Cortados, "Vale", and La Lotería
How Spain is teaching me to be more direct and take risks
This morning I bought a cortado in a cafetería in the small town I commute to for work. I thanked the woman working there for the 70 cents change she gave me after I paid. To my gracias she replied vale (okay).
Okay??? Que extraña…
Vale is probably the most used word in Spain. It’s a catch-all term in Castellano for pretty much every situation. It just means “okay” more or less. Instead of “do you understand?”, just ask “Vale?”. When you understand something, or are in agreement with another person, you can answer “vale”. If you’re like me, you can also use it when you don’t understand but want to appear to have understood because explaining your confusion in a foreign language is sometimes just too complicated…
Anyway, in this instance, it’s odd for the waitress at the cafeteria to say “vale” to my “thank you”. It’s not exactly rude, but it’s also not really polite. It almost makes no sense at all. It’s times like these when I really just get exhausted and confused with the manners here in Spain.
Here people don’t cue, they don’t wait their turn, they don’t walk around you on the sidewalk. They walk four or five-across on the sidewalk, whatever pace they want. Beyond that, I am constantly weaving in and out of strollers, wheelchairs and walkers, and the not so occasional mound of dog shit you can find on the sidewalks here. I’ve had grown men walk straight into me if I don’t move out of the way on the street. It’s like walking with a bunch of zombies. Or maybe Sims. They’re on their own path, going their own speed, taking up whatever space they want, and they’re not concerned with how it affects others.
On one hand, I am frustrated and confused by this behavior. It’s difficult not to read it as rudeness. But part of me also is curious about it. There might even be something about the directness in Spain that I think I kind of… admire? I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to dame un cortado (“give me a cortado”) or answering the phone with dime (“tell me”). But it also makes me feel that there is less likelihood of offending anyone here, since their speech to me is already so unconcerned with being abrasive. Still, I try to soften the dame’s with por favor but I’m sure it makes me stick out as a foreigner.
I’m writing this as I sit in this cafetería— my cortado is empty already, the metal bar top is cold, and my nose is running a little bit. You know, I never used to drink cortados before. I used to always have a cafe con leche — basically half drip coffee and half milk, quite weak for my taste these days. The cortado is much less to drink, as it’s only one shot of espresso and maybe an equal part milk. It’s usually quite strong and bitter and comes in a small glass that is always burning to the touch. Sometimes, depending on the place and my mood, the cortado is a bit too strong for me — but I think I like that about it for some reason. It shakes me awake. It’s abrasive and assertive, but it’s warmth on a cold day like today feels a bit like a hug as well. Somehow, I think the cortado is good for me — even if I don’t always feel it suits me.
I’m still sitting in the cafetería. The man next to me at the end of the bar has a matching empty cortado glass— one hand still on it and the other on a gambling machine. The gambling machine is sort of on the adjoining wall, so his back is towards me while he plays. Between the 90s sounding, REM-esque rock playing on a blank TV in the corner and the conversations scattered through the establishment, I hear faint dings and chimes coming from the gambling machine. I don’t know what the game is that he plays and I don’t want to stare too much.
I’ve heard gambling is a big problem here. The lottery culture in and of itself says it all. Spanish people line up in the afternoons to buy their boleto de lotería. Even in this cafeteria, an earlier patron came in, chugged his espresso solo, and bought a lottery ticket. The woman working here took the strand of lottery tickets from under a bottle of gin and ripped one off for him.
I wonder where the lottery obsession comes from. I mean this in a kind of sociological, psychoanalytical way. For example, Spain doesn’t strike me as having a culture that is distinctly interested or concerned with luck, as you might deduce from their love for the lotería. But Spain does strike me as a country with a very “big risk, high reward” mentality. Spaniards love to fiesta – not just young people, all people. You can find folks in their 60s out clubbing quite easily here. And if not clubbing, at least taking chupitos (shots) at the end of a big meal together. (I could write a whole other bit about the elderly population in Spain as it compares to the US, but I digress…)
So I wonder, if you live in a culture that is so interested in having a good time, if the lottery is such a stretch? And when I think of the history of Spain – a country that not long ago operated under a fascist dictator – I think of a country that has experienced large losses before. Especially financially. Match that with Spain’s constant need for unification – to ensure that all the regions of Spain will stay intact as one country and not return to their independent kingdoms – it’s not surprising that all the country pays to partake in the Christmas lottery every December for a chance to win big.
I guess in closing, I’m just reflecting on the things I find strange about Spain: The directness which I sometimes can’t help but read as rude. And the nonchalant participation in gambling – whether in the local cafeterias or the nationwide and culturally significant Christmas lottery. To me, these habits combine to make Spain feel like a place where people know what they want and they aren’t afraid to ask for it…
Maybe this isn’t a horrible attitude to take on. I think I’ll keep ordering cortados.
