COLUMN

Spanish Ice Cream And An Exploding Chicken

By NICOLE YUNGER HALPERN

Published: Aug 17, 2007

Many students wish to blot out all thought of academia during summer vacations. Forgive me, therefore, for resurrecting painful memories of morning meetings by recalling one of the guest speakers who lectured at my school.

"Many of the Spanish-speaking countries," he declared, "are among the healthiest places in the world."

Even though I had just graduated from high school in June and was henceforth required by some sort of unwritten law to start suppressing memories of the past four years lickety-split, the thought of this speech occurred to me. My family and I were about to set off for Spain, and I determined to put the speaker's assertion to the test. What set Spaniards apart from Tampanians and other Americans?

Observation number one: ice cream.

A quick pick-me-up is unusually easy to come by: The same blue Nestle poster displaying the prepackaged frozen treats for sale (foreigners can simply point to their choice and fork over the dinero) dots parks, street corners, and small restaurants.

The shops devoted entirely to this dessert, however, take the cake (er, take the ice cream?). Employees sculpt the tops of the ice creams in their tubs into wavy and scalloped shapes. Syrups, berries, flowers, and nuts are arranged decoratively here and there; a giant sculpted watermelon even sits atop the watermelon flavor. No offense to Coldstone, but these desserts are works of art both to the tongue and to the eye.

If only we ate more ice cream, I believe, the world would be a far more harmonious place.

But how to keep off the extra pounds? Stretch those legs. Apparently, Spaniards take the family out for a good, long trek to the park each Sunday afternoon.

"Ha!" you scoff. "But they don't live in Florida, where you can roast ants on the sidewalk without a magnifying glass!" Actually, Spain is nearly as sweltering in the summer as the Sunshine State; the only difference is the humidity.

Speaking of walking, one day, my family was strolling through a sprawling park (need more of those here, too, ahem) in Barcelona when I stopped dead in my tracks.

"Look!" I cried. "A miniature Exploding Chicken!"

And there it stood in all its blazing glory: what appeared to be a reddish Mini-Me of Tampa's own sculputure, which looks to be a ludicrous homage to chickenkind. What's more, the flaming fowl was located smack dab in front of - wouldn't you know it - a museum.

The Spanish, apparently, do not call the progress of the arts to a screeching halt in order to bicker pettily about decorations.

More to the point, the Spanish have actually built themselves museums.

The sponge museum in Tarpon is all well and good, but I daresay Tampa could do with a Guggenheim or El Prado. And while we're at it, I vote for importing a couple of castles, as well. There's nothing to help you appreciate your history class like tearing around in an ancient hunk of stone - sans tour guides, sans glass cases, sans velvet ropes so you can't get to the most interesting bit right over there, sans all the other archaeologically necessary but undeniably irritating limitations found in most American monuments.

In short, Spain has learned much from the United States - for instance, the mass marketing that makes Nestle available in every park, street corner, and small restaurant. Now is the time for us to return the favor - to slow down, go for a stroll and an ice cream, and maybe opt for a siesta every once in a while.

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Nicole Yunger Halpern is a graduate of Berkeley Preparatory School and an incoming freshman at Dartmouth University.