Toledo.
It was pretty embarrassing to say that I had been living here over a year and hadn't been to Toledo. Good thing I rectified that situation.
In late October, Joe (the other Fulbright working at my school), and I took the bus to Castilla de la Mancha (also, coincidentally, another autonomous community to check off my list) to spend the day in Spain's previous capital city, located only 70 km south of Madrid.
Toledo is a very old city, inhabited since the Bronze Age, and is a prime example of the rich cultural history of Spain. It is particularly known for having strong influences from Spain's three major religions (Christianity, Judaism, and Islam); you can see this in the upkeep of a well-preserved cathedral, mosque, and synagogue. Everyone who goes there emphasizes the importance of visiting the cathedral, so Joe and I decided to check it out...
Inside the cathedral
Looking up
I think the U.S. missed the boat on having awesome ceilings.
After checking out the cathedral we investigated a museum with a variety of El Greco works, the city's main synagogue, and a sword shop. Yes, a sword shop. According to Wikipedia, "Toledo has been a traditional sword-making, steel-working center since about 500 BC." Is this still a thriving business, you ask? Well, I did too... to a sword shop owner and apparently it isn't a valid question. He rather proudly told me that he sells swords on a regular basis. All I can say is that Josh and Tami, you are lucky your son didn't receive a sword for Christmas! I think the shop owner was ready to sell me one and B would've loved it!
On another note...
Castilla de la Mancha is the land of Don Quijote!
Here's my mandatory food photo: Marzipan and dark chocolate covered hazelnuts. Toledo is one of the possible origins of marzipan and there is actually an EU law designating the percentage of almonds that have to be in products called marzipan. They like to protect the quality of food around here and for good reason; it was delicious!
Overall, the day was a success. Another autonomous community and a quality bonding experience!
Don Benito.
Last year, on Friday and Saturday nights I knew exactly who I was going to hang out with: Napala. One of the nights we would normally hang out with Dan and his roommates, Juan and Juanaco, or Erica and once in a while I would do something with my house group or some of the other dancers from Karen Taft. But in general, there wasn't much mystery in my social calendar.
This year, it hasn't been so predictable. Around 7 on any given weekend night, I pull out my phone and send a few Whatsapp messages, figuring out with whom I will be hanging out with. I'm becoming more spontaneous... slightly more Spanish.
Surprisingly, this method works extremely well in Spain. I don't think that I have ever ended up without something to do and my lack of planning has made it easy to join in on impromptu adventures, like when Carmen invited me to her pueblo during the November puente.
Carmen has ended up being one of my closest friends this year and our friendship began from an intercambio (language exchange). I am normally rather wary of language exchanges because I had a less-than-ideal experience when I was in Sevilla with an older man who only wanted to talk about sororities in the U.S. (He was talking to the wrong girl....). However, Carmen did an intercambio with my British friend, David, last year, and I met Carmen through him when she came to church with him one week. Since then, it has been an easy friendship.
Carmen's parents were extremely welcoming and it was a good experience to see family life in a small pueblo in Extremadura (yet another autonomous community). Here's a visual summary of my experience...
A Roman bridge in Medellín, Badajoz
Migas (crumbs) are a traditional food in Extremadura made with day old bread soaked in water, garlic, paprika, and olive oil. It originates from the traditional meal of the shepherds when they were out for long periods of time with their herds.
Carmen's family's rice fields. Badajoz is the second most important province for rice production in Spain.
Rice fresh out of its shell
Carmen and I outside the Real Monasterio de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe in Guadalupe, Cáceres. Inside the monastery we saw the traditional robes for the monks, a set of pretty impressive old books (3 feet tall and designed like the old-storybooks that always open up Disney movies), and some artwork.
Overall, the weekend was pretty calm, consisting of eating and taking in a few new sights. However, there were a few memorable moments...
- On the way to Don Benito, we broke up the trip by stopping for dinner. On my family's road trips, that normally consisted of a stop at a Cracker Barrel, Panera, or general rest stop with a variety of fast food options. With Carmen, that consisted of taking dirt roads just off the highway (normal roads were available... we just didn't take them) and venturing into the center of Trujillo, a small city that hosts the National Cheese Fair in May. (Okay, Trujillo has more historical significance than that but cheese is what I remembered. CHEESE.) We wandered through the small streets in the historical center until we got to the main plaza, where we had a wonderful dinner that included mora, or pig face. It was delicious and if the culinary experience is any indication of what the cheese fair would be like, I might have to consider a trip back for the May puente!
- On el Día de Todos los Santos (All Saint's Day), I went with Carmen and her family to the cemetery to visit her grandparents' coffins. As we wandered through the raised coffins, it was interesting to see groups of gypsies hanging out throughout the cemetery, the children running around playing and the elderly sitting in chairs that they had brought from home because they anticipated their long stay. But Carmen and her mom seemed to think it was normal, so I followed them to the correct block so they could leave flowers. After visiting the grandparents' grave, Carmen's mom said that we were leaving to find Carmen's father's friend. So we left, wandering through the cemetery once again. After a few minutes of phone calls and wrong turns, Carmen's mom stopped, signifying that we had found him. Looking around, confused, I quietly asked Carmen where he was... the only other people around were two young women. Yes, you guessed it, he was in one of the graves. Oops.
- Don Benito had their own sort of Oktoberfest, which basically consisted of one large white tent selling a variety of bottles of German beer. This is hardly worth mentioning except for the irony of experiencing a fake Oktoberfest with a Beatles imitation band in an unheard of Spanish pueblo.
Many of you know about my experience WWOOFing from reading my blog back in August. The experience was so wonderful, I couldn't resist the opportunity to return in November. The weather was colder, but the warmth of returning to a familiar experience counter-acted Galicia's chilling rain.
The second time around, I knew the drill and was able to jump right in without any problems. I took care of the chickens and goats, helped cook and... translated for a Sweed. Yep, we had another Sweedish WWOOFer with us who had limited Spanish skills. But it was once again a wonderful experience. I'm hoping I get at least one more chance to go back before the end of my time in Madrid.
To name a few memorable experiences...
I used a machete and milked an animal (a goat) for the first time. To clarify, these things did not happen at the same time. And unfortunately, I don't have photo evidence. But to paint a bit of a picture for you, I got good enough at milking the goat to squirt it right into the cat's mouth as it sat, observing, nearby. Then, seeing the cat quite content, I tried it myself, this time by squirting it into a glass first ;)
Castañas (chesnuts) that we picked up from the side of the road and then roasted over a (closed) fire.
I found out where chestnuts come from, and enjoyed nature's
version of Christmas morning by opening up the burrs to find wonderful
fruits inside. Then, when we escaped from the rain and drank tea in the afternoons, we roasted some on María's wood-burning stove. I now have a whole new appreciation for the hominess that the lyrics of "The Christmas Song" infer.
Setas (wild mushrooms) that we found in the forest near María's house
We trekked through the rain, searching for
mushrooms, and I learned to reject the poisonous ones that left a bitter taste on
my tongue when I bit off a piece.
Corn for animal feed
María, Jo (the Swedish WWOOFer), and I spent hours taking the kernels off the corn to store for feed and chatting about our lives.
This almost makes me consider wanting a pet
The cats surprised me by still being pretty cute even though they had grown out of the undeniably cute kitten phase.
A rethinking of "my" language.
When I was on the farm, I had an unique experience with Jo, the Swedish WWOOFer. Jo really enjoys languages and speaks excellent English; he was playing with words and challenging me on definitions with an authority that I am unaccustomed to in Spain. He also used swear words with an ease that I have never had, using "f*ck" to express delight, surprise, understanding, disagreement, and many other emotions.
Meanwhile, unaccustomed to hearing someone use the word with such freedom and regularity, I attempted to brush it off. After a day or so, however, I couldn't help but discuss the matter. I asked Jo, "Does f*ck in Swedish have a strong connotation?"
His response was no; the word wasn't particularly strong in Swedish. I tried to explain that in English, at least for me, f*ck is a rather strong word and isn't something that you would use quite so lightly. (Amber: María said we are going to go gather chestnuts now. Jo: F**********ck...). I tried to relate to him, saying that I know what it is like to swear in a foreign language and I know that it's much easier to say things you wouldn't say otherwise because it doesn't have the same weight or significance to you. I said, "But for me, when you use that word, it is very strong. Every time you use it surprises me and it makes me feel a bit uncomfortable. I know it's not so strong for you, but it's my language and it bothers me."
It's my language.
Well, Jo didn't respond the way I expected. There was no apology for offending me or promise to change. Instead, he said to me, "It's not just your language. It's all of our language now."
Wow.
Okay.
The truth is, nobody in Spain has ever responded like that when I talk about English. They often take whatever I say as correct, since I am the "native". They apologize every time they make a mistake and look to me as the expert on every idiom, pronunciation, and definition, even though I might have less of a clue than they do. (Unless, of course, it is something they are convinced it is correct, in which case it gets labeled as "British English".)
And the truth is, I don't like being the know-it-all. Okay, I do like knowing it all, but I don't enjoy being the authority on language, mostly because I don't care that much about the details of language. To me, language is, and always has been, a means to an end. An end of meeting new people or having new conversations or describing new cultures. So if I understand someone, I don't care if they said it perfectly. I care about what they said it, not how they said it.
Jo took English as his own as a way that I had not experienced before. He liked the way certain words sounded or the information it opened up to him. And as a member of the global community, he didn't diminish his ability to participate in conversation by doubting his language skills or his right to say something in one way or another. He took complete ownership for his ideas, and for the language he communicated it in. And he is right, nowadays English does not belong to people from certain countries (aka, me); if it is going to be used by everyone, than it must also belong to everyone. So although I still don't love his loose use of the f-bomb, I admire his sense of ownership. Let's see if in the next few months I can convince Spaniards to have this kind of confidence...
A really clean glass door.
Last, but not least, Thursday, I ran head-first into a glass door. In my rush out of a tutoring session and over to Yoigo to pick up my phone (which they had had since December 20th... ugh, the phone saga), I focused too much on saying goodbye to Mohammed and the waiter and not enough on the very clean, completely glass door in front of me. Oops. For those of you who followed Ali's blog when she was in Rwanda, I kind of equate this to a Spanish version of her falling into a massive whole in the ground.
Unfortunately, I don't have a bruise to represent the dull pain I feel, which I was looking forward to twisting into a story about a fistfight to tell all my students. Mostly, I just wanted to see if they would believe that story that their teacher, in a wool pencil skirt and a cardigan, had gotten into, and won, a fistfight.
Alright, that's all for now. Hopefully soon I'll update you on all of the holiday happenings in Madrid and Hershey!
Much love from Spain,
Amber
His response was no; the word wasn't particularly strong in Swedish. I tried to explain that in English, at least for me, f*ck is a rather strong word and isn't something that you would use quite so lightly. (Amber: María said we are going to go gather chestnuts now. Jo: F**********ck...). I tried to relate to him, saying that I know what it is like to swear in a foreign language and I know that it's much easier to say things you wouldn't say otherwise because it doesn't have the same weight or significance to you. I said, "But for me, when you use that word, it is very strong. Every time you use it surprises me and it makes me feel a bit uncomfortable. I know it's not so strong for you, but it's my language and it bothers me."
It's my language.
Well, Jo didn't respond the way I expected. There was no apology for offending me or promise to change. Instead, he said to me, "It's not just your language. It's all of our language now."
Wow.
Okay.
The truth is, nobody in Spain has ever responded like that when I talk about English. They often take whatever I say as correct, since I am the "native". They apologize every time they make a mistake and look to me as the expert on every idiom, pronunciation, and definition, even though I might have less of a clue than they do. (Unless, of course, it is something they are convinced it is correct, in which case it gets labeled as "British English".)
And the truth is, I don't like being the know-it-all. Okay, I do like knowing it all, but I don't enjoy being the authority on language, mostly because I don't care that much about the details of language. To me, language is, and always has been, a means to an end. An end of meeting new people or having new conversations or describing new cultures. So if I understand someone, I don't care if they said it perfectly. I care about what they said it, not how they said it.
Jo took English as his own as a way that I had not experienced before. He liked the way certain words sounded or the information it opened up to him. And as a member of the global community, he didn't diminish his ability to participate in conversation by doubting his language skills or his right to say something in one way or another. He took complete ownership for his ideas, and for the language he communicated it in. And he is right, nowadays English does not belong to people from certain countries (aka, me); if it is going to be used by everyone, than it must also belong to everyone. So although I still don't love his loose use of the f-bomb, I admire his sense of ownership. Let's see if in the next few months I can convince Spaniards to have this kind of confidence...
A really clean glass door.
Last, but not least, Thursday, I ran head-first into a glass door. In my rush out of a tutoring session and over to Yoigo to pick up my phone (which they had had since December 20th... ugh, the phone saga), I focused too much on saying goodbye to Mohammed and the waiter and not enough on the very clean, completely glass door in front of me. Oops. For those of you who followed Ali's blog when she was in Rwanda, I kind of equate this to a Spanish version of her falling into a massive whole in the ground.
Unfortunately, I don't have a bruise to represent the dull pain I feel, which I was looking forward to twisting into a story about a fistfight to tell all my students. Mostly, I just wanted to see if they would believe that story that their teacher, in a wool pencil skirt and a cardigan, had gotten into, and won, a fistfight.
Alright, that's all for now. Hopefully soon I'll update you on all of the holiday happenings in Madrid and Hershey!
Much love from Spain,
Amber
