Memories of the Metric System in Europe and Way Too Much Chorizo
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 degree day. So, the metric takeover here in America had about as much traction as the pet rock and streaking as it turns out.
Of course if you visit Europe 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.
When I drove a blazing 120 kilometers per hour on the highway (or km/h) I was really only doing about 75 miles per hour. That’s the typical posted speed limit on highways and freeways.
When I weighed in at a lean and mean 89 Kilos, the cold, hard scale at home would have said I was just about 3 pounds shy of 200. Clearly too many churros with chocolate were being consumed in the Spanish capital city!
When I mentioned to friends back home that it was only 23 degrees, bringing sympathy, I would have to confess that 23 degrees Celsius works out to be about a balmy 75 degrees Fahrenheit.
Finally, when I said that gasoline was less than a dollar a gallon I had to remind my envious friends there were about 4 liters to the gallon…not such a great deal after all!
Yes, I’m seemed to have the metrics thing down and was feeling quite sure of myself.
Then I had what I call “the incident” in the Mercado (market place) near the Plaza Major in the center of Madrid.
I had been sent to buy chorizo (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 safe enough.
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.
She asked me how much I wanted.
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. So, hmm, that had to be…wait a minute…let me think….
I told her that I wanted 10 kilos with false confidence.
She gave me 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 repeated that I wanted ten kilos, hoping the tone in my voice said ‘did you not hear me?’ or ‘don’t you think I know what I want?’
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, “Some nut just ordered ten kilos of chorizo. Ten!” 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.
So the lesson learned is take some time to learn the basics of the metrics system if you are going to Europe for an extended period. You may even what to write down that 1 kilo = 2.2 pounds so you don’t end up with twenty pounds of chorizo and a reputation down at the mercado.
The author, who lived and worked in Europe for more than 10 years, writes on a number of subjects including his experiences overseas and how others work, study or volunteer abroad.
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