Surviving Coronavirus in Spain - A Paddy Abroad

It was Saint Patrick´s Day a few days ago but the pandemic persists so there wasn´t much partying happening here in Spain. 

Paddy´s Day 2020 was the first time in my life that I spent our national holiday at home; thankfully, Culture Ireland presented  days and nights of fantastic virtual events. But it was also the first time that I was under a Stay-at-Home order from a government in a State of Alarm, enforced by police armed with big fines and guns. 

RELUCTANT CELEBRATIONS

One year on from the pandemonium, this mid-March was jammed with our first pandemic anniversaries. However, I sensed a global reticence to acknowledge these unwelcome milestones: one year since the WHO announced that we were in a global pandemic, a year after hundreds of countries´ lockdowns had kicked in, since the first Covid-19 deaths occurred in each region.

There was little media attention given to looking back over this universal phenomenon. Too soon, I thought. We´re still in the middle of it, our newsfeeds overflowing with ever-changing restrictions, new traumas, hopes and disappointments. I feel that nobody is in the mood for reflection – we´re still in survival mode.

So, it continues to surprise me when people ask why a particular set of restrictions is being imposed in their area that, to them, just doesn´t make sense. Like the fact that a hairdresser can´t open in Kilkenny, yet thousands of people fly in and out of Dublin airport every day. Or, why schools have been open in Spain since September, and bars most of the time since last June. Yet people haven´t been allowed to go for a pint in their local pub for a year in Ireland. 

But we all know by now that no country is getting everything right nor getting everything wrong. Each government is making an incalculable number of decisions on the hoof, with hundreds of variables based on their citizens and culture, their demographics and economy, on the climate, even.

A PANDEMIC PADDY´S DAY

I don´t socialise much, preferring to write at home, communicate virtually with my loved ones around the world and, in my free time, go exploring by bicycle. But my ex-pat friends wanted to celebrate March 17th in the local Irish pub, soaking up the atmosphere. So, I met up with two English men and a Swedish woman in the late afternoon. With an allergy to Irish pubs abroad, and an ever-decreasing tolerance for alcohol consumption, I was comforted by the fact that all bars had to shut at six pm until restrictions were eased later in the week, when the hospitality sector would then open until 10:30 nightly. 

As I cycled the few kilometres to a pub that I probably won´t re-enter for another twelve months, I heard the familiar rumble of loud belly-laughs in the distance. I knew instantly that it was emanating from Anto´s, and not from one of the many Spanish café-bars on the same strip. All fifty seats on the huge patio in front were occupied and I rode up to a sea of green and white, many people wearing giant leprechaun hats – which looked extra incongruous above sunglasses. The scene was right out of a summer day in Temple Bar, except that these drinkers were a generation older. 

As I approached Anto´s, the sound of the chats and laughs flowed onto the street and around the neighbouring, mostly empty bars, and I was struck by a rare nostalgia. I tuned into to the accents, not believing that there could be so many Irish people in such a remote tourist village off-season. About a quarter sounded Irish, the rest were mainly British, peppered with some German, Dutch and Scandinavian – most of the latter groups occupy the nearby nudist camps.

I bought my €4 pint of Guinness with blackcurrant, which is far cheaper than it is in its native country but double the price of a domestic beer. In fact, according to Eurostat, Spain sells the cheapest alcohol in the Eurozone. But it was great value for the pint of Irish memories that it filled me with. I also got a glass of the ´black stuff´ for my Swedish friend. She had never liked stout but with the drop of black added, she was very pleasantly surprised. I felt I was following in the footsteps of our national saint – converting people to Guinness one stout-heathen at a time.

I´m reminded of Flann O´Brien´s poem:

The Workman’s Friend

When things go wrong and will not come right,
Though you do the best you can,
When life looks black as the hour of night –
A pint of plain is your only man.

When money’s tight and hard to get
And your horse has also ran,
When all you have is a heap of debt –
A pint of plain is your only man.

When health is bad and your heart feels strange,
And your face is pale and wan,
When doctors say you need a change,
A pint of plain is your only man.

When food is scarce and your larder bare
And no rashers grease your pan,
When hunger grows as your meals are rare –
A pint of plain is your only man.

In time of trouble and lousey strife,
You have still got a darlint plan
You still can turn to a brighter life –
A pint of plain is your only man.

End.