HEY COMPADRE, CAN YOU SPARE A EURO?
Panhandling, Spanish style
You can learn a lot about a culture by observing the little things, like how people queue up at the bus stop (not a perfect line, here in Granada, but no pushing), how clean they maintain the front of their homes and businesses (they mop the steps and often the sidewalk almost every day), and whether they pick up after their dogs (alas, they don’t).
Panhandling another interesting signifier. It seems that in Spain, contrary to what many Americans might expect of a country with a “socialist” government, few expect to get something for nothing. With the exception of one very small, unrepresentative group, people who wish to be given money by the passing public apparently believe that they have to offer some small “service,” no matter how unnecessary. And no matter how unasked for.
One common service offered at supermarkets around town is that of door opener. In our neighborhood, there is a man who stations himself at the entrance of the mercado down the street. About forty, I would guess, he is tall, lean and bearded, with a deeply lined face and sleepy smile. His wrinkled clothes appear to have been slept in, probably because they were slept in. The entrance is two steps up from the street, and there, by the heavy, glass doors, he stands from morning to evening. As you enter, he wishes you a smiling bon dia (that’s buenos dias to you Spanish speakers). On your way out, he opens the door and offers a smiling gracious, whether you gave him anything or not. He is well known in the neighborhood and from his door-side station chats with the store’s checkers and passers-by. A small contribution, say 20 centimos, seems quite satisfactory.
Another service available to those who want it, as well as those who don’t, is parking assistance. This assistance is offered on streets where parking is free. (By the way, when is America going to replace the dozens of unsightly, frequently malfunctioning, often vandalized and very expensive parking meters required per block with one parking ticket dispenser? Is there a parking meter lobby?) Parking assistants, always men, stand in the street by recently vacated parking spaces and wave their arms around in a animated manner, as if they’d just discovered a body or a bag of gold. When a car stops to take the place that the driver would have taken whether the assistant was there or not, the assistant, with wildly exaggerated gestures, directs the driver into the place. Sometimes their directions are followed, sometimes not. And sometimes the driver seems to get caught between their own parking techniques and the energetic arm waving of the assistance and botches the job completely. The assistant shrugs a “what can you do,” and begins again. We once witnessed a very flustered driver fail two parking attempts, then angrily drive away. The assistant shook his head at the ineptitude of some people.
Once the car is parked, the assistant stands by its side and beams at a job well done. Sometimes he receives a coin or two, sometimes he is ignored. Either way, as soon as the driver walks away, the assistant rushes off in search of another available parking space.
We’ve never witnessed any hostility, harsh words or even dirty looks for unrewarded door opening or parking assistance.
Our favorite ploy was performed by elderly gallant with a rose. One fine day as we passed through Plaza Bib-Rambla, we paused to take in the setting, the café tables that ring the outer edge of the plaza, the rows of flower kiosks, soaring cathedral tower, and in the center, a huge fountain and surrounding rose beds protected by wrought-iron fence. Standing there in the sun, we watched an elderly man, probably closer to 80 than 75, reach through the fence with his cane, pull through a rose and break it off. What a rascal, we thought. Rose in hand, he looked around, saw us and approached. He pushed the rose through the buttonhole in Kay’s collar, then, with a flourish and a deep bow, stepped back to admire his handiwork. Muy guapa, he exclaimed, indicating both Kay and the rose. The rose was, shall we say, not in full bloom. But we pretended that it was as beautiful as he seemed to think it was. Si, we said, muy guapa. Very beautiful. Then, with a sweet, endearing smile, he held out his hand. As I gave him a Euro, I wondered if I’d be arrested for buying stolen city property. A day or so later, we saw him in another plaza, rose in hand, looking for a willing and muy guapa recipient.
The most irritating scam is perpetrated by the Gypsy women who stand around the cathedral and along the route up to the Alhambra attempting to “give” passers-by a sprig of rosemary, which is supposed to bring good luck. The best response is to ignore them, as they can be very persistent. There are very few takers, as the ruse seems so obvious. Yet inevitably, there are those who misread this form of extortion as a quaint Granadino custom. We’ve heard them demanding as much as five Euros for a sprig. Returning this dubious gift is not easy. The women attempt to block the way of the “recipients,” haranguing them and shouting and looking furiously insulted, as if they’ve been robbed
But where do they get the rosemary? And how can we get some for cooking? The courtyards and gardens of the carmens lie behind tall walls, so there are no yards from which to pinch a bit of ground-cover rosemary, and fresh rosemary is rarely found in the markets. We discovered the source as we set out on a long, country walk that began up the hill from the Alhambra, just beyond where the Gypsy women stand. A forest of rosemary covered the hillside. It presented an excellent opportunity for Kay and I to execute one of our (at least to us) celebrated capers.
On our next walk, we took along a bag and a plan. As we walked through the field of rosemary, Kay paused and looked down, as if she had dropped something. I, meanwhile, continued some 20 yards down the path, where I stopped, pointed to the sky and shouted, “De plane, boss, de plane!” While I was creating this diversion, Kay pulled off a handful of sprigs and stuffed them in the bag. It worked like a charm, and we left with our booty without anyone being the wiser.
Now we come to those who offer nothing but expect something. There are two young women we’ve seen a number of times who simply kneel alongside a pedestrian way, heads bowed, a simple, hand-written sign beside them. They do not appear lame or ill. They do not move or look up. Their eyes are closed, as if they were in prayer or deep meditation. Few pay them any notice. We do not know what to make of it.
The other group of something-for-nothing is the hippies ‑ street people, the alternative culture, whatever you want to call them. Although primarily Spanish, we’ve heard Germans, Scandinavians, French, one time a small band of Brits. We’ve never encountered any Americans. On a few occasions, they’ve heard us talking and asked us for money in heavily accented English. Most are tattooed, adorned with body piercings and very dirty. They usually hang out in small groups, as often as not outnumbered by their dogs. They lean back against the walls of the houses along the narrow streets, their dogs panting in the shade, an empty cap lying in the middle of the lane for “contributions.” They are inevitably sharing a liter of Alhambra beer and smoking. They are never hostile or threatening. They are completely ignored. The cap stays empty.
Calle Elvira, our old street, has a number of these sad creatures. We hardly ever see them up here in our new neighborhood, perhaps because there aren’t many tourists or students.
So, what does one make of this? Is it too much to say that, generally speaking, the Spanish have a sense of personal responsibility? That they do not expect something for nothing? That this is not a society with a strong sense of entitlement? I think so.
