At the time I placed myself in a situation to have our family’s passports stolen, we intended to take a holiday in England. At that same time the man of the hour, as far as France and all of Europe were concerned, was Ilich Ramirez Sanchez, aka Carlos “the Jackal.” I looked a lot like his pictures that were being circulated.
Just my luck. Could I look like a famous, sexy movie star? Or a brilliant writer or noted politician? No-o-o-o-o. Were people going to ask me for an autograph? No, but they might ask me to put my hands up and then shoot me anyway.
So I got a haircut before I got my passport photo. That would show them. Unfortunately, Carlos “the Jackal” also got his hair cut before his latest photos were released. Now I really looked like Carlos.
I thought I might be safe because I didn’t speak English with a heavy Venezuelan accent. But the subject never came up as I went through various customs. And that worried me even more.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Sunday, November 8, 2009
7-Up Commercial
The 7-Up Commercial
In the fall of 1975 I published an article in Lookout, the Costa del Sol’s English language magazine. I discussed how to speak Spanish without knowing any words and to illustrate the article Joanne took pictures of me making faces and hand gestures. Thumb and little finger of right hand raised up, rest of fingers clenched, tilt hand towards mouth. “Let’s have a drink.” Hand held in front of you, fingers together and extended, wobble hand back and forth. “Maybe, maybe not.” Upraised -- well, never mind. They were universal gestures you could use anywhere in Europe.
At about that time a Chicago advertising agency showed up on the Costa del Sol with a contract to film some 7-Up commercials for use in theaters around the world. They hired a film production company owned by Eddy Vorkapich. Eddy had worked as an art director and cameraman in Hollywood but had moved to the Costa del Sol where he had a really cool villa complete with movie theater and a studio with wonderful northern light.
Eddy filmed during the day and the film was flown overnight to London to be developed. Later it was sent to New York for editing and music. After that, the commercials were sent to the intended country of use for voice-over. Spanish is different from country to country. Costa Rican “ticos” would not enjoy listening to a 7-Up commercial in Castilian Spanish. They would much prefer Tico Talk. A few years later I met people in California who had seen the commercials in Singapore. Spanish of any sort would have been ineffective for that audience.
The plots of the commerecials involved the 7-Up hero, a pair of hands dressed formally in white gloves who lived in a green box. On the basis of the published article, I got the job as a pair of hands. The hands would execute whatever deed of derring do was required, and then pour everyone a nice drink of 7-Up.
One of the scenarios involved outlaws in the Old West who tried a hold up but were handcuffed by the hands emerging from the green box. First, there was the matter of getting guns in for the outlaws. You can’t have them using wooden guns or pointing their fingers. However, even though the Spanish Civil War had been over for 36 years by the time we were actively promoting 7-Up, the authorities were still reluctant to allow handguns into the country. Spanish citizens were permitted to own small gauge rifles or shotguns if they had a clear police record, but no handguns. No no no no no. That was strictly a prerogative of the police. So when our earnest young production assistant picked up a load of six guns at the airport, she had some heavy explaining to do.
One of the outlaws, a Spaniard, wore a Mexican suit, complete with big sombrero, fancy jacket and conchos down the pants legs. He had a Kodak Instamatic® hung over the revolver in his holster and whenever there was a break in the shooting snapped pictures right and left. The bandido spoke no English and the other two outlaws, a Brit and a Belgian, translated for the director when Eddy’s desires exceeded his Spanish.
The other “plot” involved a beautiful girl and a beautiful boy running along the beach in beautiful bikinis, wanting a cool, refreshing drink. Green box to the rescue. He parachutes to the beach. The top of the box opens, the hands come out, drinks are poured, the day is saved. For the parachute drop the company hauled a tall crane to an inlet so they could film on a sandy beach with the Med and blue sky behind and not attract hundreds of tourists. They had just hauled the chute and green box up the crane and were set to make their first drop when a small Spaniard interrupted the works, loudly. He, it seemed, was the mayor of the small town where they were working, the alcalde, and no one had cleared this chute shoot with him. He wanted things stopped right now until the matter of permisos was cleared up.
The company went ahead with their work while the production assistant, a South African lady fluent in English, Spanish, Afrikaans and Swahili, the same one who picked up the guns at the airport, attempted to pacify the mayor. She succeeded in doing so and as the mayor was leaving the two shook hands. Unfortunately, she had been painting the green box in case there was a need for a second drop. She had green paint on her hand and, by the time she and the alcalde finished their demonstration of undying affection, so did he. He expected his palm to be crossed with something green, but I don’t think it was paint.
The first day of the actual beach shoot dawned. The beautiful Canadian girl model and the beautiful Belgian boy model showed up in their beautiful bikinis and looked at the cloudy, rain drenched beach. Did I mention that we were shooting in January? Couldn’t work that day. The company was dismissed with an early call for the next morning and the senior advertising rep from Chicago went to work on a bottle of vodka.
The next day was beautiful and sunny. People talk about Sunny Spain but not necessarily about Warm Spain. In January it’s cold. The poor bikini clad models had to run up and down the beach pretending they were having fun. I was tucked inside of a large box buried in the beach and covered over with sand. Someone placed the green box on top of my box through which my hands could appear to work their magic. I was the only warm person on the set. And the shoot took two days.
The commercials took up four weeks of my time for which they paid me 50,000 pesetas, about $1000 US. That money kept our family of three going in relative comfort for four months. And the work was easy. I was merely the talent. All the thought, the organizing, the networking, the bribing, had been done by others.
In the fall of 1975 I published an article in Lookout, the Costa del Sol’s English language magazine. I discussed how to speak Spanish without knowing any words and to illustrate the article Joanne took pictures of me making faces and hand gestures. Thumb and little finger of right hand raised up, rest of fingers clenched, tilt hand towards mouth. “Let’s have a drink.” Hand held in front of you, fingers together and extended, wobble hand back and forth. “Maybe, maybe not.” Upraised -- well, never mind. They were universal gestures you could use anywhere in Europe.
At about that time a Chicago advertising agency showed up on the Costa del Sol with a contract to film some 7-Up commercials for use in theaters around the world. They hired a film production company owned by Eddy Vorkapich. Eddy had worked as an art director and cameraman in Hollywood but had moved to the Costa del Sol where he had a really cool villa complete with movie theater and a studio with wonderful northern light.
Eddy filmed during the day and the film was flown overnight to London to be developed. Later it was sent to New York for editing and music. After that, the commercials were sent to the intended country of use for voice-over. Spanish is different from country to country. Costa Rican “ticos” would not enjoy listening to a 7-Up commercial in Castilian Spanish. They would much prefer Tico Talk. A few years later I met people in California who had seen the commercials in Singapore. Spanish of any sort would have been ineffective for that audience.
The plots of the commerecials involved the 7-Up hero, a pair of hands dressed formally in white gloves who lived in a green box. On the basis of the published article, I got the job as a pair of hands. The hands would execute whatever deed of derring do was required, and then pour everyone a nice drink of 7-Up.
One of the scenarios involved outlaws in the Old West who tried a hold up but were handcuffed by the hands emerging from the green box. First, there was the matter of getting guns in for the outlaws. You can’t have them using wooden guns or pointing their fingers. However, even though the Spanish Civil War had been over for 36 years by the time we were actively promoting 7-Up, the authorities were still reluctant to allow handguns into the country. Spanish citizens were permitted to own small gauge rifles or shotguns if they had a clear police record, but no handguns. No no no no no. That was strictly a prerogative of the police. So when our earnest young production assistant picked up a load of six guns at the airport, she had some heavy explaining to do.
One of the outlaws, a Spaniard, wore a Mexican suit, complete with big sombrero, fancy jacket and conchos down the pants legs. He had a Kodak Instamatic® hung over the revolver in his holster and whenever there was a break in the shooting snapped pictures right and left. The bandido spoke no English and the other two outlaws, a Brit and a Belgian, translated for the director when Eddy’s desires exceeded his Spanish.
The other “plot” involved a beautiful girl and a beautiful boy running along the beach in beautiful bikinis, wanting a cool, refreshing drink. Green box to the rescue. He parachutes to the beach. The top of the box opens, the hands come out, drinks are poured, the day is saved. For the parachute drop the company hauled a tall crane to an inlet so they could film on a sandy beach with the Med and blue sky behind and not attract hundreds of tourists. They had just hauled the chute and green box up the crane and were set to make their first drop when a small Spaniard interrupted the works, loudly. He, it seemed, was the mayor of the small town where they were working, the alcalde, and no one had cleared this chute shoot with him. He wanted things stopped right now until the matter of permisos was cleared up.
The company went ahead with their work while the production assistant, a South African lady fluent in English, Spanish, Afrikaans and Swahili, the same one who picked up the guns at the airport, attempted to pacify the mayor. She succeeded in doing so and as the mayor was leaving the two shook hands. Unfortunately, she had been painting the green box in case there was a need for a second drop. She had green paint on her hand and, by the time she and the alcalde finished their demonstration of undying affection, so did he. He expected his palm to be crossed with something green, but I don’t think it was paint.
The first day of the actual beach shoot dawned. The beautiful Canadian girl model and the beautiful Belgian boy model showed up in their beautiful bikinis and looked at the cloudy, rain drenched beach. Did I mention that we were shooting in January? Couldn’t work that day. The company was dismissed with an early call for the next morning and the senior advertising rep from Chicago went to work on a bottle of vodka.
The next day was beautiful and sunny. People talk about Sunny Spain but not necessarily about Warm Spain. In January it’s cold. The poor bikini clad models had to run up and down the beach pretending they were having fun. I was tucked inside of a large box buried in the beach and covered over with sand. Someone placed the green box on top of my box through which my hands could appear to work their magic. I was the only warm person on the set. And the shoot took two days.
The commercials took up four weeks of my time for which they paid me 50,000 pesetas, about $1000 US. That money kept our family of three going in relative comfort for four months. And the work was easy. I was merely the talent. All the thought, the organizing, the networking, the bribing, had been done by others.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Smugglers’ Cheese
Feeding our teenagers always presented difficulties whether we lived in California, Guam or Spain. Spain had government subsidized bread, milk and fish provided real help in filling teenage maws. Another boon to the Harris household was Smugglers’ Cheese.
Smugglers’ Cheese was processed cheese packaged in five-pound blocks and smuggled in from Holland. This cheese provided a tasty and nutritious morsel for our kids and the piranha pack who would periodically descend upon our kitchen.
The black marketer sold his cheese under the stairs of the front of the British Embassy. It was a great location because everyone knew where it was. (The embassy is actually in Madrid and Torremolinos has just a consular office.)
People probably put up with the black marketer because everyone liked the cheese including the embassy employees and the beat cop. However, I imagine he crossed a few palms with pesetas as well.
One day the embassy moved its consular office. A teacher at Sunnyview School complained, “Now where will we get our cheese?”
“Same place,” a Brit teacher replied. “The Embassy isn’t selling the cheese. It’s the black marketer.”
We were all reassured about our source of cheese and the solvency of Her Majesty’s government: they didn’t have to sell to smuggled cheese to pay their embassy office bills.
Smugglers’ Cheese was processed cheese packaged in five-pound blocks and smuggled in from Holland. This cheese provided a tasty and nutritious morsel for our kids and the piranha pack who would periodically descend upon our kitchen.
The black marketer sold his cheese under the stairs of the front of the British Embassy. It was a great location because everyone knew where it was. (The embassy is actually in Madrid and Torremolinos has just a consular office.)
People probably put up with the black marketer because everyone liked the cheese including the embassy employees and the beat cop. However, I imagine he crossed a few palms with pesetas as well.
One day the embassy moved its consular office. A teacher at Sunnyview School complained, “Now where will we get our cheese?”
“Same place,” a Brit teacher replied. “The Embassy isn’t selling the cheese. It’s the black marketer.”
We were all reassured about our source of cheese and the solvency of Her Majesty’s government: they didn’t have to sell to smuggled cheese to pay their embassy office bills.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Satan's Cat
It was outside of a bar in Torremolinos, near the beach, where Joanne and I met Satan’s cat. Just like that. Satan’s cat was neither small nor large, but he gave off an aura of a saber toothed tiger. Missing left ear. Right eye, gone. Several major scars adorned his face and front end, none on the back. Satan’s cat obviously faced his troubles squarely. And loved it. Even a casual inspection from ten yards away assured you of his gender. He swaggered down the middle of whatever path he chose, this gato del Diablo, this jefe of Andalucia. He was an El Máximo.
Neither Joanne nor I would have approached him with anything short of a .357.
Suddenly two Dalmatian pups bounded out of the bar and, sighting the cat, decided it would be fun to chase it up a tree or, even better, in front of a car. They charged, but the cat, rather than fleeing, sat down in the middle of the road and eyed the young dogs speculatively. I could almost hear him think, “Shall I blind the one on the right and castrate the one on the left, or vice versa?” The cat did not run, but waited calmly and with fell intent. I smelled brimstone. The cat smelled blood.
The pups realized that something wasn’t quite right and stopped bounding and prancing. They surreptitiously looked at each other. Neither would retreat first, but for damn sure neither would attack first either.
So there the three sat in the middle of the street. They would be there yet, but the pups’ owner came out of the bar and called them to follow him. The pup followed their master. Gladly. Quickly.
And Satan’s cat went on his way, his afternoon paseo undisturbed.
Neither Joanne nor I would have approached him with anything short of a .357.
Suddenly two Dalmatian pups bounded out of the bar and, sighting the cat, decided it would be fun to chase it up a tree or, even better, in front of a car. They charged, but the cat, rather than fleeing, sat down in the middle of the road and eyed the young dogs speculatively. I could almost hear him think, “Shall I blind the one on the right and castrate the one on the left, or vice versa?” The cat did not run, but waited calmly and with fell intent. I smelled brimstone. The cat smelled blood.
The pups realized that something wasn’t quite right and stopped bounding and prancing. They surreptitiously looked at each other. Neither would retreat first, but for damn sure neither would attack first either.
So there the three sat in the middle of the street. They would be there yet, but the pups’ owner came out of the bar and called them to follow him. The pup followed their master. Gladly. Quickly.
And Satan’s cat went on his way, his afternoon paseo undisturbed.
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