Las Calabazas

Its seems like everyone and their mother is getting ready for Halloween. This past weekend, “halloweekend”, Madrid looked like a wasteland of witches, zombies, etc. if you were out past midnight. Kids from 16 to 30 were all dressed up, packed in the calles like sardines, drinking and having a good time. I love how Halloween isn’t really until Tuesday, but any excuse for a party is a good excuse in my book. 

So today we decided we ought to get in the spirit, and how better to do that than to buy some pumpkins and carve them to pieces before we smash them because we have nowhere to put them? Nothing! So thats exactly what we did. We each got a nice looking pumpkin, brought them to the park where we proceeded to butcher them- adding grimaces and mean-muggin’ eyebrows, shocked mouths, and odd noses. Everyone who walked by was fascinated at the mad group of silly Americans, speaking english and making voodoo dolls out of pumpkins or something. Do people not carve pumpkins in Spain? I honestly don’t know... 

The children in particular were fascinated, and a group of 4 or 5 kids no older than 10 or 11 worked up the courage to ask for one. Naturally we decided we could spare one, probably the ugliest one- so of course it was mine that went to the kids. They were mesmerized, unwilling to share the pumpkin as if it was the magic lantern in Aladdin. But they didn’t know what to do with it! Take it home? Put a candle in it and leave it on the front porch as a fun, festive decoration? No, let’s smash it, seemed to be the consensus. Coincidental too, considering that was exactly what we were planning to do with ours... 

Unfortunately they ran off arguing over the pumpkin before we could see what became of it. But I think its safe to say that one suffered the same fate as ours- being smashed to pieces by the cruel realities of gravity. Of course the pumpkins pain is worth the (shockingly high) level of entertainment that we got from carving and smashing them.. 

Of course before we smashed ours we sat them on a bench to be admired by passers-by. One child on a tricycle nearly refused to continue on his voyage because he was so enthralled by the silly orange faces looking back at him. Joggers tripped over their own confusion as they double-took, not sure what they were seeing. Were their eyes deceiving them? Or were there really 4 little orange faces staring back at them, unchanging and bold. 

5 hours later and my hands are still sticky with pumpkin goo, but my mind still full of the surprised faces of the children walking by the faces, flabbergasted, and of course, the instant of impact as the smiling little face of the pumpkin hits the hard, cold ground, getting a firsthand lesson on Sir Isaac Newton, and exploding into a thousand pieces with a pleasant and dull pop. 

How To Kill a Mocking (Stereotype)

In high school I often found myself asking myself, usually in unison with many of my peers, why am I learning this? It was never made clear to me for which instance in my life I would need to know how many neutrons argon has, or what the square root of i is. I will say the the subject I found to be the most irrelevant and obsolete in high school had come to my aide more than I would have imagined. I’ve been pleasantly surprised with the (minimal) Latin I picked up in high school and how it has helped me with English and now, Spanish. Regardless, in high school, sitting there staring at the clock wondering why it could possibly matter that agricola, agricolae is actually a masculine noun, I could have been much more proficient knowing exactly how this subject would be useful in life. 

In college its a little different. The first day my political science professor told us he knew that most of us would be bored by his (obligatory) class on the European Union. Of course I think most people find the class absolutely fascinating since the professor is so dynamic and charismatic. The material is interesting too because we see it everyday actually living in Europe. Everyday I learn something I see it later that day, or it comes up in the news. For example, Spain joined the EU in 1986, I look at my Abono (my metro pass) and the Metro in Spain was built the same year. Coincidence? I think not... but thats actually besides the point. The point is that he told us his goal in teaching us about the European Union. He told us a little anecdote about his first day in a college lecture class. His teacher, a man he greatly admired, posed a question he expected no one to know- and sure enough the room was silent. But, he timidly rose his hand and offered an answer. He turned out to be right and won the professors reciprocated respect and admiration. He described the feeling with the smile of a seven year old boy taking over his face and his passion communicated the point as well as his words. He explained that he is teaching us X so that someday we will have that feeling. Some far away day, maybe in Madrid, we’ll remember that the European Parliament is the only institution directly elected when we overhear a conversation in a bar. Of course the Spaniard or Frenchmen who are discussing it will assume we’re Americans, completely ignorant of European politics. But, at the last moment, we’ll offer our knowledge, and feel proud that we knew something even a European citizen didn’t. Who’s the ignorant American now? He added that maybe we’ll even impress someone enough to buy us a drink.

I guess its really a combination of being in Europe and having that explained to me, but the simple knowledge of why I’m learning what I’m learning (and its not just for bar conversations), has made me much more intrigued in my subjects. Having a passionate professor who really cares not only about what he is teaching, but also about the success of his students and our interest in the material, is exceptionally catalyzing for engaged learning. 

My only problem is that I got these teachers first term of my freshman year and now every teacher I have from here will have a hard time meeting the standard. In other words they’ve set the bar high, but this is a trivial concern. 

El Ping Pong Blog

I’ve been in Spain about two months now and I have felt virtually no homesickness. Many of my peers have had moments of missing someone or something from home, but I think in general the things Spain has to offer (and schoolwork of course!) are enough to keep most of us occupied enough that we don’t even think of home very often. Yet not feeling homesick doesn’t mean that familiar things from home aren’t soothing. This I realized today...

The past week has been dominated by a blur of studying and midterms. I’m not one to stress, but there is some inevitable stress that comes with taking one of two tests that will constitute the majority of your final grade. In any case- I’m glad to be done with them and I think I even did pretty well. Well, we’ll see when I get them back...

Anyways today we had a meeting for the freshman. It was right after class and I was frustrated because I hadn’t eaten all day. But being such a good student I went ( to the the mandatory meeting), and we talked about our experiences to date in Madrid- whats been good whats not so good. I found my brain completely void of negative experiences here even though I know I’ve had bad moments. I guess my brain just overrides those memories with all the good ones. Anyways by the end of the meeting I was ready to scream and run out of there I was so hungry- but luckily I stayed. Because after- there was pizza. SO much pizza. And it may have just been my emotions running wild since I was so hungry- but that was the first America style pizza I had had here and it was exhilarating. The melting cheese all over my hands, and of course the excessive amounts of grease reminded me quite fondly of the states. And although I didn’t miss home, I was very comfortable thinking of it. That was familiar thing number one... 

Number two is something I’m surprised I haven’t mentioned already- the ping pong table at school. Ping Pong is one of those sports (yes, sports) that I always forget I love. And actually you’d have to drag me away from the table to get me to stop playing. Its so satisfying to get a good rally going- almost therapeutic (not for the students in class listening of course- but for me.)

Today I was playing my usually partner- an Indian man named Kahan. He is an exceptionally brilliant man in many areas, including ping pong. In fact to this day I’m yet to beat him, although I’ve gotten close a few times. On this particular occasion he happened to beat my my more than twice my score. But besides the embarrassment I really appreciated a little taste of America to take my mind of midterms. That table is like a little American oasis from stress and work; the only thing that matters is that little white ball.

The point of this little story is that I’ve discovered a capacity to think fondly of and appreciate little pieces of American culture without actually longing to go back to it. This is because I know one day I’ll be back where I come from, and I’ll be missing Madrid. So for now I’ll just enjoy my time in Spain while it lasts, and cross that bridge when I come to it. (Although if they have ping pong and greasy pizza here I don’t see why I ever have to go back... Sorry Mom!) 

La Comida

Every restaurant in Spain is required by law to have available a menu del dia, including a first plate, a second plate, a drink, bread, and dessert. I’m not sure it had to be as serious as an actual legally binding law, but i like it. Best law ever.

So naturally my friends and I have a favorite spot to go to. Well we have a few- one in each neighborhood that were often in. But the one we go to most often is about a twenty minute walk from our house, or 5 minutes on the train. Worth every second. And the walk back is a convenient workout, necessary after how much food we get. We know the waiters and bartenders and they know us, but our lingual abilities only overlap in a very small little sliver of Spanglish. We struggle to find out what the menu is today, since it changes everyday. Recently we’ve given up, realizing all the food is amazing, and taken to a new game. 

Here’s how it works. 1. Close your eyes. 2. Point to the menu. 3. Eat what is put in front of you. That’s it. Simple. Everybody wins. In general we try to get different things, butchering the pronunciation as we order them. Every now and then one of us gets something particularly interesting; most recently, tripe. For those who are like me and have never seen that word before I believe its cow stomach? I knew Spain would be an adventure- but cow stomach? Did not see that coming.

Needless to say it was delicious. But my favorite guess ever turned out to be a big plate of grilled ribs with onions and peppers. Just could not have been happier when she walked outside and put that plate in front of me. Smiling from ear to ear. 

There are two servers in particular who we’ve befriended. A man who speaks very good english (but he’s a Yankee’s fan so we don’t talk much), and a woman who speaks no english. She laughs every time we show up- in a friendly way of course- and gets us menus with a big grin on her face. I can hear her now “Que tal chicos!? Dime!”

By the time the second plate comes out I’m full. And dessert? Forget it. I usually get coffee instead just to help digest the foodbaby I have. And that twenty minute walk home? Yeah that can wait an hour...

So you can see how a quick lunch turns into a feast fit for kings. And two hours later you’re sitting there in a euphoria, with no plans, and no need to go anywhere. 

PS. Just kidding- Yankees fans are people too... 

Santiago de Compestela

This past weekend I went on one of Suffolk University’s excursions to the northwest corner of Spain, the region of Galicia. Galicia, and the town of Santiago de Compestela in particular, is a special place. There they have their own dialect- a sort of Spanish-Portuguese hybrid, and their own rich history. But this is not quite where the story begins...

Sitting in my kitchen a few days before I was leaving for Galicia an argument broke out at dinner. I told my host mother I was going away this weekend, and where I was going. Pedro, my oldest brother told me the bus ride could be as long as ten horas. My sister Anna insisted this was ridiculous- it would only be seis horas, mas o menos. Borja, my other brother, said no, no it depended on traffic (I think), it could be nueve, o diez. Mercedes laughed and said authoritatively that it could certainly be only about ocho horas. While the four of them argued their logic the Spanish language dissolved into something more basic - human language. I could have very well been sitting in my kitchen at home taking part in the same frivolous argument with my biological siblings. It was amazing how without understanding the language itself I understood the entire dynamic of the conversation as if it was in my mother tongue. 

So I had everyone register official guesses and as it turned out my host mother was closest. The ride was eight hours. 

We left school at midnight Friday morning. The first thing I noticed when we arrived was the familiar charming humidity of the air, particularly crisp as the sun rose in a firery blaze over a grassy green hill. I felt at home. We ventured up a series of windy and narrow cobble stone streets into the old part of the city- the medieval part. Colorful crenellated banners spanned the width of the street in a festive atmosphere. The city was alive. Blacksmiths were hard at work- sweaty and dirty despite the fact it was only nine in the morning. Vendors aggressively tried to sell their souvenirs, mostly seashells and walking sticks- the traditional symbols of the pilgrimage that ends in this city. People choose a method of transportation and come primarily from France through the terrain of northern Spain to see the Cathedral of Saint James in Santiago. Yes, it is a long walk. And although I didn’t do the pilgrimage myself I can say it must be well worth the spectacle. 

The Cathedral of Santiago de Compestela is daunting. Its massive and ornate, and we had the opportunity to climb up countless stairs and take a tour of the roof. The sun was beating down on us and I regretted wearing all black- but the panoramic view was priceless. How many times have you walked across the roof of a cathedral built nearly ten centuries ago? From that high you can see, but not hear, the hustle bustle you were just moments walking through. The breeze blows in your face and there’s a tranquil silence. 

Back in the streets modern day pilgrims are all around you. Not with funny hats and buckled shoes like most Americans picture them- but with bandanas and backpacks and walking sticks and seashells, glistening with sweat from the unrelenting midday sun. Their hands are calloused and dirty- they look like they’ve just walked hundred of miles, and many of them have. The markets are bustling- crowded with throngs of people buying fresh cheese, cured meats, spices, and died fabrics. There’s a certain medieval charm, a liveliness in the air. 

Of course this region has more to offer than the cathedral- and that is, chiefly, seafood. We dined like kings in the town that evening- with fresh ensalada de pulpo (octopus salad), and fried calamari. One afternoon for lunch I had amazing fish, the name of which I would know if I spoke Spanish. Then that night, I had wood-fire barbecued ribs in the heart of the old town. The man who served them to me looked a little medieval chopping them with a blunt axe and wiping the sweat off his brow with his other hand, but they tasted amazing. 

This trip was amazing because if history isn’t your thing maybe you would appreciate the artistically astounding architecture of the cathedral. And if architecture isn’t you thing maybe you’d just like the food. And if food isn’t your thing I don’t know what to tell you- except that maybe our trip to the beach would make up for that. It was a packed weekend, and after eight hours on that bus I was ready to sleep in my own bed before class monday morning. But despite how tired I was it took me some time to fall asleep with all these thoughts rolling around in my brain about how many more little cities like that there are to see in Spain. I guess I’ve got my work cut out for me if I’m going to see them all...