Global capitalism

23 October 2008

All of Spanish youth is obsessed with The Simpsons, a name almost impossible to pronounce intelligibly in andalús – even now that I know to expect it, it still takes a while to register the name of the patriarch, “Hu-maer Theem-thoe“. There is a Moe’s Bar on the Gran Eje, & a lot of my kids play el saxo, like Lisa.

Popeye’s Hambuergers promises all-beef patties. Ertsatz Mickey Mouse balloons are held in giant bunches & sold during féria. My television features episodes of “Dirty Sexy Money”, which is oddly compelling in dubbed Spanish, and near-constant reruns of a supernatural Jennifer Love Hewitt series I’ve never heard of.

In a bus, driving down a carreterra in the middle of the Sierra Magínas, a carpet of fog roiling in the valley below, winding through the cliffside village of Jímena, where the trees grow sideways out of the side of the mountain & hang above the abyss, on the morning of my first day of school, two old women arguing in Spanish in front of me, the first song I heard on the radio in this wilderness of olive groves, in this first day, was “Bleeding Love”.

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