Spanish views from a small town

Yesterday I wondered when they were going to close Rianxo. Well, last night, I got a ping on my phone. I checked the news item, and, effectively, as of midnight tonight, Rianxo is closed.  Today, I went out to Pobra do Caramiñal, to stock up on items I buy at a supermarket chain that we don't have in our township. Here, we only have an Eroski, which is smaller and has less content than the one I normally shop at in Boiro, and a Mercadona, which I decidedly dislike.  The worst aspect of being shut down isn't so much the lack of choice in shopping, but that we seem to be in a gilded cage. Yes, we can leave the house, which we couldn't in spring, but we can't leave the township. So, a drive down the coast on a Sunday is impossible. I had thought about driving somewhere into the interior during Christmas vacation, taking a lunch and staying away from people as much as possible. Not any more. We aren't shut up in the house, but we can't go anywhere. Those who like t...

Another year, another Christmas lottery. Yesterday morning the house was filled with the sing-song voices of the children of San Ildefonso School chanting the numbers and their prizes on the televised, hours-long extraction. That lottery marks the official beginning of winter and the social beginning (lights and commercialism notwithstanding) of Christmas. After it was over, news vans travelled all over Spain, interviewing winners and losers. (We're neither - nor this year, we recuperated all the money we spent - not much.) Winners shouted out a hundred and one ways to spend the money (€320,000 after taxes), and the losers lamented their luck. Among most people, the Christmas lottery day is the day of health. Because the optimists among those who don't win anything tend to say, "Well, at least we have our health." But we losers have so much more than that. I saw a meme this morning that reminded me that we did win the lottery. We've won the lottery of luck. We...

The bean stew is starting to bubble, the sun is shining warmly after a cool dawn in the upper thirties, and the children from the school of San Ildefonso are singing the Christmas lottery on television. I know I'm not going to win anything other than a possible reimbursement on a number, yet I don't care. My lower back has decided to hurt, but I don't care, either. It's a funny morning. It's a satisfied and happy morning. The cats are meowing all over the house, my husband and I are having our private jokes, and we await our daughter's arrival this evening for Christmas break. There is no real reason for being happy, yet I am. Happiness is a state of mind that the little things foment. Who cares about winning the lottery? With every passing year becoming monetarily rich is the least of my ambitions. I am already rich.  The only thing I wish for is a little more money every month to meet my every need, and a couple of extras, like being able to save up for an...

The lottery chant has just begun at a little past nine o'clock. A few minutes into it, hopes began to be dashed as the second prize, with a million and a half euros, came out. Every year there is the same illusion, and every year it gets dashed. Some years a little of it remains with the small prizes.  It's not a rich lottery. Most people buy a tenth of an entire ticket worth twenty euros. The first prize is 400,000 euros to the tenth, or décimo . That is not enough to retire upon and buy a house in the Caribbean. But to those who are unemployed or who have a slave-wage job it is a life buoy that will help lift them out of debt. And to those who have a boss they wish they could throw a jackhammer at, it lets them do so and gain time to find a nicer boss. It's not easy to win the first prize. There are 99,999 numbers. The chances of winning the top prize has been compared to a drop in five liters of water. Still, it is Christmas, the time of year when illusion runs riot an...