It's Wine Country

Tumbling out of the car, I stepped into a stream of sunshine, still cool due to it being morning. Around me stood brown brick buildings, old, collecting sunshine. It smelled fresh, like spring. Having been subjected to rain and wind for the previous two weeks, I welcomed the sun and the vitamin D. I was in Ollauri, a small Spanish town in La Rioja, Spain's wine region, known for the 16th century bodega* Conde de los Andes.

Although I am no wine connoisseur, and will never be one of those people who knowledgeably swirls her Merlot in a thick-stemmed red wine glass while postulating pretentiously on the hints of rich flavor my taste buds pick up, I find wineries to be rather interesting. I have always been of the opinion that there is something rustic and homely about wineries. They have their own stories, their own traditions, their own flavors. The wine business is an entire culture, and a rather popular one, at that. Furthermore, I find the amount of work and effort that goes into producing wine unbelievable. It seems to me a continuous task. Considering wine has to age for a generous amount of time, imagine how much wine is produced daily to keep shelves full worldwide!

Walking through the stone cellar of Conde de los Andes, I saw bottles of wine, covered in a gentle web of white mold, that have been aging since 1918. 1918. These bottles barely missed WWI and have lived through WWII, the Cold War, and the invention of the internet. Even if I did have 300E that I wanted to invest in a bottle of red, I doubt that I could ever bring myself to open it. A 92 year-old bottle of wine is more an antique than a beverage.

I was still somewhat mulling over the concept of an almost centennial bottle of wine when I arrived in Elciego, a small Basque town that houses Marques de Riscal, a bodega designed by giant, twisted, metal sheet aficionado, architect Frank Gehry.

The incredibly modern design of the winery stands out immensely amidst the constant brown tradition of Elciego. It is rather stunning.

But that's what Spain is, the perfect mix of the old and the new.

*winery

Taking Bromance to a Whole New Level

The tremendously prestigious and reliable source that is Urban Dictionary defines the term bromance as the complicated love and affection shared by two straight men. I was definitely familiar with the term before coming to Spain, but I cannot claim having actually experienced any bromance with my own eyes. However, that is probably due to the fact that I have very few straight guy friends, none of whom really know each other well enough to merit bromance.

Therefore, I was rather shocked--and confused--when I began noticing the relationships shared by the guys in my dorm, and probably in all of Spain. Despite the entertainment value of this Spanish bromance, it is actually incredibly refreshing to see males show their heterosexual affection for each other, without chest bumping and trying to one-up each other in physical activity. In Spain, guys not only slap each other on the back, but also hug. A lot. At clubs, they dance with each other, jokingly, yet fearlessly. They adore taking hundreds of pictures together, on any occasion, and always have their arms around each other in said pictures. Kissy faces are not a rarity either.

One of my friends, upon observing Spanish bromance, once commented, "Spain is one big gay bar!" That may be partially true, considering the straight guys here are generously more physical than in the United States. It is also definitely more difficult to spot the actual gay guys here. I'm friends with several boys whose orientations I still have not yet figured out (help is appreciated). Nevertheless, does it really matter? I have come to the conclusion that it does not. Boys will be boys.

untitled

Sick. Cannot pronounce any nasal consonants. What does it feel like to be able to breathe?

Today I Met a French girl, a Czech, and a German

My two-month vacation came to an end today, sadly, with the start of spring semester. This morning, I got up at 7am to attend an actual university class. Despite my reluctance to start working again, I was rather excited--and a little nervous--about the classes I had chosen. Fortunately, I ended the school day content with 75% of my choices and without a shred of extranjera* anxiety left inside of me.

Grammar and Morphology of Spanish-Despite my huge excitement about this class, I was reluctant to go to it first thing this morning because it had apparently begun last week--without my knowledge--and I didn't want any embarrassing discrepancies. Nevertheless, I told myself I was being ridiculous, sucked it up, and went to class. I am glad I got over my compulsions because the course matter is fascinating and the professor does not appear daunting, and he slightly resembles Robert Deniro. Most importantly, I understand every single word he says, even though I have never studied linguistics in Spanish. I was very pleasantly surprised by my own comprehension abilities today.

Pragmatics and Semantics of Spanish-My morphology-induced high transferred over to this class, which I had right after morphology with the same professor. I have to say, if I had not just had class with this professor, I would have assumed he was not going to show up to teach because he waltzed in ten minutes after class was scheduled to start and announced to us that he had needed a break and had gone to have a coffee. I want a coffee too, sir, but así es la vida.** Punctuality does not really exist in Spain.

Literature and Journalism-I like literature. I want to learn more about journalism. This frontier logic convinced me that this would be an interesting class to take. I was wrong. As soon as the professor started talking, I felt intimidated, inadequate, and at a huge disadvantage for not being a native Spanish speaker. My elation from earlier today slowly evaporated. All the other students, although equally unhappy about all the work assigned (20 page assignment due in a little over a month?!), seemed to be on the same page as the 1980s coiffed professor. Midway through the hour, I had already decided that I would not be returning to this horrific class.

Audiovisual Narrative-After the horror of literature and journalism, screenwriting was refreshing and a relief. The professor is young and seems very friendly and understanding. She introduced me to the entire class, which was not as embarrassing as it sounds because everyone here seems to like Americans. The course basically consists of watching and analyzing movies and working in groups on our own scripts and short films. I did not even have the chance to worry about being the reject and not finding a group because the punk kids sitting in front of me immediately took me under their wing, so to speak. I daresay I'm rather excited about this class.

*foreigner

**such is life

Everything Is Topsy Turvy, Upside Down

Pushing past all the drunk Spaniards in Twenty, the most popular student nightclub in pint-sized Burgos, I noticed an odd assortment of X-Men characters, cowboys, and Robin Hoods getting their groove on to Eurotrash music (stereotypes do start somewhere), sparsely interjected with Black Eyed Peas or Lady Gaga. Or Red Hot Chili Peppers. Still a newcomer to Burgos, it took me a few moments to realize that this huge, poorly soundtracked costume fest was due to Carnaval, a week-long celebration that involves a variety of parades and other outdoor events and, of course, costumes.

The weekend progressed with more costumes: members of Kiss, matadors, bull runners, 80s aerobics instructors, Jokers, and soldiers. During the daylight hours, little kids ran all over the center of Burgos dressed as little Zoros, princesses, firemen, Supermen, and SpongeBob Squarepants (there is nothing cuter than a three-foot tall yellow box bobbing down a medieval bridge on red stockinged feet). Being a lazy college student with incredibly important things to do, such as hang out on Facebook all day, I cannot admit to having participated in many of the events, but I did venture out on Sunday evening to experience more than just tales of the--apparently--famous Burgos Carnaval.

Despite the biting cold, I managed to catch part of a jubilant procession heading down El Paseo de Espolón, lead by a colorful entertainer on stilts. I expected him at any moment to burst out into "Topsy Turvy" from Hunchback of Notre Dame because, well, he looked just like the jester, except that he was not animated.

Let's compare:

Following the procession, and a quick coffee, I witnessed the appearance of Lo monstre*, the mythical Burgos dragon in search of public affection and some comestibles. The dragon and his followers stopped in front of El Arco de Santa María, where the dragon rose up into the air, spread his wings, and blew smoke out of his pulleyed jaws.

The mechanical aspect of the presentation was rather fascinating, actually, but I do have to admit that the Spaniards possess a plethora of odd customs, such as burying sardines. No joke. ¡Viva Carnaval!**

*the monster

**long live the carnival

School, Drink, Party, Learn Some Basque

There is a first time for everything. Since I am no longer a stranger to alcohol-induced blasphemy (who needs bars when you can drink in front of medieval ecclesiastical sights?), last night seemed an appropriate time to get another first out of the way. Going out at two in the morning, heavily tinged with the fizzy combination of Esmirnoff and Kas (read: Smirnoff and lemon Fanta), is very much standard practice here in Burgos, especially now that Carnaval has begun. I went to sleep at 6:30am, Eurotrash techno still ringing in my ears. The sun here doesn't rise until after seven, so at least it still felt like night.

I Love Burgos in the Winter

I am well aware of the fact that a considerable amount of time has passed since my last entry of note, but in my defense I have been rather busy dealing with the multitude of little annoying things that accompany settling into a new place, especially if said new place is in a different country on a different continent. Fortunately, I have several hours of free time to write right now while the crazy Spanish snow storm rages outside. Tomorrow, I have to go deal with my bus card, which mysteriously doesn't work. Dealing with municipal problems in Spain is synonymous with a generous helping of twisted bureaucracy and awful customer service. But I digress.

For the past week, I've seen pretty much all of Burgos and experienced a huge dose of Spanish culture, which is--at least to me--stronger here than in Madrid. I am happy to report that I enjoy Burgos immensely, which is a relief because although I thought it was pretty when I first visited in November, I was not thrilled by its size and feared I would be bored studying here for five months. Thankfully, at least at the moment, I no longer feel that way. I get along superbly with the other two girls from Boston University and all three of us are highly entertained by the raucous Spaniards on our floor who constantly yell obscenities at each other while pounding on doors and attempt to pepper their castellano* with heavily accented English phrases. I can't complain; they pay for my colimochos.**

Residence life aside, I see Burgos in a completely different way than I did that one day in November. It is a small town, but it does not lack life. Bars and cafés are always full and there are always people dando una vuelta.*** There is a reason I always mention bars, cafés, and strolls when I write about Spain; it is not a trend, it is Spanish life. La vida española**** centers around social life in a way that is wonderfully refreshing from the constant rush of the American people. People actually enjoy life here. I mean, if I had spent my entire life in a town with an enormous gothic cathedral (Spain's third largest), 30 cent bus fare, and one Euro champagne, I'd enjoy life too. And I do.

*typical Burgos drink of red wine and Coke

**Castillian Spanish

***going for a walk

****Spanish life

Legality Strikes

Happy 21st birthday to me! This was only my fifth birthday celebrated outside of the USA, but I am happy to report that lo pasé bien* with seafood tapas, beer, a danish, and my beloved café con leche**. Until next year!

*I had a good time

**coffee with milk

From Criminal in Frankfurt to Celebrity in Madrid

Walking through O'Hare security and down the long corridor to concourse C, fueled by the frothy cappuccino I had hastily finished sipping a few minutes earlier, I expected the next 13 hours to pass slowly, quietly, and uneventfully, interrupted only by the flight attendants' required safety spiel and the mile-high gastronomic question, "chicken or fish?" I was right, the next 13 hours did creep by slowly and more or less quietly. I was probably the only passenger on the half empty plane awake, despite having two entire seats to my five foot self. Blame the coffee. However, the trip was not entirely uneventful, which I suppose gives me something to write about.

Walking out of the airplane into the Frankfurt airport, I was happy to stretch my legs and look at something besides the back of the seat in front of me, considering I had been sitting and staring for the past eight hours. As I traversed the terminal, I realized that switching planes would not be as simple as walking from one gate to another. I had to go through passport control (no problem) and security (ew). At security, as I unloaded my items into various gray bins, the German security guy told me I would not have to take my shoes off. As I walked through, the buckles on my boots set off the alarm and another member of the security personnel pulled me aside for a full body scan, which included taking off my shoes and putting them through the scanner. I did not realize I had buckles on my boots until I was putting them back on, so the body scan process made me rather nervous. Fortunately, I was soon released and I continued on my way, enjoying the spoken German around me.

Fast forward two more tired and restless hours. Getting off the plane in Madrid's Barajas Airport, I felt like I was coming back from another long weekend on a Monday morning. Unfortunately, all those Monday mornings in terminal 1 included getting lost in search of the metro, and this time, although not a Monday, it was no different. Joder*. After wandering a little bit, I asked twice for directions to the necessary baggage claim. Following said directions, I somehow ended up on the other side of arrivals--the side that comes after the baggage claim. Fortunately, getting back inside to get my luggage was not difficult considering I had somehow managed to miss the baggage claim all together. It goes without saying that there was no passport control.

Meanwhile, sandwiched between meeting the director of the program and getting the luggage, we were approached by a journalist working for TeleMadrid, a Spanish channel, who was looking for American students to film for a feature on, I am guessing, American students studying in Madrid. Although tired and haggard looking, the three of us Burgos girls gave brief interviews to the periodista**, who staged a chance encounter with us. I have absolutely no idea where this video will surface, but if I happen to find it online, I will not keep it hidden. I am slowly making my way through all Spanish media, since I've been published in a Spanish magazine and there is now a video of me floating somewhere in Spanish television cyberspace.

*fuck

**journalist

(9/5)C+32=F

Quite honestly, I had a post of a bit more elaborate proportion planned to mark my second departure to Spain, but the always unavoidable packing calamity struck and I was awake until three, obsessively weighing and re-weighing my suitcases to preemptively avoid issues at the check-in desk. Nevertheless, I am happy to announce that I am taking with me a mere 88 lbs of luggage, not including my carry-on items. Honestly, I am looking forward to dragging about 70% of my weight through the vast plains of Castilla León.