Estepona vs. Cádiz

Although a regular football (read: soccer) viewer here in Spain, I've never actually been to a real, live game. Until Sunday, that is.

As we headed towards the stadium here in Estepona, Carlos explained that the Cádiz supporters were sometimes a bit 'strange' and that I should not worry, no matter how many communist symbols I saw. I assured him that communist symbols would not frighten me.

We entered a sea of yellow and red and maneuvered our way towards the gate. Carlos is a Cádiz supporter, so we followed the yellow Cádiz crowd. Never having been to a football game here in Spain, I didn't know much about the norms. At the gate, the police searched my bag. My plastic water bottle was contraband.

"She won't throw it at anyone," Carlos tries to assure them. "It's the bottle cap that's the problem," the policeman responds. Apparently water bottles can be used as projectiles to injure players at sporting events. "What if I empty the water out, can I bring the empty bottle in?" I ask. "Yes.. but then you could just fill it up in the bathroom. Fine, just take it inside with you." And we continue. I am momentarily pleased that Spanish police are so malleable. I would have been very sad to throw away my Nalgene.

We find seats near Carlos' Cádiz-supporting friends, and I settle in to absorb the football culture. The first thing I absorb, however, is a cloud of smoke. It is not cigarette smoke. Groups of people all around us are smoking joints. I am surprised, not least because it is noon on Sunday at a public small-town event. Carlos explains that Cádiz supporters are a bit notorious for their smoking habits, but that this is a common occurrence at football games. The police stride past, making no comment. Marijuana is not legal in Spain. But, the police seem uninterested in pursuing the issue.

Luckily, we're seated in an exceptionally interesting section of the crowd. Just in front of us, a group of intense Cádiz supporters begins to amass. For me, it's nearly cultural overload. I'm constantly glancing around, attempting to take only a few photos, and trying not to stare too intently at the man wearing a very politically controversial shirt just in front of us:



It's a Basque nationalist flag, over a map of the Basque country (a northern region of Spain). His banner includes a hammer and sickle. Many other supporters in this group wear shirts including the words 'anti-fascist'. At the very least, the average enthusiastic supporter has a scarf like this one, with a red star:



During halftime, Carlos and I explore the Estepona stadium:



The 'intense' Cádiz supporters in front of us have many interesting chants, the most amusing of which emerges during the final minutes of the game. Suddenly, a scuffle appears at the far end of the stadium. Three police officers have converged on an Estepona supporter (identifiable by his red shirt), and other law enforcement officials are hurrying towards the scene. The attention of the entire crowd shifts from the game, which Cádiz is winning 2-0, to the situation in the stands. The group just in front of us begins catcalling the police, which I captured in video format on my camera:



Carlos interprets the chant - from hard to understand Spanish to easy to understand Spanish - near the end of the video. The chant says: 'there is a disease that will not be cured, it's the police!' The entire crowd joins. Cádiz wins, 2-0.

I am now a Cádiz supporter.

Small World

After sixteen hours of travel, I emerged from the Madrid metro at the Estación Sur de Autobuses -- the Madrid bus station. I was an hour and a half later than I had expected to be, so the chances of catching my preferred bus were slim. I needed to get a seven hour bus to Estepona. Only two direct buses depart from Madrid, one in the morning and one at night. On the off chance that tickets for the morning bus, departing in 40 minutes, were still available, I dragged my luggage to the ticket window. (I literally mean that I 'dragged' my luggage - I chose to bring a suitcase with a broken wheel because it still rolled sufficiently in my Wenatchee living room. Another wheel broke during transit and it no longer rolled so well.)

I shuffled up to the window and spoke the phrase I had practiced, ''A qué hora sale el primero para Estepona?'' It seemed to work well. She understood. I was still able to speak Spanish. AND there were still a few seats left on the bus!

Ticket in hand, I lugged my belongings downstairs to the bus terminal. After my many hours of travel, very little sleep, and stressful travel through Madrid metro due to the broken wheel, the sight of my bus was comforting. Finally, I was in Spain again, speaking Spanish, and all of my belongings were still with me. But, to my surprise, an even more comforting sight appeared. Dani ('el roquero'), a British friend from Estepona, was waiting to get on the same bus! In Madrid, a city where I know barely a soul, a familiar face appeared. We commiserated over being dreadfully tired and shared stories of our summers. Upon arrival in Estepona, Dani accompanied me all the way to my new apartment to help with my luggage -- we aren't even close friends, but that's Spanish hospitality.

The rest of my return to Spain has been similar: surprisingly welcoming and pleasantly comfortable.

Bittersweet

A few days ago, I walked into my bedroom at my parents' house, only to find a fluffy cat sleeping upon my pillow. The cat, named Lily, initially belonged to my sister, but she began to reside in East Wenatchee when my sister moved in with her boyfriend a few years ago. Back to the point, Lily had never chosen to sleep on my pillow. I'd almost never even seen her enter my room. She roams the rest of the house like a queen in her kingdom, jumping on the table or the kitchen counter whenever she pleases (much to the displeasure of my mother), but my bedroom has mysteriously remained outside of her domain. So, I might add, have I. Not because I dislike her, or because I dislike cats; I rather like cats, and cats rather like me. But, no matter how diligently I tried to earn her affection, it was always fruitless.

Ever since I arrived in June, I would regularly pet her, pick her up, meow at her, or just generally try to interact with her. When I attempted to pet her, she would walk away. Pick her up? She squeakily meowed like there was no tomorrow, until I released her. Meow at her? (This usually works with other cats.) She would wander away, unamused.

But, somehow, after two and a half months, I have gained Lily's trust. I can only assume that my diligence has paid off. And now I am leaving. Will she remember me in a few months? What about in a year? Was all of my effort for nothing, only to enjoy Lily's affection for the next two weeks until I return to a faraway land? It was worth it, I think.

... I think.

this is awesome

June Wanderings

I woke up on June 4 in a sleepy daze, the kind that comes after a night of much too little sleep, and glanced at my cell phone. It felt a little warm in the room, evidence that the sun had risen more than expected for my 7:30am wake-up time, but I wasn't too worried as I glanced at the clock on my cell phone. And then, suddenly, I was worried. It was 9:20am. I was going to miss my bus to the airport! Well, more specifically, I was going to miss the first of two (both necessary) buses that would transport me to the airport before my flight to Bilbao. After breathing heavily and frantically considering all of my options for a few minutes, I hurriedly packed all of my things and ran out the door to the bus station. I had certainly already missed my bus, but there was a chance, just a chance, that another bus would be driving the same route, even though it wasn't posted.

I arrived at the station and explained my situation to the lady at the counter. She looked skeptically at me, but found (to my incredible delight!) a bus that would take me to Marbella, where I could catch my second bus to the airport. Thus, my travels around the Iberian Peninsula began.



























(1)Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao, Basque Country, Spain
(2)Door on Juan de Bilbao Street, San Sebastian, Basque Country, Spain
(3)La Concha Bay, San Sebastian, Spain
(4)Oviedo Cathedral, Spain
(5)Bagpipes, Santiago de Compostela, Spain
(6)Botafumeiro, Santiago de Compostela Cathedral, Spain
(7)Santiago de Compostela, Spain
(8, 9, 10)Porto, Portugal
(11)Alfama District, Lisbon, Portugal
(12)Lisbon, Portugal
(13)Sintra, Portugal

Dwindling Skills

I've been back in the USA for a week and I've already forgotten how to convert Fahrenheit to Celsius. If I think about it for a few minutes, I can make a rough conversion, but I used to be able to do so in a matter of seconds. The fact that it's only taken me a week to forget a skill I used regularly in Spain worries me about my beloved Spanish language skills.. now begins my effort to maintain a skill that I will use rarely for the next few months.

Trying to explain my opinion of American culture last night, I realized I had forgotten the word hegemony. At university (the British way of saying college; a part of the weird mixture of American/British English I currently utilize), I encountered this word almost daily. It was a buzzword. I learned it as a freshman and used it in nearly every International Studies essay thereafter. But, all of a sudden, I graduated from university and it disappeared from my life. A few minutes later in the conversation last night, I had the same problem with genetic.

I haven't thought about the concept of hegemony itself in a good few months. (I definitely have considered genetics recently, so that was more of a fluke.) Instead, I spend my time figuring out that you can use the same word in Spanish to describe pouring something in a cup, throwing someone out of your house, and putting on sunscreen (echar), that queso de untar is cream cheese, that cacharro is carnival ride, or that conjunctivitis how you say pinkeye in both Spanish and British English.

I'm not sure how I feel about this. I'll probably never forget hegemony again, nor genetic, but I'll certainly forget other pretentious intellectual words that I don't utilize nearly as often in Spain. I must keep up with my reading of the New York Times, etc. After all, that is what my International Studies degree taught me to do...

Sometimes...

Sometimes bees confuse my head with flowers. It is always frightening.

Sometimes I feel like I have a different personality in Spanish, because my tone of voice is different, and I express myself in different ways (far less adequately than in English).

Sometimes I question my reasons for traveling. 'To experience other cultures and learn new languages' sounds super legit and is essentially the realization of my university studies, but just because something sounds rational doesn't mean that it's true.

Sometimes I have trouble separating what I tell myself my reasons should be for doing various things, and what my reasons really are. But then I wonder, is there really a difference between those two things? Can't I decide the way to live my reality, and create my own 'reasons' for doing things? What does 'true' actually mean?

Basically, I want to remain in Spain next year. I applied to my program, was accepted, but I don't know where I'll be placed. It will definitely be within Andalucía, but it might be another province. My most rational reason for staying is because I have a job here, and I think that job is pretty nice. My second most rational reason is to better my Spanish, because it's improving, but it could get a lot better.

Sometimes I worry that I will make a relatively permanent decision, one that's hard to back out of, and then I'll completely change my mind. What if I don't want to be in Spain by next November? But, the exact same thing could happen in the USA, in Seattle, in Wenatchee. So, for now, I will do this.

And by 'this' I mean show you pictures of pretty flowers and kittens.

Semana Santa

I had been waiting for the Semana Santa procession for hours. Tired, cold, and with any desire to see the procession waning, I could finally hear it coming. The sound of the snare drum was unmistakable. The people crowded in the street started to organize themselves. I squeezed myself into an open space near a flowerbed and held my ground. Judging by the proximity of the snare drum, I decided the procession would arrive in a few minutes, Jesus would meander by on a pedestal along with some people in pointy white hats, and the whole ordeal would be over within half an hour. I didn't know very much about Semana Santa processions.

It was my fault I had been waiting for so long. I left my apartment early, just to make sure I didn't miss anything, but going anywhere early is a bad idea in Spain. Thus, realizing the procession wouldn't arrive, let alone begin at all for at least 3 hours, I resigned to reading my novel under the setting sun, and then getting coffee and reading my novel some more. That killed 2 hours, so I decided to spend the last hour chatting with friends at a known hang-out spot. Perfect, I had passed my 3 hours with ease, and set off to find my Wednesday evening Holy Week procession around 10:30pm.

But, parting with my Spanish friends was difficult because, being male, they were hesitant to let me wander off alone into the night to track down the parade of white pointy hats. But, they were also completely uninterested in seeing the procession themselves, having been inundated with it enough times as children. They seemed to think that I should skip the procession and any religious celebration of Semana Santa, and continue hanging out with them. I told them I wasn't coming to Spain and missing a bunch of people carrying Jesus down the street on their shoulders, so we settled with them accompanying me halfway to the procession, and then agreeing to meet up later.

Eventually, the procession arrived. The policeman told me it would arrive at 10:30, but it didn't reach me until 11:15. That was to be expected. I watched intently as the rows of white hats paraded down the street.


Being American, I attach an entirely different meaning to those white hats, with their eerie faceless masks, uniform robes, and tiny eye slits. But, after the initial shock, I tried to push that image out of my thoughts.

The procession continued, with clumps of children in between the rows of pointy hats, adding comic relief and amusement. Being children, the pushed each other, dropped the 'important' religious objects they were carrying, and were generally merry. The merriment was apparent because they didn't have masks - the masked adults may have been merry, but who could tell behind the menacing pointy hats? (Clearly, I couldn't completely banish the KKK image from my mind.)


Next, and to my surprise, came women in all black, with painfully high heels and lace draped over their hair. I'm still not sure of their purpose, but the black seemed like mourning.


And finally! Jesus arrived! Carried on the shoulders of penitent Catholics, he moved by at a snail's pace, and everyone around me stood and clapped. The standing, I surmise, was in respect for Jesus, and the clapping was for the faithful carriers. (Click here to see a video.)



Jesus was followed by a band. It was now midnight, and thus, I decided that the procession must be over. I was blocked in by people, so I waited for them to part to make my exit. They didn't part. They didn't move at all, in fact. To my dismay, the procession was not over. Not even close. Still to come was the Virgin Mary, surrounded by many more pointy hats, women in black, children, and another band. I only stayed long enough to catch a glimpse of the mourning Mary and then escaped through cracks in the crowd.


Now half past midnight, I ventured off to join the non-religious Semana Santa celebrations, much like Spring Break celebrations in the States.

''In Washington DC, if I try to broadcast on an FM radio frequency without a legal broadcast licence, I will be shut down. When this happens in Venezuela, it is reported as censorship.''

The Guardian - The anti-Venezuela election campaign

AMEN.

LONDON!

My perception of London: it's just like the US of A. That may offend some Londoners, and also some Americans... but they've got Starbucks, Urban Outfitters, strawberry flavored Chapstick, vegetarian options at all the restaurants, people on bikes everywhere, AND they speak English. Sure, they've got a funny accent (to my ears), but so do people from New York, Chicago, or Alabama. That being said, I do rather like the United States, so I also liked London. I immediately felt comfortable wandering around the city (after my customary 'getting massively lost' ritual; this has been an important part of my entrance to every new city).





Here's me being a typical tourist at the infamous Abbey Road:

I saw Grizzly Bear and Beach House, two bands I'm absolutely in love with.

here's to you

People here are shocked that I'm going to London, alone, tomorrow. And it's the alone part, not the tomorrow part, that shocks them. Not everyone, just a fair number of average adults. I've actually seen some jaws drop, excluding my young, liberal friends. Personally, I'm pretty excited about the prospect of traveling alone for a weekend, because I get to be exponentially more selfish than I could possibly be when sharing a trip with someone else (however, herein lies the problem: I can't share the trip with anyone). It could turn out to be rather lonely, which I've accepted as a possibility, or it could turn out to be an amazing and liberating experience, much like traveling to Spain alone was. I'm not sure yet. You see, other than hopping across the Atlantic solo and plopping down in Madrid with a suitcase and a backpack last September, I haven't really done any solo traveling. I've always wanted to, but there are these persistent little voices whispering into my ears that I can't do that. That girls can't do that. Or, that I, with red hair, white skin, and a petite posture (?) can't do that because I'm an easy target. Well, here's to you, voices who say that I can't.

Anywho, I'm only going to London alone, where the people speak my language and look an awful lot like me. I'm not sure what the fuss is about.

Wintertime Activities

January was good. To my complete and utter enjoyment, I spent most of it in Estepona, going out on the weekends and learning the lyrics to Lady Gaga's 'Bad Romance'. I also moved to a new apartment with this view:


You can't see it in the picture, but the ocean is out there on the right side. So, I now live with my American friend Josh. He likes music and dancing, and is a vast improvement from Juan, my previous roommate, who liked hamsters and deep-frying french fries. Anyhow, other than moving and familiarizing myself with the discotheque scene here in Estepona, I did manage to do a bit of traveling. I saw Toledo, a town just south of Madrid, which is a World Heritage Site and has lots of cool architecture and a pretty cathedral:

I hung out in Madrid with American friends Andrew and Emily:

And then, along with some other Americans, we went to Granada:

It was one of my favorite cities ever, with a vibrant youthful culture, political graffiti all over the walls, and bomb Moroccan food. We also saw a massive Moorish castle called the Alhambra, which had intricate carvings on all the walls and was built during the 14th century:


I decided to be the super-tourist and get an audio guide for the visit (hanging around my neck in the photo), but due to some burst of confidence and a yearning to hear the Spanish language, I asked to have my guide in Spanish (I could have chosen one of many languages, English included). I was the only member of my group to get the super-touristy audio guide, and so, of course, it became my duty to retell the information to my friends. Let's just say I'm not ready to be a translator. Yet.

I also made it up to Ronda, a classic 'pueblo blanco' (white village) in Andalucía, last weekend with a teacher-friend and her husband. There was a lot of ham:

Ronda is also home to a very picturesque bullfighting ring, and it's one that Ernest Hemingway used to frequent! I just finished reading Hemingway's 'The Sun Also Rises', which is mainly about bullfighting in Spain, so it was really interesting to actually see one of the places that inspired his work.. and see pictures of him all around town:


February will probably bring more traveling and less discotheque-ing, because Erin is visiting (!!!!) in 2.5 weeks, but that's a trade off I'm happy about.

Change of Address

I'm moving into a new place on Sunday! Instead of living with Juan and the hamsters, I will live with my American friend Josh and hang out on his bomb terrace that has a view of the ocean and sometimes Africa. Woooooooo

Email me if you would like my new address.

Home(s)

'Home' is a funny thing. Can a person have more than one of them? Sometimes it's a singular concept, like when someone says 'I'm going home', we know this person is going to the place where his/her bed and possessions are located. But, the phrase 'I'm going home for Christmas' has an entirely different meaning, usually connoting a return to family and friends. I had a different sort of homecoming here in Spain. The majority of my possessions weren't waiting for me at my apartment in Estepona, and neither were my friends nor family. But, upon arrival in Estepona, I felt that I was coming 'home' after prolonged travel (aka: lots of dirty laundry in my backpack, sleep-deprived from staying in youth hostels), and I felt relief to walk down familiar streets on the way to my apartment. It was refreshing to hear Spanish again in Spain, and calming to go to my favorite cafe today.

Wenatchee

Seattle

Estepona

So, now I have three homes. I wonder, though, how many homes can a person have? When will some of them start drifting away?