Rooster, Tomatoes, and Death

On our morning walk the other day, I suddenly realized I was hearing a rooster crow. I don’t live in the country; the crowing was coming from an apartment building. Maybe they have a coop on the roof. Suddenly Figueres didn’t feel so grey and urban.

My first Tot Sants (All Souls) here in Figueres, back in November 2012, I did what I usually do on that holiday, I took myself to the cemetery to take photos of all the flowers people were leaving at the tombs of their loved ones. But on that Tot Sants the cemetery turned out to be not as peaceful as cemeteries usually are. When I arrived the police had it cordoned off. There had been a shooting inside and a man had been killed.

It was a drugs-related shooting. The man killed was from France, and the assailant was from Figueres. Later I heard that they had arrested the perpetrator and I thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn’t. This was because both the French man and the Figueres man were gypsies and the aggrieved clan had a score to settle. A few days later the French clan began taking revenge on the clan here in Figueres by killing some of the livestock of an uncle and wrecking some of the homes of other family members. Suddenly Figueres didn’t feel so European.

Last Sunday, on the 23^rd, the Eve of Sant Joan – midsummer night – there was a shooting in Girona where four people were shot. They were all taken to the hospital in Girona where two of them later died of their wounds. About 100 members of the clan of the victims showed up at the hospital and were kept at bay by the police.

When I heard the news and heard that the victims were from one clan and the perpetrators from another, I knew they were talking about gypsies. Everyone has families; gypsies have clans.

The victims were shot by a man called Guillermo who was using an AK-47. This is the first time I’ve heard of that kind of weapon being used here. Firearms are much less prevalent than in the U.S. and many attacks are with knives.

Guillermo disappeared immediately. And so did members of his clan who live in Figueres where he was originally from. So when 300 members of the victims’ clan, known as Los Tomates, showed up Friday night to take revenge, their three homes were vacant. The Girona clan had already destroyed Guillermo’s apartment and car in a town near Girona, now 70 of the clan went in and destroyed all three of the homes here. According to gypsy law, those three homes now belong to Los Tomates. While Los Tomates were destroying the properties, the police basically waited and kept people away. They have said that trying to confront three hundred people, many of them wielding axes and bats, would have called for an enormous police presence and would have resulted in escalating the violence. This way, at least no one was injured.

At this point, no one knows where Guillermo or the members of his clan are, and the question remains, who will find Guillermo first? Los Tomates or the police?

When I first came to see apartments in Figueres, I was shown one that bordered on Sant Joan, the gypsy neighborhood. Of course I didn’t know that at the time. Lucky me I didn’t buy it. I remember coming back from a drive a few years ago and following a sign that made my return route different than the one I used to go. All of a sudden I was in Sant Joan where the streets and small plazas were packed with people sitting on benches, chairs they had brought down, chatting, playing guitar, milling around, passing the time. It was nothing like the rest of Figueres where, except for la Rambla, the streets are meant for walking. Suddenly Figueres felt like another world.

Oh, the photo? Yesterday’s brewing storm.

In Honor of Father's Day

This is my dad the hunk.

This photo was taken in Poland in about 1932 when he would have been 20. As you can see in the photo, my dad was not the typical Eastern European Jew of his time.

You can read all about him (and see more photos) in my book Stories My Father Told Me: From Warsaw, Moscow, Algeria, Siberia, Kazakhstan, Dominican Republic. Yes, he lived in a lot of places, and this is not a complete list.

The paperback and ebook are available at Amazon, paperback is available at Barnes & Noble or your favorite bookstore (by special order). 

 

Stories My Father Told Me

 

Just Released!

Stories My Father Told Me: From Warsaw, Moscow, Algeria, Siberia, Kazakhstan, Dominican Republic

I wrote this book based on a memoir my father wrote for me late in his life and stories I had heard at the dining table over the years. These are stories from far off places, in far off and very different times. And yet they are of everyday people doing everyday things. They are the stories of my father, Rafał Feliks Buszejkin who was born in Warsaw in 1912.

In his stories he explained what he and the other children did in Russia in the 1910s to entertain themselves in the winter. He never attended cheder, but with a tutor, he memorized his speech for his Bar Mitzvah at the Great Synagogue of Warsaw. In high school there was that band of youths who played poker and got into mischief. He was one of them. He boxed, he worked out and built his muscles, he did track and field, raced bicycles. He failed his last year of high school. He was not a typical Eastern European Jew of that time.

He told stories of wolves in the forest in 1917, and bankruptcy at home in 1933. Stories of university days in France and months spent with Sephardic Jews in a small desert town in Algeria where he set up a Maccabi sports club.

There are love stories, stories of rich men who lose it all and poor ones who become rich. Because he had studied agronomy, he was employed all through the war and all through his life. His war-time stories from Siberia tell of hard work, trying to have enough to eat, and avoiding the NKVD. The Kazakh stories tell of a mix of western and eastern cultures, working for a government agency supervising the agriculture at five kolkhozes, living among the Kazakhs, sharing their food, drink, and yurts, and of spending two months in a Soviet prison for refusing Soviet citizenship.

Postwar brought him from the steppes of Kazakhstan to the French Riviera, then to the Dominican Republic where he farmed in a collective Jewish refugee settlement. And finally, the United States, where there were jobs, the possibility of making a good life, and no secret police.

The book is available as ebook or paperback on Amazon, other online retailers, and your favorite bookshop where you would probably need to order it. If you read it, please let me know what you think. And if you like it, please leave a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or other social media if you can. Thanks!

Berkeley's Falcons

Annie in 2023

Berkeley has had a pair of peregrine falcons nesting at the top of the campanile in the center of University of California campus for several years. Annie is the matriarch and she started nesting there with her first partner who eventually died. Since then she has had other partners. Since peregrines tend to mate for life, it is believe that the other two also died, possibly of avian flu, but they were not tagged, so no one knows for sure. Annie's new mate is Archie who arrived recently, just in time to start the reproduction cycle, and has been doing a great job of parenting.

The university, via the Cal Falcons group, set up livestream cameras a few years ago. Right now everyone is watching the one pointed at the nest where there are four tiny, fluffy, white chicks. When they get older and start to move around and leave the nest, there will be more activity at the other cameras that are pointed to different ledges. All the cameras run 24/7 and can be found on YouTube or the Cal Falcons website. (Cal Falcons is also on Facebook and Instagram.)

Today, Saturday, we are watching the five-day-old chicks having their breakfast.  At first you see them on their own. (Know that one or both of the parents are nearby. The chicks are never unattended.) Then they start to squeal and a few seconds later one of the adults enters the nest. This is Archie. A few moments later Annie comes with breakfast and Archie leaves. There is no doubt that Annie is queen of the roost and calls the shots.

Click here to see the clip of today’s breakfast. Yum. 

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Living with a Bitch

Sweet Pea, poor old girl, is in heat. They told me when I adopted her that she hadn't been sterilized but that she was considered too old for the operation. She is now sticking her butt with her tail straight up into the face of any dog that comes along. It's embarrassing! I have to be vigilant that nothing comes of it. One old pooch moved really fast! That was Teresa’s dog, Rubio, a senior she rescued who was once probably a hunting dog and who is now lame. Sweet Pea is in heat and love is in the air.

I wrote that to a friend a few weeks ago in the middle of this upsetting time which, now, thank God, is over. Bitches, it seems, are never too old to have their periods, and in many cases, as in the case with Sweet Pea, each time it lasts for a good four weeks.

The little girl is a sprite with lots of energy. In heat she’s superdog. Or should I say superbitch? I made the mistake of taking her out for one of our country walks so she could get some exercise, and let her off the leash when we were on the path. She was fine on the way out, but when I turned around to go back, she ran ahead and never stopped! I was afraid she would get to the end and run out into the road. She wouldn’t come when I called her, and I couldn’t go fast enough to catch her! But thank goodness, she happened to find a male dog along the way and stopped to stick her butt into his face. If not, I don’t know what would have happened.

I have trouble referring to Sweet Pea as a bitch. I mean, it just doesn’t sound nice. In Catalan it’s nicer. Dog is “gos” and a female dog is “gossa.” A small dog is “gosset” and a small female dog is “gosseta.” It’s all very sweet. When you curse at someone, you don’t call them a female dog, you call them the son of a whore or “cabron,” a goat. A male goat. 

Kings

From 6 January...

Today is El Dia de Reis – the three Kings of the Orient. These were originally considered to be astronomers, mathematicians, or scientists who, guided by a star, came bearing gifts for the baby Jesus. The holiday is preceded the evening before by a parade in just about every city, town, and village, where the Kings ride on floats through the streets, throwing candy to those watching from the sides. In cities, the amount of candy they throw is measured in thousands of kilos.

Traditionally, because it was the Kings who brought presents for the baby Jesus, it was the Kings, rather than Santa who is not traditional here, who brought presents for children. Kids write letters to their favorite king in advance. There are special mail boxes where you can leave the letter, or you can take it to the post office. Usually a couple of days before the parade, the Kings’ pages will set up an encampment in town where children can bring their letters directly. If they are good, on the morning of the 6^th they might get what they asked for. If they are naughty, they’ll get a piece of charcoal. Years ago, this was actually a valuable gift for a child in a poor household. Now it is made of spun sugar and dyed black.

The Kings are more colorful, more exotic, and more surprising than Santa. They call them the Kings of the Orient, but Melcior comes from Europe, Gaspar comes from Asia, and Baltasar comes from Africa. Children leave things for the Kings that night, after the parade: water for their camels, and pieces of torrons and cookies and something to drink for the Kings

Sometimes the Kings arrive earlier in the day on the 5th to hold court before the parade. In that case, they will arrive together in various forms of transportation, depending somewhat on the budget of the municipality. In Barcelona and Tarragona, they arrive by boat in the harbor. In Lleida they arrive by train. I remember one year when they arrived somewhere by helicopter. For the parade, they ride on their floats with the assembled entourage which easily numbers in the hundreds, with their pages and countless other floats, bands, and drummers – all local people with the possible exception of a professional comedian or comic troupe -- and they all parade through town throwing confetti and candy. Years ago there would be crews strategically placed between acts to clean up the poop of the camels, horses, or donkeys that were in the parade. But animal welfare groups won the battle to keep live animals out of most of the parades.

When they throw candy to the crowd, there will be those who come with an umbrella and hold it upside down in order to get more than their share. I imagine those are the ones who receive pieces of charcoal for their gift at home the next morning. 

Immaculate Conception

This week is a double-hitter for holidays. Today, the 6^th of December is El Dia de la Constitució, a Spanish holiday celebrating the Spanish Constitution. This is a holiday that is not much valued in Catalonia where people feel they get the short end of any Spanish stick, but it is a legal holiday so it has the value of many things being closed and many people getting the day off.

Two days later comes La Immaculada Concepció, also known as La Purissima. I always thought that this celebrated Mary’s immaculate conception of her baby Jesus, never mind that the timing was off, since he was born on the 25th. But when there are so many miracles being celebrated, the miracle of those eight and a half months would have been just one more.

But no, I was wrong, and apparently I am not alone, as there are many Catalans who also don’t know what the holiday is about. La Concepció celebrates the immaculate conception of Mary by her mother Saint Anne. It seems virginal conceptions run in the family. And of course Mary’s virginal conception of Christ takes place on the Feast of the Annunciation, as featured on any number of paintings, on 25 March, nine months before Christmas, the kind of timing you might expect.

So what does it all mean? It means that many people get two days off from work this week, allowing them not necessarily to go to church as they are supposed to, but to go skiing. Two days off in one week means a pont (bridge) which means they add an extra day in between or at the end to tie it to a weekend, and make it into a long weekend. Sadly there is very little snow, but with a five-day weekend, there is still time for a miracle.

Over 400,000 vehicles left Barcelona for the long weekend and what with accidents and breakdowns and so many cars on the road at the same time, many of them got stuck in traffic. Among other traffic jams, those who were headed to France had a long wait at the border near me with 30 kilometers of back up. For some, there are no miracles.