Memories of the metric system in Europe and way too much chorizo

by Jon Waldrep
(Sacramento, CA. USA)

When I was in middle school in the early 1970s we had to learn the metric system. We were told that soon everything in the United States was going to go metric. Our teacher was most emphatic that if we didn?t want to be left behind in the shadow of our European cousins (and no one did) we had better buckle down and be ready for any number of pop quizzes dealing with Celsius, grams and centimeters.

Yesterday, dateline 2010, I filled up my car in gallons under sunny skies while enjoying a beautiful 72° day. As it turns out the metric takeover here in America had about as much traction as the Yugo and legwarmers over jeans.

Of course if you visit Europe today you will still be able to put your knowledge of metrics to good use. In the mid 1980s I knew that Europe used the metric system. I had, after all, been living in Madrid for nearly two months and was a daily practicing participant. After a couple of months I thought I was really getting the hang of the whole metric thing. That, together with my piecemeal Spanish, seemed to be getting me by just fine after some initial bumps in the calle.

After the first couple months in the Capital city of Spain I figured out that gasoline was not as incredibly cheap as I had first thought, but rather seemed that way because I was paying per liter and not per gallon (1 gallon is nearly 4 liters). Once I figured out the true price of gas I was happy to rent the tiny, knees-against-my-chest, ecobox Fiat Uno. I stopped shopping for long underwear when I was told that the 40 degree summers days in Madrid were in Celsius, meaning about 104 degrees in Yankee talk. And my fears of getting a speeding ticket for clocking over 120 on the freeway went away when 120 kilometers per hour worked out to be a keep-up-with-traffic 75 miles per hour. Just as well as that was about the top speed for that little Fiat.

I thought that my old middle school teacher would have been proud of me. I was feeling quite proud of myself. Then one day I had what I call ?the incident? in the Mercado near the Plaza Major in the center of Madrid.

I had been sent to buy chorizo, a delicious type of Spanish sausage, for a party that my fellow American residencia slummers were going to throw for a couple of visitors from the States. That seemed simple enough. Buy enough chorizo to slice up and put out at a party for 20 or 30 people. I guessed that two or three pounds might be enough. The I thought I could get some extra as I can eat good chorizo morning, noon or night and I knew my friends would help themselves as well. So, maybe I would get five pounds. That seemed like a safe estimate.

When I got to the stall of the vendor with, in my opinion, the best chorizo in town I had a sudden and inexplicable case of brain freeze. For some reason the pound to kilo (or vice versa) conversion turned to mush in my brain and I could not remember what was what. Then the tough-as-nails looking woman behind the counter asked me what I wanted.

?Chorizo,? I said meekly.

?How much?? she asked in Spanish.

I had a small panic attack. I seemed to remember that either the pound or the kilo was about twice as much as the other. Or was I thinking of something all together different? A line was forming behind me. My mild panic attack ratcheted up a couple of levels. I took a shot in the dark. I knew I wanted about five pounds.
I told her I wanted ten kilos.

?Ten kilos?? She asked with a look that made me immediately realize that I had backed the wrong horse on the conversion chart in my head. But there was no turning back.

I told her yes, yes indeed, I wanted ten kilos of Chorizo. I hoped the tone of my voice said, ?Hey, don?t you think I know what I want??

She gave me a funny look and nodded as she began to slice chorizo. And slice. And slice. And slice some more. The little pile of chorizo grew, as did the crowd around the stall. I thought I heard someone mutter something about a crazy American. Maybe it was my imagination, but I don?t think so. Several minutes later I was walking back to the residencia, lugging a little over twenty-two pounds of chorizo. A kilo, as I have never forgotten, is about 2.2 pounds.

I learned a lot during my time in Europe. Sometimes at the expense of my pride (and indigestion system). Now that I have been back in the United States for many years I sometimes lament the U.S. not adopting the metric system. It would seem so much better to say I?m 22 kilos overweight?and not 50 lbs.

The author lived and worked in Europe for 10 years as a business owner and an English teacher. He writes about a number of subjects including working and studying abroad at www.overseasjobsnow.com and at www.celta.com with specific information about teaching English overseas.