that they are obliged to pay someone to have sex with them. So a number of itches will not be scratched until the pandemic recedes.

Alhama de Almería, however, is a paragon of sobriety. It is so tranquil and boring that the coronavirus has not even bothered to visit it. The town is renowned for three things:

1. It is the birthplace of Nicolás Salmerón, university professor and president of the First (though short-lived) Republic (1873-1874), who wisely abandoned power when he realized that Spain (and Spaniards) were impossible to govern.

2. It is the site of the Balneario de San Nicolas, a natural hot springs that has been around since the times of the Romans and Arabs, and, quite miraculously, has not closed down because of the coronavirus. 

3. Since the pandemic began, there has been only one recorded case of Covid-19 in the whole town.

So, given these specifications, we decided to visit the spa there, especially since the hotel has implemented the new draconian protocols to keep all guests and employees disinfected and reasonably safe in these difficult times. Nevertheless, coping with Covid-19 in the New Normal is a somewhat daunting experience.

When we entered the building, there was hand sanitizer and a temperature machine. After registering at the desk, we were given an antibodies test for coronavirus (results in 15 minutes). Not surprisingly, the test came out negative. Of course, masks have to be worn all of the time except when one is actually in the spa water, eating a meal, or in one’s own room. The capacity of all public rooms in the hotel is strictly limited. Elevators can only be used by one person at a time. In the dining room, tables are two meters apart, and buffets have disappeared forever. The server must bring all food to the tables.

This is all rather different from the last time we were here five months ago. We had visited the town in February just before the world went to pieces. At that time, the hotel was filled with almost 100 people, mostly groups of retirees who joyfully took part in card games, domino tournaments, sing-a-longs, and memory workshops. The spa was bustling with (mostly ancient) life, but still filled with a great deal of conversation, gaiety, and laughter.

Now in August, the hallways are empty; there are only about ten guests in the hotel. The hotel bar is closed. Everyone keeps their distance, and people only talk with each other from afar. This morning at breakfast, I interpreted for an English family, who did not know how to tell the server that they wanted to eat fried eggs and bacon (an alien type of breakfast). However, everyone used masks and social distance, which transformed the exchange into a kind of show.

After breakfast, I asked the receptionist behind her plexi-glass shield if she knew what had happened to the former guests. She told me that many had died during the first wave. Those that survived are now afraid to leave their homes.

And so, the hotel is now a very solitary place, quite different from the way that it used to be. However, if one looks close enough, one can see the people or at least their ghosts in the lobby, dining hall, and chapel. Indeed, the spirits are everywhere: Don José, who used to tell everyone endless stories about his childhood during the Spanish Civil War, Doña Encarnación, who would begin to swear like a legionnaire when she did not win at cards, or Señor Liñán, who was prone to drink a few too many glasses of wine in the evening. These and many others amicably haunt the corridors now. Many are not aware of their presence, but they are sadly visible to those of us who take the time to look and remember.

95 Vacation in Times of Coronavirus

 

August is vacation month in Spain. It is when the whole country shuts down and life grinds to a temporary halt. The administration closes, and the only services available are those required for law enforcement and healthcare emergencies. It is thus a good idea not to sue or file for divorce in August. Nor is it smart to suffer any kind of medical problem ranging from a toothache to hemorrhoids because most dentists and doctors are at the beach. The medical experience of those who might substitute would fit in a thimble with room left over. Consequently, one must avoid falling ill in August, when little or no medical help is available.

However, it is also August for Covid-19, who needs a change of venue, and so, the coronavirus has taken a vacation of sorts. Since nursing homes were boring, the virus has begun hanging out in the discotheques, nightclubs, and cocktail bars along the beaches all over Spain. Young people who are drunk and/or high are almost as easy a mark as the elderly in nursing homes. The only drawback is that they are harder to kill. Nevertheless, even though they do not die (at least not so frequently), they become harbingers of doom because they carry the virus home to family gatherings, where their parents and grandparents are more vulnerable.  And so, the deaths go on.

This has made the contagions in Spain skyrocket again. Yesterday, there were 3715 new cases in the last 24 hours, with figures that have been systematically rising by over 1000 cases each day. For all of the skeptics out there, yes, more people are being tested, but now more people are also dying (127 yesterday, when not so long ago, deaths used to be counted in single digits). Hospitals have begun to set up field tents again, and are preparing for the worst because no one can know what will happen in September when school supposedly begins (collective shudder).

And while all of this is happening, where are our courageous leaders? They are, of course, off the radar because August is also vacation time for politicians. President Pedro Sanchez does not play golf but he and his wife have gone to the beach. Since he is young, reasonably fit, and still has all his hair, he does not have to hide from photographers when wearing a swimsuit.  He is sufficiently narcissistic to enjoy showing off his suntanned biceps if the occasion arises.

However, even though he does not hide from photographers, he is certainly hiding from something else. He is hiding from responsibility. When things were going well, he appeared on the television screen so frequently that we all became saturated with the twitching muscle in his manly jaw. Now, that the situation has worsened, he has totally disappeared from the spotlight. 

The implicit message is that he is not to blame for the bad statistics. The fault lies with the regional governments, who, like the keystone cops, are scrambling to do their own thing. They are desperately trying to shore up the leaking dykes, but they are making a mess. We all know that none of this is going to end well.

The grand plan of our government was for everyone to learn how to amicably live with the virus, but the plan has failed. Co-habitation with Covid-19 has become difficult if not impossible. No one wishes to be in an abusive relationship with a virus (feminism taken to a new level.)

So now at some point, when Pedro Sanchez has acquired a Coppertone suntan and is sufficiently rested, he will return to Madrid and start being president again. No one can hide out at the beach forever. (Or can they?) Perhaps when he at last appears on the radar, he will have a new and hopefully better plan.

94 Fascism in Times of Coronavirus

In Times of Coronavirus, terms such as Fascism’, ‘Socialism’, and ‘Totalitarianism’, are being hurled from one end of the political spectrum to the other and back again in the same way as lexical mud balls. Yet, most of the people who use these words have never directly experienced what they represent and have little idea of what they are. I have a somewhat better idea of their meaning because my first five years in Spain coincided with the final five years of the last Fascist dictatorship in Europe.

As many of you know, General Francisco Franco was leader of the Nationalist forces during the Spanish Civil War. After three years of bloody massacre (on both sides), the war at last came to an end. After overthrowing the Second Republic, Franco then proceeded to rule over Spain for almost 35 years (1939-1975) with more power than any Spanish leader before or since.

During World War II, Spain supported Germany, but officially remained neutral, largely because its resources were exhausted. Otherwise, Franco would have doubtlessly entered the war whole hog. In 1940, Franco and Hitler had their one and only face-to-face encounter, lasting seven hours. Hitler wanted Spain to join the war, but Franco’s demands were so extortionate that Hitler refused them. Hitler later stated that he would rather suffer a toothache than talk to General Franco again.

By 1970, when I arrived in Spain, the Civil War was long over but its effects still lingered. The population was divided into two groups: those who loved Franco and those who hated him. Spaniards knew that nothing would change as long as Franco was alive, and so they wondered what would happen when he died. Half the country hoped he would live forever whereas the other half spent their spare time sticking pins into his wax effigy.

Although most of my in-laws had fought on the Nationalist side, there were some who had been with the Republicans. As in the case of all Civil Wars, both sides were guilty of excesses. Apparently, when the enemies are your neighbors, the desire to annihilate them is even more intense.

My husband’s grandfather was imprisoned for almost three years in the hold of a ship, where each day, the Republican forces would randomly choose three or four prisoners to execute. Miraculously, he survived, though on his release, he weighed 90 pounds. Another of my in-laws fought on the Republican side. He was sent to a concentration camp, where he had to work in a quarry and almost starved to death. When he was finally allowed to return home after the war, he was unable to work. His wife, who was a schoolteacher, supported the family.

My husband’s uncle, who was a doctor, witnessed Republican soldiers and prisoners left to die in the hospital. There was little food for anyone, and they were at the bottom of the food chain. Life was not easy. In fact, the 1940s were known as “los años del hambre” [the years of hunger].  An estimated 200,000 people died of starvation.

In 1970, however, Franco at 77 was only a watered-down version of his dictatorial self. However, his totalitarian regime was still very much in place. I first realized this when I innocently asked a taxi driver what he thought of the government. I still remember the look of terror on his face. I learned that no one ever discussed politics in public or dared to voice an opinion about the government. Freedom of speech did not exist, and the secret police were ubiquitous.

Of course, there was a resistance movement. At the time, the University of Madrid was a hotbed of subversive activity. One morning, I was in class, tranquilly assimilating a boring lecture on medieval Spanish history (the university was still recovering from the exodus of good professors at the end of the civil war). A student suddenly burst in, and announced that the police had entered the building. He told us to run as fast as we could. (The teacher was the first to exit.)

I asked a classmate if this was really necessary since we hadn’t done anything. He said that no one wanted to get arrested. People who were rounded up and taken to the police station sometimes did not return.

As we ran out the door, I saw policemen with batons hitting students, who were bleeding in the hallway. There had been an anti-government demonstration outside the law school. Since discretion is the better part of valor, I decided to return to my residence hall. On the way back, a policeman stopped me but I began to talk to him in English. Speaking another language was the ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card.

In those days, democracy was a chimera. The only elections were held at the municipal level, and the outcome was never a surprise. Those of my (non-Republican) in-laws who were allowed to vote never bothered because the winners had always been decided ahead of time. At the national level, Franco’s government was not elected but rather composed of the people that he appointed. They were chosen because they had promised to do what he wanted them to. It was as simple as that.

Everything was strictly controlled, and there was a great deal of censorship. The censors were members of the Catholic Church (the only legal religion), who regarded cinema as the art of the Devil. They targeted ‘sexual immorality’ and subversive political ideas, such as Socialism. Of course, the film, “For Whom the Bell Tolls”, was banned. In the Spanish version of “Casablanca”, Rick had not fought in the Spanish Civil War, but rather had served as a mercenary in Ethiopia. Also cut was a scene from “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance”, in which James Steward explains what democracy is to a group of schoolchildren.

Nevertheless, censorship sometimes backfired. In “Mogambo”, in order to hide the fact that Grace Kelly was committing adultery, the dialogue was changed so that her husband was her brother. However, a later scene showed them sleeping together in the same tent. This was worse since adultery was replaced by incest.

At that time, Franco considered Spain to be “the spiritual reserve of the Western World” and ordained what everyone in the country should think and believe. Most of the progressive legal initiatives passed by the Second Republic had been revoked and replaced by repressive measures that reflected Franco’s devotion to militarism, hypermasculinity, and the traditional role of women in society. There was no longer anything that even remotely resembled equal opportunity.

After a minimal education, a woman was expected to reside with her family until marriage. After her wedding, she then harmoniously co-existed with her husband for the rest of their natural lives (there was no divorce). During Franco’s regime, very little domestic violence was reported, mostly because a husband had the right to “discipline” his wife.

A man was expected to marry. (Homosexuality was a crime.) Of course, it was preferable for him to choose a Spanish wife. Nevertheless, if he was so headstrong as to insist on marrying a foreigner, then his wife automatically acquired Spanish nationality on the day of her wedding (foreign males with Spanish spouses were not accorded this privilege).

Women were expected to produce as many children as God saw fit to bless them with. All birth control devices were illegal and could only be obtained on the black market. Pharmacists could only sell condoms, one at a time, with a doctor’s prescription.

Each year there was a Natality Prize, which was given to the woman with the most living children. I had a classmate who was called Ciriaco. When I asked him why he had such a weird name, he told me that he was the 24th sibling of 26, and by the time that he was born, his mother had run out of names.

Women had less access to education. (Both Mrs. Neanderthal and Mrs. Sitting Bull only studied until the sixth grade.) This was all triggered by Franco’s firm belief that biologically, women did not have the same intellectual capacity as men. A lot of people (including women) actually harbored this belief. Precisely for that reason, in the 1970s, only 36% of all university students were females, and many of these women viewed their studies purely as a means to catch a husband.

In my residence hall, about 40% of the girls would go to class in the morning, and then spend the afternoon embroidering tablecloths and/or crocheting bedspreads for their hope chest. Then, in the evening, they would go out with their friends to see if they could meet someone who qualified as good husband material. Once they found a fiancé, it was no longer necessary to continue studying. However, the struggle was still not over since they could not surrender their virginity to him until their wedding night. If they gave in to temptation beforehand, their fiancé would often break off the engagement because they were no longer ‘pure’.

Oddly enough, for certain people, this was a comfortable world because roles were clearly defined, and no one was obliged to think very hard. Everything was very black and white. If a woman was out on the street after 22:00, unaccompanied by a man, and she suffered physical aggression, she got what she deserved for her risky (and risqué) behavior. If people were arrested for anti-government remarks and propaganda, and got tortured and imprisoned, they also got what they deserved because they should have known better.

The most important thing was law and order. Protestors were severely punished because the government was always right, and everyone was aware of the penalty for breaking the rules. Franco maintained that he was the only one capable of keeping the country in line, and most people believed him. It was not until he died that people finally realized that none of this was true.