Abandon the Euro!

(In the spirit of international misunderstanding, "The Expat's Pajamas: Barcelona" is currently free on smashwords !)

I was in Granada, Spain when the first euro coins arrived on January 1, 2002. Anyone familiar with Spanish bureaucracy would have been amazed by the lack of chaos during the currency transition.  The ATM's were well stocked with notes, the vendors were ready with euro-to-peseta calculators, and many of the coins had been minted as far back as 1999.

The only problem I saw was a shortage of new coins to make change for the 50-euro notes spewing out of the cash machines. In the shadow of the Alhambra, we made economic union with mixed currencies until the banks re-opened and filled our jingling pockets with images of Cervantes and King Juan Carlos.

When the New Year’s holiday ended, I observed British tourists frantically spending pesetas and euros on duty-free Brandy de Jerez before leaving Spain.  Their kingdom, of course, did not embrace the euro, and still hasn’t.

This was a good decision.

The UK’s official reason for not joining the original twelve member states in currency unification was that as a major banking center, they didn't want to cede control over their economy to Brussels. 

I'm sure there was more to it than that.

I know the British derive great amusement from watching befuddled tourists trying to fathom why two pence is larger than two quid, but that’s not their only reason for holding fast to the pound sterling.

If the euro took hold in the UK, British citizens would quickly realize that a Big Mac (and just about everything else) in London costs double what it costs in Paris and probably quadruple the price in Portugal. Everyone loves British beef, but that hardly justifies such gouging.

Some sterling enthusiasts feel it would be improper to have images of Queen Elizabeth mixing in people’s pockets with Leonardo’s spread-eagle naked man on the Italian euro coin.

While Lizzy and Leo might make an immodest pair,  I think the real objection is over slang.

On the continent, the arrival of the euro killed a rich vernacular. On that fateful first day of January, many  popular terms for money simply evaporated.  Before the euro, a Frenchman could refer to “ten franks” as “dix balles.”  A Spaniard could refer to “ten pesetas” as “diez pelas,” and a Greek could refer to “twenty drachmas” as “xyoihm.” After the new currency invaded, many countries saw their mother tongues shrivel as euro-speak took over.

The euro would be devastating for slang in Great Britain. Here’s simple proof: which expression is culturally and linguistically richer? Which phrase is more rustic and evocative?

             (a) “Two quid-bob a pop for your bangers, kippers, rashers and mash, Guv’nuh,” or

             (b) “Three euros for that Big Mac, sir.”

I rest my case. The euro would be a death sentence for the English language.

The British were wise not to lose linguistic gamut by switching to the sterile uni-currency.  There may be light at the end of the euro tunnel, but for the moment the English language emerges victorious.

In the haste to unify continental markets, a rich lexicon of financial slang was relegated to history.   Is it too late to recover? Should the EU ditch the euro and bring back the franc, peseta, drachma, and lira?

OK, maybe not the lira, but you get my point. It’s not too late to save the slang.

(In the spirit of international misunderstanding, "The Expat's Pajamas: Barcelona" is currently free on smashwords !)

Ancient Romans Colonized My Brain!

In the summer of 2000, I moved to Barcelona with my family for reasons both professional and personal.

Unlike many people who change countries, we weren’t fleeing chaos. We weren’t forced to move under duress. No one was shooting at us.

But the truth is that I was fleeing something.

I was running away from my own complacency.

There’s a French word, “depaysment,” which roughly translates to mean “out of your element,”  and that’s what I needed. Moving to Spain jerked me out of my comfort zone.

Of all the expat adventures, comic defeats and small victories that emerged from my five years abroad, the one I’m most proud of is “No Roads Lead to Rome.”

Here’s how the book hit me.

One weekend, I was hiking with a friend in the Collserola, the hills above Barcelona. We were lamenting the decline and fall of damn near everything when the story hatched like a bird in my brain. I imagined two Roman soldiers having the same conversation 2000 years earlier. We were walking in their footsteps.  The world had changed, but people had not.

As revelations go, this tiny insight could have easily escaped me.  People have always felt like things are changing too fast and rarely for the better.

Big deal, right?

Within minutes, I was possessed by an old Roman legionary and a young conscript. I could hear them lamenting their lot in life.  How could the Senate vote to build another monument when people can’t even afford a decent pair of sandals? How did those vexed Roman numeral crunchers conclude the bread dole was too expensive?  Much of the dialogue between my grizzled old centurion, Marcus Valerius, and his chatty young sidekick, Gaius Severus, took root that afternoon.

Centurion Valerius is frustrated that the old ways are changing too fast. He’s tired of being marched off on fool’s missions to defend an empire he no longer believes in. He wants to retire, but no empire ever went broke paying pensions to old soldiers. The smart and mysterious conscript, Gaius Severus, thinks things aren’t changing fast enough. He’s full of opinions, eager to make his way in the world, and his nonstop talking nearly drives old, silent Valerius crazy. These two are pitted against Festus Rufius, the party boy Governor of Hispania, and his shady advisor, Winus Minem, a fast-talking bamboozler who would sell the world, twice, if he could.

When I learned that around 123 AD a slave had botched an attempt to kill the Emperor Hadrian in Tarraco — Tarragona, Spain — the first line in the novel wrote itself: “When it comes to assassination, execution is everything.”

My cast of characters staged a coup and took over my life. They took me hostage and have yet to let me go. They have many new stories to tell. Each one wants to star in a sequel. 

There are books and ideas that will change your life—relax, this isn’t one of them.  I’m not trying to make you think because you’re already a thoughtful person.  I worked hard to capture the sights, smells, and sensations of the ancient world and render the story humorous, entertaining,  and relevant to modern readers.   The e-book version costs less than coffee and a scone and lasts longer.

Of all the reviews I’ve received, this excerpt from a reader named Jerry, is the most gratifying:

”I have a pretty dreadful life at the moment and rarely laugh but several times throughout No Roads Lead to Rome, I found myself not only laughing but laughing out loud…”

I’m gratified that so many people have bought the book. Some people write for themselves, and that’s fine, but I wrote “No Roads” because a handful of old Romans colonized my brain.

Maybe all roads don’t lead to Rome, but I know they lead somewhere good and I hope we meet along the way.

Enjoy!

RSG

http://www.noroadsleadtorome.com/

If you like “No Roads,”  please return the favor by posting a review. Whether you love it or hate it, I’d be happy to hear from you. Please post a comment below or send me a note at noroadsleadtorome (at) gmail.com .  If you have a favorite character, let me know so I don’t accidentally kill him off in the sequel.

The US Presidential Marathon Explained

 

As a US citizen of global proportions, I feel compelled to explain our presidential election process to my three European readers.

First and foremost, it’s important to understand that the American election is run by the entertainment and advertising industries. Europeans who bemoan our superficial candidates don’t understand that we are voting for actors, not statesmen.

We vote for personalities, not politics. This is because the mainstream Democrats and Republicans aren’t really that different.  If you still have trouble understanding the two main parties, here’s an easy trick:  Coors is the official beer of the Republican Party, the more Euro-friendly Democrats drink Budweiser.

Unlike most places, where campaigns last a couple of months, we Yanks like to draw the process out for nearly two years. This is to assure that no sitting president can get anything done in the last half of a four year term.

Our extended election cycle is a giant economic stimulus package for event planners, caterers, hookers and consultants.

Because we have too many states to keep track of, we start with a primary election in the state of Iowa, followed quickly by New Hampshire. Both states receive an immense financial windfall from the sale of (imported) American flags.

Iowa and New Hampshire serve a vital purpose: they eliminate the most entertaining novelty candidates. This helps giant donors funnel limitless cash on the remaining candidates. Eventually, the remaining forty-eight sates stage increasingly expensive primary contests to assure that advertising and TV money flows from the rich to the super-rich.

A few months before the final election, when most Americans have completely lost interest, each party stages their big convention.

The main outcome of the convention is the “party platform.” The platform serves the same purpose in politics as in Olympic diving: the competitor must jump off the platform, twist and turn in mid-air, and land in the great bathtub of public approval without splashing anyone. Any candidate who “flip-flops” loses points.

Once the convention is over, the final leg of the campaign marathon begins.  Because most voters are loyal to their party, the candidates now engage in symbolic struggle to seduce a small percentage of critical swing voters to their side. These undecided voters force the candidates to escape Houdini-like from a variety of contorted positions.

In a series of televised debates that increasingly resemble "Survivor Island," hot-button topics like “Coke vs. Pepsi” get more scrutiny than dull questions about foreign policy.  

It’s a well known fact that most eligible voters don’t. This is because after two years of over-exposure, we’re sick of the candidates. We know them too well and don’t want any. By the final, fateful November election day, the northern half of the country is home bound due to freak snowstorms while the southern half forgets to vote.

This is why the incumbent usually wins.

No Roads Lead to Rome