Thank You For Smoking(?)

     One of my favorite experiences while I was travelling in Spain happened in the early hours of evening, just as the twilight left the trees on the finca.  The farm my friends and I went to for a flamenco performance.  Imagine a half-sized amphitheater getting squashed flat by a waffle iron, and you've got the gist of the setup for the show.  The center of the ring was comprised of sandy, clay earth--our stage. Later, we would be privy to the wild beauty of the dancing horses, twirling skirts, and the desperate cries of the flamenco band's lead singer clanging through the night.  But, in the meantime, we were saving seats and chatting amiably as friends in the audience.
     Down the row of seats I was in, a few spots down, was a grizzled-looking, yellow old man.  Everything about him was yellow.  His stringy hair, his teeth, even the whites of his eyes.  Despite his mangy appearance, in his lap was a pampered pooch of a smallish nature.  Maybe it wasn't a dog; more likely some rodent posing as a dog.  Every half-a-minute or so, the yellow man would puff, puff on his crumpled cigarette.  And every half-a-minute, the pampered pooch would achoo, cough pathetically, engulfed in the cloud of smoke.
     Now I know every body smokes in Europe, and I know firsthand that every body smokes in Spain.  But something about this was different.  There was general anticipation for the show to start, but I was consumed by my anticipation for the man to finish.  "Just a few more puffs," I would tell myself.  "Then the dog will be fine."  At last, after what seemed an eternity, the cigarette was near gone.
     ...
     Then I got to see the etymology of chain-smoking in action.  He lit his next cigarette off the old one. And so the yellow man continued to puff, puff and the pampered pooch carried on achoo, cough -ing.  And so it goes.

Yes... perceptions of smoking certainly have changed in the world.
But it' not the same kind of change in every place...

     During the same trip, I spent a long weekend in Portugal, visiting various towns and spending a full day in the capital city Lisbon, or Lisboa.  Organized by the University of Salamanca, the trip included other students not from my immediate program: aka, tons of new friends to make!  But of course, as with most weekend excursions to foreign countries, our journey started off with the usual long, dull bus ride, leaving Salamanca at the crack of dawn, and speeding past mile after mile after mile of farmland and emptiness.  And of course, the natural result of all this nothing is to make something out of nothing.  Meaning that several of us not sleeping spent the majority of the ride deciding who was attractive.  You know, a rerun of the sixth grade girl mania.
     Anyways, one of our more interesting companions for the weekend was a guy who can only be described as follows:  a slightly taller version of a hobbit, with all of the hobbit folks' easy smiles and joviality, but with all the snobbery of a French fashionista.  So, good-looking enough to be a sweet-natured countryman, but annoying enough to avoid substantial conversation with.

the main entrance to the monastery in Lisbon

     It was during our group tour of the Jerónimos Monastery that we had our first verbal encounter. We were, of course, not the only people there, and so our group had to sidestep a bunch of old biddies on the front steps smoking, what I hope, was their first cig of the day.
     Okay, so here is where I have a confession to make: I am very lucky.  I had an idyllic childhood where secondhand smoke was a rarity and never present in my own home.  It never made sense to me as a kid, why people would do something that's not good for them.  And so, as a result, I am a total wuss when it comes to cigarette smoke.  I don't the smell and even if you're not smoking at the time, I'll be able to tell if you're a smoker or not.  That's what you get for having a good nose and limited exposure to smokers as a kid.
     So, there I am, passing by the old biddies, holding my breath and looking slightly uncomfortable, but not in a way that really draws attention.  After emerging from the cloud, who was I standing next to, but the hipster-wannabeFrench-hobbit-man.  He looked at me and, having no other basis for conversation (ya know, other than, "how are things in the Shire?") said, "Gee, everyone smokes here.  Pretty different than the States."  After his momentary surprise, it was my turn to be shocked.  "Yeah, but at least people here are better about it," he said.  I asked him to elaborate: "nobody here asks you to stop and makes a big scene about it.  So what if people smoke?  Man, people are so whiny in the U.S." I was too shocked to give him my "it's my air, too" rant, so I just let it go.  But even now, eons later, I can't believe it!  Don't I have a right to clean air?  Anybody can smoke, but they don't have to do it in my face.  It is absolutely possible to be a respectful smoker.  (Example:  I had a boyfriend that was rooming with two smokers his first year of college.  He was not a smoker, but his roommates knew that and respected it complete, going outside to smoke a good distance away from the dorm and never smoking inside.  Way to go, college kids!)

I'm Mr. Dapper-Owl, and I approve this message!

     So, why am I bringing all these ideas up now?  


     There's a café on the UKZN campus (University of KwaZulu-Natal) hidden inside the humanities ward.  In the center of the building is a courtyard overrun by huge wild ferns and snotty teenagers.  On the side, sits the café, probably still holding the record for longest line (or "queue," as they say here) and longest wait time.  I wouldn't know-- I've never had the time to order anything.  Throughout the courtyard, tiny rickety tables and chairs are strewn about haphazardly.  While classes are in session, it's almost a ghost town.  But as soon as passing period rolls around, it's a veritable watering hole where tea pours like a river and gossip flies like wildfire.
     Of course, in order to see all these things, you have to have super-vision (which I do; 20:15 baby!) to decipher anything through the smog of cigarette smoke.  And it's not just one "smoker group."  It's everybody: standing in line, writing an essay, reading a novel, sipping some tea, anything.  And it's simply astounding to me because I've never seen such a high percentage of people my age smoking.  My home university's rule is "no smoking within twenty-five feet of a university building."  So people still smoke, but at a way lower density.  Plus, it carries a negative connotation that it doesn't have in Spain nor, apparently, in South Africa.
     For the record, I like my negative connotations.  Go figure.


     Oh, and if you like bunnies, Happy Easter