This year I was presented with a myriad of detailed questions regarding the Easter Bunny and his holiday by my increasingly inquisitive 4-year old son. It made me realize a few things. First of all, the phrase “it’s time to dye the eggs” can be easily misconstrued by little boys who spend the majority of their days plotting superhero wars.

I’ve also realized that my sense of curiosity is obviously very low since I’ve never even wondered about questions as basic as how that bunny gets in the house. Does he hop through a window, pick the lock on the front door or pop up through the shower drain? I have no idea and even as a kid, I don’t remember it ever occurring to me to ask.

When I think about it, the Easter Bunny is a pretty shadowy figure in the realm of holiday personalities. Think about it. We know Santa Claus down to the last button on his faux-fur cherry-colored suit. We know who he’s married to, we know that in
addition to his wife he lives with several small men, we know about his lax shaving habits, his weight issues and the suspiciously rosy hue of his nose. We know his travel methods, how he enters houses (with slight variations for apartment dwellers), and more or less what he does when he gets there.

The Easter Bunny (if that’s even his real name) on the other hand, is cloaked in mystery and intrigue (well, maybe not
intrigue exactly because I’m not really sure that anything that transports itself primarily by bouncing could ever be described as intriguing per se but still, the word is rather apt in certain respects).

We don’t know where he lives, how he journeys to our homes, or even why he comes in the first place. Also, he’s completely inconsistent. Sometimes he wears clothes and sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he hides just the eggs and sometimes the whole basket. He often deals in marshmellowy substances but occasionally he just sticks to chocolate. Sometimes he brings toys and sometimes just candy. David Sedaris’s Easter Bunny brought him cigarettes. In short, the guy’s all over the
map.

According to my cursory research (Wikipedia basically), the whole thing comes from Germany (where else?) and according to tradition, children would build “brightly colored nests” out of caps and bonnets and then place them in secluded areas of their houses for the Easter Bunny to lay eggs in. Because it makes complete sense to build a nest out of hats for a male rabbit to lay eggs in.

How do I explain this perplexing entity to my son? Especially when most of his friends have never even heard of the guy or his strange ways given that he’s not exactly a part of traditional Spanish culture. You do see chocolate bunnies in shop windows but you also see lambs, chicks and other spring animals which makes me think that he’s celebrated more as
just another seasonal animal than as the star of his very own religious holiday.

Maybe I should have just skipped the whole thing altogether… Except that then I wouldn’t have had such a good excuse to
have carrot cake for breakfast. Because whatever faults the Easter Bunny may have, I’m sure he would definitely approve of that!

Let us begin by gazing at the classic nativity scene. There are the wise men, the cows, Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus in his cradle. Oh but wait, who’s that over in the corner next to those ceramic shepherds? Is it…? could it be….? A man taking a shit? Meet El Caganer, the beloved pooping participant of the Catalan nativity scene. There is some debate over the origins and reasons for this tradition but it is generally agreed that El Caganer (literally “the pooper”) has been doing his business in Catalonian mangers for at least 200 years.

I’m so not shitting you!

In the United States, you know you are important if your face appears on the top of a cupcake. In the Catalonian region of Spain, you know you’ve hit the big time if you are made into a pooper. Apparently there was widespread outcry in 2005 because the Barcelona City Council commissioned a nativity scene that did not include a caganer. The Catalan citizens (who it must be said, are quite sensitive when it comes to any perceived attack on their cultural traditions) were outraged. I would really love to have been a fly on the wall during the discussions that took place regarding the issue.

Outraged Catalan Citizen: “WHERE’S OUR POOPER? Normally he squats over by that dry riverbed, next to the angel, and this year he’s GONE! How could you!

City Official: “We felt that in view of the recent law making public defecation illegal, including the pooper in the nativity would set a bad example…”

Outraged Catalan Citizen: “This is an outrage! This is an attack on Catalunya! Bring back the pooper! Independence from Spain!!”

A “Save the Pooper” campaign and general media frenzy followed and in 2006, El Caganer was back where he belonged.

So while you guys were attending midnight mass or singing “Frosty the Snowman” or frantically assembling a Playmobil space navigation station, guess what the Catalans were doing on Christmas Eve? Now imagine if you got David Lynch and John Waters together and ordered them to devise a Christmas scenario which involved poop. Just think about the possibilities and  then understand that reality would still be stranger than fiction. Because here is what they were doing. They were standing around logs, beating them  with sticks and ordering the logs to poop candies. I’m serious people. The poor little log is named “Caga Tío” (Pooping Log) and he usually has a face painted on him and is dressed in a jaunty cap and Christmas blanket. As I understand it, in the days leading up to Christmas, he is fed copious amounts of orange peels (or whatever) which he will then poop out in the form of sweets on the big day. To get him to poop, you must stand around beating him with a stick while singing the following song:

caga tió,

caga torró,

avellanes i mató,

si no cagues bé

et daré un cop de bastó.

caga tió!”

Translation:

“Poop log, poop sweets

if you don’t poop well,

I’ll hit you with a stick,

poop log!”

Poor Nico. A multi-cultural background is a blessing but it can be quite confusing around this time of year. First we went to a Hanukkah party and ate pumpernickel bagels. Next we started talking about Santa Claus (called “Papa Noel” in these parts) while in his class they constructed Los Reyes Magos (the three “magic kings” who leave presents for Spanish children on January 6th*)  out of play-doh. In the meantime, his Colombian grandmother was asking him what he hoped “El Niño Jesus” would be bringing him, and at school all the kids couldn’t stop talking about a log that poops presents.

To top things off, he lost his first two teeth within the past few weeks. The first time he was here and the Tooth Fairy paid him a visit. The second time was in New York City with his Colombian relatives and it was El Ratoncito Perez (a small mouse named Perez who deals with the teeth of the Spanish speaking world) who showed up.

The future therapy bills are mounting…

*instead of leaving a carrot out for the reindeer, water must be left for the camels

Bimbo

Spain has one of the top culinary reputations in the world. However, it is not known for it’s bread and for good reason. That being said, there are a few places to get excellent bread in Barcelona. I will get to that in a minute. Unfortunately, like many families with small children, we’ve resigned ourselves to eating, for the most part, a slightly inferior quality of bread. In the USA there is Wonder Bread and in the UK, they have Mother’s Pride, both brand names that conjur up images of wholesome deliciousness. Most of the Spanish speaking world however (including Spain), eats Bimbo bread.

In its defense, Bimbo has no particular meaning in Spanish. Rather, the Mexican company came up with the name in 1945 because they thought it would compete well with the existing “Bambi” and “Dumbo” brands.

It seems that Bimbo won the competition because Grupo Bimbo is now the number one bakery in the world, dominating the bread market throughout much of Latin America, China, Europe and the US. After a bit of research I found out that Bimbo in Spain is really operated by Sara Lee bakeries (I bet you didn’t know she was leading such a risqué double life), while Bimbo in the USA is the company behind several popular brands such as Popoli and Entenmann’s.

There is even a “Pan American Bimbo Award.” Among others, last year’s winners included esteemed Harvard professor Dr. Hannia Campos. I’m sure that she displays in in a place of pride.

What in the name of Laura Ashley is going on in fashion these days? Since I’ve spent the past 18 months either pregnant or fearing imminent poverty, I’ve done very little shopping lately. The other day I ventured into a few stores though and I was more than a bit disconcerted by what I saw. Lots of flowy, flowery pastels, diaphanous layers, and… Good God- fringe! Is everyone in the world dressing like Stevie Nicks on Xanax or is it only in Barcelona?

Even more horrifying, I saw that there are BODY SUITS in both Zara and H&M. BODY SUITS!?

If both of these stores have them then it’s only a matter of time before every New Mexican lady real estate agent (as well as almost everyone else) will have snaps under their crotches. Has it already happened?? In the early nineties I owned one body suit which my little brother thought was the single best item of clothing in my closet. If he had had money at the time, he would have bought me one for each day of the week. He is now a Hollywood makeup artist who makes a lot of money and this makes me very nervous about my upcoming birthday.

New York City

Obviously there are plenty of homeless people in NYC and I’d guess that a majority suffer from some kind of addiction and/or mental illness. A lot of them would like you to give them money but in general I’ve always found them to be pretty low-key about it. They usually just plop themselves down on the sidewalk with a cardboard sign which provides any extra details they wish to give you as to why they need help. Some with a bit more get-up-and-go will travel the subways, giving well-rehearsed speeches about their plights, or singing for a bit of change. Of course there are plenty of ranters as well. However, they’re generally not asking for money but rather, just raving about something they’d really like you to know about (i.e. Jesus Christ, the evil symbolism of this year’s Macy’s Santa Claus´s belt buckle, etc.).

Tokyo, Japan

Relatively speaking, Tokyo has very few homeless people and during the three years I lived there, I was never once asked for a hand-out. I remember one park in Shibuya where severa homeless people had made a small town for themselves out of cardboard boxes. What struck me the most was how outside several of the shelters, you could see pairs of shoes which the inhabitants had taken off before entering their boxes. There were also several brooms propped up beside the doors. One must have standards after all.  On the other hand, after 11 pm or so, the streets of Tokyo are absolutely teeming with drunk Japanese businessmen and office workers. These guys never ask you for money but they sometimes pinch your bottom or worse, throw up on your feet. Riding on the metro at that time of night is likebeing trapped inside an empty can of stale beer and the stations are full of warning signs  depicting cartoon pictures of unsteady looking men in suits falling onto the train tracks. Oddly, this sort of behavior seems to be perfectly acceptable in Japan. This never seemed fair to me considering that walking around with an exposed bra strap is seen as utterly shameful.

Lausanne, Switzerland

Are there homeless people in Switzerland? I never saw one. There was a tidy little group of dope addicts  who hung out near the entrance to the parking garage near the Place de la Riponne but that was really about it.

Madrid, Spain

The old center of Madrid is rife with all sorts of street life. There are pickpockets, gypsies, people with horrible deformities sitting on the sidewalks with signs asking for money, people who cover their bodies in silver paint and stand still for hours at a time and so on and so forth. My neighborhood is about 40 minutes walking from the center and we still have a fair number of local street characters. Most of them I see on a daily basis and am familiar enough with them that we’ll frequently exchange small talk about my kids, theweather etc. There is one particular gypsy woman whose beat seems to unfortunately coincide with my daily routine. She always wears stripy socks and I really don’t like her because she curses me (by this I mean she literally puts hexes on me as opposed to just telling me to fuck off) whenever I refuse to give her money. It doesn’t seem to have occurred to her that cursing people  is probably not the best way to cement good relations for possible future donations.

On my street we also have several accordion players. They tend to adopt a certain location and then stick to it religiously (I often wonder about the intricacies of street musician turf politics). At night when the tapas bars are open, they roam up and down the  street, playing one or two tunes at each spot and then moving on to the next. Since we live directly upstairs from two bars with outdoor seating, I can safely say that if given the choice between listening to five minutes of jack hammering versus yet another accordion rendition of “My Way,” I’d gladly choose the former.

I’m due in exactly 6 days and the time is really starting to go slllloooooowwwwlly… I’ve already scrubbed the inside of the fridge, washed all the windows, set up the crib, finished two art projects (see below) and composed several doctoral level theses in Japanese. Actually this last one’s a bit of an exaggeration but I really have been studying. Mr. D has been studying too and just last week impressed us all in Japanese class by uttering such phrases as “Of all the raw foods, I like fish best” and “That is our oven. I like it because it is big and so we can cook big foods.”

I packed my hospital suitcase nearly a month ago although I really have no idea what I was thinking at the time because upon double checking it the other day, I found it to be primarily filled with books with titles like “In Cold Blood” and “Perfect Madness” (so suitable for a new mother’s first days), boxes of chocolate, and what appeared to be literally thousands of disposable breast pads. I think there was a bottle of peppermint foot massage lotion in there too. Now I’ve repacked the suitcase and there really isn’t much else left to do except sit back and wait. In the meantime, even my dreams are becoming fairly tedious. The other night I dreamt about a stalk of limp celery. It was just sort of hanging there in my dream and I kept thinking things like, “Yep, that’s celery. It’s LIMP celery. Yep, it’s limp all right… What’s going to happen now I wonder? Hmmm… nothing I guess. It’s clearly celery though, that’s for sure…”

About 3 weeks ago I had my last day at work. I knew that I had to get out of there when towards the end I found myself accidentally instructing a roomful of Japanese 3 year olds to repeat after me the words “Mr. Noisy makes love when he drives his car!” It was supposed to be “Mr. Noisy makes NOISE when he drives his car.” Luckily none of the parents of my students can speak English thus ensuring that nobody noticed that my mind was obviously in the gutter that day. Actually, I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular when I said those words so I’m not really sure what happened. Regardless, it was a close call. The good news is that it’s all over and now the only child I have to worry about screwing up with my little slips of the tongue is my own.

I’m not sure how much I’ve told most of you about this job. You can get a gist of it from reading ABOUT ANNA DILEMNA but there’s really no easy way to describe the place I’ve been working for the past year and a half. It’s not a preschool and it’s not what’s known in Japan as a “juku” or cram school either. No one’s ever really explained the philosophy to me in detail actually but I do know it has something to do with right brain learning and the idea that if I rapidly flash 150 anatomical flashcards to a 4 month old Japanese baby, then the next day she should be perfectly capable of leading the class in a rousing rendition of “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes.” If she’s not, well then it’s because I just didn’t do my job right.

Things I do know:

-The head of our company- a strange little man who looks like a Japanese Barney Rubble, is a high ranking member of a dubious religious cult to which he apparently donates billions of yen every year. (I’m not joking).

-Most of the employees of the company have been brainwashed into thinking that the reason they are paid so little money for teaching (despite the fact that each student pays approximately $200 for each 50 minute lesson) is because all of the extra money is being shipped to the “poor children in China.” (As a side note, this reminds me of another story I heard recently in which one of the major subway lines here in Tokyo has a new campaign where they are trying to convince the public that all the people “falling” onto the tracks and being squashed by trains are not actually committing suicide but rather just accidentally walking off the edges of the platform due to being in such awe of the sight of Mt. Fuji looming in the distance. And I thought I was gullible…)

-Our company philosophy handbook is full of such sage tidbits as “Because you are a woman, make the best of your kind feelings.” Um. Okaaaay….

-Aside from flashcards, teachers are also encouraged to make use of other supposed “right brain aimed” teaching methods including ESP (yes you read correctly), sensory training, and image training. The following is an example of an image training class curriculum put together by one of the Japanese staff last year.

Image Training:  Mommy loves me and my English is perfect

Close your eyes

We are going to breathe out from our mouths all the bad air

Ready, let’s breathe out

Now, let’s breathe in

Make your stomach round like a ball

Hold it

Breathe out

Again breathe in

Hold it

Finally breathe out

Can you speak English?

Yes you can

Your English is perfect just like mommy’s love for you

Can you hold mommy’s hands ?

Mommy’s hands are warm and soft

Can you feel mommy’s loving energy?

You feel so relaxed because mommy is with you

Your mommy and daddy love you very much

You love your mommy and daddy too

You are a perfect, happy family

Learning English is fun for you

Mommy is holding you tight

You are happy to be held by mommy

You are so relaxed

Now slowly open your eyes and give mommy a big hug

Say ” I love you mommy. Thank you for my life”

I think it’s safe to say that I’ll never have another job quite like this one again.

By the way, on my last day of work, I received a carefully crafted, handwritten note from the mother of one of my favorite students (accompanying the note was a box of Lady Godiva chocolates which are of course now safely stowed away in aforementioned hospital suitcase). The note said:

“Birth of a baby. We are pleasure very. Too. Because if was born. Become very terrible everyday till then one’s time carefully.”

Sounds rather ominous wouldn’t you say?

Today I taught a new 3-year-old student named Yutaka. Being that most of my students can barely state their name and age in English let alone anything more complicated, I confidently launched into my usual teaching routine with the expectation of little conversational resistance. I began to flash the first set of vocabulary cards- “Sea Creature Adjectives.” “Feisty Crab!” I sang out, “Funky starfish, adept lobst…” “What’s sea creature?” little Yutaka interrupted me abruptly. “Huh?” I asked, somewhat taken aback by the unexpected verbosity. “Um… sea creatures are animals that live in the ocean.” “Why?” “Well, because it’s a nice place to live and they like it there. Now! Startled turtle, goofy goldfish, gloomy…” “But WHY?” “Why do they like it there and why called animal?” “Um… because that’s the name we gave them.” “My name is Yutaka.” “Yes I know and my name is Anna.” I replied, a bit confused by the change in lesson direction. “Why your name Anna?” At this point I paused and debated whether to explain to Yutaka about how my mother wanted to name me “Lara” after an imaginary friend and my father wanted to name me “Melanie” due to what I can only imagine was a temporary brain hemorrhage and that the only reason I wound up with my current name is that it was the only one they could both tolerate. I knew though that this would only get me started on how my own child is a mere 6 weeks from being born and still being referred to as “Biji san” because his parents can’t come up with a name that they both like and that this whole naming thing is really much much more difficult than he realizes and that the animals are really so lucky just to be called “animals” and not “Biji sans” or “Melanies”.

I then started thinking about how grateful I am that I’m not Japanese because they have to take even more into consideration when naming a child. Not only does the name have to sound good, but it also should have a good meaning as well as the correct number of Chinese character strokes. In addition, the Japanese government has laws banning the use of several rather more unorthodox Chinese characters by Japanese citizens naming their babies. For example, among others, you cannot name your child Disease, Potato, Stomach, Sweat, Dog, or Bad. I’m not exactly sure why the government felt it necessary to actually establish such a law (was there a bunch of people out there naming their children things like “Diseased Potato Mitsubishi” and “Bad Honda”?) but whatever. The point is that it’s easy to see that the name game could be even more complicated than it already is. At least no one’s going to tell me that I can’t name my child “Potato” if I should so choose.  It’s not on our top ten list but it’d still be nice to have it as a last-ditch option right? “Potato Jaimes”? “Stomach Potato Jaimes”?? Hey! We could call him Mac or even Tummy for short and that’s kind of cute isn’t it? Looking into Yutaka’s expectant pint sized face though, I knew that this might possibly be just a bit more of an answer than was required.

“My parents named me Anna because they liked the name. That’s why.” “Why like that name?” Hmm… maybe I should have gone with the longer answer? Is this what I have to look forward to as a parent? Endless rounds of Why? Because. Why? Because. Why? Why? Why???

A few minutes later after singing a song about what we do during springtime, summertime, wintertime, etc, I asked Yutaka if he knew what time it is right now. “It’s ANNA TIME!” he jumped up and shouted as he pumped a small fist in the air. Somewhat startled, I nevertheless exclaimed, “That’s right! It’s Anna Time AND it’s springtime!” A few seconds passed. “But why it springtime?” came the inevitable response.

P.S. Just for those of you who are curious, here’s the full list of Chinese characters that the Japanese are not allowed to use when naming their children:

bad

stomach

potato

sorrow

pig

poison

buddah

floor

sword

hole

blood

ticket

sweat

naked

nose

skin

hair

pee

meat

dirty

mudd

anger

insect

death

smell

swallow