I was walking along Gran Via the other day in downtown Madrid when a woman in 6 inch heels and a white miniskirt approached me. "Querido, te quiero," she said, as she slid her hand around to the side of my waist. Her voice was muted, almost bored. There's was no variation in its tone, no subtle inflections. We did not make eye contact.
I was clearly one in a long line of "Querido"s for the day, one of whom would hopefully accept her thinly veiled proposal so that, at least on an economic basis, her day could be considered a success. As I brushed her arm away and continued walking, I noticed 10 or 12 other women decked out in similar attire, either leaning against receded doorways or canvassing the plaza. Sure, they were dressed to the nines, dolled up with layer upon layer of makeup, but there was something unmistakably pathetic about their endeavor. Most people completely ignored them as they went on with their lives, but a small minority cast withering glances in their direction. There was no glib Roy Orbison playing softly in the background, no Ricardo Gere earnestly searching for his pretty woman.
As I kept walking, I walked by a man on the corner who was quietly asking for something, anything, coins, food, water. Most people completely ignored them as they went on with their lives, but a small minority cast withering glances in their direction. A few seconds later I walked by a restaurant with outdoor tables. Two couples had recently finished their meals. I say finished in a loose fashion; they had decided that they had eaten enough, despite the fact that there were whole cuts of pork, a plate full of rice, and olives left untouched. The busboy came along and cleared the plates' contents into a waiting garbage bin. I didn't have the heart to look back at the man on the corner.
Meanwhile, the plaza was filled with crowds of happy tourists and locals alike, congregating there to catch up on last week's gossip or to plan next week's adventures, ignoring the ugly reality that had decided to share that plaza with them. Among the sprawling boulevards, lush parks, and ritzy restaurants of Madrid there's a group of people who's plight society has conveniently decided to place in the proverbial blind spot. And that's the perpetual asterisk*.
This is not some holier than thou rant. This is not a scathing indictment of the people of Madrid. This is not a doom and gloom essay on how humanity is rotten and apathetic and cruel. This is not a guilt trip. This is not an intentional shot at the heartstrings. This is not some piece of flaneur artistry. This is not a reminder that we live in an imperfect world, for such a statement is obvious.
I do not expect you to go home, liquidate all your assets into cash, and donate it all to Oxfam to save thousands of children in Africa that die every day for want of basic necessities. I do not expect you to write your state senator or mayor or president, asking them to ensure adequate nutrition for the 17.3 million Americans in 2008 who had "very low food security" (up 8.8 million from 2000), although that would be nice (USDA, 2008). I do not expect you to move to a monastery in the mountains, learn the arts of the ninja, don a terrifying mask, and return with a vengeance to become the scourge of pimps worldwide, although that would admittedly be a proactive step.
Instead, I am only asking you to do three things:
1) Buy lunch for a homeless person, prostitute, or beggar. You don't have to eat with them if that makes you nervous, but get them a sandwich, a bag of chips, and some fruit or something. They might not accept it, so if this happens, find another person. They might not say thank you, but I'm sure your self-esteem can survive that hit. They might say thank you and start a conversation, in which case you get to have that warm fuzzy feeling and the chance to hear about someone's life. Cost to you: ~$5, 5 minutes of your time.
2) The next time that you are at a restaurant, observe the portion sizes of your neighbors. Order according to your appetite, not just because it's a great deal if I get the ribs and chicken combo with three sides and a bottomless drink. Then, finish everything you ordered, and stop for a moment to savor just how good it feels to be pleasantly full. Cost to you: you save money, < 5 minutes of your time
3) Most of all, resist a defeatist attitude. I know that feeding one person once is not sustainable. I know that it does not fight the entrenched social ill. I know that it's easy to just say, "meh, prostitution is the world's oldest profession, so whatever". I have no delusions of grandeur about the impact this post will have. I do not think that someone will read it, experience a profound change of heart, and go on to become an international campaigner against poverty and oppression. All I ask is that as you continue with you relatively privileged life, you remind yourself as frequently as possible that there's still work to be done, and that you can play a small but noticeable role in fighting the good fight.
-Clay
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
FOOD! DRINKS! NAPS! (See? You looked.)
I have taken two two-hour naps a day for the past two weeks. I'll let that detail settle in for a bit.
That additional four hours of sleep a day has not been an entirely voluntary undertaking, a fact that I will freely admit. Every minute of that has been a food coma. At this point, you are likely just a bit jealous, a sentiment that I will likely cultivate for the remainder of this post. If you don't enjoy being told in painstaking detail about a full range of culinary delights, then let this be your fair warning to stop reading. Here goes.
On my way across the Atlantic, I had the good luck of ingesting a spot of poorly concocted jam. Following this, it was my luck for the following four hours to unceremoniously become close friends with the middle water closet on the starboard side of the plane. Upon landing in London, I bought a pair of bananas from Starbucks and snarfed them down in an attempt to ameliorate the discomfort. Inauspicious beginnings to a trip, to say nothing.
Hours later, I found myself seated at a white linen covered table on the second floor of a swanky hotel a block away from Puerta del Sol in Madrid. I had just finished a plate of cannelloni, a plate of broiled chicken and potatoes, and several glasses of wine. The waiters had kindly cleared our plates and presented us with a dessert dish of sliced kiwi. In a run that would have made Bill Murray circa "Groundhog Day" jealous, I and the rest of the Stanford in Madrid crew repeated this type of dining engagement for the next week during our orientation trip through Andalucia in the South of Spain. Every lunch and dinner was a three course engagement, a sizable "salad", followed by a main course, followed by a dessert, all washed down with a bottomless bottle of Spanish red wine.
If that was our introduction to the high end of the Spanish dining experience, then our nightly bar crawls were an education in much more standard Spanish fare. Make no mistake, though; "standard" Spanish fare is anything but boring. Tapas ranging the gamut from piping hot croquetas (mashed potato dumplings of sorts) to spicy and toothsome chorizo (seasoned sausage) to paper thin strips of jamon iberica (Iberian ham) all made there way happily down my gullet over the course of the trip. One night, we were visiting Malaga, a city on the southern Mediterranean coast, on Friday of Holy Week. The city was ripe with processions of great fanfare pertaining to the Christian celebration of Easter, and thousands upon thousands of people filled the streets and bars. After night fell, three of my friends and I stumbled upon a back alley bar, the kind that is fetishized in travelogues as a "diamond in the rough" or a "local haunt"; personally, we were just happy to find a place that had any space inside to spare. We clustered up close to the bar and made merry conversation with an affable bartender who was distributing canas of beer with such speed that one would think that prohibition was due to begin the next day.
In Spanish that was just fast enough to bewilder but just slow enough to befriend, he made joke after joke about the throngs of people that had descended upon the watering hole tonight, often slipping in a bit of unmitigated flirtation aimed at the lone chica in our group. As the rest of us finished our delciously tender rings of lightly breaded calamari (squid), he offered her a free triple shot of vodka, provided that she drink it with no chaser. With gusto befitting someone undertaking a cultural immersion, she christened our entrance into the Spanish culinary life with abandon, only to be quickly beset by a series of coughs at shot's end. The bartender and the rest of the staff bellowed with good-natured laughter, and we all raised our glasses in salutation.
My arrival to my Spanish host family's home was telling. I walked into their fourth floor apartment in the La Latina neighborhood of Madrid, and headed down the hall to find the three of them sitting in the family room. Ofelia, my host mom, introduced herself first, then Aida, her sister, did the same, followed by Gustavo, Ofelia's nephew. Much more on them in a later post. Not two minutes after these introductions, I was seated at their kitchen table with half of a 13 inch in diameter tortilla espanola (an inch thick omelet deal with onions, potatoes, and eggs, this is one of the most emblematic of all Spanish dishes) in front of me. I was told, in cheerful but not uncertain, terms, that this was all mine to eat, and that it would behoove me to do so. More than happy to oblige, I tucked into my meal. I could get used to this, I told myself.
Over the next two weeks, lunch was every day at 2:30 or so, and dinner every day at 9:30 or so. As I mentioned in an earlier post, lunch is the more serious endeavor in Spain, dwarfing dinner in size. My meals over this time period included the following:
Pastel de Patata - an Argentinian dish similar to Shepherd's Pie, with a thick layer of mashed potatoes baked on top of a mixture of ground beef, raisins, onions, peas, carrot, and herbs; my host family is Argentinian, which is extremely fortunate for me, given the sheer variety of food that makes up Argentinian cuisine; the sweetness of the raisins perfectly sets of the smoky richness of the ground beef, all capped off with pillowy fold of potatoes
Merluza - a type of Cod, that's prepared with a heavy breading
Lentils with Spinach and Carrots - rich and hearty for the several rainy days that we've had so far this quarter in Madrid
Pollo a la Portuguesa y Lomo de Puerco a la Portuguesa - these dishes involve a kind of meat cooked in fillet form with a seasoned mixture of peas, carrots, and brown gravy; the meat is well salted and its flavor lights up the surrounding veggies
Seafood Paella and Vegetable Paella - this typical and celebrated Spanish dish originated on the Valencian coast; it involves saffron seasoned rice (which turns the rice bright yellow) which is cooked in a delicious broth mixed with various types of mariscos (seafood), meats, and vegetables; Ofelia and Aida always make it on Sundays
Pan Tumac - a spectacularly simple and delicious sandwich originating in Catalonia, a region in the north-east of Spain that fiercely defends its linguistic and cultural heritage; consists of horizontally sliced, fresh baguette filled with slices of jamon, fresh tomatoes, and a drizzling of Spanish olive oil; the flavors mingle perfectly every time
Pastel de Choclo - a dish that Ofelia claims is Uruguayan, but resembles in description a Chilean dish by this name; it features smooth corn pudding baked atop a mixture of ground beef, olives, raisins, peas, and green onions; the saltiness of the olives really complements the corn mix
Suffice it to say, that after a lunch or dinner involving any one of these behemoths is enough caloric intake to make your body say "Good night! Transitioning to rest-and-digest functionality! All additional systems set to standby." It's at this point that the allure of my waiting bed is a Siren's song that I'm helpless to resist. It usually only takes a few minutes before I'm out, off to the Land of Nod to dream about my next culinary experience.
All of this is to say nothing of the countless churros, porras, and chocolate at Chocolateria San Gines, the 60 cent mini-baguette sandwiches at Cien Montaditos, or the nun-made sequillos that have all found their way into my happy stomach over the course of the past couple of weeks, but all of these deserve their own story, later. Right now, my bed just looks too attractive...
That additional four hours of sleep a day has not been an entirely voluntary undertaking, a fact that I will freely admit. Every minute of that has been a food coma. At this point, you are likely just a bit jealous, a sentiment that I will likely cultivate for the remainder of this post. If you don't enjoy being told in painstaking detail about a full range of culinary delights, then let this be your fair warning to stop reading. Here goes.
On my way across the Atlantic, I had the good luck of ingesting a spot of poorly concocted jam. Following this, it was my luck for the following four hours to unceremoniously become close friends with the middle water closet on the starboard side of the plane. Upon landing in London, I bought a pair of bananas from Starbucks and snarfed them down in an attempt to ameliorate the discomfort. Inauspicious beginnings to a trip, to say nothing.
Hours later, I found myself seated at a white linen covered table on the second floor of a swanky hotel a block away from Puerta del Sol in Madrid. I had just finished a plate of cannelloni, a plate of broiled chicken and potatoes, and several glasses of wine. The waiters had kindly cleared our plates and presented us with a dessert dish of sliced kiwi. In a run that would have made Bill Murray circa "Groundhog Day" jealous, I and the rest of the Stanford in Madrid crew repeated this type of dining engagement for the next week during our orientation trip through Andalucia in the South of Spain. Every lunch and dinner was a three course engagement, a sizable "salad", followed by a main course, followed by a dessert, all washed down with a bottomless bottle of Spanish red wine.
If that was our introduction to the high end of the Spanish dining experience, then our nightly bar crawls were an education in much more standard Spanish fare. Make no mistake, though; "standard" Spanish fare is anything but boring. Tapas ranging the gamut from piping hot croquetas (mashed potato dumplings of sorts) to spicy and toothsome chorizo (seasoned sausage) to paper thin strips of jamon iberica (Iberian ham) all made there way happily down my gullet over the course of the trip. One night, we were visiting Malaga, a city on the southern Mediterranean coast, on Friday of Holy Week. The city was ripe with processions of great fanfare pertaining to the Christian celebration of Easter, and thousands upon thousands of people filled the streets and bars. After night fell, three of my friends and I stumbled upon a back alley bar, the kind that is fetishized in travelogues as a "diamond in the rough" or a "local haunt"; personally, we were just happy to find a place that had any space inside to spare. We clustered up close to the bar and made merry conversation with an affable bartender who was distributing canas of beer with such speed that one would think that prohibition was due to begin the next day.
In Spanish that was just fast enough to bewilder but just slow enough to befriend, he made joke after joke about the throngs of people that had descended upon the watering hole tonight, often slipping in a bit of unmitigated flirtation aimed at the lone chica in our group. As the rest of us finished our delciously tender rings of lightly breaded calamari (squid), he offered her a free triple shot of vodka, provided that she drink it with no chaser. With gusto befitting someone undertaking a cultural immersion, she christened our entrance into the Spanish culinary life with abandon, only to be quickly beset by a series of coughs at shot's end. The bartender and the rest of the staff bellowed with good-natured laughter, and we all raised our glasses in salutation.My arrival to my Spanish host family's home was telling. I walked into their fourth floor apartment in the La Latina neighborhood of Madrid, and headed down the hall to find the three of them sitting in the family room. Ofelia, my host mom, introduced herself first, then Aida, her sister, did the same, followed by Gustavo, Ofelia's nephew. Much more on them in a later post. Not two minutes after these introductions, I was seated at their kitchen table with half of a 13 inch in diameter tortilla espanola (an inch thick omelet deal with onions, potatoes, and eggs, this is one of the most emblematic of all Spanish dishes) in front of me. I was told, in cheerful but not uncertain, terms, that this was all mine to eat, and that it would behoove me to do so. More than happy to oblige, I tucked into my meal. I could get used to this, I told myself.
Over the next two weeks, lunch was every day at 2:30 or so, and dinner every day at 9:30 or so. As I mentioned in an earlier post, lunch is the more serious endeavor in Spain, dwarfing dinner in size. My meals over this time period included the following:
Pastel de Patata - an Argentinian dish similar to Shepherd's Pie, with a thick layer of mashed potatoes baked on top of a mixture of ground beef, raisins, onions, peas, carrot, and herbs; my host family is Argentinian, which is extremely fortunate for me, given the sheer variety of food that makes up Argentinian cuisine; the sweetness of the raisins perfectly sets of the smoky richness of the ground beef, all capped off with pillowy fold of potatoes
Merluza - a type of Cod, that's prepared with a heavy breading
Lentils with Spinach and Carrots - rich and hearty for the several rainy days that we've had so far this quarter in Madrid
Pollo a la Portuguesa y Lomo de Puerco a la Portuguesa - these dishes involve a kind of meat cooked in fillet form with a seasoned mixture of peas, carrots, and brown gravy; the meat is well salted and its flavor lights up the surrounding veggies
Seafood Paella and Vegetable Paella - this typical and celebrated Spanish dish originated on the Valencian coast; it involves saffron seasoned rice (which turns the rice bright yellow) which is cooked in a delicious broth mixed with various types of mariscos (seafood), meats, and vegetables; Ofelia and Aida always make it on SundaysPan Tumac - a spectacularly simple and delicious sandwich originating in Catalonia, a region in the north-east of Spain that fiercely defends its linguistic and cultural heritage; consists of horizontally sliced, fresh baguette filled with slices of jamon, fresh tomatoes, and a drizzling of Spanish olive oil; the flavors mingle perfectly every time
Pastel de Choclo - a dish that Ofelia claims is Uruguayan, but resembles in description a Chilean dish by this name; it features smooth corn pudding baked atop a mixture of ground beef, olives, raisins, peas, and green onions; the saltiness of the olives really complements the corn mix
Suffice it to say, that after a lunch or dinner involving any one of these behemoths is enough caloric intake to make your body say "Good night! Transitioning to rest-and-digest functionality! All additional systems set to standby." It's at this point that the allure of my waiting bed is a Siren's song that I'm helpless to resist. It usually only takes a few minutes before I'm out, off to the Land of Nod to dream about my next culinary experience.
All of this is to say nothing of the countless churros, porras, and chocolate at Chocolateria San Gines, the 60 cent mini-baguette sandwiches at Cien Montaditos, or the nun-made sequillos that have all found their way into my happy stomach over the course of the past couple of weeks, but all of these deserve their own story, later. Right now, my bed just looks too attractive...
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Madrid by Night
Most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber!
~Lord Byron, Childe Harold
Though I cannot comment on the exact events in Lord Byron's life that informed this quotation, I can add that me might have made it sooner had he visited Madrid. Here in the capital of Spain, daytime is an appetizer that comes even before tapas. One does the obligatory work, errands, and odds and ends with the busyness that becomes someone waiting for a clock somewhere to strike some hour. At exactly 7:30 each day, a loud peel of bells can be heard nearby my house, a sort of pre-emptive warning to the people of Madrid that their time has almost come.The dinner ritual in Madrid is more perfunctory than the seriously huge lunch that most in the city take. It's eaten in anticipation of more snacking down the road, and usually takes place after 9:00.
It's at this point that people start to seep out into the narrow allies, cobbled streets, and wide-open squares. Puerta del Sol, the most popular meeting place in the whole city, is soon alive with throngs of Madrilenos of all ages, backgrounds, and intentions. Bars fill up with local patrons and tourists alike; the former know the drill, ordering without fuss their cana (small glass) of beer, which comes out promptly with a plate of olives, some potato chips, or a bocadillo (small sandwich), while the latter are for the most part left trying to figure out the difference between a tapa and a racion, all the while unsure how to go about tastefully asking if said tapa comes with their drink of choice. Jarras (pitchers) of sangria are typically overpriced, and Americanos like me quickly figure out that the must more economical and tasty option is tinto de verano, a mix of red wine and lemon Fanta. Bars in Madrid are not long haul engagements as they are in the United States; it's a bite and a glass here, and then down the street to look for more curiosities, cheaper beer, or a television that's showing the game. This past Saturday was "El Clasico", the famous head to head match up between FC Barcelona and Real Madrid, the two most popular football clubs in the country. On every single street radiating out from Sol, there were a cluster of people every 30 feet or so, stopped in their tracks and looking into a bar window, most cursing as Messi made quick work of the Real Madrid defense, but some celebrating raucously with each incredible save that the Barca goaltender made. This wasn't the Cubs versus the White Sox, or Stanford versus Berkeley. This was serious stuff, bringing two of the most lively cities in the world to a standstill for two hours of highs, lows, and of course, another drink.
By this point, it's midnight, and the city is still rife with the first wave of people, the "early evening crowd". They catch up with friends on the street, enjoying the outdoor ambiance at an hour, that, in the United States, all of them would be sleeping soundly. As this group, which includes families with small children and older people, trickles off to head home, the second wave takes their place. 20-somethings, backpackers, jazz musicians, street cleaners, and party promoters fill Puerta del Sol, Gran Via, and Plaza Mayor. Having finished enjoying the most important national sport, futbol, many young Madrilenos take to enjoying another popular one: botellon, or public drinking. Teenagers and university kids congregate at the famous fountains in Puerta del Sol, and at benches, statues, and steps across the city, passing around bottles of Coca Cola that offer more than just a sugary kick, and making quick work of wine that makes Franzia look swanky. Some Spanish cities, such as Granada, have taken umbrage with this traditional practice. Their solution? Obviously, build a giant stadium where all the teenagers can drink in one place. No, really.
Anyways, it never causes much trouble at all, and it's definitely far less obnoxious than the red-cup gamut that the United States claims as its own. However, there are still slews of Americanos here that want to get their party on, post-botellon, which they partook in out of cultural purposes. Not to worry: walk 10 feet down any street near Puerta del Sol and you'll be accosted by someone trying to get you to go to their discoteca, offering "deals" for drinks that anyone who's not a card carrying member of the trust fund brigade would be crazy to take. Did I say anyone? Sorry, I just meant guys. Girls don't pay anything. You can go in and check out the club scene, which I did at Joy, a renowned multi-story theatre that moonlights as a cool place to party the night through. Upon entering, there's a really neat redux of Velazquez' "Las Meninas" (which also happens to be less than a mile away) that features the young lady in question decked out a la Coca Cola Fashion Ltd. This, along with an oddly colorized picture of Humphery Bogart with buttons declaring his presidential aspirations, feel right at home in this quasi-American, quasi-international joint. However, these images are fakes, fronting facets that have little to do with how they really are. So too with many of the patrons of the establishment. Everyone has to be a little bit of someone else to stand out above a crowd of people who are all trying to appear novel, carefree, and desirable. Introductions are made in 10 different languages, 10 euros cocktails slide across the bartop, and lights strobe on and off. The night goes on.
Back home, we are in a very different part of our country's life compared to that of Europe. We thrive on a sense of frontier new-ness, of that itching sensation to keep pushing boundaries of all kinds. We're still a hormone riddled teenager, all flash and big ideas and energy, trying to figure out what we really want to be when we grow up. Europe had it's time there too (caution: gross historical simplification ahead). It was born out of darkness, found it's grandpa's old photo albums, went to Renaissance University, and decided that it wanted to head out to the ends of the earth in search of glory, gold, and converts. Despite hitting the jackpot on this career path, and having a long and lucrative time on the job, it eventually found it's teenage colonies excessively difficult to control. After a midlife crisis (or two...), it settled down again to enjoy good food, wine, and books, while still remaining active in the community. Because of our relative new-ness and Europe's relative old-ness, there are some things that can only happen in the States, and some only in Europe. For instance, one night I decided to take a walk around downtown Madrid. I hit all the well-trafficked areas to take in the sights and sounds and smells, gave directions to a few lost-looking English speaking tourists (a personal hobby), and decided to head West from the city center. I had remembered seeing a park there during our tour earlier that day, and I decided to go looking for a good swing to enjoy. The wind was whipping through the narrow stone streets and past the many closed banks and other businesses. In the span of just a block, I found myself alone in silence, a first for this city. I continued until I reached a clearing, and the Royal Palace exploded into view, regally lit against the azure sky. Just like that. Street. Palace. Europe, no? I made my way over to the playground that's nestled into a hillside directly across the street from the palace, choosing a swing that looked comfortable enough. As I did, I became aware of the soft strains of accordion music wafting over from a street corner a couple of blocks away. In front of me rose stoic, leafless trees, bathed in the orange glow of halogen light. A single gust of wind crossed the playground, and the other swings creaked gently in time with the accordion music.
Thou wert not sent for slumber!
~Lord Byron, Childe Harold
Though I cannot comment on the exact events in Lord Byron's life that informed this quotation, I can add that me might have made it sooner had he visited Madrid. Here in the capital of Spain, daytime is an appetizer that comes even before tapas. One does the obligatory work, errands, and odds and ends with the busyness that becomes someone waiting for a clock somewhere to strike some hour. At exactly 7:30 each day, a loud peel of bells can be heard nearby my house, a sort of pre-emptive warning to the people of Madrid that their time has almost come.The dinner ritual in Madrid is more perfunctory than the seriously huge lunch that most in the city take. It's eaten in anticipation of more snacking down the road, and usually takes place after 9:00.
It's at this point that people start to seep out into the narrow allies, cobbled streets, and wide-open squares. Puerta del Sol, the most popular meeting place in the whole city, is soon alive with throngs of Madrilenos of all ages, backgrounds, and intentions. Bars fill up with local patrons and tourists alike; the former know the drill, ordering without fuss their cana (small glass) of beer, which comes out promptly with a plate of olives, some potato chips, or a bocadillo (small sandwich), while the latter are for the most part left trying to figure out the difference between a tapa and a racion, all the while unsure how to go about tastefully asking if said tapa comes with their drink of choice. Jarras (pitchers) of sangria are typically overpriced, and Americanos like me quickly figure out that the must more economical and tasty option is tinto de verano, a mix of red wine and lemon Fanta. Bars in Madrid are not long haul engagements as they are in the United States; it's a bite and a glass here, and then down the street to look for more curiosities, cheaper beer, or a television that's showing the game. This past Saturday was "El Clasico", the famous head to head match up between FC Barcelona and Real Madrid, the two most popular football clubs in the country. On every single street radiating out from Sol, there were a cluster of people every 30 feet or so, stopped in their tracks and looking into a bar window, most cursing as Messi made quick work of the Real Madrid defense, but some celebrating raucously with each incredible save that the Barca goaltender made. This wasn't the Cubs versus the White Sox, or Stanford versus Berkeley. This was serious stuff, bringing two of the most lively cities in the world to a standstill for two hours of highs, lows, and of course, another drink.
By this point, it's midnight, and the city is still rife with the first wave of people, the "early evening crowd". They catch up with friends on the street, enjoying the outdoor ambiance at an hour, that, in the United States, all of them would be sleeping soundly. As this group, which includes families with small children and older people, trickles off to head home, the second wave takes their place. 20-somethings, backpackers, jazz musicians, street cleaners, and party promoters fill Puerta del Sol, Gran Via, and Plaza Mayor. Having finished enjoying the most important national sport, futbol, many young Madrilenos take to enjoying another popular one: botellon, or public drinking. Teenagers and university kids congregate at the famous fountains in Puerta del Sol, and at benches, statues, and steps across the city, passing around bottles of Coca Cola that offer more than just a sugary kick, and making quick work of wine that makes Franzia look swanky. Some Spanish cities, such as Granada, have taken umbrage with this traditional practice. Their solution? Obviously, build a giant stadium where all the teenagers can drink in one place. No, really.
Anyways, it never causes much trouble at all, and it's definitely far less obnoxious than the red-cup gamut that the United States claims as its own. However, there are still slews of Americanos here that want to get their party on, post-botellon, which they partook in out of
Back home, we are in a very different part of our country's life compared to that of Europe. We thrive on a sense of frontier new-ness, of that itching sensation to keep pushing boundaries of all kinds. We're still a hormone riddled teenager, all flash and big ideas and energy, trying to figure out what we really want to be when we grow up. Europe had it's time there too (caution: gross historical simplification ahead). It was born out of darkness, found it's grandpa's old photo albums, went to Renaissance University, and decided that it wanted to head out to the ends of the earth in search of glory, gold, and converts. Despite hitting the jackpot on this career path, and having a long and lucrative time on the job, it eventually found it's teenage colonies excessively difficult to control. After a midlife crisis (or two...), it settled down again to enjoy good food, wine, and books, while still remaining active in the community. Because of our relative new-ness and Europe's relative old-ness, there are some things that can only happen in the States, and some only in Europe. For instance, one night I decided to take a walk around downtown Madrid. I hit all the well-trafficked areas to take in the sights and sounds and smells, gave directions to a few lost-looking English speaking tourists (a personal hobby), and decided to head West from the city center. I had remembered seeing a park there during our tour earlier that day, and I decided to go looking for a good swing to enjoy. The wind was whipping through the narrow stone streets and past the many closed banks and other businesses. In the span of just a block, I found myself alone in silence, a first for this city. I continued until I reached a clearing, and the Royal Palace exploded into view, regally lit against the azure sky. Just like that. Street. Palace. Europe, no? I made my way over to the playground that's nestled into a hillside directly across the street from the palace, choosing a swing that looked comfortable enough. As I did, I became aware of the soft strains of accordion music wafting over from a street corner a couple of blocks away. In front of me rose stoic, leafless trees, bathed in the orange glow of halogen light. A single gust of wind crossed the playground, and the other swings creaked gently in time with the accordion music.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Off the Hip Observations
Over the past week, I've noticed a number of interesting things about Spain and Madrid. Rather than give my less than expert opinion on why these things are so, I'll simply enumerate them in a convenient list-based format:
1) There are no clocks in the Madrid Metro stations.
2) Fruit means wine or oranges, vegetable means olives or peas.
3) 65 year olds and families with small children really do stay out until 1 or 2 in the morning on a regular basis.
4) The only obnoxious people in this entire country all seem to be male American college students.
5) Street musicians board metro cars for three stops, play a song or two, garner a euro's worth of praise, then disembark.
6) There are a series of rather schnazzy rest stops that dot the countryside highways, all run by one company; McDonalds and sketchy bath rooms are replaced by purveyors of olive oil and Iberian ham and airy, glass-framed and steel-beamed dining areas.
7) PDA (ie Public Display of Affection) is a national pastime.
8) Because I didn't have a serious grasp on national politics here, when I initially watched the news on TV, I was unable to make snap judgments on the people that I saw talking, unlike back home, where I have a quick reaction to the words "Republican", "Democrat", "conservative", and "liberal".
9) As in the US, most small grocery store owners are immigrants, in this case, Chinese people.
10) Houses (read: apartments) here are very private, meaning that instead of inviting a select group of friends over, people take to the streets and the cafes and the parks to meet their friends and other people.
1) There are no clocks in the Madrid Metro stations.
2) Fruit means wine or oranges, vegetable means olives or peas.
3) 65 year olds and families with small children really do stay out until 1 or 2 in the morning on a regular basis.
4) The only obnoxious people in this entire country all seem to be male American college students.
5) Street musicians board metro cars for three stops, play a song or two, garner a euro's worth of praise, then disembark.
6) There are a series of rather schnazzy rest stops that dot the countryside highways, all run by one company; McDonalds and sketchy bath rooms are replaced by purveyors of olive oil and Iberian ham and airy, glass-framed and steel-beamed dining areas.
7) PDA (ie Public Display of Affection) is a national pastime.
8) Because I didn't have a serious grasp on national politics here, when I initially watched the news on TV, I was unable to make snap judgments on the people that I saw talking, unlike back home, where I have a quick reaction to the words "Republican", "Democrat", "conservative", and "liberal".
9) As in the US, most small grocery store owners are immigrants, in this case, Chinese people.
10) Houses (read: apartments) here are very private, meaning that instead of inviting a select group of friends over, people take to the streets and the cafes and the parks to meet their friends and other people.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Spain - Travelogue Part 1 (Arrival and the Alhambra)
Since the beginning of the month, I have been in Spain for a quarter abroad. I've been keeping a travel journal of all the sights and adventures that I've been lucky enough to enjoy, which I'm now posting here for all of you who'd like a bit of an idea of what its been like. I'll place the original date for each post above the text:
3/31
Some seven and a half years ago, I sat down in Ms. Highfill's seventh grade Spanish class at Roosevel Middle School. Now, as I write this, I'm above the clouds on a plane that's taking me to the place that I began dreaming about from that day forth: Spain. Through gaps in the puffy white clouds, I can see sunlit countryside and coast down below. I feel a tremendous sense of adventure and excitement for what awaits me in my time this quarter in Spain.
4/1 (translated from the original Spanish, so it's kinda awkward to express the same thoughts)
Yesterday I arrived in Madrid at Barajas International Airport. The design of the terminal impressed me quite a lot. The curved wood paneled ceilings combined with the fresh air inside to yield a fortuitous beginning for my trip. My luck, however, would not last. British Airways lost my luggage. I took the metro from the airport to the stop at Sol, and I climbed out from the underground to arrive at Puera del Sol in the very center of the city. It was an exquisite experience for me, to emerge there among the throngs of people, amongst varied buildings and flashing signs adorning the square. I walked to the Francisco I hotel by way of Arenal Street. I met the people in my group, and we had our first meeting with the director (Santy) of the program. Afterwards, we walked through the streets together and ate dinner, finishing with plates of kiwi for dessert. We all got to know each other a little bit over the meal, and we talked about the quarter ahead and our impressions of the city. During the return trip, we ran into a procession for Holy Week.
This morning, we left the hotel by bus and traveled to the South of the country. Now, we're passing through Spain's central plateau, surrounded by soil that's perfect for growing olives, rocky hillsides, and mountains in the distance that are capped with wind mills that still await the man of La Mancha. The sun is shining.
Later 4/1 - El Alhambra
There’s an old Spanish phrase that goes, “No hay peor azar que ser ciego en el Alhambra,” meaning “there is no fate worse than to be blind at the Alhambra.” Right around the time when I was walking through the painstakingly manicured evergreen labyrinth that surrounds the old king’s quarters at this fortress perched high atop the cliffs of Granada, I realized the depth of the truth communicated by this saying. No matter what direction I faced, I was presented with a view that dared a postcard-maker to faithfully recreate its heart-stopping beauty. To my left, a series of intricately carved marble columns adorned with spiraling suras from the Qu’ran, to my right, terraced hills continuing to the snow-capped mountains in the distance. If ever there was a place on this earth that deserved an episode of Cribs, it was this.
Our tour began at the alcazar, or military fortress. We entered by way of a narrow path that snaked through one imposing arched gateway after another. Our guide explained to us that this design feature was to ease the task of defending the vital interior portions of the compound; those inside could easily rebuff advancing troops in these narrow corridors. At the top of the ramp, we entered the interior courtyard that once housed military barracks. All that remained of these abodes were incomplete foundations and truncated walls. The parkour part of my brain kicked into high gear, as I intuitively traced the paths that would allow me to move the most quickly from one end of the space to the other. Our guide interrupted these acrobatic musings by pointing us towards the fortress’ tower, but this only made me think about how fun it would be to climb said tower under the cover of night. Some men may want to live in palaces, but I’d be more than content to just have the opportunity to bound across their grounds, climbing everything in sight.
Pipe dreams momentarily suppressed, I made my way up the tower in a more literally pedestrian manner: the stairs. Upon finally reaching the top of the tower, I was greeted with a view that dared description. Under a perfectly clear blue sky, rolling red hills stretched out to the horizon. I made my way over to the edge only to feel a rush of cool air making its way of the exterior walls. After several minutes of refreshing natural conditioned air, our groups descended from the tower and exited the fortress.
Our next stop was the late 15th century palace that had been built on the grounds near the alcazar following the Catholic reconquista of Spain that ended with the capture of the Alhambra in 1492. The Spanish monarch of the time had commissioned an Italian renaissance architect to build the palace, and as a result, the exteriors bear a clear resemblance to the facades of many a Florentine edifice. Additionally, when seen from a bird’s eye view, the building is a square, but features a circle circumscribed inside to represent the Renaissance idea of the divine (circle) residing within the human (square).
Originally, the Alhambra was a fortress cum summer palace for the Moorish king that ruled this area of present day Spain, akin to Camp David for the President of the US, but infinitely more stylish and opulent. In the tradition of Islamic architecture, the grounds are divided into areas of public, semi-private, and private space, each more secluded, and ornate, than the next. The remaining portion of our visit would reflect these themes. We passed in small groups through the wall that divides the palatial grounds from the exterior yard and alcazar, emerging into a shaded foyer. Over the next half-hour, we passed through several mazelike hallways, with each one opening up into an impressive reflecting pool, columned courtyard, or ornately decorated antechamber. One hallway lacked walls, instead featuring a picturesque view of the city of Granada on the adjacent hillside. I couldn’t hit the button on my camera fast enough in a vain attempt to document my surroundings, a problem from which all of my fellow tourists were also suffering.
After several minutes of taking photo after photo, I paused. We had just entered the Generalife gardens, and everyone around me had whipped out their camera to take aim at a particular photogenic pool. Orange cue lights turned on, beeps sounded to warn of an oncoming picture, and flashbulbs went off, one after another. Just as soon as the pictures had been taken, the cameras went back into their bags, and their owners kept on walking. It seemed strange to me that people would come all this way to visit such a beautiful place, and instead of taking the time to live the experience, were content to inscribe it on an external memory card for viewing later, back home, in one’s living room, on one’s computer, on a Sunday, when one had to go back to work the next morning. Anything but guiltless in this affair, I silently put my camera away, allowing all of my senses to inform me in no uncertain terms that I was currently partaking of one of the most sumptuously gorgeous places on this green Earth.
As the afternoon progressed, I found find myself alone in a portion of the grounds, accompanied only by the sound of a gentle breeze and water trickling softly into the fountains. Set against the arid deserts of the Middle East, the Islamic idea of heaven was ample water and lush vegetation, life embodied. As I looked around at the many orange trees, shrubs, and flowers that dotted the terraced landscape and the secluded courtyards, I quietly enjoyed the fact that I was experiencing someone’s version of heaven.
3/31
Some seven and a half years ago, I sat down in Ms. Highfill's seventh grade Spanish class at Roosevel Middle School. Now, as I write this, I'm above the clouds on a plane that's taking me to the place that I began dreaming about from that day forth: Spain. Through gaps in the puffy white clouds, I can see sunlit countryside and coast down below. I feel a tremendous sense of adventure and excitement for what awaits me in my time this quarter in Spain.
4/1 (translated from the original Spanish, so it's kinda awkward to express the same thoughts)
Yesterday I arrived in Madrid at Barajas International Airport. The design of the terminal impressed me quite a lot. The curved wood paneled ceilings combined with the fresh air inside to yield a fortuitous beginning for my trip. My luck, however, would not last. British Airways lost my luggage. I took the metro from the airport to the stop at Sol, and I climbed out from the underground to arrive at Puera del Sol in the very center of the city. It was an exquisite experience for me, to emerge there among the throngs of people, amongst varied buildings and flashing signs adorning the square. I walked to the Francisco I hotel by way of Arenal Street. I met the people in my group, and we had our first meeting with the director (Santy) of the program. Afterwards, we walked through the streets together and ate dinner, finishing with plates of kiwi for dessert. We all got to know each other a little bit over the meal, and we talked about the quarter ahead and our impressions of the city. During the return trip, we ran into a procession for Holy Week.
This morning, we left the hotel by bus and traveled to the South of the country. Now, we're passing through Spain's central plateau, surrounded by soil that's perfect for growing olives, rocky hillsides, and mountains in the distance that are capped with wind mills that still await the man of La Mancha. The sun is shining.
Later 4/1 - El Alhambra
There’s an old Spanish phrase that goes, “No hay peor azar que ser ciego en el Alhambra,” meaning “there is no fate worse than to be blind at the Alhambra.” Right around the time when I was walking through the painstakingly manicured evergreen labyrinth that surrounds the old king’s quarters at this fortress perched high atop the cliffs of Granada, I realized the depth of the truth communicated by this saying. No matter what direction I faced, I was presented with a view that dared a postcard-maker to faithfully recreate its heart-stopping beauty. To my left, a series of intricately carved marble columns adorned with spiraling suras from the Qu’ran, to my right, terraced hills continuing to the snow-capped mountains in the distance. If ever there was a place on this earth that deserved an episode of Cribs, it was this.
Our tour began at the alcazar, or military fortress. We entered by way of a narrow path that snaked through one imposing arched gateway after another. Our guide explained to us that this design feature was to ease the task of defending the vital interior portions of the compound; those inside could easily rebuff advancing troops in these narrow corridors. At the top of the ramp, we entered the interior courtyard that once housed military barracks. All that remained of these abodes were incomplete foundations and truncated walls. The parkour part of my brain kicked into high gear, as I intuitively traced the paths that would allow me to move the most quickly from one end of the space to the other. Our guide interrupted these acrobatic musings by pointing us towards the fortress’ tower, but this only made me think about how fun it would be to climb said tower under the cover of night. Some men may want to live in palaces, but I’d be more than content to just have the opportunity to bound across their grounds, climbing everything in sight.
Pipe dreams momentarily suppressed, I made my way up the tower in a more literally pedestrian manner: the stairs. Upon finally reaching the top of the tower, I was greeted with a view that dared description. Under a perfectly clear blue sky, rolling red hills stretched out to the horizon. I made my way over to the edge only to feel a rush of cool air making its way of the exterior walls. After several minutes of refreshing natural conditioned air, our groups descended from the tower and exited the fortress.
Our next stop was the late 15th century palace that had been built on the grounds near the alcazar following the Catholic reconquista of Spain that ended with the capture of the Alhambra in 1492. The Spanish monarch of the time had commissioned an Italian renaissance architect to build the palace, and as a result, the exteriors bear a clear resemblance to the facades of many a Florentine edifice. Additionally, when seen from a bird’s eye view, the building is a square, but features a circle circumscribed inside to represent the Renaissance idea of the divine (circle) residing within the human (square).
Originally, the Alhambra was a fortress cum summer palace for the Moorish king that ruled this area of present day Spain, akin to Camp David for the President of the US, but infinitely more stylish and opulent. In the tradition of Islamic architecture, the grounds are divided into areas of public, semi-private, and private space, each more secluded, and ornate, than the next. The remaining portion of our visit would reflect these themes. We passed in small groups through the wall that divides the palatial grounds from the exterior yard and alcazar, emerging into a shaded foyer. Over the next half-hour, we passed through several mazelike hallways, with each one opening up into an impressive reflecting pool, columned courtyard, or ornately decorated antechamber. One hallway lacked walls, instead featuring a picturesque view of the city of Granada on the adjacent hillside. I couldn’t hit the button on my camera fast enough in a vain attempt to document my surroundings, a problem from which all of my fellow tourists were also suffering.
After several minutes of taking photo after photo, I paused. We had just entered the Generalife gardens, and everyone around me had whipped out their camera to take aim at a particular photogenic pool. Orange cue lights turned on, beeps sounded to warn of an oncoming picture, and flashbulbs went off, one after another. Just as soon as the pictures had been taken, the cameras went back into their bags, and their owners kept on walking. It seemed strange to me that people would come all this way to visit such a beautiful place, and instead of taking the time to live the experience, were content to inscribe it on an external memory card for viewing later, back home, in one’s living room, on one’s computer, on a Sunday, when one had to go back to work the next morning. Anything but guiltless in this affair, I silently put my camera away, allowing all of my senses to inform me in no uncertain terms that I was currently partaking of one of the most sumptuously gorgeous places on this green Earth.
As the afternoon progressed, I found find myself alone in a portion of the grounds, accompanied only by the sound of a gentle breeze and water trickling softly into the fountains. Set against the arid deserts of the Middle East, the Islamic idea of heaven was ample water and lush vegetation, life embodied. As I looked around at the many orange trees, shrubs, and flowers that dotted the terraced landscape and the secluded courtyards, I quietly enjoyed the fact that I was experiencing someone’s version of heaven.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
No, but seriously this time...
All of that fine philosophizing aside, this blog also has to be fun, else there's no point. Who wants to read another blog with overdone, once edited musings from someone who can't yet legally drink? To this effect, all high-brow discussions aside, I'll also be including fun anecdotes, travel photos, recipes, reviews, lists, mild political rants, musical forays, and all sorts of other diversions. Enjoy! :D
(Photo - Pitahaya and Mango Smoothie at the market in Masaya, Nicaragua, July 2009)
And here...we...go!
"To dare is to lose one's footing momentarily; not to dare is to lose one's self." - Soren Kierkegaard
"Once you have tasted flight you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return." - Leonardo da Vinci
I open with these two quotes as a sort of statement of purpose. The first one is the intention, the second reflection on that which just occurred. Notably absent is the process of doing, the movement itself.
This blog's name comes from the English translation of the French phrase "l'art du deplacement", which refers to the activity of parkour, which centers on moving efficiently across the environment. Tracers, as practitioners of parkour are called, observe their surrounding and then use their abilities to move with purpose through space. Even though the path in front of them may be blocked, they find other alternatives routes in order to advance. The path is usually not the one initially envisioned, but it is nevertheless an exhilarating jaunt rife with unforeseen challenges and opportunities for the development and employment of new techniques, ideas, and abilities.
This is not to say that a tracer is always rushing places post haste, moving without intent; to the contrary, parkour requires an active understanding of the environment and a desire to be free of the constraints of day-to-day movement via sidewalks and stairs. Taking alternative routes is a way of reaching a higher level of appreciation of one's surroundings; one can feel the midday sun's effect on a banister with one's hands, or note a seldom used ledge that provides easy access to a stunning vista. Having employed any or all of the abilities that one has developed over time, one can reach higher heights and farther distances, from which one can view the world in a completely new way.
Having flowed across the landscape in such a manner, one is intoxicated, eager to do so at all times, to be able to achieve that human ideal of relocation at will. For hundreds of thousands of years, humans have sought the means to conquer height and distance at will. The wheel, the bow and arrow, the ship, the ladder, the car, the telephone, the jet plane, the space shuttle. To approach one's environs with this same idea of moving freely is to realize this long-standing human goal.
To be able to move freely, however, one needs the proper abilities, wherewithal, and comportment: just as good public speaking requires good diction, a solid literary background, presence, and the ability to present clearly, and parkour requires physical fitness, mental dexterity, and good spatial sense, a satisfying life requires a balance of attitudes, abilities, and mindsets.
This blog comes directly from this idea: to achieve the ideal of the "Renaissance Man", one who, having developed one's self across a great breadth of things, can move with poise and grace through the many challenges of life. Having done so, one becomes a master of the art of movement.
"Once you have tasted flight you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return." - Leonardo da Vinci
I open with these two quotes as a sort of statement of purpose. The first one is the intention, the second reflection on that which just occurred. Notably absent is the process of doing, the movement itself.
This blog's name comes from the English translation of the French phrase "l'art du deplacement", which refers to the activity of parkour, which centers on moving efficiently across the environment. Tracers, as practitioners of parkour are called, observe their surrounding and then use their abilities to move with purpose through space. Even though the path in front of them may be blocked, they find other alternatives routes in order to advance. The path is usually not the one initially envisioned, but it is nevertheless an exhilarating jaunt rife with unforeseen challenges and opportunities for the development and employment of new techniques, ideas, and abilities.
This is not to say that a tracer is always rushing places post haste, moving without intent; to the contrary, parkour requires an active understanding of the environment and a desire to be free of the constraints of day-to-day movement via sidewalks and stairs. Taking alternative routes is a way of reaching a higher level of appreciation of one's surroundings; one can feel the midday sun's effect on a banister with one's hands, or note a seldom used ledge that provides easy access to a stunning vista. Having employed any or all of the abilities that one has developed over time, one can reach higher heights and farther distances, from which one can view the world in a completely new way.
Having flowed across the landscape in such a manner, one is intoxicated, eager to do so at all times, to be able to achieve that human ideal of relocation at will. For hundreds of thousands of years, humans have sought the means to conquer height and distance at will. The wheel, the bow and arrow, the ship, the ladder, the car, the telephone, the jet plane, the space shuttle. To approach one's environs with this same idea of moving freely is to realize this long-standing human goal.
To be able to move freely, however, one needs the proper abilities, wherewithal, and comportment: just as good public speaking requires good diction, a solid literary background, presence, and the ability to present clearly, and parkour requires physical fitness, mental dexterity, and good spatial sense, a satisfying life requires a balance of attitudes, abilities, and mindsets.
This blog comes directly from this idea: to achieve the ideal of the "Renaissance Man", one who, having developed one's self across a great breadth of things, can move with poise and grace through the many challenges of life. Having done so, one becomes a master of the art of movement.
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