Here and now…by no means!

He had just read in a book the phrase ‘hic et nunc’ and because of these words his thoughts ran frantically.’ Here and now, is there any other greater lie?’-he thought to himself. If at that moment he made a 180 degree turn while staying in the same place, that 'here' would become something else. 

Each one has his own ‘here’. Which one is real? 'How long does the 'now' last before it plunges into the past? The blink of an eye? You, fool, do not take the role of a false philosopher. Because Hegel and Augustine of Hippo wrote at length about them. You only had a humble rosary of memories in your head’- he muttered to himself somewhat angry.

In his head, the memories concerning the US from his childhood and adolescence knocked on his door. He was six years old when he went on a scheduled excursion with the clerics of San Viator to Zumaia on a bus rented from 'La Vergaresa'.  

The terribly loud and drilling horn of a ship entering the port and the long period of forced waiting next to the Zumarraga train station were his memories. Apparently, the bus broke down and it was necessary to wait there for a long time until it was fixed. 

But the most striking thing was a third memory from that day. As the bus passed a halfway tavern he saw there a blackboard that had been put outside. There they had written the following: 'Kennedy has been assassinated.'

On July 20th he was going forward along Zarugalde Street. The mid-summer sun was harshly punishing.  He was going towards the Uribarren house. He passed next to the Muxibar tavern and turned left starting to climb the slope of the Udala road. 

There, where the road turns to the right, was the house. On the ground floor there was a room where the television for the entire house was.  Everyone in the house was there watching the television. 'How slowly they move' Elías Uribarren was heard saying from outside. That day Neil Armstrong took his first steps on the moon. 

But for him it was only the day when his friends, Elías Uribarren and the others, did not want to play outdoors. They would not play football that day in the Larragain meadow. Nor would they have a chance to flee from the farmer who owned the field when he appeared in the middle of the game shouting, as he usually did. 

He returned home sad along the middle of Zarugalde Street. He felt the blood pumping in his head as a result of the heat. But he felt like something was missing...

His uncle Juan Bautista, who lived next door, periodically received the magazine 'Selecciones del Reader's Digest'(Reader´s Digest). And many of them he passed on to his next-door neighbors. 

A new world was reflected there, the world of the USA. Summary of books and movies, jokes, cooking recipes, advice and advertisements appeared in them. At this point he already knew that it was aimed at the bourgeois middle class of the US, in a clumsy and descriptive way, at the 'Westinghouse' class. That class thus had something to talk about at the party, so that they would not be taken for an ignorant person. 

But in those days a new world was opening before his eyes, full of luxury and wisdom. Although those book and movie summaries should have shown him that these people didn't spend their time reading books or watching movies. It was just a superficial culture. But the incantation of those days left no room for criticism. His critical ability was still very weak.      

In his adolescence he began reading 'Newsweek' and 'Time'. Ronald Reagan was elected president of the USA. Although at this time he is considered a hero, in those days the Americans were not of the same opinion. It was public knowledge that he called journalists 'son of a bitches', mistakenly believing that his microphone was already closed. 

In order to show his shortage of mental abilities, one of his advisers narrated an anecdote in 'Newsweek'. ‘Mr. President, this is the latest Russian secret weapon that we have discovered. The A359’- the adviser said to Reagan. 'And this similar one?' -Reagan said to the adviser, pointing to another photo. ‘This is the A354, a version of the A359 that is more advanced and newer than it' - the adviser answered him. 

’Aha! The Russians deceive us, putting the numbers wrong on purpose’ -told Reagan, happy taking advantage of the occasion to point out the perversity of the Russians. And the adviser keeping serious with difficulty, answered him:’ no, Mr. President, we put the numbers according to the order in which we discover them’.

As an example of this lack of consideration, the Israelis went directly to visit the Secretary of Defense on a visit to Washington, bypassing Reagan. Even then Israelis already had an incontestable argument: the US border was in Israel and therefore it was the US's task to defend it.  A terrible argument that still lasts. But he felt like something was missing...

Paul Etcheverry was the English teacher brought for them, in that Foreign Trade course organized by the Basque Government. He was a Basque American. On that trip to America many family names were changed. So happened to his family name.  His original family name was Etchebers (Etxebeste), but one way or another it ended up being Etcheberry. 

He told him an American joke.  ‘What is a tank when it runs out of gas and the barrel breaks down? Well, a 70-ton portable radio’. He also told him an anecdote about Paul Laxalt. Paul Laxalt was a lawyer, a great friend of Reagan, and his father was a Basque shepherd. US lawyers, at least until some Trump lawyers appeared, tended to be serious people with the gift of the gab. 

Once there was a dinner for famous lawyers and there was Paul Laxalt in the middle giving them explanations about the life of the Basque shepherd. He explained to them how they used different whistles to give orders to the dog, in order to direct the flock of sheep. A good pile of bottles of whiskey later, there were the lawyers sitting on the floor, holding the table with one hand and giving a polyphonic concert of whistles to give orders to their imaginary dog so that he would lead the flock. 

Paul Etcheverry also had his little heart. When he began to talk about Kennedy, a furtive tear appeared in his eyes, in that year 1984.

  

But sometimes such differing places, ours and those of the Americans, can be confused by some people. There he was in the Terradas university residence in Bilbao taking a look at the newspapers. There wasn't much to see, the 'ABC' and some other of similar tendency.  

Next to the 'ABC' chess problem page there was a headline that said: 'The Obesity Problem in the USA.' And the photo of the article was the following one. Two men of tall stature and strong build next to a car, probably a two-horse Citroën, were holding a fully extended banner. That banner read: 'Orio and La Real to Montreal'. Those from 'ABC' did not do very well. He wouldn't dare say that they were better in other articles. They took two persons from Orio for Americans. Ignoring also that 'la Real' stands for Real Sociedad de San Sebastian football club. The Montreal Olympics had been held the previous year, in 1976.

It wasn't seeing 'Bonanza' that he was missing either. In a house on Ferrerías Street, in front of his house, a man used to be on the balcony with one leg in the air trying to somehow cure his acute psoriasis in the sun. He used to be on the first floor balcony and he was the owner of a store.  

He was a socialist and had been in jail for political issues. It is in prison where the pain in his leg worsened. In their bazaar-type store, girls and boys bought marbles to play, in that Mondragón full of holes. The owner had the nickname 'Txaparro' and his store was known as 'Txaparro's store'. 

In those days, sewers were the main enemies, always ready to swallow the marbles. Armed with a stick with a piece of chewed gum on the end, groups of girls and boys spent much of their time maneuvering to get marbles out of the sewers. 

By 1963 the store had a large room with lots of chairs and a television in the front side. The girls and boys of the neighborhood went there to see 'Bonanza'. It would probably be the only television in the neighborhood. He pulled out a chair and sat down to watch the program begin. The entire map of 'La Ponderosa' started burning, starting from the center and extending to the sides. Pan, para pan, para pan, parapanpa!

He had to look deeper inside himself to discover what he was missing. Then he realized how many times he had mentally ridden dressed in blue in some Western. 

He spent year after year in that cinema run by the clerics of San Viator, where the proximity to the screen and the deafening noise took over all his attention, watching over and over again the epic narrated by the Westerns. Indians and cowboys, bad and good. Caravans of God-fearing peasants loaded with children, and on the other side those adorned with feathers, Indians, scalps cutters, always ready to attack the caravans and get drunk with whiskey.  

And between the two the guardians, the blue-uniformed soldiers, the Seventh Cavalry, with the sound of their trumpet, to save at the last moment as many good people as possible. What a roar, produced by the feet of the spectators, in support of that anguishing ride was heard in the cinema! 

Other times, in a hidden corner lived a humble family working the land. And one cursed day a group of Indians on horseback killed most of the family and set fire to the house with flaming arrows. Sitting there in the cinema he felt hatred against the Indians and as if he were part of the assaulted family felt great sadness. There he was mentally dressed in blue riding to kill all the bad Indians.  

Later he would know that it was a process of taking other people's lands without paying any price. The Indians were its legitimate owners and those on the other side were invaders. And the forts that appeared in the films were to guarantee this process of plundering, not to defend culture or social life. Although this epic that he made his own took place in a distant place, at that moment he felt totally immersed in the United States. 

Even though it was strange and distant, he felt it as if it were happening in his own neighborhood in that brain of his, moldable like wax, without the tools of criticism yet formed. While he ate gum, licorice and candy, he sweetly began his process of aligning himself alongside the most powerful in Western Civilization.

A friend of Tormantos told him: 'Look, the Romans came until Logroño'. But how do you tell your friend that the dominion of the Empire does not happen that way? It is not that the inhabitants of Rome went to live in Logroño to settle there, but it was a process where the ruling class of Logroño accepted and adopted the Roman law and way of life. 

In that process they must have felt obligated to do so at a certain moment, but that was another question. He scratched his head as he thought: 'The large tobacco producers did not support Reagan's campaign, and the consequence was the demonization of tobacco in the Western World. Following that reasoning, what consequences would there be if Trump and his bloody mindless followers are allowed to destroy democracy?’ 

Before going out onto the street, a penultimate thought struck him: 'In two hundred years, historians will be able to say that Mondragón was within the North American Empire, but let's be clear, we are not North Americans!' On the street he took a deep breath and a small smile appeared on his face : 'who knows what conclusions anthropologists could draw if in four hundred years they find any remains of my uncle's 'Reader Digest'.