Semana Santa (Holy Week) is a big holiday in Spain and they celebrate quite uniquely with these processions of cone-hooded men carrying pasos (floats) that retell the story of Christ’s last week. Since Madrid is a working city, not a lot of madridleños are actually from the city, but from the small pueblos outside it. I saw a statistic that some 50% of the city leaves for the week; I can’t think of any holiday or city where that’s the case in the US. There’s even a name for the whole process, Operación Salida (Exit Operation). Back in the States, you may even have heard some celebrity gossip from Antonio Banderas returning to his native Spain to participate in the processions.

I was fortunate that a professor of mine is from a small pueblo, Cuenca, that has beautiful processions during the day (for better pictures) and not too many people, unlike Madrid. He drove a few of us down to see them and hear a Gregorian chant performance (it was for a Music of Spain class) that we ended up not being able to find.

Though we had 4.5 days off and I was planning on getting a lot of work done (including writing a couple of posts I’ve been trying to find some time to do), my dad jinxed me and laugh when I rattled off the list of things I had to do. I didn’t even start to work until Sunday afternoon. Instead, I hung-out with my housemate from Philly and we enjoyed the freedom and quiet of the house without our host-family around (they, too, went back to a pueblo).

Thursday we people watched in a park nearby our house, where we saw a woman wrestle with her bull dog because it kept stealing little kids’ balls and a couple get approached by undercover policeman and (we think) searched for drugs. I guess it’s legal to grow and possess a certain amount of marijuana, but you just can’t smoke it in public without getting fined. In the evening we went to a flamenco concert (no dancing) because she’s a flamenco singer and knew this guy would be good.

Friday was the trip to Cuenca that I already alluded to and I had a bit of an adventure asking for directions to the bus station. I swear I am good with maps, but when there are no street signs and I am not simply un-doing my steps, it’s a bit harder.

Saturday hopped on a bus for half and hour to visit El Escorial, the former monastery built to show Spain’s devotion to Catholicism but is now a mix of art museum and architectural monument. The weekend started to turn really cold and we had to face some snow-ish winds. No, the snow-stuff didn’t stick but it was certainly a shock for much of the country. Since there was snow and hail in southern Spain, too, even the most famous processions had to partly cancel or delay and disappoint quite a few people.

You would think with all the pomp and celebrations during the week that Easter Sunday would be even more amazing, but in fact it’s not that big of a deal. Thursday and Friday are the most important days. My friend and I walked past the cathedral in Madrid where you can find the biggest form of celebration via the loud clanging of the bells. (I think it’s a special occasion thing.) We were actually heading to the Plaza Mayor to hear this traditional drum performance (Tamborrada) and thanks to my excellent map-reading skills we arrived just as they were coming up the street. We listened for a while among a large crowd and it made me all the more thankful that I avoided this in Cuenca for the processions. Bumping around with people to simply see something is not something I look forward to.

Though Sundays are considered holidays in Spain and nearly every business closes, the region we were in stays open for the tourists so we did some shopping. We found this gourmet international food market that carries items like hummus, smoothies, and tortilla shells, as well as PopTarts and Cheerios. I only mention this because while we were there a group of British women were chatting and eating lunch when a man dropped some biscuits. He apologized and in the process of picking up the food, he grabbed one of the women’s unattended handbags and took off. It took them a few seconds to realize it, but by that time he was gone. Since they were going to the airport right after lunch, he took all of her money and her passport. Yikes. We did our best to help them out since they didn’t speak any Spanish, but the woman was pretty much stuck. Kind of freaked us out, but it just shows how we need to be on our guard all the time. Plus, we both now know the emergency numbers of the city and the embassy (which we didn’t have noted before). I have never felt unsafe here, but gentle reminders here and there always come up.

It was a nice weekend and I took some awesome pictures in Cuenca that I am about to submit to a photo contest. It was kind of sad without the Easter bunny hiding eggs and munching on jellybeans (and our family loved hearing about our Easter traditions), but it will be even sadder not being able to buy the leftover candy at 50%-off.

I also have a few pictures from the Tamborrada.

My professor pointed out in class the other day that the US is practically one of the only–if not the only–nation with the right of happiness written in its official governing documents.  I hadn’t ever really thought about that.  Of course, she was kind of mocking our country, but also envious and trying to get us to understand how lucky we are.

It’s not like our depression rates are lower than other countries’ or that the rest of the world sulks their entire life.  My experience abroad assures me that non-Americans do not have trouble enjoying themselves.  Since people feel entitled to being happy they get angry or think something is wrong with them when that’s not the case, perhaps ironically leading them down a path to unhappiness and depression.  Just something to think about.

I am a self-declared traveler. Ignore my big camera for I am just trying to share and remember your world in mine. Please do not stare at my red hair or pale skin. Don’t fool yourself into thinking I don’t see you turning your head after you pass me on the street. I promise I am not here to check something off a must-see list in some big book I worship in my free time. What’s that you say about your number of stars? I know nothing. Your signs of authentic this or traditional that don’t blind me into believing these are the real things in your world. No, I know better. I look into your face and listen to your stories when our paths cross. I am not afraid to wander away from the English or get lost in your world and ask (or perhaps gesture) for directions. That’s right, I am a traveler not a tourist.

I was not particularly excited for this trip because we had very little time to discuss it in class (to get excited about the sites) and the last trip to Granada and Cordoba was jam-packed and pretty stressful as a result. But, the mountains (Picos de Europa) and the sea in a quiet, tourist-free town have a magical, comforting power. We were not expecting to be so close to the water nor for the weather to be as nice as it was. Though the place we stayed at reminded me of the musty cabins of my wilderness-experiences at summer camps and the town (Ribadesella) didn’t have a lot to “do” in it, we all loved it. What a break from the hustle-and-bustle of Madrid or even our life as college students in the US. I thought the people were friendlier and the Northerners are a bit easier to understand. According to our teacher, the place has changed a lot over the past few years because the Prince is from a nearby area and likes to visit a lot, bringing in more money and I am sure more tourists will find it and fall in love with, as one British tourist site describes it, ‘unspoilt‘ Spain.

Asturias is known for its milk products and cider, but not your ordinary, Halloween, donut-dunking cider from the orchard. This cider is slightly fermented and in order to get the best (and only palatable) taste is to add air to the drink the instant before your gulp it down–and ‘instant’ and ‘gulp’ are not exaggerations. In the sidería we visited Friday for lunch we were greatly entertained by the waiters lifting the glass bottle of cider way above their heads and letting the cider pour out and down to a glass waiting in the other hand below their waist. Then, you must drink almost the entire glass in one go or you will end up making funny faces like my friends who tried to smell it and swirl it before taking sips of what had become a bitter, flat drink. The final, would-be back wash sip is always thrown away, literally over the side of the table. As you can imagine, both parts make quite a mess so the problem is partially solved by placing wooden buckets or barrels at every table to toss the last sip and for the waiters to use while pouring before they flick their wrist to allow the cup to be filled. And for those who don’t want to wait for the waiter to come over every time they get thirst or don’t know how to do it on their own without making a fool out of themselves by spilling all over the place, there are also these little contraptions that you can stick on top of the bottle to serve it. In the US, a restaurant could import the cider and make a business just out of serving it.

On Saturday we staved-off some bad weather and visited some prehistoric caves with some of the best-preserved wall-paintings and did a 4hr, 14km canoe trip similar to the huge event every August that draws in thousands of people from around the world. The river was calm with small patches of “rapids” here and there so we had to work relatively hard. Thank goodness the company had wet suits and water shoes for us or we would have been miserable in our blue jeans and tennis shoes. Lunch on a bed of rocks was accompanied by some wild horses hoping we’d leave them some sort of snacks, I think. We finished off the day by climbing up a hill to watch the sunset over the sea.

If that doesn’t sound picturesque enough for you, I don’t know what will. I think it’d be the perfect place to retire, if only I was of age…

They say that a picture is worth more than a thousand words and after all the time I spend taking, organizing, caption-ing, and editing pictures I most certainly hope that’s the case. After 9 days in Italy for Spring Break and some 400 pictures later, here I am. I did some serious traveling in Italy, starting in Rome and the Vatican for a few days; then off to Florence to meet the girl I would be spending the next week with because she offered up her place in Bologna. From Bologna I was able to visit small towns (Ravenna, Ferrara) and tourist towns (Verona, Venice) by train for tickets averaging about 12 euros and one hour per direction.

I had no plans before I left Madrid on Thursday—no cities I had to see or even a map. I played everything by ear and visited every place without many expectations so it was all the more enjoyable and exciting. Of course, I “missed out” on some things because I didn’t research the open-and-closing hours ahead of time or read the books with all the “hidden” (and sometimes obvious) things to do in the city, but I really enjoyed simply exploring and walking around all these places. I didn’t ever have to feel bad about walking too quickly or not spending enough time somewhere because I was by myself during the day, going wherever my instincts took me.

I literally picked cities off the list on the screen for train tickets and bought a map once I arrived; so un-organized and free-spirited that you might not even have recognized me. The trains ran frequently and exactly on time, and with great scenery and their popularity among the Italians (hence good people watching), they were an excellent mode of transportation and way to see the country.

To keep from getting too lost, I often would pretend I was a car and follow the main roads until I got to a landmark on my map, using the street signs as my guide. I also learned to not be afraid of asking for help, be it directions or confirming the train you are waiting for and even getting on—only, remember to do this before the train pulls out of the station…

The gloomy rain and clouds complemented by cool temperatures from Tuesday through my return back to Madrid on Saturday definitely dampened my spirits and there was always a warm bed with a rented DVD from the shop around the corner tempting me to stay inside—especially because there was this neat, automatic system of checking out a DVD whereby you search for the title in the database and it spits out the disk like an ATM would distribute cash. Between the layers of clothes and staying in constant motion, it didn’t end up being too bad. Thank goodness there were no big storms, but I imagine I would have seen more museums if that were the case. (In fact, I really didn’t go in any museums. I wanted to see how all the cities lived and experience their atmospheres.) Plus, there were always signs in the storefront windows advertising air conditioning and gelato (which I never ate because of the weather) as a reminder that I could have been visiting during the tourist-crammed, sweaty summer that nearly every town was preparing for with restoration efforts blocking my experiences.

Every town in Italy has gorgeous, ancient, and huge churches/basilicas/cathedrals. I am still not sure quite what the difference is between all the terms. I must have visited at least 50 such buildings during my time there and, yes, they do all start to blend together in my head despite all the unique attributes each claims. I’ve seen so many that I am getting to the point where I feel like I am not appreciating them as much as I should. They are so beautiful, but you really can only absorb so much beauty over such a short time period before it all plateaus to a flat climax. I’ve seen so many stunning paintings, statues, chapels, organs, mosaics, and other decadent religious paraphernalia that I just can’t compare them anymore. People will probably gasp or rollover in their graves when I say this, but I just can’t tell the difference between one beautiful paining in, say, the small-town cathedral and the Sistine Chapel. Am I an ignorant fool for not being able to distinguish it all? It’s all just beautiful. Period.

Right alongside the religious buildings the next most common things in Italian cities are boutiques. Italy is King of fashion. Men, women, children, grandparents—they all dress fashionably, and proudly so. From the calf-high leather boots and metallic tennis shoes to sunglasses, perfumes, scarves, and not to mention handbags, they really care about what they’re wearing.. The only exception might be the rebellious teens with the destroyed jeans and mohawks. The Italian and, I’ve noticed, overall European attention to detail and striving to be an expert at your specialty is such a contrast from the mass-production lifestyle in which we are immersed in the US. But, on the other hand, there are a fair amount of knock-off venders and street markets run mostly by immigrants (Bangladeshi or African are the most common) to compensate for this extravagance.

Considering heavy meals of pasta, cheese, bread, and sausages are my American conception of Italian food, I was kind of worried about what I was going to find to eat. Psh, fear not. The food was cheaper, more varied and available, and better tasting than Spain. I was ecstatic to find baby carrots and very low prices on produce; it was hard to pass by and only once did I do the stupid thing of buying heavy food from the store when I had a long ways home. Good pizza, paninis, and rolled-up sandwiches—Italian fast food—were everywhere and for less then 3 euros. It wasn’t hard to find a place with plates of pasta (fresh, if you were lucky) for 5 euros and the concept of a salad or plate with lots of veggies for a meal exists in Italy, unlike Spain. But, I guess when you add-on the “service charge” or “silverware” price of 2 or 3 euros per person in restaurants as is set by the location, things about even out. Mind you, this “tip” is much more than the American 10-15% for whatever service you happen to get. You definitely have to read the fine print in European restaurants, as some will charge for bread that they put on your table and almost always for water.

One of my favorite things in Italy was something called “apertivos,” whereby a restaurant or bar will offer an all-you-want buffet of foods (olives, cheese, chips, salads, sausages, bread, rice, pasta) with the purchase of a drink (wine, beer, cocktail) and all for 5 to 7 euros. Any drink from their pretty extensive list or maybe you’d suffer through an Italian wine with as many plates full of food until they decide to stop bringing out more. What a deal. Maybe people get dinner afterwards, but I would see no reason to do so and we usually didn’t.

Since getting used to being a meanie and completely ignoring or looking through people on the streets, I did not notice the stares of the Italian men that bothered my friend so much. As soon as she pointed it out a couple of times, it was really easy to be aware of it. They are so obvious about it, it’s hard to believe. The face will pass and then out of the corner of your eye you will see the face again, instead of the back of their head. I have no idea what is going through their minds, but they most certainly have perfected the art of stare. Once I lingered and subtly turned the corner of my lips for a split-second on a man’s face (because my brain was trying to register that he looked like this actor in the movie we were watching) and he walked my friend off the sidewalk because he stopped looking where he was going. You might think it is a complement and I am sure some people would appreciate it, but I think it’s a bit weird; I know I’m not that drop-dead gorgeous to deserve such attention. This talent for staring didn’t stop, either, with the men as I watched the women sitting across from me on the train openly eavesdrop on this group of teens talking in the pod across the aisle from us like she was watching television or something. Oh, the cultural differences.

My overall impression of Italy was excellent, though I was glad to return to the warm sun in Madrid and not be running around so much. With my Spanish background I could actually understand a lot of Italian, but don’t ask me to talk. I’ve heard that if you speak Spanish with an Italian accent and intonation, you might be able to get by but the one time I did that the woman just talked back at me in Spanish and assumed I didn’t even know English. I always felt safe walking around, even in the graffiti strewn streets that are unfortunately all over.

I took over 350 pictures, which you can get to by clicking on the names of the cities in the post or visiting all my albums. There are lots of juicy details there and you can always get a nice summary from my where I’ve traveled page.

(Just as a comment on my on post, it’s no wonder I am so late to write anything because I have so much to say that I know it is going to take me a long time to write it all. Word count without this comment: 1599. Which is better, a picture or 1000 1599 words?)