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QUINN: A cultural experience smothered by smoke  

Spending half a year in Europe has been a patchwork quilt of unfamiliar obstacles that I have had to bravely overcome. For instance, I have learned to successfully navigate public transportation, converse in various tongues and adapt to diverse eating practices (dinner at 10 anyone?), to name the most obvious examples. The only cultural nuance to which I find it impossible to adapt is the miasma of second-hand smoke that seems to haunt me wherever I go.

Ah, Spain, land of plenty. Plenty of food, fun, culture and, unfortunately, cigarettes. Not to pick on the place - after all, I am more than fond of the country - but Spaniards have a real smoking problem. And despite the more-than-eye-catching warnings printed on all cigarette cartons sold, many Spaniards, like Americans, prefer to overlook the anti-tobacco propaganda and search for a lighter instead.

My trouble with smoking in Spain began this summer in Barcelona . . .

As an observer in a foreign land, I am the ultimate pushover. Trying to absorb as much culture as possible, it is difficult, if not imprudent for me to impose my own staunch anti-tobacco values on those who offer me hospitality. But at what point am I sacrificing my own health and security for the sake of a new experience?

Which brings me back to Dallas, where I have often heard complaints from students who feel suffocated by smokers taking a break outside Fondren or Hyer between classes. Do we have a right to demand healthier breathing? Then again, don't smokers have a right to relax in the same places as everyone else?

For better or for worse, I have never observed anyone brave enough to ask a friend or even a stranger to stop smoking. Is it for fear of bringing offense, or am I the only one holding my breath when I pass a smoldering cigarette? While I'm not sure that I will build up the courage to ask my señora to put out her Virginia Slims anytime soon, I hope that at least back home someone will.

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