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Entry 1 of 72
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5/12/2008
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Los tíos bailando en el País Vasco
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They were scheduled to arrive on Wednesday. I decided, well truthfully, my teaching schedule decided, that I would give them a day in Madrid on their own to adjust to the Spainish schedule and sleep off the time difference. I was a little worried when I got a phone call at 7:00 am from dad asking for directions out of the airport; I have done that route so many times, though, I didn't even open my eyes and got them through the chaos safely. I said a little prayer for each of their sanity, the pickpockets and the waiters then it was back to sleep for my last half hour without the title of teacher/translator. When I got to Atocha on Thursday just before noon the three of them were there waiting for me. I hadn't felt that excited to get to a train station since I saw Jess standing among all of the holiday bustle in Florence just after Christmas. One of my favorite things in life is getting in to the arrivals gate after any trip, long or short, and seeing someone waiting for you. That is when you know you are cared for. We ate lunch in the shadow of the Reina Sofia Museum before heading in to see the Picasso exhibit. I had already been there with CH so when they had had their fill of art, and were tired of my opinion about it, I led them quickly to Guernica so they could see the main piece and then we headed to the botanical gardens next to the Prado Museum. The last time I walked through them was when Angel and Galo came from Mexico for their European tour; it was cold and the flowers were all dead which put us all in a bad mood for having paid to see sticks and dirt. This time, however, there were flowers everywhere, roses galore and azaleas to die for. We posed with all of the tiny bonsai trees, which are truly works of art, and marveled at the variety of plants that were in such perfect condition... all while sneezing and wiping our alergy-affected eyes. After a few pictures in front of the vertical garden... that is the official name, by the way, I asked... and a quick zip through the new Caixa public auditorium, we headed to the hotel to recharge our batteries. I had lugged my Moroccan camel bag around all morning and we were all sick of it digging into our shoulders. I do not regret the purchase whatsoever but I would much rather ride a camel than carry it... or eat it. After a little siesta, please pronounce the one not written in itallics with a strong Gringo accent because we took this siesta way later and longer than the typical Spanish siesta. Really, dad and I didn't sleep; I don't usually take advantage of the mandatory lull in the middle of the day because I wake up disoriented and anxious. Weird, I know. Instead I paint, eat or walk around and enjoy the city without pushy moms with their strollers and abuelitas who are selfrighteous and grouchy. That day, in the hotel room that overlooked the Puerta del Sol, dad and I chatted and listened to the Mexican mariachi band that plays next to the metro stop everyday. We wandered around later to the Plaza Mayor, tried to tapear, and then went for an early, by Spanish standards, dinner. I ate more during this trip than I have the entire time in Spain. Italy may have been comparable, but with the food schedule of this country it is hard to eat real meals... at least for me. I get hungry before 2:00 pm so I eat a little snack and then when lunch time rolls around I am not hungry enough for a meal so I eat another snack. I get hungry again before 10:00 pm so usually Jess and I meet in the plaza around 8:30 for vino and tapas and I count that as my dinner. I never sleep well when my stomach has been recenly filled with deliciousness. I prefer to enjoy what I just devoured and the two hours before midnight suppers here don't facilitate the appreciation period that I deem necessary. While the trio was here I realized just how much I have been changed, how much I have adapted, to the customs and normalitys of Spain. I never thought I would but blink and, 9 months later, you become one of "them". The next day we battled our way through the madness of the Madrid metro and a little less than an hour later we arrived to Barajas airport. [I want to make a side-note proposition to the city of Madrid: a direct metro line from Atocha to Barajas. People would pay 10 euros for a ticket not to be forced to switch lines 3 times, at minimum, and to arrive a little less frantic than is currently inevitable. Think about it... hard but not long because everyone knows that it would pay for itself and Madrid would be praised for it's genius. I won't ask for any commissions and no worries about a lawsuit for stealing my idea... as long as you finish it before this weekend. Gracias.] And from there we headed north to el País Vasco. When you ask a Spaniard about the north you are told "Es verde!" , it is green,"Es muy Europeo!" it is really European and, about País Vasco specifically the exclaim, "Se come muy bien!" they eat really well. So, if you can read between the lines, and understand their accent, the people are trying to let you know that the rest of Spain is brown, Africa and eats horribly. A little exaggerated but not too far off the bulls eye. The pinxos in the Basque Country are also world famous and there is so much variety. The contrast is impressive between Ciudad Real and Bilbao. In the CR there are fried tapas that are sometime unidentifiable and when you ask what they are many times the only response is carne (meat) or they just tell you the name of it. But in Bilbao they initiate the explanations, walk you through the different pinxos and always have a smile on their faces. My informants were correct: Bilbao is green, European and has yummy food. The only thing that I wasn't tempted by were the chipirones a typical plate of baby squid boiled and then served bathing in its own ink. Markus ate it. Dad wouldn't. I was surprised. We stayed in a hotel on the river and within view of the Guggenheim Museum. We meandered along the river, the four of us, taking pictures and then stopping in the main plaza to get an inside glance at an Euskera pride festival. We saw a group of young kids all dressed up in milkmaid outfits and berets that were kicking their legs spastically in preparation for their upcoming performance; we had to stay and see what was about to go down. I was exstatic to have the chance to hear Euskera spoken because usually it is just spoken in homes and between the people who are from el País Vasco. We were actually witnessing a festival with songs, dances and speeches. To me it didn't sound much different than what I imagine Russian to sound like but I was thrilled nonetheless. Markus' aunt, his cousin, Christian, Chiristian's girlfriend, and the girlfriend's aunt all stayed in the same hotel as we did; Swiss German, French, English and Spainsh were flying all over the place when we were all together and I am not sure anyone was ever positive about what the topic of conversation was. They all decided to take a siesta and while they rested up, Dad and I went for tapas. The pinxos were delicious and all the better because the people who served them were so friendly. They wanted you to have exactly what you wanted and they wanted you to know about everything that you put in your mouth. I was beside myself with content because usually it's like pulling teeth to get someone to tell you the ingredients of what is on the menu. Happy and full we met the others for a long, yet completely worth it, wait; those of us who actually stayed around to eat finally got our food around 11:00... normal Spain supper time. The next day was devoted to the Guggenheim and dad relished the architecture and I devoured Dalí's pieces that were there. I had already seen a lot of it when I went to his house museum in Figueres during the summer of 2006 but I don't get tired of his genius... insanity? I found the current exhibition quite ironic because it was titled "Art in the USA: Three Hundred Years of Innovation." I really enjoyed it and was, as usual, inspired and claimed various times through out our visit that, "I decided: I am going back to school to get my MFA." Later that night, while eating yummy food I changed my plan to cooking school... maybe I will do both. Making everyone happy with eating times, food options and restaurant locations was not the easiest. While Dad and I went on a hunt for the (anticlimatic) Plaza de Toros and on the way home we made a reservation near the main shopping area. The manager of the restaurant was incredibly accomodating and even after we made him move the table that he had set for us, all eight of us, from the outside to the inside, change orders, explain orders and split order, he treated us to a bottle of champagne. I liked Bilbao; I think people have a lot to do with the character of a place and the people in the north were charming. The patterns of the city, the rhythm of the city with the old and new buildings, the river, the bridges and the constant flurry of people was enchanting. I think, if I were to design a city, the piece of Bilbao that I would incorporate would be the lightrail metro train thing that serves as the public transportation. The rails are plane with the grass and so it looks as though it hovers, like it is skimming along the surface of the Earth. Like something out of the Teletubbies. A quick weekend trip and we jetted back to the chaos of the capital before we split ways; Jean and Markus went to play in the Grecian isles with donkeys and Dad and I went to labor away in the Ciudad Real. xoxcr |
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