¡Hace Gazpacho!: Our Conquest of Salamanca (Or Viceversa)

Well, Salamanca was really something else. The city itself is absolutely beautiful. Home to the fourth oldest university in the world, Salamanca continues to have the feel of a typical college town. During the academic year, the streets are full of young people causing all kinds of ruckus. For example, that weekend also happened to be a weekend of intense hazing for the new college students. Apparently, hazing is a huge tradition in Spanish universities. A few weeks ago here in Madrid, all of the older students lined the freshmen up on a subway platform and just absolutely hosed them with all kinds of condiments, then marched them through the streets, making them drink and perform all kinds of ridiculous tasks. One kid was shoved into an overhead cabinet for like 6 hours or something. And it’s not  just guys either. Literally every new student gets hazed. In Salamanca, we saw all kinds of people wandering the streets in different costumes, from guys in German wench costumes to guys in penis costumes (this may have been something else entirely, but it makes sense that it was hazing right?)

That’s a bold move, Cotton.

But at night was when everything really went down. The upperclassmen (marked with a permanent marker “v” for veterano) literally had free reign to make the freshmen do whatever they wanted: unhealthy amounts of forced drinking, embarrassing tasks – you name it they probably had to do it. And Furman thinks they have hazing problems. It’s so bizarre to think that this is pretty much accepted as the thing to do when scavenger hunts are considered hazing at good old FU. Here’s to the bubble!

Anyway, the nightlife in Salamanca is crazy. What it lacks in big, glamourous night clubs it more than makes up for in atmosphere. Think somewhere along the lines of bars in Athens (Georgia, naturally). Every college student is out in the streets with barely room to squeeze through. Bars sell 80 centavo beers and bump music all night. It was so much fun.

Yet Salamanca’s historical roots provides an interesting architectural contrast to the university life. For me, it was very reminiscent of Oxford, England but with a good bit more pizzaz. Centered around the main Romantic/Gothic cathedral (half was built in the Romantic style, half later in Gothic style) the town is full of impressive old buildings and plazas, from the Duchess of Alba’s swanky palace (in which she still lives) to Casa de los Muertos, where legend holds that a jealous man secretly murdered every last one of his unfaithful wife’s lovers. The main cathedral, however, is definitely the biggest attraction due to its age, the mix of architectural styles, and the astronaut carved into its facade during the renovation after the earthquake in Lisboa. All in all it was an incredibly fascinating place, but I’m afraid I’ve become somewhat desensitized to things like this. We seen so many old things, so many churches, and so many views in the past month that it’s all turning into one big blur. I probably couldn’t pick out the cathedral of Salamanca from the cathedral of Toledo from the cathedral of Santiago from the gazillion other churches we’ve seen. It will be nice to get to Barcelona, where we have much more free time that touring.

But I think Salamanca could sense our indifference. We failed to show the city the love it deserved, and it didn’t let us leave without paying the price. First, on Saturday night three of the girls got their jackets stolen from a bar (which contained a variety of things from cell phones to wallets). Then, almost simultaneously, all but four of us fell violently ill with food poisoning Sunday night. It was one of the worst nights of my life. I woke up almost every hour on the hour to purge myself of whatever food had poisoned me in whatever manner my body deemed fit. And I had one of the milder cases. On Monday the only people that went to class were the four that didn’t get sick. Today, only eight of us were there. Hopefully everyone will be better for Barcelona tomorrow. It would be a shame to miss out on that one.

All in all, I’m sure Salamanca is an amazing place, but after Sunday night/Monday morning, it will take a lot to get me to go back! Fortunately, I did take a decent amount of photos to look back on once my stomach is ready to bury the hatchet.

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

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.