A Spanish Christmas in January (part 1)

Plaza San Francisco, Linares, all decked out

I've lived in Spain for almost three years, but my experience with Spanish Christmas goes back further than that. Long-time readers of this blog may remember that Spain was my last stop on my trip around the world in 2009, when I spent 10 days over Christmas with my dear friend Toni and his family in Barcelona. The next year I returned for a week in Andalucia (stopping in Sevilla, Malaga, and Cadiz) and a second round of Catalan Christmas with Toni. In 2011, when I moved to Spain, Spanish Christmas already felt like an old friend.

... which is why I was surprised to realize I have never written anything in depth about these traditions, especially when there are so many interesting ones. Since I am anticipating that this year will mark my last Christmas in Spain for awhile, now seems an excellent time to correct this egregious error:

The Christmas season starts more or less officially in Spain during the first week of December, specifically at Candelaria on December 8. Around that time, Christmas lights and other decorations go up throughout the country, from the most elaborate in Madrid to the most simple in tiny Huelva villages. In my five Spanish Christmases, I have concluded that Christmas lights in Spain are of a very specific style. Unlike in the US, where strings of white or multicolored lights and tacky neon reindeer rule, Spanish lights are hung from cables that crisscross streets and boulevards, creating bold, blocky patterns or loop-de-loops that are very distinct from the American-style.

Typical Christmas lights hang on a street in Cadiz

The hanging of lights is often accompanied by installation of a Christmas market in the town square or one of the city plazas. Although Christmas trees are becoming more popular as American and British traditions trickle into Spain, most families still have a carefully-constructed nativity scene in their living rooms to mark the season-- in Andalucia in particular, these can grow to enormous sizes. People devote huge amounts of time and effort to constructing entire tiny Bethlehems, many of which include water features, electric lights, and timed sunrises and sunsets. In Linares, the government sponsored an enormous nativity scene that took up an entire empty store on the shopping street. Given the centrality of the nativity scene, the Christmas markets usually boast a section devoted entirely to selling tiny ceramic wise men, camels, or angels; they also offer decent amount of schlock and, if you're lucky, some respectable arts and crafts. Last year I bought a gorgeous handmade stool crafted from a whole olive-tree stump for 10 euros.

The nativity scene at my school in Talavera de la Reina

    

Traditional Christmastime food differs according to region, but one particular favorite of mine can be found throughout the country: mantecados and polvorónes. Stay with me for a moment here: much like the famous square-rectangle conundrum, polvorónes are mantecados, but not all mantecados are  polvorónes (the difference has to do with the specific recipe.) The nonetheless similar sweets are a sort of crumbly shortbread originally introduced by the Moors (ironic, yes?) Interesting fact: later on, the key ingredient was switched to pork fat, and the Inquisition forced detainees to eat the sweets in order to ferret out secret Muslims and Jews (manteca is pork lard in Spanish.) These days, mantecados and polvorónes are most popular in Andalucia but can be found almost literally everywhere during December. They are extremely delicious and terrible for you.

Christmas sweets. The paper-wrapped sweet on the lower right is a mantecado; the foil wrappers are polvorónes and the others are marzipan and candied fruit from Aragon, two other traditional Christmas treats

Christmas anticipation runs up to December 24, also known as nochebuena (the "good night"). Spanish families all over the country gather to eat Christmas dinner starting around 10:30 or 11 and finishing, in leisurely fashion, after midnight. Except in Catalonia (more on that in the next entry), no gifts are exchanged, but the meal is generally of many courses and includes extended family that has come from all over to eat together. After the last of the flan is finished off, everyone goes out for the night-- nochebuena is known as one of the most raucous "nights out" in the entire year. The bars are filled with people of all ages well into the next morning, when many people like to partake in chocolate con churros. This past year, when I spent Christmas in the white towns of Cadiz, we started our night out at 1 AM. I took a nap around 3:30 and my friend Maria woke me at 4:45, when we left to continue the party at a friend's country house. There, festivities (including Christmas carol singing, listening to Spanish metal, and drinking red wine with Coca-cola) continued until 8:30 AM. Needless to say, I didn't last that long.

The next morning, when the entire village/city has dragged itself out of bed to drink an espresso and attempt to recover... still Christmas is not over. In Spanish, people refer to "navidades" in plural, and my personal theory is that this is because it is refers more to a "Christmas season" than a single day. Besides Christmas Eve and Day the term also refers to New Year's Eve (nochevieja or "old night"-- no one has ever explained to me why it's called that)  and 3 Kings Day.  New Year's Eve is celebrated much the same as its Christmas counterpart, with a multi-course all-family meal that lasts until the wee hours. The major difference is a pause at midnight: as the clock strikes 12, families all over Spain endeavor to eat one grape in tandem with each strike of the cathedral clock-- a challenging task, as the grapes here generally have seeds. I'll let my roommate, Judith, explain to you what an impossible task that is: "Every year I try, and every year I end up like a hamster with my cheeks full of grapes, wishing everyone 'Happy New Year'-- and my parents say, 'Judith, don't talk with your mouth full,'" she explained to me cheerfully earlier this month, as we caught up on our Christmas vacations.

Christmas in the white villages of Cadiz; hot chocolate in the town square of Prado del Rey

  
And yet, even with the grape ordeal in the past, Navidades is not yet complete-- not until January 6 and the arrival of the Reyes Magos (the figures that Americans know as the three Wise Men but whose names are frequently translated here as the "Magic Kings.") Although Santa Claus has made an appearance in Spanish pop culture in recent years, he is not the beloved bringer of presents that he is elsewhere. Spanish children must wait until the morning of January 6 to see what the three Kings of biblical lore (you know, they followed the star to Bethlehem, or something? Don't ask me, I'm a Jew) brought them. The "Dia de Los Reyes Magos,"  full of presents and -- you guessed it-- another multi-generational multi-course meal, is preceded on the evening of January 5 by the "cabalgata de reyes magos," an elaborate procession-cum-parade through the streets announcing the arrival of the Kings. Virtually every community in the country, from the smallest town to the largest metropolis, hosts its own cabalgata, usually featuring Disney characters with oversized heads, some of whom arrive on horseback. The cabalgata in Madrid is largely agreed to be the most impressive, including a great many floats; public opinion generally has it that the quality of other cabalgatas has waned dramatically throughout the country with the onset of the economic crisis. Still, crisis or no, the cabalgata is a must for every under-15 child in town, seeing as every parade includes some frankly intense levels of candy throwing. I know of children who bring umbrellas to turn upside down in order to catch a maximum quantity of sweets. 

From there, I guess you can imagine the rest. Keyed up children, zooming around the house powered by candy overdose; comatose post-sugar crash kids heading sleepily to bed; those same tykes waking at an ungodly hour to see what the Kings have brought (this year they brought me my very own marker/crayon/colored pencil set, complete with pencil case-- there is so much coloring in my future!). And then, once the presents have been opened, the three-course lunch consumed, the last drop of coffee drunk... only then is navidades finished...

... until the next day, when rebajas (enormous city-wide after-Christmas sales) begin, of course.

Christmas lights by the ancient wall in Talavera. I am unsure what special effect I accidentally engaged to make them twinkle like that, but I don't mind. I kind of like it.

Strange Fruit 2

I ended the last entry in this series with a note about a pet peeve-- the infuriating and ubiquitous Spanish bar napkin. So I'll start with another one for this second edition of "Weird Things Spanish People Do That You Probably Didn't Know About."

1) They leave dog poop in the middle of the sidewalk
Obviously, this is a problem in the US, too, and in other countries. But as someone who is hoping to hit 41 countries by the end of this year, I can say that I have never been anywhere where the dog poop situation is quite so bad. My theory is that this problem is due to a lack of green space or bushes (for disposal) and a culture of impunity. Spaniards leave poop everywhere. The river walk in Talavera along the Rio Tajo is like a damn obstacle course. I can't count the number of times during my stay in Spain that I was walking along looking at the scenery -- wrought iron balconies over windows in sugary colors, charming side streets under stone arches-- or even just looking at a map and ... SQUISH. Ugh. It's true that laws exist against such practices, but they are poorly enforced. Gross.

The famous balconies of Madrid. But don't get too distracted...

2)  They say completely meaningless things to fill the silence
While it's true this kind of phrase exists in every language,  the phrase "bueno, pues nada" (which translates directly to "Okay, well... nothing") is surprisingly ubiquitous. It usually pops up at the end of a conversation, when things have more or less finished up and neither party has anything left to say. Where an American would probably stay mum and look around awkwardly (and, let's be honest, pretend to text a friend), a Spanish person is more likely to pull out this bad boy. The phrase is a good indicator that the conversation is now finished; the equivalent of "So, uh... yeah." It is a placeholder. It literally serves no other use.

3) They narrate their actions
This is something specifically that I've noticed since my arrival in Talavera. Maribel, one of my co-teachers here, often will come into the staff room Morgan-Freeman style (that is, doing voice over for her life.) "I'm going to wash my hands," she'll announce to no one in particular. Then; "Well, I guess I'll go upstairs." Similarly, my roomate, Judith, would never dare going to sleep without announcing: "I'm going to bed! Goodnight!"

I'll admit it, my American reaction is: '...So? Why are you telling me? What do I care?' But when I asked Judith about this habit, she explained that it's about being polite. If Maribel merely walked into the staffroom without saying anything, it would be like not acknowledging my presence; similarly, if Judith went to bed without telling me it would be an indication of bad blood between us.

Spaniards: human news tickers

4) They mean something totally different than Americans/British people do when they say "Let's meet this morning" or "I'll talk to you this afternoon" 
You probably know that Spanish people eat on an entirely different schedule than Americans/Brits/most of the non-Mediterranean Western world. Lunch is between 2 and 3; dinner is between 9 and 10:30. What you probably didn't know, however is that the eating schedule affects the working definition of "morning" and "afternoon." One is permitted to say "Buenos dias" until 2 pm and "Buenas tardes" until 8 or 9. Thus, I offer you the following tip when making plans with a Spaniard: keep in mind that meeting "this afternoon" means that any time between 3:30 and 8 is up for grabs. This can be especially confusing when talking to a Spaniard in English. He or she may say "I am only free this morning," and although the language is English, the idea of morning is still Spanish-- leaving lots of potential for misunderstanding.

5) They eat bread with EVERYTHING
Seriously, everything. My favorite story to tell about this habit takes place in Santander, with a couchsurfing host.We were preparing lunch from some leftovers: tortilla de patatas (kind of a quiche with potatoes inside) and arroz a la cubana (rice with peas and meat), plus some pasta we made to finish the meal off. There, amongst this cornucopia of carbohydrates, my host exclaimed in horror, "Oh my God, I'm so sorry! I forgot the bread!" Needless to say, I did not mind.

The classic "tortilla" with potatoes ... and bread

Bonus:
From what I can tell, this only applies to Manchegos, people born in Castilla la Mancha, where I live this year. When asked a question they don't have an answer for, instead of saying "Yo no sé" (I don't know), they say: "Yo qué sé?"-- "What do I know?" I don't know what it is about that little difference that gets me, but I always enjoy walking around and overhearing people say "What do I know?" What, indeed, do any of us know? That's deep, Castilla la Mancha. That's deep.

The trilingual's dilemma, part 2

I spent last weekend in Granada, an ancient Andaluz city that's famous for its mazelike ancient neighborhoods and rollicking nightlife, all watched over by a thousand-year old military/palace complex (the world-famous Alhambra.) I went with my good friend, Hannah, and besides the obligatory overwhelmingly gorgeous Alhambra visit, we spent the weekend exploring the old city's nooks and crannies and taking advantage of Granada's tapas bars, which rival Linares in their scope, diversity, and low prices.

On Saturday night, we were walking along yet another narrow cobblestone alley, from one bar to another, and Hannah asked me a question. I'm not sure what the question was, and really in this context it's unimportant; the important thing is that I didn't know the answer. So, my answer to her was: "Not an idea."

Of course, "Not an idea" is a phrase that could conceivably occur somewhere in the English language. Any given object-- be it table, computer, sneaker, or apple-- is, in fact, "not an idea." One might even use it to say that something is a foolish prospect. "Try to drive on Storrow Drive between 5:30 PM and 6? That is totally not an idea." But as an answer to a question someone asked you? It hardly makes sense.

In Spanish, however, "ni idea" (which actually translates to "not even one idea") is a perfectly acceptable answer to a question you don't know the answer-- and herein lies my current trilingual problem. As I mark 1.5 years living abroad in Spain, I find my languages mixing and melding in an entirely unexpected way. I speak English and Spanish about 40% to 60%, respectively, in my daily life (varying depending on who I'm meeting for tapas, which classes I'm teaching, how many hours I'm at school that day, etc.) But I am finding that after prolonged exposure to Spanish on an every-day basis, my English is altering. I'm not sure if I want to call it thinking in Spanish because I still am aware of English words in my thoughts, but it certainly appears that my mother tongue conversation is being filtered in some way through a Spaniard neighborhood in my brain.

The incident in the Granada alleyway was far from the first time something like this has happen: I've caught myself saying "I hope we have luck tonight!" (which translates directly from the Spanish "tener suerte") or using the phrase "to put yourself in contact with [someone]" (which sounds almost right in English but is still just the tiniest bit off.) And I'm not the only one. I've heard Hannah do it a few times, and about a month ago during a visit to Madrid, my American friend Thomas referred to some future visitors as "coming in car." This is clearly a common, if little-noticed, side effect of linguistic immersion.

Long time readers of this blog have followed my progress in Chinese and my Spanish beginnings. In 2010, I wrote about starting to identify as a "trilingual" as I struggled to rescusitate my middle-school level Spanish skills during six weeks in Guadalajara, Mexico. Last fall, I wrote about the balancing act between the two and the decision I made to put Chinese aside and focus on Spanish. And almost six (!!) years ago I wrote here about the strange melange of Chinese and English our study abroad group developed together, using the word that came to us first, regardless of language-- "Pass me the kuaizi [chopsticks]," for example.

 That last phenomenon of language-mixing comes close to what I'm talking about now, but it's never developed this far before. I've code switched (I wrote here about the first time I couldn't remember the English word for "ski lift," only the Chinese-- lan che), but I've never noticed my mother tongue being filtered by some other force. It feels the strangest because it doesn't feel like anything at all. Only suddenly, I find my words and phrasings (which, as a writer, are not small parts of me) strangely altered-- speaking the way I've always spoken and the way I've never spoken all at once.

It makes me wonder what else is being reconfigured. I've written here before that in anthropology circles, it's a widely accepted idea that culture is language. If the language making my basic linguistic decisions right now is Spanish-- a language that has 10 words for various cuts of pig and types of pork-- what does that say about me as a Jew? Does my power of idiom and wordplay stay the same, and if not why not? Do I have the same sense of humor? Will I write the same way if I don't speak the same way? Basically: does my changed grammar change me?

The (language of) rain in Spain-- Fun with Spanish, 2

(This entry is the second in an occasional series on fun/interesting discoveries I've made while blundering my way through Castilian Spanish.)

The school year is over, and I'm taking advantage of a block of free time before my flight home to do some traveling through northern Spain. This area--which includes the provinces of Galicia, Asturias, Cantabria, and Basque Country (Pais Vasco)-- is famous for its beautiful, wild coast; fantastic seafood; rich regional cultures; and spectacular, spectacularly green mountainous scenery.

Emphasis on the green and on the way it gets that way. Much like its Celtic and British cousins, northern Spain is impossibly green, thanks to copious amounts of rain.

It follows, then, that there is plenty of wordplay in the language when it comes to wet weather.

1) Pouring
As a language nerd, I always love to teach my students English idioms. I think idioms in general are pretty fascinating. One that has always been popular with my classes is "It's raining cats and dogs." I guess I can't blame them for enjoying it-- it's a pretty silly image.

The Spanish equivalent is "Está lloviendo a cántaros," which means literally, "It's raining vases" (the closest translation in this case would be, I guess, "It's raining buckets.")  In this case a cántaro is a large clay vase or pot, usually terra cotta and with two handles. In years past cántaros were used to collect drinking water, which makes the meaning of the phrase clear and gives it an optimistic tone ("Hooray, we'll have water to drink!") that's absent in any of our commentary about pets.

2) The silliest rain
Legend has it that the Inuit have 200 words for snow; it follows that the perpetually moist Asturians would have a number of words for rain. My favorite so far (which applies here in Asturias but which I have heard used in other parts of the country, as well) is mojabobos.

To understand this term, we need to split it into two parts. The first, moja, comes from the verb mojarse, which means "to get wet." The word bobo is a slang term that means something like "foolish person," "idiot," or (to reach for a term in yet another language) schlemiel.

Mojabobos is a fine rain, really a mist-- the sort that foolish people think doesn't call for an umbrella or a jacket. The way a friend described it to me, the bobo gets ready to go out to a bar, sees it's raining ever so slightly, and decides he can't feel the rain enough for it to merit any kind of protective gear. So he walks down the street, whistling or humming a tune... but by the time he reaches the bar, he has paid the mojabobos price and is completely soaked. Silly bobo, next time bring an umbrella.

The trilingual's dilemma, part 1.5: One little letter

I'm currently in the course of moving out of my apartment (a process which for me is usually accompanied by a period in which my room appears to be the epicenter of a disastrous earthquake), and therefore I don't have a lot of time for blogging. I can, however, offer this tasty morsel, a cautionary tale about the quirks of living in a second language.

The scene:  I am hurrying down Calle Mayor to take a train to a nearby town. The train station is at the far end of the street, so I always enjoy the scenery, even though I am usually near-running to get the train on time. This particular recent day is no different, and as I power-walk past the entrance to Plaza Mayor I am accosted by a GreenPeace volunteer. I try my best to smile politely. "Lo siento, tengo prisa." I say-- Sorry, I'm in a hurry.

The volunteer clearly doesn't buy it. He starts to launch into a patented "I'm sure you're really not in too much of a hurry to save the earth, right?" guilt trip schpiel, but I cut in, looking at my watch distractedly.

In my distraction, my tongue gets twisted up. What I want to say is, "Tengo que coger un tren"-- I have to catch a train.
Instead what I say is, "Tengo que comer un tren." I have to eat a train.

I don't blame him for giving me a little bit of a strange look as I hurry away.

Palabras para Julia

A few days ago I posted the following informal poll to my friends on Facebook:

"So I would say that at least once every two days I have an "Oh God what am I doing with my life where am I going who am I?" moment.
Survey: would you guys say that is above or below average?"

The responses I got were encouraging-- an assortment of friends of different ages and from different parts of my life assuring me that they felt the same way, that it was a condition of being in one's 20s, or even just a condition of being human. One friend currently living in Korea wrote, "The thoughts still occur in your 30's, even more so because of being an expat I think." 

I'm inclined to agree. Of course, being in one's 20s encourages feelings of being unsure, unmoored, and afraid, but I think those feelings are magnified by stepping so far away, metaphorically and physically, from what society says we are "supposed" to be doing. I admit that as I watch friends and acquaintances from afar--as they work 9-5 office jobs, whether fascinating or mundane; decorate apartments; get engaged; buy houses-- I find that all that is not without its magnetism. Even days like today, walking down Calle Mayor on a warm evening during paseo, listening to Ace of Base and trying not to burst into a dance party for one in public just for the familiar and exotic and beloved beauty of it all...I still feel that pull, to go home to the familiar, to stop missing out on that world turning at home without me, to start my "real" life (hell, to figure out what that "real life" entails.) It's what I've been taught to want, and the part of me that really wants it is terrified by my choice to stay. (More on that soon.)

...Which brings me to my Spanish final exam last Friday. I am confident enough to say I passed it, although the listening comprehension was much more difficult for me this time around. I am happy to report as well that I wrote my first opinion essay in Spanish, and it felt completely badass. The exam included something I never expected, however. Our second reading comprehension assignment included a very sweet letter from a fictional father to a daughter having a difficult time living abroad. "It's hard, I know, but you will see how these moments of solitude can also teach you many important things. It's something no one can learn for you," he writes. Who knew I'd ever find myself sniffing away tears during a language exam?

This fictional father goes on to quote a poem from a very real Spanish poet, Jose Agustin Goytisolo, a poem which spoke to me, as well. I want to include it here, although I've cut portions (as the version that so touched me was edited as well, although I didn't know it then.) I'll include the Spanish first, and then my own translation.

PALABRAS PARA JULIA 
Tú no puedes volver atrás
porque la vida ya te empuja
como un aullido interminable.
Hija mía es mejor vivir
con la alegría de los hombres
que llorar ante el muro ciego.
Te sentirás acorralada
te sentirás perdida o sola
tal vez querrás no haber nacido...
Nunca te entregues ni te apartes
junto al camino, nunca digas
no puedo más y aquí me quedo.
La vida es bella, tú verás
como a pesar de los pesares
tendrás amor, tendrás amigos...
Y siempre siempre acuérdate
de lo que un día yo escribí
pensando en ti como ahora pienso

Now, my poor translation:


WORDS FOR JULIA
You cannot go back
because life already pushes you
as an endless wail.
My daughter, it is better to live with the joy of men
then to mourn behind the blind wall.
You will feel cornered,
you will feel lost or alone.
Maybe you will wish you were never born.
Never give in or swerve
away from the road, never say
I can't anymore, I stay here.
Life is beautiful, you will see
how in spite of everything 
you will have love, you will have friends...
 and always, always remember
what I wrote to you one day
thinking of you the way I think now.


I don't now what it is about this poem. The words are plain, the rhythm is basic, there's no rhyme or imagery. But for me the message, sweet and powerful, is enough-- like one more voice in my informal poll encouraging me to keep searching for what's next.

Did you know? Spain tidbits, pt 1

It's hard to believe that I've now been living in Spain almost nine months. If we lived in a world where countries and people could create life, I would be giving birth any moment now. And every day has brought a surprise, a new vocabulary word, and interesting culture observation. While some of them have been (and will be) worth their own blog entries, others are worth a passing mention. I've compiled a few noteworthy tidbits here; you can expect more in other entries of this type in the future.

1) Punk rock grandmas
In the United States, dying one's hair is certainly not an uncommon practice, but most people limit their chosen hue to shades naturally found on heads around the world (if not their own particular strands.) Those individuals choosing more dramatic blues, greens, or pinks are generally understood to be making a Statement. Sure, those statements may vary, but the general message is the same: defiance and exclamation. Look at me-- see that I am different than you are.

It was thus with some confusion that I noticed women, mostly older women, walking around Palencia with magenta hair. Some of them had dyed their entire heads; others merely had a few vivid streaks--but it all seemed to be the same shade, almost as if they were sharing the bottle. This was something different than the "blue tint" effect occasionally seen in the US among senior citizens. It was clearly a purposeful, bold (in both senses of the word) choice.

Later on, I'd travel to northern Spain, to Basque country, and see many older women with similarly dyed hair, although this time with aqua/turquoise/blue hues. Nobody gives them a second look, neither in Palencia nor up north. Here it seems to be just another way to deal with graying hair and the aging process in general-- and I've decided I like it a lot.

2) Hellogoodbye
Like English (or, I imagine, most languages), Spanish has a cornucopia of various expressions for use in greetings. They differ based on the intimacy or mood of the speakers, the time of day, and the country (or in this case part of Spain) where they're greeting each other. This in itself is not remarkable.

However, after a month in Palencia, once I had moved into my own apartment, I started to notice something odd. Whenever my roommate came in to the apartment she said, "Hola." Without fail, when she left she called out, "Hasta luego!" even if we hadn't spoken in between. [A note on "Hasta luego" (which means "see you later) in Castilla y Leon: This phrase is constantly used, but the syllables rarely all appear together. The Palentino 'Hasta luego' is slurred together so quickly that you almost don't hear the first word at all. Try as I might, I haven't been able to successfully recreate it.]

But I digress. After I noticed my roommate's behavior, I started to see parallels in the behavior of others in my apartment building. Often when we crossed paths at the mailbox or in the doorway they would greet me with a friendly "Buenos dias" or "Muy buenas." They always followed this up with the famous Palentino "Ha-luego." Even in the elevator, I would be greeted, thirty seconds of elevator silence would ensue--and then, there it was again, the departing greeting. In the end, I remain puzzled but have concluded that greetings are a more important part of etiquette here than in the US, even among strangers.

3) Out for a walk
I've mentioned the "paseo" in this blog before, but it's worth revisiting. Palencia's Calle Mayor is a scenic pedestrianized mile lined with stores and 19th century buildings. In the winter the wind can be wicked, but the summer finds tin tables and umbrellas set out to enjoy the atmosphere. The street is a strange animal, a chameleon of sorts-- on Sunday afternoons and evenings after 11:30 pm it's virtually a movie set, complete empty and eerily clean (the sanitation department here is admirably diligent.) But there is a period of time every day before dinner (between the hours of 6 and 8, I would say) when Palentinos (and, I think, many northern Spaniards) like to go out for a stroll.

During that time Calle Mayor is teeming, sometimes even choked, with pedestrians. Some walk faster, some saunter. Many older couples hobble arm in arm, some adult children push their parents in wheelchairs, and there are always young kids weaving in and out of the chaos chasing a soccer ball. Everywhere there are clumps of people stopping to chat, young mothers showing off new babies, teenagers flirting and joking, people window shopping and chatting about the day's news. Sometimes there are balloon sellers; in the winter a series of wooden shacks appeared selling hot fresh mini-donuts and roasted chestnuts. It's Palentino life in a two-hour nutshell, and although I dread the thought of biking anywhere during that time (an experience like nothing more than a first-person video game), the feeling of walking the street during paseo--idly watching people, catching snatches of conversation, and feeling the energy of so many people ricocheting off the high pastel buildings--remains one of my favorites from my time here.

Fun with Spanish, 1: At the beach

While I've focused generally on cultural adventures in this blog, the truth is that language is culture. There's a great deal to be learned about a country or a people through its language. It's true that I go to Spanish classes two to three times a week at the Escuela Oficial de Idiomas (Official Language School), but my real classroom is in Calle Mayor, in the bars and theaters of this city, in the grocery stores and train stations and in the new friendships I've made. So, my thought is to add a new language feature here, mini blog posts to teach you some small Spanish somethings I'm picking up here in my daily life.

Today's iteration has to do with the ocean--well, sort of.

1) Scrambled sea
Let's say you're at the beach on a blazing hot day. Your sailboat-owning friend invites you on a tour around the bay. That sounds good, you say-- but just as you are preparing to depart, a couple of threatening black thunderheads roll in, and a stiff breeze kicks up. You hear peals of thunder, and even the water in the marina is roiling. Going on this boat ride would be a one-way ticket to seasick central. You turn to your friend and say sadly, "El mar está revuelto."

Strictly speaking, you're calling the water "choppy" the way we would in English, unsettled or uneven. The interesting thing here is that the direct translation is "The sea is scrambled"--the same sort of "scrambled" that shows up to describe eggs on bar menus all over Spain, usually accompanied by an assortment of cheeses, chorizo, or mushrooms. No "choppy" equivalents here-- Spaniards prefer a different kitchen metaphor for their seas.

2) Hangover or undertow?
I first learned the word "hangover" from a couple of Columbian students who attended the school where I taught in Boston. "Una resaca" was an all-purpose excuse for them, explaining lateness, distraction, or exhaustion. Las resacas are topics of much discussion here in Spain as well--mostly as a point of pride if one can survive a particularly difficult morning after last night's festivities, or else if one never gets a hangover at all. (These individuals are particularly to be envied by those of us who hangover after half a glass of wine.)

The concept gets linguistically more interesting when you find out that the word for an undertow at a beach is also "una resaca." Not only does it make the age-old admonition not to swim when there's an undertow doubly wise-- it also creates a much more evocative description of the experience of a-morning-after. Who among us hasn't felt like he or she was being sucked into a deep, dark void after a night getting especially friendly with tequila or rum?