Dramatisation

Being the good Brit that I am, I am not one for confrontations. I pose my demands in a nice and articulated manner and expect the recipient to respond with the same civility. And if everything else fails, I rely on a good old cup of tea to fix the problem. (Is there anything a cuppa can’t solve?) 

However, when the solution keeps eluding me, the Frenchman in me takes over. I succumb to depressing chansons and binge on fromage and gateau. It is becoming a problem. Mainly because this is not the way things are done here, in the land of the bullfighters. 

The Spaniards like drama. Much like their iconic toreros, dressed in sparkly, highly revealing tight outfits, they like to play with the beast before slaying it. Where is the fun of an efficient and time saving approach? Only the Spanish could have come up with an open air slaughterhouse, fitted with bleachers and a butcher in a penis exposing jumpsuit. Their world is a stage. Sevillanas wear bright polka dot dresses. Women beat their chest with abanicos on the underground. And I’m not mentioning the authoritarian gaze of flamenco dancers and the silencing of their stomping. The Spaniards enjoy drama or to be more accurate dramatisation. 

A dramatisation that is especially present in their TV programmes. Programmes such as Sálvame where members of the panel, in between vigorously discussing the latest gossip with exacerbated rage mocking as passion, spontaneously leave the set and reappear in fancy dress or simply stand up and shake their stuff.  

So in a country where everything is a show, where a sensible compromise cannot be reached without a bit of cape waving and loud altercations, what is a reserved and well-mannered Brit to do? Is one actually supposed to speak their mind? The mere thought of it made me shiver. 

I often find myself backed into a corner here and not wanting to make a fuss, I yield. I thought it was time to try a different approach and so I decided to experiment on my unsuspecting Spanish flatmate and see if I could get her to actually wash her dishes. 

I gathered myself, breathed deeply and started by timidly stomping my foot. I then put my hands on my waist as though I was a superhero ready to fight for justice. I felt more confident as if the pose itself gave me power. Long winded sentences turned into short bursts of random accusations punctuated by joders. I was on a roll. I waved my arms a bit and used my hands to emphasise my point. My entire demeanour had changed. I now realise that I looked like an angry peacock seducing a female into mating. She stopped me half way through my dance with: “No te pongas flamenco”. I was stunned.

I had forgotten how acutely aware the Spaniards were of their own flaws and how they openly laughed about it. 

In the end I washed the dishes myself before digging into a camembert.