The End of The Dangerous Summer
Jul. 13th, 2006 01:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
x_losThis friday went down to Puerto de Santa Maria. Along with Jerez, "Wine City", this is the part of Andalucia that makes up the Sherry Triangle. Hard drops in the concumption of sherry and brandy in Britain as England gets too cool for what grandpa drank have turned the area into a economic wasteland with the highest unemployment in Spain.
Driving to Granada only proved, god DAMN it, that the hills really did look like white elephants, fuck it all. A drive to the other side of Andalucia is marked by long stretches of agriculltural sunflower fields. Gypsy populations were higher, the extent of cripling poverty aparent in the shit-caked clothing of the beggars. The one who accosted me looked possibly 17, wheedling-voiced and shirtless, and I get him more than I should have and less than he wanted.
Prices drop outside of Sevilla, the capital of the self-suporting regional government. The seafood was incredible, the fried bits of 'cock of the ocean' (wtf, spain?) pairing well with my gazpaucho merluz. There is more varriation to gazpaucho, the cold soup of Southern Spain, than I might have guessed. A thick red broth is a little more common up north, while a rosy cream concoction dominates Sevilla and a similar but more hearty soup with bits of shrimp is served on the Western coast.
I was all prepared to get a hotel room after the corrida and stay until Sunday's noviallda. La Plaza de el Puerto de Santa Maria is hailed as second in Andalucia, thus third in Spain and presumably in the world. As to the second and first spots I direct you to the ongoing raging battle between La Maestranza, Sevilla and Las Ventanas, Madrid, as a signpost in the larger ongoing culture wars of Spain that somewhat mirror those of America. I like Andalucia as deeply as I do because I'm Southern, and the place resonates strongly for me.
The plaza was informal, surprisingly a bit run down. I hopped eagerly down into the first filla, something I neeeeever could have afforded at a real corrida. I was in spitting distance of the action by the grace of sin piccadore alone.
An old Spanish woman sat further down on the bench. Smiling at me she scooted down to join me. Andalucians have no concept whatsoever of personal space. We began talking, puncuating out sentences with fan flicks, which are part of the gestural vocabulary I frequently resort to here to help get a point across. Her husband refused to sit down.
"Is there a number on your ticket?" "No, none ma'mn." "See, Jorge, she doesn't have a number, seatin's unassigned, sit!" Jorge murmered poisnously, remaining on foot, scanning the stadium restlessly. "He's an idiot." The old woman confided to me. "Jorge! Sit down!" Jorge whined. "He says he's no gypsy." The woman added. I worked it out. Oh, stealing seats, gypsy-- got it. "I don't think it's a problem, they don't have assigned numbers either." I flicked to our filla mates with my funda. "Where are you from then, are you a student?" Ouch, that obvious then. I explained. She proceeded to give me in turn fruit snacks and peanuts. It's incredibly impolite to refuse. Jorge joined us at the last, swayed by everyone else doing it and his own obvious interest in the best seats in the house.
My god. I'd read that Sevilla was the fussiest Plaza in the world, the least willing to assign trofeas, the least eager to praise a good show, but El Puerto was ridiculous. White handkerchiefs like a snowfall. They screamed as a mass when the presidente refused their vote of confidence twice. I kept quiet about agreeing with her(and a woman presidente!)'s decisions. I think if I'd thrown a bottle and killed the damn thing they would have tried to give ME a trofea. I don't think I like first row. It's all action, no perspective.
Two accidents that might have been grave or fatal with full grown bulls melted into nothing with these bitsy practice animals. Still, watching a man go down, the animal refusing to get off him, the arena turn for a minuite, never more, but always feeling like more, into a swarming chaos as everyone runs to get the animal off the injured man, is a bizzare, haunting spectacle. The way mannagers and fathers behind a barrier will stroke the injured boy's hair and face frantically before sending him back out, their hands still clutching at him as he goes to finish, will stay with me.
"What a bitch!" My old woman said with feeling to everyone around her, who joined her in an active discussion of how the presidente should either return home or work somewhere else, possible as an executive from cocacola, as she apparently had no feeling in her heart. We resumed out seats when it was beyond clear that she would not be moved. "We can just piss straight down, since we're wearing skirts, if we need to go!" My companion was gleeful. I might have looked a little surprised. "He said it, not me!" She made clear, blaming Jorge.
Afterwards I was horrified to find not a single hotel room in all of El Puerto de Santa Maria. I walked to the bus, only to find I'd missed the last. a tour bus went by and tried to entice me onboard, but I have seen Almost Famous and decided against it. I slept on a bench in Las Duenas National Park until I got worried about my too secluded location and headed back into town.
A carload of boys my age wanted to put me up for the night, and they were probably just being nice, but I am too cautious and I said goodbye to them. Then a guy wanted to give me a ride to Jerez, but when I'd let him buy me a cup of coffee (I am not about accepting drinks and physical contact when I am freezing) his hand kept slipping lazily to my ass, so no. A bus got me to Jerez, I slept in the train station, and at last took the Sunday train into Sevilla and slept properly.
I am as happy as I have ever been, here. The depression is staying away, I'm productive in my writing, I have bars I like and I think at some point in my life I will come back here, where I have been content. I miss things, like my friends and the taste of milk. The clumsy inadaquacy of the spanish verb phrase for to miss annoys me.
I am now, according to my teachers and the wikipedia definition, functionally bilingual. I have to read more-- my inability to speak at the level I do in English, to read the same types of books in Spanish and English is getting me pissed off. I still don't understand the subjunctive, and I need more practice at conversation. Other than these things I'm not really afraid of the Spanish exam when I return to the states. If I review for a few hours before going in I should be good. It's the names of shit that confuse me- I can speak the language, what the fuck was pluscamprefecto again? I'm thinking of getting a job in the hospital helping Spanish speaking immigrants communicate with doctors. I have been told there is a need of such individuals, and I'd like to keep the language and help people while doing it.
This week's been around 118.4 Degrees fareinheit. I had a giant battle with my mom as to whether she'd be planning the entirety of my trip from overseas (the reasons why she wants to do this ellude me) or I would have control. I said I would do what I wanted when I wanted or I'd damn well go back to Will's in London and wait for the flight home. She's already bought the Eurail passes, so she may have too go fuck herself. If she can figure out how. Her menopause is going to kill us both, I swear.
This weekend I leave for Madrid and then head over to Rome. More updates probably as I finish school, which has taken all my time, and start to move and travel again. My backpack is at the minimum, reduced to four shirts, two pairs of pants, and two dresses. One pair trainers, one pair flip flops. This is it for 21 days.
Esperaisme bueno suerte.
Wish me good luck.
Driving to Granada only proved, god DAMN it, that the hills really did look like white elephants, fuck it all. A drive to the other side of Andalucia is marked by long stretches of agriculltural sunflower fields. Gypsy populations were higher, the extent of cripling poverty aparent in the shit-caked clothing of the beggars. The one who accosted me looked possibly 17, wheedling-voiced and shirtless, and I get him more than I should have and less than he wanted.
Prices drop outside of Sevilla, the capital of the self-suporting regional government. The seafood was incredible, the fried bits of 'cock of the ocean' (wtf, spain?) pairing well with my gazpaucho merluz. There is more varriation to gazpaucho, the cold soup of Southern Spain, than I might have guessed. A thick red broth is a little more common up north, while a rosy cream concoction dominates Sevilla and a similar but more hearty soup with bits of shrimp is served on the Western coast.
I was all prepared to get a hotel room after the corrida and stay until Sunday's noviallda. La Plaza de el Puerto de Santa Maria is hailed as second in Andalucia, thus third in Spain and presumably in the world. As to the second and first spots I direct you to the ongoing raging battle between La Maestranza, Sevilla and Las Ventanas, Madrid, as a signpost in the larger ongoing culture wars of Spain that somewhat mirror those of America. I like Andalucia as deeply as I do because I'm Southern, and the place resonates strongly for me.
The plaza was informal, surprisingly a bit run down. I hopped eagerly down into the first filla, something I neeeeever could have afforded at a real corrida. I was in spitting distance of the action by the grace of sin piccadore alone.
An old Spanish woman sat further down on the bench. Smiling at me she scooted down to join me. Andalucians have no concept whatsoever of personal space. We began talking, puncuating out sentences with fan flicks, which are part of the gestural vocabulary I frequently resort to here to help get a point across. Her husband refused to sit down.
"Is there a number on your ticket?" "No, none ma'mn." "See, Jorge, she doesn't have a number, seatin's unassigned, sit!" Jorge murmered poisnously, remaining on foot, scanning the stadium restlessly. "He's an idiot." The old woman confided to me. "Jorge! Sit down!" Jorge whined. "He says he's no gypsy." The woman added. I worked it out. Oh, stealing seats, gypsy-- got it. "I don't think it's a problem, they don't have assigned numbers either." I flicked to our filla mates with my funda. "Where are you from then, are you a student?" Ouch, that obvious then. I explained. She proceeded to give me in turn fruit snacks and peanuts. It's incredibly impolite to refuse. Jorge joined us at the last, swayed by everyone else doing it and his own obvious interest in the best seats in the house.
My god. I'd read that Sevilla was the fussiest Plaza in the world, the least willing to assign trofeas, the least eager to praise a good show, but El Puerto was ridiculous. White handkerchiefs like a snowfall. They screamed as a mass when the presidente refused their vote of confidence twice. I kept quiet about agreeing with her(and a woman presidente!)'s decisions. I think if I'd thrown a bottle and killed the damn thing they would have tried to give ME a trofea. I don't think I like first row. It's all action, no perspective.
Two accidents that might have been grave or fatal with full grown bulls melted into nothing with these bitsy practice animals. Still, watching a man go down, the animal refusing to get off him, the arena turn for a minuite, never more, but always feeling like more, into a swarming chaos as everyone runs to get the animal off the injured man, is a bizzare, haunting spectacle. The way mannagers and fathers behind a barrier will stroke the injured boy's hair and face frantically before sending him back out, their hands still clutching at him as he goes to finish, will stay with me.
"What a bitch!" My old woman said with feeling to everyone around her, who joined her in an active discussion of how the presidente should either return home or work somewhere else, possible as an executive from cocacola, as she apparently had no feeling in her heart. We resumed out seats when it was beyond clear that she would not be moved. "We can just piss straight down, since we're wearing skirts, if we need to go!" My companion was gleeful. I might have looked a little surprised. "He said it, not me!" She made clear, blaming Jorge.
Afterwards I was horrified to find not a single hotel room in all of El Puerto de Santa Maria. I walked to the bus, only to find I'd missed the last. a tour bus went by and tried to entice me onboard, but I have seen Almost Famous and decided against it. I slept on a bench in Las Duenas National Park until I got worried about my too secluded location and headed back into town.
A carload of boys my age wanted to put me up for the night, and they were probably just being nice, but I am too cautious and I said goodbye to them. Then a guy wanted to give me a ride to Jerez, but when I'd let him buy me a cup of coffee (I am not about accepting drinks and physical contact when I am freezing) his hand kept slipping lazily to my ass, so no. A bus got me to Jerez, I slept in the train station, and at last took the Sunday train into Sevilla and slept properly.
I am as happy as I have ever been, here. The depression is staying away, I'm productive in my writing, I have bars I like and I think at some point in my life I will come back here, where I have been content. I miss things, like my friends and the taste of milk. The clumsy inadaquacy of the spanish verb phrase for to miss annoys me.
I am now, according to my teachers and the wikipedia definition, functionally bilingual. I have to read more-- my inability to speak at the level I do in English, to read the same types of books in Spanish and English is getting me pissed off. I still don't understand the subjunctive, and I need more practice at conversation. Other than these things I'm not really afraid of the Spanish exam when I return to the states. If I review for a few hours before going in I should be good. It's the names of shit that confuse me- I can speak the language, what the fuck was pluscamprefecto again? I'm thinking of getting a job in the hospital helping Spanish speaking immigrants communicate with doctors. I have been told there is a need of such individuals, and I'd like to keep the language and help people while doing it.
This week's been around 118.4 Degrees fareinheit. I had a giant battle with my mom as to whether she'd be planning the entirety of my trip from overseas (the reasons why she wants to do this ellude me) or I would have control. I said I would do what I wanted when I wanted or I'd damn well go back to Will's in London and wait for the flight home. She's already bought the Eurail passes, so she may have too go fuck herself. If she can figure out how. Her menopause is going to kill us both, I swear.
This weekend I leave for Madrid and then head over to Rome. More updates probably as I finish school, which has taken all my time, and start to move and travel again. My backpack is at the minimum, reduced to four shirts, two pairs of pants, and two dresses. One pair trainers, one pair flip flops. This is it for 21 days.
Esperaisme bueno suerte.
Wish me good luck.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-07-13 04:15 am (UTC)multiple orgasams
no subject
Date: 2006-07-13 12:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-22 07:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-25 09:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-23 01:32 am (UTC)dulcit language indeed! i do so enjoy made up word games. the name of this game is german... apparently.
sorry bout the non-pick up! though christ knows i've picked you up from so many locations before- street corners, filthy bathroom stalls, rehab centers, etc- this is hardly an issue. but i tease, i tease.
will you ever return to spain? i hope so! i sent you a letter on monday... i doubt you've received it by saturday. you must go back to spain to retrieve it. this is obviously the answer.
kisses!
no subject
Date: 2006-07-25 09:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-28 06:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-28 06:55 pm (UTC)