I’m not into fashion. When it’s warm, I wear subtly different color variants of the same ballcap. We call these gorras in España, by the way — gorros refer to beanies. When I purchased them, I didn’t know how to express that these hats fit me well. That’s why I told the cashier in my broken Spanish that they were “my truth.” Mi verdad. He responded by laugh-crying, I think because he saw a vision of a possible future awaiting him.
Let’s go back in time. About twenty years ago, I met a man. His too-big shirt was tucked into his too-small khakis, held together by a faux leather belt with its own stretch marks. His appearance was still more comprehensible than how he made a living.
Apparently, he copy-pasted HTML and JavaScript onto servers all sharing the same too-small password. I heard him try to pronounce the word “library” one too many times. He kept saying “lie-berry.” It was nails-on-a-chalkboard to my then-teenage ears — and, mind you, I nearly failed out of high school. I’d decided never to become like this man-purse-toting “life coach,” as he called himself.
(And assuming he’s still alive, can you imagine what he’s doing with ChatGPT today? Especially after whatever COVID must’ve done to him? Jesus Christ.)
Fast-forward twenty years, and now you, yes — you — are a college-age dude working the floor at a Galician department store. You still have hope and optimism about the world, because you haven’t yet realized that everything is completely, irreversibly fucked. One day, you’re tasked with moving merchandise from one spot to another, just in case customers had finally figured out where things were.
Suddenly, you see a man coming your way. He’s familiar, you think. Then you realize this is the guy who once carried his groceries into the athleisure area… from a different store. He insisted upon using one of his bags, full of CBD gummies and Doritos and candles, to store an umbrella he’d purchased. You never saw him use the umbrella again, probably because umbrellas are mostly useless in Green Spain™. Anyway, once security started following him around constantly, he stopped reusing bags throughout the store’s various floors.
Now he’s approaching you with a stack of gorras, all indistinguishable from one another. You notice his too-big shirt is tucked into his too-small khaki shorts. His glasses are pink and reflective — you can’t see his eyes or eyebrows. Maybe he works with computers? You sure hope this guy isn’t making software.
From a rectangular ADIDAS athleisure purse slung across his chest, he begins delicately pulling out a grocery bag like a snake charmer cajoling a cobra from its enclosure. He has evolved, you realize, he is now concealing empty grocery bags from other stores — bolsas — inside his... man bolsa. Jesus Christ.
He greets you and says, “¡Estas gorras son mi verdad!”, stressing all the wrong syllables.
Visions like the psychedelic final scenes of 2001: A Space Odyssey assail your mind even though you’re not high on ketamine. You shoot up into black hole stars, surrounded by spaceships shaped like chiseled busts of Egyptian goddesses. The scene is enclosed by a picture frame, you notice. It’s rotating and morphing between different aesthetic periods, accelerating inevitably toward hypermodernity. You hear trumpets. Then someone wearing a white rabbit costume slowly emerges into view. Tears fill your eyes. You laugh.
Around a year ago, I arrived in Spain and started ¡BEBOP LIBRE!, a professional life-coaching blog.
I provide general advice about how to do things. I’m an expert, after all. So here’s a piece of advice, particularly for you men out there: don’t be afraid to wear a purse. Now, I know what some of you might be thinking: “BUT I’M NOT GAY OR A WOMAN. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! HELP!”
O.K. There’s no requirement to be gay or a woman to wear a purse. I think we should just call them purses and be done with this farce. But if it makes you feel less gay or feminine (which you’re being unnecessarily defensive about), you have my permission to call them something else. There are several options: “man purse,” “murse,” “satchel,” “cross-body bag,” ”Bitchy Boy Bag,” or even “man bolsa” (if you’re a stupid dickhead who moved to Spain).
The man bolsa is all about adaptability. I can easily fit up to two sizeable plastic grocery bags in mine, though I normally just do one. Switching from car-dependent suburbanism in Newdatacenterland to car-free life in Galicia has required changes in how I interface with the environment. The man bolsa is one such change.
Capitalism isn’t as advanced here. There isn’t just one state-subsidized monopoly (???) for buying things, so my world is no longer a supercenter assembly line with maximal employee turnover. People aren’t as temporary anymore; they’re not bound by the same packing algorithms that are applied to inanimate objects. In the Beforetimes, other people phased in and out of my reality as if confirming the many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics.
But now there are numerous mercados, fruterías, pastelerías, and other tiendas within a short walk of my apartment, staffed and frequented by mostly the same people at mostly the same times. Scattered betwixt them are bars, cafes, and other points of interest. I can now predictably generate “chance encounters” if I want. Though, considering such events used to exclusively involve at least one person being unhinged, it’s taken me a long while to be open to... socializing. Relatedly, I’ll just leave this note below.
Bulk-buying food and other goods is no longer a sensible course of action for this American. I frequently enter the ciudad for a reason... or absolutely no reason at all, other than to wander around and clog up the sidewalks. In either case, I may pass by something I want: a tarta for my wife, papel higiénico for the next pandemic, a book in Spanish that I can’t quite read yet, or a book in English that distracts me from learning Spanish. Probably Dungeon Crawler Carl, if I’m being honest. (A bookstore nearby highly recommends the Spanish translations of this acclaimed series.)
In my man bolsa, there’s a compartment for coins. At times, I spare some for the unhoused. At other times, I use them to tip waitstaff who’ve been exceedingly tolerant of my bullshit. Speaking of, I have a favorite brunch place — my mimosas have become considerably stronger each time I’ve tipped there. And when I walk off my buzz and bocadillo in the park, I often have my e-reader stuffed inside my man bolsa. I like to spontaneously read among the trees, flowers, and random people speaking every language under the sun.
They don’t seem to mind that I have a man bolsa, because... why would they?
I would’ve had a problem with it — twenty years ago. If you’d told me I would become a man who internationally smuggles grocery bags in his purse, I would’ve assumed you were high on whatever passes for discourse on The Joe Rogan Experience. And if you’d prophesied that lie-berry man would one day command a swarm of non-human intelligences to automate a crypto-gambling scam, I would’ve thought you were goddamned insane.
United in our truth — nuestra verdad — we stand tall with our purses (for men!).