EZ Bake Thanksgiving

Well, it has certainly been a while, hasn't it? Last Sunday I sat down at my laptop, opened up a new post, and then realized I had nothing to say. So I left it. Now, however, it's one week later and I have LOADS to tell.

This week there was a film festival in the nearby town of Gijón. I went to two movies. Two very . . . interesting French movies. Being more "art" movies, they naturally had little to no plot or character development. Instead they both just sort of displayed events, created an impression. My impression was one of great discomfort. I consider myself quite liberal and open minded, but watching adolescents lick each other's faces and obese men cavorting in the buff would make anyone squirm. It was definitely an experience. We went out afterward, and it was refreshing to be in a different city, with different people and places.

The rest of the week I set myself to the daunting task of creating Thanksgiving. From scratch. I know it seems excessive, plenty of Americans abroad are content to eat poultry, watch football online, and call it a day. Not me. I was determined to recreate this most important holiday down to the smallest detail. Because to me it is very important. It's a uniquely American holiday (ok, and Canadian...). No frills, just food and family. I love it.

First and most importantly, I had to find a turkey. My friend Jaime, sharing in my enthusiasm for the occasion, agreed to help me obtain all the ingredients. With my mom's recipes in hand, we headed to the hipermercado. Within about three minutes we had found a turkey. A whole, fresh turkey. I was so excited I bought it on the spot. Thirteen pounds (6 kg) of bird was mine for the low low price of 26 € ($38).

Overexcited, wrapped up in the situation-- there are many ways to describe this state. When I compared my turkey to my oven, I knew that I had not thought this through. Ovens here are at least half the size of those in the U.S. From this moment the obstacles just kept growing. I had a falling out with my host family, and they said I would not be allowed to have Thanksgiving there. So we moved it to Jaime's house. Suddenly the oven at home was enormous, a luxury as we now had only a toaster oven to work with. To make matters worse, our internet went out, making it all the more difficult to ask mom for advice.

In order to fit the enormous turkey in our EZ bake oven, I first had to debone it. Yes, that's right, I painstakingly shaved all the raw meat off the bone. Let's just suffice to to say I never want to be a butcher in my life. After carving up the bird, we had no problem fitting a breast and drumstick in the toaster oven. With some careful planning and three straight hours of cooking we also somehow managed to make mashed potatoes, stuffing, vegetables, and gravy all come out reasonably hot.

It doesn't look right, but it tasted great. And I think that's what matters.

¡Qué rico!

Oh, and I forgot, I also made a pumpkin pie. From scratch. I actually took a pumpkin, and turned it into pie!

before

after

It all came out extremely delicious. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but it tasted pretty much spot on. But really, let's not lose sight of the true meaning of Thanksgiving. My goal with all of this was just to recreate as best I could the feeling of being all gathered together, enjoying each other's company and eating WAY too much food. Even though I couldn't be with my family, be served copious amounts of food with minimal effort, this Thanksgiving had a different kind of value. Going to all the effort, preparing days in advance, and sharing my culture with others, made it a very unique and memorable day.

Jaime (Spaniard), Me (American)

Eimear (Irish), Iván (Spaniard)

And pie for desert! mmmmmmmm

Til next time!

School Hasn't Gotten in the Way of My Education

This week has been just chock full of wonderful conversations. I feel like that's about all I did, really. As it turns out, my four classes are a very light load. And now that my intensive Spanish class has ended, I have a good deal more free time than I expected; more than I have ever had in college. What better way to spend my time than in conversation, right?

Conversation of all different types: in English with my teeny-bopper students, in Spanish with German/French/Hungarian/Polish/Italian classmates, in English with some wonderful British and Irish friends, and, of course, in Spanish with Spaniards! whew. This latter type is especially valuable, and henceforth will be getting an added boost thanks to my participation in a language "Tándem"--basically, we switch languages for mutual benefit. For all the hours I spend in class, I learn more Spanish in 15 minutes of conversation with a patient Spaniard than any amount of lecture could impart. Thankfully, as far as patience is concerned, my host family and tándem are saints.

It's all the little things involved in everyday conversation that have always eluded me: "well," "you know," "if only," "you're kidding!" "wow," and "you can say that again", to name a few. The words that take the least amount of thought and energy in English are a constant struggle here. I liken my current stage of language ability to a robot. I can express most any thought, idea, or question I'd care to, and people get the idea, but it's nearly always the most inelegant, unnatural, and mechanical kind of Spanish (cue R2-D2 noises and/or corny robotic dance moves).

Although I have resigned myself to the fact that I will never speak native-like, every day I pick up more and more of those little things that make a language human. "O sea," "pero bueno," "¿a que sí?" and "a lo mejor" are my latest gems, FYI. It is also some consolation that at least I'm not the worst off. My fellow Americans: you have a reputation for completely sucking at languages. Please sort it, pronto, so I don't have to go through life being "the exception to the rule" in this area as well. (¡Much more on Americans' reputations coming soon!)

~~~

Today, as most Sundays are and should be, has been a very tranquil, restful day. I did go to a cultural festival of sorts a few hours ago. I believe it was called "Amagüestu."

It was held on Calle Gascona, "The Boulevard of Cider." And there was plenty of Cider to go around. There were free cups of the sweet (a.k.a. not alcoholic) kind which I really enjoyed.

They were even making the cider on the spot, there in the street. Here are two adorable children mashing up apples.

This is their supposed (grand?)father pressing the apples into juice!

There were also chestnuts, roasting over an open fire. They were quite tasty, but after like 5 I was handing 'em out to old men like they were Necco wafers.

Finally, my personal favorite, Hello Kitty and Spongebob Squarepants enjoying the lilting melodies of a bagpipe band. in Spain. How great is this photo??

Until next week. Stay classy, assorted online readers.

Eu não falo português!!! U__U

It may not look like much, but that little purple line is almost a whole day of travel on a bus. For me it was even longer; two days on the way there as I stayed one night in Salamanca, and two days on the way back as I was majorly screwed over by the Portuguese people.

But first, Salamanca. It's a fantastic city. It is positively swarming with students and foreigners, a welcome change from Oviedo which can, at times, feel like one enormous retirement home. Salamanca is very lively. I believe someone told me it has the most bars per capita in all of Spain. And it seemed as though all of this life is built inside absolutely ancient buildings. Everything in the extensive medieval quarter is made from the same stone, which seems to glow when the sun hits it.

Sadly, I got there too late to take many good pictures of this phenomenon, but you can sort of see in this photo how the top of this building is glowing in the sun.

Here's the Plaza Mayor at night. It would be lovelier without those shacks, but they were selling used and rare books so I guess they can stay.

Here's the "new" cathedral (14th Cent. I think?)

After some brief sightseeing and an even briefer night out, it was off to Portugal. A word of advice to future travelers: don't even consider visiting the place unless you know a little Portuguese and/or Spanish. If anyone in Portugal speaks English, they are pretty damn well hidden. When I first decided to visit my friend Bethan, I didn't think much of the fact that she lives in small-town Portugal. I thought, Portuguese seems fairly similar to Spanish, I can even read it with some effort, why worry? The week before my trip I had researched some basic phrases, brushed up on major differences from Spanish, and felt quite confident I could survive in Portugal. From the first instant I heard the language though, I knew I had deceived myself.

Despite being able to read it, I couldn't understand a word! I wasn't even sure what language I was hearing at first. Two years ago, when I was living with my French friend Yvan, he asked me if Portuguese is somehow related to Russian or Polish. I just laughed in his face. Who could possibly think that? When I stepped off the bus, I understood instantly what Yvan was talking about. I heard, not the bouncy, lively language of samba and "The Girl from Ipanema", but a mouthful of consonants that could only be called semi-Slavic. For all you linguists out there (amateur or otherwise), I will gladly go into the details further down.

So, the instant I stepped foot in the country, I felt for the first time the fear, confusion, and frustration of not understanding anyone, and no one understanding me. To make matters worse, my phone was out of money, and I had no way of making any calls during the entire vacation. Somehow, after only a few wrong turns and dead ends, I made it to Bethan's house. From there I could rest easy, with the help of her Portuguese friends.

We had a lovely time. It was Welcome Week for the freshmen at the university, so there were numerous performances by local and international bands, DJs, and lots of dancing.

After the party, we tried the food at various street vendors. We had to pass on the hotdogs, though, since their being called cachorro (Spanish for "puppy") is less than appetizing.
Finally, we made it home just in time to watch a gorgeous sunrise.

Sadly, they do not celebrate Halloween in Spain or Portugal, so I did not get to dress up as anything this year. Though, if you look very closely at Bethan and me, you'll see small yellow produce stickers her Madeiran roommate stuck on us. Thus, I like to say I was a very old, very blackened banana for Halloween. "Eu sou uma banana da Madeira!"

I also saw some of the sites of the area, of course.

The church in Covilhã

My vacation was during All Saints Day, which is like Memorial Day in the U.S. This is a cemetery in Portugal, overflowing with chrysanthemums; a benediction was playing over loud speaker in the background.

This is inside the cathedral in Guarda. Those little lights in the corner are meant to be prayer candles. Only, they've modernized the idea, so that now you only have to drop in some coins and the little flame-shaped bulbs light up. My ten cents got me four candles!

Sadly, my prayers for safe and hassle-free travel were not answered. It was Monday, and I was in Guarda waiting for the 1:00 bus back to Spain. As the time of departure got closer, I began to get more and more anxious. First of all, nowhere at the bus station does it say when or where particular buses will come. They just appear, at whatever time they please, and are announced over loudspeaker in very fast, garbled Portuguese. There are no speakers in the waiting room, only outside in the cold. And the people in charge do not wear any kind of uniform. Thus, I had to continuously run up to each bus that arrived and ask if it was going to Salamanca. Every time a bus came, I ran to meet it, or tried to ask people if they knew anything about my bus. As 1:00 came and went I became frantic and asked everyone remotely official looking. Every time it was a different story:

"Ask the man in blue. He knows." So I would.
"Oh it's late," man in blue said. So I waited. Maybe the bus that says Spain is mine?
"No this bus doesn't go to Salamanca." So I waited.
"No the one for Salamanca will be here in 5 or 10 minutes." So I waited.

Of course, this was all in Portuguese, so who knows what they were actually saying. Some words have very different meanings in Portuguese, as I mentioned about the hotdog. In Spain atrasado means "late", or "behind schedule". In Portugal it means "I don't have a clue what the hell I'm saying but I would really like for you to wait in the cold for three more hours."

So that's what I did. Every time a bus came I would have an instant of hope, followed by a half-hour of despair, constantly led to believe that it would be there soon. Finally, after nearly four hours of this run-around, I found someone in charge who spoke a little Spanish. To my overwhelming anguish, he informed me that my bus had indeed come around it's assigned time, but in an act of incomprehensible incompetence, they had sold more tickets than there were seats. So the bus that said Spain was mine. My wouldn't it have been grand if someone on the bus to Spain spoke Spanish, or had a clue in general. Could have saved me the great pleasure of interrogating middle-aged women all day in the cold. I received no compensation for their error, aside from booking me a replacement ticket--for the following day. Exhausted and defeated, I trekked back to Beth's to await the next round of Portuguese pandemonium.

I eventually did make it home. Thank God. But let's suffice it to say that I have no plans on returning to Portugal in the near future. It was so great seeing Beth, so nice to have a real friend again and speak my language with her, but Portugal itself was a major, major disappointment. Even if I spoke the language, this would have happened to me. What they pass off as infrastructure is just a joke!

******LINGUISTIC NERD WARNING**************
As I said above, the language was also nothing like I had expected. I had imagined a country full of cute and bouncy sounds like in Manu Chao's song Homens. Unfortunately, European Portuguese is very different from the Brazilian type. I found a good comparison looking at newscasts.

First, from Portugal: Bom Dia Portugal. The ad at the beginning depicts especially well, I think, the language. Three things make it sound Slavic to me. First, the abundance of dark (or velar) [l]. Second, it seems they don't pronounce [o] or [e] in a lot of environments, so there are a lot of consonant clusters not normally heard in Romance languages. Third, [s] is very often [sh].

Now, from Brazil: Jornal do Globo. I think it's instantly apparent how different they are. The intonation is much more dramatic here. I guess [l] is pretty similar, but is vocalized in coda position. The s isn't pronounced [sh].

The moral of this story is, they're really different. Much more different than British and American English or Peninsular and American Spanish. (For those wanting a much more in-depth explanation, check out this site.) I also think I can understand the Brazilian type better. For those of you who speak Spanish, what do you think?
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That's all I'll bore you with for now. I learned a lot on this trip. A lot about myself and for better or worse, a lot about life. While I was waiting at that bus station for hours on end I wanted nothing more than to go home. But then I realized, where is home? Is Spain my home? As much as I like it, it's not home. Is Salt Lake my home? It used to be, but by the time I get back there all my friends will probably have moved on and it will be a different place. I know I always have my parents' house to go to, but I feel like I'm a visitor there too. At the moment, I have no home. That's kind of a tough realization.

But even if it's not home, I'm very glad to be back in Spain. It's so nice being in a country whose language I speak. I'm still nowhere near fluent, but this trip has provided a good contrast with which to measure how much Spanish I do know.