We’re told Spain needs babies. Statistics have the birthrate slumping down near sub-replacement levels; demographers report that if not for the reproductive efforts of immigrant populations, a Spain of Golden Girls would already be upon us — a country for old men, and of them. But if all of this is true, you wouldn’t know it in Puente Genil. Around here, stores with names like Dulce Bebé (Sweet Baby), Los Peques (The Small Ones), and Little Kings (Little Kings) do brisk business catering to the vagaries of moda infantil (infant fashion). Family-portrait studios appear to be surviving the economic downturn reasonably well, and clothing outlets can be counted on to carry maternity wear. Puente Genil may have been spared American fast-food chains for now, but Dulce Bebe has three stores in Puente Genil, in as many blocks. Even as a venerable local real-estate firm recently closed up shop, a new baby-shoe store — not a shoe store with baby shoes, not a baby clothes store with baby shoes, but a baby-shoe store, cobbler to the recently fetal — opened up in its place. If Spain really is aging, it would seem to be doing so somewhere else.

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The first time a Spaniard told me to go see the Chinese, I thought maybe I’d been dissed. Ve a los Chinos: Spanish for Go play in traffic. Then again, why was Araceli, my new landlady, insulting me? All I’d done was ask where I might buy a roll of cellophane tape. I hadn’t meant to insinuate that rolls of cellophane tape should come with the flat. With Obama in the White House, I didn’t think the tiny American flag I’d staked in the window box — my very first American flag, a modest starter flag — could be held against me a priori. And anyway, what gripe did the Spanish have with the Chinese? Had I missed some grim episode in Sino-Hispano history? When Araceli picked up on my confusion, she didn’t do much to clear it up: she simply told me exactly where I might find these Chinese people. Four blocks up Calle Aguilar, on the right. Across from Manolo Dapena’s fruit stand.

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A few summers ago at a beachside bar in Bahia I met an older German named Ernst. A retired anesthesiologist on annual leave from his marriage, Ernst said he had chosen Brazil for just this sort of thing: cold beer at the beach. Because Ernst referenced the extramarital nature of his trip several times over, it was possible to suspect other motives, but no need to go into them. Instead I asked Ernst if he would recommend Germany as a place to visit. I had never much wanted to go to Germany and didn’t much now, but it was something to talk about. Ernst said Germany was a wonderful place to visit — but for the turkeys.

“Turkeys?” I said.

“They are everywhere. They come into the country and commit the crimes. They are a big problem.” Ernst tightened his lips, shook his head. He was really concerned about this.

I was, too. I felt sure the turkey was native to the States; I knew for certain it had made the short list for national bird. But of course you can raise turkeys just about anywhere, and prepositions are a notorious sticking point for ESL speakers: maybe Ernst meant turkeys were coming in from the country. Breaking free of their farms, descending upon the cities. But still… what kind of problem did turkeys pose for law enforcement? What crime could a turkey commit?

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I had no proprietary interest in the hogleg Stefan was twisting up. For all reefer’s fame as a groovy way to kick back and take it easy, the stuff tends to launch me into meta-spheres of self-consciousness, over-analysis, and general anxiety, all of which I can experience simply by sitting down to write an essay on language. What interested me was the concentration Stefan devoted to the work, the precision with which he approached it. I’d known stoners who took their pastime seriously, who made a discipline of all things reefer, but I’d never seen anything like this.  The man might have been crafting an engine part.

It should be noted that Stefan was not especially precise in other ways. His hair was ratty, he wore board-shorts and a ragged Zildjan Cymbals T-shirt, no shoes. Insomuch as he was wearing a shirt at all, he might be considered overdressed for the Bahian lunch shack I met him in. It was the Zildjan T-shirt that had got us talking. A sometime drummer, I’d taken a neighboring barstool and soon enough learned that he was, too. His name was Stefan, he came from Germany, and he played a four-piece Gretsch.

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When they say renewing the papers is less complicated than obtaining the original papers, they are not saying much. Orbiting the earth may be less complicated than obtaining the original papers. Even so, when you hear that renewing the papers is less complicated than obtaining the original papers, you may take heart. In fact you should take heart. In the process of renewing the papers, you will need it.

The first step in renewing the papers involves submitting various papers. These papers include a certificate of good health. The health certificate is purchased at your local tobacconist for a modest fee. After purchasing the certificate — and a carton of Camels, if you like — you will need to visit an authorized physician to have your good health certified. It’s possible you are expecting an actual physical examination, which maybe you could use and even, at such a reasonable price, afford. It’s possible you are thinking the reasonably priced physical is a strong argument in favor of the local health-care system. It is not. For the reasonable price an authorized physician will sign, then stamp, the official certificate of good health. If your name is not easy to spell across languages, you may have some sort of verbal interaction with the physician. Otherwise, probably not.

At this point, with your certificate of good health signed and stamped, you will feel, if not a sense of physical well being, then at least a sense of accomplishment. You are advised to enjoy this sensation for as long as you can. Soon enough, it will be bled out of you, and replaced by something much less agreeable. In fact it is a good idea to have the required ID photo taken at this point in the process, while you are feeling a sense of accomplishment, rather than later in the process, when any photo of you will present a seriously disturbed individual.

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