HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Citizen, 2006-06-22, Page 5Arthur
Black
THE CITIZEN, THURSDAY, JUNE 22, 2006. PAGE 5.
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In praise of the sensible siesta
The late, great Noel Coward wrote many
witty and memorable lines, but perhaps
his most famous contribution was this:
Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the
mid-day sun.
I'm not sure that it marks a great leap
forward for humankind, but it looks" like 44
million Spaniards may be•about to join those
batty Brits and crazed canines. The Spanish
government is officially abolishing the siesta.
Siesta. A beautiful word for a beautiful
concept. It comes from hora siesta, or 'sixth
hour', referring to the number of hours after
dawn when it seems like a good idea to get out
of the potato patch, turn off the cement mixer,
abandon the Toro mower and get your carcass
out of the broiling sun and into some nice cool
shade.
It's just a sensible break, not the end of the
working day. The workers return refreshed to
their jobs for a couple of hours in the cooler
temperatures of the evening.
The Spanish didn't invent the siesta — they
swiped it from Portugal — but they
enthusiastically exported it to grateful
nations around the world. Mexicans embrace
the siesta concept, as do most Central and
South American countries as well as the
Philippines.
Indeed, any country where the mercury
routinely soars into the, 40s in the early
afternoon usually observes some variation of
the siesta.- Most folks in China, Taiwan and
southern India also make it a point to pull
down the shades just after lunch.
Not that the Spanish siesta is all about
sleeping — it's more about 'family. For untold
generations, Spaniards have retired to their
homes for a mid-afternoon break to be with
their loved ones, eat a hearty lunch, drink
some vino and...what have you.
The Ontario legislature has not rushed to
recognize the death of the richest
Canadian Ken Thomson and the
politicians may be afraid of appearing too
friendly to someone who made a lot of money.
But the media magnate set some examples
worth recalling. He owned The Times of
London, one of the world's most famous
newspapers, when this writer was Canadian
correspondent for 'almost "all other British
papers in the 1980s.
One task was watching The Times, which
has a special niche, because it was founded in
1785 and is read by that country's
Establishment, and was having difficulties
publishing because of disputes with unions.
This required phoning Thomson often and
once rushing to his house at 7:50 a.m., but
finding he had left for his office.
Ten minutes • later the reporter was at the
Thompson offices, which seemed empty but
for John A. Tory, his deputy chairman, who
was leaving by the front lobby. He said "Ken
has already left, but I'll catch up with him at
another meeting and ask him to call you."
The lesson was the accountants, advertising
executives, clerks and national columnists
were not yet at their desks, but its twoNtop guys
had already finished one meeting and gone on
to another.
This has some similarity to the legislature,
where deputy ministers often are in by 7 a.m.,
trying to get work done before staff arrive and
seek direction. — the top civil servants and
Thomson bosses of course are paid more.
Thomson phoned, which made him different
from most owners of big newspapers. In
Britain they had and used titles, such as Lords
Kemsley. Rothermere and Northcliffe. They
arrived in late morning by Rolls Royce, were
whisked upstairs by private elevators and were
The siesta is healthful, life-affirming and
pleasant. So naturally the Spanish government
wants to get rid of it.
Because it's frightfully unproductive, don't
you see? All those citizens enjoying
themselves at home when they could be down
at the factory cranking out widgets, sweating
over hay bales out in the south forty.or filling
out purchase orders in quintuplicate back at
the office.
Let's face it. The siesta is an anachronism.
A throwback to ancient times when people
lived for themselves, not for the clock on the
wall.
All that's changed now. Spain is a member
of the European Common Market — and how's
that going to work if an olive oil importer in
Dusseldorf calls Malaga to place an order and
all he gets is a busy signal because Senor
Malaga has his phone off the hook so it -
doesn't interrupt his siesta?
Well, no more. Under a new law, federal
employees are obliged to take no more than 45
minutes for lunch — and to leave the office for
the day no later than 6 p.m.
Will it work? I have my doubts. The law was
passed in January, when afternoon
temperatures are chilly, even downright frigid
in Spain. We'll see how many Spaniards think
working through the afternoon is a good idea
once torrid summer weather sets in.
As a Luddite and a romantic, I hope the
less welcoming to reporters than Prime
-Minister Stephen Harper on a bad day.
If they deigned to make a statement, minions
would write it, but Thomson did his own
talking, telling me union stoppages had cost
The Times $1 million in two weeks and he
would close it unless a buyer was found and
his decision was irrevocable.
Thonison, most of whose Canadian papers
were penny-pinching with staff, was generous
with praise to this reporter, who eventually
pointed out he had merely reported what
Thomson said.
Thomson replied that was the point, because
when he said something to reporters from
Britain they often wrote totally the opposite.
This writer lived near Thomson and was
once behind him in a Canadian Tire store
lineup. He carried a basket of purchases
probably costing less than $30 he explained
they were for a son's birthday, a reminder that
no one is too important to do his own shopping
and gifts worth having do not have to cost a
lot.
Not many art. collectors can claim to have
outbid Thomson, but this writer bought a
handsome pewter jug inscribed "Presented to
James S. Thomson by D Company Second
Corps Cadets June 12, 1899" at a church's
silent auction and was told he outbid
Thomson, who believed it honoured his
initiative fails miserably. Why should Spain be
like Belgium and Denmark and Latvia, all in
the name of economic harmonization?
German marks and Dutch pfennigs, French
francs and Spanish pesetas are already
currency history, replaced by the dreary,
ubiquitous Euro. Sure, it's easier to figure out
what you're paying for a product in Europe
now — but it's a whole lot blander.
I guess this is the Global Village Marshall
McLuhan prophesied. No doubt one day
Toronto will be just like Toledo, and Madrid
will be indistinguishable from Moncton.
It's already happening. I spent some time in
a town called Almunecar on Spain's Costa del
Sol this past winter. Overall, the town is
unremarkable, except for one section I
discovered by accident.
It's a labyrinthine warren of twisting
cobbled streets that follow no pattern, curving
back, even bisecting themselves at times. The
streets meander crazily, opening up on
unexpected plazas, tiny hidden cafes and
ancient churches.
It's the Old Town, originally settled by
Phoenicians more than 2,000 years ago. It's
impossible not to get lost in the Old Town, but
it's not very scary because it's not very big.
Sooner or_ later, you'll run into something
familiar.
Too familiar, actually. After stumbling along
one corkscrew alley for a while I suddenly
came to an opening.
It was a mini-mall. A nest of shops
selling Timex watches, Nike running shoes,
Levis, Janzten swimwear and Paula Abdul
CDs.
On the plus side, I couldn't buy any of it. It
was two in the afternoon and the shops were
all closed.
Siesta, don't you know.
family.
The writer tried several times to give it to
Thomson, to whom it meant more, but he
insisted, "you keep it Eric, because you won it
fair and square."
This writer was newly arrived in Canada,
covering a visit by The Queen for The Globe
and Mail and unsure who was who. He asked
an elderly man in a kilt outside city hall if he
had seen her before.
The man said yes and the reporter,
visualizing a two-paragraph insert about a
grizzled veteran recalling watching a much
younger Queen from the crowds, asked when
he saw her last.
The man said two weeks ago. When the
reporter asked where, he said in Buckingham
Palace. And, when the embarrassed reporter
asked who he was, he said "Roy Thomson."
The reporter apologized for not recognizing
him, but Ken Thomson said his father would
not have minded, because he never put on airs,
and the same could be said of the son.
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Gone fishin'
j
ust six months apart in age, they would
have preferred that they not be rparated
by the space dividing town and country.
However, kindred spirits since childhood, they
spent every moment they could together. They
particularly loved this summer sojourn.
The day was perfect, an azure sky with
saffron sun and cotton ball clouds. The two
struck out, dressed in shorts and cool cotton-t-
shirts, feet bare, of course. Over their
shoulders were sticks, with a length of string
attached. Across the field and down the lane
they went, chattering, watching the world
around them.
And then they reached the ditch. Plopping
down' onto the long grass they dipped the
sticks and dropped the lines into the murky,
shallow water.
I never knew back then that there was little
likelihood of my cousin and me catching
anything. Even after days and days of it never
happening it never occurred to me that perhaps
there was something lacking in our plan. Such
as bait and a place where fish actually existed,
for example.
Because it didn't matter. While we lazed
there, it was with a sense of purpose for what
we were doing. We believed that fishing was a
valuable pastime and we were, in our minds at
least, fishing.
Gosh, what an idyllic time in my childhood.
It was never about actually catching anything.
Lying back on the grass under a perfect
summer sky, there was no pressure to do or be ,
anything. Bees buzzed, butterflies danced,
dragonflies flitted and time stood still.
The time came of course, when our
Rockwellian fishing days ended. It was years
before I went again, this time for real, on a
picturesque northern Ontario lake. By now I
was a squeamish teenage girl, skittish at the
snakes and bullfrogs I happened upon enroute
to the boat and leery of the fact that I was
actually going to use something disgusting in
the hopes of actually snagging a slippery fish.
We set out in a small boat then stopped in a
likely spot. With less enthusiasm than most
anglers I cast my line and felt myself unwind
along with the reel. I became aware of the sky
above, the picturesque woods around, and the
calm clear waters below. The quiet, the peace
surrounded me and I felt again that sense of
time stopping.
My companion and I sat for hours that day.
Our conversation was unhurried and relaxed.
We never caught a thing, but just as it had been
in my childhood past, that was really not what
it was about for me. In all honesty I'm sure I
enjoyed it more because I didn't have to
wrestle a fish. That kind of battle sort of
defeats the purpose.
These memories and the sense of real
serenity that went with them came flooding
back to me recently when my son took his son
on their first fishing expedition together. Two
happier people I've never seen upon their
return.
Now, I have no plans to rush out and buy
myself a boat in the near future. But I
certainly do on some levels at least understand
the attraction. There's something soothing
about casting a line, and generally there's little
else to do but kill time until fish come calling.
When I look at the pace of life now it's little
wonder that I look back longingly at those
idyllic days. There are certainly moments
when it would be nice to put a sign on the door
and tell the world I've "Gone fishin'".
Canada's richest man a humble man