From the Skyscrapers of Chicago to the Olive Groves of Southern Spain
In a country where pigs trump all, I am thankful that I can eat food like this:
“Diego, abrígate, que hace frío!”
Without a doubt the most overheard phrase in the small village of San Nicolás del Puerto. Diego, dress warmly; it’s cold.
In San Nicolás, San Diego reigns king over the pueblo of 700 farmers in the heart of the Sierra Norte de Sevilla hills. Amidst cork trees you’ll find his white-washed shrine, his photo framed above every living room couch as the family sits around the bracero keeping warm in the winter, and as the given name of the offspring of its citizens. My boyfriend’s great-great grandmother grew up in a house on Calle Hueznár, a house built before my town was founded, a house that lies on the street named for the very river that gives San Nicolás its name as a port, the river that flows through the family’s land and the tributary of the waterfalls that make the village a destination in the natural park.
I feel more and more of an affinity for the village and its people each time I go. Word spread quickly that El Bigote’s son was dating an American, so my pig cheek plate came with a side of a million questions from Murangaños who wanted to poke and prod the Americanita. Each time that first year of dating, I was introduced to a new rincón of the town – from Bar Higinio to Finca los Leones and its hermitage to the town’s patron to the camping with its exquisite migas. I’ve been there for many major holidays – the Romería, Reyes Magos and, most recently, El Día de San Diego.
From this little town came a devout and God-fearing Franciscan monk, a poor and humble man from a poor and humble town. After his burial in the 15th century in Alcalá de Henares (northwest of Madrid), miraculous things began to happen and a saint was born. A statue was erected in his honor in the plaza next to the Church of San Diego, built before Christopher Columbus was born, hordes of Diegos christened, and the equally devout eople of the village come to worship him once a year on November 13th.
My feeble attempt to sleep was made more difficult by the winding roads that snake from Lora del Río up through the Sierra Norte to Cazalla, Alanís and San Nicolás. After my usual siesta in Kike’s childhood bed, I took the main road in to its intersection with the main road out. There, sandwiched between the houses on Calle Diego, next to my favorite bar, was a charranga in full-swing and scores of small Diegos running around. The nearby owner of the camping, Diego (duh), welcomed me with a beer and I sang him the customary saint day song (Many children in Spain also receive gifts on the day the feast of the saint which bears their name is celebrated. San Enrique, for example, is July 13th. To my knowledge, there is no Saint Cat!), taught to me recently by my babies at school. The town was fuller than ever – Inma came from Córdoba to see her mother and ask that her son be baptised in the same church as she and other generations in her family had, and an old friend of Kike’s, María José, brought her small children and husband for the first time. The bailes, typically held on Saturday, were cut short due to the early morning parade to follow the next day.
Since I was 12, I’ve hated clowns. Circuses are out of the question, and even watching my childhood favorite, Bozo the Clown, makes me shiver. It’s probably due to a dream Beth and I both had when we were in middle school. But suddenly, I found myself in a city where everyone was dressed as one – red noses, painted faces and a deranged look (in all fairness, that was due to the cold weather and all-day imbibing!)
Vesna, Kirsten, Maria, me, Juan, Briana and Cat
Juan el Vaquero and I at the ball
Carnaval Groups performing
bathroom break
Sightseeing at the Dom Cathedral, the largest in Germany
My wealth was recently evaluated by a very smart-alecky nine-year-old.
“Oh, you don’t have any play mobile toys? It’s because you’re poor. Even though you have a job, you have to teach me English for extra money, right?” My darling Manu, future right-wing politician.
This came in response to my question, “What did you ask the Three Kings for?” And he answered, “The Play Mobile pirate ship, the Play Mobile Circus, the Play Mobile….” I stopped listening since the kid will show me everything next Monday and gloat about how his grandpa buys him a new toy every week. Stupid rich people. Manu does, however, get one gift from Santa Claus, a fairly new trend for Spaniards caught in a constant barrage of American culture. Gifts are given on the Epiphany, or today, January 6th. But because school begins again tomorrow (and my body is stuck on America time, hence beginning this entry a mere six hours before I need to report to Valle’s class), kids sometimes receive their presents from Santa so they have time to test-drive them.
Christmas is reserved for big meals and solemn remembrance of the birth of Christ (followed by the occurrence of several of the Seven Deadly Sins), so los Reyes Magos is where the childlike wonder of the holiday season is displayed. I arrived back to Espanilandia on the 5th in the am, slept the entire train ride down south, ate lunch with Kike and konked out for four hours. Then, like a little kid, I grabbed a bag and begged him to take me to Triana for the cabalgata, a parade that winds its way through the better part of the central neighborhoods.
According to tradition, the infant Jesus was visited by three men from the Orient – Gaspar, Melchor and Balthasar – who came bearing gifts. This day is celebrated as the Epiphany, so kids write letters to the favored Moor, who waits for kids at the end of nativity scenes, scoops them onto his lap and asks what they want for Reyes. A Moorish version of Santa Claus. On the 5th, the kids wiggling with anticipation, the Reyes Magos storm into town by way of a parade. Kike and I camped out in front of Java Cafe in Triana at dusk when we heard the police sirens. Those elected Los Reyes, usually famous toreros or cinema directors, ride through the city for hours on gigantic floats. Announced by the Gitanos de la Orilla and the brass band, as well as Moors on horseback, the cavalcade came rolling in a good hour after projected.
The city of Sevilla, as well as each neighborhood or district, had between 15-20 large floats, fashioned after Indiana Jones, Alice in Wonderland, aliens and the like. Lit up by hundreds of bulbs, the floats are stocked with bags and bags of candy, toys, balls and sometimes even small appliances! The streets were just as packed as they would be during a Semana Santa procession, but instead of somberly remembering our favorite saints, people jumped and sang, asking the hundreds of children atop the floats for candy. I brought a cloth bag and held it over my head, both for defensive purposes and because it could catch candy in it. The little girl next to me complained that I was getting more than here until I pointed to the ground and to all the candy not caught by spectators. Shut her up. A few hours later, after watching Sevilla FC kick Barca´s culo, we went back to Java for a drink. My boots were caked with hard candy gook, and the streets had yet to be cleaned. I felt slightly dizzy from the sugar high and getting knocked in the head a few times.
Remember how my first memory is of a tornado ripping right past my preschool in Rockford? Or how I cowered in the staircase at ADPi when the twister flattened half of Iowa City? I am TERRIFIED of tornadoes. And the weather a mere two hours before I left Sevilla to come home for Christmas resembled a tornado warning – wind knocking over trees, freezing sleet.
thankfully my train left on time, my flight from Madrid to Boston was easy and I slept. I got home fine after a four-hour delay in Boston with a friend, though I felt a little like kid from David After Dentist, all head-rolling and stuff. My bags were lost, but I felt so subdued by the lack of sleep that I was patient and calm, helping me to get my bags a mere 10 hours later.
It feels good to be home, snow and all. A little surreal, but almost like I haven’t been gone for the last three months. I mean, we’ve had very little time to do anything but prepare to have guests, eat, cleanup and repeat. Christmas morning was predictable, but we did things backwards and had breakfast first. Something about having your present be a plane ticket kinda takes the excitement out of opening presents Christmas morning…
Matt of Nomadic Matt hasn’t been home for Christmas in four years. I read his post this morning about being away from family during the holidays and couldn’t agree with him more – it’s all about company, food and remembering those who aren’t with you. Read it here. Last year, I spent Christmas Eve at the bar, Christmas lunch at Kike’s mom’s house eating seafood and drinking cava, and the evening at the bar again. It didn’t feel like Christmas, but it was more than enjoyable.
Doesn’t matter where in the world you are. Christmas is a time for celebrating blessings, for remembering those not with you, and living in the moment. Something about the abundance of beer drinking, rummikub and storytelling tells me we had a good one.
Merry Christmas, friends.
Merry Christmas to all!
Christmas lights outside Plaza de Armas¡JODER! ¡COÑO! and a long string of explicatives were his reply before fishing the fried batter out of the oil with a long, wooden stick and a pair of tongs and cutting it with a pair of scissors. Pff, Qué aproveches, he said to me bitterly while sliding them onto a plate and pouring me a cup of hot chocolate.
The truth is that I don’t even like churros. They taste like nothing and the chocolate is scalding and when it gets cold, it forms that nasty skin on top so I lose all antojos to eat it. But it’s Christmas time, and with it comes things like churros and the Iberian ham that I had on my toast that morning.
I’ll be the first to admit that Christmas is probably my least favorite time of year. I get stressed, get sent on guilt trips and can’t deal with the snow. Christmas carols make my head spin, lines are stores drive me crazy and the Salvation Army bells make my ears ring.
But Christmas in Spain doesn’t have any of that. Sure, Calles Sierpes and Tetuan are clogged with chestnut vendors, street performers and shoppers wielding birghtly colored bags, but during a crisis, it’s a welcome sight. People in Spain enjoy the best parts of Christmas – good food and good company. It’s quite common to have a big Christmas lunch or dinner with coworkers, groups of friends and clubs – ours is Monday. Cachina (ham, cheese, sausages) before the main course and a LOT of wine!
The Espiritu Navideno hit me pretty hard this Thursday after my churros. At dusk, the lights in Gran Plaza turned on, the blue and white curves of the Feliz Navidad sparkling. The lady who recharged by transportation card wished me happy holidays while the suit-clad man buying cigarettes from her gave me a warm pat on the back and acted surprised when a pale-skinned, red-haired girl with absolutely no pinta andaluza could wish him a merry Christmas al acento andalu. I walked down Avenida de la Cruz del Campo to avoid buying gifts, passing packs of old ladies, arm and arm, in their fur coats and low heels. A group was having their comida de navidad at a restaurant under heating lamps (it was 60 degrees), still well at it at 6 p.m.
El Corte Ingles’s silver and menacing facade was covered with purple and silver lights, creating a fake snowfall with snowflakes the size of a smart car. The whole place was packed – a big Marshall Fields two days before Christmas – so I checked for a present for my beloved Dona Carmen. The crowds and high prices didn’t overwhelm me.
I bought myself a pair of boots at a shoe store I’ve been eyeing for a week. The woman dropped in a few pieces of truffles and sent me on my way. My hands got cold riding the bike towards the dark streets of Santa Cruz, so I stopped in my friend Juan’s bar, Entrecalles, for a drink. His boss and his friends were having their comida (first course beer, second course anise, dessert whiskey-cola, claro) with a round of flamenco villancicos, or Christmas carols. The light and heat spilled out the doors and into the streets.
In search of the famous caganet, I browsed the stalls of nativity sets clustered around the cathedral, gleaming orange against the deep blue sky. The shops hocked everything from teeny tiny eggs for the posada to a six-inch Lucifer, which is common in Italian manger scenes. I bought a plastic, cutre caganet with a little hunk of poop to add to our own at home. The streets were light by the colored lights strung between buildings and people milled about.
Thoroughly pooped, I headed to Gino’s for our own Christmas dinner among friends. Wine, food and friends? Good Christmas.
Read more about Christmas in Sevilla by clicking here
