Iba a... Es que... No pasa nada

There is a virtual yellow post-it note tacked to my computer screen reading one word in capitals: BLOG. There it is, each time I flip open my laptop, and I quickly click open a web browser as if to deny that I've been busy or lazy or things have been crazy or for whatever reason I've neglected my duty to document. But, in attempts to justify the sparse posts, can I argue that it's fitting with the culture of Spain, which in itself is a place of plans delayed and promises postponed? I've come to realize that, generally speaking, madrileños have little regard for organization and obligation. Instead, they elude commitments with well-meaning excuses.

To express past intentions, we use the imperfect "iba a", or, in English, "I was going to..." Though I probably learned the grammar in 9th grade Spanish, it's only been in the past two months that I've found myself using it nearly everyday.

Por ejemplo, I was going to write about seascapes...

The "Ponte 25 de Abril" in Lisbon, Portugal. Or is it the Golden Gate?

Torre de Belem

Skirting the edge of the Tagus River

and camels...

Tangier, Marruecos

and quaint cafes...

(That double as reading nooks!)

But then something more pressing came up...

Spaniards use the phrase "es que" to slide into justification. It's essentially a colloquialism for "because," and it spills easily from the lips when suddenly you need to explain why you were late for class ("es que tenía que esperar demasiado para el metro...") or politely turn down the plate or chorizo or jamón ibérico ("es que soy vegetariana...")

And so, just as the whole city put off their plans in order to protest in a 24-hour multi-national strike, I also need to stray from my blogging outline to acknowledge what happened, because it was super strange and exciting. First of all, classes were cancelled, which brought back fond memories of sleeping in on snow days. And, just as if there there had been a blizzard, transportation was nearly impossible. All the metro lines were shut down. Shops and businesses were closed too, so, with little to do, I spent most of the day in a lazy stupor. But when I took a walk around 7:00 that evening, rather than white, fluffy stuff filling the streets, I found a swarm of people-- shouting, marching, pushing signs up into the air. 

And threatening graffiti on the windows of banks...

"You're all dead!"

"Capitalism kills"

"Here they eat the people!" Eek!

Then around 10:30, the madness culminated in Atocha Center, which happens to be right where I live. I had just cracked open a book when my señora came into my room and motioned for me to come to the living room window. We then watched as people set fire to trashcans in the street outside our apartment. My host father poked his head out the window to exchange words with the neighbors, all of whom stood watching from their balconies. My two host sisters spewed strings of slang at the expense of the "idiotas" starting the fires and held their noses as the smoke drifted upward. The dog was terrified and squealed herself into a corner. I might have been a little bit terrified too, but the pyro in me was far to entranced to move away.

As I stood by the window and watched the flames catch and spread, my señora uttered the last, inevitable part of the progression that I have come to know as so quintessentially Spanish: "no pasa nada"-- it's no big deal. They're just pranksters, she explained, they want to hold up traffic and make a scene. They don't want to seriously hurt anyone.

This I believe, though I'm not sure the events of the strike can really be dismissed by the "no pasa nada" mentality-- it seemed like a pretty big deal, to me at least. What's interesting, though, is the impulse to classify these acts as "tonterias" (silly things), the impulse to keep calm and trust that things will work out as they always seem to do for easy-going, pleasure-seeking madrileños.

So there seems to be some sort of paradox at work here. You can almost feel the sidewalks shake as the people here oscillate between fighting wildly for rights and keeping their cool. It's the fiery upswing of passion followed by the gentle release that comes from the realization that life is still beautiful and amidst the beauty, there are things to be done. And so a new day begins again with a wiping of sweat from the brow and a smile. The metro pulls into the station on time, and people with briefcases shmush inside. But the graffiti remains, and even if it washes off in the rain, I don't think it will be long before a spark incites a filament of passion, and, once again, the cycle repeats.

While I can't begin to delve into the economics and politics of it all-- even in English, I'm intimidated by specifics-- it's been incredible to watch the cultural response to the crisis. Or at least at much as I've been able to see from the living room window.

Plucked from our roots

Once again, I have some catching up to do. After the two impossibly sunny weeks of orientation, the weather finally changed. First it was raw and rainy, and I started to doubt I had ever even left Maine in the first place. Then it got hot again, and this time, humid, making stuffy metro rides nearly unbearable. And now, at last, it is bright and brisk-- the way fall should be (though the leaves still refuse to change, so I'm not entirely convinced it's really autumn. At least not in the New England sense.)

But lackluster foliage aside, things have certainly settled down. And with classes in full swing, I feel like summer has surrendered, albeit reluctantly, to something more stable.

That is, until the lure of travel uproots us and challenges us yet again to find a sense of home in the unfamiliar. Or at least leads us to accept that we cannot come to fully know a place in a weekend trip, and so we choose instead to bask (basque?) guiltlessly in the sheer novelty of it all. This was the experience I had on two recent excursions: the first an IES trip to Bilbao and San Sebastián in Basque Country, and the second a trip with friends to Lisbon, Portugal. I'll start with just the first in attempts to force myself to write more this week on the latter. (If I struggled with self-imposed deadlines before, this whole abroad thing has made it SO much worse).

Anyway, Basque Country (el País Vasco) is a universe in and of itself. Located on the north coast, the region's merely kilometers from France, but while I could point it out on a map, I couldn't put my finger on the culture of the place. As we got off the bus in Bilbao, a sense of surreality came over me, and it wasn't simply post-nap disorientation or the wet weather fogging up everything. Compared to Madrid, the streets were bare and everything was incredibly new and shiny, clean and fancy (quick history: a huge resource of iron ore was found near Bilbao in the 19th century, there was an industrial revolution, and the economy flourished; Franco suppressed the region for most of the 20th century and things were gloomy again; now el País Vasco has the the highest GDP per capita in all of Spain, and the streets flanked with designer boutiques seem to deny any accusation of a national recession.)

La ciudad por la noche.

And so we started the walking tour along the river and passed geometrically-inclined architecture and some pointless but endearingly funky sculptural pieces. All this led to the Guggenheim Museum, where we would spend Sunday morning wandering about. I wasn't as inspired by the exhibits inside as I was by the structure itself. While I love Guggenheim's museum in New York, his museum in Bilbao is unique in that it embodies the very essence of the place. The outside is sleek and self-consciously bold, but I found that that which threatens to slip into gaudiness is what makes the building all the more intriguing. So with all the reverence that the structure demanded, we ascended a dramatic staircase, passed an oversized canine, and entered. Inside, the architecture is economical but more whimsical than minimalist. Guggenheim managed to carve out space in such an imaginative way, that every step I took walking from exhibit to exhibit became an aesthetic experience in and of itself.

A floral puppy guards the Guggenheim

Postmodernismo- a bit underwhelming

In fact, this is how I felt all weekend both in and outside the museum. Every turned corner, every bite of pinxto (see below) delivered a new experience, a new sentiment.

Pintxos are pronounced "pinchos" but have some bizarre letters thrown in because Euskara is a weird, weird language just as Bilbao is a weird, weird place. But the little appetizers themselves are delicious! On my plate: fresh tomato with brie cheese rounds drizzled with herbed olive oil, and grilled zucchini with cream cheese and smoked salmon, both served on little toasts. 

And the city's famous white wine, "txacoli." I'll let you sound that one out for yourself.

Saturday in San Sebastián (still part of el País Vasco) I felt the same sense of wonder, but something in the air had changed. Maybe it was the fact that we were right on the Atlantic shore (finally!) and the sea breeze undid what two weeks of city smog had obscured. At last unlandlocked, I felt refreshed walking along the streets, stumbling into a beautiful cathedral, and meandering through a fish market from which wafted that scent that some find revolting and others find completely delicious (clearly I'm with the second category. Anything so fresh and raw just makes me think of all the flavors that will join in later in the cooking process-- I can almost hear the sizzling of the skillet before the fish is even out of its paper casing.) Speaking of fish, of food in general, some consider San Sebastián to be the culinary capital of the world as it has more Michelin-starred restaurants than any other city. When our tour guide told us this, I was of course extremely excited but also overwhelmed that we only had the rest of the afternoon to spend in the city. How can I possibly taste all there was to taste in just a few hours?

Though I didn't end up spending a couple hundred euros on a meal at a world renowned restaurant, I did spend two on the most delicious gelato I've ever had.

Flavors: pistachio and arroz con leche. Still not brave enough for the cone (traumatic childhood memories of ice-cream meeting asphault)

And then there was the lunch paid for by IES, which featured squid served in it's own ink...maybe more of an acquired taste.

"Calamares en su propia tinta." Slightly chewy, slightly salty...yet another thing about this place that eludes description or explanation.

With so many new foods, colors, scents, smells, and sensations, there was something about these two cities that teased my (still underdeveloped) sensibilities as a world traveler, and thwarted every expectation I had conjured up in vain. This is what I've been trying to come to terms with since I was first plucked from my home in the States, a home where I'm surrounded by people I know, where I speak the language, and where no food comes served in black goo. It is this: the ability to be comfortable with the uncomfortable. And that there are varying degrees of this discomfort. The lure of travel and then the subsequent shock of displacement-- it is enough to make you want to cite a cliche from a Joni Mitchell chorus (Don't it always seem to go...?) And so, I am by no means comfortable with my life in Madrid, but I felt a certain relief in coming back, in taking my metro line back to my apartment to a family that isn't quite mine but is smiley and lovely and generous all the same. It is a place where words don't contain random x's and t's, and for that I am grateful.

El sol y la mar, por fin!

Little tastes

I promised myself I would start blogging as soon as I got to Spain, but given my already deep-seated procrastination, it's no surprise that here in Madrid, I've found plenty to distract myself from starting the writing process. But as I arrive back at my apartment after a morning run on a quiet Sunday morning and kick off my sneakers, ready to slip into an all-too-tempting siesta, I realize it's time to start piecing together all the sights/sounds/smells that have overwhelmed and inspired me these past two weeks. Orientation has been a bit like a menu of tapas, offering us little tastes of city and culture and, much like ordering traditional Spanish cuisine, it's been hard to know what I'm actually getting myself into. With descriptions and directions all in Spanish (por supuesto!), I've been doing my best to fearlessly dip my spoon into everything and pray that it doesn't turnout to be morcilla (black pudding made with sheep's blood). Luckily, I've absolutely loved everything I've tried so far, but with the portions being so small, I know I'll keep having to go back for more over the course of the semester.

So here's a quick list of the bite-size slices of life I've sampled so far, and I promise more eloquent and substantial thoughts in the future, once I have some time to catch my breath.

1) Runs in El Retiro

A few days after arriving, I decided it was time to establish some sort of routine, and set off to go running in Madrid's biggest park, El Retiro, which on Google Maps seemed to be just a few minutes from my homestay. After getting lost and taking a somewhat circuitous route down the famous Paseo del Prado (so really, can I complain?) I found iron gates and greenery, and so I turned on some music and started to run, still not knowing where I was going but trusting that if I stayed along the perimeter, I'd eventually find my way back. But as I started to pass fountains and playgrounds and statues and monuments, I couldn't stick to the edge and drifted into the heart of El Retiro where I ended up running miles just weaving in and out of beautiful things. Since that first day, I've found a more direct route to the park and familiarized myself with it's major landmarks, so now as I run each evening I can simply zone out as the park's name suggests (retirarse means to remove oneself) and just observe the people (and dogs! so many dogs!) that pass by.

2) Meals with my host family

Dinners with my wonderful Spanish familia are loud. It's a chorus of alternating yelling and laughing and shouting "abajo!" at the dog who has jumped up on her hind legs to steal a bite of tortilla off the table. In the background, the TV flashes images of demonstrations (just a few blocks up from the apartment) and local newscasters ramble on about la economia and la politica. As my host parents and their two teenage daughters roll their tongues like motors, discussing the funny things that happened to them that day and plans for the weekend, I catch the gist of what they are talking about and try to interject with simple questions and comments. I can usually sustain a few successful exchanges, but I find it's never long before the conversation slips out of reach. No matter how frustrating it is sometimes-- to not be able to convey all I'd like to share with them, to not be able to express all the gratitude I feel for their food, company, and patience-- I've been trying to mend the language and culture barriers with laughs and smiles and frequent gracias-es and lo sientos, and it seems to be working so far. I'll make some sort of blunder, and my host mother will simply smile in response and refill my plate with three more filets of fish and order me, with as stubborn a sense of hospitality as I've ever encountered, to eat more. (But more to come on food later...)

La Perra, "Jarra"

3) Rides on the metro

The first day, my host padre, Ramon, showed me how to get to the IES center by metro, but it was up to me to find my way back. Even in U.S. cities I lack basic street smarts, so I found the recording calling out the stops in muffled Spanish a bit intimidating, a bit terrifying. But this made it all the more gratifying when a few days later, I finally felt like I had the hang of it. I try to look as bored and casual as all the other Madrilenos heading to work in the mornings, but every time I get on the metro, I can't help checking out what the trendy university girls are wearing (jean shorts and ankle boots are huge right now), smiling at the uniform-clad children on their way to kindergarten (if you're looking for a humbling experience, I recommend living in a country where you feel as though the five-year-old tugging on his mother's arm and sucking his thumb has a better grasp on the language than you do), and trying to eavesdrop on the cuddly young couple whose intertwined arms wrap around the pole beside me (the PDA here is a bit shocking, but then again, maybe us Americans just have to grow up a bit.)

4) Nearby magical lands

As if there weren't enough to marvel at in Madrid, I've already found myself breathless in two other Spanish cities. The first Friday of orientation, we took a day trip to the medieval city of Segovia. We wound our way up the narrow, cobblestone roads, stopping at frequent overlooks to take in the view, wandered through the 16th century Cathedral, and finally arrived at the main square, where taxis sped unapologetically down the ancient streets and shops and cafes bustled with locals and tourists. But then, just when I felt myself reoriented in the modern world, an alleyway gave way to a Roman aqueduct, and I was lost yet again. 

Real Alcazar de Segovia

Approaching an aqueduct

The next week, when some friends and I took a day trip to Salamanca, there too I felt the ancient and the modern not so much as a paradox, but more so as a collage of different temporal realities. To feel yourself in multiple times at once isn't disorienting as you'd expect-- it's therapeutic. As I sipped a coffee in the plaza mayor, little worries that had run through my mind all week-- thoughts of travel details, verb conjugations, class schedule, the exchange rate-- yielded to a much needed sense of calm.

El Catedral de Salamanca

La Plaza Mayor

5) El Rastro

Last Sunday, a few friends and I headed down to the Lavapies neighborhood to brave the biggest weekly flea market in Europe, El Rastro. Weaving through the crowded streets is a claustrophobe's nightmare, but something about the colors and shouts coming from every direction, and the little treasures twinkling from the carts-- it was all so stimulating, so mesmerizing. I'm planning to head back to the market in weeks to come, at the very least to pick up souvenirs for friends and family, if not for the sheer sensory experience of it all.

6) Ubiquitous art

My proverbial pen's running dry, and my feet are still begging for a siesta, so I'll let the images speak for themselves:

Surrealism at el Museo Reina Sofia

Beautiful balconies

Un poco de Dali

In front of the Palacio Real

Brilliant palette of produce at the Mercado San Miguel

El Museo del Prado

Basically, everywhere I look there is something beautiful. Madrid values the aesthetic and the sensory, and the lifestyle allows time and space for proper appreciation of these things. Although I'm still not used to the city's sleepless ways (the typical dia Madrileno starts around 7 and lasts until 3, 4, 5, A.M...), I've realized the long days mean there is always time to meet a friend for a glass of vino, contemplate a museum piece, or go for an evening walk along the river. Madrilenos always take time to enjoy life, and they always have room for dessert because, after all, the sun is just now setting, the conversation is still flowing and the flan is delicious, so why not?