Spanish Shilling

There are certain subjects which are based on cast-iron certainties which through experience, prejudice and tribalism, leave us convinced of the integrity of our own opinion. Belief in a flat-earth is a good example of this – as is anything to do with politics.

Is Begoña Gómez, the wife of Pedro Sánchez guilty of some wrongdoing, yea or nay? Well, you know, everyone in Spain has already decided.

As to what she may have done, or law she might have broken… Nobody can answer that, but anyway: ‘to the guillotine with her’!

Despite any evidence after 18 months of looking under stones, Judge Peinado has failed to uncover anything, but give him his due, he will keep on gamely searching until Sánchez is out of office and the whole exercise will lose its purpose.

I mean, there must be something. None of us is perfect. I once stole a chocolate bar from Woolworths (come to think of it, perhaps that’s why they went broke).

The original complaint came from Manos Limpias, an association of unrepentant Francoists that are rarely taken seriously by anyone placed anywhere to the left of Atila the Hun. ‘With more than 6,000 members, Manos Limpias does not submit accounts or hold the meetings required by its by-laws. Furthermore, it has no representation in any workplace, and its representation in the civil service is unknown…’ Them.

Early last year, Manos Limpias had handed in a wad of press-cuttings from outfits like OKDiario and El Debate suggesting that Begoña was a bad ’un. One particular complaint, about obtaining a credit under false pretences, turned out to have been a woman from Cantabria with the same name. Manos Limpias by the way was the group that complained about the Infanta Cristina (she was later absolved) and let’s see, ‘… They are known for appearing as accusers in high-profile political court cases. Although most of them never come to fruition’.  By accident (or design), their complaint against Begoña fell into the hands of Judge Juan Carlos Peinado – of whom Gabriel Rufián said last week ‘Everyone knows who he works for’ – that’s to say, the conservatives (his daughter is a PP politician). ‘Since that first complaint, almost a year and a half ago, this investigation has grown relentlessly. Nothing has been closed, even though Peinado's accusatory theories are failing due to a lack of evidence. The case has grown with more alleged crimes, each one more difficult to justify…’

There are better than 9,000 pages compiled in 19 volumes, four people under investigation, and more than thirty witnesses questioned, including Prime Minister Pedro Sánchez, his Minister of Justice Félix Bolaños, and several Ibex company presidents. These are the key figures in the case that Peinado has been pursuing for almost eighteen months against Begoña Gómez. We read that ‘Peinado sends Begoña Gómez to trial with a ruling lacking evidence of any crime’.

Last Wednesday, he told her that if she finally faces trial for a charge of embezzlement attributed to her for the work performed by her assistant, ‘a jury will determine her guilt’.

Juries in Spain are nine people ‘chosen by chance’.

As we saw above, everyone these days has made up their mind about their politics and nothing, certainly not any essay of mine, will persuade them differently – and we also know that the jury will be composed of people from Madrid, where at least 55% are conservative voters. Does anyone believe that a jury chosen from among Madrid residents to judge Pedro Sánchez's wife would not be tainted? Faced with such a controversial and politicized issue, which occupies hours and hours on every radio and television channel, are there any citizens left who don't already have a preconceived opinion?

So, what is this all about?

Embarrassing Pedro Sánchez for as long as possible, with his wife, his brother (another Manos Limpias case without merit) and his Attorney General (yet another one). We can’t catch him for his economic policies – Spain is getting full approval from the credit agencies – but we can wear him down and open the door to the prospect of an undoubtedly inept future PP/Vox combination.

A case like this, says the Google AI, can take about ten months before the jurors (and the reporters) arrive. What if she loses (La Cope, the bishops’ radio, kindly reckons her chances of losing the case stand at 92.8%)? One newspaper, the ABC, says she could get between two and six years of prison, although ‘the crime of embezzlement (Peinado’s current accusation), can only be attributed in principle to a public official (un funcionario): a condition that Gómez does not hold’.

Would Pedro Sánchez then have to quit?

Probably.

But I’m just venting here – Begoña shouldn’t think of this as ‘lawfare’, more as an historic example of the vengeful masses clamouring for her husband’s head.

I’ve always been a big fan of the United States of America. I’ve spent a total of at least three years there during my life so far and have been to 45 of the 50 states (the remaining ones are too cold, too small or too hard to reach).

Plus three months in Washington DC, which for some reason is its own territory.

I was married to a fine woman from California whose parents, like mine, settled in Spain in the sixties, and we had thirty years together before she died. We have three children – two of whom are now living in the American mid-west (the third one stayed home here in España).

I was brought up (until I was thirteen) in Norfolk UK, near an American airbase. My parents were friendly with some of the officers, and I would be gifted (sic) lots of comic books (I was one of the earliest British fans of Batman, Superman and Casper the Friendly Ghost). Then came books (with writers like Jack Schaefer, Zane Grey and O. Henry), finger paints and Hershey Bars.

From the age of nine onwards, I knew that I wanted to spend as much time as I could in America. Those cars!

Studying in Seville when I was seventeen, I took college entrance exams, and was all ready to go, when some friends of my parents warned them (erroneously, I’m sure) that I would end up in Vietnam being shot at by fellows wearing black pyjamas.

I finally crossed ‘el charco’ when I was 22, arriving in Florida to stay with the Franzen boys in Pompano Beach – a place with no pavements, bad colour television, beautiful girls and amazing cocktails. Gayne and Ted’s parents were neighbours of my family in Spain. I remember to this day consuming my first Whopper.

I love the opportunity that the USA has, plus the enormous and sparsely populated hinterland. My two kids live in a state that is 40% larger than the whole of Spain.

I’m a huge fan of American culture: its writers, musicians and artists who have brought so much pleasure to the world. 

Nowadays, I tend to go every November and visit the grandchildren, the local Wal-Mart and the breathtaking countryside (when I can afford to) and to eat the Thanksgiving turkey, but I shan’t be going this year. 

Sadly, the USA that I know and love is undergoing a Once in a Hundred Year collapse (think the October Revolution or Brexit) thanks to the insidious MAGA philosophy. I can put up (more or less) with the guns and the iced tea, but Donald Trump’s second term, surrounded as he is this time with people who are evidently even thicker and nastier that him (mostly fished from the water treatment plant of Fox News) is for me a step too far.

There’s Pete Hegseth with his alarming Christian tattoos and his alleged love for a bottle of scotch who runs the reassuringly renamed ‘Department of War’. The worm-brained Robert Kennedy: the ludicrous secretary of health who doesn’t believe (‘believe’!) in vaccinations. The top two officials at the FBI, Kash Patel and Dan Bongino, who have no previous experience at the law enforcement agency. The eccentric Christian extremist Mike Huckabee as ambassador to Israel… and so on: a plethora of inept and dangerous appointed. Then there’re the current purges against ‘the radical left’ Democrat party – a damp and strangely feeble group that could kindly be described in European terms as centre-right. The late Charlie Kirk said of them: ‘the Dems believe everything that God hates’.

Such a young country run by such old-fashioned conservative values!

Of course, I can still visit the USA (after all, I’m tall and pink and have a nice anglo-sounding name, plus I’m too old to be much of a nuisance anyway). Just remember not to say anything silly and make a point of glaring sternly at anyone who looks even slightly Latin.  

Anyway, I’ve decided – I’ll be staying home this year. I wish to avoid the threat of ending up in Alligator Alley or Guantánamo.

I'm told I'm not the only person who thinks like this.

On the bedside table, I’ve got Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath to re-read.

I’m pretty sure that I will manage just fine without a Hershey Bar.

Two points: there are a lot of people searching for a home – either to rent or to buy. Also, despite the apparent lack of available properties, Spain has more than 3.5 million vacant homes, representing some 14% of the total housing stock. Around half of these homes are in those smaller municipalities with fewer than 50,000 inhabitants.

I once shared an apartment in Seville with four other students, me and a British school-friend in bunks in what must have been a converted bathroom, with white tiles on the wall. The other three were studying at the university and came from Montefrío in Granada. The next term, I shared a three-bedroom 8,000 peseta apartment with two students.

It’s fine when you are young and running around the city all night - but not when that single room (share the kitchen and bathroom) costs 1,000€ a month as, increasingly, it does now. 

We look at the problems of the renters and the buyers – but part of the whole must be the sellers, the landlords and the owners: having a property portfolio is good business.

This is partly why, following the Covid when we all worked from home (often in a charming village two hours away from the city), they wanted us to return to the office: taxes, office blocks, investors and city politics. My old mate Cheap Pete once told me (with his New Jersey accent) – for a million dollars you can buy a giant property in North Dacota or a parking lot in Washington DC. You might wait a whole year to sell that beautiful mountain, or less than a day to sell the city plot.

Which one was the better investment? Evidently, the second choice, but only if there’s a demand.

No wonder the property barons want to see a certain scarcity – prices (and profits) must go up. In Madrid, some old factories and warehouses, shops and abandoned outlets are now being switched to residential homes, or maybe into single 1,000€ rooms with ‘coliving’ . There’s the exciting advantage of city life, interesting flatmates and maybe a downstairs eatery, if your wallet can still manage the menu del día.

I live in a village on the coast. There’s a giant abandoned hotel taking up a chunk of the local infrastructure. It was closed in 2008 and now belongs, for some reason, to the Madrid regional government. It could become fifty apartments. In the back of the next-door port of Garrucha, there’s a large unfinished block of flats, rotting in the sun and covered in graffiti. That’s another fifty potential homes. The scarcity then, is in the city – although there are still a number of empty residences even close to the Puerta del Sol.

Many of those who live in the city came from elsewhere, and they may still own a place in the country, a casa del pueblo they’ll visit during the summer or the local fiesta – maybe to show off their success, or perhaps just to take it easy for a while and share a noisy lunch with the cousin who stayed behind. Other people who own a couple of houses might leave one empty. One day the children will live there. Others still will rent, or sell, or turn it into an Airbnb, put a funny lock on the door, and create a cleaning job for Encarnación.

Digital nomads (doesn’t that sound fun?) will rent for a while, working from their laptop, while idly planning their next move to Khartoum or Bucharest. Foreigners will buy the house, and maybe the one next door, and try and put in a swimming pool. Others still will take the week-end option and then leave a cigarette burn in the mattress.

Maybe put in a security system (like it says on the telly) to defy the okupas.

Then there are the millions – apparently – of people who want to rent somewhere half decent for a little bit less than their entire salary, eating rusks and asking their parents for a few extra euros (until either the wage or the rent, whichever one comes first, is raised by a fraction). The Government talks of making (or building) more cheap homes or closing down illegal rentals, or helping the under-thirties buy a house in the smaller towns. Some local governments are considering forcing the sale of empty homes.

After all, the Spanish Constitution Article 47 gives us all the right to una vivienda decente.

The influencers in their YouTube videos meanwhile are talking about investing in their wares (from their bases in low-tax Andorra), and one day soon, you too will be able to afford to buy and rent out houses like the best robber landlords.

Gloomily, we read: Spain’s record housing market is far from peaking – ‘prices will reach unprecedented levels’. Hey, the higher the price, the happier the owner.

Maybe the foreign Vulture Funds will come and pick up another entire city block: they are here for the opportunities.

A left-wing politician sums up the problem: “People with money in this country invest in gold, the stock market, and real estate”. They buy in the city (Cheap Pete’s parking lot) or on the coast, leaving many thousands of Spanish municipalities by the wayside.

El País has a story about a thirty-year-old who has finally given up on Madrid and moved to the town of Ponferrada – in search of a quieter life, escaping job insecurity and housing prices. “Life moves on and priorities change,” he says blithely.

Then there any many people living in extreme poverty, or in shacks or under bridges. Local guiri Richard Gere may have the answer – he says in a TV interview that "My wife and I have set a goal to end homelessness in Spain within six years". I think that this may prove to be a larger challenge than he imagines. Caritas puts the number of the dispossessed at 37,000.

In all, there are 48 million people living in Spain and 27 million homes – which works out at a house for every 1.8 persons. That’s not so bad…

....

Some of these stories end up as editorials in my Business over Tapas briefing about Spain (no adverts, no fluff and no Leapy Lee). Find them here. 

A friend from Germany has been staying with me, and on Wednesday, along with my daughter and her husband, we drove up to Granada.

It’s just a couple of hours away, and it is without doubt Spain’s greatest city.

I’ve been many times over the years, but my son-in-law was born and raised there and knows all the oddest and most scenic spots – to say nothing of the best eateries and bars.

We started at a likely looking caff next to the Airbnb apartments we had reserved just off the city hall square. In many places in Granada, a drink comes with a tapa, but it will be something chosen by the house. We had three drinks (it’s thirsty work driving to Granada) and they came out with three plates – and if someone at the table doesn’t like baby octopus, then it’s all the more for me. 

In the evening, we wandered down towards the river to admire a couple of fountains (my son-in-law assured me that, as a child, he had fallen into both of them on several occasions). Then, crossing vaguely south over the Río Geníl, we arrived at an outdoor café called ‘La Cuchara de Carmela (¿Donde mejor que aquí?)’, which again decided what tapas we would be treated to. They also had a menu so we could add some more dishes to stand in for dinner.

We have all seen the sites over the years, gone to the flamenco shows in the Sacromonte and been approached by beggars outside the cathedral; indeed the first time I was in the Patio de los Leones in the Alhambra Palace, I was sixteen. I’ve even got the photo somewhere…

So, limited site-seeing this time, and maybe just a selfie or two.

There comes a time, after a few glasses of wine and a belly-full of food, when one must wander on to look for a jolly late-night joint for a schnapps or, um, a tequila!

We went to find an old mate called Sebastian, who used to run a place in Mojácar but has now moved to adventures new in the city. Seba, wearing a tatty-looking Mexican hat, greeted us with every sign of affection in his tiny bar, the Reina Linda. Margaritas and tacos ¡por favor!

The students are now returning to Granada, a university city, and the scruffy, cheaper places like this one do a good trade in the season. There’s nothing – I think you will agree – like writing your thesis or studying those heavy medical books armed with a pencil and a cocktail.

The next morning, we dropped by to see the parents – mis consuegros – of my son in law. This time, in a residential and passingly more modern part of the city (there were plenty of blocks of apartments in the barrio with the arrows and yoke featured on the walls – that’s to say, built during the Franco years).

I’ll leave the parents in peace, save to note that the first bar, where we met the old dad, was the tiniest bar I have ever seen, crammed only with men, and with the shortest barman in the world. In fact, one had to lean over the counter to be sure that he was there at all. 

Again, the tapas chosen by the kitchen were delicious.

And now, we are back in Mojácar, and my friend will soon be flying back to Germany for a few weeks before she returns.

Perhaps we shall do Córdoba then.