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.