I do have some things to write about Galicia – but I don’t have time to write them. At least not right now.
The trip was an API Excursion with our large group of American kids. We stayed in the beautiful coastal city of A Coruña and also visited Santiago de Compostela, whose cathedral is the end point of the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage. Rad weekend, to say the least!
http://masalamanca.blogspot.com.es/
The preceding is a link to the official blog of the weekly Open Mic – you can read about my first performance and soon I’m sure they’ll post about my more recent one (which did not go quite as well). It’s in Spanish, of course.
This is the ‘official’ picture of my first performance.
Monday evening I finally worked up the courage to play an open mic here in Salamanca. It’s a weekly event called Micro Abierto Salamanca at a Latin-themed bar called El Savor. I had found out about it on the Internet a while back, but never had a convenient (or confident) enough Monday until this week, my penultimo Monday here.
I had seen on a sign that the event was to start at ten o’clock, and that interested performers should show up at nine forty-five to reserve their spot in the line-up. So my friend Milan and I walked in around nine thirty; I wanted to introduce myself to whoever was running the show and to ensure that I would be able to sign myself up – I had no idea what to expect. How silly this was. The Latin rhythms dance class was still going on when we walked in. The bartender had me write down my name for him and told me to come back at ten thirty.
When we returned, there were a few more people present but the event still seemed far from beginning. I confirmed that I was scheduled to play at some point and Milan and I sat us down in wicker chairs at a small glass table near the dimly lit stage. I would be playing someone else’s guitar, since it plugs in and would be sound-checked and ready to go. No big deal. I certainly haven’t played the guitar I bought here in Spain enough to develop any sort of special relationship with it.
The venue looked like an awesome place to play. Or to see a concert, for that matter. El Savor has almost-nightly live music; it’s a shame that I am only now discovering some of the coolest scenes in this city, just before I am to leave.
Another hour passed. We were growing quite bored. I had planned to be in bed by eleven thirty; instead, the event had yet to begin. I was happy to notice that a crowd was gathering in the establishment; the locals were well aware of what time the weekly event actually started. Finally the first act took the stage. There were many singer/guitarists, a few duets, and plenty of poetry readings. After seeking out the nice young lady who was the host and emcee for the open mic night, I learned that I was to perform fourteenth from a list of twenty. It was already further into the night than I had ever taken the stage before, and also later than I ever typically sing or play guitar by myself. I held all sleepy thoughts at bay and pretended that time did not exist. The first half of the list completed their performances and everyone headed outside for the much-anticipated intermission. It was to be ten minutes (“Enough time to smoke 3 or 4 cigarros” according to the host), but lasted almost twenty minutes.
I had accidentally ordered a whole pitcher of beer earlier, due to a vocabulary mix-up (I meant to ask for one glass.) This probably happens frequently to foreigners in Spain, the land without standardized beer sizes. Luckily, the whole pitcher cost only four Euros – another reason it’s such a shame I hadn’t discovered the live music nights here earlier. Even listening to that night’s amateur acts was far more enjoyable than most of the Salamanca’s juvenile, overhyped nightlife. I had no one to share the pitcher with, as Milan was on antibiotics, having broken his arm playing fútbol the week before. I limited myself to one glass of beer and was nursing it as slowly as possible, not wanting to become the least bit tipsy before performing.
Finally the intermission ended and before long I was called up to the stage. I ran up to grab the red Takamine guitar I was to play, comforted by how similar it felt to my friend Jason’s Takamine with which I had performed so many times in the past. My pick was still in the unopened case of the guitar I had brought with me.
I put the guitar back down, having just picked it up, and jumped off the stage to retrieve my barely-used (I don’t practice much) green .88mm Dunlop Tortex pick. The crowd hesitated only a moment before bursting into an enthusiastic, mocking applause, as if my three second visit to the stage had been my entire act. Upon my return to the spotlight, I took a sarcastic bow and then adjusted the microphone to sit perfectly in front of my mouth when I sat up straight. I had chosen to sit because I practice that way most often, and also because I did not want to mess with the strap of someone else’s guitar. The way I had positioned the mic would force me to sit with good posture when I sang, which I have heard numerous times is important to achieve the best-sounding voice possible.
“Hola,” was all I could say before clumsily stammering through the first few measures of the guitar introduction of “Lion,” a fiery, catchy, and very loud song of mine that was sure to at least get the spectators’ attention.
Once I began singing any nerves that had manifested in my stomach disappeared. I wasn’t the first vocalist to sing in English that night, but I was certainly the first to do so with perfect native-speaker pronunciation, fitting internal and multi-syllabic rhyme schemes into hip-hop paced lines. I snaked my way through reggae-rap style verses and a soft chorus before picking up the intensity and volume for the second refrain. “I’m a lion / preying on your everyday bullshit / I’m not lying!”
“I’m just trying / to get the truth in my hands and hold it / ’cause I’m a lion, yeah.” The song thundered through a bridge and some vigorous strumming, reaching its deafening climax and ending just before I would have effectively screamed my voice away. Then came the scary part: talking to the crowd in Spanish.
“He pedido una jarra; está allí, en la mesa. Mi tío Milan – levanta la mano.. sí – se ha roto un brazo y.. le han dado una receta para un antibiótico y ya no puede beber…Si hay alguien que tenga sed, quiero que pidas un vaso…y ¡venga! ¡échate una cerveza! (aplauso) Es que, es que no voy a acabarla por mi mismo. Y tampoco quiero derrochar nada. Tenéis que ayudarme, ¿vale?”
And here is my feeble, inaccurate attempt at translating my feeble, grammatically correct speech:
“I have ordered a pitcher – it’s there, on the table [pointing]. My bro Milan – raise your hand, [he lifts his fully-casted, stuck-at-a-right-angle arm] yeah – he broke his arm and they’ve prescribed him with an antibiotic, so now he can’t drink…If there’s anyone that’s thirsty, I want you to go ask for a glass and c’mon, pour yourself a beer! [They clap for me. I suspect this because I’ve stuttered through my speech and not because I’ve offered them beer.] It’s that…It’s that I’m not going to finish it all by myself. And I don’t want to waste anything either. You guys have to help me, alright?”
I was already beginning to pluck out the next tune by the time I finished my clumsy speech. The girl who hosted the open mic had told me that I could play three songs, just because it was my first time. However, this was before a list of twenty acts had shown up and well before it became apparent that the spectacle might continue all night. I decided to play just two songs; I didn’t want to be personally responsible for dragging the show on any longer (though most Spanish people don’t seem to think three a.m. even qualifies as a late night out.)
For my second song, I played “La Lengua,” which means “The Tongue.” This can be translated either as the literal tongue that sits inside of our mouths or as “The Language.” The double meaning plays a big role throughout the lyrics. This was the first song I ever wrote in Spanish; I wrote and performed it for a class project. It is about having trouble finding a girlfriend in the United States and anticipating the same sorts of trouble when I go to Spain. Now that I’m in Spain, some lines take on a new meaning; I received some laughs from the audience. Having never played this song for a Spanish-speaking audience, I hadn’t realized that it was funny. Hopefully they expressed amusement about the content, rather than laughing about my pronunciation or anything like that.
I left the stage with a “Gracias,” and sat myself down to watch the rest of the show. No one had taken me up on my beer offer, so I set out to drown myself in the pitcher without assistance. It proved too much to finish solo, but I had swallowed a sufficient amount to prevent me from following the lengthy Spanish jokes of the comedian who performed some monologues after a few more musicians had taken to and departed from the ‘open’ microphone.
The show ended later than three in the morning, but it was entertaining all the way through. There were some talented instrumentalists, beautiful voices, and compelling poets (who spoke clearly and comprehensibly). I plan on performing at and attending M.A.S. again next Monday, which sadly will be my last chance to do so. Luckily next Tuesday is a holiday, so I won’t spend the rest of the week exhausted as I have this week. I am so lame when it comes to staying out late!
“I think the little British flags mean that the person behind that desk speaks English,” I say to Sam as I point to one of the screens that sit above the heads of each employee lining the other side of the ticket booth’s counter. We are at Paris’s Gare du Nord train station, near the front of the line to buy a ticket out of town. Our destination is Beauvais, the small city an hour outside of Paris that we’ve flown into–and will soon fly out of, if all goes as planned. Beauvais is the regional airport utilized by RyanAir, purveyors of the dirt-cheap, minimal-service, non-stop Euro-flight.
Our stay in Paris has been nothing short of delightful. Sam’s girlfriend, Mia, is studying in Germany for a term and the couple made plans to meet in Paris for a weekend during their time in Europe. Mia’s friend Annie, whom she met in Germany, was invited to come along and so Sam extended an invitation my way, which of course I could not turn down, having never been to France, much less the country’s capital and largest city, one of the world’s leading cultural, business, and gorgeousness centers. We’ve seen amazing sights and done some touristy stuff without being overly ambitious, which would only lead to disappointment during a three-day stay in such a grand and monument-filled metropolis. We have also managed to escape the vacationer throngs and the tourist traps to supplement our sightseeing with some true Parisian experiences; we have visited places off the beaten Rick Steves’ path and added a local flavor to our weekend activities. The idea was to save money, but the by-product of a more authentic sojourn into the heart of the Île-de-France region, or Région parisienne, was not just frugal but fantastic (and difficult at times, as a group of English, Spanish, German speakers).
Instead of a dirty urban hostel or a spendy hotel, we rented a tiny apartment for these last three nights. Far from the traveler-teeming central areas, our residence bordered a dirty–yet somehow beautiful–canal and immersed us into a young French community. We caught this fun-loving populace during the first spell of warm sunshine that 2012 has offered the area. Not only was the weather absolutely perfect for every moment of our stay, but everybody and their beloved dog spent the whole weekend in the parks and on the banks of the canal enjoying elaborate picnics and soaking up rays. Our group of four managed to avoid running through our travel budgets in restaurants by making the majority of our own food – and joining the outdoor dining (party) experience along the canal as well. The detail regarding thrift may become quite important in the coming moments, as Sam and I have not left ourselves the indispensable ‘getting lost’ wiggle room between our arrival at the station here in Paris and the take-off time from the Beauvais-Trille Aeroport.
I had missed being able to choose and prepare my own food. The return to more autonomous eating habits–along with my mother’s wonderful meals–is one of the few things I look forward to regarding my return home in July.
In resume: I have visited the Louvre for free; enjoyed the Eiffel Tower from every angle but the one that requires a lengthy delay in line (the top); ridden the Fat Tire Day and Night Bike Tours back to back, during which I learned tons about the city’s–and nation’s–history; stared at countless stunning statues and elegant, symmetry-worshipping structures, ate at a café in the middle of the famous Tuileries Gardens for free, thanks to making friends with a kind and well-off bike-touring couple from Florida, tried out the coconut and nutella flavors of Paris’s most famous natural, luxury ice cream, Berthillon, and finished the tour with a nighttime boat tour up and down the Seine River too see the City of Light at full illumination; I have also seen Le Lido, the Moulin Rouge cabaret-dancehall, from outside during the course of our trip through the ‘sex shop district’; gone to a free contemporary art exposition nearby that was not full of tourists; partied at a super fun club that we learned was a very popular gay spot some time after entering; entered numerous churches and cathedrals to check out the architecture, art, and magnificent stained glass–including one in which I met a lady who introduced me to the priest (they invited me to a ‘party’ that night [mass] and she talked incessantly about Jesus even after I informed her that I was there to check out the windows rather than to pray); and ogled millions of statues. I have decided that an effigy of me should be erected in Paris. Just about everyone else in the world along with their brothers, pets, and imaginary friends seem to be depicted by at least one sculpture here.
This fine Monday morning I was wide awake to seize one last morning before embarking on an expedition of planes, trains, and automobiles back to Salamanca. Not one of my sleepyhead companions were stirring at the crack-of-dawn hour of nine a.m., so I set out on a run, in search of Parc des Buttes Chaumont. I trotted the kilometer and a half between our temporary home and the park without getting lost, and proceeded to scamper down every path in the large public garden. I found numerous prominent features and hidden corners, including a shallow, brown lake, a raging waterfall in a cave, a belvedere (gazebo) situated at the top of the 30-meter peak of the lake’s rocky island, a long suspension bridge, copious groups of Asians and Parisians practicing tai-chi, as well as a multitude of fellow runners and walkers. After a couple of sprint-laps around the lake, I found a sunny patch of grass on which I stretched out and saluted my gigantic fiery friend, thanking him for providing our planet with almost all of its useful energy and for igniting my mornings with luminous radiance.
Upon returning from the park, my vacation-mates were just beginning to rouse. Sam and I packed all our shit up–one backpack-full each–and the four of us headed out with David and Nick, two other west-coast Americans studying in Germany, for one expensive café lunch. Sam and I were both far under the most-expensive-city-in-Europe budget that we had set aside for the weekend and it was certainly time to splurge before leaving. Needless to say, our genuine dining experience in a city known for its fine cuisine was delicious and satisfying. We put our packs on our backs and headed here to the train station just after two o’clock. Our flight is scheduled to detach itself from the runway at six. We are cutting it close after a very full weekend of unforgettableness, given that the airport is about 100 kilometers away and we’ve yet to book any sort of trip in that direction. Purportedly the gate will close at five thirty. Sam is concerned about this; I am not. I am certain that as long as the plane is still around when we show up at the terminal, they will let us board.
What worries us is whether or not a train will be leaving soon. Sam has read online that one departs every hour. Timing is of importance here, as the trip will last a little over one hour by rail, followed by a five-kilometer walk, hitchhike, or bus–I’m sure there’s a shuttle–from Beauvais’s train station to the airport.
We have reached the front of the line at the ticket booth and an English-speaking attendant has just finished his transaction with the previous costumer. Sam and I approach the window together and inquire about the next train to Beauvias, only to learn that it is scheduled for 4:10. This will not leave us enough time to make our flight.
“How else can we get to the Beauvais-Trille Aeroport?” I ask the man behind the counter. He takes out a map of the underground metro system and lightly circles a stop on the other side of town before handing it to us.
“I think that buses leave from here. I’m not sure though.”
We ask him about the likelihood of a bus departing before 4:10, and he informs us that he believes they leave every hour. He hesitates to make any promises and reiterates that he could be wrong. We have heard the ‘one every hour’ story before, but options are few at this point. If four o’clock arrives and we still haven’t found anything, Sam and I will be splitting the fare of an hour-long cab ride. This is the last ditch plan.
We head back down the escalator that connects the train depot with the subway tunnels and immediately a young man approaches us and begins to help us, in English, to figure out where we need to go. He doesn’t seem to understand that our destination has nothing to do with the circle drawn on the metro map given to us at the train station, that we really just need to find a way to get to the airport. A friend of the young man, or perhaps just another helpful soul, has approached and they are making a flurry of assumptions while we flood them with questions and clarifications regarding the task at hand. There is a lot going on.
Both men are of Arabic or Persian descent by appearance, but they are clearly locals. My mind had already been racing to begin with, and now as they lead us over to the public transportation ticket-vending machine, I still have yet to question the motives of their concern for our problems. When we stepped off the escalator from the station we were a group of confused-looking foreigners (Annie and Mia have accompanied us to the train station to say goodbye). Further, we were bewildered faces in a hurry. Sam hears both men separately suggest that it is too crowded here and we should go somewhere else to buy tickets, but then a machine opens up and we cut in front of a few others who are most likely waiting to use it.
At the electronic ticket booth, my new helpful friend (the second man who has approached our group) reaches for the map given to us upstairs. He studies the circled station, trying to figure out what ‘zone’ it’s in. I restate that the metro is not the problem; we need to get to Beauvais and we are not even sure if we trust that we can catch a bus at the circled point. He assents and his buddy seems certain that they can help–or possibly he is simply unconcerned.
The man operates the machine’s touch-screen with deftness and apparent ease. The navigation is a bit too quick for me to follow in French, even though I have used these machines before. He asks for confirmation that we need two tickets and I verify that he’s correct. He has arrived at a payment screen, which solicits a sum of seventeen Euros. This is too much for a couple of single-trip metro passes. That part is inconsequential at any rate, as Annie and Mia both have five-day passes and Sam and I will have no trouble slinking in right behind them; security measures are minimal at the entrances to Paris’s subway system.
As seventeen Euros is too costly to be the charge for anything else, I guess that these machines work for buying intercity bus tickets as well. This is quite convenient and easy; my spirits are rising and I am happy to have encountered someone who can make these machines work more proficiently than myself. I notice fleetingly as I reach for my wallet that Beauvais is not mentioned anywhere on the screen.
“You pay with card? Or do you have cash?” I have already pulled out a twenty-Euro note and I am poking it foolishly into the card reader, gradually grasping that this isn’t one of the bigger machines that accepts paper bills. We are desperate to get to the airport; it’s almost three o’clock and we haven’t taken a single bite out of the vast expanse between Paris and the terminal from which we must board in less than three hours.
At this moment a security guard nears. He doesn’t speak English well, but he is clearly unhappy with our unofficial travel advisory team. Sam and I don’t understand what is going on; the girls are holding positions in a nearby line leading to a booth labeled “Tickets and Information.” The security officer has successfully removed us from the ticket-buying transaction, and now tries to explain what is happening. Finally he stumbles upon the word ‘Peekpoke-its.’ The young man who was so eager to be of assistance to our quest for the Beauvais airport now stands aside and stares at me with a puppy face that seems to say, “Tell the man that I was just helping you!” His friend has scurried off somewhere.
Sam and I don’t know what to make of any of this. We assure the guard that we have all of our things and that we were not touched. I do begin to think about whether or not either of our companions has circled behind me, where I carry an overstuffed backpack filled with everything I have brought and everything I need. The uniformed gentleman explains that they wanted to see our PIN numbers or something like that. We still have no idea if the alleged pickpockets have wronged us or if they are just a couple of helpful souls who have been falsely accused by authority. In any case, they won’t be getting in any trouble, seeing as the security guard intervened before anything significant transpired.
The situation settles down as the security guard makes sure that the young tourist ‘guides’ keep their distance from us. Sam and I contemplate whether or not the young men actually had malicious intentions. We don’t come to any conclusive thoughts; the whole scene has been too confusing.
I deduce that the seventeen-Euro charge must have been for two one-day unlimited metro passes. This leads me to believe that the man pushing buttons on the screen was doing so hurriedly or at random–he did not care what we ended up purchasing at the machine. Why was he trying to get us to gift our money to the Metro system? Maybe what the security guard saw should have been obvious to us. I am perplexed, and somewhat disappointed. These traveler-tricking criminals had truly convinced me that they could help us get to Beauvais. Now we are back at square one.
Sam and I join Annie and Mia in the line for the booth where we can talk to or buy tickets from a real person. There’s only one woman at work; she’s an elderly lady whom I immediately perceive as someone who has no clue about speaking English or answering questions that don’t directly pertain to her very specific line of work: selling metro tickets. We continue wait in the line nevertheless, for the reason that she is seated underneath a sign that says ‘Information’ and has the universal symbol ( i ). What’s more, we are running out of options to circumvent a very expensive cab ride. I think to myself that there might be more staff on duty were this Monday not a national holiday here in France.
Upon reaching the front of the queue, my suspicions are confirmed and the lady behind the counter knows nothing about leaving Paris and provides us with no help. This is evident to me after five seconds of interrogating her. I am already on my way to the subway entrance; my three companions are still talking with the metro worker, as if she might suddenly be of some assistance.
I go back for Sam, Mia, and Annie and inform them that it’s time to make the trip to the point on our metro system diagram that was circled for us by the guy at the train station. I feel a little resistance from the girls, since our search for a ride is beginning to resemble a wild goose chase. We have nothing else to try, though. It’s still too early to give up and hail a taxi.
Sam and I follow closely behind our pass-holding friends to penetrate the metro system free of charge. We say our goodbyes to Annie and Mia, who will bus back to Germany overnight, and make a one-transfer trip to the potential location of the bus station.
There are signs here that not only point to the exit but that also promisingly mention the Beauvias airport. After following those signs to daylight, we are standing on the street looking around. There is not a clue in sight as to where one might catch a bus.
We try the municipal transportation-looking building placed just a few steps from the top of stairway exiting the underground. The young woman with whom we speak points us to the far side of the enormous building across the street. We foolishly enter it. The mammoth, glass-covered structure turns out to be a shopping mall, which is nearly deserted.
We run–literally sprint–in and out of the mall searching for any sort of ticket kiosk and asking every person we encounter for help. One couple speaks Spanish and informs us that they too are flying to Madrid later this evening, but even they cannot help us find a bus ticket.
Now we are on the other side of the grand building, which is also a hotel, evidently. We just passed a long line of taxis from which we may soon be forced to pick a lucky winner to make some big money giving us a lift to Beauvais. There are some buses lined up on the side of the road; they appear to be city buses.
Sam and I decide to sprint into the building one more time on this side. This must be where we can buy tickets, since the buses are lined up out here, right? Wrong. The super mall fills up this side of the building as well.
There is an graying man with a distinctive round nose and large-framed glasses staring into the window of the shop by which he is passing at a snail’s pace. We run over to him and ask if he speaks English.
“What do you want to know?” He poses the question unhurriedly, in accented yet perfect English. By omitting the ‘Yes I speak English’ exchange, he has in fact saved us time. Time is playing for the other team right now, as a Spanish sports announcer would put it.
“We need to buy a bus ticket to Beauvais, can you help us?”
He points across the street. A small set of stairs rises from the sidewalk to the mall’s entrance, and at this elevated height we can effortlessly see over the buses lining the near side of the street. On the far side lies a parking lot filled with large red-and-white painted buses. The man begins to say something and then stops himself to think for a moment.
“You can buy the tee-kits on the bus. This is the easiest way. Yes you can pay when you take the bus. It is easy.”
We thank him as profusely and hastily as possible and gallop across to the station. There are a lot of people lined up here but nobody getting on a bus. Information is hard to come by, but we learn that a bus is scheduled to leave for the airport within five minutes. The sign on the wall says we should leave by bus three hours and fifteen minutes before take off. This is an absurd estimation; airport advisories typically lead one towards spending countless hours in the terminal, with obvious motives. We don’t buy our tickets on the bus after all; Sam figures out how they are purchased and gets a couple. Immediately we are in line and a moment later we board. The less-than-certain man who helped us at the train station is a hero.
There is no traffic; Paris is dead on this holiday Monday morning. Sam asks me if it’s an okay time to stop worrying. I assure him that we will make the flight, that there are certainly other people on the same bus with whom we will also share a plane.
The airport is so small and boring that it is in fact nice that we have not shown up early. We still have a long day of travel ahead of us, including a flight, a Madrid metro trip, and a three and a half-hour bus ride to Salamanca, but at least now we can relax.
This (Sunday) morning I went on a run. It was sunny, so I ran a long way. Long after I had left the city, I saw stadium lights sticking up out of the clump of buildings to the west. As I was north of Salamanca, I figured this must be el Estadio Helmántico, where the local soccer team Unión Deportiva Salamanca, or U.D. Salamanca, plays its games. As my runs rarely have a planned route, choosing where to go often ends up keeping me entertained more so than the act of running itself ever could. I was going to go check out the stadium.
It took quite a while to arrive, but as I got closer I could hear a public address announcer chattering constantly. I assumed that there must be a fútbol game taking place. I was wrong. The P.A. announcer at a soccer game very rarely has anything to say, whereas this man with a microphone was spewing out a never-ending discourse of numbers and names.
I entered the parking lot and ran halfway around the stadium. There were lots of large chartered buses in the parking lot.
On the far side of the soccer stadium there was another field with a small grandstand. Beyond this lay a complete athletic complex with tennis courts, a swimming pool, and FieldTurf fútbol practice fields, surely used for training by U.D. Salamanca and their various youth and developmental squads. The soccer stadium appeared deserted, though I couldn’t see inside of the modest 17,000-seat bowl.
The voice on the public address system came from the smaller facility that sits opposite the stadium on the far side of the encompassing parking lot. People were jogging around the parking lot in various team tracksuits.
Upon entering the gate to this field, it took me a couple minutes to figure out what I was watching. I deduced it by listening to the loudspeakers and reading the names of universities on shorts, tank tops, and tracksuits. I had run myself into the Campeonatos Universitarios de Atletismo de España, the collegiate national championship track meet.
It was a perfect spot to take a rest and stretch out a bit after running for over an hour. I got to watch the prueba final of both the categoría femenina and masculina 100-meter dashes, as well the women’s 3000-meter prueba de obstaculos (steeplechase).
Some chica from La Universidad de Valencia won the women’s 100 in 12.40 seconds. The winning time in the men’s race was 10.80; I forget what school the guy was from. The men’s long jump was going on as well. The ritual of the jumper beginning a slow clap for the crowd to continue and speed up during his run exists in Spain the same as in the U.S.
Collegiate sports don’t seem like a very big deal in Spain. Total attendance, excluding athletes and coaches, could not have been more than a couple hundred. It’s also interesting that Salamanca was chosen as the site for this track meet, as I did not see a single competitor from the Universidad de Salamanca, not that I would recognize the school colors if I did see them. There were some blue-with-orange-lettering Universitat D’Alicante sweatshirts, which I recognized from the wardrobes of my dad and sister Hannah, who studied at said school last spring.
Then I ran home.
Today all the API kids have been brought by bus to the tiny village of Peñafiel, of the province Valladolid, in the same Autonomy as Salamanca, Castilla y Leon. This pueblo is located in the famous Ribera del Duero region, from which some of the most well-known and highly regarded Spanish wines come.
We visit la bodega (winery) Protos and receive a super interesting guided tour of the old structure, the underground tunnels in which the wines age in barrels of French and American oak, and the architecturally magnificent, ecologically sound new building. I learn tons about the growing of grapes, their fermentation, the aging of different wines, and their specific qualities.
The tunnels, scores of meters beneath the hillside, link the older building, which itself is built into the hill, to the beautiful new one across the street. The dark, narrow pathways hold thousands of barrels of red wine, 220 liters (59 gallons) each, in the optimal cool and humid conditions which naturally occur at all times of the day and year within the meseta (ridge-topped hill). The older tunnels were carved out of the rock by hand in the 1920s; one can see the pick marks in the walls left by the indefatigable laborers excavating the passageways.
In these tunnels all of the barrels are still moved by hand, as machines cannot fit. Every barrel must be emptied and cleaned every three months during the aging process. This same work is much easier and more comfortable in the large storage chambers beneath Protos’ new, modern winery across the street, which was designed by Richard Rogers and constructed in 2006. Another five thousand barrels are stored in a huge room with an artificial climate that mimics that of the tunnels. This space smells strongly of roble y tinto (oak and red wine), as it doesn’t need to be ventilated through crude chimineas like the old subterranean tunnels. I would like to buy cologne or perhaps a candle of this scent. The barricas here sit on a large metal framework rather than stacked upon each other, and can be moved by machine without problem.
Next to this barrel storage area, there is another warehouse-sized room with bottled wines stacked floor-to-high-ceiling. There are over three million bottles of wine in this room, according to our tour guide, Estella. Upon entering the massive bottled-conditioning space, I remark to whomever is standing next to me that this is almost as awesome as my wine cellar at home.After spending anywhere from a few months to a few years aging in oak, depending on the quality of the wine being made, each ‘batch’ must spend a similar amount of time aging embotallada in this vault.
After this tour we climb up a few flights of stairs into the new bodega to taste two wines. First we are served a straw-colored white called Verdejo, which smells of green apples and manages to taste very fruity without being too sweet. I don’t understand at all why, after spending an hour and a half learning about and seeing how the famous Tempranilla grapes of the Ribera region are made into delicious red wines, we are served a white wine from another of Protos’ facilities, this one in the Rueda region–which is known for great whites, apparently.
The second wine we taste is the Crianza, which has spent 14 months in American and French oak casks and another 12 in its own bottle. The color is like nothing I’ve seen before–I don’t know enough to determine if this is a good unique or if perhaps there is a reason no other wine has the same deep cherry color and translucent rim, which even Benjamin Moore’s incredibly creative and pretentious color-naming expert would have trouble coming up with words to describe. I really enjoy my small serving of this vino; it tastes great, it’s easy to drink, and the best of the selection’s many flavors camp out in my mouth long after each sip has passed down my throat. I wonder why they aren’t going to give us the chance to sample one of the bodega‘s nicer–more expensive and longer-aged–varieties, such as the Reserva or Gran Reserva. I am certain those would be the nicest wines I have ever enjoyed, especially considering how much of a gem the younger Crianza is.
After the wine tasting we eat a gran comida on API’s wallet–of course this has been included somewhere in the total program cost. Yum. Then we head to receive a far-too-brief tour of the castle situated strategically atop the meseta, overlooking the small town and the stunning countryside. The sun emerges just as we do the same atop the keep, which is the highest point on the ancient structure. This part of the world is truly gorgeous; it is hard to know whether I should spend my short time up here checking out the castle or the view!
Inside the structure of the castle’s keep is a wine museum, which we visit for a ridiculously short period of time. There was a plethora of text to read and a lot of interesting images, videos, models, and artifacts to look at as well. I am not able to skim Spanish writing just yet, so I set about reading the entirety of the descriptions that most interested me.
Not long after we first arrive I am informed that every other student is on the bus waiting. I am not embarrassed as I board the already-full bus, even though Inma, the API employee coordinating this trip, asks me how I got lost in the museum, or something to this effect. I really feel jibbed; I understand that the castle tours must go at a certain pace to funnel the visitors through, but there was no reason we should have left the wine museum so quickly. Nobody else besides Sam and I seem bothered that we are leaving so soon, though. Majority rules. Everyone must be crashing from the vino before and during our mid-day meal. I choose to believe this, rather than assuming that everyone is lame and was not interested in the wine museum (or spending more time in the sun before bussing back to Salamanca).
After returning to Salamanca and spending an hour or two hanging out with Sam, I begin to head back home to eat and sleep. I pass through the Plaza Mayor and hear live music. La feria de libros (the book fair?) is going on right now and will continue for about a week. About twenty different book vendors, everything from librerías (bookstores) to university libraries to map and historical collections for the city and province are set up in large kiosks in the Plaza for this ten-ish-day event. There is also a stage set up in the ‘front’ of the plaza; I have been hoping to encounter live music here one of these days.
I’ve been standing here listening to the old rockabilly tune played by this guitar-drums-bass trio for less than a minute when Reme catches my attention. My host mom is here for the concert too!
It turns out that Reme is here with the wife of the harmonica player–the fourth member, an acquaintance of Nacho’s who only plays a few of the songs in the set. To hear the guitarist of a band from Madrid singing, “Get your kicks on Route 66,” kind of cracks me up, but I enjoy the music. They play a few blues numbers, which I like a lot more than the 50s country-rock covers. The lyrics are in poorly pronounced English but the front-man talks to the audience in between songs in perfect Spanish. He looks very American (circa 1957 Texas) but I am convinced he is not, or else he really needs help annunciating when singing.
I stay for more than a few songs and finally return home to eat well after eleven o’clock. Nacho’s friend–and my new acquaintance’s husband–the harmonica player is quite talented; I wish he had gotten to play more. Such is life for a harmonica-only musician, though. I am not going out again tonight. I am tired and have had plenty of fun experiences for one day. I will leave the party to the partiers.
Last Tuesday was a national holiday, El día del trabajo (Labor Day), so Alex (a friend from Georgetown), Sam (a friend from Oregon State), and I took a day trip to ávila. Alex took a few pictures, for which I had intended to wait, but as we are all men and only one of us had a camera, the pictures would not have been spectacular anyway. Basically, it is a small town that has spilled out from the murallas (walls) that once surrounded the whole city.
The walls, as well as almost every building in the part of the city inside them, have been maintained but not changed much. The churches and the schools and even the regular Spanish buildings (retail on the ground floor and pisos stacked for a few more stories) hearken back to centuries past.
Climbing on the walls was quite fun, as was the whole day. I wrote a poem about it. No I won’t translate it.
Maybe I should translate it, given that someone is going to try throwing it into a Google Translator or something similar and then it will sound far dumber than if I were to simply put it in English myself.
ávila
Andando encima de las murallas
De las cuales la ciudad ha derramado,
El aire inquieto no sopla
Hacia lo soleado. Somos reptiles.
Inspira los siglos y lee en las huellas
Hasta que las piedras te digan su cuento.
Los pasos altos de las escaleritas
Y cielos bajos no nos cuentan lo mismo.
Dentro de las protegedoras duras
La luz ha cambiado; se podría tocar ambos lados
De la calle en sólo un instante.
Todavía había viento, todavía permanecía dentro.
El paisaje desde el tren no ha sido recordado.
Desde el tren, hasta la vuelta, las horas apuradas
Pasaron.
samblissing 