BAAAAARCELONA, where the winds come sweeping down the plains!!!

You may be wondering about my title, since Barcelona is known neither for its winds or plains.  But the State of Oklahoma is.  At least it has been since Rogers & Hammerstein gave us this song in their musical Oklahoma!  I only know the lyrics alluded to in my title, along with two other fragments from this musical.  One of these is from a particularly irritating song, while the other is only slightly less so.  I have no idea where I picked up "Geese and chicks and ducks better scurry,/ when I take you out in the surrey,/ when I take you out in the surrey / with the fringe on top!" but I wish I could put it back.  I know exactly where I got "Oh, what a beautiful morning!  / Oh, what a beautiful day!" however.  When I went camping with my Boy Scout troop, one of the troop leaders – a grizzled old, chain-smoking former Navy cook who had served in WWII – used to wake us all up by singing those two lines as well as a grizzled old chain-smoking Navy cook could.  I sometimes woke up early, having dreamt of him singing those lines while he was still strolling around the campsite, sucking on a Marlboro, waiting for the right time to do the deed.

Now, I am certain that you are all fascinated by this, but you may be wondering what all of this has to do with our recent long weekend in the capital of Catalonia, the fair city of Barcelona.  The answer: absolutely nothing whatsoever.  Except that one of our friends here in Madrid lives in Oklahoma, and seeing her has gotten the songs from the musical stuck in my head, and last week I realized that you could substitute "Barcelona" for "Oklahoma" and the meter still worked.  So, for the few days before our departure, I was singing "Baaaaaaaaarcelona, where the wind comes sweeping down the plains!," much to the chagrin of Zoë.

But Zoë had her revenge.  On the night before our departure, she informed us that she had neglected to notice, upon reserving the apartment where we would be staying, that it was a fifth-floor walk-up.  That's five floors, not counting the ground floor.  So a six-floor walk-up, by US measure.  Oh well.  The price was good, as was the location, right in Barcelona's Barri Gòtic, or "Gothic Quarter."  If you are now picturing us among black-clad teenagers listening to desperately depressing music, then you should know that it was not that kind of gothic, but the other kind, the medieval kind.  As in "gothic architecture," or "gothic cathedrals."  The neighborhood had one of the latter, and plenty of the former.

We spent four days in Baaaaaarcelona, where the wind comes sweeping down the plains, courtesy of the weekend, Constitution Day (Monday), the Feast of the Immaculate Conception (Wednesday) and the bridge day (Tuesday).  A bridge day, for those of you so saturated in the Protestant Work Ethic that you simply cannot believe what is obviously implied, is a vacation day connecting two other vacation days, so as to maximize continuous vacation time.  We left Saturday on the early (6am) bullet train, and came back this morning, giving us four days and four nights in Baaaaaaaaarcelona where the wind comes sweeping down the plains!

Saturday

La Seu without the scaffolding that currently graces it

• Arrival.  Trudged up the apartment.  Orientation from Julián, the young Argentinian guy in charge of check-in.  Dumped our stuff.  Trudged down.
• Strolling around the Gothic Quarter.  Again, no Goths.  
• Visting La Seu, the medieval cathedral of Baaaaaaaaarcelona, where the wind comes sweeping down the plains!  Extraodinary.
• A visit to the City Museum, which features remains of the Roman town of Barcino, the predecessor to the current city.  The whole museum is underground, because that's where the remains are.  
• Lunch at La Fonda, a restaurant in the Gothic Quarter that I would recommend to anyone looking for a good, affordable meal.  
• An extended visit to the Christmas market in front of the cathedral, where the Kid became obsessed with the Spanish custom of the Nativity scene.  People invest a great deal in these things, adding figures and details over the course of the year.  We ended up buying one, with the central figures, the three kings, the shepherds, and some animals, including a dog and a family of bunnies.  For Santiago, it was all about the animals.  The weirdest thing on sale, though, was the very Catalan figure of the "caganer," a traditional peasant in the act of having a bowel movement.  A fertility thing apparently.  For the satirically inclined, there were caganers in the form of celebrities, including soccer players and politicians, even Barack Obama.  Not to be confused with the caganer was the "caga tío," or "Tío de Nadal."   This is a log with a Christmas outfit that you hit with a stick while singing a special song.  It then defecates small presents, or turrones and other sweets.  Mmmm just what I wanted for Christmas, log-shit for dessert.   We set up the new Nativity scene in the apartment, only to shock poor Julián.  When he came in to fix a little problem with the toilet, he saw our Nativity scene and concluded we were deeply religious people who had brought the thing with us from Madrid because we simply could not be without it during the Christmas season.
• Trudged up to the apartment.

An Obama caganer

Sunday

• Breakfast at Forns del Pi, a bakery/coffee shop in the Gothic Quarter.  We found that Catalans know how to do pastry, and enjoyed having breakfast there every day.
• Betrayal!!!  One of the things we most wanted to see in Baaaaaaaaaaaaaarcelona where the wind comes sweeping down the plains! was the collection of Romanesque art at the National Catalan Art Museum.  We arrived first thing only to find that the gallery was under renovation.  How could they do this to us?  Didn't they know we were coming?  Or was it because they knew we were coming!?!?  Maybe we should have whacked a log with a stick before leaving Madrid.
• Frustrated and angry with the MNAC, we decided to leave it altogether, and go instead to the Fundació Joan Miró, a museum centered on the collection of works donated by Miró precisely for this purpose.  I can't say Miró is one of my favorite artists, but I certainly appreciate him more having spent a few hours with his work.  At least they didn't have any galleries closed for renovation.
• Lunch at Òleum, despite its location within the walls of the traitorous MNAC.  The only real reason we went there is because all of these museums are located on the hill of Montjuïc, which is on the edge of downtown.  You can either schlep back into town to eat, or eat at one of the establishments in/around the museums.  Òleum was absolutely superb.  We sat with a view of the city, and particularly enjoyed the dessert, chestnut cake with black-sesame ice cream.  Surprisingly, this meal did not break the bank.
• Afterwards, the Poble Espanyol, the kitchiest thing we've seen in Spain.  "See Spain in an hour!" say the ads.  This is a leftover from the world's fair of the 1920s that bequeathed to us many of the structures on Montjuïc.  We read the description to the Kid, and he was dying to go.  It's basically a little park, where each and every building is a repro of some historical buildign somewhere in Spain.  Well, the façade is, at least.  The interior is an arts & crafts and/or souvenir shop.  I was tempted to take a picture of the fake plaza mayor and post it, claiming it was a real place.  The Kid got a kick out of watching the glassblowers.  The Andalusian section included a street from Arcos de la Frontera, where we had been in September.  It was creepily reminiscent of our experience there.  The whole place was a shock to me, because I thought we only had this sort of kitschy repro-authentic places in the US!
• Then, the Caixa Forum, another museum, where we saw this very cool exhibition of archelogical remains from Saudi Arabia.  The museum itself is wonderful.  It's in a repurposed textile factory.  The exhibit culminated in a pair of 17th century metal doors that had once lead into the Ka'ba in Mecca.  Zoë, a former Near Eastern Languages and Civilization major, was particularly moved by this.  
• Dinner at a tapas place off the Ramblas.  The food was delicious at Òleum, but the portions small, so for once we ate dinner.  The Ramblas are a series of pedestrian walkways that cut down the length of Baaaaaaaaaarcelona where the wind comes sweeping down the plains!, and where much of the action is.  Flower stalls.  Cafés.  Tourists.  Pickpockets.  And over-priced but delicious tapas bars.  Can't remember the name.
• Trudged up to the apartment.

Monday

Entrance bldg at Parc Guell

• Gaudí Day.  If you don't know who Antoni Gaudí is, you're missing out!  Gaudí was a spectacular architect of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, certainly of Spain's greatest ever.  Most of his buildings are in Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarcelona where the wind comes sweeping down the plains!, and we decided to see them.  
• First stop, the Parc Guell, a spectacular public park in the hills just above downtown.  The fusion of nature and artifice is amazing. The architecture reminded me of something, and I couldn't tell what it was . . . Something sci-fi?  No.  The Lord of the Rings?  No.  What?
• Second stop, La Sagrada Familia.  We were conveyed there by a Galician cab driver who told the Kid that he looked like a girl, and then regaled us with a story about how he won the Army Judo Championship back in the day, despite the fact that he knew no judo, by getting his opponent into the only pin he knew right away.  He mumbled some nostalgic things about life under Franco.  Upon arrival: Abort! Abort! Abort!  The line wrapped around the entire block.  We decided to come back the next day. Early.
• Third stop.  Not really a stop, since we were walking the whole time.  A stroll through the Eixample, the 19th century neighborhood where most of the buildings by Gaudí and other modernistas.  
• Fourth stop.  We went into La Pedrera, an apartment building by Gaudí that is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site.  I wondered what it would be like to live in a UNESCO World Heritage Site, but then as I wrote this, I realized that I actually have!  Again, it looked like something I knew, but I couldn't place it . . . 
• Lunch at Ponsa, a family-owned restaurant nearby.  OK food, but overpriced!  The most expensive meal we had in Baaaaaaaaaarcelona where the wind comes sweeping down the plains!
• After lunch, an abortive trip to the Museum of Contemporary Art, which was closed Mondays, it turns out.  
• Exhausted, we headed back to the apartment, planning on an early bed and an early rise, to get to the Sagrada Familia before it opened. 
• That night, Zoë had a dream that revealed to both of us the answer to the question that had been bothering me so.  Gaudí's architecture looked like something out of . . . Dr. Seuss!!! YES!!!  Apparently, Zoë and I are not the only ones to think this way: take a look at this passage from Dr Seuss: American Icon, by Philip Nei. 
• Trudged up to the apartment.

Tuesday

The crucifixion scene

• La Sagrada Familia.  I knew this unfinished church by Gaudí was going to be a show-stopper, but I was not prepared for it to be quite as spectacular as it is.  Gaudí reinterprets gothic architecture to make it look natural, converting the columns into trees and the vaults into leaves.  The interior soars.  The stained-glass shines.  I cannot even imagine what this place will be like once it is finished.  Right now, it is among the most impressive buildings in Spain, along with the Mosque in Córdoba and the Alhambra in Granada.  We spent 3+ hours there, gawking and marveling.  I was particularly impressed by the statues executed for the western façade, dedicated to the Passion, by the Catalan sculptor Subirachs.  
• Then the Picasso Museum.  A strange little place, because it has no really famous works by the artist.  It's interesting nonetheless, because it has some juvenalia that allows you to appreciate just how talented Picasso was at an early age (14 years old).  There's also a wonderful gallery with his multiple parodies of Velázquez's Las Meninas.
• Lunch was at Origens.  I highly recommend this place when you find yourself in Baaaaaaarcelona where the wind comes sweeping down the plains!  It specializes in Catalan cuisine.  The menu reads like a magazine, with a little article about every dish and a map that shows you what part of Catalonia it's from.  We had the tasting menu, which was both a flavor feast and a good value.
• After lunch, a stroll through Barceloneta, the waterfront neighborhood, enjoying the unseasonably warm temperatures (high 60s).  And then the teleferico ride across the harbor to Montjuïc, followed by a long walk back to the apartment.  
• Trudged up to the apartment.

Whew.  I can't believe that was just four days.  If you enjoyed what you read, please post, here or on Facebook.  We'd all love to hear from you.  If you didn't enjoy what you read, go post on David Gies's blog.

Life is a Dream

I am sitting on our incredibly uncomfortable couch trying to piece together a strange dream I had.  I dreamt that I was back in the US for a week, that I saw friends & family, that I attended a dissertation defense at UVA, that I had Thanksgiving dinner at my mother's house.  But here I am, in the apartment on the Calle del Prado, and I'm not sure if any of this happened.  Like Segismundo of Golden-Age-Spanish-drama fame, I find myself wondering whether or not my memories are of a real experience or not.  Here are the pros and cons:

What was dreamlike about it

• I met with some good friends in the department lounge, where we had a lovely albeit too-short conversation.  I usually go out for lunch with these friends.  What in the world were we doing in the lounge?
• The dissertation defense was in the History department.  I am in Spanish, but do research that is historically oriented.  What was I doing there?   Clearly my intellectual identity issues were making themselves felt in my dreamworld.  The defense went extremely well, by the way.
• I was with some other good friends at a burger place, eating delicious organic burgers, but they were having veggie burgers and breadless burgers.  Breadless burgers??  Clearly Dali-esque.
• At Thanksgiving, my cousins Carlos Hernán an Victor Manuel were there.  Victor saw me putting marshmallows on the sweet potatoes, and expressed curiosity about this, asking me if it was an innovation of my own.  CH was there last year, so he checks out, but I have not seen VM since he was 11 or 14 years old.  And he continued to be fascinated with race cars, as he was when he was a kid.  A very suspicious detail.
• Carlos Hernán had a preternaturally well-groomed beard.
• At the Spanish Consulate, we explained to the consular official that my son had to have a note from them explaining why he was missing gym class that week.  The consular official provided us with said note, on consular stationery.
• I was in our house in Charlottesville, with the family, talking with our renters.  They had rearranged some of the furniture, so that the house looked both familiar and not so familiar.  At one point, I was looking for stuff I needed in boxes, and couldn't find anything.  Just like an anxiety dream.
• There was Asian food everywhere.  We went out for Thai with my mother, and for dim sum with my mother-in-law.  The strange mix of cultures in the DC area seemed unreal.
• My brother was at Thanksgiving in this psychedelic shirt.  He said an artist friend had made it, but it looked like it was made from old curtains, like in Gone with the Wind.  
• My niece asked me if they had killed Voldemort in the last Harry Potter book.  I asked her if she had read the book.  She simply responded, "yes."
• My son delighted in taking care of my in-law's dog Ruckus.  He referred to the dog as "my dog" and spoke of how she was going to come to live with us one day.  If you knew Ruckus, you would appreciate how creepy this is.

What was real-seeming about it

• During the dream, I could only fly if I was in an airplane.  I was on several of those.  None of them traveled over land, or dove into long tunnels, as they often do in my dreams.  None of them were detoured to Singapore or Swaziland, as often happens in my dreams.
• The food tasted so real.  The sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, turkey, pad thai, pork buns . . . all of it.  Good, too.
• I did not have to kill Voldemort, as I often do in my dreams, but I did see a movie in which several people were devoting themselves to this very objective.  
• VM did not look 11 anymore.  He looked like he was in his late 20s, as he should be.
• Charlie, my baby nephew, behaved in perfectly baby-like fashion.  He did not drive a car or do complicated stunts.  He gurgled a great deal, but did not talk, or tell me my new book was crap.
• Most of the people I encountered behaved quite reasonably, even affectionately.  No one spoke in tongues or demonstrated that they possessed magical abilities.  None of them notified me that I had to take, the very next day, a final exam in a class that I did not even know I was registered in.
• Heathrow Airport, where we connected on our return flight, was nowhere near as horrifying and stressful as it so often is in my dreams.  
• At the Spanish Consulate, there were no additional forms demanded of us.  We did not have to show that we had gotten our butts notarized and apostilled.  We handed them our passports, and they were returned to us with the visas in them 1.5 hours later.
• I have a large sack of Target-brand bathroom products and over-the-counter medications in my closet.  This sack was not there before the dream.  Nor were the Harry Potter books on the shelves, or Santiago's electric keyboard in the apartment before the dream.   There is also a selection of cheeses in the fridge, which we were apparently given by my mother-in-law, which were not there before.

At this point, I have seen no photographs of any of these experiences, and will not be swayed by photographs once I do see them.  How would I know they weren't concocted in Photoshop, perhaps on the basis of information garnered from this very blogpost?  The physical evidence (the bag of stuff, the cheese, the keyboard, etc) tells me I should believe this dream was no dream at all, but reality, but maybe Zoë's just been shopping a lot, and I've been too immersed in work to notice.  The visas and the note, though . . . Could Zoë and Santiago have gone to DC and gotten these?  I can only say, following Segismundo:

Yo sueño que estoy aquí

en este sofá sentado,

y soñé que a otro estado

más angloparlante fui.

¿Qué es la vida? Un frenesí.

¿Qué es la vida? Una ilusión,

una sombra, una ficción,

y el mayor pavo es pequeño;

que toda la vida es sueño,

y los sueños, sueños son.

Going Cuban in Castile

My friend Gustavo, who teaches classes on Cuban culture, says that students often walk in on the first day of class expecting it to be about "mambo, mojitos, y mujeres," and are surprised to find out when it's all about sugar and slavery.  Well, this post is not about any of those things, but it is about being Cuban. It is also about public transportation, roasted meat, and mob behavior.

Last weekend we were treated to a visit from a friend and his family.  This friend is a historian who is also on sabbatical, and is spending his year in a chilly, rainy country to the north.  Basically what we're doing, but in a nicer and much more expensive apartment.  The schools in that chilly, rainy country were on vacation, so he, his wife, and their daughter decided to go to Lisbon and Madrid.  Unfortunately, they brought the chilly, rainy weather with them to sunny Iberia.  It never rains here, by the way.  Only on holiday weekends.  Our friends were undaunted by the weather, though.  They live in Seattle most of the time, so sunshine is something that they only know about through TV and movies.

We had a great time with them, going to museums, eating tapas, churros con chocolate (fried dough with hot chocolate) and cochinillo asado (roast suckling pig).  All this despite the occasional shower, and/or soaking downpour. Churros con chocolate is Madrid's most famous breakfast treat, and cochinillo asado is a speciality of the city of Segovia, where we went on Monday, the Big Day Off.  It was All Saint's Day, a national holiday, so we caught the high-speed train to this lovely old hilltop city famous for its Roman aqueduct, its cathedral, its romanesque churches, and its hilltop castle or alcázar.  The cathedral was lovely, the aqueduct impressive, the churches closed, and the alcázar grand, even though we never went inside.  Despite the occasional sprinkle, we had a wonderful time walking around the streets.

Lunch was at Casa Duque, a restaurant that's been around since 1895, and is housed in a restored 16th century building.  The owners have been roasting lambs and pigs with great skill for over a century now, and they have the certificates, plaques, and pictures-with-famous-people to prove it.  They actually offer a course for people who want to become "master roasters."  I asked Zoë why she was not enrolled in this course, and to this date have not received a satisfactory reply to my question.  Luckily, the only rain that hit that day fell while we were wallowing in roasted piggy deliciousness.

After lunch, we wandered around a bit until it was time to catch the bus back to the train station.  And this is where my story really begins. You see, when our train arrived, the city of Segovia had several #11 busses waiting to take everyone up to the old town.  We thought that the municipality would exhibit the same wisdom in the afternoon, providing ample transportation in time for the 6:20 train to Madrid.  Not so.  One bus loaded up, and then pulled away leaving a crowd of desperate day-trippers on the sidewalk.  Another bus stood idly by, its callous driver waiting for it to be time to start his route.

We started to count the minutes until our train left, wondering if we would get there.  We ran across the square, through the puddles, to the taxi stand.  No luck.  Big line, no taxis.  Back to the bus stop, where Mr. Devil-May-Care had finally pulled his bus up.  The once-calm line was turning into an anxious crowd as the driver fiddled with some papers and change.  People started yelling at him.  "Let's get going!"  "We're going to miss the train!"  He continued to fiddle.

Santiago came up to me, and told me it was time to go Cuban on him.  Here, an explanation is in order.  As you know, my mother's side of the family is Ecuadorian (quiteño, to be precise, from the city of Quito), and my father's, Cuban, from Havana.  These two brands of Latin American culture are really quite different.  Quiteños put a high value on politeness and soft-spokenness.  They can lose their temper, of course, but it takes them a while before they abandon their indoor voice.  Cubans do not have an indoor voice. What they call "talking" is often perceived by others as "shouting." They are also fond of using a vocabulary that would make a prostitute blush (unless, of course, she is a Cuban prostitute). None of which, mind you, is mean to be offensive.  It's not shouting and cursing, just communication.  For example, there is a Cuban comedian who tells audience that the proper translation of "¡Coño!  ¿¡Qué mierda comes!?" is "My point of view is different from yours."

Spaniards are somewhere between quiteños and Cubans, although there are certainly much closer to the Cuban end of the spectrum.  They can be loud, and are certainly foul-mouthed. Unlike Americans, or quiteños, they have no filter that examines words and ideas before they are enunciated, discarding those that might be considered offensive.  Words simply drop from brain to tongue, and pop out of the mouth, and it is the listener's job to know how to take it.  Zoë, I believe would tell you that Spaniards are on a par with Cubans, particularly after our experience at back-to-school night, where everyone was shouting/talking so very loudly, but I must disagree, if only out of national pride.  I cannot let anyone share the throne with Cubans as the loudest and most foul-mouthed of Latin Americans.  To Zoë's assesment of Spaniards I must answer: ¡Coño que no! ¡Que tremenda comemierdería!

But I digress.  Imagine, if you will, a stunning Roman aqueduct, over 2000 years old, spanning hundreds of feet and standing several stories tall.  One end of it thrusts into the orange stone of an ancient walled city, its crenellations almost burning in the light of the setting sun as it pierces through the clouded sky.  A brisk fall day.  A one-thousand-year-old Romanesque church in the background.  At the base of the aqueduct, a small crowd of Spaniards loudly berates a hapless bus driver.

I decided to go Cuban, and join the fray.  "What do you think you're doing?"  "Can't you see there are people waiting?"  "The train is going to leave and we're all going to be stranded!"  "This is an outrage!" "We're going to file a formal complaint with the municipal government!" I was in there with the angry Spaniards, yelling, gesticulating, crowding in, feeling the exhilaration of losing myself in an angry mob.  Finally, the driver let us on the bus, but we were held up.  By what?  By an elderly Spaniard who thought that the moment he bought his ticket would be the perfect time to give the bus driver an extended lecture on the nature of quality customer service.  Damn him!!!  I almost went Cuban on his ass too!!!!

The bus finally pulled away from the curb, full of glum passengers with little hope of reaching their train.  We yelled at the bus driver every time he stopped to let pedestrians passed.  We measured the wisdom of making a run for it at the station, just in case the train was delayed.  Seconds would count.  Our sense of solidarity with the others that had developed at the bus stop was fading, as we began to realize that the bus's arrival at the train station would trigger a mad dash for the train in which it was going to be every tourist for him or herself.

Here was the lineup:

• My historian friend: Most likely to make the train.  He's a runner, and was wearing a good pair of walking shoes.
• The kids: Youth, vigor, and sneakers on their side.  As long as they didn't run in the wrong direction, they're chances were good.
• The historian's wife: Also a runner, but wearing clogs that were no good for for the sprint.  As a result, a wildcard.
• Me: Definitely not a runner, but I had sneakers on, and figured I could take the elderly Spaniards, as well as the ditzy pair of Brits.
• Zoë: Also not a runner, but like the historian's wife, wearing unfortunate shoes.  
• The elderly Spaniards: They were screwed. Not real contenders, but could figure in the competition as obstacles to the real competitors.  The trick was going to be to get off the bus before they even got out of their seats, so that we wouldn't be stuck behind them.
• The smiling Brits: Did they know what was going on?

The bus stopped, and we were off!!  The historian was in the lead.  His daughter second, me third.  The spouse was  lagging behind.  I don't know where Zoë or Santiago were.  We sprinted across the parking lot to the glass doors and  …

There is an unmistakeable stillness that fills a train station after the only train has definitively left the station.  There is no bustle of people coming in from the platform, or hurrying out to meet the train.  The loudspeaker is quiet.  The board listing arrivals and departures flashes no platform numbers.  There are no voices of greeting or farewell.  The ticket-takers stand still, as if dormant.  The people on the benches look like they've been there since time immemorial.   We burst into this stillness and immediately recognized it for what it was, a certain sign of our defeat.  No one needed to ask if the train had left.  I remarked to the attendant, "The train is gone, right?" and got an unnecessary nod in reply.

This was the moment at which our tiny society dissolved.  Surely, there would not be spaces for everyone on the remaining trains.  Our former allies were now our rivals, in what would surely be a ruthless contest for a limited number of seats.  We took advantage of our lead to get into the ticket line first, sure that we would have seats on the next train.  The rest of the bus passengers filed in behind us, forming an orderly but decidedly grumpy line.  

As a new window open, I hopped into it it, but found myself joined by one of the elderly Spaniards.  No, he was not trying to cut line.  He just wanted to get a head start on his complaining.  As the RENFE ticket agent explained our scant and expensive options for getting to Madrid by train that night or the next morning, my fellow traveler scolded him for the faults of Segovia's municipal transportation system.  Others joined in. One shouted out that we should all go to the police to denounce the incident.  Clearly, having gotten no satisfaction from the bus driver, everyone was ready to stick it to the train station guy.  Still in Cuban mode, I joined in, suggesting it was ridiculous for public transportation not to be coordinated with the departures of the train.

Eventually, Zoë and I gave up, realizing that the few spots available on the trains were going to cost a fortune, and that going Cuban was not going to make them either more plentiful or cheaper.  But we'd come up with an alternative.  The bus!  Of course!  We would take the bus!  We abandoned the ugly mob, got a #12 bus to the bus station, and rode a moldy-smelling intercity bus back to Madrid.  Home by 9pm.

The next day, the historian and his family flew back to their chilly, rainy country in the north, and the sun began to shine again on Central Spain, just in time to go back to work and school.  I half expected the newspapers to report how an ugly mob at the Segovia train station had lynched a RENFE ticket agent, but I never did get to check the headlines.  Passing the Cuban restaurant on our street on the way to the Biblioteca Nacional, I thought to myself, "Coño, que jodienda aquello del tren."

Hogwarts.es

When we visited the Kid's school for the first time last August, the Kid blurted out, "Wow!  You could film a Harry Potter movie here!"  He was reacting to the school's monumental 17th century courtyard.  You see, Santiago's high school goes back to the middle ages, and is one of the oldest educational institutions in Spain.  During the sixteenth century, it became a very important college, and almost every important writer of Spain's so-called "Golden Age" either studied or taught there.  Since the 17th century, the school has produced a slew of writers, intellectuals, and even the current king.  It actually gets mentioned in Fortunata y Jacinta, the most important novel by Spain's most important 19th-century realist, Benito Pérez Galdós.

The school is going through a huge transition now.  Many of the neighborhoods of downtown Madrid have filled up with immigrants from Africa, Eastern Europe, and Latin America.  The school now serves students from 23 countries, many of them from troubled working-class backgrounds, and it has its share of problems.  But it's our neighborhood public school, so that's where Santiago goes.  The Hogwarts of Madrid, only without the magic. Or the owls.  Or the English.

This week, the Kid ran into his very own Professor Snape.  I won't mention his name or the subject he teaches.  Let's just say he has a teaching style that does not rub the Kid the right way.  Something happened in the classroom last Monday that left the Kid quite upset, so Zoë and I went on a rampage.  We actually barged into the school and demanded to speak with the director.  The professor was brought in to the conversation, and an argument ensued.  This was to be expected, since that very morning Zoë had said that she wanted to "rip off his head and shit down his neck."  I shared this sentiment.  As you might surmise, we were not in a frame of mind conducive to constructive dialogue.  Neither was the professor, it turned out.

We have learned some things since that very upsetting half hour.  In Spain, high school teachers have tenure, and they are kings in their classrooms. Nothing can be done to call them on their behavior, and no one seems to have any authority over them.  Not the director.  Certainly not the hapless parents.  Particularly if they are from another country and can be accused of not understanding the nuances of Spanish as it is spoken in Spain.   We can only be thankful that if today's class is any indication, the professor has no intention of taking things out on the Kid.  OK.  Good enough.  We declared victory and went for ice cream.

Today, I'm happy to say, was different.  I told the Kid that if he wanted to make friends he had to take the initiative and ask someone over to the house.  So he asked a friend over for lunch and a study session.  Everyone has a test tomorrow, so why not prepare together?  It's in English class, so this made the Kid an attractive study partner.  So, our Harry brought along his Ron.  Ron is from Ecuador, and like all Ecuadorian children, has impeccable manners.  Really, he does.  I'm not being sarcastic.  It was such a pleasure to watch him wait for everyone to be seated before eating his food, and to instinctively get up to clear his plate when the meal was over.  No feral USA kid there!

Now, of course, calling my risk-averse, brainy, unathletic child "our Harry" represents something of a stretch.  The Kid is no Gryffindor.  He may be a Ravenclaw.  He might be a Hufflepuff.  At least he's certainly not a Slytherin.  But you get the point.

There's even a Hermione in the picture.  She tagged along on the way home, and ended up coming over when her mom had to go to work and realized she wouldn't be able to help her prepare for the test.  I find Hermione adorable, and am very impressed with her manners as well.  Harry, Ron and Hermione spent the afternoon doing homework, and when it was time for Ron to leave, they walked him to the Puerta del Sol.  Now Harry has gone off to Hermione's house to study French, and maybe to visit the Halloween store . . . Hmm.  . . Maybe the Kid is Ron, and his friend is Harry?  

Burgos & Bilbao in the Rain II

Did you miss part I?  Here it is.

Exhausted, we were in bed by 9:30, but up and at 'em the next morning, ready for the Guggenheim.  We walked from our hotel, despite the drizzle and the cool weather.  I suggest you do not walk, but run, as fast as you can, to the Guggenheim Bilbao if you have not yet been there.  It's one of the most spectacular things we've seen in Spain.

For those of you who were unaware, the Guggenheim Bilbao is the newest of the Guggenheim museums (I think).  The others are in New York (the original), Berlin and Venice.  The GB was designed by the American architect Frank Gehry, and was meant to make a statement.  And, boy, does it.  Gehry plopped a daring, extraordinary building into a hohum section of the riverfront of a dying industrial city, and turned Bilbao into an international art & architecture mecca.  Take a look at the place for yourself through the link above.  We all thought the building was the most extraordinary we had ever seen.  I finally have a new favorite building in the world that trumps the East Building of the National Gallery in DC.

The Kid and I on Calatrava's pedestrian bridge in Bilbao.

What really made our visit, however, was the special exhibit by the Indian artist Anish Kapoor.  He's the guy who designed the so-called "Bean" in Chicago.   The exhibit featured his work with color, form, negative space, and surface, and it was absolutely extraordinary.  You can go on a virtual visit of the exhibit online, in the company of Kapoor himself.  Much of what he says on the video clips here appears in the audio guide that you get at the museum.  We all feel in love with his work.   "Yellow" was my favorite piece, although I think the Kid preferred the one with the cannon.  He particularly enjoyed the exhibit, proving to me once again that interactive conceptual art – contrary to its elitist image – is some of the most exciting, accessible art out there, particularly for sharing with kids.  

Our day was made especially fun by the Indian family who befriended us at the entrance to the GB.  It was a man (my age) traveling with his mom and dad from the midwest.  All were art lovers, so they were basically museum-hopping their way around Spain.  We went to lunch with them (delicious) at a riverfront restaurant, and then took a rain-soaked but delightful stroll through Bilbao's old quarter.  By 8 we were bushed, and back in the hotel for an early night.

Coda: Sepúlveda.  

The next day we debated staying the morning in Bilbao, but decided to leave early in case we hit lots of traffic as we had on the way up.  Of course, the clouds cleared and the roads were practically empty, so we whizzed back towards Burgos, and then past it.  Using our trusty map and guide book, we decided to stop for lunch along the way, at a little town called Sepúlveda.  This is a hilltop medieval town reconquered in the 10th century.  Utterly charming.  Excellent cordero asado.  A great end to a great, if somewhat damp, trip.  For pictures, check out Facebook.  

Zoë catches me peeking out from the medieval walls of Sepúlveda.

Burgos & Bilbao in the Rain I

Today, dear readers, we have returned from yet another expedition into the field.  October 12th is Spain's National Day, so there was no school.  Neither was there school yesterday, the "bridge day" between the weekend and the holiday.  Faced with a four-day weekend, we decided to go exploring.  But where?  Extremadura?  Galicia?  Barcelona?  We ended up with plans to go Burgos, a medieval city about 2.5 hours north of Madrid, and then Bilbao, the largest city of the Basque country, about 2 hours further on.  Objectives: 1) See the cathedral in Burgos and the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao; 2) Eat well;  3) Have fun.

We found ourselves thwarted on Saturday morning when we left by both the rental car agency and the weather.  During our almost 2 months in Madrid, it hasn't rained hardly at all.  In fact, we didn't see a cloud in the sky during our first four weeks here.  Then, on Saturday morning, we started to get all the rain that we didn't get in September.   Sometimes it poured.  Sometimes it drizzled.  It rarely stopped.  Undaunted, we went to get our rental car, only to be faced by a 1.5 hour wait in line while a highly inefficient group of rental car employees doled out cheap compacts to aggravated tourists.  The inefficiency was only slightly abated with the appearance of an additional bleary-eyed employee, reeking of alcohol.  

Then we were off!  And then we weren't.  The A-1 was a parking lot.  Confused?  No, the A-1 is not a steak sauce, but a highway extending northward and southward from Madrid.  Between our trip to Andalusia and this one, we have travelled its full length, north to south, making us authorities on road conditions and rest stops.  There was construction, you see, and between that and the rain the traffic was not moving.  We finally ditched the A-1 and made our way up some parallel country roads.  The detour saved the day, since it meant moving at more than 3km/hr, and it also took us through a series of charming villages, including Nayares de Ayuso, Nayares de Enmedio, and Nayares de las Cuevas.  Yes, that's right. All three villages have pretty much the same name, and the central one is called "Middle Nayares," or more literally, "The Nayares in the Middle."  I wonder if they have a complex there, like middle children often do?  We couldn't find out, because their restaurant was fully booked.  So, off to Moradillo de Roa, next town in line (not a "Nayares" as you can see), where we found a spectacular place for lunch.  More about that in my soon-to-come food-and-restaurant page.  

Burgos around 6pm, after taking 5 hours for what should have been a 2.5 hour trip (not counting the lunch stop).  The cathedral was closed.  The churches were closed.  The stores were closed.  It was raining.  We walked around anyway.  Cold.  Wet.   Luckily, the pastry shop near the hotel was NOT closed, and we indulged.  We deserved it.  In bed by 9pm.  

Having blown Saturday, we stuck around to see the cathedral and have lunch in Burgos, rather than move on to Bilbao right away, and we were glad we did.  The cathedral is gorgeous.  I'd very much wanted to see it, having seen the cathedral in Leon some years ago.  The two are something of a pair, since they're older than that cathedral in cities farther south (Toledo, Seville, Granada, etc) and are more purely French gothic in style.  Zoë and I were both surprised to find that the cathedral had been through a lot of changes between the fifteenth and seventeenth centuries, changes that had transformed the medieval cathedral into an early modern one.  Still, the place was astounding.  

After the cathedral, we stumbled across a group of people who did traditional Castilian dances and games.  The rain had let up, so we hung out and watched as they danced jotas, accompanied by simple instruments that one could assemble from one's kitchen.  At one point, they interrupted the dancing and singing to play games with everyone.  Zoë and the Kid tried their hand(s) at cat's cradle with one of the performers.  I'll post a clip of the dancing to Facebook, because uploading video to Blogspot takes forever.

By the time we finished, everything was starting to close (it was Sunday after all), so we had lunch (excellent) and headed for Bilbao, full of trepidation for what the A-1 would hold.  After two hours or so of clear sailing, we were in our hotel, in the Basque country.  More to follow in the next post.  In the meantime, take a look at our pictures on Facebook.  

Spanish News

Years ago, in Mexico, I was talking with someone about how it was becoming popular to learn Spanish in the US.  He told me that he was aware of the popularity of his native language, and that, in fact, it was now so popular that there was even a country in Europe where that was pretty much all they spoke.  Well, now I find myself living in that country and I find myself struggling with whatever it is that they speak here.  Like Zoë, I do not always "vale."

But first I have to take you back to this weekend.  Zoë and I are clearly going through some adjustment involving the dim realization that we are not tourists here.  Naturally, this has involved moments of utter, irrational panic.  Zoë, for example, was working on our finances when she came to the conclusion that we could not really afford to live here, and that we had to choose between paying rent and eating.  After some discussion, we realized that we were OK, but we had to stop eating out as if we were tourists ready to charge things and be damned.  My turn came when I became convinced that we were never going to make Spanish friends, and that the primary stumbling block was Zoë's limitations with the language.  I suggested that she needed to work harder on her Spanish, do all sorts of things that she wasn't doing.  As you can imagine, this suggestion went over extremely well.  Like most spouses, Zoë is always very appreciative when perceived shortcomings are brought to her attention, and very happy to receive unsolicited advice about how she can work harder in order to improve herself.     

We decided we would watch the news, since this would give Zoë an opportunity to practice her Spanish, and it would give both of us an opportunity to figure out what was going on in the world.  Not only have we been eating out as if we were tourists, we've also disconnected from the larger world as if we were on vacation.  This morning, I decided I would get a head start on this plan by listening to the news on the radio as I cleaned up the breakfast things.  I do this every morning – clean up, that is - while Zoë walks the Kid to school.

Now, I often describe myself as having "news announcer Spanish," because I don't really have a recognizable accent.  I speak the sort of flat, standard Spanish that one associates with news announcers on Univisión.  What I lack is the speed.  I had forgotten that news announcers, despite the clarity of their pronunciation, can be very hard to understand.  They tend to talk rapidly, with a minimum of affect, and they assume that you are aware of the context of what they're saying.  For example, it's assumed that you know that there is an election going on, and that you will recognize the names of the major candidates.

Here in Madrid, the news on the radio is delivered in the fastest Spanish I have ever heard.  No, correction.  The announcers speak Spanish as quickly as is humanly possible.  I tried to imitate the pace, and couldn't come anywhere near close.  Never mind actually trying to understand the news.  I had little context, and I even have trouble with the newscasters on Univisión!

The station I was listening to had two announcers, a man and a woman.  At first I thought it was like dueling banjos.  One would recite his/her segment as quickly as possible, and then the other would try to outdo the first, reciting even more quickly.  In this way, they would egg each other on until they were speaking so quickly that their tongues might catch fire.

Then I realized the awful truth.  They weren't egging each other on: the were spelling each other.  Because certainly no human tongue can be so agile, so nimble, and so strong as to keep that pace up for very long.  I pictured the two of them, at their microphones, sweating under the pressure of speaking at such alarming speeds.  One would spit his/her segment into the microphone fast as hell, without taking a breath, and then the other would spell him/her, while the first caught his/her breath and took a drink of water.  They must surely get paid on a word-per-minute basis. Worse yet, they had sent their kids to college in the US, and needed to make money for tuition.

Of course, the inevitable awaits them.  Nothing can save them.  Not the workouts.  Certainly not the steroids or cocaine. Rumor has it that in a dusty corner of the city, in some dilapidated Franco-era building, disabled news announcers sit around playing dominos in silence.  Their broken jaws fall slack, while their inert tongues droop uselessly out of the sides of their mouths.

When Zoë came back, I told her that I didn't think listening to the news was going to help her.