I had a barf bag handy and the was familiar with the nearest exist. Sitting on the hard stone bench at the bull ring, I was trying to remind myself of the cultural significance of the event in which I was about to participate, and not think about those six bulls who were probably eating their last supper, having no idea what was about to happen.
April has arrived in Sevilla, and with the orange blossoms of spring, Feria de Abril and the torero season has begun. Each night for the next two week, three toreros will face off against six bulls in front of hundreds of spectators in the hot sun of the late afternoon.
There are three stages of the bullfight, which I quickly realized are to accomplish two objectives: tire the bull out and piss him off royally. (I would be pretty angry too if someone had jabbed a pointed spear into my back and then wanted me to run around a hot ring until I died.) The first round involves a group of men with capes running the bull through a series of exercises, directing him across the ring to the second stage. The second stage consists of two picadors who are mounted on horse with sharp lances. The horses are blindfolded and armored. The bull runs right into the side of the poor horse as the man jabs the lance into the back of the bull. One wonders what that blindfolded horse thinks when a 450-kilo weight lunges into its side! At this point, the bull is hurt and mad, and the banderillero, who is on foot, enters the ring to pierce the bull with two arm’s length daggers. Blood is gushing down the sides of the bull. Finally, the matador enters the ring. The bull will make a series of passes as the matador whips his cape around. (Did you know that bulls are colorblind? They are not charging the red, but charging the movement!) Next, the matador will take him sword and launch it into the bull, right where the back meets the head (neck of the bull?) It will be less than thirty seconds after the sword enters the bull before this massive animal will fall over, dead, and the audience will stand on its feet, cheering for the matador.
Check out the pictures and video, if your stomach is up for it, at http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche/EspanaPart13
It was amazing to watch the disposition of the crowd change substantially over the two-hour bullfight. When the first bull charged the horse and was lanced, there was a substantial and collective gasp from the audience as many averted their eyes. But by the third bull, the initial shock had worn off. Now, people were engaged, clapping and shouting as the bull met its fate. It was an interesting process to witness this happening around me and happening to me. I found myself enthralled by the sport of this fight. (It makes me think what I else in life I become desensitized to simply because of more frequent exposure.) Suddenly, I appreciated this sport for what its cultural significance, and almost found it beautiful, in a very primal way.
The best moment was when my favorite matador had put the sword into his second bull. This bull had not really been up for the fight from the beginning: After he was let into the ring, he stopped, looked, and then turned around for the door out. It was as if he was saying, “You know, I’m not really up for this game today. No, thanks.” Actually, he proved to be a very good bull, and he had a good fight. After the sword had entered him, he, once again, headed for the door. The matador walked up to him and sat down next to him, as if to show him how to lie down and die. And the bull followed, laying down and then dying. It was this oddly poignant moment. It conveys that a bullfight is not just a sport or a killing fest, but a cultural tradition deeply rooted in respect. This matador demonstrated deep respect for this animal, and when he had finally died, began applause for the bull. It was a relief to be proved wrong: a bullfight isn’t just blood and guts all over, but a celebration of strength and power.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Thursday, April 19, 2007
A la carte
I bought a plane ticket on one of Europe’s cheap airlines. Flying exclusively within Europe, these airlines specialize in (semi) efficient and inexpensive travel, offering flights for as low as one cent. Obviously, it is the choice for jetting around Europe. So I went to a book a flight advertised at 29.99 euro. I can do that! As I began to fill out my personal information, I am asked how many bags I’ll be checking: No bags checked is 3 euro, 1 bag checked is 6 euro, two bags is 12 euro, and so one. I have no choice but to check two, so add 12 euro to my bill. Then, I am asked if I want to purchase insurance. Given the track record of this company and there uncanny ability to not offer help if you haven’t purchased their insurance, add 14.50 euro. Next, add in the tax and fees, another 15-euro. Will I be paying by credit card? Well, I’m purchasing this online; how else am I supposed to pay? Add 3-euro processing fee.
Ok, at this point in the process, I’m a little frustrated. The bill is close to 100 euro, which is still very reasonable for a flight to my destination, but why couldn’t you have just told me the final price from the beginning? 100 euro is depressing compared to 29.99 euro. Really, there is no need to break it down so I know that the right back tire is costing me 7.35 euro.
Ladies and Gentlemen: can we say a la carte?
Ok, at this point in the process, I’m a little frustrated. The bill is close to 100 euro, which is still very reasonable for a flight to my destination, but why couldn’t you have just told me the final price from the beginning? 100 euro is depressing compared to 29.99 euro. Really, there is no need to break it down so I know that the right back tire is costing me 7.35 euro.
Ladies and Gentlemen: can we say a la carte?
All in a weekend.
There were some fun times to be had in Sevilla last weekend. I had noticed a small poster outside of the Alfonso XIII hotel in the city center. This may be one of the most prestigious hotels in the city; it used to be a palace and now, as a hotel, is where Spanish “big-whigs” stay. Needless to say, the inside of the hotel is stunning and any event put on by the hotel is well done. The poster advertised an Opera Dinner. Those two sounded like my kind of event. I grabbed a few friends and the three of us headed of to Alfonso XIII for a wonderful night. As a broke college student, I don’t attend many black tie events, but when in Spain…why not. Thus, we officially dubbed the evening “Prom 2007”. The room was beautiful, the singing enchanting, and the food and drink amazing. Between opera songs, great Spanish wine, and a diverse menu, four hours passed without notice. You know you’re at a great event when the waiter opens another bottle of champagne for your table because he notices you have one chocolate bonbon left!
So here is the great menu: (Have I mentioned I love food?)
Cream of avocado
Cured salmon with mango chutney
Cream and mussel soup with parmesan
Scallops stuffed with crab on a bed of saffron rice
Fresh strawberries from Huelva and cream in a caramel tulip cup
Bonbons
(I’m salivating as I type. It was THAT good.)
I traded my high heels from the night before for a pair of hiking boots the next morning. There is nothing better after a long evening of food and drink that a hike through the hills of Spain. Situated between Sevilla and Malaga, Ronda is a beautiful white hill town of Spain. Again, having been a Moorish community, the confluence of the three religions is evident. The Arab baths we toured were still very much in tact. The large gorge that runs through the middle of this city is its main landmark. We hiked all the way down for an impressive view looking up at this quaint town before we dug in and make the steep climb back to the top. The views were stunning, and it was a nice escape from the hustle and bustle of Sevilla.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche/EspanaPart12
So here is the great menu: (Have I mentioned I love food?)
Cream of avocado
Cured salmon with mango chutney
Cream and mussel soup with parmesan
Scallops stuffed with crab on a bed of saffron rice
Fresh strawberries from Huelva and cream in a caramel tulip cup
Bonbons
(I’m salivating as I type. It was THAT good.)
I traded my high heels from the night before for a pair of hiking boots the next morning. There is nothing better after a long evening of food and drink that a hike through the hills of Spain. Situated between Sevilla and Malaga, Ronda is a beautiful white hill town of Spain. Again, having been a Moorish community, the confluence of the three religions is evident. The Arab baths we toured were still very much in tact. The large gorge that runs through the middle of this city is its main landmark. We hiked all the way down for an impressive view looking up at this quaint town before we dug in and make the steep climb back to the top. The views were stunning, and it was a nice escape from the hustle and bustle of Sevilla.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche/EspanaPart12
Monday, April 16, 2007
Fillers
It is, like, totally, common, like, to be speaking with someone and hear, um, well, lots of different filler words, you know?
Discovering Spanish filler words has been interesting. My favorite filler is hombre, which literally means ‘man’. I was talking with a man in a café one day, and he kept using hombre randomly in his sentences. I’m thinking to myself, “What’s up with this dude? And why does he keep calling me ‘man’?” I wrote it off; the Spanish have done far weirder things. A week or so later, I noticed that my family had begun to use this word in conversation with me, and then um, it all, like, became clear: hombre is one of their filler words.
Discovering Spanish filler words has been interesting. My favorite filler is hombre, which literally means ‘man’. I was talking with a man in a café one day, and he kept using hombre randomly in his sentences. I’m thinking to myself, “What’s up with this dude? And why does he keep calling me ‘man’?” I wrote it off; the Spanish have done far weirder things. A week or so later, I noticed that my family had begun to use this word in conversation with me, and then um, it all, like, became clear: hombre is one of their filler words.
Acquisition
I’m reading Jonathan Safran Foer’s Everything is Illuminated. Part of the book is an interchange of letters between an American and a Ukrainian. This is excerpt from one of Alexander’s letter to Jonathan:
Dear Jonathan,
I hanker for this letter to be good. Like you know, I am not first rate with English. In Russian my ideas are asserted abnormally well, but my second tongue is not so premium. I undertaked to input the things you counseled me to, and I fatigued the thesaurus you presented me, as you counseled me to, when my words appeared too petite, or not befitting. If you are not happy with what I have performed, I command you to return it back to me. I will persevere to toil on it until you are appeased.
(page 23)
Alexander’s letters are quite funny to read as his word choices are unconventional, to say the least.
And so, while I’m laughing out loud at this hilarity, I’m suddenly struck: Is this what I sound like to Spaniards? Are they secretly laughing at my word choices? Are they finding my vocabulary outdated and forced?
My Arabic professor was talking about the difficulty of learning Arabic, noting that it takes about seven months more in an Arabic speaking country to learn the language than it takes a student studying Spanish in Spain. He then proceeded to demonstrate how an Arabic word sounds different depending on the primary language of the speaker- the Arab, the Spaniard, the English, and the French. It is so interesting to see how our language acquisition and ability to produce sounds is effected by what we first learn and know best.
I still wonder, though, how my Spanish sounds to the ears of these people. At dinner one night, my roommate was talking about her class on Don Juan. For the life of her, our family could not understand her when she said, “Don Juan”. They kept looking at her quizzically and suggesting words. Suddenly, after the twelfth time of over-enunciating the words “Don Juan”, they understood her, saying, “Oh, Don Juan.” I was laughing so hard at the entire situation. My ears could hear no difference between Javier saying “Don Juan” and Katie saying “Don Juan”. But, obviously, there was quite a difference to the ears of my Spanish family.
When I am having trouble being understood, I’ve learned to just pick up the rate of my speech, lower my voice some, and gesticulate a bit more aggressively. It is amazing how that can help one be understood. Suddenly, the person I’m talking with is interrupting me, pointing out how great they think my Spanish is. If all things in life were that easy!
Regardless, learning a language is so much more than mere words and conjugations. And the part you learn off the paper and in the street may be the most important. I’ll keep checking my verbs, but my conversations are my best teachers.
Dear Jonathan,
I hanker for this letter to be good. Like you know, I am not first rate with English. In Russian my ideas are asserted abnormally well, but my second tongue is not so premium. I undertaked to input the things you counseled me to, and I fatigued the thesaurus you presented me, as you counseled me to, when my words appeared too petite, or not befitting. If you are not happy with what I have performed, I command you to return it back to me. I will persevere to toil on it until you are appeased.
(page 23)
Alexander’s letters are quite funny to read as his word choices are unconventional, to say the least.
And so, while I’m laughing out loud at this hilarity, I’m suddenly struck: Is this what I sound like to Spaniards? Are they secretly laughing at my word choices? Are they finding my vocabulary outdated and forced?
My Arabic professor was talking about the difficulty of learning Arabic, noting that it takes about seven months more in an Arabic speaking country to learn the language than it takes a student studying Spanish in Spain. He then proceeded to demonstrate how an Arabic word sounds different depending on the primary language of the speaker- the Arab, the Spaniard, the English, and the French. It is so interesting to see how our language acquisition and ability to produce sounds is effected by what we first learn and know best.
I still wonder, though, how my Spanish sounds to the ears of these people. At dinner one night, my roommate was talking about her class on Don Juan. For the life of her, our family could not understand her when she said, “Don Juan”. They kept looking at her quizzically and suggesting words. Suddenly, after the twelfth time of over-enunciating the words “Don Juan”, they understood her, saying, “Oh, Don Juan.” I was laughing so hard at the entire situation. My ears could hear no difference between Javier saying “Don Juan” and Katie saying “Don Juan”. But, obviously, there was quite a difference to the ears of my Spanish family.
When I am having trouble being understood, I’ve learned to just pick up the rate of my speech, lower my voice some, and gesticulate a bit more aggressively. It is amazing how that can help one be understood. Suddenly, the person I’m talking with is interrupting me, pointing out how great they think my Spanish is. If all things in life were that easy!
Regardless, learning a language is so much more than mere words and conjugations. And the part you learn off the paper and in the street may be the most important. I’ll keep checking my verbs, but my conversations are my best teachers.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Afternoon Musings
Oh, how I wish I was writing more! I’ll be walking on the street, sitting in classing, sipping on a coffee and wish desperately that I had a way to capture so many of these priceless moments. I’m trying to sear them into my mind, filing them away to recall some lazy Sunday afternoon a million miles and hours away from this place.
I’m imprinting this sunny Sunday into my mind. There is nothing special about this particular afternoon. In another world far from here, it is the inevitable tax day. My sweet senora and I met in the street this morning. She was returning from buying the daily bread, and I was off for a paseo, a Sunday stroll. I was to meet two friends in the Center. One friend received 1930’s postcards of Sevilla from her father for Christmas, and we spent a few hours locating the sights pictured in the postcards, taking the same picture seventy years later. We ended up speaking with a few characters as well. Old men on park benches and old women in Sunday suits with a lifetime of Sevilla history aided us in our hunt.
It has just been Victoria and I home together this weekend, as my roommate is traveling. I returned home to a kitchen that smelled delicious and to Victoria standing on our terrace, her hair in curlers, hanging up my laundry. I joined her in the half sun of the terrace and we chatted away about the weather, time past, and socialism (a favorite topic) as we hung my clothes on the rack to be dried by the sun. She is always wearing an apron as she bustles around the kitchen and the house. Today, it is the pretty pink apron that my parents brought her, along with some fun kitchen gadgets that she loves to use. Our midday meal was a dish “de mi tierra” as Victoria affectionately calls Extremadura, the region in which she grew up. Bacalao (fish), rice, and potatoes stewed together in a sauce most likely consisting of white wine and olive oil. Victoria loves talking about her recipes; she continually is marking recipes in her cookbooks and laying them on my desk for me to copy. She’ll make a Spanish cook out of me yet!
I’m sitting at her painting table on the terrace now, looking out on the rooftops to the south. Being six floors up enables one to see the world of roofs. The man across the way has his feet up on the table as he reads the newspaper. Many roofs are airing fresh laundry as the sun is bright and warm. A woman and her daughter are folding the fresh pink sheets and hanging up the next load. A man walks on the street with his bag of bread. The playground of the school is quiet, and the blue of the sky gives way to a bank of white clouds in the distance.
And so there is nothing special about this Sunday except that it is. It is pristine and sacred. These are true Spain moments. And in a life far from this moment where the light breeze wafts the smell of my clean laundry and the voices of the street toward me, I will recall this calm of space and life.
For I am still, in one peace.
I’m imprinting this sunny Sunday into my mind. There is nothing special about this particular afternoon. In another world far from here, it is the inevitable tax day. My sweet senora and I met in the street this morning. She was returning from buying the daily bread, and I was off for a paseo, a Sunday stroll. I was to meet two friends in the Center. One friend received 1930’s postcards of Sevilla from her father for Christmas, and we spent a few hours locating the sights pictured in the postcards, taking the same picture seventy years later. We ended up speaking with a few characters as well. Old men on park benches and old women in Sunday suits with a lifetime of Sevilla history aided us in our hunt.
It has just been Victoria and I home together this weekend, as my roommate is traveling. I returned home to a kitchen that smelled delicious and to Victoria standing on our terrace, her hair in curlers, hanging up my laundry. I joined her in the half sun of the terrace and we chatted away about the weather, time past, and socialism (a favorite topic) as we hung my clothes on the rack to be dried by the sun. She is always wearing an apron as she bustles around the kitchen and the house. Today, it is the pretty pink apron that my parents brought her, along with some fun kitchen gadgets that she loves to use. Our midday meal was a dish “de mi tierra” as Victoria affectionately calls Extremadura, the region in which she grew up. Bacalao (fish), rice, and potatoes stewed together in a sauce most likely consisting of white wine and olive oil. Victoria loves talking about her recipes; she continually is marking recipes in her cookbooks and laying them on my desk for me to copy. She’ll make a Spanish cook out of me yet!
I’m sitting at her painting table on the terrace now, looking out on the rooftops to the south. Being six floors up enables one to see the world of roofs. The man across the way has his feet up on the table as he reads the newspaper. Many roofs are airing fresh laundry as the sun is bright and warm. A woman and her daughter are folding the fresh pink sheets and hanging up the next load. A man walks on the street with his bag of bread. The playground of the school is quiet, and the blue of the sky gives way to a bank of white clouds in the distance.
And so there is nothing special about this Sunday except that it is. It is pristine and sacred. These are true Spain moments. And in a life far from this moment where the light breeze wafts the smell of my clean laundry and the voices of the street toward me, I will recall this calm of space and life.
For I am still, in one peace.
More Adventures
I said goodbye to my parents early on a Wednesday morning in Madrid only to say hello to come friends traveling back from France. We had decided to meet up in Madrid for a quick trip to Segovia, northwest of Madrid, before heading back to Sevilla.
We were 20 minutes away from Segovia when it began to snow. It was the Wednesday before Easter and SNOWING. We did our best to see the sights in our spring jackets and under umbrellas. My lips were turning blue in the 32 degree weather and my hands were icicles, but I managed a few pictures.
The castle is the one that Walt Disney modeled his after, and the aqueducts were large and impressive.
Needless to say, it was a fairly quick trip. Back in Madrid, we ran into massive people traffic. Both Maundy Thursday and Good Friday are holidays in this country, and EVERYONE was leaving town. There wasn’t a seat to be had on the train to Sevilla the entire day. I managed to secure the last bus ticket, and nine hours after leaving Madrid, arrived at 1am to an awake and alive Sevilla.
Semana Santa, Holy Week, is a very special time in this country. If one didn’t know better, one would think it was a week of Klu Klux Klan demonstrations, but the costumes, floats, and processions are actually part of acts of penance. Each church carries large, ornately decorated floats of Jesus carrying the cross and of the Virgin Mary through the streets. Nazarenos (the one who look like KKK members) pay for the opportunity to walk for hours through the streets carrying crosses, candles, and the floats. The processions begin on Palm Sunday and run continuously until Easter Sunday. All hours of the day and night one can find a procession. It took me almost two hours to walk home from the bus station at 1am on Wednesday night due to the streets being packed with people. Families with small children dressed in their best flood the small streets, becoming silent when the pazo passes. Through the dark of night, these processions continue.
This is a cherished time of the Spanish year; my senora watches the processions on direct TV the entire week. Everyone seems to have their favorite pazos, and many are moved to tears when they watch them pass. Spaniards from all parts of the country travel to Sevilla for Semana Santa. Holy Friday is one of three days of the year the bread shops are closed. Mass is full, and families are together. In many ways, it is the Spanish version of the American Christmas: there are special foods, special songs, special outfits especially for the week.
Semana Santa is a unique time; so uniquely Spain in all of its form and function. I didn’t get very good pictures, but there are a few to see. Check them out at: http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, Espana, Part 11.
We were 20 minutes away from Segovia when it began to snow. It was the Wednesday before Easter and SNOWING. We did our best to see the sights in our spring jackets and under umbrellas. My lips were turning blue in the 32 degree weather and my hands were icicles, but I managed a few pictures.
The castle is the one that Walt Disney modeled his after, and the aqueducts were large and impressive.
Needless to say, it was a fairly quick trip. Back in Madrid, we ran into massive people traffic. Both Maundy Thursday and Good Friday are holidays in this country, and EVERYONE was leaving town. There wasn’t a seat to be had on the train to Sevilla the entire day. I managed to secure the last bus ticket, and nine hours after leaving Madrid, arrived at 1am to an awake and alive Sevilla.
Semana Santa, Holy Week, is a very special time in this country. If one didn’t know better, one would think it was a week of Klu Klux Klan demonstrations, but the costumes, floats, and processions are actually part of acts of penance. Each church carries large, ornately decorated floats of Jesus carrying the cross and of the Virgin Mary through the streets. Nazarenos (the one who look like KKK members) pay for the opportunity to walk for hours through the streets carrying crosses, candles, and the floats. The processions begin on Palm Sunday and run continuously until Easter Sunday. All hours of the day and night one can find a procession. It took me almost two hours to walk home from the bus station at 1am on Wednesday night due to the streets being packed with people. Families with small children dressed in their best flood the small streets, becoming silent when the pazo passes. Through the dark of night, these processions continue.
This is a cherished time of the Spanish year; my senora watches the processions on direct TV the entire week. Everyone seems to have their favorite pazos, and many are moved to tears when they watch them pass. Spaniards from all parts of the country travel to Sevilla for Semana Santa. Holy Friday is one of three days of the year the bread shops are closed. Mass is full, and families are together. In many ways, it is the Spanish version of the American Christmas: there are special foods, special songs, special outfits especially for the week.
Semana Santa is a unique time; so uniquely Spain in all of its form and function. I didn’t get very good pictures, but there are a few to see. Check them out at: http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, Espana, Part 11.
The Real Deal
As exciting as being in Spain is for me, having my dear family visit was almost too exciting! My parents made the great journey from the Midwest to the land of sangria, flamenco, paella, and old sights, and we spent ten glorious days breathing my Spanish life together.
It was such a rich time; there are barely words to describe it. We drank café con leche, saw the sights, watched flamenco, ate great food, walked the city…my dad even attended my Arabic history class (of which he probably couldn’t understand much)!
We ventured by train to Grenada to see the Alhambra. Staying right inside the Alhambra walls, we were surprised with a great fireworks show, intimate flamenco, and a Palm Sunday choral concert in an old church.
Taking the bus through the Sierra Nevada mountains towards the Mediterranean Sea, we traveled with dark, looming clouds that were magnificent to watch as they rolled through the mountains and out to sea, just as we did. We landed in a small little town right on the Mediterranean, in a quaint hotel with a room that looked out onto the expanse of uninterrupted sea. We had a wonderful meal at a table next to a food magazine editor, explored the tiny town, saw the preparation of Semana Santa pazos or floats, had an impromptu a lunch from the man selling rotisserie chickens, found a Scrabble board to play our favorite game, walked along the beach, and drank deeply of our time together.
One of my favorite times together was our shared meal at Victoria’s. She had the three of us over for lunch, making a meal of mammoth proportions. We had gazpacho, a typical cold Spanish soup followed by fried fish, salad and bread. THEN the main course came of chicken with cabbage that is to die for! She surprised us for dessert with what she knows is my favorite- vino tinto pears. These pears are cooked in red wine and simply irresistible. It was so fun to have my family and my Spanish family together at one table. My parents brought Victoria beautiful gifts, which she simply loved. Leave it to a great cook like my dad to know what another great cook would want; I never would have thought a handheld flat grater would be so rejoiced over as a gift. It was a true gift to share my families with one another.
I don’t know if we could have had more fun together during my parent’s visit. It was all so very, very good. Family: it is the real deal.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, The Rents Come to Visit
It was such a rich time; there are barely words to describe it. We drank café con leche, saw the sights, watched flamenco, ate great food, walked the city…my dad even attended my Arabic history class (of which he probably couldn’t understand much)!
We ventured by train to Grenada to see the Alhambra. Staying right inside the Alhambra walls, we were surprised with a great fireworks show, intimate flamenco, and a Palm Sunday choral concert in an old church.
Taking the bus through the Sierra Nevada mountains towards the Mediterranean Sea, we traveled with dark, looming clouds that were magnificent to watch as they rolled through the mountains and out to sea, just as we did. We landed in a small little town right on the Mediterranean, in a quaint hotel with a room that looked out onto the expanse of uninterrupted sea. We had a wonderful meal at a table next to a food magazine editor, explored the tiny town, saw the preparation of Semana Santa pazos or floats, had an impromptu a lunch from the man selling rotisserie chickens, found a Scrabble board to play our favorite game, walked along the beach, and drank deeply of our time together.
One of my favorite times together was our shared meal at Victoria’s. She had the three of us over for lunch, making a meal of mammoth proportions. We had gazpacho, a typical cold Spanish soup followed by fried fish, salad and bread. THEN the main course came of chicken with cabbage that is to die for! She surprised us for dessert with what she knows is my favorite- vino tinto pears. These pears are cooked in red wine and simply irresistible. It was so fun to have my family and my Spanish family together at one table. My parents brought Victoria beautiful gifts, which she simply loved. Leave it to a great cook like my dad to know what another great cook would want; I never would have thought a handheld flat grater would be so rejoiced over as a gift. It was a true gift to share my families with one another.
I don’t know if we could have had more fun together during my parent’s visit. It was all so very, very good. Family: it is the real deal.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, The Rents Come to Visit
Thursday, April 12, 2007
You´ve got to be kidding me.
Elton John is coming to Sevilla for a concert in Plaza de Espana less than a week after I leave.
Horrible timing.
Horrible timing.
Monday, April 9, 2007
5 More Curious Things
Parking spaces are very limited here. This is one reason that Smart cars that are probably three meters long, are a popular buy. But besides buying smaller cars, the Spanish do not feel constrained by white lines or parking spaces, freely parking on sidewalks. One must be a very alert pedestrian.
Americans always clap along to songs on the down beats, and usually beats 1 and 3 of a song. It is easy to hear, and even easier to follow. But Spain takes clapping to an entirely new level, which is mainly due to flamenco. Flamenco takes its rhythmic cue from the guitar, then the hand clapping and the tapping of the high-heeled shoes. And it is never a straight rhythm. Two people never clap together, but create a percussion that is energetic and unpredictable, making one want to move. Even in church no claps a straight rhythm!
Tanning studios are not as popular here as they are in the United States, thanks to a bit more pigment in most of the country’s skin. But, tanning beds are advertised by signs that say “Rayos UVA”. In America, we come up with nice names like Tropical Island, Summer Breeze, or Sunsational. None of that here: You are paying for UVA rays, people, and UVA rays are what you will get. America loves denial.
When parking in the street, people always turn their side mirrors in. Although, it is not uncommon to see a car without a mirror or two, thanks to the narrow roads.
At the grocery store, the clerk will ask you if you want a bag. “Of course I want a bag to bring my new tube of toothpaste home in”, one might think. Think again because you pay for plastic bags here, which may explain why everyone rolls around what my chic-urban friend likes to call “the urban dweller cart”.
Americans always clap along to songs on the down beats, and usually beats 1 and 3 of a song. It is easy to hear, and even easier to follow. But Spain takes clapping to an entirely new level, which is mainly due to flamenco. Flamenco takes its rhythmic cue from the guitar, then the hand clapping and the tapping of the high-heeled shoes. And it is never a straight rhythm. Two people never clap together, but create a percussion that is energetic and unpredictable, making one want to move. Even in church no claps a straight rhythm!
Tanning studios are not as popular here as they are in the United States, thanks to a bit more pigment in most of the country’s skin. But, tanning beds are advertised by signs that say “Rayos UVA”. In America, we come up with nice names like Tropical Island, Summer Breeze, or Sunsational. None of that here: You are paying for UVA rays, people, and UVA rays are what you will get. America loves denial.
When parking in the street, people always turn their side mirrors in. Although, it is not uncommon to see a car without a mirror or two, thanks to the narrow roads.
At the grocery store, the clerk will ask you if you want a bag. “Of course I want a bag to bring my new tube of toothpaste home in”, one might think. Think again because you pay for plastic bags here, which may explain why everyone rolls around what my chic-urban friend likes to call “the urban dweller cart”.
Time
Time has boggled and baffled me on this great adventure to Spain. As I round the last corner to my time here, I’m taken aback by its power. I will go to school for eight days in the month of April. Is that legal?!? And after that, only exams await me. (Only? Sarah, did you just say only exams?!?) Landing in Madrid alternately feels like just yesterday and a lifetime ago, and I can hardly remember the things I did yesterday. Yes, time has been full.
And then consider this freakish thing: The ferry ride to Morocco is 45 minutes long. Morocco is one hour behind Spain. So, our journey to Morocco took a negative fifteen minutes. While we were in Morocco, Spain switched to daylight savings time, so the return ferry took 2 hours and 45 minutes. Thank-you very much Greenwich.
And then consider this freakish thing: The ferry ride to Morocco is 45 minutes long. Morocco is one hour behind Spain. So, our journey to Morocco took a negative fifteen minutes. While we were in Morocco, Spain switched to daylight savings time, so the return ferry took 2 hours and 45 minutes. Thank-you very much Greenwich.
Africa
Saying I’ve been to Africa after visiting Morocco is like someone saying they have been to North America when the only city they visited was Miami. I am not trying to pretend that my little three day experience in Morocco gave me anything even close to a full experience, but still, Morocco is Africa, and it felt, smelled, and tasted like the foreign place I imagined it would be.
It really is amazing to consider that only 14 or so kilometers separate the bottom of Spain from the top of Morocco. From the beach in Tarifa, the hills of Tangier, Morocco, Africa, rise within plain view. As the wind whipped around me on the ferry to Tangier, I couldn’t help but think about all the land that lay in my vision and beyond, and of all the peoples, tribes, communities, and cities that lay beyond. Africa feels like a different world. Maybe it is that the mix of amazing and foreign cultures resembles little of the western world with which I am so comfortable. Maybe it is as simple as its other continent status. Regardless, Morocco was another, and very tangible at that, reminder of the big, big world out there.
A three-hour bus ride from Sevilla to Tarifa puts one on one of the southernmost points of Spain. We boarded the ferry that would take us from Tarifa to Tangier in a mere 45 minutes. We landed in Tangier to the hustle of a city- a city full of men. I was acutely aware of being a woman in a man’s land. Very few women were in the street, and my uncovered brown hair, pale skin, and jeans drew attention. Most people who disembark at Tangier have horror stories to tell about being approached and severely hassled. We experienced none of this, but found the city to be quite navigable and friendly. After finding our hotel, we set off to explore the Medina, or the old town.
Before we even made it to the Medina, we stumbled upon an Anglican church on its outskirts. Once again, this was a powerful reminder of the mix of cultures and religions to which this land has been host.
And then another foreign experience: As we walked out of the Anglican church, we walked dead into the middle of a dog fight. And this wasn’t one day barking at another as they passed on the sidewalk. A smaller dog had a German shepherd by the neck in a firm grip. Blood was everywhere as these two dogs struggled. Another dog circled the two, barking in protest, as a rather large crowd of Moroccans gathered. It was a strange moment that was both nauseatingly disturbing, but intoxicatingly gripping. I could not turn away. I was drawn to this fight for life, dominance, food- who knows what it was for really. It was just so primal, so the essence of survival and existence, that despite my own cushioned microwave dinner existence, it reminded me of our very basic existence that exits somewhere in the recesses of our memory. And while I live a life that never forces me to kill my chicken and eat it that night, that is a way of life that others outside of the western world consider reality. (I’ll stop here on this before I break into The Lion King’s song, “Circle of Life”!)
Morocco was a learning trip in many other ways. It was a learning to say a firm, “No” when offered guiding services. Not once, twice or three times did we have to say no to one person, but more along the lines of 15 or 20 times. (And I thought the Gap worker asking me if they might help me find something twice was annoying.)
It was learning that, as a foreigner in a Muslim country, I stood out. And I found that very frustrating, yet there was nothing I could do to change this. I’m a white, protestant, English speaking, American student. I’ve had to embrace that, which is very contrary to my generation’s great desire to blend in and look normal. There was no way this was going to happen in Morocco. One of my travel companions looks Mediterranean, and everyone kept calling her “tangerina” as if she was Moroccan. Interestingly enough, overall, we had far more success with getting answers and staying under the radar by speaking Spanish. All of our guides spoke to us in Spanish, and often preferred to talk with us in Spanish rather than English. This is due to Tangier’s proximity to Spain as well as the fact that Tangier used to be Spanish territory. Most people in Tangier speak French, Spanish, and Arabic, and many of the signs of the city were in all three.
My time is Morocco was learning yet another rhythm of life- one that is dictated by the five calls per day to prayer. Yet, also watching that rhythm of religious life be challenged by the influence of the western world. Shows on the TV in the hotel room were American Disney shows or movies, dubbed over or subtitled in French or Arabic. Music, once again, was often American: Norah Jones’ velvety voice flooded throughout our hotel lobby. From McDonald’s to Coca-Cola, it was all there. One thing I’m astounded by is how these very different cultures I have encountered in southern Spain and in northern Africa adapt and exist together. Despite hundreds of years of practice, the ability for such different cultures to live fairly peaceably among one another over time is inspiring. When I think of America and the North versus the South or the War against terrorism in the Middle East, I wonder if we might all have something to learn from this convivencia, this living and breathing together, that the Christians, Muslims, and Jews were able to attain.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, Espana, Part 10
We visited Asilah, a beautiful little village on the Atlantic coast. Our taxi driver drove us down along the coast, and we watched wave after wave crash against the completely untouched coast. Breathtaking.
Nejib, our wonderful taximan, also drove us into the hills to see some Roman ruins that have recently been found and not yet excavated. It was fun to explore and look around this place that someday will be encased in a museum.
We ended our tour at the Caves of Hercules. There is a fairly magnificent shape of Africa naturally cut in the rock. A stunning picture.
Our trip was so worthwhile, although Tangier was fairly underwhelming as a destination. This is most likely because Tangier is a melting a pot, having existed for so long as an international zone. But contained in our little weekend were glimpses into a truly beautiful country, whose differences served as reminders of the magnificence found in contrast.
It really is amazing to consider that only 14 or so kilometers separate the bottom of Spain from the top of Morocco. From the beach in Tarifa, the hills of Tangier, Morocco, Africa, rise within plain view. As the wind whipped around me on the ferry to Tangier, I couldn’t help but think about all the land that lay in my vision and beyond, and of all the peoples, tribes, communities, and cities that lay beyond. Africa feels like a different world. Maybe it is that the mix of amazing and foreign cultures resembles little of the western world with which I am so comfortable. Maybe it is as simple as its other continent status. Regardless, Morocco was another, and very tangible at that, reminder of the big, big world out there.
A three-hour bus ride from Sevilla to Tarifa puts one on one of the southernmost points of Spain. We boarded the ferry that would take us from Tarifa to Tangier in a mere 45 minutes. We landed in Tangier to the hustle of a city- a city full of men. I was acutely aware of being a woman in a man’s land. Very few women were in the street, and my uncovered brown hair, pale skin, and jeans drew attention. Most people who disembark at Tangier have horror stories to tell about being approached and severely hassled. We experienced none of this, but found the city to be quite navigable and friendly. After finding our hotel, we set off to explore the Medina, or the old town.
Before we even made it to the Medina, we stumbled upon an Anglican church on its outskirts. Once again, this was a powerful reminder of the mix of cultures and religions to which this land has been host.
And then another foreign experience: As we walked out of the Anglican church, we walked dead into the middle of a dog fight. And this wasn’t one day barking at another as they passed on the sidewalk. A smaller dog had a German shepherd by the neck in a firm grip. Blood was everywhere as these two dogs struggled. Another dog circled the two, barking in protest, as a rather large crowd of Moroccans gathered. It was a strange moment that was both nauseatingly disturbing, but intoxicatingly gripping. I could not turn away. I was drawn to this fight for life, dominance, food- who knows what it was for really. It was just so primal, so the essence of survival and existence, that despite my own cushioned microwave dinner existence, it reminded me of our very basic existence that exits somewhere in the recesses of our memory. And while I live a life that never forces me to kill my chicken and eat it that night, that is a way of life that others outside of the western world consider reality. (I’ll stop here on this before I break into The Lion King’s song, “Circle of Life”!)
Morocco was a learning trip in many other ways. It was a learning to say a firm, “No” when offered guiding services. Not once, twice or three times did we have to say no to one person, but more along the lines of 15 or 20 times. (And I thought the Gap worker asking me if they might help me find something twice was annoying.)
It was learning that, as a foreigner in a Muslim country, I stood out. And I found that very frustrating, yet there was nothing I could do to change this. I’m a white, protestant, English speaking, American student. I’ve had to embrace that, which is very contrary to my generation’s great desire to blend in and look normal. There was no way this was going to happen in Morocco. One of my travel companions looks Mediterranean, and everyone kept calling her “tangerina” as if she was Moroccan. Interestingly enough, overall, we had far more success with getting answers and staying under the radar by speaking Spanish. All of our guides spoke to us in Spanish, and often preferred to talk with us in Spanish rather than English. This is due to Tangier’s proximity to Spain as well as the fact that Tangier used to be Spanish territory. Most people in Tangier speak French, Spanish, and Arabic, and many of the signs of the city were in all three.
My time is Morocco was learning yet another rhythm of life- one that is dictated by the five calls per day to prayer. Yet, also watching that rhythm of religious life be challenged by the influence of the western world. Shows on the TV in the hotel room were American Disney shows or movies, dubbed over or subtitled in French or Arabic. Music, once again, was often American: Norah Jones’ velvety voice flooded throughout our hotel lobby. From McDonald’s to Coca-Cola, it was all there. One thing I’m astounded by is how these very different cultures I have encountered in southern Spain and in northern Africa adapt and exist together. Despite hundreds of years of practice, the ability for such different cultures to live fairly peaceably among one another over time is inspiring. When I think of America and the North versus the South or the War against terrorism in the Middle East, I wonder if we might all have something to learn from this convivencia, this living and breathing together, that the Christians, Muslims, and Jews were able to attain.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, Espana, Part 10
We visited Asilah, a beautiful little village on the Atlantic coast. Our taxi driver drove us down along the coast, and we watched wave after wave crash against the completely untouched coast. Breathtaking.
Nejib, our wonderful taximan, also drove us into the hills to see some Roman ruins that have recently been found and not yet excavated. It was fun to explore and look around this place that someday will be encased in a museum.
We ended our tour at the Caves of Hercules. There is a fairly magnificent shape of Africa naturally cut in the rock. A stunning picture.
Our trip was so worthwhile, although Tangier was fairly underwhelming as a destination. This is most likely because Tangier is a melting a pot, having existed for so long as an international zone. But contained in our little weekend were glimpses into a truly beautiful country, whose differences served as reminders of the magnificence found in contrast.
Extremes
Spain is made up of a series of autonomous communities. While they are all united under the flag of Spain, each region is rich in its own culture. Foods, drinks, clothes, dance- all aspects of culture are unique in these different provinces. One of Spain’s most underrated provinces is Extremadura. Literally meaning “extreme hardness”, this land seems to be lost in the collective mind of Spain. Nestled between Portugal and Madrid, Extremadura boasts beautiful land and rich food. Extremadura wasn’t on my “must-see” list, but I was pleasantly surprised with my visit.
The first stop on this weekend trip was Merida, the location of some amazingly intact Roman ruins. There is a complete amphitheater and sporting ring, as well as an impressive museum showing a myriad of artifacts.
We journeyed on from Merida to Trujillo, where we spent the nice in a castle. The small town just happened to have a medieval fair taking place, so we passed the night eating kebabs, drinking cider, and practicing our archery skills.
On Saturday, we packed up our things and filled our water bottles for a 16 km hike through the mountains to Guadalupe. The route we took is the route that Isabella used to cross to Portugal. In Guadalupe, which may be the smallest village in Spain, there is a monastery, where we spent our second night. La Hospederia de Monasterio was also the place that Isabel and Ferdinand and Carlos V stayed on the journey to marry Isabel of Portugal. There monastery was quiet and peaceful, and they served us a wonderful dinner. It is said that Napoleon took many of the recipes from Extremadura’s monasteries known for their culinary excellence back to France with him, which is why many of France’s dishes typify those of Extremadura.
Exploring and discovering are two verbs that characterize my life here in Spain. And while it is always fun, it is even more exciting to explore and discover places you might never hear about nor visit if it wasn’t for the abundant adventure of living in Spain.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, Espana, Part 9
The first stop on this weekend trip was Merida, the location of some amazingly intact Roman ruins. There is a complete amphitheater and sporting ring, as well as an impressive museum showing a myriad of artifacts.
We journeyed on from Merida to Trujillo, where we spent the nice in a castle. The small town just happened to have a medieval fair taking place, so we passed the night eating kebabs, drinking cider, and practicing our archery skills.
On Saturday, we packed up our things and filled our water bottles for a 16 km hike through the mountains to Guadalupe. The route we took is the route that Isabella used to cross to Portugal. In Guadalupe, which may be the smallest village in Spain, there is a monastery, where we spent our second night. La Hospederia de Monasterio was also the place that Isabel and Ferdinand and Carlos V stayed on the journey to marry Isabel of Portugal. There monastery was quiet and peaceful, and they served us a wonderful dinner. It is said that Napoleon took many of the recipes from Extremadura’s monasteries known for their culinary excellence back to France with him, which is why many of France’s dishes typify those of Extremadura.
Exploring and discovering are two verbs that characterize my life here in Spain. And while it is always fun, it is even more exciting to explore and discover places you might never hear about nor visit if it wasn’t for the abundant adventure of living in Spain.
http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, Espana, Part 9
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
