{"id":4316,"date":"2026-09-11T12:25:10","date_gmt":"2026-09-11T12:25:10","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/eurolit.net\/?p=4316"},"modified":"2026-09-11T12:38:26","modified_gmt":"2026-09-11T12:38:26","slug":"nonsensical-honourifics","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/eurolit.net\/?p=4316","title":{"rendered":"Nonsensical Honourifics"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

The San Sebasti\u00e1n bar was thick with the scent of roasted coffee, frying txistorra<\/em> and seventy years of unadulterated Basque bloody-mindedness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At the end of the counter sat Koldo. According to the local census, he was a retired army colonel who had spent thirty years yelling at recruits until his throat resembled dried beef. To his neighbours, he was the man who threatened to confiscate footballs that landed in his hydrangeas. But to anyone who tried to talk to him, he was an absolute nightmare of nominal pedantry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A sleek man in a tailored suit slid onto the adjacent stool, straightened his silk tie and flashed a smile that belonged on a billboard for cosmetic dentistry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Good morning,\u2019 the newcomer purred, extending a pristine hand. \u2018My name is Doctor I\u00f1igo Zabala.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Koldo did not shake the hand. He merely stared at it as if it were a dead flounder, then slowly raised his gaze to the man’s eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Is it?\u2019 Koldo growled, taking a deliberate sip of his cider. \u2018Your mother laboured for fourteen hours in a hospital in Bilbao, screamed at the midwife, pushed you into the light and thought, Ah, beautiful. We shall name him Doctor<\/em>?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The newcomer blinked, his smile faltering. \u2018Well, no. I am a doctor of cardiology. It is my title.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Precisely,\u2019 Koldo slammed his glass onto the zinc bar, making the cider splash. \u2018A title. An occupation. A piece of paper you paid a university to print! Your name is I\u00f1igo. You were I\u00f1igo when you were wetting your nappies, you will be I\u00f1igo when they lower you into the dirt and if you try to order a coffee from Joseba by calling yourself Doctor, I will personally throw you into the Bay of Biscay.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u00f1igo quietly withdrew his hand, paid for his espresso and migrated to a table far across the room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Joseba, wiping down the taps, sighed deeply.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018You are going to drive away the few paying customers I have left, Koldo.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I am performing a public service,\u2019 Koldo grunted, adjusting his beret. \u2018People have lost their minds. Yesterday a fellow tried to tell me his name was Professor Unai. No, my friend. Your mother had a burst of inspiration after a hard labour and named you Unai. You just happen to read books for a living.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018And you?\u2019 Joseba asked, raising an eyebrow. \u2018What should I call you?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Koldo,\u2019 the old man snorted, reaching for his coat. \u2018If I wanted to be called Koronel, I would have had it tattooed on my forehead. Koronel is what men called me when they wanted permission to go to the toilet.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He stood up, dusted the pastry crumbs from his trousers and marched out into the persistent drizzle of Old Town, entirely satisfied that the English language, the Basque language and basic common sense had been successfully defended for another morning.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The San Sebasti\u00e1n bar was thick with the scent of roasted coffee, frying txistorra and seventy years of unadulterated Basque bloody-mindedness. At the end of the counter sat Koldo. According to the local census, he was a retired army colonel who had spent thirty years yelling at recruits until his throat resembled dried beef. To his neighbours, he was the man who threatened to confiscate footballs that landed in his hydrangeas. But to anyone who tried to talk to him, he was an absolute nightmare of nominal pedantry. A sleek man in a tailored suit slid onto the adjacent stool,<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":4317,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[408,64,116,13],"tags":[410,409],"class_list":["post-4316","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-basque-country","category-experimental-prose","category-foodways-and-domestic-culture","category-trails","tag-honorifics","tag-txistorra-pintxos"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/eurolit.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4316","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/eurolit.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/eurolit.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/eurolit.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/eurolit.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=4316"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/eurolit.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4316\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4318,"href":"https:\/\/eurolit.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4316\/revisions\/4318"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/eurolit.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/4317"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/eurolit.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=4316"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/eurolit.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=4316"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/eurolit.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=4316"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}