No, seriously, mi mancano le parole...

Before I depart on my weekend adventures, I should relay some of the things that happened to me during the week.  It'll be a bit disjointed, so consider yourself warned.  The name of this post was almost "aaaaaahoooooo werewolves of Toledo" because I heard the guy in the apartment above us howling like a wolf this morning.  Seriously.  In his defense, though, they have a baby (I hear it crying sometimes).  Still, I feel like the howling would only make it cry more.  On a different note, I feel like a giant here.  Spaniards are pretty short.  I'm taller than all of the women and around 90% of the men (and another 9% maybe are my height).  It isn't as bad as Japan, but still.  Another note: Veronica found this great picture of the concert I (almost) attended in Santiago:

And she owes me ice cream.  We had a bet on the Italian's age- I said 26 and she said 30.  He's 26.  Hahaha sweet victory!  I met another of my intercambios, Sergio, yesterday.  He's neither really attractive nor really rich (bummer!), but we get along well and he's easy to talk to and understand in both languages.  We had a lovely chat on accents and linguistics.  It was really helpful, actually, though I'm a bit worried about going to Andalucía this weekend.  Apparently they're the Scots of the Spanish-speaking world- impossible to understand, even to native speakers.  Ángeles has mentioned this too.  But, that will all be relayed next week when I return.  On to the title incident.  Seriously, only I would get myself into this situation.  A quick translation: "mi mancano le parole" means "I lack the words" or "I don't know the words" in Italian.  It's usually pretty helpful.  Not so, this time.  So the Italian and I were chatting (which means he was talking and I was struggling to form complete sentences), and we somehow got on the topic of Halloween and/or Carnival costumes.  I, not thinking, brought up the kid at ND who went as a box of Kleenex with a sign that said "blow me" (and you thought we were a Catholic school :).  Guess what doesn't translate?  I at first said something like, "oh, sorry, it's a play on words that doesn't really translate", but he wanted me to explain the joke.  Joder.  I really had no idea how to go about it, seeing as I lacked the pertinent vocabulary in Italian and Spanish (well, most of it anyway), and he had no idea what I was saying in English.  What ensued was probably 10 very awkward minutes that felt like 10 hours of me trying to explain, during which he was like, "what are you talking about and what does it have to do with Kleenex?"  Then he wanted to use word reference (for those who don't know, the best online language dictionary ever), and I explained that it was a phrase that didn't translate literally (and I don't think urban dictionary has a translator).  Then he pulled out a pen and pad of paper and wanted me to draw what I was talking about.  Um, how about no.  Eventually, I just said that it was a sexual reference and left it at that when salvation (a customer) walked through the door.  Joder, ¡Que pregunta!

It looks like Sam and Gollum finally compromised

We Americans do not like to see where our food comes from.  At least, no one I know does.  In Spain, it's exactly the opposite.  It seems like the more eyes, bones, skin, hooves, suckers, whatever, the better.  It takes some getting used to.  I must say, however, that the above dish was delicious.  I imagine the whole pig legs shown here would be a little tougher to eat, though:

  Another comment about food: the Spanish eat sugar for breakfast.  I literally have cookies with hot chocolate every day.  Eggs are a lunch or dinner food here.  Also, I've noticed that Ángeles peels the skin of all fruit before eating it (kiwis- definitely, apples- maybe, but pears? peaches?). 

On a different note, I love my classes!  I have a lot of essays to write (including a 10 page analysis of a painting of my choice), but I don't really mind.  I think the art class will be my favorite, though all of them are interesting.  I've continued with my tradition of nicknaming professors: the art one I call Professor Trelawey (as in Harry Potter).  She kind of reminds me of a bat with huge glasses and a huge mop of hair.  She wears a speaker that looks like a fanny pack with a 70's style headpiece.  Her class is incredible, though.  Another, I call the Gumdrop, as he's shaped like one.  My philosophy professor especially is... different, to say the least.  Enthusiastic would be an understatement.  I haven't really thought of a good nickname for him yet, but I think his favorite phrase is "¡Joder! ¡Que pregunta!"  We watched a civil -war-era film (written by Franco himself) in my cinema class yesterday, and it kind of reminded my of the Godfather (except incredibly cheesy with a Fascist message).  It revolved around a family with three sons and a daughter, and the first scene if the adult children is at the daughter's wedding (during which the best friend/bridesmaid of the sister hits on one of the brothers, though it's all very idealized and platonic in conservative Francoist Spain).  One of the brothers is shot by the enemy around midway through, and another is totally the Fredo of the bunch- the useless weakling with republican sympathies (again, in a fascist country).  He dies, too.  The third is pretty much his father reincarnate and the "ideal" character.  Yeah.  Other than that, we're reading a lot of Julio Cortázar in my narrative class.  He's got to be one of my favorite authors.  It's so nice to enjoy all of my classes for once, instead of just one or two.

I had my first intercambio today!  It was with the woman from the grocery store.  She and her friend (also from the store- it's apparently the place to be) and I chatted in Spanish for an hour or so and I helped her with some English vocabulary and pronunciation.  It was a good experience overall.  It was nice to be the more linguistically skilled one for once.  Speaking of intercambios (and the lack of linguistic skills on my part), I visited the gelato place today and the Italian guy and I are now doing an unofficial intercambio.  I'm pretty excited; hopefully I won't start out next semester quite as silently as this one.  Ah, language.  People always assume I'm Spanish at first and talk to me, ask me directions and about bus lines, etc.  When I respond, though, my American accent is apparently obvious.  It drives me nuts when people assume I can't understand them and try to either say things very, very simply, slowly, and loudly, or speak the few English words they know.  A lady at the bus stop did that the other day.  I wanted to say, "Yes, I have an accent, but my Spanish is better than your English, and I understand more than I speak."  When a couple asked me if bus line 8.1 stopped there and I said that I didn't know (I only concern myself with 6.1 and 6.2), the aforementioned woman said "She's English".  The couple then automatically assumed I had no idea what they had said.  I was like, "Yes, I speak English, but I understand you.  I just don't happen to know if the bus stops here!"  ¡Joder!

The other day, I did some more wandering about Toledo.

I found a place where I could climb up and actually walk on top of the city walls...

... and what has got to be the best hobo shelter I've ever seen down by the river.  This picture doesn't really do it justice.  Good times, though.

Cuatro mujeres y un mar... ¿Hace falta un hombre? (Bernarda Alba not included)

Ah, back from the land of sun, sand, and sea... and ready to write about it in a timely fashion for once.  This weekend, Ángeles, her friend María, María's daughter Sara, and I all drove to Gandía, a lovely town on the Mediterranean near Valencia.  Interesting historical note: Gandía was the dukedom of the Borgia (originally Borja) family.  The notables of this family include Alfonso Borgia (aka Pope Callixtus III), Rodrigo Borgia (aka Pope Alexander VI), Cesare Borgia, and Lucrezia Borgia.  The scenery en route looks a little like Jurassic Park (complete with the occasional parasail- unfortunately not pictured- for those who have seen the 3rd one):

María's family has a seaside apartment with a gorgeous view.  This was my "room" (really a terrace) for the trip:

And the view(s):

The hotel next door was apparently rebuilt recently to resemble a boat.  I can sort of see it.  This is what I like to wear on my balcony too:

The old man and the sea indeed.  Seriously, though, as soon as I hit the senior citizen mark, I'll rock my spanx in public as well.  After arriving late Fri. night, Sat. morning we hit the platja (that's Valencian (a dialect of Catalan) for playa, or beach. Yes, like Galicia, the Comunitat Valenciana has it's own language).  Let's just say that this beach was a bit different than Lake Superior.  Other than the warmth and salinity of the water, look what I found:

Every time I went swimming, I was somewhat terrified of getting stung by one of these suckers.  All the algae in the water didn't help, either.  Whenever a tendril of plant matter wrapped around me (pretty much constantly), I was convinced it was a jellyfish, and I saw enough of them washed up on the beach for my worry to be legitimate.  However, I went swimming anyway.  Another difference: there are actually people here, and we apparently came in the "off" season.  Thus, the beaches are packed from my point of view and empty from that of the Spaniards.

María is the friend from the party who speaks a little English and tries to make sure I understand everything that's going on.  I appreciate it because, while I usually can understand now if someone directly addresses me, dialogue is another thing entirely.  Sometimes, I can follow along well and even participate in the conversation.  Other times, I have no clue what anyone is saying and just kind of nod and smile and try to listen harder.  It's really easy to zone out, though.  It's funny- sometimes I forget what language is being spoken.  This can be good or bad, depending.  Sometimes, if I get into a conversation, I forget to try to understand and generally understand a lot better.  Then, if I reflect on the conversation later, I remember the gist of what was said in English instead of Spanish.  For example, I remember that María said about her earrings, "Oh, you like them?  One of my friends made them," when I complemented her on them (brightly colored snails- very me), but I can't remember what the words were in Spanish.  Obviously, I could translate that in my head and have an approximation, but the point is that I remember things in English still.  On a related note, María asked me something this morning and I was expecting her to speak in English for some reason.  I sat there and stared blankly at her while trying to process why I couldn't make sense of what she was saying.  I had to remind myself to listen for Spanish.  Oddly enough, the opposite sometimes occurs if someone inserts English words into conversation.  Generally, if I don't think about it, it doesn't matter.  Ironically, it's when I try the hardest that I do the worst.  I've started thinking in Spanglish.  For the most part, my thoughts are in English, but sometimes I stop myself and realize that they've been in Spanish for awhile.  They're rather like the half-and-half ice cream cone at dairy queen.  Lets say the vanilla is English (because you always get more vanilla.  Always), and the chocolate is Spanish.  When the machine turns on, I seem to press the middle lever a lot, and it comes out something like: "If we're going 100 km per hour and there's 200 km to Toledo, volvemos en dos horas, mas o menos."  Or, "She asked if I enjoyed the weekend, o algo así."  Whenever I think about writing this blog, I start to work out how I would say things in Spanish before I realize that I can just say whatever I want in English.  What freedom of expression!  I never realized before how many ways there are of saying the same thing, what nuances and humor and double meanings are evident to a native speaker.  I'm learning, though, and that's key.

Sat. night, we went to see a movie, Lope, about the early life of Lope de Vega.  One of the most important figures in Siglo de Oro Baroque literature, one of the best dramatists of the Western world, and author of some 5,000 works, including poems, novels, and plays, de Vega could be said to be the Shakespeare of Spain.  He helped define Spanish theatre and is considered one of the best lyric poets in the Spanish language.  The movie itself was pretty decent, and I followed along well.  What parts of the dialogue I missed were filled in by context.  I'm pretty sure there was more salt in my popcorn than in the sea, though, and I could literally feel my tongue shriveling like a worm in the sun for the last half hour or so.  

Sun, we returned to the beach for a last hurrah, then headed back home.  A comment on the beaches in Spain: tops are optional.  Due to my painfully obvious tan lines, I was a bit self-conscious at first (the skin under my swimsuit is a color I like to call "Boo Radley white"), but when I saw Kitty Kat below (and many others like her), I figured I was all right.

I had a wonderful picture of Ángeles sleeping on the beach, but I told her I wouldn't put it on here.  ¡Qué lástima!

Could you please restrain your eyebrows, sir?

Meeting people is one of my favorite parts of being here.  Other than the great people I've met at the Fund, I've started to talk to the locals now that I understand most of what they are saying.  It's so exciting when someone asks me the time or makes bland conversation about the weather!  I apparently don't seem too out of place until I have to respond.  One of my new friends happens to be Don Quixote:

Taking the bus has been an interesting experience.  I'm at the second to last stop- the bus passes my stop, goes to the last one, then circles back to mine and on to central Toledo.  It's about a 20 min ride.  The first day, I stood on the wrong side of the street and ran after the bus like an idiot when it passed the first time.  When it came around 10 minutes later, the driver was obviously laughing and pointed out the correct stop.  Another thing: the buses are never on time.  NEVER.  The ETA is generally before it passes the first time, so it's usually at least 10 min late.  There are always interesting characters on the ride though.  A man this morning was expounding something or other to the poor bus driver when I got on, and he only shut up when the doors closed in Toledo.  The driver looked like he was going to have a headache for the day, and was probably seriously considering selling all his stuff and moving to Belize to raise tropical fish.  Another man had the craziest eyebrows I have ever seen.  I mean ever.  They were around and inch tall and stuck out the same distance from his forehead.  They started from a common point above his nose and rose in semicircles over his eyes.  The fringe was truly remarkable.  The longest  part was toward the middle, and combed straight up.  Imagine the white fringe on the monkey below much further down the forehead, brown, and swooping down to form a point between the eyes.  Also, imagine a round face not unlike an owl's.  I really wanted to take a picture, but it would've been rude.

Speaking of monkeys, this has got to be one of the creepiest things to hang in a car window.  Look at the face and hands; what are they made out of?  Skin?  It looks like one of those peruvian mummies.  Compare:

On a different note, at the Fund we have the option of doing "intercambios", where we're paired with a Spaniard who wants to learn English.  We talk for an hour or two a week- half the time in Spanish and the other half in English.  There was a dinner last night to meet potential partners.  It was like speed dating only more awkward.  I was lucky, though: I was buying a water bottle at the grocery store earlier that day, when the cashier asked if I was from the Fund.  Once I affirmed that yes, my horrible accent did indeed mean I was from the Fund, she asked if I would be her intercambio partner because she teaches at a bilingual school and needs to learn English.  Hurray!  We're meeting on Tues.  I went to the dinner with my friends anyways, though, and now I have two more intercambios.  One is maybe 40 or so and works at some sort of sheep farm or something (I couldn't really hear well with all the background noise), but in the administrative side of things, and needs to learn English for work.  The other is younger and just wants to learn because it's a good idea, I guess. 

Speaking of meeting people, my friends and I found the best gelato shop outside of Italy.  Probably because one of the owners is Italian.  Anyway, I worked up the courage to use my Italian and ask where the guy working was from in Italy.  Madrid.  Ya.  It figures.  He then proceeded to tell me his life story, how his girlfriend was from Italy and he and her brother own the shop and someday want to go to the US.  Well, the next time I went, I met the actual Italian (who I assume is the aforementioned girlfriend's brother).  We've had some lovely chats.  His name is... Andrea? something that starts with an A, anyway, and he's from Rome, but lived in the Canary Islands for 4 years before moving to Toledo 2 months ago.  Both of them want to practice their English with us, and it's actually kind of nice not to be the one struggling to speak for once.  Anyway, I'm going to be very fat by the end of the semester.

A weekend in Galicia, or, the time I almost saw Carlos Núñez in concert

¡Buenas tardes!  I'm somewhat behind on my posts, but hopefully I can catch up before anything else exciting happens.  This past weekend, a friend, Veronica, and I went to Galicia with Ángeles.  She is originally from a small town around 40 min. away from Santiago de Compostela and returned to visit her parents this weekend.  Located in the north-west, right above portugal, Galicia is mountainous and green-- more akin to northern Europe than the rest of Spain.

Contrast the above pictures with those below, nearer Toledo:

And here's a picture of former mosquitoes, moths, flies, crickets, maybe a butterfly or two.  Oh, and a sunset in the background:

Galicia was originally occupied by Celtic tribes, and the traditional music clearly reflects this.  The gaita, a form of bagpipe, is perhaps the most characteristic of Galician instruments.  This fellow demonstrates his gaita-playing skills and either a traditional hat and vest or a Christmas present from great-aunt Gertrude:

Anyways, the Celts were conquered by the Romans, who built a lovely wall around the city of Lugo (by the way, the name Lugo comes from the name of the Celtic god Lugus, cognate with Lug in Ireland).  Then came the Visigoths and the Moors, though the latter never really had much control in the north.  In 739, Alfonso I incorporated Galicia into the Kingdom of Asturias, and there it remained throughout the reconquista.  An interesting historical note: the Moorish conquest of the Visigoths took 5 years.  The Christian "reconquest" of Spain took around 750 years, ending in 1492 with the fall of Granada to los Reyes Católicos (Ferdinand and Isabella).  Another distinguishing factor of Galicia is it's language, Galego (or Gallego in Castellano, or regular Spanish).  Very similar to Portuguese (and Spanish, for that matter), it is spoken by most inhabitants of Galicia.  Ángeles apparently spoke only Galego until high school.  But, on with the story.  We drove to Lugo (six hours!) with Ángeles on Friday.  After we found a hostel, she continued on to her hometown.  This is what you get for 10€ per person:

A room,

A bathroom sans toilet (it was down the hall... but we did get a bidet. Go figure),

And the Hallway of Sketchiness (it looked a lot more horror-movie-esque in real life).

In spite of the general dilapidation, we weren't killed, tortured, or sold into sex slavery (stop worrying, Mom), and Saturday morning, we took the Greyhound of Spain to Santiago.

Santiago de Compostela may well be my favorite city in Spain.  It is the capital of Galicia and the destination of a pilgrimage route that has existed since the 9th century, as, supposedly, the bones of Saint James the Apostle are underneath the cathedral.  In the middle ages, it was the third most popular pilgrimage sight in Christendom, after Rome and Jerusalem, and many people still walk El Camino today.  To be officially considered a pilgrim and earn an official certificate upon reaching the cathedral, one has to walk at least 100 km.  A credencial, or pilgrim's passport, allows pilgrims to stay in refugios (basically hostels) along the way.  Someday, I plan on walking the Camino.  The scallop shell is the symbol of the route; the various lines converge at the base of the shell, just as the various pilgrimage routes converge in Santiago. 

Some peregrinos:

There are two theories concerning the origin of the name Santiago de Compostela.  Sant Iago = Saint James, obviously, but the Compostela part could come from the Latin "Campus Stellae" (field of stars) or  from the Vulgar Latin "Composita Tella" (burial ground, referring to the interment of St. James there).  Regardless, the "discovery" of the bones of St. James was as much a political move as a religious one.  During the reign of Alfonso II of Asturias, they were officially recognized by the pope.  At this time, the majority of Spain was still under Muslim control, and the bones gave the Christian minority a legitimacy to their cause.  Clearly, God was on their side against the Muslims, and the Iberian peninsula was meant to be Christian.  I met St. James while there, actually:

Here are some views of the cathedral (and the university, in the picture below):

Other than the cathedral, Santiago is a great place to buy silver, jet, and chocolate con churros.  Churros are kind of like fried doughnut sticks, and the hot chocolate is nearly as thick as pudding.  

It was a rare sunny day when we were there, and I must say, I think the city is prettier in the rain.  This year is a Jubilee year (when the feast day of St. James falls on a Sunday), so a ton of people walked the Camino or just came to Santiago as tourists.  We had to hurry to find a hostel before they were all full.  This one was nicer than the last and not picture-worthy, unfortunately.  The line to see the bones (which, by the way, are in a box and rather far away) was incredible:

And it kept going around the corner!  I ended up going to the pilgrim's mass and seeing the Botafumeiro swing again. The Botafumeiro is a huge incense burner that is hoisted up on a rope and swung through the cathedral aisles by several priests.  It apparently came into use during the middle ages because of the smell of the pilgrims.  Considering the personal hygiene of the middle ages, I'm surprised every church didn't invest in one.

Saturday night, there was a free concert by Carlos Núñez and the Galician Symphony Orchestra (or something like that) in the plaza right in front of the cathedral.  Carlos Núñez is probably the most famous gaitero out there--which isn't saying much, granted, but he's pretty big in the folk music world. 

 Anyway, we met up with Ángeles and her friend, Fernando, who also happens to be a professional gaitero.  They met when she took gaita lessons from him.  Anyway, we had amazing seats.  Amazing.  The front row behind the VIP section.

However, I decided to run back to our hostel and grab my jacket, as it was getting cold and we still had half an hour before the concert started.  When I got back, the police had barricaded all of the entrances to the plaza.  I tried to explain that I had a seat, but they wouldn't let me in.  Ángeles tried arguing as well, to no avail.  I wormed my way to the front of the crowd and asked the security guard why we couldn't enter.  He said, "because the administration says so".  Nice.  My new view:

People started chanting "fuera" and "podemos entrar", and yelling about "damn the government" and such.  Several people made a run for it, and the guards chased them with their batons out.  At this point, I was thinking something along the lines of "Oh my God, civil unrest!  I'm going to go to jail in Spain!"  Nothing really came of it, though, except that they called more guards and erected another layer of fencing.  I could hear the music, though, which was what was important.  The title of this post is a bit misleading, because I actually did get to see part of the concert.  About halfway through, the administration apparently had a change of heart and we were let in.

Somehow, things always work out.

Some guy behind me climbed up the fence in front of the cathedral to sell cervexeña fría (galego for "cold beer"), and judging by the dancing of the people around me, I think there were a lot of takers.  In all seriousness, though, it was a great time.  After the concert, I finally found everyone else, and we meandered over to Hostal de los Reyes Católicos (once free housing for pilgrims, now the ritziest hotel in Santiago) so Fernando could chat with Carlos.  Apparently they're buddies.  So, I suppose this post should be more appropriately titled "The time I almost met Carlos Núñez" or "I was five feet from Carlos!", but oh well.  After I almost met Carlos, we went out with Ángeles and Fernando for drinks and tapas.  I had some great octopus.  At night, part of the cathedral casts a shadow like that of a pilgrim:

Fernando, octopus, and a horrible picture of Ángeles and I:

The next morning, we headed back to Lugo to meet up with Ángeles for the ride home.  We wandered around the aforementioned Roman wall for awhile, and found a book sale where Veronica bought Harry Potter in Spanish.  The scenery around Lugo is stunning; it reminds me of pictures I've seen of Austria and Germany.

All in all, a good weekend.