La Ultima Blog de Madrid!

                Well, my friends and family, here is my last blog from Madrid! I spent the week making thousands of baby notecards, until I got tired of ripping up my index cards, and resigned to make them online, which is far less satisfying. Anyways, thousands of summary sheets, ripped baby notecards, and online notecards later, today was finally exam day. And after five hours and three exams, our program is finally almost done. There is one essay that is standing between me and freedom. I will be departing for Italy tomorrow morning and returning to Cádiz on Tuesday to work at the Red Cross. I will admit to being slightly nervous about being left in Europe for two weeks by myself, but hopefully my horribly accented Spanish will improve. Also, hopefully my writing will go back to sounding grammatically correct, and hopefully I don’t adapt Italian grammar in the meantime. So for now, ciao bella and viva Italia!

La Plaza de los Toros

                Modern day Spain may not exactly live up to the romanticized expectations of ornate monarchies, suave accents, charming people, and paella galore, but there is one uniquely Spanish experience that overwhelmed my expectations magnanimously: the bullfights. While studying for my final exams this afternoon, my roommate Emily informed me that we would be going to a bullfight in an hour and a half. I halfheartedly argued against it, not wanting to do any more damage to my euro-less bank account, but eventually gave in without too much arm twisting. The spectacle that ensued was undoubtedly the product of the most well-spent five euros of this trip.

                After emerging from the metro, we turned around and I had to catch my breath as the famed Madrilenian Plaza de los Toros loomed before me. As my eyes gradually made their way to ground-level, we were daunted by the enormous, snaking line of people. However, about ten minutes later, we found that the line seemed to disintegrate, and within half an hour we had our tickets. As we made our way to our seats, the electrically charged air was filled with the shouts of venders selling food, souvenirs, and seat cushions. We wandered through the tunnel, and I found myself staring at hundreds of seats rising from the dirt ring. It was like a Jags game and Monster Jam combined, and I was instantly enamored.

                Like in Pamplona, I was somewhat surprised to see the methodic manner with which the bullfight unfolded. There were three torreros, six toros, and several other workers with different rolls who made appearances throughout the evening. I’m not sure of the official terminology of all parties involved, but in general, the structure of each round was as follows:

First, three or four men bedazzled with sparkling costumes and carrying crimson and gold banderas entered the ring, preceded by a blast of trumpets from a small band in the stands. These men would hide behind small portions of wall, and pop out to taunt the bull, resulting in the bulls prancing agitatedly around the ring, tails up and heads bent forward. After about five or so minutes of this, the next crew came in. This included two armor-clad, rider-bound, blindfolded horses, as well as about three men who carried sharp palos. The bull tended to charge at one of the unsuspecting horses first. When this was the case, they received a sharp jab from the rider, who used a long spear-like stick that only penetrated about three inches. This was usually not sufficient to stop the attack, and so the “distracters” would try to draw the bull away. Eventually, the three men would tackle their tasks, running at the bull and driving the barbed sticks into the fleshy hump on the bull’s thick neck. After this segment, the bull careened about, with the six colorful sticks dangling from its back. Only then would the actual bull-fighter enter and finish the job.

                After each fighter has taken on his two bulls, which took about two and a half hours after accounting for raking the ring between rounds and the bulls that got injured early on and got disqualified, it was all over. As the last bull was dragged off by decorated, jingling donkeys, a rented seat cushion flew through the air and settled in the dust. Hundreds more followed suit. I found this a rather odd tradition, but come on… who hasn’t wanted to fling something from a stadium seat? After tossing a few leftover cushions, we exited the stadium and joined the throng flooding towards the metro.

                Bull fights are definitely not for the feint of stomach, but if one can manage to steel his or herself long enough, I strongly advise making an effort to witness one of these fantastic man-vs.-beast phenomena. I cannot even begin to describe the excitement and adrenaline that coursed through the crowd, even for the young and inexperienced bullfighters that we had been watching. In the meantime, keep an eye out for the potentially upcoming Georgia version of this sport… straight from some crazy man’s farm in Swainsboro.

Plaza de Toros

The Bull Ring!

Tiring Out the Bull

The horses took quite a beating...

El Torero

HP7

                I would like to dedicate this entry to someone who has influenced me tremendously and grown up with me throughout the years: Harry Potter. I remember well the day that I learned about the original book which would soon grow into a culture. I was sitting on our big, flowery, yellow couch when my mom came through the front door. I was in first grade, and so little that I remember my feet stuck off over the edge. That afternoon, I was first introduced to the most magical (no pun intended) cultural and literary experience of my young life. Now, nearly twelve years later, I sit in shock, in a residence in Spain, after having witnessed the culmination that was the second part of the seventh and final movie.

                Millions followed the series simply because everyone else was: because it was a cool story with wizards written in a way that everyone could enjoy. But for some of us, Harry Potter means so much more. I remember staying up until midnight on the night of my eleventh birthday, not knowing just quite what to expect. I remember not wanting to walk upstairs alone after finishing the second book with my family because I was convinced a basilisk would come slithering around the corner. I remember dressing up as Harry for Halloween long ago, and being asked over and over again, “You’re supposed to be who?”

                I cannot quite put my finger on what it was that set J.K. Rowling’s masterpiece miles above all other children’s’ literature. Maybe it had to do with the possibilities, and the idea that there could be a whole ‘nother world, just beyond our knowledge, that sometimes crept into our awareness, only to be reasoned away. Maybe it was the heroism: a baby could save an entire people? And a fourteen-year-old could escape the deadly spells of the “Most Powerful Dark Wizard of our time”? Maybe it was the suspense… when else was I allowed, as en elementary schooler, to dress up and go out at midnight to get a BOOK?! Or maybe it was simply the camaraderie. I know I speak for more than myself when I say that sometimes it was like having an extra set of classmates, a whole different group of friends, who were growing and changing just as we were.

                But however fantastical the tale may seem, I think one of the most unique characteristics of Rowling’s writing is her ability to connect her readers not only with her own world but with reality. The Harry Potter series touches on everything from the obnoxious kid in the class to bravery in all sorts of controversy to the overwhelming fear of death. In many ways, it has changed the way that we think of these things, especially to an audience that included such impressionable youth. I commend Rowling endlessly for how she has tackled such a challenge. And of course, I will be forever grateful for some of her unforgettable quotes, her ability to unite a world, and the never-ceasing reminder to be grateful for what we have: “Don’t pity the dead, pity the living. But most of all, pity those who live without love.”

Las Fiestas de San Fermínes

Fun fact of the day: We went on another class visit, this time to el Congreso Español in Madrid. We entered through the visitors’ entrance, which was located next to the actual one which is used by the politicians. The official entrance is called La Puerta de los Leones, and is guarded by two large, stone lions. Oddly similar to the Bridge of Lions back home!

In other news, July 7^th through July 14^th marks the annual celebration of the festival of San Fermín, and the famed Running of the Bulls. While word of this spectacle may have spread far and wide, there is certainly much more to the event than I would ever have thought. Last weekend, I ventured north to Pamplona to experience the festivities that Spain is so well-known for.

Because all of the hostels and hotels in Pamplona are usually booked full during this time of the year, it is a good idea to just stop by Pamplona for the day. We caught a bus that arrived around 1 a.m., which gave us some time to figure out how to navigate the city prior to el encierro, the actual race which is held at 8 a.m. every morning during that week. As soon I stepped out of the train station, I was greeted by a blast of chilly air and a sea of white suits speckled with red, from both the scarves and gallons of sangria that were being spilled and/or consumed. Every night of San Fermín is essentially a big party, and all of the temporarily homeless celebrators fill the streets until dawn. We joined the throng of people, and with surprising ease soon found ourselves in a little alley overlooking a tacky fair. I was fairly certain we had been led astray until we looked over the rail and saw a guard standing near the gates to the pen where four large toros and several smaller castrated bulls shuffled around, all complete with astas, or horns. We followed the road that the pen would open onto for the 900 m of the race until we reached the Plaza de los Toros. Although we couldn’t figure out how to go in, the plaza is basically a large bull ring encircled by stadium style seating. I was surprised to see how open the course was. It weaved through the narrow, cobblestone streets, below the balconies that I had seen in all of the YouTube movies on the subject, and past the boarded-up store windows. It took place on an ordinary street, with alleys between buildings and spilled into the square in front of the Plaza. The next morning, however, workers would show up bright and early to secure the area with sturdy board fences and posts that went up with the ease of a volleyball net. Once we had a strategy to actually be able to view the race, the shoulder to shoulder crowds that packed the city and the frigid night air eventually drove us inside. We found a cafe called “The Palacio” which was kind of off the beaten path and went in. The back of it, away from the door, was sheltered enough to be slightly warmer, and already inhabited by a couple sleeping on a table and a woman passed out, sangria still in hand. We sat in a corner to wait for the sun to peek over the horizon.

When 6:30 rolled around, we got up and headed back out to the street. We arrived just as the workers were passing by with the plank fences. With impeccable timing, we quickly climbed the fences and claimed a spot. For the next hour and a half, I stubbornly sat on the fence line, refusing to be budged by the drunken Spanish women who were encroaching from one side. As the sun climbed higher, we watched, itching with anticipation, as a street sweeper cleared the broken glass from the way, uniformed officers shooed stragglers out of the fences, and the Red Cross practiced their stretcher drills. As people began to fill the balconies, climb light posts, and perch on street lights, the last few minutes crawled by agonizingly slow. Hundreds of people dressed all in white now packed the alleyway, either bouncing and stretching or staring around in a daze. At long last, a shot was heard in the distance, and the sea began to swirl.

About two minutes later, screams and shouts could be heard from behind the buildings, where even more people began to pour out, and the whole mass of them began to lurch toward the plaza. Suddenly, bourn amongst the people like a Charolaise-colored ship, the first bull trotted nonchalantly by. People dove out of its way as it began to pick up speed and lower its head in response to the increased density. Then they were flying. More bulls, more people frenziedly charged by as the spectators jumped into the border zone to get a better view. It was incredible. I am not sure how man and bull passed by us so quickly and in one piece, but in less than 5 minutes, the pastores hopped by, poles in hand, on the lookout for slow or confused leftover bulls.

We had a “what now?” moment, and eventually joined the adrenaline-charged crowd as the poured back into the city, on the hunt for breakfast. We returned to the café, which was now brimming with people, and got chocolate con churros for breakfast, before staggering back out into a different square. By 9, the place was filled with people sleeping on benches, curbs, tables, and wherever else they could find, while cleaner and more rested others strode between them, carrying on their lives as though nothing was different. However, even these people still wore the white and red trajes de pamplonica. We decided to fully submerge ourselves in the culture, and joined the sleeping curb dwellers.

Later that day, when we finally stirred from our hibernation, we caught a bus to Barcelona. We stayed there for a day, wandered around the city, saw the Gaudi stuff, and went to the beach. Spain is full of all kinds of culture and history, but Gaudi is by far the most impressive artist that I have seen. His buildings are truly incredible. Park Güell was absolutely astounding. Gaudi has a very elaborate and modern style, and the park was filled with all kinds of colors. Some of the buildings almost resemble a Dr. Seuss book, and the top of the park overlooks the city of Barcelona all the way to the ocean. La Sagrada Familia, the famous cathedral in Barcelona, was also designed by Gaudi. The cathedral is so meticulously designed that it is still under construction because funding for the project ran out. We didn’t get to go inside, but just seeing it from the metro stop was completely breathtaking. I could most definitely have spent more time in Barcelona, which, given the overdose of art and cathedrals that I am experiencing, should tell you something.

The rest of this week has been more long days of school, complete with a day of three tests. We are also officially halfway through the Madrid LBAT. Tomorrow we leave to go to Andalucía for another class weekend trip. My roommate and I have devoured another bag of corn nuts, which we have successfully acquired in Spain. Besides that, my Spanish festival count is now up to three. What an incredible culture!

The Bull Pen

El Encierro!

Some of the Architecture of Park Guell

La Sagrada Familia

El Cuatro de Julio

                With morning and afternoon classes taking up nearly all of our days, it’s been a rather uneventful first week here in Madrid. To give y’all a brief summary (since I have received complaints about my loquaciousness): We have class from 9:00-2:10, then from 4:00-6:00 most days, and sometimes we have visitas to places like el barrio and more mercados. Saturday, we took a class day trip to Toledo, and Sunday I went to church again (I understood un poco más!) and to the Reina Sofia. Yesterday and today, was mostly just more class, with the exception of what Fourth of July festivities we could muster in a country that doesn’t care all that much. We represented America well. And now, I present the unabridged version.

                Tired as I am of sightseeing, Toledo was easily one of the most interesting cities that we have taken a class trip to. Naturally, we had to listen about all of the Arabic influence and stuff all over again, but besides that, it was a very different place. The nearby hills were covered in brush, with various sprawling homes breaking up the sandy colored rocks and muddy river that flowed below. The low buildings that lined the streets seemed far less tightly packed than normal, and somehow less imposing. I think I am slightly biased towards Toledo, also, because for the first time since being here, we got to visit a museum that was actually interesting. After stealthily departing from the group after yet another cathedral, we paid a visit to el museo de los instrumentos de tortura. It was fascinating to see what kind of devices they came up with back in the days of the Spanish Inquisition, and rather ironic to go from the grand cathedral to this somewhat abysmal little tribute.

                The Reina Sofia is a famous art museum located in the heart of Madrid, and that was about all I knew about it. Nevertheless, I got dragged along by my eccentric art-loving roommate. I felt increasingly uncultured as I wandered through the floor of Picasso, completely unable to appreciate the weird toothed horses and angry-looking abstract women. But as we started ascending through the museum (via glass elevator) things got much more entertaining. The other floors had old, captivating photographs that told novels about life in the old days, along with old movies, and various sculpture things that looked like something we would have to draft in AutoCAD class. These alternative forms of art did well to break up the spew of strange forms and colors that someone for some reason decided were worth something. And, of course, the best part of the museum was the Wheel of Pleasure, which after our adventure the previous day sounded like some sort of facetious name for a torture device. The Wheel of Pleasure was a large circle of twelve or so bowls, each filled with water colored one of the four primary colors and accompanied by a small eye dropper. We stared at it for a while, unsure of what to do, until a lady bustled by us, knelt beside a bowl, dropped a few drops on the back of her hand, and tasted it. Naturally, we all drank Wheel of Pleasure juice for the next ten minutes. The water was flavored different flavors, of which I couldn’t identify accurately. A museum employee told us something along the lines of, “They are not what they seem, eh?” in Spanish. Modern art may not be my thing, but I certainly enjoyed that particular medium.

                When the Fourth of July finally rolled around, we all started to realize how homesick we were. While we stared wistfully at pictures filled with red, white, and blue and watched as everyone back home updated their plans for the evening, matters just got worse. Most of us here in Spain finally resolved to go out, find American food, and “act like the loud Americans we are”. Of course, we ended up at the Hard Rock, dropping 15 € for a hamburger without a second thought. It was potentially the best Hickory barbecue bacon cheeseburger that I have ever partaken in, and I devoured the entire thing. Every passerby who walked in was greeted by, “American?!”, and if the answer was an affirmative, hoots and hollers ensued, as we tried to spread our American spirit to all corners of the globe. It’s so strange how much absence makes the heart grow fonder: this Fourth of July was probably the most patriotic I have ever felt, despite the fact that we are in a foreign land where no one cares a bit about the birth of our nation. And of course, we’ve all started to make our lists of what we’re going to do as soon as our prospective planes land. But we still have quite a few weeks until then. In the meantime, I will be preparing to go witness the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona and explore Barcelona. İViva San Fermín! İGora San Fermín!