Pedestrians and Phalanxes

The more time I spend in Spain, the more I notice the little things. The one that I've been noticing most recently is the way people walk here. In North America, it's generally understood that you stay to the right any time you're walking where people might also be going the other way. In Britain, I've found it's the same for the left side, which matches their road system. In Spain, they drive on the right, but they walk pretty much wherever they want. While hiding from the rain in San Sebastian, Eric and I watched where people walked for about 5 minutes. There was no distinct pattern, but the middle of the sidewalk was a popular spot, and people's paths do not necessarily follow straight lines, either.

Rain makes things even more interesting. As was the case in Holland, people here prefer umbrellas to raincoats. Unlike Holland, people here tend to be on the short side. Combine short people, umbrellas, and irregular walking patterns, and the eyes of anyone over 5'8" are consistently at risk of being poked. Perhaps most disturbing is the way many people have no sense that they are inconveniencing anyone else. I almost began applauding when a few people raised their umbrellas as they passed other people.

Another complicating factor in this mix is the presence of senior citizens. Logroño has a very visible elderly population, and from what I can tell, they are generally pretty independent. It's common to see elderly couples out for a walk together, or groups in cafés playing cards, or friends sitting in the park. It is also normal for women to walk arm-in-arm, which is hardly noticeable when they're young and can move relatively quickly. However, when multiple generations of mothers and daughters want to walk together, it evokes images of a Greek phalanx moving down the sidewalk. On the other hand, I suppose I'd rather see too many elderly people out walking than too few - so maybe I'll stick to biking for now.

Beauty and the Basques

This weekend, Megan, Eric, and I decided to take a quick overnight trip to San Sebastian, which is about two hours north of us. It's one of the most important cities in the Basque region, although not the biggest (Bilbao) or the capital (Vitoria). If Bilbao is the region's industrial and financial center, San Sebastian is its cultural center (much like the relationship between Edinburgh and Glasgow or Amsterdam and Rotterdam).

In any case, San Sebastian is known for its food and the best pintxos in the world. I was more taken by its natural beauty, however - the beaches look fantastic even when it's too cold to swim, and the surrounding mountains seem to wall off the rest of the world. Although the weather reminded me of the rainy coastal climates of Holland and England (and cities like Seattle, Vancouver, and Halifax), I am sure I will be returning to San Sebastian. Hopefully the weather will be more conducive to swimming when I do.

Until then, here are some photos from this weekend's visit.

Visits and Variations

I'm currently enjoying a visit from my mother, and there is no better way to feel at home than to have a guest who is even less familiar with the place you're in. It seems Mom had planned to survive her trip through England, France, and Spain using only her knowledge of English and French. It worked until she crossed the Pyrenees. Needless to say, I have been translating conversations for the first time in my life. There is no better way to feel fluent (or at least of advanced intermediate capabilities).

The main event thus far has been our visit to my school in Albelda, where Mom was VERY popular. Being an enterprising young gent, I used her presence as a way to liven up the class...while simultaneously allowing her to do much of what would have been my job. I was learning as well, however - I've never seen the preschoolers as well-behaved as they were today. If only I could figure out how Mom did it.

Outside of class, however, was my first real test as a translator. Many of the teachers in my schools do not speak English, although more can than are willing to admit it. Language barriers have never stopped my mother, though, and before long, I found myself mediating a conversation about one of my coworker's retirement plans (they involved a 50-foot yacht and the Mediterranean Sea).

One secret I've learned in my experiences abroad is the importance of using visitors as couriers. And Mom has performed that role admirably, as I now have in my possession a copy of How the Grinch Stole Christmas and The Cat in the Hat. One of my major struggles here has been my inability to connect with children, but Dr. Seuss can turn anyone into a kid. Seriously, who can say "Fiffer-Feffer-Feff" without sounding (and feeling) like a child?

This week has been the first where I have really started to feel at home here, as well as feeling confident with my Spanish. But minor cultural differences continue to arise, to which I can only say IGTJHTDIH: I guess that's just how they do it here. Here's a few little challenges:

- I've begun playing basketball once a week. Part of the reason I wanted to find somewhere to play is that my knowledge of basketball is probably greater than any other sport, so it would be a good way to feel a little more at home. It has served to do that, but not without a few hiccups. When I first stepped on the court, the first question I was asked was "¿Qué zona?" (Which zone?) I timidly asked if we might not consider playing man-to-man defense, but in the end I covered the area they pointed to. I can honestly say that I had never played zone defense before coming here.

- Spanish people do not, as a general rule, comprehend sarcasm. While enjoying the company of some new friends in my living room a couple of weeks ago, someone suggested a card game. I enthusiastically agreed and fetched a deck of cards. The dealer asked if I wanted to be dealt in. Thinking the answer was obvious, I sarcastically replied "no." Moments later, I was surprised to find cards in front of my neighbors, but not me. IGTJHTDIH.

- Another, more positive difference in communication is the directness of both the people and the language. When Spanish people answer the phone, you hear one of four phrases: "Dime", "Digame", "¿Sí?", or "Hola." The first two literally translate as "tell me," which doesn't really fit in English, but imagine someone saying "What?" or "Talk" when they answered the phone. It's about that polite. The language does not lend itself to equivocation or subtlety. This directness allows me to be pretty harsh in my choice of words, but it also limits the degree of emotion I can express (as if my Spanish skills didn't already do that).

Barriers and Bicycles

Even for people who have never been immersed in a language other than their own, the term "language barrier" is commonly understood to refer to the difficulties that arise when two people with no common language attempt to communicate. Using that phrase hints at the frustration and annoyance that arises from such a situation, but not its tangible consequences. I got a taste of those consequences last week.

After taking my bike out three times, I found that the cable to shift the rear gears had worn away and my bike was stuck at its most difficult speed. I had heard one good review of the bike shop down the street, and walked in with my bike and my housemate Megan (moral and linguistic support). As soon as the ornery man behind the cash saw my bike, he uttered a combination of sounds that I couldn't make head or tail of. But his hand gestures seemed to indicate a problem with the front wheel. In a much slower combination of sounds, I tried to explain that I needed a new gear cable. But the man kept pointing at the front wheel, and soon the younger repair guy came over to help translate (not into English, you understand, just into different Spanish). He was pointing at the front wheel too.

Megan made out that there had been some sort of serious impact to the frame that needed to repaired. The bike had been riding fine apart from the gearing issue, so I finally said, "¿Entiendes que el problema está aguí, sí?" (you understand that the problem is here, right?) while pointing to where the cable should have been. Both men seemed to understand, but continued to talk about this other problem they had spotted. Now, mechanic talk can confuse me even in my native language, but I can usually bluff my way through it and get an idea of what I'm up against. It's much harder to bluff in another language. Knowing that my problem was relatively simple and in good hands, I didn't raise any more questions and nodded my assent when they said the repairs would cost about €45. At least the bike would be in better shape, I figured.

Upon my return the following evening, the repair guy explained that they hadn't had the part necessary but he'd done what he could, so the cost would only be €8. I was pleased at the price reduction, but quickly noticed that there was no new cable for the gears. I asked about this, and the man looked surprised. The resulting conversation has stuck with me:
Repair Guy: "Ah, ¿quieres otro cable?" (Ah, you want another cable?)
Me: "Sí." (Yes.)
Repair Guy: "¿Lo quieres comprar y tú lo pones?" (You want to buy it and put it on yourself?)
Me: "No, que tú lo pones." (No, I want you to put it on.)

Why we couldn't have said those four simple sentences the previous day, I still do not understand. Perhaps it was because I didn't know the Spanish word for cable was simply...cable (KAH-blay). As it turned out, I returned half an hour later and the cable was replaced. I still have no idea what the original repairs were.

Strolling on a Sunny Saturday

Today my housemate Eric and I used our wide-open Saturday to hike up a mountain north of the River Ebro and take some photos. My previous hikes had taken me south of town, so I was glad for the change of direction. In fact, this very mountain had caught my eye on an earlier stroll along the river, as I photographed a few weeks ago.

For the hiking aficionados among you, this hike goes backwards along the Camino de Santiago, while my previous hikes have followed the same trail on the other side of town (in the right direction). It took us through more sedate parts of town before going up into a very small Gypsy village. I'm not actually sure if the people inhabiting the village were Gypsies, but it definitely had some characteristics of shantytowns. More striking than the worn-down houses were the dogs, which every house seemed to have in abundance. And not the cute, friendly kind, but the angry kind that lead children to fear dogs for life. Fortunately, the existence of the Camino seems to have encouraged the neighbors to keep their dogs tied up. I guess they're still working on teaching them not to bark angrily every time somebody walks by.

After running the gauntlet of well-defended houses, the path entered a series of vineyards and climbed fairly steeply to a large, flat summit. The views were enjoyable, particularly in the sun, and I could see the peak that I had reached on other hikes to the south. More impressive were the mountains of Álava to the north, the first tangible border of Basque country. Enjoy the photos below.

Pintxos and Pigs

Most people who know me are aware that I rarely tire of the subject of food, whether eating or discussing it (although preferably more of the former). Much like Roger Ebert does with movies, I can find something good in almost anything I eat - maybe not "two thumbs up!" worth, but something enjoyable nonetheless. So of course, one of Spain's primary attractions for me was the promise of its food. And it has not let me down.

Many areas I've visited have one or two dishes for which they are primarily known, at least to my knowledge: haggis in Scotland, schnitzel in Germany, waffles in Belgium, tagine and couscous in Morocco, pasta and pizza in Italy, etc. If you had to name a similar dish for Spain, it would probably be paella. Essentially a shellfish stirfry over yellow rice, paella is known as the Spanish national dish. But somebody clearly forgot to tell Riojans.

Spain's cuisine is as unique as each of its autonomous communities. I suppose this is true for every country I mentioned above, but it has been most glaringly obvious to me here. The one restaurant I have seen advertising its paella was undoubtedly a tourist trap, of which there are precious few in Logroño. Indeed, Logroño doesn't seem to have many sit-down restaurants of any kind. Instead, it is packed with bar/cafés - which almost always have both names on them - and tapas bars. But even tapas, another type of dining typically associated with this country, are not called that here. Because of La Rioja's proximity to the Basque region, Riojan tapas are called by their Basque name "pintxos", which is pronounced pinchos (and occasionally spelled that way). Most pintxo bars only offer one or two food items to simplify their menu and distinguish themselves from similar institutions.

Perhaps the most universal element of Spanish cuisine that I've seen is jamón serrano, which is the large, cured legs of ham that can be found in almost any bar or restaurant. I have seen these everywhere I've been in Spain, and I would be willing to bet that pig is the most consumed animal in this country, although meat is generally very popular. At the small supermarket near my apartment, one can purchase a full rabbit (eyes included, fur and innards removed) or a pig's head. It is quite a reality check to be strolling through your grocery store and see a smiling little pig's face looking up at you from the meat counter.  

At the risk of scaring away vegetarian readers and boring the rest, I'll leave you to enjoy the above picture of jamón serrano legs for sale in Barcelona. And let me also add that none of the best things I've eaten here have included red meat. But there will be more - much more - on gastronomic issues later.