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?