On fleeing and homecoming

There's no easy last entry for this blog...

I'm glad to be home, and glad that Spain has shown its best side in the last weeks.  But for my blog-reading peeps who can, stay in the streets.

So, my Fulbright grant is officially over.  I'll be back and forth to Spain over the summer, but I've made a quick trip home (the first since last September, and the first time I've left Spain this year).  I kept reassuring all my friends and neighbors in Carabanchel, "it's just for a couple of weeks.  I'll be back soon" and it's true...but I can feel the beginning of being uprooted, and I'm sad, because I've been mostly very generously welcomed...in Carabanchel, in Madrid, and in Spain.  (I know perfectly well from other Fulbrighters that the welcome extended so generously might be more ambivalent and unpleasant if I weren't white.  This hurts me because I love Spain and want it to be better, but I can still acknowledge the grace with which I have been received and made at home in my immigrant neighborhood, even as other people remind me that the glory of New York is that you can become a New Yorker, and the problem with Europe is that you and your children remain forever foreigners.)

I'm also being generously welcomed home in New York (it turns out I have friends), and I must say that from the moment of landing at JFK I felt the same relief and happiness about being home as always, and the same recognition that New York really is unlike any other place I've been, not only because of my personal associations, but because yes, the cross-section of people you get on a subway car here is more diverse than the (very beautiful) metro in Madrid, even in my neighborhood.  And yes, you can speak English if you want to, but it's really optional.  (I met up with Spanish friends in New York on my first day back, and kept being surprised when the children playing around us in the park spoke such good English.  My instinct is to speak Spanish with children and English with adults now, and I kind of had to reverse it.)

At one of my farewell dinners during my last week in Madrid a concerned Spaniard (considering visiting New York) asked me whether speaking Spanish was "stigmatized" in the city, and I could hardly help laughing as I assured her that it most emphatically was not.  And yet...this is a painful time to come home.

Madrid to Carabanchel - a novel tour

 My Fulbright year officially ended on June 14, and the blog is sadly winding to an end, but here's a little story of one of my final activities....

Faithful blog readers will recall my long winter's silence when I was trying to finish a novel as well as working on my thesis. A few of you have read or heard more about this project, so I thought it would be nice, as one of the final entries, to do a little tour of how important places in the novel look in the present day. So this will be an entry of photos, not so much about my daily life as about the places I wrote about (more or less), although I give fair warning that the neighborhood has changed so much in the last fifty years (and even the last twenty-five) that almost nothing remains of 1876, when the novel is set, and when Carbanchel was a country village outside a much smaller Madrid, that still stayed more or less inside its gates.

Always the last place you look...

To quote Edwidge Danticat's Krik?Krak! “Something is always in the last place you look, because once you find it, you stop looking.”

I had a lovely day finding nothing in the archives yesterday, going first to the university's facultad de filología, as recommended by the friendly archivists as the university's archivo histórico. The facultad de filología is located in the old tabacalera building, a lovely seventeenth century pile of sun-paled stone, set around a series of courtyards. It's a pretty standard stop on the tourist itinerary, and indeed a sign in English, French, and Spanish advises visitors that free audio guides are available just past the entrance. I ignored the audio guides and headed straight for the conserjería, where I got directions to the “secretaria” of the facultad de filología, and then headed through the courtyards decorated with neo-classical statues and fountains, and old signs from the tobacco factory (“Inspección de Talleres” read an archaic sign above a more modern one for restrooms), and where gracious stone arches were discreetly fitted with glass doors to set off important things like the student cafeteria.

Students in the main building of the Universidad de Sevilla

Then I turned off the last courtyard and headed down a hallway where marble gave way to tile and then eventually to linoleum to find a little window (ironically dedicated to Erasmus students) where I offered my somewhat involved explanation of what I was looking for to a young woman who was probably the equivalent of a work study student, and who was clearly used to answering questions about registration and exams. She looked amiable but puzzled and then asked me to wait a minute.

Morons of the Frontier: a morning in the hemeroteca

Sadly, yesterday's triumph was not repeated today.  But perhaps it's one day on, one day off...and there's still tomorrow.

I must say that the archivists of Seville are - individually and as a group - the most kind and helpful I have met.  Yesterday's nice people in the municipal historical archive suggested that if I was researching a journalist I might want to consider the hemeroteca, the collection of local periodicals one floor down, to see if she had written any articles.  It had never occurred to me that Peterson might have published while she was in Sevilla, but as most of her (few) published works are articles, that struck me as logical.  So this morning I presented myself at the hemeroteca after a quick stop in the provincial historical archive to check for her "certificado de buena conducta" which was fruitless ("was she arrested?" asked the friendly man in the white coat brightly.  "Because we have all the prison records from then."  He seemed distinctly less sure of her presence in the archives when I said she hadn't had brushes with the law.)  I looked quickly at the little exhibits in the provincial archive, about the flag of California (for not completely clear reasons) and the letters of nineteenth century novelist Juan de Valera, and also took their little flyer about "international archive day" which has the heading (in "Andaluz"):  ¿Pero qué eh Ud?  ¿Archivista?  Bueno, hay gente pa' to'o.  ("What're you?  An archivist?  Well, it takes all kinds.")  In a sweet attempt to democratize an archive which basically runs to prison records and state control, they also have a little poster saying that everyone has old photos and letters and so on, and that if you contribute them to the provincial archive they will be digitized so we can keep records of "our Sevilla" as it was for all, and another little form to take which you can fill out to make donations of photos or other personal papers.

Anyway, back to going around the corner and up the stairs to the hemeroteca.

In her own hand...a small victory in the archives

 

It took ten months, but I've finally located a primary source document written by one of my authors.

Greetings from Sevilla, where I arrived yesterday afternoon, after planning to visit multiple archives here since September.  Sevilla was the first port of call (in one case literally) for most of the authors I'm studying, and they tended to refer to it using terms like "the heart of Spain."  This is the Andalusian city par excellence, known for its flamenco, for its bougainvillea strewn terraces and balconies, its accent "muy cerrado" and its "color especial."  This is the city that ruled the "West Indies" and saw the expansion (and explosion) of the trans-Atlantic slave trade and got rich from the gold of the New World (and also poor since the Spanish imported so much they accidentally devalued the currency of half of Europe, because they didn't understand about absolute value vs. commodity fetish, but whatever).  This is the "Spanish" city which boasts the Roman ruins of Baetica, the (much restored and renovated) Moorish alcázar and the ramped Giralda, the minaret-cum-belltower with its spinning statue ("giraldilla" or little spinner), thought such an architectural wonder that allegedly the medieval conqueror of the city threatened to slaughter every single civilian Sevillano if the city's defenders tried to destroy it before surrendering.  (To their credit, they put the lives of their citizens above their religious principles, and allowed it to be defaced as a church tower.  It must have been tough on them though.)  In any case, Sevilla is the "heart of Spain," and every single one of my authors thought it was iconic.

I've never really liked it.

Partly that's because my heart has always belonged to Madrid, the much maligned mongrel of the high desert.  Partly that's because the first time I visited Sevilla, almost exactly twenty years ago, the city was unpleasantly split between super luxury tourism of the Bruges-Disney variety and really unpleasant poverty.  And partly just because I'm perverse, and hate falling for all the stereotypes about Spain.  But the archives beckoned, and I have to admit, after twenty four hours here, that it's really a very beautiful city, and that there has also clearly been some attempt at intelligent investment and development (and the presence of some normal stores like supermarkets and pharmacies and hardware stores as well as souvenir stores selling overpriced cachivaches).  And bright and early this morning I set out to visit the Municipal Historical Archive, on the trail of Dorothy Peterson that had led nowhere in Málaga in February.

Hugs and Handshakes all around

It's June, which means the school year is ending, and it's graduation season...and there are lots of award and end of year ceremonies that are similar.  Also the odd swearing-in.

On Friday, 1 June, I had not one but two semi-formal social commitments.  First of all, I was invited to attend the awards ceremony for the most outstanding Erasmus students at the Complutense, on the somewhat shaky grounds that I have been one of the substitutes for the English-language adviser this term, and one of the award winners was from University College London (though the young lady in question is actually French, and being an extremely good student had no need to talk to me for the entire semester anyway).  That was in the morning.  Second, in the evening, I was invited to an optional "end of year gathering" for Fulbrighters before the program officially ends in just two weeks time.

Given that the Fulbright and Erasmus programs have some common features (and some interesting differences), the two ceremonies had some interesting parallels and divergences.  All in all, both were nice affairs, which succumb to the human temptation to make formal milestones to mark endings of things, and indulge in a little benign self-congratulation.  Both involved hugs, promises to stay in touch, excellent tapas, and beer and wine for those participants who enjoy those things (and fanta and coke for me).  But given that they both happened to take place on the same day (and in fact almost literally at the same hour) as the PP government of Spain fell and the PSOE replaced them, and as the shaky Italian coalition took power with all the grace and finesse of what a car insurance ad here calls "a teenager who parallel parks by ear" the overwhelming presence of diplomats from no fewer than six different countries led to some amusing reflections.  The most important one of course being that most of the invited diplomats wisely took advantage of their prior engagement to deliver anodyne congratulations to a bunch of sweet young people to be unavailable for comment while governments dissolved and re-formed.  Like Macavity or Corporal Nobby Nobbs, they were distinctly not there when it came to dramatic events in Moncloa or in Rome, but in this hyper-connected age of checking smartphones, few of them were able to completely keep their concern about what the more tactful among them referred to as "challenging events in the world" from out of their remarks.

Feria de Libro - a low key Spring celebration

After the frenetic fiestas of the First and Second of May, and of San Isidro, Madrid's annual feria de libro seems restful

The Children's Tent at the Madrid Book Fair Shows its calendar of activities

A few days ago a friend alerted me that (unsurprisingly) my bookstore owning friend from Tres Cantos would be bringing her bookstore to one of the stalls at the Madrid feria de libro, which started on Friday and runs for the next two weeks.  She suggested we go say hi, which I thought was a good idea.  Then I realized that of course on the weekend another friend from outside of Madrid was most likely to be signing and presenting her new novel (she has a day job in Ponferrada, so during the week was unlikely).  After an exchange of texts, she confirmed that she was indeed signing Saturday evening from 7:00 to 9:00, and suggested that I stop by toward the end of her signing shift, so we could go have dinner afterward.

So yesterday evening I set out in the late afternoon sunshine and walked to the Retiro, since I hadn't really been out all day, and I wanted some exercise.  Just under an hour and a half brought me to the hordes of evening strollers in the Retiro, and as I wandered past the "Rosaleda" (formal rose garden) and along the crowded paths I saw large numbers of people heading back from the fair, and also a significant number heading towards it (along with a few overheard comments "Is this the right direction?"  "The sign said straight ahead."  "There are people with book fair bags coming from over there.")

Toying with history?

 

A walk last Sunday brought me to an unexpected anniversary commemoration...

After the excitement of San Isidro, and a few days of pleasant socializing with fellow wandering researchers, I had a quiet weekend last weekend, and stuck my nose out of doors on Saturday afternoon purely to go for a walk in order to get some exercise.  I did a walk that I normally enjoy, down through the Cuña Verde to Madrid Río, along the river to Marqués de Vadillo, and then up bustling Calle General Ricardos to contrast with the serenity of the park.  In the interests of doing something different, I thought I would stop into the Centro Comercial (aka mall) La Ermita, which sits along the Paseo Ermita del Santo (yes, that would be San Isidro again) and see what was happening on a Saturday afternoon, since malls tend to be lively.

Actually, the businesses were mostly closed on Saturday afternoon, except for the restaurants and the kids' bouncy castle and the bowling alley.  But walking through the doors of the Centro Comercial I was confronted with a large glass case, with what appeared to be a model of Eiffel Tower and a bunch of little Playmobil figures holding a demonstration.

A diorama, apparently for children, sandwiched in between Foster's Hollywood Restaurant (visible beyond the glass) and Burger King in the Centro Comercial Ermita del Santo

This struck me as odd.

San Isidro: cocido, churros y chocolate (part 3 of 3)

Eating and drinking are fundamental, not incidental to the Fiesta de San Isidro

Waiting on line for the free cocido madrileño in the Parque San Isidro on the Día de San Isidro

Ok, I promise this is the last entry about San Isidro, but it was two days of cool and intense activity, with lots of photos and videos, and many interesting things, and while I was originally planning to make yesterday's entry "chotis, chulapos, and churros" I realized that song, dance, and funny costumes deserved their own entry separate from food, drink, and picnicking (not to mention the fairground ride and fireworks).

Possibly because a friend and fellow researcher I've met here is writing a dissertation about food and politics in 1940s Spain, and possibly because of older research interests of my own, I couldn't help but notice how much importance food is given in the fiestas de San Isidro.  This is a city which has known hunger, and a fair number of the popular songs for San Isidro come close to "food porn."  I was initially impressed on Sunday afternoon in the Plaza de Vistillas that the song which got the audience up from their chairs and dancing (as well as singing along) was something which I initially, listening, thought was a love song, but which actually I would classify more as a "food song" called "Cocidito madrileño."  (A few hours later I mentioned to the friends I was with that there appeared to have been a song dedicated entirely to cocido, whereupon the two of them - mother and daughter, both Madrid-born - exchanged sheepish grins and began to sing "cooocidito madrileñooo...")  Picture an entire plaza full of people singing "porque eres gloria pura, porque eres gloria pura, cocidito madrileño!" in a spasm of civic pride and hungriness and you get a sense of the scene.

San Isidro: Chotis and Chulapos (Part 2 of 3)

 

¡Viva Madrid! ¡Viva San Isidro!

 

Or how an international city does a local party

 

There's a whole wonderful set of silly traditions around San Isidro.  And the best thing is that they're all unashamedly modern and cheerfully not purely "Spanish."  Just purely Madrid. 

San Isidro was canonized sometime in the seventeenth century when Spain's new capital city needed a local saint.  By the late eighteenth century, the sleepy backwater town had doubled and quadrupled in size into a capital city of a flailing empire with huge inequality and plenty of political problems, already about to be eclipsed, but still with a far-flung influence that stretched from Mexico to Manila to Milan...and of course back to Madrid.  By this time San Isidro was well ensconced in his hermitage, and the tradition of the verbena was a standard rite of Spring.  Goya captured the scene in 1788:

Goya's version of the Pradera de San Isidro.  All the buildings in the background are still there, and you can still see some of them.  But there are a lot more buildings blocking the river nowadays.  And a lot less river.

For comparison, here's a picture of the same place I two weeks ago.  Not as different as you'd think:

Note royal palace (Palacio de Oriente) in the distance on the left, and people sitting on grass, as in Goya's painting.

San Isidro in San Isidro (Part 1 of 3)

The fiestas of the patron saint of Madrid mark the unofficial beginning of summer here.   And obviously living in the "Barrio San Isidro" I couldn't miss them, right?

About a month ago I started seeing the signs going up around the city...

 

Clearly, San Isidro was going to be something of a big deal.

A Few Deep Breaths

As I enter my final (uninterrupted) month in Madrid, a couple of thoughts...

I know I keep saying that I'll get back to blogging regularly, and I know I've been bad about it.  The good news is that I have completed a chapter draft for my thesis (now it's just two chapters to revise, and the introduction and conclusion to go!), and have emailed it off.  I've worked out that - not counting this blog and multiple emails to friends and family, but just looking at my thesis and the novel I was working on - I've written about 120K words since September.  And managed to keep my apartment reasonably clean.  Which proves that not having a real job makes you more productive.

Spelunking through the AGA

Research in the Archivo General de Administración is a collaborative effort

Many years ago (in 2006, if I remember correctly) I bicycled from Ghent to Amsterdam and back, on a route of more or less my own devising. One of the subtle differences in cycle culture that I noticed in Belgium and Holland (or more accurately in neighboring Flanders and Zeeland) had to do with signage. In the Netherlands, the bicycle paths were all (at least in theory) extremely well marked, and anyone with a map or a general sense of geography could barely get lost, which meant that those of us poor fools who stopped at crossroads had people whiz past us at speed on their bikes. In Flanders, the signs were considerably less comprehensive, but it was impossible to stop for more than thirty seconds at a crossing without another bike rolling to a stop beside you and saying (usually in English) “Are you lost? Can I help you find something?” The better signs meant less informal assistance between cyclists, and the more cryptic indications meant a friendlier camaraderie among those who were trying to puzzle them out.

I have found that the Archivo General de Administración is like Flanders to the nth degree. The finding aids are cryptic to the point of unintelligibility even when they are not frankly inaccurate. But the staff are lovely and helpful, and I have the advantage of working alongside a fellow researcher (and former Fulbrighter), who is doing something completely unrelated. Yesterday she came over and knelt by my desk, whispering, “I think I've found some associations that might be useful for you” and provided me with a bunch of box call numbers. In return, I have noted the boxes where her subject pops up, and have been carefully passing the information along to her. And meanwhile the friendly archivists look at the call numbers and say “¿estás interesada en prensa?” based purely on the boxes you are requesting, and their memories of previous call requests. (My former-Fulbright-friend said she was greeted on her arrival with another grant this year with the assurance that “the good news is that no one has looked at your boxes since you were here two years ago. The bad news is they're still not better catalogued.”) All of us are wandering in a labyrinthine collection of tens of thousands of boxes with probably millions of individual documents that would make Jorge Luis Borges himself dizzy, like his bibliotecarios de Babel we leave little flare guns and notes and helpful hints for each other, which makes research at once slower and less productive, but tremendously more fun and social.

Feliz día del libro!

My day of helicopters, blue fingers, and lilacs

I woke up this morning to the alarm and a WhatsApp from my Complutense mentor wishing me "feliz día del libro."  As April 20 was the "noche de libros" in Madrid, and I knew we were coming up on the anniversary of Cervantes' and Shakespeare's death, I wasn't totally surprised.  Today is also I believe Sant Jordi in Catalunya, when people burn furniture (don't ask), and also booksellers have major book fair events.  (You're not supposed to burn the books.  It's just a coincidence that the patron saint of Catalunya and the Day of the Book coincide.  Given that he's a patron saint in England as well, perhaps St. Jordi/Saint George watches over language use generally.)

Alcalá de Henares in sunshine and rain

One of the (many) posts I meant to do but didn't, and today's new research adventures

 

Alcalá de Henares in cold March rain

I traveled for the second time to Alcalá de Henares on Thursday (and the third time on Friday), to consult the mysteriously named Archivo General de Administración, which sounds like something from Yes, Minister, and actually appears to be something a bit more sinister and Orwellian.  My quest involved getting up early and taking the cercanías, and then spending three exhausting but fascinating hours in the archives (until they closed at 2:30), and then lunch in beautiful summery weather in an outdoor café, and a brief trip to the Casa-Museo Cervantes.  The sunshine and open museums and general holiday atmosphere outside the archives was a funny contrast to the first time I went to Alcalá, almost exactly one month ago, also for professional reasons, to give a lecture at the university.  I had a productive professional time and a very interesting tourist time there then too, but it was Monday (so many things were closed), and pouring rain, and quite cold.  My poor wet feet were very sad and chilly in March.  The only thing that happened in April was that I wanted to stop and buy a coke before the train home because I was mildly thirsty after walking around in the sun.  What a difference a month makes.

Getting back to work...

 

Time is slipping away...

It's been a while since I've blogged, although I've been thinking about doing it a lot lately.  Some of that is down to having a series of house guests in fairly close succession, which means getting to be a tourist and going around with people and showing them fun stuff (and also four wonderful days in Alicante, which are probably worth several entries that they probably won't get).  Some of it is exhaustion after writing a lot quickly to try to finish a piece of fiction so I can get back to my thesis.  And some of it is (surprise!) actual thesis work -- which I've realized I can't put off any longer, since tomorrow marks the two month count-down to my return to New York (though I'll probably be back in Madrid over the summer, especially toward the end of July to finish up dealing with apartment stuff, as well as just enjoying being here without work, as always).  So this is a transitional entry, mentioning briefly a bunch of stuff that has happened, and acknowledging that I won't get all of it down, and hoping to do better going forward, in the very small amount of time that is left.

A funny detail of the rain...

Apologies for letting the blog slide for a few weeks...

I've been trying to finish a piece of writing over the last month or so, and I'm afraid this blog has been neglected.  No, not my thesis (sorry, if any of my professors are reading this, I swear it will get done too).  Just some fiction inspired partly by my neighborhood - and in direct response to my Complutense mentor here who said "nothing ever happens in Carabanchel"  and partly (ironically) by the class of said mentor last semester, which I audited, and where I got to learn a bit more about a chapter of Spanish history that shows up in my story.  (And it is literally a chapter, or chapters.)  The story is about a young academic who comes to Madrid doing research on manuscripts and ends up in Carabanchel.  I wonder what could have ever given me that idea?  😁

In any case, I'm afraid that between working at finishing that story, plus following up on my visit to the embassy and doing some of the lectures to college students that they asked me to do, plus the odd glance at reading for my thesis, plus staying on top of emails home and welcoming a few visitors, there simply hasn't been much time to blog.  I promise many blog posts to catch up on what I'm doing in terms of interesting trips and lectures and so on, but this is just an assortment of random details that I thought were charming and/or curious.  Consider this entry an apology to my faithful readers.

It's raining, do I still have to save the world?

I was planning an amusing blog entry, but couldn't find the event that was supposed to happen.

First off, I should say for all those readers out there in the blogosphere that it's not snowing.  Somewhat north of here (in much of Castilla-León) it is snowing, and El País is reporting three deaths and multiple cut highways due to a winter storm.  The Guardian is also reporting that trains and roads are closed in Britain, which is getting a heavy dumping of snow (probably a lot heavier than northern Spain, to be honest), and I assume the same conditions prevail across much of the EU.  So, I'm lucky it's not snowing.

It's raining.  A lot.

After the super-dry autumn this is hopefully good for the reservoirs (though El País now is saying there are flood warnings for the Duero, so I don't know how much they'll be able to hold onto the water).  However, it also seems to have rained out an event I was planning to go to in order to spice up this relatively dull blog, as the last week or so since my return from Malaga has been quietly curled up reading articles, and doing a bit of outlining, and writing, which is not very interesting.  (That is, I think the content is interesting, but the process is not interesting to write about.)  I am giving a couple of guest lectures at the Complutense in a few weeks time, which I will report back on, but in the meantime yesterday on the way to the metro I passed a flyer pasted on a bus shelter calling for a "manifestación" to give Carabanchel its own Centro de Salud.  It was one of those wordy posters that explains the many years that the residents of Carabanchel have been forced to go out of their neighborhood to a different Centro de Salud for healthcare, with lots of statistics, some of which are repeated here.

The Prettiest Milonga in Málaga...and an unexpected encounter

My last evening in Málaga

Milonga "El Jardín" by the Cathedral in Málaga

Before heading to Málaga I checked online for milongas, and threw a pair of tango shoes into my bag just in case, since I saw that there was a regular one on Thursdays. I almost didn't go out Thursday evening, since I was tired, and very tempted to just stay in and watch TV. A desire to eat dinner propelled me out, but I decided (after further reading online) that I would just bring along my tango shoes as a backup, but would not change my clothes into the dress I had brought and the alternate shoes instead of my sneakers. So I wandered back to Málaga's Cathedral, and its pedestrianized city center....which is completely dead at 10:00. Seriously, it's weird, even the restaurants looked more like restaurants at 10:00 PM in other countries....open, but with people finishing dinner, and few people arriving. I've noticed generally that out of season things tend to close early in Málaga (the Alcazaba and the Roman Amphitheater at 6:00 – which is ridiculous since it's light until 7:00 and a bit after now), and the side effect of being so completely set up for tourists is that the hours are very un-Spanish. (Mind you, the Cien Montaditos in the food court at the railway station outside of the tourist center was packed and jumping at 10:15 on Wednesday when I managed to squeeze in and find a seat, and the food court in the station is open until 1:00 AM though there aren't trains after midnight, but that's different.)

Anyway, I wandered through the beautifully lit but eerily still pedestrian zone, wondering if I was making a mistake, and if I would find the restaurant where the milonga was supposed to be dark and silent, as has often happened when I've searched for milongas in the past.

Down among (yesterday's) grassroots

The Archivo Histórico Provincial de Málaga does not have things of immediate interest to my research...but it does have things of interest.

I had a productive Thursday, spending the morning in the Provincial Historical Archive again and combing through personnel files of the cuerpos de seguridad which were useless to my research but quite amusing. I discovered Nobby Nobbs levels of police corruption in one handwritten transcription of the deposition of various complainants and one guardia de vigilancia charged with buying lottery tickets on credit from them and not paying for the tickets throughout 1930-1931. He'd run up a tab of 50 pesetas to one lottery vendor and 45 to another before they finally got up the courage to complain. (Since El ONCE in Spain is traditionally run as a charity for the blind, and the ticket vendors were and are traditionally blind or visually impaired, this falls into the category of taking money from a blind man's cup, almost literally. One of the ticket sellers who complained added specifically in his deposition that his only previous contact with the police had been about precisely the theft of coins from his cup and that at that time he had been “attended to courteously and promptly” – suggesting that dealing with the shakedown guy who didn't pay for tickets was an unpleasant surprise.) As I know from reading several files, the annual salary for a guardia de vigilancia was 3500 pesetas, and for a blind ticket seller presumably considerably less. So 50 pesetas could be a week's income from the ticket seller, or at least a few days worth. (Say the equivalent of about 150-200 euros.) Abusing authority that way seems sleazy, if not actively criminal. The internal investigator apparently agreed, since the deposition ends by saying that the accused was forced to pay the amount he owed in the presence of witnesses.