I make my way slowly along the cobbled streets snaking down to Oporto. It's an explosion of colors and sounds. Bright fabrics hanging from market stalls, elaborately embroidered scarves and blankets, table cloths and intricately painted Spanish abanicos. San Isidro and the Madrileños are out in force, crowds mingling, conversing cheerfully and soaking up the spring sunshine. Everywhere my gaze goes there is something else more tantalizing to hold my interest. Children laughing and playing, gnawing on candy cane and florescent green and orange toffee-covered apples, playing catch and jumping through skipping ropes.
There are women and men dressed in traditional costume. Poker dot dresses buttoned up to the neck and laced with frilly full petty coats, fanning out above their knees. They have flowers in their hair, which is pulled back austerely with jet black clips. The men wear berets, strategically placed over one eye and flowers in their breast pockets. A swishing of materials; a clacking of castanets, every now and then they break into dance, stomping their heels on the pavement and circling their partners with smoldering eyes.
In parque San Isidro there is a make shift fun fare. The sun is shining at last, heating up the icy air. The grass is strewn with people drinking sangria from plastic glasses and nibbling on patatas bravas, meat on skewers, sausage rolls, and sticky popcorn. All the talk of crisis seems far away in the face of such an abundant feast.
The Spanish really know how to enjoy themselves and today it is the patron Saint of Madrid that is responsible for the throngs of people and general merriment. There is something on offer today for every pallet. To the left, refrigerated containers bursting full of muscles, crabs, octopus, and other interesting-looking sea creatures. To the right, little stands selling bollas of bread the size of tyres, loaded with dried fruits and nuts. The largest paella dish I have ever seen, enough for a banquet of hundreds; a blend of ingredients of chicken, rabbit, rice, peppers, vegetables and squid; too big to place on a table, the paellara has a stand of its own.
This is a true slice of a traditional Spanish fiesta, yet as we wind our way up the narrow streets to La Latina and rest our weary legs in a small plaza next to a softly trickling fountain, we were served tinto de verano(red wine with lemonade) by a smiley, gap-toothed Colombian waiter. That's what I love about this city. For much as it preserves its glorious Spanish-ness; festivos, bull fighting, flamenco, football, and incessant smoking, there is diversity here.
You hear different languages in the street as you walk around, there are gatherings of international communities, Irish bars and Latin American hangouts. You can escape the constant hardness of the people with a mojito in a Cuban bar off a tucked-away side street. Escape is sometimes necessary here as the Spanish come off as rude; their patience thin for people who don't know how to order a caña.
You have to shout what you want as loudly and abruptly as possible, with no effort to smile and never saying please. One moment of hesitation will invite a loud huff from the waiter and before you can say vino tinto, he will be at the other side of the bar serving someone else who does understand the system.
This general unhelpfulness is endemic in Madrid and spreads beyond the tavernas. Shop assistants, in the main, are sullenly and intolerant, as they sling your purchase at you whilst chewing loudly on gum and looking in every direction other than yours, determined not to make eye contact. Commuters have absolutely no etiquette on the metro, as they squeeze and force and, at times, stomp over you to get a seat on the train, and it is a rare thing for someone to offer help as you struggle up flights of never-ending staircases with an over-sized suitcase.
The argument of Spanish food being the best in the world, for me is wearing thin. I challenge anyone to stand up in defense of a plate of fatty oreja (pig's ear), ensalada russa (potatoes and frozen vegetable salad, at times even complete with beads of sweat as it's been in the sun to long) or greasy bowls of potatoes and ketchup accompanied with stale bread.
However, protest as I do, I have to confess that I secretly relish the complementary chunks of bread and salami and salted crisps with slivers of sardines on top in the numerous old man bars, where everything is thrown on the floor and you feel the crack of peanut shells beneath your feet as you walk in.
I relish the exhaust fumes from traffic heaving through the streets, the grit of the metro and the tired faces that stare listlessly ahead. Street performers that burst into your carriage and opportunistic vendors that cluster outside the entrances selling umbrellas at the vaguest promise of rain or fans when the heat starts punishing. The noise, the din, the chaos and the overall human interaction that embodies pure... life.
Ahhh. Give me a city like Madrid any day.
21 May 2010
11 May 2010
In the cafe...
I stepped into the cafe, eyes flexing for a moment under the florescent lighting. It was busier than usual and I felt all eyes upon me as I walked inside. "Hola Guapa!" shrieked one of the regular ludo ladies, "estas mas gorda! Que guapa!" I tried not to let her comments (which sank in stomach like a lead in a pool) effect me, reminding myself that it's a different culture here and perfectly acceptable to remark about people's weight.
"Baby!" excalims Angel with a smile as he places a caña on the bar for me. I give him a kiss and pull up a stool. Carlitos, the resident borracho, is sitting slightly hunched at the bar. His face lights up as I greet him with a kiss on the cheek, forgetting as usual that here it is 2 kisses; "3" says Angel's father "if the girl is pretty". Carlitos is a self-proclaimed "golfo"; he was quite the womanizer in his hay day apparently.
We converse for a few moments until my comprehension decreases, directly related to the amount of cubata (rum and coke) thrown back by Carlitos. The first time I met him was a depressing experience. I could understand only a small proportion of what he said; individual words barely connecting together. I thought my Spanish was so bad that I couldn't understand a simple conversation. I told Angel about it and he said "Ah Carlitos, yeah I can't understand him either. He must be speaking in Gallego" (the local dialect). We thought it over for a moment until Miriam, a native of La Coruña, who was listening to our conversation, reassured us that it was certainly not Gallego that he was speaking, and that she often had trouble understanding him as well.
It seemed that Carlitos habitually speaks in rambled, half drunken speech, recounting stories to no one in particular. This isn't his only bar of preference; he spends his days on his own personal pub crawl, "pasando de bares". If you speak to him in the early afternoon, the conversation is likely to be more lucid.
He is particularly ambiguous today, although I almost believe we are having a two-way conversation instead of two unrelated monologues colliding together, until after about ten minutes he stops, pausing to quote something that his wife has told him, eyes searching my face tentatively; "hablas español?" he asks. I can't imagine what language he thinks we have just spent a sizable chunk of our time butchering, but I now doubt that my responses have been registered.
I get the feeling of being observed as I turn around and the old man at the table behind flashes me a cheeky grin. "Carlitos! Are you bothering this young lady? You're not as young as you used to be you know" he states winking.
With this dig at his manhood Carlos responds by lifting up his trousers to show me his legs. "Footballers legs", he states proudly. "Legs of a 30-year old". I am invited to verify the excellent condition of his lower extremities. What a way to sweep a girl off her feet, I think to myself with a wry smile. The two men then proceed to fight over which of them will pay for my drink (which has already been given to me on the house).
Even though Angel stresses that my caña has already been taken care of, they insist on paying, and we end up with quite a beer pool. I move behind the bar to speak to my boyfriend and Carlos joins his cheeky adversary, Luis, and his companions. The four at the table have already gone through a considerable share of a bottle of vodka. As they order their fourth round of drinks, one of the ladies begins to give me an impromptu lesson on preparing "pulpo".
It's interesting to hear about the techniques involved in producing a good consistency octopus, from bashing it upon a surface to soften it, to the condiment of paprika and salt. I don't have the heart to tell her that I would never prepare this entire sea beast myself in my own kitchen. I just about manage to swallow down the tentacled, slimy creature when it is cut in bite sized pieces and seasoned on a plate; I even enjoy it as long as I don't think too much while I'm chewing.
Pulpo is the topic of conversation today as we are going to a "pulpada" tonight in a neighboring village. Honestly there is no English translation for this. "Octopus fest" is about the closest thing I can think of to describe an event which is basically a large outdoor tent with little stands selling octopus and red wine. There is music and dancing and general festivity all in the name of the octopus.
The lady at the table's eyes glisten as she enthuses "if you like that you must go to (some village I couldn't make out) - for the festival of the salmon!" "or" interjects her companion "to (I drew another blank) for the day of the trout!" Luis chimes in with "for me none of them are as good as the party of the wine in Betanzos."
With just about any excuse for a get-together, the Galicians have come to build up quite a repertoire of feasts to celebrate single foods. The evening ahead certainly promises to be an experience.
It is time for Carlitos to leave but not without a parting song. He is actually quite a good singer, as he belts out "te vas porque quiero que te vayas" by Luis Miguel. He is surprisingly more coherent in song and I feel as if he is dedicating the song to me as his blurring eyes bore into mine.
Luis joins in and they make quite the double act, filling the bar with their dulcet tones, accompanying the singing with hand movements and flicks of the legs.
Their companions join in and the little cafe is suddenly taken-over by a train of merry pensioners singing and dancing as they wave goodbye and wobble onto the street.
Friday night in La Coruna's just heating up.
"Baby!" excalims Angel with a smile as he places a caña on the bar for me. I give him a kiss and pull up a stool. Carlitos, the resident borracho, is sitting slightly hunched at the bar. His face lights up as I greet him with a kiss on the cheek, forgetting as usual that here it is 2 kisses; "3" says Angel's father "if the girl is pretty". Carlitos is a self-proclaimed "golfo"; he was quite the womanizer in his hay day apparently.
We converse for a few moments until my comprehension decreases, directly related to the amount of cubata (rum and coke) thrown back by Carlitos. The first time I met him was a depressing experience. I could understand only a small proportion of what he said; individual words barely connecting together. I thought my Spanish was so bad that I couldn't understand a simple conversation. I told Angel about it and he said "Ah Carlitos, yeah I can't understand him either. He must be speaking in Gallego" (the local dialect). We thought it over for a moment until Miriam, a native of La Coruña, who was listening to our conversation, reassured us that it was certainly not Gallego that he was speaking, and that she often had trouble understanding him as well.
It seemed that Carlitos habitually speaks in rambled, half drunken speech, recounting stories to no one in particular. This isn't his only bar of preference; he spends his days on his own personal pub crawl, "pasando de bares". If you speak to him in the early afternoon, the conversation is likely to be more lucid.
He is particularly ambiguous today, although I almost believe we are having a two-way conversation instead of two unrelated monologues colliding together, until after about ten minutes he stops, pausing to quote something that his wife has told him, eyes searching my face tentatively; "hablas español?" he asks. I can't imagine what language he thinks we have just spent a sizable chunk of our time butchering, but I now doubt that my responses have been registered.
I get the feeling of being observed as I turn around and the old man at the table behind flashes me a cheeky grin. "Carlitos! Are you bothering this young lady? You're not as young as you used to be you know" he states winking.
With this dig at his manhood Carlos responds by lifting up his trousers to show me his legs. "Footballers legs", he states proudly. "Legs of a 30-year old". I am invited to verify the excellent condition of his lower extremities. What a way to sweep a girl off her feet, I think to myself with a wry smile. The two men then proceed to fight over which of them will pay for my drink (which has already been given to me on the house).
Even though Angel stresses that my caña has already been taken care of, they insist on paying, and we end up with quite a beer pool. I move behind the bar to speak to my boyfriend and Carlos joins his cheeky adversary, Luis, and his companions. The four at the table have already gone through a considerable share of a bottle of vodka. As they order their fourth round of drinks, one of the ladies begins to give me an impromptu lesson on preparing "pulpo".
It's interesting to hear about the techniques involved in producing a good consistency octopus, from bashing it upon a surface to soften it, to the condiment of paprika and salt. I don't have the heart to tell her that I would never prepare this entire sea beast myself in my own kitchen. I just about manage to swallow down the tentacled, slimy creature when it is cut in bite sized pieces and seasoned on a plate; I even enjoy it as long as I don't think too much while I'm chewing.
Pulpo is the topic of conversation today as we are going to a "pulpada" tonight in a neighboring village. Honestly there is no English translation for this. "Octopus fest" is about the closest thing I can think of to describe an event which is basically a large outdoor tent with little stands selling octopus and red wine. There is music and dancing and general festivity all in the name of the octopus.
The lady at the table's eyes glisten as she enthuses "if you like that you must go to (some village I couldn't make out) - for the festival of the salmon!" "or" interjects her companion "to (I drew another blank) for the day of the trout!" Luis chimes in with "for me none of them are as good as the party of the wine in Betanzos."
With just about any excuse for a get-together, the Galicians have come to build up quite a repertoire of feasts to celebrate single foods. The evening ahead certainly promises to be an experience.
It is time for Carlitos to leave but not without a parting song. He is actually quite a good singer, as he belts out "te vas porque quiero que te vayas" by Luis Miguel. He is surprisingly more coherent in song and I feel as if he is dedicating the song to me as his blurring eyes bore into mine.
Luis joins in and they make quite the double act, filling the bar with their dulcet tones, accompanying the singing with hand movements and flicks of the legs.
Their companions join in and the little cafe is suddenly taken-over by a train of merry pensioners singing and dancing as they wave goodbye and wobble onto the street.
Friday night in La Coruna's just heating up.
1 May 2010
La Coruña - no holds barred. (You asked for an update).
The wooden door was surprisingly heavy as we pushed it back and made our way inside. Friday night in La Coruña and the lively, hole-in-the-wall tavern was an explosion of noise - the roar of a deep, belly laugh punctuated by scrapes of a chair leg on ceramic floor tiles and the chinking of glasses knocked together. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the light and see that it was bustling with people. Smoking; drinking; engaged in lively debate over plates of mariscos and pulpo.
A cackle of laughter escaped from the amply proportioned waitress behind the bar. Her kindly eyes framed by rectangular spectacles dissipated into crows feet as a smile lit up her face. "Jovenes!" she exclaimed, "you came back! 2 copas de Rioja! Quereis?" Before we had time to answer, she had a bottle in her hand, ready to pour. I found it amazing that in a bar crammed wall to wall with people sitting, standing and squatting, not only did she remember us from the week before, she also knew what we had ordered.
But then food and drink are a serious business here in Galicia and I feel as if everything and everyone is conspiring to encourage me to eat. From the plates loaded with roasted chicken, pork, or steaming hot callos that Angel's father sends home from the cafe each day, to this jolly lady refilling our glasses, it's impossible to resist the temptation. Good, strong, red wine; a platter of cured ham, queso azul and chunks of baked pan con tomate are all forces far greater than me.
I glance around, drinking in the scene. It's something like 1 am and there are some children shrieking as they chase each other in a game of tag across the bar. You have to hand it to Spain; in not many places will you see such a variety of ages come together under one roof on a Friday night. Mothers with babies in pushchairs; silver haired pensioners in berets; adolescents with over-sized pants... I would have been mortified going out to a bar with my parents when I was that age.
The fruit machine in the corner throbs out a repetitious jingle broken every now and then by a cacophony of coins dropping into a pile. A gruff-looking man propped against the bar thumps his glass heavily upon the counter "pongame otro!" he barks at the waitress as he pulls out a black cigar from his top pocket and lights up, letting out a hacking, phlegmy cough that originates deep from the bottom of his lungs.
Going out here is like going back in time; when you got home from the pub after a night out and your clothes reeked of cigarettes and your hair stank like an ash tray. I've done so much passive smoking since I arrived I almost want to start again and the abundance of cervezerias and quaint little tapas haunts are fueling my alcoholic tendencies.
So many of my friends have been asking for updates. It's not for lack of time or inherent laziness that I haven't revised my blog. It's just, well, I'm struggling to find my peace with the place. I've been overwhelmingly negative the past few weeks and I was always taught that if you don't have anything nice to say then don't say anything at all.
With the most aging population in Europe and 20% unemployment, the Spanish orgullo has definitely taken a blow. "Crisis" has become the word of the moment and it feels as if Spain's love affair with the EU could be coming to an end. When they joined in 1986, its people were among the most enthusiastic of Europeans. And with good reason; they benefited from generous investment and rebuilt their roads, railways and modern infrastructure. The country prospered from a sky rising property market and the boom was felt by all. But now its payback time and the deficit hangs heavier upon the socialist government's backs each day. There are more eurosceptics than glowing supporters and the infamous Spanish separatist tenancies are on the rise.
More for personal amusement purposes than a real desire to offend, I started a forum on a social networking website, provocatively stating that the young and the bold had long since fled this backwater town, and that it seemed that anyone with half a spark had emigrated, at the very least to the larger cities of Madrid or Barcelona. I received a multitude of responses, the majority scolding for my narrow-mindedness and encouraging me to get out more and discover the striking landscape, deserted beaches and unrivaled selection of seafood.
I had several recommendations of places to visit. On Sunday we took the car and drove along La Costa de la Muerte. An endless dramatic coastline of sandy beaches puntured with villages haphazerdly formed hugging the shore line. More eating, more drinking, a few cobwebs swept away. But still this nagging sensation that this is just not where I want to be; I pushed bak a little further on the forum.
Thanking people for their advice and suggestions and apologizing for my negativity, but not able to resist a chance to reiterate that it does feel inexplicably backward here. And the fiestas and markets and traditions may well be charming in their own right, but there is no attempt to embrace any culture other than their own. At last I received the type of deliciously wicked response I was looking for to cheer me up. I will just quote him directly as I don't think I can put the words any better than he put them himself. Here goes:
"I agree with Christina. After you have lived all over Spain you tend to grow tired of the little communities of people who wrap their own micro-cultures around themselves as an excuse to be ignorant. My god they love a bit of ignorance in Spain! Its not actually one country, more a series of mini-countries, each with their own particular way of cooking fish and their own kinds of fiestas. They tend not to like outsiders or other Spaniards much in a lot of these mini countries."
Harsh? Definitely. Fair? Well, I suppose that depends upon your point of view.
Sigh... so this is the part of the fence that I am sitting on for the present time. A little glass half empty but not beaten yet. And I will grudgingly admit that when I am not complaining about the people and the part of the earth they chose to live in, I am actually developing a new found appreciation for the simple pleasures in life...
Going to Carrefour and filling up a shopping cart to the top with a variety of goodies you simply can't get in the "third world"; Going out for a beer and getting free chunks of tortilla and pieces of ham; a good, strong coffee that always slightly burns the roof of your mouth; football - everywhere all the time; and cooking. Yes; cooking (or watching my boyfriend cook) has become quite a highlight in my otherwise incident free days. Planning and making a meal can kill quite a bit of time...
By the next installment I promise to have done the following things:
Joined a gym
Lost 2 kilos (pure jamon)
Lost this attitude
Started French
Made some friends
Gotten my web sites up and running. You can check out www.gypsyspirit.es if you're interested; there's nothing there yet, but slowly, slowly...
A cackle of laughter escaped from the amply proportioned waitress behind the bar. Her kindly eyes framed by rectangular spectacles dissipated into crows feet as a smile lit up her face. "Jovenes!" she exclaimed, "you came back! 2 copas de Rioja! Quereis?" Before we had time to answer, she had a bottle in her hand, ready to pour. I found it amazing that in a bar crammed wall to wall with people sitting, standing and squatting, not only did she remember us from the week before, she also knew what we had ordered.
But then food and drink are a serious business here in Galicia and I feel as if everything and everyone is conspiring to encourage me to eat. From the plates loaded with roasted chicken, pork, or steaming hot callos that Angel's father sends home from the cafe each day, to this jolly lady refilling our glasses, it's impossible to resist the temptation. Good, strong, red wine; a platter of cured ham, queso azul and chunks of baked pan con tomate are all forces far greater than me.
I glance around, drinking in the scene. It's something like 1 am and there are some children shrieking as they chase each other in a game of tag across the bar. You have to hand it to Spain; in not many places will you see such a variety of ages come together under one roof on a Friday night. Mothers with babies in pushchairs; silver haired pensioners in berets; adolescents with over-sized pants... I would have been mortified going out to a bar with my parents when I was that age.
The fruit machine in the corner throbs out a repetitious jingle broken every now and then by a cacophony of coins dropping into a pile. A gruff-looking man propped against the bar thumps his glass heavily upon the counter "pongame otro!" he barks at the waitress as he pulls out a black cigar from his top pocket and lights up, letting out a hacking, phlegmy cough that originates deep from the bottom of his lungs.
Going out here is like going back in time; when you got home from the pub after a night out and your clothes reeked of cigarettes and your hair stank like an ash tray. I've done so much passive smoking since I arrived I almost want to start again and the abundance of cervezerias and quaint little tapas haunts are fueling my alcoholic tendencies.
So many of my friends have been asking for updates. It's not for lack of time or inherent laziness that I haven't revised my blog. It's just, well, I'm struggling to find my peace with the place. I've been overwhelmingly negative the past few weeks and I was always taught that if you don't have anything nice to say then don't say anything at all.
With the most aging population in Europe and 20% unemployment, the Spanish orgullo has definitely taken a blow. "Crisis" has become the word of the moment and it feels as if Spain's love affair with the EU could be coming to an end. When they joined in 1986, its people were among the most enthusiastic of Europeans. And with good reason; they benefited from generous investment and rebuilt their roads, railways and modern infrastructure. The country prospered from a sky rising property market and the boom was felt by all. But now its payback time and the deficit hangs heavier upon the socialist government's backs each day. There are more eurosceptics than glowing supporters and the infamous Spanish separatist tenancies are on the rise.
More for personal amusement purposes than a real desire to offend, I started a forum on a social networking website, provocatively stating that the young and the bold had long since fled this backwater town, and that it seemed that anyone with half a spark had emigrated, at the very least to the larger cities of Madrid or Barcelona. I received a multitude of responses, the majority scolding for my narrow-mindedness and encouraging me to get out more and discover the striking landscape, deserted beaches and unrivaled selection of seafood.
I had several recommendations of places to visit. On Sunday we took the car and drove along La Costa de la Muerte. An endless dramatic coastline of sandy beaches puntured with villages haphazerdly formed hugging the shore line. More eating, more drinking, a few cobwebs swept away. But still this nagging sensation that this is just not where I want to be; I pushed bak a little further on the forum.
Thanking people for their advice and suggestions and apologizing for my negativity, but not able to resist a chance to reiterate that it does feel inexplicably backward here. And the fiestas and markets and traditions may well be charming in their own right, but there is no attempt to embrace any culture other than their own. At last I received the type of deliciously wicked response I was looking for to cheer me up. I will just quote him directly as I don't think I can put the words any better than he put them himself. Here goes:
"I agree with Christina. After you have lived all over Spain you tend to grow tired of the little communities of people who wrap their own micro-cultures around themselves as an excuse to be ignorant. My god they love a bit of ignorance in Spain! Its not actually one country, more a series of mini-countries, each with their own particular way of cooking fish and their own kinds of fiestas. They tend not to like outsiders or other Spaniards much in a lot of these mini countries."
Harsh? Definitely. Fair? Well, I suppose that depends upon your point of view.
Sigh... so this is the part of the fence that I am sitting on for the present time. A little glass half empty but not beaten yet. And I will grudgingly admit that when I am not complaining about the people and the part of the earth they chose to live in, I am actually developing a new found appreciation for the simple pleasures in life...
Going to Carrefour and filling up a shopping cart to the top with a variety of goodies you simply can't get in the "third world"; Going out for a beer and getting free chunks of tortilla and pieces of ham; a good, strong coffee that always slightly burns the roof of your mouth; football - everywhere all the time; and cooking. Yes; cooking (or watching my boyfriend cook) has become quite a highlight in my otherwise incident free days. Planning and making a meal can kill quite a bit of time...
By the next installment I promise to have done the following things:
Joined a gym
Lost 2 kilos (pure jamon)
Lost this attitude
Started French
Made some friends
Gotten my web sites up and running. You can check out www.gypsyspirit.es if you're interested; there's nothing there yet, but slowly, slowly...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
