What I saw of Houston didn't exactly leave me burning with desire to come back. But then, what I saw of Houston was a bad motel, a formidable, never ending highway system built to support bumper to bumper morning traffic from a plague of SUVs and people carriers, and a depressing collection of plastic, neon light, fast food outlets.
I would't ever live in suberbian North America where every house looks the same and there's a church and a mall and a McDonalds every ten blocks. After all the flying hours we've put in, my poor travelling partner has more than earned himself a cold beer, on his 31 hour birthday, but the best we can do is a bad burger and unlimited refills of fanta, or something equally unsatisfying.
No one walks anywhere here and we received one of those "are you out of your minds?" looks when we asked about returing to the motel on foot. We soon realized why, as the pedestrian pavement gave way to course, tall, wreathes of prickly grass and swampy weeds underfoot. The mile and a half walk turned into quite a nature trail as the dense undergrouth beagn to plant a sense of trepidation in us as to what exactly might be lurking beneath. The mosquitos began to bite and a spider web danced across my face and shoulders causing me to shriek and spasm like a woman possessed.
Hot. Steamy. Swampy. Remote. And certainly not pedestrian friendly; that was my overwhelming impression of Houston. Although I have to acknowledge that this is perhaps an unfair one. One of my best friends in the world lives here (or somewhere round here) and I trust her judgement. It may be true that we want different things from life, but it's also true that she has exceptional taste. I am willing to come back and see a differnt side to this curious place, which has to offer a more exhilerating culineray experience than Denny's.
I don't know if this is technically correct to say these days, but if I say that we didn't see a single "white" person here, would that cause offence? It's not meant to. It just goes to reinforce what a 'meltingpot' this great land is. I think that everyone from the moment we arrived was of Latin origin, Black, Asian or some palce else. I always thought that Europe was multi-cultual.
From Houston we made a small detour to El Salvador. Despite the absurdly indirect flight path to Honduras, I have to say, both our airport waits coincided perfectly with the world cup fixtures and we were able to watch Spain beat Germany, to the delight of all in the airport bar in San Salvador.
We tried pupusas (corn tortillas filled with cheese, chicharron and frijoles) and local cerveza, both served with a contagious, genuine, ear to ear smile, accompanied with the phrase "a la orden"; something like, "here to serve you".
Our flight was announced and we we sped towards the departure lounge, aware that we had lingered a little too long to see the close of the game. "Ahh" I said to Anko, relieved, "the plane's not even here yet", not realizing that the tin can with wings on the side outside the window was to be our transportation to Tegucigalpa. I exaggerate. I have that tendency. But Anko and I exchanged nervous glances as the engines spluttered into life (one disturbingly later that the other). We sat on the tarmac for a considerable amount of time, fuelling our worst imaginations, before were given the all clear and we taxied towards the runway.
I think the whole plane held its breath as we raced along the surface, gathering speed. "It was nice knowing you" joked Anko, as the little plane lurched into the air and we began to climb, piercing through the air and leaving the lushous green fields and inviting stretches of sandy beaches behind. It was stickily hot as the sun penetrated the window and into my eyes, yet, I couldn't bring myself to pull down the blind, tired and uncomfortable as I was. I was lost in tought. Such a beautiful and rich terrain lay beneath us. How can a country with such fiendly and hard working people, tropical climate, abundance or natural resources and tourist destinations be in such a mess of street gangs, drug cartels and desperate vagabunds whose regard for hunman life has fallen so low that they will kill over a cell phone.
What is El Salvador famous for? Poverty? Crime? A heart-stopping divide between the rich and the poor? I don't know at what time we crossed airspace, but we must have been in Honduran skies as we began to make our descent and my ears started to pop. I have so much to discover here, but I expect that the same troubles that hamper El Salvador's progress also plague Honduras. With an approximate 65% extreme poverty rate, this is not exactly on Conde Naste's top see destinations.
As we circle the capital, it is a sprwaling mass of ramshakle, barely held-together dwellings saturating the various mountain peaks. Tegucigalpa sits in a bowl with shanty towns stretching out over the hills as far as the eye can see. What a stark contrast from touching down in Houston where every house had its own garden or swimming pool, or, at the very least, its own defined space; here it seemed as if the houses were built on top of each other, some with thick plastic tarps serving as rooves.
We were almost at ground level and I still couldn't make out an airport. Feeling as if we were about to collide into a row of houses, I closed my seyes for a second and we thumped down onto the tarmac. I had heard just before I left, that every one out of ten planes that lands here has to sharply pull its nose up and circle round to land again, so short and narrow is the runway.
Well. Here I am. Honduras. This is going to be my home for the next few months, unless I am inept at my job and they send me home sooner. Time will tell. How curious it is to be in a constant internal battle with two sides of yourself. I always say I would be equally happy with a beer and a choripan, a football game and seedy bar, as I am with fine champagne and sushi. But I do like to have access to both. And that's a luxury I can afford.
I feel a little uneasy about staying in a 5 star hotel, while the majority of the people live with constant power cuts, the ongoing menace of street crime and a rising epidemic of Dengue. The people I will meet here move about in armoured cars with stained black windows. If anyone can transcend the worlds of this chaotic place it's me. It will be intersting seeing how.
11 Jul 2010
8 Jul 2010
Madrid-New York-Houston Leg one of the journeny
I have that exhilarating feeling again. The one I get when I am about to get on a plane and go somewhere far away. It’s always tinged with a bittersweet mixture of anticipation for the adventure to come and the remorse for the people left behind. It was heart breaking watching my love get on to a bus and leave me on the platform. I think that my heart literally stopped for a moment and the air drained out of me, leaving me breathless until suddenly escaping out in horrifying gasps. I started to almost run out of the station and against every impulse to turn back and get on the bus with him.
Mine is a life that will always be marked by separation. It’s unsettling, it’s stressful, it’s inconvenient, uncomfortable and… standing here in the line up, it’s a feeling of being truly alive.
Our journey was starting in Madrid and when we got to the airport, the queue was tediously long and we were asked to stand to one side and let people pass, as there seemed to be some problem with our tickets. Both Anko and I became slightly nervous. Justifying a three month vacation to Honduras to an American airline is not an easy task. Exacerbating matters further is the fact that my passport has almost run out of spaces on the pages and several entries and exits from Venezuela don’t work in my favour. And Anko, my travelling partner and manager in Honduras has a collection of stamps from an eye-brow raising variety of why-go destinations, including, Congo, Bosnia, Serbia and El Salvador.
It seems that we have had the misfortune to be attended by a fastidiously meticulous rule abider, and we are forced to wait for some time before being informed that we will be allowed to travel today but that we have a note next to our names exonerating Continental from any responsibility should we be denied access in Honduras. That of course would never happen. If we meet one customs official that fails to be swayed over by my winning smile or a $10 incentive, then this isn’t the Central America I remember. After complying with a banal series of ridiculous questions about where we have left, packed, and organized our luggage, finally we are allowed out of the clutches of this intolerable woman.
It happens to be Anko’s birthday and the poor thing has to put up with a gruelling 15 hours of flying, queuing, inquisition and airline food. Worse still, the American airlines did away with free alcoholic beverages back in the day when suitcases used to hold 32 kilos and the extra time you spent at the airport was used browsing through the duty free rather than placing all your liquids into a plastic bag and taking off your shoes and belts.
Luggage restrictions today are so tight I was told that even with one extra kilo I would have to pay 50 dollars, and we had to do some slightly strategic repacking. Perhaps I look back with rose tinted spectacles, but frankly, flying today just isn’t what it used to be. It’s unpleasant and unfriendly. The seating space in the aircraft is tight enough to give you claustrophobia and the line ups at security enough to make you weep. Especially if you are unfortunate enough to have to transit through the US.
After an uneventful flight, we land rather shakily into the sweltering smog of New York. It’s 40 degrees in the city today and despite being contained in the artificial air of the terminal, the punishing humidity still manages to drag us down and lugging our cases across meters of mechanical runways is no picnic.
We line up and wait to be granted entry into the States, a little nervous that we may be flagged up for our curious travel habits, but other than scanning a few fingerprints and exchanging basic information, finally they were far more “rompebolas” in Spain than here. I am fortunate to have my birthday on American Independence day and seeing the 4th July on my passport is enough to crack a smile out of even the most poker-faced official.
After clearing both security and customs and locating our next departure gate, we realise that we are fortunate enough that our 3 hour stop coincides with the Uruguay-Holland game. We install ourselves into a diner-style bar in front of the TV screen and watch as the game unfolds. The support is definitely with Uruguay and the latino bus boys and wait staff cheer and shout when Uruguay equalise. It wasn’t the result that we were hoping for but a good game never the less and a welcome chance to knock back a couple of beer after our long journey and before the next one.
Looking around at the faces in the airport, it’s the same old U S of A as always. I don’t know if it’s because we are so culturally similar or if it’s just because I’ve been here so many times, but I always feel at home in the States. There is a sort of feeling of continuity as the clothing, customs and slightly comical way of speaking remain the same. Elderly people dressed in smart outfits; finished off with chunky, white sneakers, and a cumbersome belt bag around their waists, sipping on bucket sized cokes.
You can pay for a Starbucks coffee of a dollar with your mastercard.
The average size person is a lot larger than in Europe and the seating space in the aircraft significantly less. A 15% tip is obligatory even if the service is horrible and doing something considered non-conformist, such as cracking a joke, making an ironic comment, or going to, say, Honduras for 3 months, is met with a farcical raising of the eyebrows and a look that could melt the flesh off your bones. They’re not all like that of course. The man beside me with the Southern drawl going to visit his kids in California is a pleasure to converse with and we touch upon several topics of conversation, from the crisis to marriage and travelling.
He is definitely with me on the fact that planes have gotten smaller, the food less tolerable and, depending on the airline, the staff less welcoming.
I get up to go to the bathroom and the overtly gay flight attendant barks at me and another man waiting to get into the kitchen and (eyerolling) out of the way of his snack cart. As we make way he shoots me a filthy look “he was before you, you know, don’t you cut him!” His female companion who is about two shades up on the charisma scale, rolls her eyes and he asks her if there’s anything he can do for her “sweety”. She responds with “I wanna be back in Houston and not at work”, so that was nice to hear.
Tonight we will be stopping in an airport hotel in Houston and tomorrow destination Honduras. I’m not really nervous anymore. More curious.The last time I was in Honduras I had a budget of about $3 a day and stayed in a converted prison, lived off food from street sellers and filtered water with an iodine dispensing device to avoid buying bottles. This time around I will be staying in a 5 star hotel and shaking hands with presidents and ministers. It’s definitely going to be different.
I only found out about a week ago. I was told to prepare myself for Africa or Asia and at the last minute, was given Latin America and Eastern Europe. I couldn’t be happier. It seems I’m destined to be here in this continent.
So what do I know about Honduras at this stage? The leftist Chevez buddy, Zelaya, was removed from power at pistol point in the middle of the night almost exactly a year ago and is now residing as a guest in the Dominican Republic. The new government elect (it is important to say “elect” despite being initiate bedfellows with the military and rightist sector). There are about 40 assaults on buses a week and 60% of the rural population is at risk of dengue. The country is plagued by drug rings and narcotraffic, and 9 journalists were recently murdered.
Most of this information is from my father, who sent me several mails about the state of the country, entitled “report on Honduras, It sounds absolutely horrendous.”
But the truth is, all this negative publicity is one of the main reasons we go to these countries. To redress some of that bad coverage and give these countries the chance to show what they have to offer for foreign investors. And of course to see them some space in our reports. Keep you posted! Well, tomorrow will be touching down in Tegucigalpa... keep you posted.
Mine is a life that will always be marked by separation. It’s unsettling, it’s stressful, it’s inconvenient, uncomfortable and… standing here in the line up, it’s a feeling of being truly alive.
Our journey was starting in Madrid and when we got to the airport, the queue was tediously long and we were asked to stand to one side and let people pass, as there seemed to be some problem with our tickets. Both Anko and I became slightly nervous. Justifying a three month vacation to Honduras to an American airline is not an easy task. Exacerbating matters further is the fact that my passport has almost run out of spaces on the pages and several entries and exits from Venezuela don’t work in my favour. And Anko, my travelling partner and manager in Honduras has a collection of stamps from an eye-brow raising variety of why-go destinations, including, Congo, Bosnia, Serbia and El Salvador.
It seems that we have had the misfortune to be attended by a fastidiously meticulous rule abider, and we are forced to wait for some time before being informed that we will be allowed to travel today but that we have a note next to our names exonerating Continental from any responsibility should we be denied access in Honduras. That of course would never happen. If we meet one customs official that fails to be swayed over by my winning smile or a $10 incentive, then this isn’t the Central America I remember. After complying with a banal series of ridiculous questions about where we have left, packed, and organized our luggage, finally we are allowed out of the clutches of this intolerable woman.
It happens to be Anko’s birthday and the poor thing has to put up with a gruelling 15 hours of flying, queuing, inquisition and airline food. Worse still, the American airlines did away with free alcoholic beverages back in the day when suitcases used to hold 32 kilos and the extra time you spent at the airport was used browsing through the duty free rather than placing all your liquids into a plastic bag and taking off your shoes and belts.
Luggage restrictions today are so tight I was told that even with one extra kilo I would have to pay 50 dollars, and we had to do some slightly strategic repacking. Perhaps I look back with rose tinted spectacles, but frankly, flying today just isn’t what it used to be. It’s unpleasant and unfriendly. The seating space in the aircraft is tight enough to give you claustrophobia and the line ups at security enough to make you weep. Especially if you are unfortunate enough to have to transit through the US.
After an uneventful flight, we land rather shakily into the sweltering smog of New York. It’s 40 degrees in the city today and despite being contained in the artificial air of the terminal, the punishing humidity still manages to drag us down and lugging our cases across meters of mechanical runways is no picnic.
We line up and wait to be granted entry into the States, a little nervous that we may be flagged up for our curious travel habits, but other than scanning a few fingerprints and exchanging basic information, finally they were far more “rompebolas” in Spain than here. I am fortunate to have my birthday on American Independence day and seeing the 4th July on my passport is enough to crack a smile out of even the most poker-faced official.
After clearing both security and customs and locating our next departure gate, we realise that we are fortunate enough that our 3 hour stop coincides with the Uruguay-Holland game. We install ourselves into a diner-style bar in front of the TV screen and watch as the game unfolds. The support is definitely with Uruguay and the latino bus boys and wait staff cheer and shout when Uruguay equalise. It wasn’t the result that we were hoping for but a good game never the less and a welcome chance to knock back a couple of beer after our long journey and before the next one.
Looking around at the faces in the airport, it’s the same old U S of A as always. I don’t know if it’s because we are so culturally similar or if it’s just because I’ve been here so many times, but I always feel at home in the States. There is a sort of feeling of continuity as the clothing, customs and slightly comical way of speaking remain the same. Elderly people dressed in smart outfits; finished off with chunky, white sneakers, and a cumbersome belt bag around their waists, sipping on bucket sized cokes.
You can pay for a Starbucks coffee of a dollar with your mastercard.
The average size person is a lot larger than in Europe and the seating space in the aircraft significantly less. A 15% tip is obligatory even if the service is horrible and doing something considered non-conformist, such as cracking a joke, making an ironic comment, or going to, say, Honduras for 3 months, is met with a farcical raising of the eyebrows and a look that could melt the flesh off your bones. They’re not all like that of course. The man beside me with the Southern drawl going to visit his kids in California is a pleasure to converse with and we touch upon several topics of conversation, from the crisis to marriage and travelling.
He is definitely with me on the fact that planes have gotten smaller, the food less tolerable and, depending on the airline, the staff less welcoming.
I get up to go to the bathroom and the overtly gay flight attendant barks at me and another man waiting to get into the kitchen and (eyerolling) out of the way of his snack cart. As we make way he shoots me a filthy look “he was before you, you know, don’t you cut him!” His female companion who is about two shades up on the charisma scale, rolls her eyes and he asks her if there’s anything he can do for her “sweety”. She responds with “I wanna be back in Houston and not at work”, so that was nice to hear.
Tonight we will be stopping in an airport hotel in Houston and tomorrow destination Honduras. I’m not really nervous anymore. More curious.The last time I was in Honduras I had a budget of about $3 a day and stayed in a converted prison, lived off food from street sellers and filtered water with an iodine dispensing device to avoid buying bottles. This time around I will be staying in a 5 star hotel and shaking hands with presidents and ministers. It’s definitely going to be different.
I only found out about a week ago. I was told to prepare myself for Africa or Asia and at the last minute, was given Latin America and Eastern Europe. I couldn’t be happier. It seems I’m destined to be here in this continent.
So what do I know about Honduras at this stage? The leftist Chevez buddy, Zelaya, was removed from power at pistol point in the middle of the night almost exactly a year ago and is now residing as a guest in the Dominican Republic. The new government elect (it is important to say “elect” despite being initiate bedfellows with the military and rightist sector). There are about 40 assaults on buses a week and 60% of the rural population is at risk of dengue. The country is plagued by drug rings and narcotraffic, and 9 journalists were recently murdered.
Most of this information is from my father, who sent me several mails about the state of the country, entitled “report on Honduras, It sounds absolutely horrendous.”
But the truth is, all this negative publicity is one of the main reasons we go to these countries. To redress some of that bad coverage and give these countries the chance to show what they have to offer for foreign investors. And of course to see them some space in our reports. Keep you posted! Well, tomorrow will be touching down in Tegucigalpa... keep you posted.
4 Jun 2010
Reflections on a life-changing week
I stare out of the window and watch as rolling hills give way to an unbroken horizon of flat, scorched earth. Every now and again a smattering of blood red poppies or shock purple lavender spring from the otherwise infertile soils.
The dry cracks in the thirsty earth are a sign that the land is already straining under the punishingly hot sun. This part of Spain probably won't see rain now for months until the last dieing days of summer surrender to Autumn and the heat loses its potency.
The La Coruña - Madrid run is of course less tedious by plane, but after the non-stop mental efforts of the past week, it's rather pleasant to sit back and let the train's soothing rythm pull me through the agricultural terrain.
The rugged wilderness is sporadically interrupted by shining white parades of giant freestanding structures, otherwise known as wind turbines; great generators of kinetic electricity. Spain is now the world's number one investor in wind energy. This brilliant new renewable source is of course not without its controversy; their awesome presence is undeniable.
The naysayers lament their negative aesthetics, bemoaning that they blight the landscape with their over-whelming height. Personally, I love them. Aside from the fact that wind energy plants tend to be erected in barren places that God himself has forsaken, to me they represent a solid human commitment to the preservation of the very lands the critics say they spoil. Majestic towers of strength, literally breathing life and sustainability into our earth.
It's not hard to see why Spain is in such a financial pickle. President Zapatero has ploughed through public funds with greater speed than a fashion victim in a sample sale. Since I was last here in 2005 the Madrid metro has expanded like the tentacles of an octopus, and there are new roads and highways, energy plants and a formidable banking network, Santander, with a branch on every corner and a continually growing foreign presence.
A hefty percentage of the country is claiming unemployment benefits equivalent to 80% of their salary. Many of them are of course actively looking for work - this I don't dispute - and it's not easy. However, with a system that requires face-to-face checking in less than every two months, there are a considerable amount of beneficiaries who are simply not here. A sizable chunk of state money has funded many a backpacking trip around South America.
A jolt in the train disturbs my thoughts and I am brought back to my surroundings. I survey the scene and the passengers around me, yawning; snoring; chewing on gum. My attention is caught by the Japanese man across the aisle. I am quite fascinated by him. I can't help wondering what he is doing here in this corner of the world and why he would be on his way from Madrid to La Coruña, by himself.
Some banal North American teenage movie is playing on the fuzzy TV screen, but my headphones don't work. I can't say I am too upset about it; I'm lost in thought anyway. The Japanese man's face breaks into a giant beaming smile and i think i hear a chuckle escape from his lips. He is apparently engrossed in the selected entertainment. I wonder again what his story is. You don't see many Asians in this part of the world, sadly, unless they are the other side of a counter in a corner supermarket, or rushing past in a herd, in a whirl of camera flashes and video tapes, following a guide with a flag.
The countryside begins to change again. We must be in Galicia; the sun has dissipated into a haze of clouds and the earth is fresh and dewy once more. The occasional farm house is solidly built out of yellow sandstone and there are people dotted about wearing berets.
I'm not going to lie. It will be hard to go back after the week I have just had. I spent four days trying to prove myself in a training for a job that I was born to do. I shared a room with talented, multi-lingual, educated, well travelled and interesting young people from Colombia, France, Holland and Spain. Quick-witted and skilled minds that were a joy to converse with.
I was challenged. I was pushed. I was tested and frankly just "on" all week. I was videotaped; prepared presentations about investment opportunities in Congo Brazzaville and fictitious interviews with the President of Red Uruguay bank. I role played being a dazzling and brilliant executive and every move I made I carefully ensured was appropriate.
It was stuffy in the room, and the AC dried out my contact lenses. It was exhausting; like being in a week long interview which culminated in a final review with 4 members of the company’s team in English, Spanish, French and Portuguese. Every day the fire inside me for this job growing (along with the gnawing fear that they wouldn't give it to me).
I definitely hear a laugh from the Japanese man. I look over and he smiles at me apologetically. I smile back. I think I will always be drawn towards the different... The people who don't quite fit. The ones who make you think. Wait for me world. I'm coming.
The dry cracks in the thirsty earth are a sign that the land is already straining under the punishingly hot sun. This part of Spain probably won't see rain now for months until the last dieing days of summer surrender to Autumn and the heat loses its potency.
The La Coruña - Madrid run is of course less tedious by plane, but after the non-stop mental efforts of the past week, it's rather pleasant to sit back and let the train's soothing rythm pull me through the agricultural terrain.
The rugged wilderness is sporadically interrupted by shining white parades of giant freestanding structures, otherwise known as wind turbines; great generators of kinetic electricity. Spain is now the world's number one investor in wind energy. This brilliant new renewable source is of course not without its controversy; their awesome presence is undeniable.
The naysayers lament their negative aesthetics, bemoaning that they blight the landscape with their over-whelming height. Personally, I love them. Aside from the fact that wind energy plants tend to be erected in barren places that God himself has forsaken, to me they represent a solid human commitment to the preservation of the very lands the critics say they spoil. Majestic towers of strength, literally breathing life and sustainability into our earth.
It's not hard to see why Spain is in such a financial pickle. President Zapatero has ploughed through public funds with greater speed than a fashion victim in a sample sale. Since I was last here in 2005 the Madrid metro has expanded like the tentacles of an octopus, and there are new roads and highways, energy plants and a formidable banking network, Santander, with a branch on every corner and a continually growing foreign presence.
A hefty percentage of the country is claiming unemployment benefits equivalent to 80% of their salary. Many of them are of course actively looking for work - this I don't dispute - and it's not easy. However, with a system that requires face-to-face checking in less than every two months, there are a considerable amount of beneficiaries who are simply not here. A sizable chunk of state money has funded many a backpacking trip around South America.
A jolt in the train disturbs my thoughts and I am brought back to my surroundings. I survey the scene and the passengers around me, yawning; snoring; chewing on gum. My attention is caught by the Japanese man across the aisle. I am quite fascinated by him. I can't help wondering what he is doing here in this corner of the world and why he would be on his way from Madrid to La Coruña, by himself.
Some banal North American teenage movie is playing on the fuzzy TV screen, but my headphones don't work. I can't say I am too upset about it; I'm lost in thought anyway. The Japanese man's face breaks into a giant beaming smile and i think i hear a chuckle escape from his lips. He is apparently engrossed in the selected entertainment. I wonder again what his story is. You don't see many Asians in this part of the world, sadly, unless they are the other side of a counter in a corner supermarket, or rushing past in a herd, in a whirl of camera flashes and video tapes, following a guide with a flag.
The countryside begins to change again. We must be in Galicia; the sun has dissipated into a haze of clouds and the earth is fresh and dewy once more. The occasional farm house is solidly built out of yellow sandstone and there are people dotted about wearing berets.
I'm not going to lie. It will be hard to go back after the week I have just had. I spent four days trying to prove myself in a training for a job that I was born to do. I shared a room with talented, multi-lingual, educated, well travelled and interesting young people from Colombia, France, Holland and Spain. Quick-witted and skilled minds that were a joy to converse with.
I was challenged. I was pushed. I was tested and frankly just "on" all week. I was videotaped; prepared presentations about investment opportunities in Congo Brazzaville and fictitious interviews with the President of Red Uruguay bank. I role played being a dazzling and brilliant executive and every move I made I carefully ensured was appropriate.
It was stuffy in the room, and the AC dried out my contact lenses. It was exhausting; like being in a week long interview which culminated in a final review with 4 members of the company’s team in English, Spanish, French and Portuguese. Every day the fire inside me for this job growing (along with the gnawing fear that they wouldn't give it to me).
I definitely hear a laugh from the Japanese man. I look over and he smiles at me apologetically. I smile back. I think I will always be drawn towards the different... The people who don't quite fit. The ones who make you think. Wait for me world. I'm coming.
21 May 2010
Viva Madrid!
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.
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.
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...
15 Apr 2010
Life in La Coruña. First observations.
La Couruña, Spain. It has been a journey to get here. Both mentally and physically. In the six weeks since leaving Buenos Aires I have bought a piece of land in Uruguay, gotten to know the ins and outs of Montevido from the back of a moterbike, spent time with my family in England and finally moned into a new apartment here in Galicia. I miss my friends and the energy and pace of Buenos Aires. The people here seem to have been formed by the climate; hard and relentless; cold and unwelcoming. Although if you look hard enough every now and again there is a break in the clouds and the warmth shines through.
There is a notable lack of youth. This city is teemed with cafeterias and cervezarias all taken over by mobs of white haired retirees and fur-clad ladies with excess makeup, playing cards and smoking cigarettes with equal vigor. The card playing ladies are formidable. They know what they like and are very vocal about what they don´t: foreigners; vegetarians; non-smokers and cold drinks. What´s a Masters in Business Administration here? If you don´t know the rules of ludo, you will never be part of the club.
I don´t feel so much as if I am in Spain, as a neighboring country called Galicia. Here the language is gallego and it doesn´t matter if you don´t speak it as they will carry on regardless. I don´t think I will mix with the same cultured, talented, youthful and fun-loving set of friends I had in South America, yet lack of refinery aside, they do have a certain endearing charm. There are no airs and graces here. People tell it like it is with an arresting directness that can leave you breathless. When Angel gave one of his clients at the cafe his bill he came back with "Vale. Voy a cagar y te pago!"
Lifestyle and cultural adjustments aside, I think I can learn to be happy here and I have to remember why I am doing this. I am still eating and drinking in the new tastes, smells and customs. The coffee culture is so appealing and the popping out for a glass of full bodied house Rioja, with a tapita of jamon serrano something I am relishing once again. We went out for pulpo gallego with Angel´s father and were led into a dark basement and served at a wooden table by a waiter with barely any vocal chords. Steaming bowls of purple tentacles were served with wooden sticks and washed down with crisp, white wine in ceramic jars.
One of my favorite times of day is the morning, when Angel goes to work and I rob a few hours to myself (I do miss the alone time I had so much of, although life in a couple is great). I potter around the apartment or go out for fresh baked bollos of pan and eat tostadas with aceite de oliva, or go and explore the rincones of this pretty city with the eyes of a silent observer.
We are a strange combination here. An inglesa and a Uruguyan. Although the people here don´t share the same South American curisity and it matters little. Although we raise a few eyebwors taking the matera to the beach. It is not something that people do here and any change in the normal is not easily taken. Slowly, slowly, softly, softly I will make this new life work...
There is a notable lack of youth. This city is teemed with cafeterias and cervezarias all taken over by mobs of white haired retirees and fur-clad ladies with excess makeup, playing cards and smoking cigarettes with equal vigor. The card playing ladies are formidable. They know what they like and are very vocal about what they don´t: foreigners; vegetarians; non-smokers and cold drinks. What´s a Masters in Business Administration here? If you don´t know the rules of ludo, you will never be part of the club.
I don´t feel so much as if I am in Spain, as a neighboring country called Galicia. Here the language is gallego and it doesn´t matter if you don´t speak it as they will carry on regardless. I don´t think I will mix with the same cultured, talented, youthful and fun-loving set of friends I had in South America, yet lack of refinery aside, they do have a certain endearing charm. There are no airs and graces here. People tell it like it is with an arresting directness that can leave you breathless. When Angel gave one of his clients at the cafe his bill he came back with "Vale. Voy a cagar y te pago!"
Lifestyle and cultural adjustments aside, I think I can learn to be happy here and I have to remember why I am doing this. I am still eating and drinking in the new tastes, smells and customs. The coffee culture is so appealing and the popping out for a glass of full bodied house Rioja, with a tapita of jamon serrano something I am relishing once again. We went out for pulpo gallego with Angel´s father and were led into a dark basement and served at a wooden table by a waiter with barely any vocal chords. Steaming bowls of purple tentacles were served with wooden sticks and washed down with crisp, white wine in ceramic jars.
One of my favorite times of day is the morning, when Angel goes to work and I rob a few hours to myself (I do miss the alone time I had so much of, although life in a couple is great). I potter around the apartment or go out for fresh baked bollos of pan and eat tostadas with aceite de oliva, or go and explore the rincones of this pretty city with the eyes of a silent observer.
We are a strange combination here. An inglesa and a Uruguyan. Although the people here don´t share the same South American curisity and it matters little. Although we raise a few eyebwors taking the matera to the beach. It is not something that people do here and any change in the normal is not easily taken. Slowly, slowly, softly, softly I will make this new life work...
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