When I started planning this trip, America was in shambles. Rumsfeld was tripping over himself apologizing for foreign policy ineptitude, the economy was barely floating in a tepid sea of commentator cynicism, rapid-fire reelection optimism, and it seemed that every day´s news brought in new wheelbarrows of crap and confusion for us to wade through. I was hoping that, in going to Europe, I would find, or maybe simply remember, one of those things that “makes America great” and has kept her at the forefront of “worth fighting for” for so long. Who though that one of the first things to do just that would be nutrition?

Coming off of two years of Atkins-altered restaurant menus and low-carb candies, it seems that we in the grand ol US of A have realized just how fat we are. With instigation like the popular release of the film “Super Size Me” (in which an average man almost kills himself with a month of McDonalds), we may be on our way to realizing that even the skinny dudes are significantly more unhealthy than the scale suggests.

So what about Europe? With rampant obesity and infinitely confusing food labels the American standard, what could the “old world” possibly do for my gestational patriotism?

When we first got off the plane at Heathrow, we laughed at the subtle differences. Bathrooms were called “Toilettes”, “the pound” is the primary unit of currency, rather than a colloquial “high-five” gesture in which the two parties, excited about the success (often sexual) of one or both, “pound” together clenched fists as a sign of admiration, and the vending machines didn´t sell anything bigger than a 16-oz soda. Back home, you could easily get a 20-oz carbonated hit, and the 24-oz size, with the can´t fail slogan “MORE FREE!” was on its way.

Paris, too, had shrunken soda. 1.5 Litres was as much as you could get in one bottle. And it showed.

Some Parisian rumours are not true: they do not indiscriminately hate Americans, they are not unusually rude, and there men are not (at least, most of them) whussy, effeminate sex hounds. Other stereotypes hit a little bit closer to home. Everyone, for example, smokes. Almost without exception. It´s like a Middle School guidance counsellor’s peer pressure nightmare. They are also, undeniably, and much to Fat-Merica´s tourist chagrin, skinny.

As you walk down the streets of Paris, you cannot help but notice tight shirts, well-fitted pants, and great asses (on both men and women alike). Perhaps it is a superficial emphasis on appearance, perhaps it is a diet comprised exclusively of absinthe and cigarettes. What´s for sure is that the people of Paris look great, in a teenage girl anorexia-inducing sort of way.

Spain on the other hand…well…

Spain is much fatter than you´d think.

I have been in this country for more than two weeks not, and my overriding impression is of a place where exercise and physical habits haven´t been able to keep pace with the culinary wonders of international free market consumption.

So where to lay the blame?

1)Diet
Traditional Spanish food is an absolute Atkins buzzkill. Panaderias (bread stores) abound, and are stocked almost entirely with starchy white baguettes and pasteries. Bars on any corner sell cheap “bocadillos,” a sandwhich on a giant baguette with your choice of Salami, Pork, Pepperoni and/or cheese. Delicious, but more or less devoid of useful macronutrients. Except in the best Supermarcados (which are never found in the smaller towns – and rarely in the bigger ones), it is next to impossible to buy fresh or even frozen veggies. The saving grace is fish, rich in Omega fats (cholesterol lowering) and protein. Pescadarias (fish stores) are omnipresent, but still, fish is, at most, a once every day or two sort of thing. Finding accessible, low-fat protein sources is effin hard.

The newer additions are even worse. We have not been to a city yet where we didn´t have our choice of “ pick and choose and buy as much as you can for really cheap” candy stores. Its straight out of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. In addition, the neighbourhood Almentacion and food store is lovingly filled with Dulce Sol (think Little Debbie) snack cakes, Nocilla (a chocolate-crème spread used like peanut butter) and bags of delicious, ready to go croissants. Only € 1.09 for 2500kcal. Finally, this place is hotter than hell, and with that climate comes a national devotion to helado…ice cream. It is a fixture of every bar, every supermarket, and even some stores that don´t sell any other food. The blue signs that tell the prices of your favourite Nestle´s treat are visible from .5km away.

2) Moving and Timing
In the same time that I have seen upwards of fifteen candy stores, I have seen only one small gym. Unlike America, it seems, the Spanish have yet to become fitness obsessed. It’s a double-edged sword I suppose, but at least in the States, options abound.

To confound things, the Spanish have, if possible, an even more metabolically ludicrous sleeping eating schedule than we do. Breakfast, it seems, is café con leche and cigarettes. This can happen at any morning hour. Almuerza, lunch, is usually around two, and consists of a big meal, followed promptly by Siesta, the national nap time. In every city and town we´ve been to, the hours of 2 to 5 are basically shot because of Siesta. Stores close and the streets are absolutely deserted as everyone sleeps or relaxes through the hottest part of the day. Sleeping tanks digestion and thus, Almuerza goes partially unprocessed. Cena, dinner, is around 9 or 10, and on weekdays that means that both big meals of the day are followed quickly by sleeping.

So it is that somehow, despite all my nutritional incredulity, I find myself longing for aisles upon aisles of fad-induced diet bars. I yearn for Gas stations that sell 101 different types of drinks, many of which are diet or even, healthy, if you know what to look for. I thinkof fresh lettuce and tomatoes a healthy red. I long for barbells and track shoes. I know how much of the USA´s ostensible health is actually marketing, but I can´t help but love the choice and variety it gives me. I snuggle down at night, after long days of walking, not to dreams not of family and friends, but of Powerbars and Chicken breast.

Turkey, sprouts, and mustard on a whole wheat wrap…
We´ll meet again soon.