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

Spring Break: D-Day Part III

As previously mentioned, the reason I came to Normandy was to see the D-Day beaches. I refused to leave Normandy without seeing them and told myself I would do whatever it would take to get to the darned beaches. In general, getting to the northern coast of France, where the five beaches are located, is very simple from Bayeux. However, that pretty little fact applies to people with motor vehicles. Not willing to pay tens of euros for a tour, as comprehensive as they are, I thought I would just take a taxi the six miles to Omaha Beach and the American Cemetery. At the last minute, while perusing the Bayeux tourism website, I found a D-Day tour for 30E, a sum I was willing to pay. The three and a half hour tour would take me to Pointe du Hoc, Omaha Beach, and the American War Cemetery.

Pointe du Hoc-On a cliff hanging over the English Channel, Pointe du Hoc was a German post during the war. This was the only spot along the coast protected by the Germans. On the morning of June 6, 1944, the allied troops took the unsuspecting Nazi bastards by surprise. Almost sixty six years later, the German bunkers are still there. Dark gray stone, some of it crumbling a little. Dirty stone floors, cold and hard. Artillery holes sparsely scattered throughout the bunker walls. The grassy field leading up to the cliff, once smooth, is now a series of giant bomb and shell craters--a result of the attack. The gray morning and cold April wind cover the cliff in a somber blanket, like the grainy, black and white photographs of Pointe du Hoc in 1944 that our tour guide shows us. Looking at the frothy waves of the English Channel slapping the rocks, I try to imagine the bunkers and fields filled with soldiers, fighting and yelling. Somehow, I can almost see it. History does not leave the cliff.


Omaha Beach-Located on the seaside village of Vierville-sur-Mer and surrounded by bluffs, Omaha Beach was one of the two American beaches during the invasion, the other being Utah Beach. The pale beige sand stretches five miles, the soldiers' footprints long gone. Pieces of floating harbor, makeshift structures built to facilitate the unloading of supplies, peak out of the water. Several bunkers stand eroding on the perimeter of the beach, chunks of stone gouged out with artillery. The tide is fairly low. The vast, empty beach makes me sad. I cannot seem to separate myself from the chilling feeling that I am somewhere else in time, somewhere that is not quite 1944 but not 2010, either. Is this what history does?


American War Cemetery-The cemetery, erected in Colleville-sur-Mer, overlooks Omaha Beach below. The pristine green lawn stretches far into the distance, spotless white gravestones neatly aligned in rows. The beautiful cemetery gives off an unmistakeable feeling of peace, rest, and tranquility. The countless rows of marble gravestones are visual proof of how many men lost their lives during the war, and these are just the Americans.


P.S.-The tour was worth all 30E.

Spring Break: D-Day Part II

Staring at the cloudburst in utter disbelief, I considered my options. I could, a) idly wait an unspecified amount of time for the rain to stop or, b) employ my scarf as a meager head covering and hurry towards the hotel as fast as my short legs could carry me. I chose the latter. As I neared the center, the rain started falling harder and I decided on a whim to go see the Bayeux Tapestry, an activity I had been saving for the following day.

The Bayeux Tapestry is an almost 265-foot tapestry (surprise!) that depicts the story of William the Conqueror and his conquest of Normandy. The tapestry is almost as old as the tale it tells, dating back to the 11th century. The tapestry was mounted behind a glass wall and photographs were prohibited, but the good people of YouTube have provided me with a video panorama :


Apart from a slight drizzle, it had stopped raining when I left the museum and I began to once again enjoy my day, no longer in a hurry to return to the hotel. Sauntering down the puddle stained streets of Bayeux, I admired once again its medieval charm and style. The post-rain gloom added a touch of authenticity, in a way.




I explored some of the busier side streets, observing French shopkeepers and teenagers, before making the executive decision to purchase some food at at the supermarket that was thankfully opened on a Saturday evening before Easter and finally return to the hotel. Intending for my edible loot to last until my arrival in Caen, I bought a bushel of grapes, two apples, Lay's barbecue potato chips (the store did not carry salt and vinegar flavor), and Prince chocolate and white chocolate sandwich cookies, which would end up being my main source of food the next day because I could not afford actual meals.

I expected to enjoy a very long and quiet evening in the hotel room with the television, my assortment of books and movies on my iPod, and the safe knowledge that despite not having a computer, I could still be reached on my cell phone because incoming calls are free. It was not until after my conversation with my parents ended mid-sentence that I realized that the luxury of incoming calls only applied in Spain. I was now officially isolated from the rest of the world, with only D.H. Lawrence, French-dubbed Simpsons, and potato chips to keep me company and fend off my once again impending panic.

Spring Break: D-Day Part I

On the morning of Saturday, April 3, I arrived in Bayeux, Normandy, which is located in the north of France, several miles south of the English Channel. Although I had left behind a cold, rainy Paris, the train pulled into a warm and sunny Bayeux. Thank goodness. Making my way around all the cars in the parking lot, I headed towards the town center, my suitcase rolling jubilantly behind me. I made it to the center without a single issue, using the cathedral as a landmark. Unfortunately, I had some difficulty finding my hotel. Bayeux is not a big town--2.75 square miles--so I embarrassingly circled the same areas three or four times in search of the hotel before finally finding it tucked away on the quiet rue des Bouchers.

The real fun began when I decided to quickly check my e-mail before exploring Bayeux. My computer chose that exact moment to cease working; I was alone in a tiny town and I had very little credit left on my cell phone because all the stores in Spain had been closed the previous couple of days because of the Easter holidays and I had not been able to add money to my account. Panic took absolutely no time at all to instill its unfriendly self in me. Call me materialistic, but this was a bigger problem than going a few days without Facebook. I had quite a bit of work to do and it was all lost somewhere in hardware purgatory. I had also depended on the internet as my main mode of communication since calling from France was rather expensive. If there was ever a time when the word fuck was appropriate, this was it. Despite my calamity, I went to explore Bayeux, consoling myself with the fact that the following night I would be in Caen with my couch surfing hosts and I could use their internet.

Bayeux is a charming little town, medieval and historical. It played an important role in the days of William the Conqueror, almost a millennium ago, and it was the first town in France to be liberated after the June 6, 1944 invasion. The main street is lined with stone buildings--stores, ice cream shops, and restaurants. Due to its proximity to the five D-Day beaches, Bayeux receives quite a lot of tourists. The little town was abuzz with a variety of nationalities the weekend I was there, including some very obvious Americans ("Lisa! LISA! Do you want ketchup on your fries? Lisa!").


I began my sight seeing with the Bayeux cathedral, another Gothic church, yet impressive all the same. I admired the stained glass and the ornate chapels and descended to the catacombs, cool and dark stone lit up by the thin streams of light from upstairs.

After the cathedral, I took a quick lunch break of chicken kebab. Enjoying the warm sun and feeling considerably better about the laptop situation, I then headed towards the Battle of Normandy Museum. I had been waiting eagerly to go to this museum since finding out about its existence. The museum is meticulously filled with quotes, biographies, photos, videos, artifacts, and recreations. A novice World War II junky, I was satisfied. However, my newly found good mood did not last long because during the two hours I was in the museum, the weather had drastically changed. It was pouring rain and I, fooled by the midday sun, had left my umbrella in my hotel room.

Spring Break: Arrivals

Shortly after the crack of dawn on April 1, I groggily rolled out of bed after one hour of REM-less sleep, threw some remaining toiletries into my suitcase, and ran out the door to catch my 7:30am bus to Madrid. Although accustomed to the almost three hour ride, I was happy to immediately fall asleep and not wake up until the bus was rolling through the outskirts of Madrid. As I sleepily stirred in my seat, my Murcia-bound friend Ana said to me, "Good morning." "Buenos días,*" I replied, fluffing my matted hair. We got off the bus, retrieved our luggage from the bus's gaping belly, and sat down for a coffee before heading our separate ways: me to the Salamanca neighborhood and Ana to Pinar Chamartín to catch her train to Murcia.

It being the very beginning of April, good weather was still fairly scarce, so I was thrilled that Madrid was sunny and warm. I spent the day in El Retiro, stopping in Thyssen-Bornemisza for a couple of hours to see the Monet exhibit as well as some Hopper, Kandinsky, and 16th century Flemish art. My night ended early due to my lack of sleep the previous night. Paris tomorrow, I thought excitedly as I fell asleep. My francophone adventure was about to begin.

After a delicious lunch of falafel with a friend in Puerta del Sol the next day, I headed to Barajas Airport, all my thoughts centered on one: that Ryan Air won't make me check my bag for an extra 35E. Upon getting my boarding pass stamped, getting through security while balancing two bins, my shoes, and my suitcase, and walking ten miles to my boarding gate, I decided to attempt to repack my suitcase in hopes of eliminating as many lumps as possible and fitting the suitcase into the carry-on luggage size checker, thus avoiding the possibility of having to check my bag and paying 35E. After several tries, I had the brilliant idea of stuffing as many bulky items as would fit into my coat pockets. My plan succeeded and I basked in my own genius the entire flight to Beauvais, concocting appropriate Facebook stati regarding the matter, my suitcase resting safely in the luggage bin above my head.

Paris Beauvais Airport is tiny. I walked out of the gate practically right into the shuttle bus to Paris, eliminating all my worries about getting lost and not finding the shuttle. Phew. The bus arrived at Port Maillot in Paris a touch before 9pm. Port Maillot is completely on the opposite side of the city from where I needed to be, the Latin Quarter, so I had a good 40 minutes of metro surfing ahead of me. Finally, after almost losing my right arm to the malicious metro doors in Port Maillot, transferring lines, and getting slightly lost upon getting off at Censier-Daubenton (lost enough to have to employ my very best je cherche rue Larrey** with a couple who turned out to not be French), I made it to my mom's friend's apartment, memories of staying there nine years ago rapidly coming back to me. After two metros, a plane, a bus, and two more metros, I was finally in Paris.

*good morning
**I'm looking for Larrey Street

Sevillian Civilians Part III

Lesson of the day: cheat the system by joining a group tour. You may also learn something. Arriving at the Alcazar, I was greeted by a line of tourists that seemed to stretch for miles towards I don't know where. The line seemed to be longer than the two lines that are permanently, and randomly, etched in my memory. The first line, which I had the pleasure of standing in for a good hour or so in the scorching, dry St. Petersburg summer sun, was for the observation deck on the St. Isaac's Cathedral. The second line, and I have no idea why this has made a comfortable and permanent home in my memory, was in some park in Russia where I waited 45 minutes in a line surrounded by chatty Russian ladies to use the bathroom. But I digress.

Fortunately, my experience with this particular line did not last long since my program director quickly ushered me and the other two girls into the hands of a tour guide with whom we only waited ten minutes to enter the mudejar* palace. Walking into the Alcazar was like walking into a smaller version of the Alhambra.

Look familiar? Tiled walls, herradura** arches, stone carvings, immaculate gardens. Having spent almost ten hours at the Alhambra back in October, I felt very much at home walking through the splendid rooms of the Alcazar.

main patio:





stucco etching and tiles

gardens:





*Arab design applied to Christian architecture
**horseshoe

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.