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

Castilian Coffee Culture According to an American

I've been absent from the rush of American life for so long that I am sure that upon my return, seeing numerous coffee cups floating down the street in the hands of their eager owners will be an unusual sight, as much as I myself enjoy a pedestrian java. That said, I also very much enjoy taking my coffee slowly in a dark, wooden bar, listening to the clanking of silverware around me while savoring the mildly sweet taste of milk fat mixed with bitter roast. Grande skinny vanilla latté? Not in Spain, thanks.

I believe I have made it perfectly clear by now that Spaniards like to take their sweet time. Therefore, sitting down to tomar un café* is more than a mere afternoon caffeine fix; it is a hefty time commitment. Coffee in Spain is to be consumed slowly, usually with a newspaper or the company of several friends. Coffee conversation trickles considerably past the first depressing glimpse of the bottom of the coffee cup. Needless to say, coffee to go is not a popular concept, especially not in traditional Burgos, where you get odd looks from the very people selling you the coffee to go. Even in Madrid, where Starbuckses abound, the only people walking with coffee are businessmen. The rest of the population elects to stay inside the stores, slowly sipping away its day.

Mini coffee glossary:

café con leche-coffee with milk

solo-espresso without milk

cortado-espresso with a splash of milk

café bonbón-espresso with condensed milk

*have a coffee

The College Diet

American college diet: sandwiches, brownies, beer

Burgos college diet: kebab, chocolate, colimochos*

*typical Burgos drink of red wine and Coke

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

Sargeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band

On my way out earlier today, I heard clarinet next door (or downstairs, since I cannot tell the difference). A few minutes ago, I chanced to hear drums. Add that to flamenco and gospel vocals and the trumpet, and the vecinos* have got themselves a band. I'm cool with it as long as I can sleep at night.

*neighbors

P.S.-

Yep, that's my neighbor. Gospel Girl is also in the video. I, however, prefer this version:

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

You know how after taking a fixed route at a certain hour everyday for a long period of time, you start seeing many of the same people? Or if you always take the 8am train, you notice the same people and, eventually, their behavior as well? It is not much different when you live in an apartment. Even if you never actually meet your neighbors, you get to know their habits and ways pretty darn well due to thin walls and open windows (and the fact that Spaniards are generally loud). Think of Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window. His neighbors across the garden included the dancer, the lonely women, the woman who lowered her dog into the garden several times a day, and the murderer, of course. He probably had those nicknames for them, too.

After having lived in my apartment in Madrid for two months, I feel like I have gotten to know my neighbors well enough to tell you all about them and their colorful lives. I even have nicknames for all of them--just like Jimmy Stewart.

Gospel Girl-Gospel Girl is an American singer. I often hear her rehearse the same verse over and over. And over. She also blasts Whitney Houston whenever I am trying to nap. Once in a while, I can hear her speaking loudly on the phone in Ebonics. Sometimes I have to assure myself that I did, in fact, leave Chicago.

Pitingo aka Flamenco Singer-Pitingo is his actual stage name, but I usually refer to him by his nickname when complaining to my friends. At 11pm, I do not want to hear hoarse vocal undulations and dramatic, strumming guitar. I know Spain runs on a late schedule, but you're not the only tenant in the building, Señor* Perfectly Coifed Hair and Carved Biceps (I've seen YouTube videos). Also, it isn't in good taste to blast your own CDs for the entire courtyard to hear.

The Mother-Almost every night around midnight, the smell of tortilla española,** or some other fragrant delicacy, wafts through my open window. I hear the clanking of silverware and the family's docile speech, The Mother always insisting, "¡Cómelo! ¡Cómelo!"*** Typical.

Mysterious Trumpeter-Once in a while, I hear brief bursts of trumpet playing. It sounds like it is coming from the apartment next door, but sometimes it sounds like Pitingo's singing is coming from next door and he lives below me, so I don't actually know if Mysterious Trumpeter lives next door or if he is Pitingo. Pitingo, if it is you, 12am is not an ideal time for playing the trumpet! Jolines!****

The Buzzers-Every morning, and several times in the evening, the doorbell next door rings. Except it isn't a ring as much as a buzz, and every single time I jump, startled. I don't mind it much, except at 8am, when the stupid buzzer wakes me up, along with the elderly shouts of vengo***** that accompany it. Who is visiting you people everyday at 8am?!

*sir

**thick omelet with potatoes

***eat it

****jeez

*****I'm coming

It's a Beautiful Day in My Neighborhood

The appetizing fragrance of tortilla española* wafts through my open window. The clanking of silverware and rapid maternal speech echo through the courtyard. It’s midnight. While I am ready to turn in for the night, the families that live in my building are just sitting down to dinner, their dynamics on display for everyone to see and hear. From another part of the building, I enjoy a different kind of performance. The flamenco singer who lives in the apartment below mine is practicing, his raspy voice gliding all over the scale, crooning Andalusian tunes.

The quiet, residential neighborhood of Alfonso XIII, more commonly known as El Barrio de Prosperidad, is a cesspool of a large variety of people from several different generations. Teenagers traipse up and down the streets, stopping at the shoe boutiques or electronics stores that pepper the blocks. They congregate near the large McDonalds across the street from the metro. Mothers walk alone or in pairs, pushing strollers or lovingly leading their well dressed, newly walking toddlers by the hand. Sharply dressed businessmen plow down the sidewalk, their shiny dress shoes reflecting the sun as they make wide strides, briefcases bouncing at their sides. The older generations stroll arm in arm, always dressed fashionably in dresses, woolen cardigans, and fedoras, brandishing their canes. The abuelas** chat while the abuelos*** discuss politics. Once in a while, a Real Madrid player can be spotted gracing the humble streets, or so my host mother tells me.

Although a completely modern neighborhood, Alfonso XIII emanates a comfortable, lived-in, familiar feeling. There are no big businesses in sight, only small stores and private boutiques. Hair salons and cafeterías**** abound—and are populated at all hours of the day. Walking to the metro every morning, I am accustomed to the delicious aroma of coffee and the sounds of spoons tapping the saucers and murmured exchanges between proprietors and customers filling the streets. Except for the dead of night, when the street lights are faintly reflected in the naked pavement, the neighborhood is always lively, despite its generally slow pace.

A mere 10-minute walk from the Alfonso XIII metro is the Berlin Park, which is a haven on sunny days. Birds chirp, laughing children chase each other, and runners run. The park’s entrance on Concha Espina boasts a modest fountain adorned with the unmistakable pieces of the Berlin Wall, engulfed in the trickling fountain water. Not much farther, the majestic Santiago Bernabéu Stadium towers over the street corner.

While the Alfonso XIII area does not offer chic shopping or swanky lounges, it does offer a first-class view of daily Spanish life. Walking down the neighborhood’s main street, Lopez de Hoyos, or eating lunch in one of the many sidewalk restaurants is a good way to pass a lazy, autumn, Saturday afternoon before getting dolled up and heading to the trendier districts for some evening entertainment.

*thick omelet with potatoes
**grandmas
***grandpas
****cafés

P.S.-I wrote this article for the My Metro section of the magazine I intern for. Every month, the section profiles a different neighborhood. The December issue will feature mine!