gazpacho for the ego
Who needs chicken soup for the soul when Spain provides the ego with gazpacho?
As any female who has spent any short period of time in Spain would know... Spanish men are renowned for their piropos or cat calls.
To receive a piropo is not exactly a huge feat as they are given out quite generously. I have received them while in the middle of a long, sweaty run on a hot day when - as hard as it may be to believe - I was not looking so attractive. Needless to say... piropos do not retain demanding requisites. As long as one possesses female anatomy and a beating heart, she is a potential recipient... and I have my doubts about that second condition being entirely essential.
Also... the population that yields these piropos is extensive. It's not just the stereotypical construction workers that those from the United States would immediately assume. It's any male, young or old, wearing a business suit or a soccer (fútbol) jersey.
Now, these piropos are so widespread that we even cover this subject in orientation with my newly arrived students ever semester. We let them know that they are basically simple expressions to vocalize an observation that a male makes about a female from afar and are, for all intensive purposes, harmless and do not necessitate any type of reaction or even acknowledgment.
So, on to the reason why I'm writing. I received the most bizarre piropo yet today.
I'm riding my bike home from church after having purchased a box of ice cream bars for a housemate to replace her box that I finished last night. (Oops.)
I'm wearing a fabulous yellowy-orange summer dress that I bought in a lovely hippie town in southern Oregon and that my mom just mailed to me. (Thanks, Mom.)
I stop at the last traffic light before my house and wait for the little green man to show up across the street.
I look to the left to watch for cars.
Right next to me pulls up a middle-aged business-looking man in a suit and helmet.
Very conversationally, he looks directly at me and pretty much says (translated)... "that's one great ass you have."
No response.
Conclusion: Who needs something healthy like chicken soup for the depths of your soul when Spain is right there feedin' you good ole' gazpacho for your superficial ego. I swear, ladies, if you're feelin' bad about yourself or the way you look... get yourself on a plane to Spain and come visit me for a weekend, it'll do wonders for that self-confidence. Vanity, shmanity.
Warning: You kinda miss it when you leave Spain. I get back to the US, and I'm like "what? No one's saying anything to me. Am I not pretty anymore?" Eeeehhh... it's worth the risk.
PS... everyone is welcomed and encouraged to come visit Julie Ann in Sevilla.
As any female who has spent any short period of time in Spain would know... Spanish men are renowned for their piropos or cat calls.
To receive a piropo is not exactly a huge feat as they are given out quite generously. I have received them while in the middle of a long, sweaty run on a hot day when - as hard as it may be to believe - I was not looking so attractive. Needless to say... piropos do not retain demanding requisites. As long as one possesses female anatomy and a beating heart, she is a potential recipient... and I have my doubts about that second condition being entirely essential.
Also... the population that yields these piropos is extensive. It's not just the stereotypical construction workers that those from the United States would immediately assume. It's any male, young or old, wearing a business suit or a soccer (fútbol) jersey.
Now, these piropos are so widespread that we even cover this subject in orientation with my newly arrived students ever semester. We let them know that they are basically simple expressions to vocalize an observation that a male makes about a female from afar and are, for all intensive purposes, harmless and do not necessitate any type of reaction or even acknowledgment.
So, on to the reason why I'm writing. I received the most bizarre piropo yet today.
I'm riding my bike home from church after having purchased a box of ice cream bars for a housemate to replace her box that I finished last night. (Oops.)
I'm wearing a fabulous yellowy-orange summer dress that I bought in a lovely hippie town in southern Oregon and that my mom just mailed to me. (Thanks, Mom.)
I stop at the last traffic light before my house and wait for the little green man to show up across the street.
I look to the left to watch for cars.
Right next to me pulls up a middle-aged business-looking man in a suit and helmet.
Very conversationally, he looks directly at me and pretty much says (translated)... "that's one great ass you have."
No response.
Conclusion: Who needs something healthy like chicken soup for the depths of your soul when Spain is right there feedin' you good ole' gazpacho for your superficial ego. I swear, ladies, if you're feelin' bad about yourself or the way you look... get yourself on a plane to Spain and come visit me for a weekend, it'll do wonders for that self-confidence. Vanity, shmanity.
Warning: You kinda miss it when you leave Spain. I get back to the US, and I'm like "what? No one's saying anything to me. Am I not pretty anymore?" Eeeehhh... it's worth the risk.
PS... everyone is welcomed and encouraged to come visit Julie Ann in Sevilla.
posted by Julie Ann at 2:57 PM
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