The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

Well folks, this is my last week in Oviedo, Spain. It's been quite the adventure these past 9 months. I have met loads of people, traveled nearly every corner of this country, and lived it to the utmost. And so, I wanted to write a sort of overall impression: the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. I cannot always be sure if what I see is typical of Oviedo, of Asturias, of Spain, or of all of Europe, but I will try to be as fair and balanced as possible with my judgments. I will also (eventually) translate this post into Spanish so everyone can benefit from my estimations.


THE GOOD, THE BAD

The Spanish are extremely tolerant and I find this so refreshing. After growing up in puritanical Utah, it is such a relief to live in a place where others don't impose their morals on your life. The Spanish are extremely in tune with the idea of "live and let live". Topics like alcohol, sex, and swearing are all treated very pragmatically here. Their understanding is that these are all personal choices and everyone is happiest if we all keep our ideologies to ourselves. As a result, there is much less abuse and excess in these regards. I can only think of one occasion off the top of my head that I've seen someone physically incapacitated from drinking too much. Since alcohol is not some forbidden, sinful object, people understand how to handle it in moderation. The idea of binging yourself blind when you turn 21 is a bit absurd to someone who's had wine with dinner all his or her life. In Asturias you can buy beer and cider at 16, and if you're with your family, there's no real age limit.

Of course, we all draw the line of what is tolerable differently. I am a bit appalled when I see 15-year-olds drinking and smoking in the park in broad daylight. The other day a 10-year-old boy on the street asked me to buy him cigarettes. These are both things I can never imagine happening at home.

My absolute least favorite thing about Spain is their tolerance for smoking. Ok, smoking in bars is fair enough, but every single restaurant, café, and coffee shop? There's no escape! I thought I was moving to modern Europe not the 1950's. People smoke in their own houses, with the windows closed even. Have they not heard of second hand smoke? Do they not mind their walls and furniture turning yellow and smelling like manure? As recently as 15 years ago people still smoked at the office and in university lectures. After checking some statistics online, it seems that as much as 30% of people over 16 in Spain smoke, compared to about 20% in the US and UK (over 18). With a mere 12% of the population smoking in Utah, you can imagine my shock. If you ever want to eat out or get a drink or coffee in Spain, you have to resign yourself to the fact that you will smell like an ashtray for the rest of the day. I have to take a shower after a night out because the smell of my own hair makes me sick. I know, I am less tolerant to smoke than most people due to my sensitive nose, but I can unequivocally say that tobacco is the worst part of Spain. I can't wait to go back to a nice smelling country, and think I may not return to Spain until they join the modern world in this regard.

Despite my grumbling, I have to just suck it up, because one key aspect of the Spanish lifestyle is that life happens outside the home. The Spanish truly know how to live well. People of all ages delight in taking a stroll around the park, chatting with friends for hours, and eating out. There are an incredible number of cafés, full of people taking their time to enjoy a coffee, eat a little snack, read the paper, catch up with the neighborhood gossip. Fast food and ordering things to-go are very unpopular; why rush? Going out is always an option on a dry night, and Spaniards are not shy to dance. I've spent many a happy evening drifting from locale to locale. You can stop in and dance some salsa, move on to a rock-and-roll kind of bar, get a glass of wine, go hear a Celtic band, and get your hip-hop on, all within the size of one or two Salt Lake City blocks. This leisurely attitude is institutionalized, and the entire country gets a solid month of vacation, usually August.

There are a few obvious drawbacks to this laid-back and fun-loving temperament. Spain has an unemployment rate of over 20%. Having loads of vacation and few work hours is great until you're the one who would really like to get something done. I once had to wait one whole hour to mail a package because there was only one person working at the post office on a weekday morning. It took me two hours to buy a cell phone for heaven's sake! If I set about to write down all the times I have been majorly screwed over by Spain's notorious disorganization and inefficiency, it would fill a small novel. The story I'll be telling my grandkids happened just last Monday. It was the final exam for my grammar class, the last of my exams and the end of my undergraduate career. On this most momentous day, I kid you not, the professor showed up one whole HOUR late to the exam. The university had told her the wrong time. She apologized profusely and assured us it was not the first time this had happened . . . truly the icing on the cake of a malfunctional year.

These experiences lead me to think it's maybe not a complete mystery that they have such crippling unemployment. I mean, the same people running the postal service and this high-ranking university are in charge of economic policy! I'm not saying all Spanish people are lazy or inept, but everyone in a position of power seems to be.

I don't mean to knock the University of Oviedo either. My professors were all extremely knowledgeable and dedicated. I learned a fair amount and one of my professors in particular was truly inspirational. Nevertheless, I am now quite certain I would never want to do my post-graduate work in Spain. I really appreciate the University of Utah and American education now. Here it's all just lecture. You show up to class (or not) and listen to the professor for 45 minutes (or a half hour if they arrive late as the aforementioned inspiration regularly did). Students aren't expected to contribute anything. Instead, they frantically write down every word the professor says. Those with the best notes copy them for their classmates, they study these novellas for days on end, then take one gigantic test. I often have ideas I'd like to share, but then remember the American girl who is rumored to have been kicked out of class for interrupting the lecturer, so I keep my thoughts to myself.


On a very different topic, Spanish food is delicious. I have nothing but good things to say. Everything is produced locally, naturally. Would you believe that at the McDonald's here they use Asturian beef? It's all much more healthy and ecological, a great model for a more sustainable future. My griping is confined to the following: too much fried food, not enough herbs/spices, not enough fruits and vegetables. Overall though, Spanish food is incredible. Even simple boring things like tortilla and croquetas are surprisingly delicious. My personal favorite is the fish and seafood. I know words for things I couldn't begin to name or describe in English. It's all quality and relatively affordable. As a matter of course I've also become a bit of a wine connoisseur; I really enjoy a good albariño or ribera del duero.

Another wonderful thing about Spain that I've had the pleasure of experiencing is the great cultural diversity that is to be found in different parts of the peninsula. When I visited Sevilla I was amazed how different everything was from Oviedo. The people look much more Mediterranean, they speak very differently, the food is different, and the climate is the exact opposite of Asturias: hot and dry. Then if you travel to Cataluña, the culture is quite different again, with nearly everyone speaking Catalán, a sort of intermediate language between Spanish and French (they say both gracias and merci!). And as I explained in an earlier post, the Basque country is probably the most unique of all, descended from the early pre-Roman, pre-Celtic people of Europe. Really, every village and city has slightly different language and food in Spain. Traveling just a few hours you can feel like you're somewhere new and foreign.

There is great diversity in the original cultures of the peninsula. But more and more there is greater cultural diversity due to immigration. I read once that Asturias has one of the highest percentages of immigrants in all of Spain, and it shows. When I've traveled to other parts of Spain it surprised me how few Chinese Bazaars there are, how few West Africans or Latin Americans I see compared to Oviedo. Sadly, Spain has not done a very good job of integrating these immigrants into mainstream society. Chinese people own restaurants or bazaars or sell flowers. That's it. Africans work as garbagemen or sell CDs. That's it. Latinos are more integrated because they already speak the language, but still hold marginal jobs. This is not substantially different than the U.S., bit it is more extreme. America has had a much longer history of immigration and thus it's not odd that a person of Asian decent should be a lawyer or one of African decent a CEO. In Spain this would be quite the anomaly.

Also, I hate to say it, but racism is much more acceptable in Spain than in America. As I mentioned in the last post, Europe is generally thought to be more classist and America more racist. Sadly, Spain is both classist and racist. People will casually say things like "Chinese are ugly" or "Africans are dangerous." There was even an advertisement on TV for a shampoo that promised you hair "as straight and smooth as an Asian's". When I suggested this was, at best, ethnically insensitive, no one seemed to see why. When I asked what they would think of a shampoo that made your hair "curly as an African's" they laughed aloud and said "who would want African hair??" My host family very good-naturedly suggested I dress up as a Black person for Carnaval. Ever heard of "blackface"? Ringing a bell? The most heart-breaking, though, was a woman's remark when she saw a cute little South American Indian baby on TV. She looked at it woefully and said, "Poor thing. How is anyone going to love something so ugly." The most discriminated group is definitely the Roma people, commonly called gypsies. "They steal". "They cheat". "They lie". "They are dirty". No Spaniard would even bat a lash at these statements. And maybe they often are true, but I nonetheless am not OK with automatically judging a person's character just because s/he has "coffee with milk"-colored skin.

I hope in this post I don't appear like I'm bitter and jaded. Of course, no place is perfect, and Spain has some very serious issues on its hands. But I don't for one second regret coming here. Spain is an extremely diverse and beautiful country, and the Spanish are a generous and good-spirited people, always willing to lend a hand and have a good time. I hope I will be able to visit often in the future. If all my friends and I could meet in Oviedo every summer for a reunion I'd be eternally happy. And I hope the people I've met might be willing to visit me back in the USA as well. Wherever I am, you're all welcome!

Oh, and before I forget:

THE UGLY

Belén Esteban. #1 Muppet in Spain. *Shudder*

Next week I start my train journey to Barcelona, France, Amsterdam, Berlin, and London, so stay tuned for much more travel logs!

¡Ay, qué pijería!

OK, so I really should be studying for my Spanish Grammar exam tomorrow. Buuuuuut, I thought I'd pump out another post real quick. Nothing as overwhelming and long-winded as last week's, don't worry. There's a certain topic which has been gnawing at me for ages now, and I think if I write it down then maybe my internal monologues might stop, or at least lighten up. The topic is social class.

Sometime last year I met a girl from San Francisco who grew up in England, and we got talking about the differences between the U.S. and Europe, specifically the U.K. Her opinion was that the U.K. has many fewer racial tensions and inequalities than the United States. She, who is half African- and half European-American, felt like her appearance was much less of an issue when she lived in England (London I believe) than when she later moved back to the U.S. On the contrary, she suggested that in the U.K. there were instead many more prejudices and inequalities with regard to social class. This is an idea I've heard many times in the past. So, now that I have a bit of personal experience, is the Old World really more classist than the New World?

The answer is, yes, I'm afraid it really is. I have heard the most outrageous things since I've lived here. Elitist beliefs seem to be ingrained in society and the most reasonable people will say incredibly prejudiced things without a second thought. There are entire vocabularies for class-related ideas that I have a hard time wrapping my brain around.

My first exposure to this was back in October. I met this Spaniard who had the most peculiar obsession with pijos. He explained to me how they say things like "¡qué fuerte!" and "o sea" all the time, that they dress in brand name clothing and buy the most expensive of everything. I had no idea what a pijo was, so I turned to my trusty dictionary and got "posh" as the definition. This hardly helped. I slowly began to realize, the more I heard this term, that not only were pijo and posh not part of my vocabulary, they weren't part of my world view either.

What this guy was talking about, complaining about, judging and stereotyping, was the upper class of Spanish society. I will always remember when I introduced him to my friend Victor and he quickly said, "oh, we've met." He then proceeded to heckle Victor because the type of shoes he wore and his button-up Dockers shirt marked him as a complete pijo and thus deserving prejudice and public mockery. When I met Victor I never once considered how much money his parents make or what neighborhood he might live in or what his clothing budget might be. He was just a nice guy willing to show me around Oviedo as my officially appointed tour guide. And having gotten to know him quite well, it sounds like his neighborhood is anything but the height of fashion, and his clothing style hardly means he buys toilet paper from El Corte Inglés.

Many more examples come from my time spent with the British. It seems nearly every aspect of British life has a class dimension to it. "Oh that tea is alright, but it's for builders [construction workers]. This one is more in our market." Vacationing in Spain is considered very "common" (as in something commoners do; they still think of commoners). Anyone with any class will prefer to visit France or Italy. Every single Briton in Oviedo knows which of their countrymen is the poshest, and are able to determine this instantly based upon accent. I've even heard my friend Moo referred to as simply "that really posh girl." Crazier still, this seems to successfully remind people of who she is! I swear, it's like as soon as someone says they're from Oxford they're assumed to own a yacht, and as soon as they say their from Coventry, they're assumed to own a switchblade.

Sometimes there are completely different vocabulary even. In America, the final course of a meal is always called "dessert". Not in Britain. If you call it "dessert" you are being posh, and if you call it "pudding" you are being common. The thing you use to wipe your mouth in America is just a napkin. In Britain this is the posh term, with commoner people calling it a "serviette".

I honestly can't think of anything similar to this occurring in the U.S. Granted, more educated people do speak quite differently than less educated people, but it's nowhere near as extreme. Having met quite a few British people, it's amazing that even though they are all university students, some will forever be considered lower than others, based on nothing but their accent. I asked them about this, and they've said it's a tricky subject, because it doesn't just come down to money. You can have lots of money and still be common. You can have quite a humble income and be posh. The fact is, there exists a social divide in Europe which is unparalleled in America.

When I met a friend's parents a while back, I was really caught off guard when she referred to me as "a rather posh American." At the time I didn't say anything; she meant it as the utmost compliment. I didn't even know what to think. Since then I have been pondering what she said. In what way am I posh? She had said this because, in their eyes, I speak much better than most Americans. Most British people secretly (or less than secretly) abhor how Americans speak, making minor exceptions for newscasters, old movies . . . and apparently me.

I suppose to a certain extent this is true. A friend once told me how having a more posh accent has gotten her out of trouble before. When she had a run-in with the police, she merely had to assure them nothing is wrong in her most proper voice and they went on their way. I haven't had any experience quite like this, but I do recall one occasion back in high school. We were at a debate tournament and went up against a team from a rougher part of town. In their opening argument they said things like "They was", "She don't" and "They don't have nowhere to go." We easily beat them, and afterward my teammates remarked, "How do they expect to win if they speak like that?" The sad truth is, my partner and I spoke standard "correct" English, and there was no way they could beat that. It's quite unfair when you think about it. They only speak that way because their parents do. I only speak this way because my parents do. I'd like to say it's because I was the most dedicated pupil in Mr. Hawk's Second Grade grammar class, but the truth is I got it for free. It is an advantage I have over others and I didn't have to do anything to earn it.

Nonetheless, I do not think this makes me "posh". The more I think about the term, the more indignant and defensive I get. They were calling me upper-class, saying I am different, special, elite. This does not sit well with me, and I don't think it would sit well with many Americans. There's something deep-seated in our culture which causes us to decry and deny anything snobbish. If you look at political advertisements, you can see there is a great value placed in being "just a regular joe" with a job and a mortgage, someone who barbecues with the neighbors and belongs to the PTA. It's very bad form to appear "pretentious" or "snooty".

When I was maybe 11 years old I asked my dad, "Dad, are we rich?" To this day I will never forget how upset this made him. He gave me quite the lecture, about how we are very lucky, our family lives quite comfortably, but that in no way are we different or better than anyone else because of our possessions or interests or friends. He stressed that we may have things others don't, but this is only because of hard work and sacrifice. My parents have always been sure to remind us that when I was born we lived in a tiny one-bedroom house with bars on the windows, in a humble neighborhood of Albuquerque, NM. Thrift has always been important; my mom and aunt love to brag how little they spent on any given item.

Categories like "working class", "lower middle class", "upper middle class", "posh", and "common" are all convenient ways of describing how respectable a job someone has, or how long she went to school, or whether he knows which fork to use and how to eat soup. But we must keep in mind that these are nothing more than silly labels. Class, just like Race, is a concept created by human beings. It is a product of our own small-minded worldview, not a reflection of any fundamental world order.

When I lived with my host family, Kike exclaimed once, "¡Ay, qué pijería!". Someone on the television had done something exceedingly pijo, such as dressing a child in a Versace suit. I still don't know how I'd translate the word pijería. Some things, like paella, just don't exist in America.

The Americans' Burden

As many of you will have noticed, the majority of my blog posts over the past months have been little more than photos and brief narratives, lacking in analysis and personal involvement. So, in the four weeks I have left in Spain, I plan on dishing out some meaningful blogging!

Nearly seven months ago I alluded to American stereotypes in my writing. A close reader will notice that I never did flesh out this topic. Today I'd like to pick up the sensitive issue of stereotypes and preconceptions and share how I've come to understand it over these past months.

Every group of people that is somewhat well known and judged as constituting a whole in some way will be assigned certain stereotypes by other such groups. These preconceived notions are almost never created out of nothing; they have some kernel of truth to them. And while the more politically correct individual will be quick to discount all stereotypes as evil, I think they can serve a useful purpose. It's silly to assume your Italian and German roommates might have the same approach to cleaning and organization, for example. The trick is knowing to what extent you can apply a stereotype. You needn't be surprised that a particular Frenchman bathes daily, for example. There are always exceptions and some stereotypes are better founded than others.

Since I've lived here I have become very familiar with what Europeans assume about each other, as well as what they assume about us Americans. I will never forget, it must have been the first week I lived in Oviedo; I was at a party (read: botellón) and was speaking with a Spaniard who proceeded to ask me the most pointed and startling questions. "So, if you're American, why aren't you fat?"; "How many guns do you own, anyway?"; "Does everyone in your family have their own iPod, cell phone, computer, and car??".

There's nothing novel about these stereotypes, though it sure is shocking to be confronted point blank like that. Sadly, one-third of American adults are considered overweight. This is an issue our nation must deal with, but remember there are plenty of slim Americans as well! I am not an anomaly in that regard. In fact, after checking some quick statistics from the CDC (Centers for Disease Control), Utah is one of the slimmest states with 22% of the population having a body mass index (BMI) of 30 or greater, (Spain is 17%, Mississippi 33%). Additional info from this website places us as second in best overall health too!

Secondly, yeah, owning guns is one of our basic rights, but this also varies greatly state to state and person to person. I'm not into guns myself and have never owned even a BB gun, but I did reflect on this issue recently when someone exclaimed to me, "Man, your country would sure be hard to conquer if every man, woman, and child were armed! If we were invaded here we'd have a hard time protecting ourselves." It was interesting hearing this conclusion come from a European. But then again, the US has infinitely more gun crimes than unarmed countries like Canada, and it is reassuring that if I stumble into the wrong neighborhood here, I don't have to worry about being shot to death (just knifed...). It's a topic of much debate and few Americans interpret "the right to bear arms" the same way. I personally don't think possession of an AK-47 is covered under our basic rights, but then I'm quite the radical.

The third question, however, caught me most unprepared. Because, to be frank, the stereotype of American materialism could not be more true. I bought an iPhone the summer before coming here, and though it is a luxury in the US, I knew dozens of people who had one. I have not seen one solitary iPhone since I left. Every time I get it out to send a text or check the time I feel their eyes on me, whispering "you consumer whore!" I wouldn't want any other phone, but I hate to stand out so. And it gets worse.

In my family there pretty much is a 1:1 ratio of cars to drivers. Over the past 5 years my family have probably bought more than ten iPods between us. My sister has never known a world without a computer and internet at her disposal. The fact is we are a very rich nation; I never realized how spoiled we are until coming to Europe. Here people use things until they break, whereas my friends back home are all excited to ditch their perfectly functional phones for the latest model as soon as possible. In the future when I start to think "I need...", I will take a step back and consider, do I really need that? Do I need it now? Do I need it new?

Then again, it just occurred to me that, as the current financial crisis has shown us, the world economy pretty much depends on Americans' unfailing consumerism . . .

These three seem to be some of the most common American stereotypes I encounter. Another great one is that we Americans are all reactionary, fundamentalist cowboys. This does seem to have more than just a "kernel" of truth to it. Consider: the conservative party of Spain, the Partido Popular, has beliefs very similar to the Democratic Party of the United States (the left-wing party being called the Socialist Workers' Party); and according to the World Values Survey, only 67% of Spaniards (45% of Britons and 40% of French) EVER attend church, compared to 84% of Americans. And as for being cowboys, well that's right up there with the beret-wearing French and the lederhosen-wearing Germans. What is true, however, is that we are much more individualistic than most nations. A certain distrust in government comes naturally.

And finally, the most offensive stereotype for me: that Americans are "uncultured". I particularly hate this one because, what does "uncultured" even mean? It's one of those words which can be applied to an enormous range of negative qualities.

1) Unfashionable

Ok, fair enough. I'd say, yes, Europeans do dress better in general. But I have seen plenty of Spaniards, Italians, British, dressed exactly the same as we do in the US, e.g. jeans, t-shirt, sneakers. My theory is that the difference is more Urban-Rural than European-American. On both continents city-dwellers care more about their appearance than country-folk. Fewer Americans live in cities than Europeans do so the differences naturally follow, but no one doubts the fashion supremacy of places like New York City.

2) "Unrefined" cuisine

There is a great misunderstanding about what constitutes American food. I've heard many Americans asked about our cuisine and the only food they can think of is hamburgers. The problem is that, first of all, America is far too large and diverse to pin down a single shared cuisine. It's like asking what does American music sound like. And like music, the rest of the world has copied so much from us and vice versa, that it's impossible to draw the line.

Secondly, we are a nation of immigrants, so we tend to refer to foods as though they were all ethnic, when really they are much more American than we realize. For example, fajitas are a uniquely American food, invented in the Southwest and now available all over Europe. Egg Foo Young, fortune cookies, and General Tso's chicken are all unknown in China. They, like California rolls, were created in American restaurants for American tastes. I thought it is very interesting, when I went to a Mexican restaurant in London and a Chinese restaurant in Oviedo, both of these were extremely Americanized to me. Or, I suppose they were Europeanized, in which case it is apparent that America and Europe resemble each other much more than either resembles Mexico or China.

As a final word, I insist you not judge American food until you've been to America. And please don't judge us by our fast food. Comparing McDonald's to a summer barbecue or Taco Bell to a real taco is like comparing that nasty premade supermarket tortilla to the real thing. You have to compare the best with the best, or the worst with the worst. And I assure you, my family's cooking (and hopefully someday mine) is some of the best around. Come visit and see!

3) Ignorant to other cultures and languages.

This has some truth to it, unfortunately. In many ways we are the center of the world; you couldn't escape American music, media, merchandise, politics or current events if you tried. Plus, most Europeans cannot imagine the unique geographic situation of the US. Nowhere else on earth can you travel thousands of miles and still be in contact with the same largely monolingual culture. It's like an island. Most people speak only English because English is all that matters for their lives. If you're Hungarian, for example, you have a few million people to speak your language with. Within a few hours travel you're in a country with a completely different language and culture: German, Italian, Romanian, Slovakian, Croatian. Unless you never leave Hungary (the size of Maryland) you will learn about these cultures, and learn (at least) English, the language they all have in common. Nothing similar to this occurs within the entire 9 million square kilometers of the U.S.

As immigration and globalization increase, I'm certain we will see more interaction with different cultures in the US. Americans might even be willing to listen to songs that aren't in English! And watch movies with subtitles! Heck, I'm here learning Spanish with this very thing in mind; I can't experience everything I want knowing only English.

~~~

Having confronted these and many other stereotypes over the past months has really caused me to re-examine what the United States of America is and what it is to be an American. I have never been a particularly patriotic person, and I remember during my tumultuous teen years I held many outlandish ideas, such as "America has no culture!" or "I am from nowhere and belong to nothing!". These are all quite common things for a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant in the US to think. When you grow up in a world in which everything is contrasted against this, you have a hard time seeing those things which make up your own culture. Culture itself is presented as all those things different from the majority. White is the non-ethnicity; Male is the non-gender; English is the non-language (And how the White English speaking males in power speak is "no accent"). This kind of worldview was, naturally, a mere product of my own ignorance. Towards the end of high school and in college I began to understand what things make up my culture. Only living outside of it, though, have I finally gotten a clear picture of the U.S. and American-ness.

American exceptionalism is a belief that has quite a lot of currency in the U.S. It has its opponents, but I think for the most part this is something we are all raised to believe. This is exactly the kind of self-serving belief I rebelled so strongly against in my earlier adolescence. However, writing from the nation of Spain, I must say I cannot deny the unique history and status of my homeland.

I hate the inherent arrogance of this analogy, but it has proven itself to be true time and again: America is like a celebrity. Some love it, some hate it, but everyone has heard of it, and everyone has an opinion. American news is global news. A lot of times I've been caught off guard by how much people here know about my country. They all study the states and capitals, they know all about our current economic and healthcare reforms, they know about the Republicans and Democrats. I mean, is there anyone on earth who doesn't know who Barack Obama is? There are two channels on regular cable devoted solely to Hollywood movies, and most people get MTV. It's quite challenging for an American to step into this society, where everyone already knows so much about you. I've studied plenty about Spain and tried to learn as much as possible, but the average person still knows much more about my nation. As celebrities exhibit, it is a bit hard to keep your head on straight. I really value humility, and make an extra effort not to be an arrogant, boorish yankee, but I find it impossible not to feel proud.


One of the most noticeable symbols of this is seen in the Eurovision song contest, which I watched last night. After narrowing the competitors down to 25, each nation sings one song, usually as flamboyantly as humanly possible (these people would put glitter on sequins . . .). The vast majority sing in English. After the performance, each country reports the number of points it awards to the competitors. They can report in either English or French. After close inspection, it appeared that the only nation to report in French was . . . France. More shocking still though, only two of the nations reporting in English did so in an English accent. The remaining twenty-two nations reported in what was very obviously their attempt at American English. They naturally had their native language accent, but it was abundantly apparent they weren't trying to sound British. The official language of the Eurovision song contest by popular support is . . . American! I personally think this is beyond bizarre. They really should speak British English, it's downright unneighbourly. It is also quite flattering, though. I feel a sort of patriotic blushing coming on . . .


We are pretty exceptional. And as such I think we have a certain burden not felt by other nations. Let's not forget who has the tiresome job of policing the entire world now . . . . But we also have certain responsibilities we mustn't take lightly. I hope with this and successive administrations we will see a greater emphasis placed on international cooperation and intervention in human rights issues. We've spent so much time and money bombing third-world countries over the past 9 years--I'm no expert in foreign policy, but I should think there are less heavy-handed ways of ensuring peace and stability around the world. And you know, maybe in the future all these developed and soon-to-be-developed nations will take a bigger share of the responsibility.

Anyway, I hope all these rantings congeal in some way to give you an idea of how the experiences of living far from home have altered how I see that home and my place in it. Keep tuned for more meaningful blogging!

Special Guests!

Yes, it has been over a month now since I wrote anything. Once again, I have been far too busy. and lazy. But now my classes are over and I have no more excuses.

That's right, my classes have ended. And not just for the year. Last Wednesday I had the last class of my entire undergraduate career. The professor made sure to go out with a bang, lecturing on how to use quotation marks while I doodled in my notebook. After 45 mind-numbing minutes, I picked up my bag, said my goodbyes, and walked out of the classroom. FOREVER.

Well, I suppose that is a bit melodramatic. I still have four exams, and besides, I'm quite certain I will be heading to grad school within the next two years, so in my mind it's really more the beginning of a very long summer break. Fifteen months of summer if all goes according to plan. You see, I'm currently applying for jobs teaching English in Taiwan, the tropical island nation also known as the Republic of China. I would most likely work there for the length of an academic year. So with a Utah summer on either end of that experience, I'm looking at a very warm future! I'll be sure to keep you updated as this venture unfolds.


But now, without further ado, I proudly present the photo journal of May 2010.

Mom and Dad came to visit me! Here we are in front of the Roman bridge in Cangas de Onis

Mom and Dad in front of the church at Covadonga

The lakes of Covadonga

We spent one night in a small town near Llanes at a beachfront hotel.

The coast of Northern Spain

One of many beautiful beaches on our extensive beach tour

haha

Lastres vista

Lastres harbor

pre-Romanesque church in Oviedo

View from Mt. Naranco of Oviedo (and Jaime and Mom)

Statue of Christ on top of Mt. Naranco

Gijón

La Laboral Arts center and part of the University campus

View from that tower of La Laboral

One afternoon we went on a hike near the village of Proaza

We also managed a day-trip to León

Overall, it was a great week. It was a priceless experience to show my parents what my life over the past 9 months has been like. They met my friends, my roommate, saw the university campus, tried the local cuisine, and really experienced this part of the world as I know it. Now whenever I reminisce about this year, I've got someone who can corroborate, temper, and share my judgments and memories with.

Somos Peregrinos

Now, the post you've all been waiting for!

This Easter, my friends Cecilia, Dave, and I decided we would attempt the Camino de Santiago, or St. James' Way. While many at home will not have heard of the Camino, within Europe and Catholicism it is known as one of the most important religious pilgrimages, right behind Jerusalem and Rome. It has been traveled for more than a thousand years, attracting pilgrims from all over Europe since the remains of St. James were discovered in Galicia in the 8th century. The myth is that James, the brother of John, was martyred in Jerusalem and his body shipped to the Iberian Peninsula, where he had preached earlier in life. A storm struck off the coast of Galicia (known as A Costa da Morte or "The Coast of Death") and the boat sank, losing James' body to the sea. Shortly thereafter, however, his body washed up on shore, undamaged and covered in shells. To this day, the shell is the symbol of the Camino de Santiago. Anyone who makes a pilgrimage to the tomb of the Apostle, attends Mass in the Cathedral and confesses his sins is given a plenary indulgence by the Catholic church, a Get-Out-of-Purgatory-Free card, so to speak.

Today the Camino is very highly traveled, attracting tens of thousands of pilgrims from around the world, for the above reason, and for more personal and secular reasons as well.

Which brings me to our pilgrimage. We would be attempting the Camino on the most famous and well-developed route, which passes through León, south of Asturias. From there it is some 300 odd kilometers (~200 miles) to Santiago. We would have Easter break to complete it. I had spoken with the parents of my students, 13- and 14-year-old Ali and Patri, about how I would be attempting the Camino, and to my great surprise and gratitude they offered to lend me a bike. And so I would be using a primary-colored bike fondly dubbed "Beef" after I misread one of its (his, actually) decals.



Thursday March 25, Oviedo-León

So, Thursday afternoon we put our bikes on the train, and 1 1/2 hours later arrived in the city of León. There we sampled some of the local food, such as morcilla. Morcilla is one of those things you should eat and never ask what it's made of. It is very delicious; kind of a spicier, classier sloppy joe spread on toast . . . that happens to be made of blood and rice. The greatest thing about León is the extensive practice of tapas. In every locale, if you order a drink, you get a snack alongside, be it chips, tortilla, jamón, or morcilla.

After sampling the tapeo leonés a bit, we turned in for the night. We stayed in a monastery, complete with nuns, a vegetable garden, and a chapel. That evening before our trek, we attended a special pilgrims' service to bless our journey. I understood everything the pious old Spanish nun was saying. She was very adamant on one point, that we are not on vacation, we are pilgrims, and pilgrims of luxury as compared to the Middle Ages when people regularly died attempting the journey. The basic message was: you will suffer. If you aren't suffering then you aren't doing it right. In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, AMEN.

Accommodation

Over the next week, that stern nun would appear in our minds as we climbed mountains, as we rode through rainstorms, as we bruised, cut, strained and abused our bodies. I may not have quite the same views and beliefs as her, but we can agree, this was not a relaxing vacation we were embarking on. This was a physical and psychological challenge unmatched by anything in my previous experience. We got in our bunk beds and tried to sleep as much as possible before the morning, restless with anticipation.


Friday March 26, León-Astorga. ~50 km (~30 mi)

Attempted pictures with the León cathedral before beginning

And they're off! Keeping an eye out for shells and yellow arrows, we followed the Camino out of León. When considering which route to take, one benefit we saw with León was that it is much flatter and drier than if we'd gone from Oviedo. Well, naturally, the first day of our journey, it rained quite heavily, during most of the rolling hills we came across. It was when the wind began to blow, though, that I really became discouraged. With that cold, invisible force against me, it was hard not to imagine God himself pushing me backward. The landscape didn't help the mood either; grey, sparse, bleak, industrial.


That first day was almost certainly the hardest for me. I very quickly realized how completely unprepared I was. All the training we did was a total joke. I hadn't brought warm enough clothes, and I felt the bike was already failing me. I probably should have also brought my inhaler; that might've been smart.


The discouraging start did get better, though. As we neared Astorga the landscape became much more wooded and green, and we got away from the main highway and onto secluded dirt paths. It looked very much like the dirt roads I used to bike growing up in the valley. After climbing the last hill before our destination, we were greeted by some Catalonian hippies and their snack shack called La Casa de los Dioses. There they offered us some of their all-organic fair-trade environmentally-friendly fruit, nuts and bizcocho cake.

hippie shack

6k from Astorga, Cathedral in the center background

Feeling renewed, we made it the next 6k to Astorga and dropped our things at the next pilgrim's hostel. We got there early enough to be able to enjoy the sights, such as the Gaudí Palace, and the Cathedral. It is a very pretty little medieval city, built on a hill. Apparently it was at one time the capital of Asturias. I'm guessing it's famous for chocolate as well, because every other shop was a bombonería.

Gaudi Palace

Holy Week (Semana Santa) is well advertised in Spain

Saturday March 27, Astorga-Villafranca del Bierzo ~80 km (~50 mi)

I awoke the second day quite sore, and not terribly motivated, but I got on the bike and followed Dave and Cecilia out of town. After Astorga the terrain starts to get interesting. As you can see in this graph, there is a 700 meter (2,300 feet) rise in elevation after Astorga, up to Cruz de Ferro.


At this point each of our different strengths (or amount of strength) became evident. Dave blasted ahead happy as can be, and Cecilia was a good distance ahead of me too. It is very discouraging being left behind, but each person really has to take these kinds of challenges at their own pace. We got so far apart, though, that we lost Dave for a bit, as he'd gone way ahead, waited, missed us, gone back to look .... Eventually we all powered up to the "roof" of the Camino, Cruz de Ferro. As its name suggests, it is a large iron cross. Pilgrims carry stones up this mountain, and then throw them at the foot of the cross as a symbol of casting off their sins.



From here it was a bit downhill to Manjarín, which is little more than a shack which sells touristic kitsch. Supposedly they also have something to do with the Knights Templar ...



From there it was 1,000 glorious meters of descent (3,300 feet), giving our legs a deserved rest and putting our brakes to the test. It was incredible to see what a difference the altitude made. At Manjarín I touched snow and it looked like late winter still. As we neared Ponferrada everything became more and more green, and the fruit trees began to blossom.

descending

In Ponferrada we stopped for an hour or two to eat lunch and look around. Ponferrada is most famous for its castle, which looks just exactly how you imagine a European castle should look, with a moat, turrets, flags, a drawbridge, etc.

Moat-side lunch

After also indulging ourselves at this posh bakery next to the castle, we continued on yet another leg. This was one of my favorite stages that we did. We rode along quiet country roads, passing gardens, lettuce patches, tractors, vineyards, and quaint little one-chapel villages. If you've ever seen Triplets of Belleville, you can imagine my sheer joy when I cycled past an old woman with one leg shorter than the other (and thus one shoe taller than the other) and a man with a bulbous wine-o nose. If you haven't seen the movie I suggest it. It's likely the best French cartoon you will ever see. During most of the journey I imagined myself as the main character, who cycles constantly throughout the movie and has absurdly large leg muscles.

Cycling in the Bierzo region of León

That night we stayed in Villafranca and had a hearty dinner for just 5 euros as part of the hostel's amenities. We met some other bikers there who we would end up seeing every single night from then on, almost to a creepy extent.

The day was the most ambitious we attempted. Not only did we cycle 50 miles, but up and down a bona fide mountain! I am still not sure how I did that. It is truly amazing what you can make your body do with the right encouragement.


Sunday March 28, Villafranca-Somas ~60 km (38 mi)

And so, with that mountain behind, we set out the next day to conquer another. We had been warned numerous times what a trial this stage is. This time we would have to climb 900 meters (3,000 feet), at times as steep as a 20% grade! Yesterday seemed flat in comparison.

seriously steep! Cecilia and I walked about 2k of it. (Dave cycled it all).

Back into winter

At long last we reached the village of O Cebreiro, and took our first steps into Galicia! The change was instantly apparent. There was Celtic music playing, pulpo a la gallega (octopus) on the menu, and the people had a noticeable accent, like Italian almost.

Some people do the Camino on horseback!

We had a good lunch of pulpo, fries and tortilla, then once again began the descent. It wasn't as much of an instant reward this time, we had to go up a few more hills, but once the downhill began, it was lots of fun. With the road wide open for miles, we zoomed down without a care in the world. We must have been going 30 mph at least (48km/h). Once again, we entered spring, and the typical green of Galicia.

Spent the night in Samos, a lovely town along the river. From here on the number of pilgrims increased noticeably and we were no longer able to stay in the free hostels, which give preference to walkers. But having a real shower and not being surrounded at night by 20 old men snoring was a welcome change.

springtime

Monastery on the river

Monday March 29, Samos-Ventas de Narón

We had a good morning, even though our good weather had run out, it wasn't terrible. From here on the terrain was an endless series of green rolling hills and small streams. We decided not to ride on the highway. Even though it is faster, it is also extremely boring and demoralizing. We rode on the highways a couple times and the Camino quickly becomes a tedious grind, constantly being passed by lunatic drivers. Instead we went on dirt trails, and I really felt like I was mountain biking--bouncing over rocks, both my brakes fully engaged, through mud and streams.

We had lunch in Portomarín, which is a really pretty town on a large river. After lunch though the weather went from unpleasant to atrocious. We stopped in the town of Ventas, soaked to the bone, and tried to find lodging. To my utter despair, they informed us that all of the hostels and inns in this village and the next were full. This was the first extreme low point for me. When Dave suggested cycling 10 more kilometers to a larger town, Palas de Rei, I about cried. Thanks to the kindness of one of the innkeepers, we were able to get a spot on the floor, and even snag a couple beds when pilgrims didn't show up for their reservation. To sum up the day, I kept a little log in my phone. It was simple: Rain. Can't get warm. Can't get dry.


Tuesday March 30, Ventas-Arzúa ~45 km (28 mi)

Well, I did eventually get warm and dry, and we started out the next day in better spirits. We decided to take it easy from here on. Though we could have conceivably gone all the way to Santiago, I was having fun seeing the little villages and not feeling rushed. It rained a little bit, on and off, not enough to really bother me, but enough to keep the trails plenty muddy. There were moments when you had to shift into low gear and power through the mud, it was so deep and sticky. Even through terrain like this we were still blasting past the walkers.

I found my attitude towards the pedestrians had changed significantly over the trip. At the beginning it was nice to just see other people, and we'd greet them with "¡Buen camino!" Now though they were an annoyance more than anything else, walking six abreast at a snail's pace, oblivious to the world around them. I instead had to greet them with "¡Cuidado!" (Look out!), nearly colliding with numerous pilgrims who jumped like startled deer in front of us.

We leisurely rolled into Arzúa, and proceeded to make this ugly little town all the grimier. As we dismounted and took a look at each other, we saw how comically filthy we all were. What with mud covering me front and back and drenched in sweat, I'd venture to say this was the dirtiest I have ever been.




After showering ourselves and all of our muddy clothing, and mopping up the trail of dirt we'd left behind, we sought out the best comfort a tired traveler can find--loads of calorie dense food. I neglected to mention before, but this was a part of the trip I particularly enjoyed. After cycling for six hours and burning thousands and thousands of calories, it became tradition each day to eat obscenely large meals. If you've ever been traveling and wished you could have sampled more food, I'd suggest you cycle 30 miles between meals; it's incredible how much you can eat. I have never eaten so many Menú del Día in my life--full three-course meals with soups, meat, seafood, bread, drinks and dessert. Spanish food is not terribly rich in fruits and vegetables, however, which we found quite necessary to supplement before long...


Wednesday March 31, Arzúa-Santiago de Compostela. 38 km (24 mi)

The final leg! Santiago was within reach now. Even so, I inexplicably found this day the most psychologically challenging of the journey. Everything was wearing out. My knee was aching from days of exercise, my bike was in a pitiful state, and I was mentally exhausted of pushing myself around the next bend, over the next hill. I was close to despair at times. We got to Monte de Gozo, and I saw, finally finally, I had climbed the last hill.

We had a quick pick-me-up, snapped a few photos, and made our descent into the city.

SUCCESS! We made it to our hostel.

Look at poor Beef.

Triumphant smile

It turns out the average tourist is a horrid photographer. This is the best we could get of all three of us. My eyes might be closed and the top of the cathedral cut off, but here it is, proof of our achievement!

The next morning, as sure proof of his insanity, Dave got back on his bike and began to do the Camino in reverse back to León. Cecilia and I were having nothing of that however, and we proceeded to celebrate our accomplishment in true Galician style. We unabashedly sampled all the seafood, jamón, croquettes, cakes, cookies, tapas and wine we could get our hands on. We took the bus to A Coruña for a few days to continue this celebration on the coast. There we rested and relaxed, went shopping, went to the beach, sampled the best octopus in the world, and devoured tarta de Santiago in bed. It was amazing, and well-deserved. I really enjoyed A Coruña, it may have the worst weather in all of Spain, with rain every hour on the hour, but is extremely beautiful, with a great nightlife and cuisine, beach, port, and gorgeous architecture. One of my favorite cities in Spain, for sure.

Big ole anchor

Eating icecream at the Torre de Hercules, the oldest functioning Roman lighthouse in the world. or something.

Octopus, the theme of the trip.

A Coruña has beautiful and ornate glass covered buildings.

As luck would have it we stumbled upon a procession of sorts on Good Friday

Widows of solitude, I think these ladies are called.

One of these things is not like the other . . . Don't worry, she's not a klan member, the Spanish did the pointy hat thing first. Still totally freaks me out.

Then we returned to Santiago for Sunday Mass. It was nice. There is an enormous censer (or incensorio) which they swing across the entire length of the transept. You can kind of see it here.

incense

Here is a better picture of us and the Cathedral.

Posing with Jesus and St. James: terribly tasteless, and potentially blasphemous, but . . . priceless.

Reliquary of the Cathedral. Each of those shelves has a little box with a piece of the true cross, or the shroud, or tooth of a saint, etc.

The Cathedral from a nearby park.

After 11 challenging, inspiring, extraordinary days, it was time to go home. We hopped on a bus and bade farewell to Santiago and Galicia. In retrospect, I would have done many things differently. I would have trained better, used a higher quality bike, and dressed more for the weather. But I wouldn't give up the experience for the world. Cycling is the absolute best way to tour. I am now familiar with so many parts of Spain, seen villages and mountains and vineyards at a human pace, met new people, and forged friendships I will never forget. What's more, the sense of physical and spiritual accomplishment I now have is something I'll keep with me all my life.
Pilgrimage: Check.