Before moving to Soria in September of 2010, I'd found my roommates-to-be via a Facebook group for other Language Assistants in Spain. Erin, Simon, and I, by sheer, awesome coincidence, had all booked flights that were getting into Madrid within hours of each other. We all took the same bus to Soria but had separate seats. I got the honour of sitting next to the guy who chose to take advantage of the free Wifi by watching various pornographic clips on his tablet. ¡Bienvenidos!
We were greeted by the wonderful Candy (a true savior (like her namesake), a Jesus [or Moses] figure for all foreigners who come to Soria every year) upon our arrival to our new home city, and she led us to our hostel. Later that night, we were sat around a table in the plaza, drinking tinto de verano and having our first real conversation in castellano with a couple of Spaniards. It wasn't long before the topic of conversation turned to the Fiestas de San Juan. I took in most of what was being said, but my Spanish was not yet good enough for me to understand the complicated, intricate details of the celebrations they were describing. All I gathered was that every summer in Soria, a week-long fiesta takes place, and its main purpose can be summed up by one simple term: inebriation.
---
Insert 9 month period that can be summarized by the following gerunds:
Traveling, Eating, Drinking, Laughing, Learning, Growing (in weight... and, I suppose, as an individual. But mostly the former.). And, just as often: Hearing About Those Damn Fiestas.
---
The fiestas have been around for hundreds of years. The original celebrations took place in honour of the summer solstice. Nowadays, they seem to honour alcohol, but they still take place on Midsummer. To start them off, everyone gathers on a Wednesday night in the city's main square, Plaza Mayor. And I do mean EVERYONE: newborns, their great-grandparents, and anyone in between. My friends and I showed up in our matching t-shirts (traditionally, all the teenagers get matching overalls for their group of friends to wear for the entire 6 days of the fiestas), 1L plastic cups of sangria in hand. After a while, everyone ends up squished together due to overcrowding. A personal highlight for me was when one of my students shoved his face in front of mine suddenly and unexpectedly, shouting "ESMADAR!" in typical Spanish greeting, causing me to spill sangria all over myself. Luckily, people were still (somewhat) sober at that point, and so, no one tried to lick the booze off of my body. The inaugural speeches and parade took place, after which, while most dedicated Sorians stayed up for the remainder of that night to drink in the streets (tradition is tradition!), we retired to our piso to take a nap before waking up at the crack of dawn the next day so we could catch a bus to Valonsadero, a big field 8km from the city.
In Valonsadero, people continue drinking, dancing, and eating in expectation of the day's events. Meanwhile, some individuals can be found lying around in the field in a state of complete and utter schnockerhood, passed out, taking a quick nap to let their liver break down some of the alcohol they'd been consuming all night long. Trying to prove to myself my acclimatization to the Spanish way of life (BE DRUNK AT ALL TIMES!), I proceeded to start off my nutritional intake of the day with a 1L serving of calimocho (a grossly delicious (deliciously gross?) mix of red wine and Coca Cola). Being drunk at 8am was fun, for about 5 minutes. Then, it wasn't.
So far, I've made it seem as though the only activity of San Juan is drinking. Do not be fooled, dear reader, for these fiestas are a culturally significant affair, showcasing the most important and sophisticated of Spanish traditions! The ultimate purpose of gathering in the field is the Running of the Bulls. At noon, all the drunkards stumble off in two main directions: the course of sanity, up high (on rocks, trees, car roofs, or the tops of port-a-potties), where one can observe, from a safe distance, the bulls being released from their pen and chased by the picadores (horsemen wielding lances with which to jab the bulls in order to keep them running) back to Soria; or, the course of madness, straight in the line of fire, where one can run among the bulls and horse riders in a show of either valiance or drunk idiocy, depending on the perspective of the observer. There are always a couple of ambulances on standby, because someone's bound to get trampled. A helicopter circles in the sky to capture the shenanigans on live camera for the few people who've chosen to enjoy the events from the comfort of their living room. Party music emanates from the makeshift 'dance floor' in the field (a graveyard of wine and beer bottles and plastic cups), where some people dance until the last minute, in spite of the imminent stampede. It's the kind of scene I'd had described to me over and over throughout the year, but being in its midst was surreal. At noon, 3 shots are fired, and everyone gets to their feet in excitement. Down below: bulls, horses, people... the ground is shaking... lunacy. Moments later, a tall cloud of dust engulfs them all. They're gone, off in the distance, running towards Soria.
-
To Be Continued.
Coming up in If You See a Bull, Whatever You Do, DON'T RUN! ... Part 2: An Englishman, an Italian, a Canadian, and two Israeli-Canadians, walking on a path parallel to a field, the sun beating down on their pale, foreign faces. Suddenly, people: running, screaming. The foreigners turn around. 4 massive bulls... are running straight towards them.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Lisboa
So I'm sitting on the couch, wearing too-tight pants and eating yet ANOTHER slice of cake (the former is completely unrelated to the latter, for the record), thinking, as people tend to do in such circumstances, about better times; times when sitting on the couch and wearing too-tight pants signified that my friends and I had, once again, gone to Cafe York and had chocolate con churros (because why in the world would anyone NOT want to fry strips of dough and dunk them in a cup of melted hot chocolate?) or too many claras at some bar... and such times lead to thinking about other times, like that one wonderful weekend spent in Lisbon, a gem of a city that no one can NOT love.
Wow, what an awkward segue. That really is how I got to thinking about Lisbon, though.
Erin, Steph and I had been talking about going to Lisbon since the very beginning of our travels together. So after we'd all returned from our Semana Santa trips, we sat down and booked the damn thing. We probably paid around 2 euro for the flight and celebrated with a similarly-priced bottle of wine. Then, I made matzoh ball soup and we had an Easter Egg hunt.
A few weeks later, we found ourselves, as usual, in a new place for the weekend. The air was warmer, the colors more vivid than usual, and the people spoke in Russian. No, not really... But the Portuguese accent does have an Eastern-European flavor to it... and a bit of French. and Spanish. Some weird hybrid. I don't believe it's actually connected to the Latin family, at all. Someone has made a mistake. Fix it, linguists.
Our three-day weekend was jam-packed, so I will only relay the most entertaining bits. Our hostel offered a free walking tour (it was so great we went on it twice! [by mistake]) during which we got to walk through the oldest of Lisbon's neighbourhoods, the Alfama, and our tour guide recounted the following fascinating story:
The year was 1755. It was a Saturday morning on the first of a new month, November. All Saints' Day. People were in church, lighting candles.
Suddenly, the ground began to shake.
EARTHQUAAAAAAAKE!!!
Yes. It was an earthquake. A horrendous earthquake of an unprecedented 9.0 magnitude. And it lasted 9. whole. minutes. Needless to say, the damage was extensive. Somehow, a lot of people survived those 9 minutes and proceeded to run down the hills of Lisbon to an open space, where they would not get hit by the still-falling debris. Unfortunately, that open space was the main square, down by the water... so what happened next should not come as a surprise.
TSUNAAAAAAAMI!!!
So a huge ginormous wave swallowed up whatever the earthquake had failed to destroy.
But wait. The story's not over yet! Up on the hills which the tsunami had not reached, a flame started burning... it was All Saints' Day, and candles had been lit...
FIIIIIIIIIIIIIRE!
A huge fire broke out. It lasted four whole days.
So, to recap:
1) Earthquake;
2) Tsunami;
3) Fire.
Bye, Lisbon.
On that note... let's leave the city for a minute and discuss the Sunday portion of our Portuguese adventure. We bought train tickets to Sintra, a town recommended to us by a staff member of our wonderful hostel. Sintra is the stuff fairy tales are made of. It is home to four huge, incredibly impressive castles. We went to two of them, but the most awesome one by far was Palacio de Pena. This striking structure rises from the top of a hill which we had to climb painstakingly in order to avoid the 5 euro tram fee (when you're paying an average of 15eur per flight, your perception of what transportation should cost becomes greatly distorted). Everything about the palace was magical. It looked like it was made out of Lego... Lego from the Middle Ages. We spent a magical afternoon on that hill, but time was passing quickly, and like all fairy tales, this one had to end... so that we could take the bus to our next destination: Cascais (pronounced Kash-kigh-sh), a fishermen's town with beautiful beaches, sailboats, and a light house we didn't get to see because we'd spent 30 minutes dipping our feet in the water before we all became ravenous (or, as Erin once called it when expressing her hunger: 'I'm ravishing!', haaa.) and made our way to a seaside restaurant where we had cod souffle, a mouthwatering and filling Portuguese dish.
Sintra and Cascais ended up being sensational additions to our trip, but Lisbon truly made an impression on me. I was mesmerized by the buildings... who knew tiling the outer walls of a house with ceramic/bathroom tiles could yield such a charming, colorful result? The city has a sense of grandeur and decay, illustrating the fact that Lisbon had to be rebuilt from its ashes (literally) and the current state of economic crisis Portugal faces... the narrow streets are beautiful, and the yellow, art deco trams add to Lisbon's eclectic vibe. And Portuguese food could not be any more exquisite or fresh.
A view of Lisbon and its orange rooftops, and a bit of that blue sea
Bathroom tiles! Why not?
The main square, where people ran to escape the earthquake, right into the mouth of the Tsunami
Torre de Belem, my favorite monument in Lisbon... conveniently situated near a bakery that sells Belem pastries, the most delectable little creations known to mouthkind
Total medieval Lego castle, amirite?
Cascais and its pretty sailboats and sparkling water
Wow, what an awkward segue. That really is how I got to thinking about Lisbon, though.
Erin, Steph and I had been talking about going to Lisbon since the very beginning of our travels together. So after we'd all returned from our Semana Santa trips, we sat down and booked the damn thing. We probably paid around 2 euro for the flight and celebrated with a similarly-priced bottle of wine. Then, I made matzoh ball soup and we had an Easter Egg hunt.
A few weeks later, we found ourselves, as usual, in a new place for the weekend. The air was warmer, the colors more vivid than usual, and the people spoke in Russian. No, not really... But the Portuguese accent does have an Eastern-European flavor to it... and a bit of French. and Spanish. Some weird hybrid. I don't believe it's actually connected to the Latin family, at all. Someone has made a mistake. Fix it, linguists.
Our three-day weekend was jam-packed, so I will only relay the most entertaining bits. Our hostel offered a free walking tour (it was so great we went on it twice! [by mistake]) during which we got to walk through the oldest of Lisbon's neighbourhoods, the Alfama, and our tour guide recounted the following fascinating story:
The year was 1755. It was a Saturday morning on the first of a new month, November. All Saints' Day. People were in church, lighting candles.
Suddenly, the ground began to shake.
EARTHQUAAAAAAAKE!!!
Yes. It was an earthquake. A horrendous earthquake of an unprecedented 9.0 magnitude. And it lasted 9. whole. minutes. Needless to say, the damage was extensive. Somehow, a lot of people survived those 9 minutes and proceeded to run down the hills of Lisbon to an open space, where they would not get hit by the still-falling debris. Unfortunately, that open space was the main square, down by the water... so what happened next should not come as a surprise.
TSUNAAAAAAAMI!!!
So a huge ginormous wave swallowed up whatever the earthquake had failed to destroy.
But wait. The story's not over yet! Up on the hills which the tsunami had not reached, a flame started burning... it was All Saints' Day, and candles had been lit...
FIIIIIIIIIIIIIRE!
A huge fire broke out. It lasted four whole days.
So, to recap:
1) Earthquake;
2) Tsunami;
3) Fire.
Bye, Lisbon.
On that note... let's leave the city for a minute and discuss the Sunday portion of our Portuguese adventure. We bought train tickets to Sintra, a town recommended to us by a staff member of our wonderful hostel. Sintra is the stuff fairy tales are made of. It is home to four huge, incredibly impressive castles. We went to two of them, but the most awesome one by far was Palacio de Pena. This striking structure rises from the top of a hill which we had to climb painstakingly in order to avoid the 5 euro tram fee (when you're paying an average of 15eur per flight, your perception of what transportation should cost becomes greatly distorted). Everything about the palace was magical. It looked like it was made out of Lego... Lego from the Middle Ages. We spent a magical afternoon on that hill, but time was passing quickly, and like all fairy tales, this one had to end... so that we could take the bus to our next destination: Cascais (pronounced Kash-kigh-sh), a fishermen's town with beautiful beaches, sailboats, and a light house we didn't get to see because we'd spent 30 minutes dipping our feet in the water before we all became ravenous (or, as Erin once called it when expressing her hunger: 'I'm ravishing!', haaa.) and made our way to a seaside restaurant where we had cod souffle, a mouthwatering and filling Portuguese dish.
Sintra and Cascais ended up being sensational additions to our trip, but Lisbon truly made an impression on me. I was mesmerized by the buildings... who knew tiling the outer walls of a house with ceramic/bathroom tiles could yield such a charming, colorful result? The city has a sense of grandeur and decay, illustrating the fact that Lisbon had to be rebuilt from its ashes (literally) and the current state of economic crisis Portugal faces... the narrow streets are beautiful, and the yellow, art deco trams add to Lisbon's eclectic vibe. And Portuguese food could not be any more exquisite or fresh.
A view of Lisbon and its orange rooftops, and a bit of that blue sea
Bathroom tiles! Why not?
The main square, where people ran to escape the earthquake, right into the mouth of the Tsunami
Torre de Belem, my favorite monument in Lisbon... conveniently situated near a bakery that sells Belem pastries, the most delectable little creations known to mouthkind
Total medieval Lego castle, amirite?
Cascais and its pretty sailboats and sparkling water
Thursday, August 11, 2011
How I Came To Love Soria
Well, I've been back home for almost 2 full weeks now [note by Future Smadar: it has now been 5 weeks, but when I wrote this post it had been 2] - feels like much longer. I haven't posted here since Paris, but I went to many more incredible places in the months that followed - my utmost favorite being Lisbon. But mostly, in that time span, I grew to loooove Soria (the city where I lived). What did I love about it, you ask?
> The old people, who easily made up 80% of the Sorian population - sure, it meant that there were barely any people my age - but I don't think I'll ever again live in a place with so much cotton candy hair, or purple hair (only the most hip grandparents sport this trendy colour!), until my potential future kids stick me in a home (I can't WAIT to have a legitimate excuse to sit on the couch all day without being judged for it). They made me feel so young! When I yearned for human contact, they always came through for me, shoving me in the streets (those people will NOT take the extra few steps necessary to walk around another human who is standing in their direct path);
> The smallness of Soria - I don't think going to big cities would have been as exciting if I weren't coming from a such a small one! If I had been placed in Madrid, or Barcelona, would I have even traveled half as much? Would I have gotten to know the world of airports as well as I did? Sure, I've grown a lot as a person this past year - yes, I mean physically - but I feel as though the most significant aspect of my emotional growth came from airport experiences. I truly learned to stop caring about anything material at all! Ah, the Madrid airport; where I first lost a new, €60 coat on my way to Valencia; and where I later lost my suitcase and all that was in it to a drug-dealing gypsy thief because of the most inefficient airline crews known to mankind (BRITISH AIRWAYS AND IBERIA YOU SUCK SO MUCH). Yes, the airport became a source of great emotional growth for me. NOTHING will make you appreciate not being homeless like having to spend the night wrapped up in your winter coat, spread out on three tiny wooden chairs in an attempt to recreate a bed-like setting in a cold and deserted terminal. And looks, and vanity? I never cared about them less than in those moments I spent running frantically through terminals, about to miss a flight, waving my arms like a turbine (SOME PEOPLE NEED TO DO THAT, for balance), my tangled hair stuck in my mouth, the straps of my over-packed bag slipping off of my shoulders (like those seven year old kids you see go to school in their oversized backpacks), my pants falling off because I had unbuttoned them on the long bus ride to the airport and obviously forgot to re-button them, my heart beating fast, so very fast, reminding me that the sole source of exercise in my life was, in fact, that monthly jog through airports...
In all seriousness, Soria turned out to be pretty fantastic - notwithstanding a shaky week following a weekend trip to Sevilla that showed us how unbelievably exciting a Spanish city could truly be, full of oranges, flamenco, PEOPLE UNDER THE AGE OF 90, and even cheaper, more delicious food than we'd come to know (honey-roasted eggplant! goat cheese and berry jam on toasted crackers!) - and another trip to Mallorca that made us crave island life, with its heavenly ocean air and delectable seafood. The weekend fiestas in May leading up to THE fiestas of the year (las fiestas de San Juan en Soria, about which I hope to have the energy and commitment to write a post in the near future) were so much fun, as long as you did not show up to them already hungover (lesson learned)... In my day-to-day life, I worked (so very hard) a few hours a day, came home, cooked with Erin and ate, then ate some more, watched so much TV, and learned the joys of living in a city where I could walk anywhere if I had the ganas to leave the house. The hardest adjustment since being back in Montreal has been accepting that everything is a (ridiculously overpriced) bus and metro ride away. I can no longer walk to my favourite pasteleria and order my "coffee with milk with ice" for 1.20, gulp it down, then get hungry with my friends and walk another 30 seconds to my favourite bar and order "patatas bravas" and a "beer with lemon", and another "beer with lemon"... and then, because we can, walk another minute down the Collado (the main street) and get the BEST. TAPAS. EVER. at bar Poli... and then finish off the night with the usual walk back, past the lit-up palace and sleeping storks and, most importantly for some, sleeping pigeons that cannot poop on your head for the forth time in under 3 months...
What a year.
The Collado, which is the main pedestrian street
The old people.
The Palace, which I walked by every day, and where I went to court
The STORKS
> The old people, who easily made up 80% of the Sorian population - sure, it meant that there were barely any people my age - but I don't think I'll ever again live in a place with so much cotton candy hair, or purple hair (only the most hip grandparents sport this trendy colour!), until my potential future kids stick me in a home (I can't WAIT to have a legitimate excuse to sit on the couch all day without being judged for it). They made me feel so young! When I yearned for human contact, they always came through for me, shoving me in the streets (those people will NOT take the extra few steps necessary to walk around another human who is standing in their direct path);
> The smallness of Soria - I don't think going to big cities would have been as exciting if I weren't coming from a such a small one! If I had been placed in Madrid, or Barcelona, would I have even traveled half as much? Would I have gotten to know the world of airports as well as I did? Sure, I've grown a lot as a person this past year - yes, I mean physically - but I feel as though the most significant aspect of my emotional growth came from airport experiences. I truly learned to stop caring about anything material at all! Ah, the Madrid airport; where I first lost a new, €60 coat on my way to Valencia; and where I later lost my suitcase and all that was in it to a drug-dealing gypsy thief because of the most inefficient airline crews known to mankind (BRITISH AIRWAYS AND IBERIA YOU SUCK SO MUCH). Yes, the airport became a source of great emotional growth for me. NOTHING will make you appreciate not being homeless like having to spend the night wrapped up in your winter coat, spread out on three tiny wooden chairs in an attempt to recreate a bed-like setting in a cold and deserted terminal. And looks, and vanity? I never cared about them less than in those moments I spent running frantically through terminals, about to miss a flight, waving my arms like a turbine (SOME PEOPLE NEED TO DO THAT, for balance), my tangled hair stuck in my mouth, the straps of my over-packed bag slipping off of my shoulders (like those seven year old kids you see go to school in their oversized backpacks), my pants falling off because I had unbuttoned them on the long bus ride to the airport and obviously forgot to re-button them, my heart beating fast, so very fast, reminding me that the sole source of exercise in my life was, in fact, that monthly jog through airports...
In all seriousness, Soria turned out to be pretty fantastic - notwithstanding a shaky week following a weekend trip to Sevilla that showed us how unbelievably exciting a Spanish city could truly be, full of oranges, flamenco, PEOPLE UNDER THE AGE OF 90, and even cheaper, more delicious food than we'd come to know (honey-roasted eggplant! goat cheese and berry jam on toasted crackers!) - and another trip to Mallorca that made us crave island life, with its heavenly ocean air and delectable seafood. The weekend fiestas in May leading up to THE fiestas of the year (las fiestas de San Juan en Soria, about which I hope to have the energy and commitment to write a post in the near future) were so much fun, as long as you did not show up to them already hungover (lesson learned)... In my day-to-day life, I worked (so very hard) a few hours a day, came home, cooked with Erin and ate, then ate some more, watched so much TV, and learned the joys of living in a city where I could walk anywhere if I had the ganas to leave the house. The hardest adjustment since being back in Montreal has been accepting that everything is a (ridiculously overpriced) bus and metro ride away. I can no longer walk to my favourite pasteleria and order my "coffee with milk with ice" for 1.20, gulp it down, then get hungry with my friends and walk another 30 seconds to my favourite bar and order "patatas bravas" and a "beer with lemon", and another "beer with lemon"... and then, because we can, walk another minute down the Collado (the main street) and get the BEST. TAPAS. EVER. at bar Poli... and then finish off the night with the usual walk back, past the lit-up palace and sleeping storks and, most importantly for some, sleeping pigeons that cannot poop on your head for the forth time in under 3 months...
What a year.
The Collado, which is the main pedestrian street
The old people.
The Palace, which I walked by every day, and where I went to court
The STORKS
Monday, March 21, 2011
Je suis allée à Paris... et j'ai gangé 4 kilos
Faithful blog followers, hello (to all 4 of you)!
A lot of trips have happened since the one highlighted in my previous post - a loooot. But as it turns out, I'm too lazy to write about my adventures consistently. But you know what's kind of worth blogging about? PARIS.
I went to Paris with my friend Steph. A month or so before the trip took place, I went to France for the first time ever - to Grenoble, to visit my aunt, Rony - and discovered firsthand that the stereotype pertaining to the French's preference for black clothing is not a myth. So I asked Steph: "Hey, when we go to Paris, do you wanna wear all-black so that we look Parisian?". Steph's typical reply? "Sure!". It was a deal. Fortunately for Steph, 90% of her wardrobe is black. Unfortunately for me, 90% of mine is... beige. If I ever want to go on a safari, I am soooo set! So I bought a black coat and a black purse (left the tags on, planning to return them post-trip... hilarity ensued when multiple people stopped me in the streets of Paris to point out the tags - and instead of pretending to be embarrassed and thanking them, I nodded my head and said "Je sais"...), borrowed Erin's black boots, slapped on some red lipstick, and voilà! I was ready for France! But my predominantly beige closet was not the only obstacle to Parisian success... As I might have mentioned previously, Soria is small. And isolated. And somewhat backwards in certain areas of societal existence. Example: completely awful bus schedule. The buses to Madrid are always full and always in demand, so why are there so few of them?? We were planning on taking the 3:30am bus, which would have gotten us to the airport at 6am, giving us barely enough time to transfer terminals and make our flight. Too stressful! After a lengthy discussion full of indecisiveness, we flipped a coin and decided to take the 8:30pm bus the night before. Sleepover at the airport! FUN TIMES FOR ALL. Especially poor Steph, who was suffering from an unfortunate multitude of self-diagnosed conditions, such as tonsillitis and bronchitis.
We made it to Paris and proceeded to explore the historical amazingness everywhere: l'Arc de Triomphe, the Champs Élysées (where we witnessed a steet fight amongst a group of gypsy women! hysterical), the Place de la Concorde (fun fact: that's where Marie-Antoinette and hubby were decapitated), and the gardens by the Louvre. We ended the day at the Musée d'Orsay, a beautiful train station that now houses a fantastic collection of impressionist and post-impressionist art. That was just the first day... we pretty much saw every important monument and neighborhood in Paris over the next 3 days. I could go on and on and oooon about all the stunning monuments, but frankly, everyone is familiar with the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre and Notre-Dame, so I'll simply try to provide you with some tips from what I've learned in this historically and museumically rich city:
Go to Paris. Have some croissants for breakfast. Skip the coffee if you take it with milk, because it costs 5 euro. Bring your own bottle of water, because all beverages cost upwards of 5 euros. Eat crepes with Nutella. Eat more crepes with Nutella. If you feel as though your body requires food that is not purely made up of sugar (what is the matter with you???), you may take a break from the crepes and croissants and feast upon a quiche lorraine, or the confit of a duck. If you do so, make sure you do not go to Versailles and sit by the lake in the glorious gardens, because the ducks that inhabit it will be cute and you will feel very guilty. Stop by Paris's ancient and colorful Jewish quarter for some of the best falafel on the planet. To end your trip, stock up on pastries at a local patisserie before heading to the airport, to get you through the 10 hour trip back to Soria. If you lack self-control, eat those pastries on the 20-minute metro ride to the airport.
The Egyptian Obelisk in the Place de la Concorde, wherein I practice my history-teaching skills by demonstrating the practice of guillotining that took place on this very spot
At the artists' square, Place du Tertre, in the quartier Montmartre, where the beautiful Basilique du Sacre Coeur is. You can spot it in the background!
A view from the back of the gothic and incredibly impressive, majestic, and creepy Notre-Dame
The Seine and the Eiffel tower
Requisite shot in front of the Eiffel tower, which definitely deserves its title as the most famous monument in the world because it is freaking COOL
At the Palais Garnier, which houses the Opera de Paris. Stunning. Posh. Luxurious. Home to the incredible chandelier from the Phantom of the Opera.
MACARONS. If you have ever seen these somewhere, perhaps in an upscale bakery or a restaurant, and have had doubts or reservations: GET THEM. EAT THEM. EXPERIENCE THEM, for they will delight your palate and soul. Forever.
A lot of trips have happened since the one highlighted in my previous post - a loooot. But as it turns out, I'm too lazy to write about my adventures consistently. But you know what's kind of worth blogging about? PARIS.
I went to Paris with my friend Steph. A month or so before the trip took place, I went to France for the first time ever - to Grenoble, to visit my aunt, Rony - and discovered firsthand that the stereotype pertaining to the French's preference for black clothing is not a myth. So I asked Steph: "Hey, when we go to Paris, do you wanna wear all-black so that we look Parisian?". Steph's typical reply? "Sure!". It was a deal. Fortunately for Steph, 90% of her wardrobe is black. Unfortunately for me, 90% of mine is... beige. If I ever want to go on a safari, I am soooo set! So I bought a black coat and a black purse (left the tags on, planning to return them post-trip... hilarity ensued when multiple people stopped me in the streets of Paris to point out the tags - and instead of pretending to be embarrassed and thanking them, I nodded my head and said "Je sais"...), borrowed Erin's black boots, slapped on some red lipstick, and voilà! I was ready for France! But my predominantly beige closet was not the only obstacle to Parisian success... As I might have mentioned previously, Soria is small. And isolated. And somewhat backwards in certain areas of societal existence. Example: completely awful bus schedule. The buses to Madrid are always full and always in demand, so why are there so few of them?? We were planning on taking the 3:30am bus, which would have gotten us to the airport at 6am, giving us barely enough time to transfer terminals and make our flight. Too stressful! After a lengthy discussion full of indecisiveness, we flipped a coin and decided to take the 8:30pm bus the night before. Sleepover at the airport! FUN TIMES FOR ALL. Especially poor Steph, who was suffering from an unfortunate multitude of self-diagnosed conditions, such as tonsillitis and bronchitis.
We made it to Paris and proceeded to explore the historical amazingness everywhere: l'Arc de Triomphe, the Champs Élysées (where we witnessed a steet fight amongst a group of gypsy women! hysterical), the Place de la Concorde (fun fact: that's where Marie-Antoinette and hubby were decapitated), and the gardens by the Louvre. We ended the day at the Musée d'Orsay, a beautiful train station that now houses a fantastic collection of impressionist and post-impressionist art. That was just the first day... we pretty much saw every important monument and neighborhood in Paris over the next 3 days. I could go on and on and oooon about all the stunning monuments, but frankly, everyone is familiar with the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre and Notre-Dame, so I'll simply try to provide you with some tips from what I've learned in this historically and museumically rich city:
Go to Paris. Have some croissants for breakfast. Skip the coffee if you take it with milk, because it costs 5 euro. Bring your own bottle of water, because all beverages cost upwards of 5 euros. Eat crepes with Nutella. Eat more crepes with Nutella. If you feel as though your body requires food that is not purely made up of sugar (what is the matter with you???), you may take a break from the crepes and croissants and feast upon a quiche lorraine, or the confit of a duck. If you do so, make sure you do not go to Versailles and sit by the lake in the glorious gardens, because the ducks that inhabit it will be cute and you will feel very guilty. Stop by Paris's ancient and colorful Jewish quarter for some of the best falafel on the planet. To end your trip, stock up on pastries at a local patisserie before heading to the airport, to get you through the 10 hour trip back to Soria. If you lack self-control, eat those pastries on the 20-minute metro ride to the airport.
The Egyptian Obelisk in the Place de la Concorde, wherein I practice my history-teaching skills by demonstrating the practice of guillotining that took place on this very spot
At the artists' square, Place du Tertre, in the quartier Montmartre, where the beautiful Basilique du Sacre Coeur is. You can spot it in the background!
A view from the back of the gothic and incredibly impressive, majestic, and creepy Notre-Dame
The Seine and the Eiffel tower
Requisite shot in front of the Eiffel tower, which definitely deserves its title as the most famous monument in the world because it is freaking COOL
At the Palais Garnier, which houses the Opera de Paris. Stunning. Posh. Luxurious. Home to the incredible chandelier from the Phantom of the Opera.
MACARONS. If you have ever seen these somewhere, perhaps in an upscale bakery or a restaurant, and have had doubts or reservations: GET THEM. EAT THEM. EXPERIENCE THEM, for they will delight your palate and soul. Forever.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
San Sebastian Seafood Satisfaction
San Sebastian, or Donostia, as it's called in the Basque language Euskera, is simply beautiful. Beautiful! The scenery changes suddenly and drastically at some point in the 3-hour drive from Soria to the coastal city, from a military camouflage-colored combination of vegetation to a breathtaking chain of mountains and hills covered in lush, vividly green grass. The autumn yields a blanket of foliage in muted versions of reds, oranges, and yellows. And then there's the picturesque, occasional herd of sheep, cows, horses, or donkeys standing on a steep hill and feeding themselves so that we may eat their delicious fatty meat and the cheesy cheese they produce. Which brings me to my next subject: FOOD.
San Sebastian is all about the food. OK, and the beach - but it was too cold to swim and sunbathe. Erin, Steph and I spent Saturday afternoon and evening exploring the Parte Vieja (Old Part) of the city - OK, not really exploring so much as walking through it in circles, lost, in search of our hostel. Then, we climbed Monte Urgull - which we referred to as the Jesus mountain due to the big Jesus statue situated on its peak - and got this stunning view:
Yes, the water really is that colour
San Sebastian is renowned for having some of the best pinxtos in Spain. Pinxtos are tapas, or little appetizer thingies that you can get at almost any bar. We went to Bar Bergara, grabbed a table, and proceeded to FEAST upon the most incredible, mouthwatering, earth-shattering delights of mushroom, vegetable, cheese and fish-laden tapas.
Ingredients featured in these hot tapas, in no particular order: mushrooms, potatoes, eggs, roasted peppers, bacalao, alioli, shrimp
We ate a lot.
The next day, quite a few things happened (churches were seen, pastries were eaten, rain and wind tried and failed to put a damper on our enjoyment of the beautiful city), but I will only relay the one of utmost importance here. I shall refer to the event in question as "COSP": "The Consumption of a Seafood Paella". Erin, Steph and I like to talk about food, you see. So we'd been talking, in the days leading up to the COSP, about the importance of achieving COSP. We searched and we searched for a restaurant without success, until a lovely local lady angel person saw us stumbling through the streets in hunger and confusion and pointed us in the direction of a paella-serving seaside restaurant. We stumbled on over there, shaking with hunger and anticipation, and placed our order, assuring the waitress that we could handle the 30-minute wait during which the chef would probably go outside and grab the ingredients for our paella straight out of the ocean.
I could write a poem about this paella and its masterful combination of sea creatures and saffron-infused fried rice (so poetic, guys: masterful combination of sea creatures). I could try to explain to you, through words, the ecstasy of COSP and its permanent, life-changing effects on our collective psyche of food idolization. But I would fail. I would fail because simply thinking about COSP, never mind writing about it in detail, is making me drool onto my defenseless bed, and frankly, I ate 8 big pastries yesterday and I just had bread with mashed potatoes and the carbfest that is my stomach right now CANNOT AFFORD to be tempted by a recollection of the delightfulness of COSP. So you'll just have to look at this picture and believe me when I say that even though it looks a little funky, this SEAFOOD PAELLA (it has earned capitalization) was the highlight of an already entirely highlighted experience.
San Sebastian was definitely my favorite trip in Spain so far. The great company; the incomparably delectable and palatable scrumptiousness of food; and the most vivid harmonization of colors: the vibrant green grass, the yellowy yellow sand, the turquoise sea, the palm trees, and the jewel toned buildings, all flanked by the red, yellow, and orange tones of the autumn. Amen.
San Sebastian is all about the food. OK, and the beach - but it was too cold to swim and sunbathe. Erin, Steph and I spent Saturday afternoon and evening exploring the Parte Vieja (Old Part) of the city - OK, not really exploring so much as walking through it in circles, lost, in search of our hostel. Then, we climbed Monte Urgull - which we referred to as the Jesus mountain due to the big Jesus statue situated on its peak - and got this stunning view:
Yes, the water really is that colour
San Sebastian is renowned for having some of the best pinxtos in Spain. Pinxtos are tapas, or little appetizer thingies that you can get at almost any bar. We went to Bar Bergara, grabbed a table, and proceeded to FEAST upon the most incredible, mouthwatering, earth-shattering delights of mushroom, vegetable, cheese and fish-laden tapas.
Ingredients featured in these hot tapas, in no particular order: mushrooms, potatoes, eggs, roasted peppers, bacalao, alioli, shrimp
We ate a lot.
The next day, quite a few things happened (churches were seen, pastries were eaten, rain and wind tried and failed to put a damper on our enjoyment of the beautiful city), but I will only relay the one of utmost importance here. I shall refer to the event in question as "COSP": "The Consumption of a Seafood Paella". Erin, Steph and I like to talk about food, you see. So we'd been talking, in the days leading up to the COSP, about the importance of achieving COSP. We searched and we searched for a restaurant without success, until a lovely local lady angel person saw us stumbling through the streets in hunger and confusion and pointed us in the direction of a paella-serving seaside restaurant. We stumbled on over there, shaking with hunger and anticipation, and placed our order, assuring the waitress that we could handle the 30-minute wait during which the chef would probably go outside and grab the ingredients for our paella straight out of the ocean.
I could write a poem about this paella and its masterful combination of sea creatures and saffron-infused fried rice (so poetic, guys: masterful combination of sea creatures). I could try to explain to you, through words, the ecstasy of COSP and its permanent, life-changing effects on our collective psyche of food idolization. But I would fail. I would fail because simply thinking about COSP, never mind writing about it in detail, is making me drool onto my defenseless bed, and frankly, I ate 8 big pastries yesterday and I just had bread with mashed potatoes and the carbfest that is my stomach right now CANNOT AFFORD to be tempted by a recollection of the delightfulness of COSP. So you'll just have to look at this picture and believe me when I say that even though it looks a little funky, this SEAFOOD PAELLA (it has earned capitalization) was the highlight of an already entirely highlighted experience.
San Sebastian was definitely my favorite trip in Spain so far. The great company; the incomparably delectable and palatable scrumptiousness of food; and the most vivid harmonization of colors: the vibrant green grass, the yellowy yellow sand, the turquoise sea, the palm trees, and the jewel toned buildings, all flanked by the red, yellow, and orange tones of the autumn. Amen.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Hahahalloween
Hola! As I've been telling anyone I've talked to the past few weeks, there was recently a week-long occasion in Soria that filled me with joy and riboflavin: semana de la tapa micologica, or "Week of the Mycological Appetizer" (Mycology is the branch of biology concerned with the study of fungi, or mushrooms). It's amazing how this tiny city comes to life whenever there's any event that yields an excuse to leave the house, eat, drink, and enjoy oneself. I went setapeando ("mushroom appetizer-ing") 6 days in a row because food is life, and by the end of the week, word had spread about which bars were serving the best tapas, leading to ridiculous overcrowding and a wait sometimes as long as an hour for the tiny appetizers because here, they don't cook in bulk or in advance, and so everything is fresh and delicious.
Left: mushroom tapa at Templo, consisting of some kind of delicious mushroomy sauce-gravy thing (that's the technical term) served on an edible doughy spoon, accompanied by a scallop with peach nectar? complicated but delicious and memorable. Right: mushroom empanada type-thing at Santo Domingo II.
On Sunday, my friends and I went to our first soccer match in Spain. Soria's team, Numancia, was playing. There were a lot of people, and on our side of the stadium, there were two groups of "cheerleaders" consisting of mostly men and some women who were waving huuuge flags, playing various percussive instruments, yelling, chanting, cheering, and stomping. Numancia won!!!
Then, I had a great week in school because I prepared a class on Halloween and the kids were so into it. Spain doesn't do Halloween; instead, they have Dia de los Santos and then Dia de los difuntos for which they go to the cemetery, bearing flowers, to clean loved ones' graves. To pique the kids' interest in Halloween, I brought them whatever candy had made it out of my house alive (I had a regrettable and unavoidable binge session that led to an actual intervention by Simon and Erin, who had to physically restrain me while they locked up the meager remains of the candy in the living room credenza) and showed them a variety of Halloween-themed pictures, including this guy:
So I'm explaining "On Halloween, kids sometimes prepare gross stuff like eyeballs made out of olives and baked goods that look like fingers, and you can also make a brain out of hamburger meat and ketchup!". The kids weren't disgusted by this because THEY EAT BRAIN AND FINGERS HERE.
On Saturday, we headed to a chino to look for Halloween costumes. I picked up a hot pink wig and a matching pink scarf because I'm full of imagination. The resulting classy costume, which was greatly enhanced by Steph's contribution of her very own tie-dyed leggings, got named "Colour Vomit". We headed over to our neighbors Candy and Kim's for a fabulous Halloween party. Check out these costumes!!
From the top left, clockwise: Shane as Guy Who Goes to the Chino 20 minutes Before They Close on Halloween Night to Look For a Costume, me as Colour Vomit, Shannon as Abstract Wounded Lion, Kim as Shane, Simon as Chilean Miner, Candy as Terrifying Zombie, Erin as Pumpkin Dressed Up As a Greek Goddess, and Estephie, stealing the show as Amy Winehouse.
The party was tons of fun and the cookies were delicious, even though Candy did not make her delicious brownies. Candy, if you're reading this, please make the brownies. Please.
Left: mushroom tapa at Templo, consisting of some kind of delicious mushroomy sauce-gravy thing (that's the technical term) served on an edible doughy spoon, accompanied by a scallop with peach nectar? complicated but delicious and memorable. Right: mushroom empanada type-thing at Santo Domingo II.
On Sunday, my friends and I went to our first soccer match in Spain. Soria's team, Numancia, was playing. There were a lot of people, and on our side of the stadium, there were two groups of "cheerleaders" consisting of mostly men and some women who were waving huuuge flags, playing various percussive instruments, yelling, chanting, cheering, and stomping. Numancia won!!!
Then, I had a great week in school because I prepared a class on Halloween and the kids were so into it. Spain doesn't do Halloween; instead, they have Dia de los Santos and then Dia de los difuntos for which they go to the cemetery, bearing flowers, to clean loved ones' graves. To pique the kids' interest in Halloween, I brought them whatever candy had made it out of my house alive (I had a regrettable and unavoidable binge session that led to an actual intervention by Simon and Erin, who had to physically restrain me while they locked up the meager remains of the candy in the living room credenza) and showed them a variety of Halloween-themed pictures, including this guy:
So I'm explaining "On Halloween, kids sometimes prepare gross stuff like eyeballs made out of olives and baked goods that look like fingers, and you can also make a brain out of hamburger meat and ketchup!". The kids weren't disgusted by this because THEY EAT BRAIN AND FINGERS HERE.
On Saturday, we headed to a chino to look for Halloween costumes. I picked up a hot pink wig and a matching pink scarf because I'm full of imagination. The resulting classy costume, which was greatly enhanced by Steph's contribution of her very own tie-dyed leggings, got named "Colour Vomit". We headed over to our neighbors Candy and Kim's for a fabulous Halloween party. Check out these costumes!!
From the top left, clockwise: Shane as Guy Who Goes to the Chino 20 minutes Before They Close on Halloween Night to Look For a Costume, me as Colour Vomit, Shannon as Abstract Wounded Lion, Kim as Shane, Simon as Chilean Miner, Candy as Terrifying Zombie, Erin as Pumpkin Dressed Up As a Greek Goddess, and Estephie, stealing the show as Amy Winehouse.
The party was tons of fun and the cookies were delicious, even though Candy did not make her delicious brownies. Candy, if you're reading this, please make the brownies. Please.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
A glacial situation, uncooked beans, and mushrooms galore!
Soria is hilariously tiny. There are only 40,000 inhabitants, 80% of whom are over the age of 75. The remaining 20% of the population consists of my students, who I see everywhere all the time in the streets. I cannot escape them. Isn't it amazing how into themselves teenagers are? I'm really glad I never was one. Anyways, due to this demographic situation, the only people my age in Soria (that I've met or seen) appear to be my fellow auxiliares. Last Saturday,
I met almost all of them when we went on a field trip sponsored by the city to a glacial lake (la laguna negra) up in the mountains, not far from Soria. However, my perception of "not far" is clearly very different from that of Spanish people. 25 minutes into our exhausting, painfully looong bus ride, with the daunting prospect of the 20 minute stretch that remained before the arrival to the Laguna, the bus stopped for a "15" minute coffee break.
We finally got to the lake after a perilous drive up the mountainside, and it was BEAUTIFUL. However, it was also FREEZING. I am sure it was below 0, and my 3 sweaters + huge scarf weren't doing much. I've been ill since the minute we left the Laguna and Dr. Simon has diagnosed me with laryngitis. In any case, we took a bunch of pictures, marveled at the pretty, and whined about the cold (that last part was mostly my contribution).
clockwise, from the top left: the Laguna, the Laguna from the top of the mountain, the auxiliares from Soria of 2010-11, and me and my friends being cool.
That same night, Erin, Simon and I hosted a potluck in our piso and invited all of the assistants. Hilarity ensued. Stephanie DeOrio (the chick in the sunglasses in the picture above, whom I've nicknamed Oreo, Cookie, and Cooks [although she really can't do the latter, as I am about to relay]) brought a bean dip. She soaked the beans for 12 hours. She didn't read the rest of the instructions. She left out the cooking part. Then, Francesca made coconut-mascarpone balls covered in melted chocolate and I ate all of them. Then, Candy brought brownies that were absolutely the most delicious brownies I have EVER EVER TASTED and so I ate all of them as well. Everyone told a fun fact about themselves and I feel as though I should relay a few of them due to their sheer madness: Steph got stabbed by an 8 year old once. Shane stole a gondola in Venice. Francesco got roofied. After almost all of the food had been consumed (including the most DIVINE mac n' cheese eveeeeer by Jessica [it had goat cheese and blue cheese in it YUM] and the most flavorful deviled eggs by Stephanie and have I mentioned CANDY'S BROWNIES?????? Seriously, all of the food was fantastic) we moved the party to Hormiga bar, where I proceeded to take a nap, which has turned into somewhat of a recurring phenomenon, unfortunately. You see, I have this condition - I believe the medical term for it is iSleep - that forces me to take brief naps in public. The doctors have yet to figure out what the trigger is. My friends believe it is the wine.
In other news, it is mushroom season in Soria, and everyone and their grandfather has been going mushroom picking. This week is mushroom tapas week. Every bar serves its own 1.50euro mushroom appetizer and we basically go from bar to bar and have a tapa and a tinto every day. I am loving it so much.
Besos,
Ésmadar.
P.S: When I started out this post with the declaration that "Soria is hilariously tiny", I was going somewhere, but I forgot to get there: for a over a month now, Erin and I have been waiting for our bank cards to arrive in the mail. Alvaro, the (hot) (but married) bank employee with whom we opened the account, has been looking for us to tell us the delay was due to his needing photocopies of our NIE cards. When we'd opened the account with him, we didn't have a land line or cellphone numbers yet, so he had to be creative when trying to get in touch with us. His creativity entailed telling pretty much the entire town that he needed me and Erin to come into the bank with our NIEs. The result: friends, acquaintances, and downright strangers stopping us in the streets to tell us that "Alvaro de Santander" needs to see us. Earlier today at school, a prof Erin claims to have never even seen before walked up to her and asked her in an urgent tone if she'd been to the bank with her NIE card yet. Can you imagine being a newcomer in Montreal and having strangers track you down to discuss your bank account business with you?? Soria is awesome.
I met almost all of them when we went on a field trip sponsored by the city to a glacial lake (la laguna negra) up in the mountains, not far from Soria. However, my perception of "not far" is clearly very different from that of Spanish people. 25 minutes into our exhausting, painfully looong bus ride, with the daunting prospect of the 20 minute stretch that remained before the arrival to the Laguna, the bus stopped for a "15" minute coffee break.
We finally got to the lake after a perilous drive up the mountainside, and it was BEAUTIFUL. However, it was also FREEZING. I am sure it was below 0, and my 3 sweaters + huge scarf weren't doing much. I've been ill since the minute we left the Laguna and Dr. Simon has diagnosed me with laryngitis. In any case, we took a bunch of pictures, marveled at the pretty, and whined about the cold (that last part was mostly my contribution).
That same night, Erin, Simon and I hosted a potluck in our piso and invited all of the assistants. Hilarity ensued. Stephanie DeOrio (the chick in the sunglasses in the picture above, whom I've nicknamed Oreo, Cookie, and Cooks [although she really can't do the latter, as I am about to relay]) brought a bean dip. She soaked the beans for 12 hours. She didn't read the rest of the instructions. She left out the cooking part. Then, Francesca made coconut-mascarpone balls covered in melted chocolate and I ate all of them. Then, Candy brought brownies that were absolutely the most delicious brownies I have EVER EVER TASTED and so I ate all of them as well. Everyone told a fun fact about themselves and I feel as though I should relay a few of them due to their sheer madness: Steph got stabbed by an 8 year old once. Shane stole a gondola in Venice. Francesco got roofied. After almost all of the food had been consumed (including the most DIVINE mac n' cheese eveeeeer by Jessica [it had goat cheese and blue cheese in it YUM] and the most flavorful deviled eggs by Stephanie and have I mentioned CANDY'S BROWNIES?????? Seriously, all of the food was fantastic) we moved the party to Hormiga bar, where I proceeded to take a nap, which has turned into somewhat of a recurring phenomenon, unfortunately. You see, I have this condition - I believe the medical term for it is iSleep - that forces me to take brief naps in public. The doctors have yet to figure out what the trigger is. My friends believe it is the wine.
In other news, it is mushroom season in Soria, and everyone and their grandfather has been going mushroom picking. This week is mushroom tapas week. Every bar serves its own 1.50euro mushroom appetizer and we basically go from bar to bar and have a tapa and a tinto every day. I am loving it so much.
Besos,
Ésmadar.
P.S: When I started out this post with the declaration that "Soria is hilariously tiny", I was going somewhere, but I forgot to get there: for a over a month now, Erin and I have been waiting for our bank cards to arrive in the mail. Alvaro, the (hot) (but married) bank employee with whom we opened the account, has been looking for us to tell us the delay was due to his needing photocopies of our NIE cards. When we'd opened the account with him, we didn't have a land line or cellphone numbers yet, so he had to be creative when trying to get in touch with us. His creativity entailed telling pretty much the entire town that he needed me and Erin to come into the bank with our NIEs. The result: friends, acquaintances, and downright strangers stopping us in the streets to tell us that "Alvaro de Santander" needs to see us. Earlier today at school, a prof Erin claims to have never even seen before walked up to her and asked her in an urgent tone if she'd been to the bank with her NIE card yet. Can you imagine being a newcomer in Montreal and having strangers track you down to discuss your bank account business with you?? Soria is awesome.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)