![]() But really, his "research" is taking quite a different shape. Supposedly, he is working on composing "a long and research-driven poem, whatever that might mean" about the Spanish civil war. ![]() ![]() But he really hates the would-be expatriate intellectuals "who, when they spoke Spanish, exaggerated the peninsular lisp", and hates them mostly – as will be obvious – because he is one of them himself.Īdam Gordon – as the author calls the narrator – is a young American poet, in Madrid on a fellowship in 2004. "If you looked around carefully, as you walked through the supposedly least touristy barrios, you could identify young Americans whose lives were structured by attempting to appear otherwise, probably living on savings or giving private English lessons to rich kids …" Our narrator isn't so bothered about the usual sorts of American tourist, the "barbate backpackers" and the ones with "fanny packs". ![]() N othing is more American – "whatever that means" – than running away to Europe, avoiding your countryfolk, pretending not to be American at all. ![]()
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