quote:

ORIGINAL: Norman Paul Kliman

I used to run into him on the streets of Madrid. I heard his father was the mayor of a town in California. We spoke only once. I said, “Hey, you’re that Pollito fellow, aren’t you?” He grunted something and asked if I knew of a pensión, so I directed him toward one nearby in calle Príncipe where I’d stayed in my first year or two in Madrid. Years later, I saw him on TV with some gypsy artists from Granada. He was just clapping, but toward the end, they started motioning for him to dance. They shouted, “al suelo” (the ground) a few times, and he eventually complied, throwing himself to the ground and springing back to his feet, much to their delight.

There was another guiri known as el Chipi. I saw him accompany onstage once at a theater or something. He played guitar, sitting with his legs crossed, and from my front-row seat in the audience, I couldn't help but fixate on a cigarette butt stuck to the sole of his shoe that made him look like a character from an Ibáñez comic (Mortadelo y Filemón; 13, Rue del Percebe, etc.)