Like a Kid in a Candy Store

You cannot get more Spanish than Burgos. Small, conservative, and vastly populated with fur stoled señoras*, Burgos is Spain, its lack of bullfighting arenas made up for by dozens of locales that serve mouthwatering chorizo**. However, there is no such thing as perfect; typical Spanish brings with it la hora de comer***, which is actually more like three hours during which most stores are closed so food is not easy to come by (bars and restaurants excluded). Ironic, no? For certain American college students who are always hungry and cannot possibly dar unas vueltas**** without a tasty, and cheap, snack, la hora de comer is a disagreeable chunk of time.

Candy stores populate Burgos, but they all draw down their garage doors and metal gates come 2pm. Except one. Located right in the bustling center of Burgos, the nameless candy store always has its glass door open, even on Sundays, which is practically unheard of in Spain. In the tiny shop stand stacked plastic bins filled with every candy and novelty snack food imaginable: gummy candy, sour candy, sugary candy, chocolate candy, chocolate and yogurt covered nuts and strawberries, dried fruit, toasted nuts, and fried corn kernels. Bags of various popcorn, chips, and fried pork rinds line the wall. There is fresh ice cream and a refrigerator full of refreshing soft drinks, such as the very popular Kas, a Spanish version of Fanta. And I cannot forget the Hello Kitty Cheetos, a favorite of my pierced and tattooed amigo***** Juan Carlos.

My name is Sima Kalmens, I am 21 years old, and I still eat gummy worms and peach hearts.

*old Spanish ladies
**sausage
***the "hour" of rest which lasts from 2pm-5pm, also known as siesta
****to take walks
*****friend

Welcome to Patillas, Where the Players Play

Photographs and yellowed newspaper clippings cover every inch of the wood-molded walls, some pictures overlapping, some pictures beginning to curl at the corners. The old light fixtures produce a yellowy brown interior, aged but cozy. The air is thick with loud conversation and cigarette smoke--mostly Winstons and Lucky Strikes. The crowd is a heterogenous mixture of young students, long-haired rocker types, and middle-aged regulars. But age here is nothing more than a physical facade, a mere number. Everyone is talking to each other while downing 1E beers and Chupa Chups.

Old acoustic guitars of different shapes and sizes create an unusual border at the top of the wall. Below, a man sits at a wooden table strumming a guitar. The woman next to him leads the entire bar in Spanish songs with her unprofessional yet low and beautiful voice. Everyone sings, claps, cheers, and continues conversations all at once. Beer bottles empty and ash trays fill at a surprising rate. This is the famous Patillas, a tiny--yet popular--garrito* on a completely normal street in Burgos, far away from the fancy clubs and bars of Las Llanas. Patillas is teepeecal Espahnis (typical Spanish), as my friends here proudly say.

I did not expect to end up in Patillas this particular evening, but I am glad that I did because the authentic Spanish lifestyle only rears its head with spontaneity. I was spending Thursday afternoon, the dawn of my weekend, with some friends. Nobody was horribly keen on going out so we consented on a lazy afternoon/evening of colimochos.** However, while discussing the difference between American and Spanish bars, my friend Juan Carlos got the idea into his head that the American girls must experience Patillas. So at the tender hour of 1am, we went.

And experience Patillas we did. Patillas is the kind of place where it is unclear which people know each other and which do not. Over a bottle of Mahou, everybody is your best friend, which is why, upon our exit from the bar, our barely sane party of five was an eccentric party of seven pushing the envelope of sanity. It isn't that we were drunk, we weren't. Rather, we had made the acquaintance of quite a character of a woman. Tiny and somewhere in her 40s or 50s, Blanca was a chain smoking, beer guzzling ballet teacher with the raspy voice of a transvestite lounge singer. She thought everything was muy interesante,*** especially Chicago and Boston, neither of which she had ever visited. I contemplated telling her I was actually from Russia, home of the Bolshoi Ballet, but I opted against it. Chicago and Boston were interesante enough. After a short while, I had difficulty understanding what she was saying, but as long as I laughed, nodded, and said si**** repeatedly, all was golden. Muy interesante.

*kitschy bar
**typical Burgos drink of red wine and Coke
***very interesting
****yes

Time Heals All Wounds

With the weather getting warmer and the sun working longer hours, I have been spending a considerable more time outside. Walking 30 minutes to the center is no longer a miserable task; instead of digging my gloved hands into my pockets for some extra warmth, I look at the dandelions and daisies and think of sundresses and ice cream (and then I go purchase said sundresses and ice cream). Subsequently, I think of Boston during its first days of good weather. The esplanade, the BU Beach, the Commons.

A few days ago, I was taking my time walking back to campus from the center because all of Burgos was ablaze with the mid-spring sun and everything was gorgeous. I swallowed fresh air peppered with the sight of the frothing river and colorful houses. Spain is beautiful, I told myself, as though the two previous months of rain had made me believe otherwise. I love Spain, but I seldom stop and tell myself that I physically am in Spain. I avoid that existential confrontation because acknowledging that I am in Spain pushes my overly sentimental heart down a road I do not want to traverse. I don't want to acknowledge the fact that I will leave Spain, and fairly soon, too.

I am perfectly adept to living in different cities. I started at the tender age of four, so why should I stop now? I cannot imagine spending my entire life, especially the last three years, in one place. Nevertheless, the necessity of leaving and bidding farewell to people does not get any easier for me. The thought of it depresses me and my last few days in any place are filled with a certain heaviness that never ceases to end in a catastrophic sobfest that I cannot control. I fall in love with people and places so easily that I later have to pay the price. Dwelling on these facts as I walked back to the dorm, I tried to force myself to accept my slightly nomadic ways as mere parts of life, which alleviated some of the melancholy that I had inflicted upon myself. But these things take time.

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

Burrrrrrgos

As the bus sped down the highway, I looked nervously out the window at the brown Spanish landscape. Sparse shacks sprinkled the land. For a few seconds, I panicked. Was I going to spend the next six months on top of an unpopulated mountain?

Fortunately, as the clock neared 10:45am, a town appeared, its little buildings swallowing the bus in its Castilian stomach. I craned my neck to see as much as I could through the bus window. I saw European houses, all different colors, all old and cartoon-like. I was reminded of the Benelux region. A mixture of cobblestone and gray cement reflected the morning sun in the puddles left over from the earlier rainfall. People were just appearing on the streets. It was small, but definitely not as sparse and forlorn as I had expected.

Walking out of the bus station, I was greeted by a stately arc, decorated with statues and turrets. Typical Castilla León. It was as though the arc was saying to me, "Bienvenida a Burgos*" and ushering me into the heart of the city. Behind the arc, the Burgos cathedral towered majestically, its gothic splendor bathing in the November sun. The Burgos cathedral, La Catedral de Santa María, is the third largest cathedral in Spain. As the Spaniards like to say, it's muy impresionante.** I have seen many gothic cathedrals in my 20 years, but I never cease to be amazed by these ornate, colossal structures, built by human hands over centuries.

Burgos is an interesting and comfortable mix of the old and the new (where else are you going to see an antique, castle-like structure next to a Vodafone? Or bank headquarters in what looks like a medieval fort?), but the word that I think describes it best is charming. It's charming. The center boasts little streets and plazas lined with colorful homes--mauve, yellow, cyan, ivory--and various restaurants and cafés whose warm yellow lights are welcoming after the sun sets. Modern businesses rupture the antique homeliness, but it is 2009.

El Paseo de Espolón, one of Burgos' most beautiful and walkable streets, looks like a modern art exhibit. Chunky trees resembling ginger roots line either side of the street, their callused fingers reaching up to the sky. While some of the trees still sport some leaves, the majority is bald and exposed to the changing season. Leaves cover the ground, coloring it gold and rosy red. At night, the blue and purple lights illuminate the street, making it look like wonderland.

It's a far cry from Madrid, but Burgos, here I come!

*welcome to Burgos

**very impressive

P.S.-According to my friends, my pronunciation of Burgos is highly entertaining and Russian-sounding, hence the title of this post.