What a Day: La Fiesta de Moralzarzol

Sunday was a day that I will never forget for the rest of my natural life. We had been planning for a few weeks to go with our “amigos” (basically people who volunteer to baby sit us and show us around) up to the wee pueblo of Moralzarzol to partake in their annual fiesta. For those who aren’t familiar with Spanish custom, pretty much every small town and village in Spain has its own little festival – involving a variety of different things from parades to bull fights – over the span of several days. They’re a huge source of pride, and the citizens actually pay a tax to fund these fiestas every year. This particular town was throwing theirs on Sunday, and we were going to get to go. On paper the trip sounded innocent enough. When I left my house at 7 that morning, no tenía ni idea. I had no idea what was to come.

After a quick trip on the Metro, Dylan and I got to the bus station around 7:30 Sunday morning. Madrid is not a morning person on the weekends, so at this point very few people were out and about. More specifically, very few people were on their way out; most seemed to be groggily making their way home after what had to have been a crazy night. One guy in particular  had had a little too much fun the night before. As a group of sweet, nice-looking old ladies entered the station, he began to forcefully request oral sex from any or all of them, complete with appropriate hand-gestures. When they refused, he smacked his forehead repeatedly, shouting “Get back here!” (all in Spanish, of course). Not satisfied with this display of frustration, he realized he needed someone else to appreciate his plee. That’s when he noticed me and Dylan. “All I wanted was for them to ———-” he complained. Naturally, we ignored him. Unfortunately, he was persistent. He came closer, until he was standing right next to Dylan. “All I wanted was for them to ——–” he shouted. When he was once again met with silence, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small package. “Es cocaina. Tomalo. ¡Tomalo!” It’s cocaine. Take it. He then reared back, and as hard as he could kicked the mettle ledge we were sitting on. Terrified, we walked away from him as fast as we could, but like I said, he was persistent. He followed us around the corner. Followed us to the snack machine. Followed us back to the bench. All the while shouting “No me oyes?” Don’t you hear me? I didn’t know what to do. I was certain we were about to get attacked by a coke head in this random ass bus station. Fortunately for us, he gave up after a while, but not before making a wild swipe at Dylan, grazing his back as we walked away. That was all before 8 o’clock.

When we finally got to Moralzarzol, it looked like war zone. There were broken bottles, empty cans, and trash scattered throughout the streets. The only survivors had obviously given the Sandman the slip the night before, and were somehow still staggering around the only bar still open, which conveniently doubled as the bus station. As drunk as they were, however, they immediately recognized us as Americans. “Come on, babies! Come to the party!” They shouted in English as they stumbled toward us. In the end, they turned out to be pretty amiable and we had a long conversation with this girl and her boyfriend (?), who seemed to take a particular interest in me. After offering me his beer for the fourth time, and me denying it for the fourth time, he decided it was time for me to go with him to get my own. Every time I declined he got more and more upset. He was leaving soon and he had to have a drink with me before I left. Eventually his friend came over and convinced him to leave. I thought I was in the clear, but as he was walking away, he cupped my face in his hand and gave it a nice, tender stroke. “Mucho gusto.” What the heck?

Finally, our amigos found us and took us over to the main part of town, which was absolutely deserted. It was from there that we were going to watch the encierros de los toros, or the running of the bulls. By standing on the fence that lined the main street, we were able to get a pretty good view of the bulls, but the real excitement didn’t start until we went inside the stadium. Apparently, after the running it’s tradition to bring one of the smaller bulls into the ring and let the people (literally just anyone from the street) come play.

This is the one who jumped the entire bull

About thirty men, most of them drunk, crowded the ring and taunted the bull to charge, dodging the horns – which fortunately had the points cut off – at the last minute. It seemed crazy, and we knew, and secretly hope, eventually someone was going to get it. Then it happened. One guy, a boy of just 19 years, was a little too slow with his dodge, and the bull caught him square on the butt, lifting him maybe six or seven feet into the air. When he tried to get up, the bull was too fast, and once again flung him up into the air. This happened at least half a dozen times, then the bull just started crushing him into the ground. Everyone had surrounded the bull and people were pulling on its tail until they finally got it to move. All of this occurred over less than a minute, but it seemed like an eternity. I felt like I was going to throw up, and everyone seemed pretty shocked, but as soon as the guy was out of the ring the play continued. After a few minutes they let the bull leave, and brought in a new one, but this time they only let professionals in to tempt the bull. These guys were good. They were dodging horns by inches, and one guy (obviously the best one there) jumped over the entire bull as it charged him. It was pretty sweet.

Afterwards we hit the streets to festejar.  The main street was just one big street party, complete with make-shift outdoor bars, speakers lining the road, and a dj. For those Savannians reading, imagine River Street on St. patrick’s Day, but with fewer people. At one point, a band of dancers and drummers came through with two gigantes y cabezudos. It was so much fun! By four that afternoon we were all exhausted and left our amigos to return back to Madrid, where I’m sure most of us just crashed. It was, after all, quite a day. Thanks to Lauren for taking these photos.

Gigantes y Cabezudos

¡Así! ¡Así! ¡Así gana Madríd!

Is this real life?

Tuesday night was so unbelievable that I think it deserves it’s own special post. Last week, Blake happened to realize that on September 18th, there would be a UEFA Champions League game taking place right under our noses in the legendary Santiago Bernabéu stadium. For one night, we had the opportunity to see Real Madrid and Manchester City, two of the most famous club teams in Europe, battle it out on the pitch. If we didn’t go, it would surely be one of our biggest regrets. Unfortunately, fate seemed to be against us. When Blake tried to buy the tickets online, the vendor wouldn’t except his cards.  When he logged out to try again, all of the tickets appeared to be sold out. It was a heartbreaker, but what can you do?

One week later, on the day of the game, we decided we couldn’t just give up that easily. Right after class we hopped on the Metro and booked it to Bernabéu to see if we could secure a couple of entradas. The atmosphere around the stadium was already exciting, with vendors setting up stalls and news crews taking B roll of the pre-game vibe (did I mention that special features about this game were rolling every 30 minutes on Madrid tv?). When we go to the window, it seemed our luck had turned; we were able to buy not two, but seven tickets all in one bunch in not the worst section. When I got home, my madre was shocked we had found any at all, much less for 75 euros (tickets for El Clasico are going for 349 euros). Needless to say I was pretty pumped.

We decided to meet at the stadium about 2 hours before the game to take in the scene, but things were already going crazy on the Metro. The light blue of City fans flooded the cars, and their proud, drunken chanting reverberated throughout the entire train. It was nuts, and we hadn’t even gotten above ground. Once we got outside the stadium, it was like Madrid had erupted. People were literally everywhere, chanting and yelling and singing and cursing their rivals. All of the City fans seemed to be gathered outside one bar, piss drunk and having the time of their lives. Even though we were rooting for Madrid, this was obviously where we wanted to be. Eventually we struck up a conversation with one manchester bloke (who’s accent we could barely understand) who spent most of the time convincing us to go to some island in the Canaries. “If you have a shit time, I’ll pay for your plane tickets myself. I’ve been going for years and I’ve never had a shit time. Unless you’re gay. You aren’t gay are you? If you’re gay go to Grand Canary.” Obviously he wasn’t quite of sound mind. After hanging out with him and his creepy friends for a while, it was time to go into the stadium.

When we got to our seats we were absolutely amazed. We were pretty high up, but could clearly see everything that was going on on the pitch, and our slight diagonal angle made for a great viewing place for such cheap tickets. The atmosphere of the stadium made it all the better. All of the City fans were sequestered into one section and they were going nuts, naturally. The Madrid fans were much more complacent (Real Madrid isn’t known for having the strongest of followings), but the energy was still high. All through the game people were cheering, shouting things I can’t repeat here, and whistling. Instead of booing, whenever something bad happens, Spanish fans let out a high, piercing whistle that makes your head feel like it’s about to explode. It was awesome. The game itself got off to a pretty slow start with Madrid dominating most of the possesion. At half time, true to Spanish tradition, literally everyone pulled out an aluminum-foil wrapped bocadillo for dinner. It was so funny to watch.

After City’s first goal

At about the 60th minute things finally started to pick up when Man City scored the first goal. It was heartbreaking, but Real Madrid evened it up within a few short minutes. After City’s second goal, a lot of people starting leaving the stadium. With so little time left, it seemed impossible that Madrid would tie it up, much less win. But were they ever wrong. The last fifteen minutes were the most exciting of the game – maybe the most exciting I’ve seen – ending with a 90th minute clincher by Christian Ronaldo himself. The stadium went absolutely nuts. It was one of the coolest things I have ever experienced. It’s just now sinking in that I was at this game. That I saw this in person. If I never go to another soccer game in my life I will still die a happy man.

Góstame Moito Galiza

My gallego up in the title may not be perfect, but one thing is for certain: I love Galicia. When we boarded the bus on

Dylan on our tour of Madrid

Thursday I really had no idea what to expect. A weekend full of long, overloaded tours (like the painful walking tour of Madrid)? Maybe. Sight-seeing out the wazoo? Possibly. Following Massei around like a bunch of lost puppies? Probably. I had been told it was beautiful country, but what could I really expect?

 Turns out I should have expected the unexpected. From the minute we arrived in A Coruña it was like a dream. The four star hotel (yes, four stars) had beds that made our mattresses in Madrid seem like a bed of nails, the full shower had all the hot water you could ask for (Blake didn’t even have to light the pilot for the water heater before he got in), and dinner was included. Glorious dinner. Three courses of amazing, make-your-tongue-slap-the-roof-of-your-mouth-so-good gallego food and bottles upon bottles of even better gallego wine – gallego white wine is apparently lauded for its excellence. It was comical to compare it to what Furman students might have been doing at the time.

Spain?

The scenery is everything they said it would be and more. Imagine taking Scotland, adding a pinch of Mediterranean flavor, and finishing it off with just a hint of Spain – so little you can barely taste it – and you have Galicia. Thanks to los celtos – a celtic people who originally settled the area – Galicia has more celtic influence than anything else, and the cool, moist air of the Gulf Stream provides plenty of thirst-quenching agua for the lush flora so different from Madrid’s dusty terrain. However, the most noticeable difference is the presence of the Rías. Over time, the Atlantic Ocean has worn it’s way farther and farther into the Galician coast, creating these fingerlike rivers that originate not from a lake or spring, but from the ocean itself. Mixed with the grassy, hilly terrain and steep cliffs of Galicia, these “rivers” bear an uncanny resemblance to Scottish lochs. It was hard to believe I was even still in Spain.

View from the Torre de Hercules

Our stay in A Coruña was packed with activity. We spent most of Friday riding from place to place in the bus with Maria, our tour guide for the day, who – true to the Spanish tour guide tradition – talked incessantly. Nevertheless we saw some truly beautiful places: a small fishing town with an open air market and some medieval guard towers; old, granite churches dating back to the first centuries AD; old castles and vistas galore; and, most importantly, the Torre de Hércules. Built by the Romans on a sliver of land jutting out into the Atlantic, the Tower of Hercules originally served two purposes: that of a lighthouse to warn the ships at sea, and that of a landmark to signify what they thought was the edge of the world. Up till that point, the Romas had never given thought to the existence of something like the Americas. Needless to say the view was breathtaking.

From A Coruña we journeyed on to Santiago de Compostela, where the remains of Santiago (or Saint James) were purportedly revealed to a lone shepherd by a shining star. Originally on the peninsula to convert pagans, Santiago eventually became a huge legend in Spain, especially after his execution and miraculous return to Galicia (on a boat with no sails or oars, borne solely by the current of God). During the Reconquista of Spain from the hands of the Muslims, Santiago was said to appear to Spanish soldiers as a mounted warrior, a sign of good luck in coming battles. Thus, St. James became Santiago “matamoros” or St. James “Moor Killer.” When the remains of this icon were discovered in the “field of the star,” a small church was constructed to honor his resting place. Consequently, the small shrine has grown into an ornate cathedral dating back to the 11th century and its surrounding city. Now, Santiago de Compostela is the third most religious city in the Christian world, marking the end of the popular pilgrimage route, Camino de Santiago. We managed to see all of the hot spots of the city, including the cathedral, various monasteries, and whatnot on the first day. Due to all of the pilgrims in the town, Santiago has a very interesting vibe. Unlike other touristy towns, the religious aspect – and the satisfaction of those completing the camino – provides for a unique atmosphere of brotherly love and awe, something A Coruña seemed to lack. Naturally, the next day was packed with activity. We travelled all around the Rías Bajas(the southernmost of the river/loch things) on the bus seeing more than anyone could possibly digest. In a small town called Embarro (I think; we could never actually figure out where we were) we went on a boat tour of the bay to see how they cultivated mussels and other shellfish. What started as a pretty typical harbor tour took a turn for the better when they brought out plates upon plates of steamed mussels and, of course, bottles of wine. By the end of the trip, we were essentially having a giant dance party on the upper deck. It was awesome. Afterwards we travelled around some more, stopping long enough in another small town for some of us to take a quick dip the Ría, and headed home.

By the end of the weekend everyone was thoroughly exhausted. We had done, seen, eaten, and experienced more in four days than I could possibly imagine, but it was so far the best weekend of the trip, and well worth the exhaustion. If I had been hesitant at first to believe that Galicia could possibly be so amazing, every bit of doubt has been erased from my mind by this excursion. It was truly unbelievable, and I can’t wait until the next one. If you want to see more photos, check out my Flikr slideshow here. But, for now I must leave you here to get ready for my first Champions League soccer game. No rest for the weary right?

Vivo por la Marcha

Spaniards are party animals. That’s all there is to it. Oh there have been plenty of clues along the way. The sheer amount of clubs and bars. The buhos, an entire line of buses running from 1:30am-6:30am (the only time the Metro closes). Blake’s madre’s surprise at his oh-so-early return at 2am Thursday night. Did I mention there’s even a specific word for going out at night? Whereas in the States, when people go out they merely “go out” at whatever time, in Madrid, they have la marcha, the time at which the entire city seems to hit the streets to party. And it’s totally understood that EVERYONE does this. My madre consistently asks me if I’m going to marchar, be it Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, whatever. Yet despite all of this, I had no idea what I was getting myself into Friday night.

It started off like a pretty typical night. After a movie with Massei, we headed over to Parque del Oeste by the Royal Palace and Theater to have some small sandwiches (montaditos) and cervezas. But that was just the warm up. After a couple of hours there, it was time for our la marcha, which was pretty early at 11:30ish. From the park we made our way over to Sol to a bar we had been to a couple of nights before. It was absolutely packed, but mostly with Americans and other foreigners. Nevertheless it was still bumping. At about 12 or 12:30, part of the group left for the club, determined to beat the lines. A few minutes later, the early birds gave us a call. There was literally no one at the club. It was still way to early. About 2 o’clock (which is when most Furman parties would be winding down), the rest of us decided it was time for Kapital. When we got there at 2, there was still no line; we just walked right in to the most insane club I have ever seen (not that I’ve ever really seen a real club).

Oh Kapital. People from past trips had warned us about you . Told us you were a friend to be called upon only once in a while; you were just too much. Did I believe them? No. Should have I believed them? Absolutely. From the minute we walked in blasting house music hit us like a shockwave. The dance floor was covered with people dancing on the floor, dancing on couches, dancing on little platforms set up for the sole purpose of dancing on. The club hired models to just kind of writhe slowly on the stage, and every once in a while a jet of frigid smoke shot down from the ceiling, bathing the crowd of dancers in a cloud of white. Then I looked up. Even more people were dancing on balconies, leaning over the railings to cheer on the people six stories below. That’s right. Six stories below. Kapital consists of SEVEN individual floors, each with its own theme, bar, enclosed area with its own kind of music, and balcony looking out over the main floor, all the way up until the seventh floor, an open air smoking lounge with couches and tables. We mostly stayed on the       first floor, dancing the night away until at 4:30 or 5 they replayed the first song they played when we got there. And that was leaving early. Needless to say, I was totally pooped. I slept until 3 the next day, but it seemed like that was perfectly acceptable, like most young people do that on a regular basis. I don’t know how the Spaniards do this on a regular basis, but it was awesome and unlike anything I have ever seen or done. Vivo por la marcha.

Abrumado

So I’m sitting here in my room, a nice nocturnal breeze blowing in from my porch door, and I’ve realized that we’ve only been here four days. Four amazing, already unforgettable days, but nevertheless only four days. I feel like it was weeks ago that we sat on the tarmac of the Charlotte airport for two hours, wondering if we’d ever take off. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love it here. But I am definitely abrumado. For you americanos out there, the closest translation is simply “overwhelmed.” Since day one it has been sensory overload – and I mean that in the best way possible. Already I think I’ve eaten more food than I ever have in my entire life (both in quantity and variety). The city is beautiful, but daunting in its enormity; I’m dubious that after 90 days I’ll have even scratched the surface of the city’s clubs, sights, theaters, concerts, barrios, taperías…..the list goes on. Then there’s the language. It’s awesome to be communicating with the gatos (an apodo that originated from madrileños uncanny ability to traverse the buildings of Madrid during the war against France). I’ve even started thinking predominantly in Spanish, even when I’m talking to english speakers or just to myself. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned quickly, it’s that Spaniards can talk. Every meeting we’ve had has gone on and on and on. We took a tour of the city center today, stopping every two minutes so the guide could ramble for 10 minutes about this plack or that building. Granted, there was some interesting stuff, but people here are definitely less efficient than Americans! But bienvenido a Madrid right?

Just from our one adventure on Monday night I can tell that night life here is crazy. Around 9:30 we convened at Sol to get a taste for the city on our own, and commenced wandering around the plaza for a few hours, stopping at a couple of bars along the way, which was fun on its own. But, it being the second day, we all pretty much left for the Metro around 12:30. Madrid hadn’t even come out, and it wouldn’t for another hour and a half. Usually the party doesn’t start until at least 1:30, lasting until the wee hours of the morning in pretty much every part of the city. You will never have to worry about finding a fiesta in Madrid, no matter where you are. I think tomorrow night we may try to get a taste of this ourselves. On Friday we’re definitely going to Teatro Kapital, the seven story legend of the Madrid club scene. I can’t wait. There’s so much more I have to write about, but there’s no way I could ever fit it in one post! So, for now, I’ll simply leave you with a few pictures from our tour today. I tried to label what I could remember, but as I warning I’m no photographer. My 8 year old Kodak and I can’t take a straight picture to save our lives. Enjoy!

 

Principios

We’re here. We’re finally here. After months of waiting, five hours at the airport (Dylan and I accidentally got there a few hours early, but we did see Kiki Palmer), two hours of sitting at the gate, and an eight hour flight, we have arrived in Madrid. Por fin!

When we arrived, my madre, Teresa, picked me up and gave me a short driving tour of the city. It is absolutely beautiful. I can’t wait to see more! It was a short tour, however, because I was dying of hunger. No worries though, because Teresa likes to cook as much as I like to eat! She made me two sandwiches (one with Spanish chorrizo), and a few hours later, after a shower and unpacking, she made the real meal, la comida, which is eaten usually around 3. We had avocado halves with crushed tomato, roasted chicken and french fries, and manchego cheese and bananas with some Savannah Bee tupelo honey. With my stomach full, I slept for a good three hours, and met up with the group for a tour of Nebrijas.

Today, we experienced our first taste of how Spain works. After orientation and our placement test, we took the Metro out to Gran Vía to try to buy cell phones. What a disaster. We went to three MoviStar (the number one provider) stores, but two didn’t have any cheap phones, and the third – the largest in Madrid – only had five, none of which actually worked. In the US, employees would be checking the back or even calling other stores to find phones. Not in Madrid. Everything depends on your captor’s mood. Eventually, we settled on another company, Orange, but they won’t have the phones until Wednesday. Fortunately, Teresa had a phone from a previous student, so I just had to recharge the minutes. Besides that, I’m skipping my siesta for today to write this, so there isn’t much going on. It’s so exciting/flustering/surreal to be in a totally different country, communicating – or at least trying to communicate – in a different language. Needless to say it’s going to take some getting used to, especially with this jetlag!

I think sometime after dinner tonight some of us are going to try to go out and see some of the city, maybe down around Plaza del Sol, one of the main centers in Madrid.

Until my next post, hopefully with pictures, hasta luego.