Carnaval

Ack. I’m woefully behind in blog posts. I’ve started three and left each one hanging in my drafts folder, just sitting there. Waiting. Time to catch up, I’ll start with Saturday.

Seems like everyone finds a way to celebrate Carnaval. I’ve read that the biggest and craziest celebration is in Brazil, but Mardi Gras in New Orleans can probably at least hold a candle, and well, here in Corrales we do our best too. We dabbled with a whole slew of ideas for costumes (we landed on Scrabble tiles for quite some time, but then after realizing that starting Saturday afternoon to cut up boxes to make Scrabble tiles was probably biting off a little more than we could chew), but landed on the idea of just going “western” as one of the bars in town was having a party with that theme. I was honestly surprised once we got out to see how many people had dressed up. And in some fairly elaborate costumes too!

A two second aside here…when it comes time to dress up, there is really no better place to go for props and even idea generation than the “Chinese stores.” I’ve mentioned them before, basically they are dollar stores sprinkled alllll over (there are TWO in Corrales), always owned by Chinese families. They have EVERYTHING. I mean, I am afraid to go in there when I’m not actually looking for something because God only knows what would accidentally fall into my bag to bring home. They’ve got baking dishes and everything. It’s dangerous.

SO, we got all propped up there and set out with about 8 of us. Here are some pics.

Cowgirl # 1 (Eva). She actually looked like the real deal. Okay, well, if the real deals wore sparkly red hats.

Cowgirls #2 and #3. In other words, me and the Devil with the Red Hat on, also known as Virginia.

The group, minus two of us who joined later...

The horses we rode in on. Yep, those would be broom poles with cows on them, and play horses...we tried to use some sort of putty cement to hold them in there, but it wouldn't stick so we had to go ghetto and use tape. Snort.

The Horse Whisperer. Snicker, snicker...

I call this one A Cowgirl a Cowboy and a Devil.

And that was that. We’ve hung up our hats and ghetto horse poles and unused half cut up Scrabble tiles until next year. Or until the next time we dress up.

Festivals, Bear Attacks, and Spanish Lessons

Where should I even begin?

I’ve said before that fiestas and festivals are a dime a dozen around here. Somewhere in Spain, someone is celebrating something all the time. It’s been my experience that these festivals generally share the following commonalities: there are costumes (usually animal representations and others, well, others that I just don’t understand, with lots of colors and sometimes some random baby dolls…), there is always some sort of procession or parade, there is always a bar somewhere nearby, there always seems to be music (normally bagpipes and tambourines), and there is always a lot of waiting around (schedules mean very little in this country).

This past Saturday we went to a festival with all these things in the town of Piasca, which is a super duper (like population 2000) small town situated near the Picos mountains and not far at all from Potes (the scene of the Orujo festival). It was a festival much like one we had gone to in a different town last year when I was here, of which I didn’t have such fantastic  memories – it was like 40 degrees and raining and there were thousands of people so you had to fight to see what was going on, AND the next day I got on a plane back to the states and fell deathly ill for a week. So I was a little scarred.

It only takes a little over an hour to get there from here, so we were there at the start of everything at about 10:30 in the morning. It was a beautiful day and with the backdrop of the snow capped mountains, and notably fewer people (I actually thought it was only going to be me and C…but eventually more folks turned up), it was already more promising.

Part of one of the groups gearing up to get started.

The bagpipe group from Corrales was playing there (another reason C wanted to go). Maybe next year, he'll suit up and play with them.

Anyhoo. You should check this out to learn more about La Viajanera (which is the larger version of this that we went to last  year) and the symbolism of all the characters and what happens. I could write it all out here, but let’s be honest, I’m generally more interested in people watching and just taking in all the things that are unusual (like, all of it), and not to mention I’d probably just copy and paste what he wrote anyway. Plus the video in that post is really well done. I digress.

I’ll highlight my favorite moments.

1) There’s this group that walks with these big bells on their back, and with tall ribbony hats. They have to walk with sort of a bouncy stop to make them ring all at the same time.

These are the guys with the bells. They are LOUD, but I find them rather intriguing. And this group is almost all like 20 year old Galician boys who wear big hoop earrings in both ears and have long floppy hair. They are like clones of each other.

And there is a guy dresses in a big bear costume in the group. At least I would assume it was a guy? I dunno, but I’d like a few words with him. SO, periodically the bear will find some unsuspecting person looking the other way or not paying attention and attack them, scaring the beJEEZUS out of them. Apparently I’m not only unsuspecting enough to get attacked once (in the morning) but it happened AGAIN later in the day. TWICE. C was videoing the first time and caught it on the sidelines. Hilarious.

2) These guys were making paella for all 200 of us. First of all, I want pans like these. SO FUN. And second of all, it was good.

I mean, we could fit one of these would fit in our yard?

3) There was a big tent and a ton of people, and I had to pee. So, we asked one of the guys who was dressed in part of his costume (not the whole thing, but was obviously part of the festivities) and carrying plates of paella where I could go. Well, turns out there wasn’t anyplace, so this guy was like “oh, come with me” and walked me around back to his HOUSE. Like, come on in and use our bathroom. Who does that??? And there was a big group of people sitting in the kitchen who were telling me to come in and have coffee with them. I can’t tell you how that made me giggle.

Here are some more pics.

The President of Cantabria even made an appearance. He's the left one of the two guys. He smiles a lot. Very politician like.

This is the bagpipe group from Corrales. VERY Sound-of-Music-y in this shot, no?? I wanted to spin around and sing. But it was cold and I could only spare one hand out of my pocket at a time.

An impromptu jam session. I gotta say - and yes, this highlights my judginess - that I saw that girl earlier in the day and had no IDEA she'd be able to play a bagpipe like that. It was like an American Idol audition moment. Completely surprising.

So the picture quality is stink-o, but I loved these guys. I could spend days taking pictures of faces, if only I were invisible. Cause it can get a little awkward when they catch you. Who's the FREAK SHOW taking my picture?? Teeheehee...

I hit a funny button on my camera that changed the color of the shot to only include greens. But I think it's sort of funky.

Virginia, Eva and C back in Potes where the festival continued later in the day.

This made me giggle. Shoot, everything makes me giggle. But look at the kinds of sandwishes they have...hehehehe...

And that was that. It was a really fun day and erased the bad memories I had from the one the previous year that made me sick.

OH, and for your Spanish lessons for the day.

1. I had to go to the bathroom really badly on the way home, so I asked C how to say something similar to “I have to pee like a racehorse.” So he told me “Me meo por las patas abajo.” Which means more like I’m gonna pee down my leg. So I got all geared up to use my new phrase with some friends and spit out “me meo por las patas arriba” because I get arriba (up) and abajo (down) mixed up. So I think I basically said I was gonna pee up my arms, which everyone thought would have been really interesting. Snort. If nothing else, I am good for a few laughs.

2. And for the record “estrechar” is Spanglish for stretch in the Book of Lynne, but in fact in means to shrink. C was a little surprised when I asked him if he had “stretched” after going to the gym.

La Última

“La última” literally translates to “the last one.” This could mean, for example, your last piece of gum, or the last person in line, or the last episode (which is sad, like the last episode of Downtown Abbey which leaves you waiting indefinitely for another season…). But more often than not, when it is used here, it is referring to having just one last drink. Which, I have come to realize, means absolutely nothing. Worthless. Like when someone says “I’m fine” and they don’t mean it? Yeah, it’s sort of like that. In my book, there are two reasons for this.

One is the company I keep. Inevitably, when its already sort of at that hour that you might want to head home, someone looks around at the group and suggests having the “last one” before heading home. But, it isn’t even a suggestion, it’s sort of like a decision that has been made for the group. And this happens. And then it happens again. And then at some point, someone goes ahead and calls it the PENultima because they know it’s not really the last one. So after we go four or five rounds of this, and it’s like 4:00 in the morning (BUT you didn’t realize this because there don’t seem to be any clocks anywhere), someone (usually me) decides to put an end to it, and gets up and puts their coat on and makes a move for the door. Most of the time that is me. And some of the time, no one follows. (I should note that I have also been known to Irish Goodbye…you know, like just leave without saying anything…which is called a 13-14 here, in Spanish a “trece catorce” – it is important to know these things…).

The second reason is that there doesn’t seem to be any hard set “closing time” in some bars. Like in the states, last call is last call and some very large man will actually pick you up and carry you out if you don’t leave (not that that has every happened to me, per se…but it does happen). Here, in small town Spain, it’s a little more…relaxed? Like sometimes the bars close when they want, and stay open when they want. Or they are open until you and your friends have really had la última. We were even joking last night that they could basically have the shades down (the outside kind like everyone has here) and the lights off, and someone might pop their head in, and the bar owners might just think that’s okay. And if you know the bartenders or bar owners, the likelihood is that they will just join you for a few. And for la última, of course.

In any case. Sometimes it’s great (like for instance last night we were still out and got to see some of the pre-Superbowl music and kickoff) and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t fun. But sometimes it’s awful. Like when you wake up in the morning after one too many “últimas” and you promise yourself you are not going out with those people ever again. Which, like la última, really means nothing.

On a side note, I’d also just like to say that we’ve been having some really stunning winter weather here in Cantabria. Yesterday morning I was convinced we would need to build an arc and collect all our friends and animals. It was literally raining sideways and the winds were gusting at like 50 mph. And today, it’s raining sideways again. I think from the other direction. Pretty soon it will probably rain from the ground up, I don’t know. What are those pants called that you go fishing in? Oh yes, waders. I’m going to need some. (Side note: googling “fish pants” will yield some rather unfortunate results.)

It snowed the other morning. Enough to accumulate in the higher elevations, and barely enough to dust the ground in Corrales. But it was still pretty.

I was baking the other day, and looked out and saw this. It's like seeing the cows in the street. I can look out my kitchen window and see sheep. That's just fun.

Our Paseito in the Snow

Yesterday, we went for a little paseito. Except this time, I was a teeny bit (though not completely) more well informed about what was actually going to go down, so I had some level of expectation about what was lying ahead of me.

Every Sunday, what seems to me like the Cantabria Parks and Rec department, organizes hikes that are led by a guide, and take a variety of routes. We joined up with the group in the Parque Natural de Saja-Besaya – according to the schedule it was either going to be a hike or a snowshoe trek, weather depending. Turns out the snow in the lower parts of the mountain wasn’t so hot for snowshoeing, so we set out on foot. The guide explained it wasn’t really a typical route, it was sort of a combination of paths. So the group of about ten of us set out in our cold weather gear.

I pause for a moment to explain MY cold weather gear. You know when you go skiing and you see “that guy?” The guy skiing in jeans? Yeah. That was me. In jeans. Like some sorta redneck. I seem to be lacking appropriate “go for a hike/snowshoe” pants. I sort of managed the rest of it, with a bunch of layers, my EVER so necessary double layer of mittens with hand warmers, hat, etc. And thanks to some other borrowed goods, including another jacket and ski poles, and these things that cover the bottom of your pants so they don’t get wet (they have a name, I’m blanking on them though).

Anyway, it was about a 3 hour hike up, with a little snow at the bottom and about a foot and change by the top. We started off on  a pretty clear path, and then zig-zagged our way up, like a bunch of ducks in a row following our guide. By the top, visibility was pretty low – he was looking for a cabin that was up there to stop and have something to eat, and we almost didn’t go because he couldn’t see well enough to find it (this, by the way, is when I start to think about how there are two million places I’d rather be than standing, in my redneck getup, in the middle of the snow and wind at the top of the mountain when we’re not really sure where to go, and I’m forced to start singing happy songs in my head and to focus on the warm cup of soup I am going to have when I get down and how no, just because I can’t feel my fingers it doesn’t mean I have frostbite). But somehow we did.

Heading up the mountain. Yeah, I couldn't really see anything either.

We stopped for about 15 minutes or so (while everyone busted out big loaves of bread but us, because we were a little ill prepared…I should have learned this from last time, I know, I know…we ate a granola bar), just enough time for me to temporarily lose feeling in all my limbs, which for those of you who know me is NOT a rare occurrence in the cold weather (don’t worry it all came back once we got moving again), and then we headed back down, like double speed.

The happy hikers...me, C, and our friend Estela. On the way down.

I know the lighting isn't that great, but the view was really, really pretty.

It was actually really beautiful, and a very enjoyable hike. I’ll get some better pants for next time.

A Saturday Drive

We hit the road this morning for a little exploring through the western part of Cantabria, about a 150 mile loop up into the snowy mountains. Hm, where should I begin. OH, I know.

Driving through one of the first little towns (Quintanilla) we saw this:

Yep, that would be a freshly dead pig.

The good thing is that we didn’t see them actually kill it, and it was already drained of most of the blood. But yes, we stopped and watched them…uh…clean it out. I realize you may be like “ewwwwwwwwwwwww,” because at first I was wincing a little, but really, it’s no different than dissecting a pig in high school science. I like watching surgeries, this was sorta just like that. Fascinating. They take all the stuff out that isn’t meat, that either they aren’t going to use, OR that they will use somehow, and then I imagine it goes off to the butcher.

Here's the exit shot. I spared you any of the in-between details. But just so you know, that blue bucket is full of pig intestines. Teeeheheeheeheee....

Moving on. We stopped for lunch in the town of Tudanca. We were the only ones eating in the restaurant and it was so cold in there we could literally see our breath. These mountain people are waaaaaay heartier than me. I could barely feel my feet. Anyhoo, we ran into stuff like this along the way.

Cows on the highway. Makes me laugh every time, I just don't know when it's going to get old.

Some people walk their dogs, other people walk their horses. The guy on the left is apparently the well behaved one because he's just trotting along freely.

As we got higher and higher up, we found ourselves in the middle of the snow. Not a ton, but just enough to coat the trees and make everything really beautiful.

I love this because you can see how the snow just sort of fades away.

Same view, but I love those fences so much. I think I take pictures of anything that has one of those. There could be a fenced in pile of poo and I'd probably snap a shot.

Self portrait time!

And on an unrelated note, I’m proud to say I started this week on two of my New Years resolutions – I made it to the gym all week AND I got back to blogging about my baking experiments. Yikes, I just realized how contradictory those things are.

Tomorrow, snowshoeing. We’ll see how that goes.

Fearless Moments and Personal Victories

I’ll tell you what…if you are at a point in your life when you feel like a little soul searching is in order, like you are looking for some sort of experience to help you dig a weeeeedle bit deeper into you you really are (or, if you happen to fall in love with someone who lives overseas, this also is a good reason), I recommend uprooting for a short time and plopping yourself in the middle of another country. And no, not England. And not Australia. Another non-English speaking country. Because guess what? You have fears you didn’t know were fears. And your comfort zone doesn’t necessarily extend thousands of miles. And the things you think you’re going to miss aren’t the things you actually miss. Let me explain.

I consider myself a fairly well adjusted, socially comfortable, easy going person. Nothing ever really rattled me. I’ve always used charm and a good healthy grin to do just about anything. (C says I have a certain “voice” I use too…like the syrupy sweet thing…and ya know he may be right, but I can give countless examples of when it’s worked successfully!). But that all changes when you are in a different culture, speaking a different language, where things don’t work the way you’re used to, and the aisles in the grocery stores are all out of wack. Ya know? And therefore, in my crazy head, overcoming these fears and uncertainties and moments of discomfort that are outside my comfort zone? I refer to them as fearless moments and personal victories. Let’s go with FMs and PVs. I’ll elaborate.

The other day, I walked into the Post Office (Correos) in Santander. There were like 50 people and you had to take a number I only had a half hour before class…and I walked in, thought to myself “Good God, what the hell is going on here?” and promptly spun on my heel and walked out. Sounds stupid, right? I am a mature, confident adult. Crowds have never scared me. But when I walked in there, that all changed. I had to buy an envelope, where was I supposed to do that? Before I took a number? And what the hell is the Spanish word for envelope anyway?? I left and went to class. BUT, a couple days ago, I was having an FM and I walked back into the Post Office like I owned the place, found a number, mailed my letter in an envelope that came from there, and was on my way. In like 20 minutes. I walked out of there like I had achieved some level of greatness. Like in Ally McBeal – YES, I totally channel my inner Ally McBeal, she is the bomb diggity – I was playing Barry White in my head. And strutting. WTF?

Another example. I don’t like new gyms. When you see a newbie in a gym, you KNOW – they bump into things and they don’t know how to work machines, and they use improper etiquette and, well, you feel bad for them. I HATE being the gym newbie. Double that when you are going to a gym in a different country where the machines show you things in Spanish and tell you how fast you’re going in kilometers/hour. I got dressed to go the other night, said to myself  ”Lynne, it’s time, go do your thing.” And when I got there – at the busiest hour of the day – I saw like 35 people in the lobby, did a 180 and decided taking a nice brisk walk would do the trick instead. COME ON. BUCK UP. I of course have since gone back, but seriously…what’s the gym etiquette here? What if you fling sweat on a machine? And can you stay on it for longer than 30 minutes? And what if – GOD FORBID – someone tries to TALK to me???

The first time I tried something on in a store? Pure PV. I asked to try on boots, in Spanish, I joked with the lady working at the store, I bought my boots and I left. The first time I took the train to the city? And bought a round-trip ticket? PV. The first time I was at a bar where I didn’t know the bartender (rarity around here, I tell ya, welcome to small-town Spain) and asked for the check? PV. The first time I went to the grocery store and understood how to weigh the vegetables and that the checkout lady was asking me for my Lupa card (like your Harris Teeter card, or your loyalty card for whatever grocery store you go to)? PV.

And about the things I miss…NOT the things I thought I would miss. Well, not most of them at least. I miss my friends, especially the ones I saw all the time (the ones I didn’t see all the time, I still email/talk to them just as much as I did before…), I miss my roommate, I miss speaking English and understanding what everyone is saying (though this gets better with time, and I am encouraged each time I understand something). I miss Target. I miss feta cheese. I heavily rely on long IM sessions with my cousin, and Skyping with my parents. But what I really miss? My job. You spend 20 years working in a cube and you think dear GOD just get me out of here, and I got out of there and sure enough, I miss it. I miss the routine and the purpose I had. It’s weird, I know I will find all that here, but that’s what I miss the most.

Anyway. I love that I moved. I know there’s a lot of people who wouldn’t do what I did. And that’s totally cool, it’s not for everyone.  But for sure it’s a good test of who you really are.

Obviously not a picture of Spain. But one of my favorite, favorite, favorite travel experiences of all time. One of my happy places. Sort of like here.

 

Fitur, Madrid, and RyanAir

Maybe not in that order.

Fitur – the International Tourism Trade Fair – was in Madrid this past weekend, open to the public on Saturday and Sunday (open to exhibitors and travel industry people the week prior), so we decided to go thinking it would be interesting for C and perhaps even a networking opportunity.

We found a cheap flight on RyanAir, or what I like to call Europe’s school bus in the sky. It is budget travel to an extreme, and if you know how to do it, you can do it very well. But if you don’t, they will get you for every single penny. For example, you must check in and print your boarding passes at home before you get to the airport. If you don’t, they’ll charge you something like 30 euro. You may carry on a bag…BUT, it has to be regulation size, which it just so happens is slightly smaller than your regular 22″ roller carry-on (you can find them easily throughout Europe, but still). It has to fit in the size-measurer thing, which they do check as you’re getting on board, and it says it has to weigh less than 10 kilos (which is about 22 pounds). I’ve been in places where they’ve checked that, but sometimes they don’t. Anyhoo. THEN, they file you on a really tight plane (if you’re tall you get to sit with your chin on your knees the whole way) cattle call style since there are no assigned seats (well, there ARE but you have to pay for them, of course), where the seats don’t have seat pockets, and they try to sell you stuff the whole time like smokeless cigarettes. If you know what you’re doing, you’re fine. If you don’t, you’re mush meat. BUT. They fly (for example) from Santander to Rome for like $60 round trip. So you can’t pass up fares like that, you just gotta prepare yourself. ANYhoo.

We got to Madrid on Saturday early afternoon and went right to the fair, via metro from the airport. It was HUGE. Like a dozen football fields huge. For the public, if you are considering a trip somewhere specific or somewhere undetermined, this is a great place to be. Here, half of it was Spain – I mean, Andalucia alone had a whole football field. And they all had great big exhibition spaces and fancy setups, and some places were giving things away (Spanish people LOVE free things, you should have seen the lines for a dixie cup of free margarita). There were performances too like a mariachi band, flamenco singers, African dancers, etc.

I was taking a pic of the space that Argentina had set up, but I got creepy dude in there too by accident.

Flamenco singers and dancers.

I imagine it might have been more interesting if we were industry people and could have gone during the first part, but in the end, we managed to pick up 10 kilos of pamphlets/books/etc. – many of which were specific to Spanish wine regions, some others were – amazingly, because I swore he had them all – Cantabria related guides that C says (says) he didn’t have. Oh, and I found a few fabulous things about Tanzania and Botswana. Le sigh.

That night we stayed with our friend in the city. I feel about Madrid the way I feel about New York. I LOVE going to visit. Love, love, love it. But I don’t think I could live there full time. But I LOVE it. If that make sense. We did a very, very cool bar hopping tour in a neighborhood in the city that I hadn’t ever been in – it had a little bit of everything. We went from sort of swanky hotel bar to a “heavy” bar (that plays rock) to some sort of loungy funky place with a groovy DJ and a bartender who must have been doing a little sumpn-sumpn because her eyes were nearly popping out of her head.

ANYhoo. That was that. Super fun weekend.