Cigüeñas!

stork2 storks

Ask anyone who knew me in my first years in Spain and they’ll tell you I was obsessed—how could I help it? As I was walking down the street I would look up at the rooftops of the highest buildings (usually churches) and I’d see these humongous nests, maybe 5 feet across and several feet deep. And if I was really lucky, I might see the object of my obsession, the tenant of these twiggy creations: white storks, standing almost my height, with their crisp white and black feathers and skinny red legs.  I had grown up in Ohio, you see,  and I had never laid eyes upon a cigüeña in real life; I promise you that watching these birds, whose wingspan is from 5 to 7 feet across, flying overhead, is breathtaking. (By the way, since I’m going to use this term a lot, might as well sneak in a pronunciation lesson: it’s “thee-goo-EH-nee-ah,” with a hard “th” at the beginning, as we learned in my blog post “Una Cerveza Por Favor“).

In 1986, the Catedral de León,  which I passed every morning on my way to classes, had 52 stork nests on it—yes, I circled the whole cathedral, counting them. Several times, in fact–I was so struck by the sight! Sometimes there would be a bird on each and every spire. But, cigüeña nests weigh over 100 pounds, and the Catedral de León eventually had to re-locate many of these nests as they were damaging the fine stone spires that were hundreds of years old. I’m so glad I got my pictures (including the two above) before then!

According to Wikipedia, cigüeñas became prevalent in Europe after trees were cleared in the middle ages to make room for lots of farms. As carnivorous hunters, cigüeñas spend much of their time out in the fields, hunting for small critters to eat.  When the sun begins to set, they return to their nests, coasting in graceful circles over rooftops until they settle down for the night.

Early mornings you can hear them clattering their beaks, a sound which the Spanish refer to as “machacando el ajo”, pounding up some garlic for the day’s cooking. The first time I heard it I thought it was kids beating sticks together in quick succession, and was awed to find out that that loud, rhythmic sound, which echoed through the streets, was actually being made by these majestic birds.  Here’s a good video so you can hear them.

Although their numbers declined in the 18th and 19th centuries, cigüeñas have been an integral part of the Spanish–and European–landscape for hundreds of years.  As a matter of fact, since they love to eat mice, rats, snakes and insects, their presence on rooftops was welcomed.  According to the website “Waste Ideal”   Spain has the largest number of cigüeñas—25,000 breeding pairs.  (By comparison, France, which is similar in size to Spain, only has 1,000 nests.) There’s even an aphorism, which I didn’t include in my previous blog about Spanish sayings,  which goes “Por San Blas, la cigüeña verás. Si no la vieres, año de nieves.”   If you don’t see the storks by San Blas (a saint whose day is in early February) it will be a year of lots of snow. Interestingly, I also read that this aphorism, also hundreds of years old, is not holding true anymore because with the global climate crisis, temperatures are remaining warmer, and many cigüeñas no longer fly off to Africa for the winter.

While I was watching a video of storks in the wild,   and another one of cigüeñas nesting on top of different buildings in La Rioja, (set to relaxing classical music, with some really gorgeous footage,) I was reminded  that lots of other birds—from pigeons to owls– make their homes in the lower parts of stork nests. A bird apartment building!

And finally, though I never saw these, Spain is also home to the rare black cigüeña. Here is some footage about these black storks, eating in a river, also set to classical music.

So the next time you’re wandering around in Spain, look up and enjoy the site of this magnificent bird—and, let me know if you, too, become obsessed with cigüeñas!

If you enjoyed this blog post, you might also like my series of novels, Bueno, Sinco and Brujas, which takes place in Santander, Spain.

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Cuenca, anyone?

me in Cuenca

My son and I, visiting Ciudad Encantada.

Lest you get the idea that I ONLY like northern Spain, (perhaps from reading my post about the Las Médulas) today’s story is about another neat little place, southeast of Madrid, called Cuenca. It’s an amazing city whose early inhabitants, desperate for flat land, decided to build these huge stone buildings right smack on the very edge of the rock faces. I first saw the city at night (they do a lovely job with the lighting on the stone faces and the city looks like it’s straight out of a Harry Potter novel) and I was speechless. How ever did they manage to build those tall edifices, right on the brink of the precipice? And how, after centuries, have these buildings not fallen off into the abyss? I’ve attached a link below with some stunning pictures of this compact little city that must have just been carved straight from the mountain. (1) The slide show takes several seconds to get going, so give it a moment. I sat mesmerized and watched it multiple times through, remembering my visit and admiring the work of the photographer(s) who managed to capture such amazing photos. Take a good look and tell me you don’t want to fly straight there to see it in person!

You won’t be surprised to hear that the entire city has been declared a World Heritage Site, like so much of beautiful Spain. The best time to visit is right around Easter, when there are huge processions of caped and hooded people, many carrying candles and replicas of the Virgin Mary or other religious statues. It’s a very moving sight even if you are not the least bit inclined toward Catholicism.  But you’ll have to book a hotel months in advance, or stay somewhere farther away and drive.

After visiting the city, be sure to head out to the nearby mountains to visit La Ciudad Encantada, (The Enchanted City) located close to the tiny village of Valdecabra—Valley of the goats. It lies about 30 Km northeast of Cuenca and it’s an impressive natural park with whimsical stone features carved by erosion over millions of years. You know how sometimes you look at a cloud and you’d swear it was an image you recognize? Well, these rock formations work the same way, and most of the images that nature formed are pretty obvious, though some are a bit of a stretch. The most famous rock formation looks like a tornado—massive on top, reducing conically into a relatively tiny part on the bottom. It’s amazing that it hasn’t tipped over after all these years! There are also rocky masses shaped like a turtle, bears, a fight between a crocodile and an elephant, a sled, a dog, some boats, two lovers about to kiss, a human face and giant mushrooms. For some great pictures, I’ve found a post by a guy named Luis Miguel (2). Take a look and see if you can pick out which is which (especially if you don’t know Spanish!)

My picture for this post was taken at a rock formation called “Puente Romano”—Roman Bridge, and you can see me with my son who was 4 years old at the time. We were high up in the mountains, and it was only April, so we needed our winter coats.

I hope you’re enjoying my stories about Spain—I know I’m loving writing about it! Please feel free to share your thoughts!

(1)    Tourism in Cuenca

(2)    Luis Miguel’s photos of Cuenca

If you enjoyed this blog post, you might also like my series of novels, Bueno, Sinco and Brujas, which takes place in Santander, Spain.

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Hunting for Setas

Ever held back, afraid, and later realized that your fears were misplaced and you missed out on an interesting experience? Living in Spain, especially that first year, was a series of adventures, most of which I enjoyed thoroughly. But this particular outing happened very early in my stay, and I had not yet learned to trust and to let go of my American hesitations.

me in misty mtns

I love the mountains in Spain–when I was in grad school we went practically every weekend on an excursion to different mountains.

“Come on! It’ll be fun! We’ll go early in the morning and we’ll get lots of them—you’ll see.”

Finally allowing myself to be convinced—I was exhausted from the week of research and classes and had looked forward to sleeping in late and catching up on my letter writing—I acquiesced.

At 6:00 a.m. sharp we met outside, our breaths forming shimmering ghosts in the chilly October air. We piled into someone’s car—there were three cars altogether–and drove for about an hour, up the winding roads toward the nearest mountains, the Picos de Europa. It was someone’s “secret spot” I later found out—everyone had places where they knew they could find the best ones, and consequently kept their locations hidden from others.

Once we had climbed the rocky slopes for a bit and had entered a forest of umbrella-shaped pine trees with twisted trunks, which in the gray early morning mist made me wonder how close we were to Transylvania, everyone separated and began scouring the ground, gingerly sliding wet clumps of russet-colored pine needles out of the way with the tips of their boots. Moistness seeped into my sweater and would have chilled me more if I hadn’t been trying to keep up with my fast-walking companions.

“Look, here’s a real beauty,” said one of my friends, holding up a brownish yellow mushroom, not too unlike a portabella in his broad hand.

“Ooh, it’s a Níscalo! Here, Christy, smell it,” said a pretty girl who lived down the hall from me,  breaking a piece off and holding it close to my face.

I was surprised by the fruity smell, wholesome and rich. “What will you do with it?” I asked, fearing the answer. I had never seen anyone use hallucinatory mushrooms, but then again, I’d had a pretty sheltered life before I went to Spain.

“We’ll cook them when we get home. I love tortilla de setas,” she exclaimed.

Still wondering, I asked another friend, one whom I could trust to answer me without laughing at my ignorance, and she assured me that the setas we were hunting for today were for regular food.

I breathed a sigh of relief and continued following different people around as they stooped, examined the fungal morphology of each new seta, occasionally consulting with each other or scowling over a small paperback book whose corners were curled and dirty, and gradually filled several plastic grocery bags with their treasures.

“Too bad it’s not the time of year for the seta de San Jorge,” one boy said, “I love those!”

“Here’s a really cool seta de caña,” another boy said, holding up a mushroom that looked like an umbrella blown inside-out in a windstorm.

“And over there I found some setas de cardo,” said still another girl, pointing to some broad, steel-gray hooded ones with large, thick stems.

Nowadays they recommend that you only use wicker baskets to collect mushrooms in order to keep the setas from spoiling, and a special license is required in order to preserve natural habitats from over-harvesting, according to a cool blog post I found on the subject (1). This blog has a lot of  information on where and how to hunt for mushrooms and some good pictures. I’ve also added several other links below with pictures of mushrooms that can be found all over Spain. Who knew it was such a huge past-time there?

After a full day, including a picnic lunch and stop for a warm cup of broth at a small restaurant, we headed back to my friend’s apartment. The mushrooms—at least 15 different kinds–were sorted under a bright light to be sure that there had been no confusion that would end up poisoning everyone. They looked at stem thickness, length, color, shape, whether there were notches or ridges, and then proceeded to do the same with the mushroom caps, smelling them occasionally and discarding any dubious ones. Then they washed them and chopped them up and made a series of omelets, laughter and songs ringing out as they banged pots and plates in the under-sized kitchen and sipped scarlet goblets of wine. After about 45 minutes, everyone sat down to eat them with gusto. Everyone, that is, except me.  Still very shy and overly wary, I did not join in, falsely claiming that I just didn’t like mushrooms.

When I saw that everyone was healthy and hardy the next day (I had honestly expected some of them to at least be vomiting) it dawned on me how foolish I had been to be so frightened. I wish I could say that I learned my lesson and was never afraid again, but that’s not how it works, is it? Sure, over time I did learn to trust a bit more, and I had many wonderful adventures that I might otherwise have missed if I had continued to always be hesitant to try new things. But, oh, those mushroom omelets—my mouth still waters as I recall their smell and I do wish I had not been so timorous!

(1) http://blog.ruraldir.com/turismo-micologico-donde-recoger-setas/

Here are some links to mushrooms that grow wild in the mountains of Castilla y Leon:

http://www.arauzodemiel.org/setas.htm

http://centros4.pntic.mec.es/ies.de.cistierna/alumnos/04_05/alvaro/alvaro/Barbuda.html

http://www.cestaysetas.com/informacion-micologica/guia-de-setas/

If you enjoyed this blog post, you might also like my series of novels, Bueno, Sinco and Brujas, which takes place in Santander, Spain.

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Las Médulas

me in las medulas

This is a badly faded photo, as it was taken more than half a life time ago for me, but it gives you an idea of the immensity of Las Médulas, a wonder tucked away in northern Spain. for brighter, more accurate vistas see the links I’ve posted at the bottom of this post.

While I lived in León, which is about a two hour drive northwest of Madrid, I went on quite a few excursions with my fellow graduate students who were determined to show me thoroughly around Spain, and one place which made a lasting impression on me was when we took a ride out to the countryside in the Region of El Bierzo.

Las Médulas is not the Grand Canyon, but in a way it’s even cooler because instead of being carved out by a river millions of years ago, it was made by humans, beginning two thousand years ago; the Romans did it. I love this about Spain—everywhere you look you see the Roman footprint. Located near the small city of Ponferrada, which is in the Province of Castilla y León, the landscape of Las Médulas is composed of stunningly bright orange pillars and outcroppings of raw earth, wreathed with dark green vegetation. (You can’t see the bright colors in this picture as it is 27 years old and has faded, but the websites I’ve added below have some great pictures!)

Why did the Romans carve out this vast landscape, you may be wondering? Quoth Mark Twain: “There’s gold in them, thar hills!”  Apparently, even before the Romans arrived two thousand years ago, the people in the area found gold nuggets washed down from the mountainsides in the rivers. So the Romans decided to force Nature’s hand and do the washing down themselves. Using a complicated system of pulleys and levers, ramps and something like seven aqueducts, they engineered a way to wash tons and tons of the soft sandstone down and then filtered out the gold. They produced quite a bit of gold—5,000,000 Roman pounds over a period of 250 years, according to Pliny the Elder, a Roman who lived around 74 CE (1) Roman pounds are only about ¾ the amount of a modern pound, but that’s still a lot of gold!!

The area is so very spectacular, that in 1997 it was named a World Heritage Site. I believe there are also on-going archeological studies about how the Romans mined and some studies about the pre-Romans who lived there. There’s even a museum with artifacts they’ve found.

Now the area is filled with chestnut and hazelnut trees, just like the rest of that region of Spain. As autumn settles in and the days get cooler, the nuts finish ripening and soon they will be harvested and shipped all over Europe. And this brings me to another favorite memory in Spain: it’s winter, and I’m outdoors (‘cause people in Spain are always outdoors—they’re obsessed with walking every day, all the time) and I smell the wood-burning stoves roasting chestnuts. I locate a small vendor, purchase some piping hot nuts, rolled in a newspaper cone, and try not to burn my cold fingers as I free the soft, wrinkled fruit from its shiny brown skin, then pop it in my mouth and savor the goodness. Ah! Heaven!

If you haven’t been to Spain, by all means, go. And if you’ve been, but haven’t toured north of Madrid, you are missing out! For descriptions on other great places in the north, you can take a look at some of my prior blog posts. There is one on Santander, where my novel is set, one about the Guggenheim Museum and one about the city of Bilbao where I lived for six years and a place my characters visit, one on an embarrassing adventure I had in Valladolid, one about Santiago de Compostela, on occasion of the horrible train crash, one about the fiestas in Pamplona, Bilbao and other parts of Spain, and one about a mansion in Santillana del Mar, Gaudi’s Capricho.

I LOVE northern Spain! And I think you will too!

(1)    http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Las_M%C3%A9dulas

For some more awesome pictures of Las Medulas please visit: http://www.lagosumido.com/, and of course, if you type in “Las Medulas El Bierzo Leon” on google images, you’ll see a ton of awesome photos. Here’s a link: https://www.google.com/search?q=las+medulas+el+bierzo+leon&es_sm=93&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=iVQ8Up6vJISS9gSq-4DADA&ved=0CFcQsAQ&biw=1440&bih=815&dpr=1

If you enjoyed this blog post, you might also like my series of novels, Bueno, Sinco and Brujas, which takes place in Santander, Spain.

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Guggenheim Museum of Bilbao

me at guggenheim

This is me with the Guggenheim Museum of Bilbao in the background, in 2003. If you look carefully you can see some construction debris. This has since been cleared, and the trees are much larger now.

“It’s supposed to be a ship, you know, because of the wharf and shipyard that used to be here. See how that part over there goes to the other side of the bridge too?”

“Well, I think it looks more like a flower—like one of those roses you see made out of metal.”

“No, no” said the third student, “It’s definitely a bird’s nest. Look at how the sticks are going every which way, like a gigantic stork’s nest.”

It was 1995 and we were taking a hard-hat tour of the new Guggenheim museum which was being built in the heart of Bilbao, along the Nervión River. I wish I still had the pictures I took of the fantastically curved and arched steel beams that reached up, willy-nilly, as if trying to snag the low-lying rain clouds that love to drizzle onto the city. While my students chattered on, all I could think was that there was no way, no way, the construction crews were going to be able to attach walls to those insanely curved support beams.

As I mentioned in my last blog post about Bilbao, I had the good fortune to live just a ten minute walk from the museum, so I made a point of sauntering by the construction site every few days, sure that I would eventually see a wrecking ball and crane knocking down the parts that had been built wrong. Maybe the plans had been distorted in the FAX machine? Maybe Frank Gehry, the architect, had spilled coffee on them and the ink had run? Or maybe the construction team was trying to use faulty beams that got warped when they were being poured or assembled? There had to be a logical explanation. After all, just a few kilometers away, everyone had driven by the hospital, fifteen stories high, that had been built on sandy, unstable terrain and therefore never occupied. Millions of pesetas, wasted. And what about the cement pillars for the overpass on the A-1 highway between Burgos and Bilbao, which had been placed 100 meters from either side of the road it was to connect? Another cement monument to plans gone wrong. This crazy museum was surely one of those huge mistakes that would be set in stone for posterity to scoff at.

Reality check: The website dedicated to Guggenheim museums around the world says, “Due to the mathematical complexity of Gehry’s design, he decided to work with an advanced software [program that was] initially conceived for the aerospace industry.” (1) This website has an extremely cool video and some great photos—including ones from the construction phase, so definitely check it out—the link is below. And, a publication by the Harvard Design School states, “Gehry’s design featured complex shapes that called for innovative construction methods. It became clear that the contractors were to play a central role in developing technical solutions that met the design challenges.” (2) No kidding! No one—not even the great architect, Antoni Gaudí,  whom I discussed in a previous blog post—had been harebrained enough to try to build something like this. Of course the contractors would have to figure out how to build it as they went along!

Back to my story: Weeks turned into months with no sign of a wrecking ball or crane. The workers continued welding and soldering beams, creating what looked like an incredibly huge roller coaster, and pretty soon after that, there were solid surfaces blocking my view of the interior. Then it was time to put up the shiny surface—titanium. First there was a huge, very public debate about from where to purchase the titanium—I think they were supposed to get it from Russia but the price changed and they could no longer afford the thousands of sheets they would need. I remember the saga fondly—everyone in Bilbao, on every street, in every bar, and in all the shops, was speaking of the titanium problem for weeks on end—but I don’t remember the outcome! In any case, they finally figured out a solution, and then the titanium arrived.  Sheets that were 0.4mm thick—just a bit thicker than aluminum foil—were cut to right size, and then stapled on. For weeks on end we could hear the clip-clip-clip of the pneumatic staple guns as they worked, sheet by sheet, to get all 33,000 onto the surface.

As the museum is located right next to one of Bilbao’s numerous bridges, there was some concern that a mirrored surface would reflect sunlight into the eyes of drivers, placing them in peril—NOT that there’s that much sun in Bilbao on a regular basis—but just in case, so it was a good thing that Gehry opted for a more muted, stippled look. Limestone and glass completed the other surfaces and we were left with one of the most stunning buildings I’ve ever seen.

Two of the characters in my book, two young teachers from the U.S., Pamela and Melissa, take a trip to Bilbao and tour the Guggenheim. You’ll have to let me know what you think of that part of the book.

Meanwhile, let me add my voice to the millions of people who have said, “Congratulations, Bilbao! Congratulations, Frank Gehry. What a beautiful sight!” Be sure to check out the links below for some very cool pictures!

 

(1)    Guggenheim Bilbao

(2)    “Managing the Construction of the Museo Guggenhiem Bilbao”, published by the Harvard Design School, Center for Design Informatics

If you enjoyed this blog post, you might also like my series of novels, Bueno, Sinco and Brujas, which takes place in Santander, Spain.

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Bilbao

Guggenheim from Daniel used in Bilbao blog post

Many thanks to my son for taking this lovely picture of the Guggenheim museum in Bilbao.

The first time I went to Bilbao, a city of about 800,000, nestled in a valley between Basque mountain ranges, and only a few short miles from the Bay of Biscay, I was horrified to see that the huge river running through the middle of the city actually turned colors at different times of the day: it would go from steel gray to milky white to muddy brown, and several shades in between.

“It’s the paper mills, upstream,” my friend explained. “Their waste is unfiltered and dumped by the tons into the river. Nothing can live there.”

Not only did the unfortunate river change colors, but it stank as well, as most of the ancient city did not have sewage treatment plants. Bilbao, it was obvious, was no tourist jewel. It had been an industrial city for decades, faring better than many other cities during WWII as it was rich in iron ore and had provided tons of material to the English to build their battle ships.  But now, the river banks were lined with dozens of shipyard cranes, and kilometers of railroad tracks scarred the adjacent terrain, while hundreds of abandoned railroad cars were piled haphazardly, rusting away in ignobility.

It was 1986 and at that time my plan was to spend just a few more months in Spain, then return to the U.S. to carry on with my life. I had no idea how deeply I would put down roots in that subfuscous city. But then, how much do any of us know at 22, when everything seems so clear and obvious?

I digress. The good news is that Bilbao changed. In 1989, amidst hundreds of cries of “This is the biggest waste of money ever!” the city began constructing a subway system. Old men, dressed in dark colored pants that were perfectly ironed, shiny leather shoes, and stiffly starched shirts, gathered in droves on the edges of the construction sites, just outside the security fences, and yelled instructions to the bulldozer and steam shovel operators who were blissfully oblivious in the raucous noise of concrete being torn up like Play-Doh.

It was a massive project. Traffic patterns in the heart of the city had to be shifted, the entrance to the Opera House was blocked for entire seasons, and a couple of huge, centenarian trees were carefully removed from a large central park for safe-keeping for several years while construction advanced at seemingly a snail’s pace. I got married,  finished my degree, my son was born, we moved away from Bilbao, we moved back to Bilbao, and still, construction of the subway system continued.  Finally, on 11/11/1995, at 11:11am, the metro opened for business. What an exciting day that was! Hundreds of people flocked to the terminals to take a ride and see what it was like. And I can tell you that it was beautiful!

Fast forward several more years and the city planners proved to be very savvy. The metro lines grew and to this day, they are still widely and heavily used, and have contributed greatly to the improvement in air quality as the number of vehicles in circulation on the city streets dropped dramatically.

The next steps that the Bilbao city planners took were also bold. They put in a bid for the new Guggenheim Museum, and won. I was fortunate enough to live only a ten minute walk away and had the wonderful opportunity to watch it being built. All but one of the shipyard cranes were removed, the railroad cars were hauled away and new parks and other museums were built on this recovered land.

And the poor river, you might be wondering? Yes, that has a happy ending too. One by one, the 15 paper mills were shut down, and then water treatment plants for city waste were put in. By the late 1990’s the water was back to being just one color, and in 2003, I looked down at the water from one of the new pedestrian bridges that had been built (since there were no longer large ships moving to and from the port as there had been for decades) and I saw large schools of fish swimming around in the clear waters. It was a poignant sight!

In my novel, some of my characters take a bus from Santander to Bilbao to tour this now lovely metropolis. They see the stunning glass mural at the train station, visit the fantastically whimsical Guggenheim Museum and are generally very impressed with this gem of a city. I loved being able to write that scene and knowing how lucky they were to be able to see such a cool place! Next time you’re in Spain, head north and see for yourself!

If you enjoyed this blog post, you might also like my series of novels, Bueno, Sinco and Brujas, which takes place in Santander, Spain.

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Choosing names

DSCN0075

This is a small store, called a “charcuteria” which sells all kinds of dried and yummy meats.

One of the many fun things about writing a novel is the opportunity to choose every character’s name.

In my high school literature class, the wonderful Mrs. Quammen often harped on about the fact that authors actually put thought and care into selecting names for their characters. But, honestly, I never really believed it. To me it seemed like writing was just something that happened, and no matter how much she insisted that it was a deliberate process, I didn’t truly get it. Sure, it was obvious that I struggled to write, but that was because I was a kid, not because writing was a difficult or premeditated activity. And, of course “Ramona” was named appropriately, as were “Gandalf” and “Heidi.” Hello! It would not have worked to have Christy the Pest.

Fast forward 30 years and it’s my turn to name characters as they come to life in my novel. In the first few drafts, my characters had pretty ordinary and uninspiring names. And then, as I wrote more and more drafts and, okay, I’ll be lame, the plot thickened, I realized that besides metaphors, foreshadowing and plot twists, character’s names could crafted to help convey my message. Now, with the story complete, I hope that you too, dear reader, will appreciate the beauty of names that I chose for their significance, like Pilar, the business manager, who is the “pillar” of the trouble-maker’s group, holding them up, though often unnoticed. The other trouble-makers, brujas, as I call them, realize that she is their pillar, but the main character, Harvey, does not. And Pilar works very hard to keep him in the dark.

Pamela, the name of one of the young teachers who is a rookie at the school, was one I chose in irony—her name means “sweetness” and she is anything but that, much preferring to instigate rumors and partake in subterfuge. And Ernesto, one of the few students who makes it into my novel, even though it’s about a school, got his name from the fact that he is “serious” (even if he does cause some major damage by being too smart and hacking into the school’s network!)

Still, I admit that there were times I chose names simply because I liked them, like Carmen, whom I named after one of my closest friends in graduate school, but even then, I labored over which characters got which names, depending on their traits and background. It was especially fun choosing last names, and I was even able to put in more obscure, but personally significant names like “Oen” and “Kosciolak”.

However, hands down, the very best name I chose, was that of my main character, Harvey Jones. Sounds boring, right? Well, wait till you read what Harvey’s arch-enemies, the brujas, do with his name–they come up with a play on words which is just, well, in all humility, nothing short of brilliant. It was one of those moments in writing when I just pushed back from the computer and giggled for several minutes—and everyone who has reviewed my novel so far loves it.

If you enjoyed this blog post, you might also like my series of novels, Bueno, Sinco and Brujas, which takes place in Santander, Spain.

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Say it like a Spaniard!

DSCN0079

I took this picture from the window of a bus as I was travelling between Ponferrada and Leon. I just love the lighting. It almost looks like a painting to me.

One of the things that fascinated me when I lived in Spain was the prevalent use of aphorisms. I love these mostly because they introduce me to a new way of looking at a situation, a new way of thinking, and connect me to the people who coined these phrases, many of whom lived hundreds of years ago. I love it that the human condition has so much that is constant. So today, in honor of the fact that I have visitors from Spain, I’m going to share some of my favorites, with loose translations or equivalents.

Hay que estar a las duras y a las maduras. “You need to be keeping an eye on which ones are ripe and which ones are still too green.” The birds in my back yard do a great job with this one, literally, on my fig tree, and this year I didn’t get a single fig as the moment they were ripe, the birds ate them. But this aphorism extends to life in that you have to be watching out for opportunities. Sometimes they present themselves unexpectedly and the savvy person will recognize them and jump for them. I was often told this when I missed out on a chance to do something or go somewhere, especially my first year in Spain. I’d express my regret and someone would say, “Hay que estar a las duras y a las maduras.”

Cuando no hay mas, contigo, Tomás. “If there’s no one else, I’ll go with you, Thomas.” This is an interesting one that was used often in León, but not in other parts of Spain. I have a friend from Valencia who had never heard it before. It’s also fascinating that before hearing it, I had never noticed the need to use it in my conversations. And it doesn’t necessarily always, or even usually, refer to people—sometimes when I’m cooking and I want a particular knife, but it’s dirty, I’ll reach for a less favorite one, maybe the last one in the drawer. Or maybe I’d prefer a different flavor of yoghurt, but there’s only one left in the refrigerator. Oh, well, I’ll think, “Cuando no hay mas, contigo Tomás.”

Consejos doy, que para mi no tengo. This is a great one! “I give advice to others that I don’t take for myself.” As a mother, I hear myself doing this when I tell my kids to get more sleep or eat healthier…yeah, part of me knows I say these things to also convince myself to do them!

Pagan los justos por pecadores. This one just kills me, it’s so true! “The just/righteous pay for the sinners.” Every time I go through TSA and have to take off my shoes or pack only tiny bottles of liquids I find myself muttering this one under my breath—the bad ones ruined it for the rest of us!

De ilusion tambien se vive. This is a sweet one: “people need dreams” is the rough translation. For those of us who are stubborn optimists, this is a good one.

Mucho ruido y pocas nueces. “Lots of noise but not much nut inside” is a nod to people or situations where there is a lot of bluster, but not much happens in the end. Sometimes when the sky turns really dark here in Houston, and there is thunder and lightning and then we get two drops of rain I’ll find myself thinking “mucho ruido y pocos nueces.” Or when a salesperson will rant and rave about how much your life will change if you just buy this gadget…yeah, right. Interestingly, Shakespeare’s play, “Much ado about nothing,” is translated in Spanish as “Mucho ruido y pocas nueces.”

Nunca digas ‘De este agua no beberé’, ni ‘Este cura no es mi padre.’ This is a cute one, because of its two parts. “Never say ‘I’ll never drink this water,’ nor ‘This priest isn’t my father.” I know I’ve lost track of the times I declared in my youth that I’d never, ever do something, only to find myself 8, 10 or 15 years down the road, thinking very differently. (“I hate onions! When I grow up I will never use onions to cook!” Did I really say that to my mother?) The second part about the priest is a nod to the fact that for hundreds of years, priests kept their celibacy in public, but everyone knew that their “housekeeper” did more than clean the house. It’s kind of like our saying in English, “It just goes to show, you never know.” And, as I mentioned in my blog entitled “Spain is Different” (https://christyesmahan.com/?p=114) there is a lot in everyday Spanish life that refers back to the church.

Del dicho al hecho hay un gran trecho. I like the way this one rhymes. It basically means that between saying you want to do something and actually doing it, there’s a lot of distance. Look at me here, saying I’m going to have a book. I started writing it nearly 5 years ago, and now I’m still working on getting it published. Hopefully that will be some time in October. But, “del dicho al hecho…

Los que duermen en el mismo colchon, se vuelven de la misma razon. Have you ever had a friend with her strong opinions and convictions, and then she meets someone, falls in love and gets married, and pretty soon she’s saying/doing things that she used to never say/do but which are very similar to what her new partner espouses? I’ve seen this happen lots of times, and I always remember this aphorism: “those who sleep on the same mattress end up believing the same things.”

And one of my favorites, probably because I didn’t really get it for a long time, “Me he puesto las botas.” This one is also commonly changed, depending on who is doing it, and when they are doing it, so you can say, “Se va a poner las botas,” for future, or “Se pusieron las botas,” for past tense, and if you know some Spanish, you’ll have noticed that I was also changing the pronouns. The basic translations of these three phrases are “I put on my boots,” or “He will put on his boots” or “They put on their boots.” But it’s got nothing to do with boots or even with getting dressed. It’s about having a really good time. If you thoroughly enjoy a meal, licking your fingers at the end, you’ve put on your boots. If you have a Harry Potter reading fest, like my kids have done sometimes, or watch all of The Lord of the Rings movies in a row, thoroughly (and loudly) enjoying every moment, you’ve put on your boots. Or, for me, right now, I’m having a really great time with my friends from Spain, showing them around Houston, so I can say, “Me estoy poniendo las botas.” Cute one, isn’t it? I smile just to think of it!

So now it’s your turn to share: what are your favorite aphorisms, in any language, and why?

If you enjoyed this blog post, you might also like my series of novels, Bueno, Sinco and Brujas, which takes place in Santander, Spain.

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Shopping in Spain

purse for shpng in Spain

Yes, it’s at least 25 years old, but still looking pretty good…made in Spain.

Although the purse didn’t cost $38,000, it was pricey for my budget as a graduate student. But it was my birthday, I’d been in Spain for all of 7 months and I really wanted it. As a matter of fact, I’d been walking by the shop window for weeks, changing my mind, then coming back to this particular purse, with its mixture of black and brown leather, and its double strap with a sophisticated magnetic clasp. It was definitely a cool purse.

I practiced saying my numbers in Castilian Spanish, chanting “cuatrocientos cincuenta” under my breath, or I should say, “cuatrothientos thincuenta” for a solid week until I could say it easily, as that th-s-th sound is very difficult, and re-worked my budget one hundred times until at last, I was ready to buy this purse. Then I walked into the shop, asked the sales lady to get it down, which she didn’t do because she thought I could not afford it–just kidding, I wasn’t in Switzerland! She got it down and for a moment I just admired its beauty, the supple leather, the excellent sewing. Hand-made in Spain. My dream purse.

I nodded, quieting my conscience, which was still feeling guilty about deviating from my budget. The shop keeper must have picked up something in my hesitation for she said gently, “You know, if you wait till the rebajas, the sales, this purse will be half price.”

Well, that was an interesting proposition. I had worked at K-Mart as a teenager, and I was familiar with the concept of store-wide sales, which were fairly regularly scattered across the calendar, often centering on holidays.

“Oh,” I said, “when are the rebajas?”

She studied me, almost as if she thought I was trying to trick her. What did I mean, when are the sales?

Las rebajas,” she said, by way of answer. I had noticed that often when people observed that I didn’t understand something, they would say it louder, as if the problem was with my ears instead of with my brain. I could see that she was starting to do the same.

“I honestly don’t know when the rebajas are.” I hurried to clarify. “Next week? Next month?”

Now she smiled. She had realized that I hadn’t misunderstood the word.

Pues, en Agosto, claro.” In August, of course.

August! This was April! August was still 4 months away! This shopkeeper was trying to talk me out of buying this expensive purse and waiting for the fall to purchase it at a lower price? What if I changed my mind between now and then? What if I moved? What if I found one I liked better at a different store? She could lose a potential sale!

“Are there any rebajas before then?” I asked, in case she was forgetting what a long time there was between April and August. I was still close enough to my youth for 4 months to seem an eternity. But, no, she informed me, no sales before then. The only sales in Spain were in August and January.

It boggled my mind that nation-wide sales occurred only twice a year. Period. According to the blog site 20minutos.com, the idea of having sales in the first place was copied from a New York business person, Fred Lazarus, Jr., who, in the 1930’s, decided it was better to sell clothing stock at a discount than store it. In Spain, in the 1940’s, two huge department stores, Galerias Preciados (which I remember, but which is now out of business) and El Corte Ingles, instituted the practice of sales after the high seasons (Christmas and summer.) Apparently the tradition caught on, and as the consumers embraced the idea, sales progressed from consisting of what was in stock, to becoming meticulously planned events where the stores even brought in stock for the sales (not unlike what happens here on Black Friday.) And it’s been that way ever since.

So, if you’re in Spain right now, lucky you, by all means, go have fun shopping, and be sure to take advantage of the magnificent rebajas. As for me, well, I still have that birthday purchase!

If you enjoyed this blog post, you might also like my series of novels, Bueno, Sinco and Brujas, which takes place in Santander, Spain.

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An embarrassing moment

 

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Cathedral in Salamanca

Have you ever heard a person whose native language is Spanish and who is still working on their English get mixed up when pronouncing words? Maybe they say “sheep” when they mean “ship”, “beach” when referring to a female dog, or “sheet” when they mean…you get it. Well, the same goes when English speaking people are trying to converse in Spanish and just a small change in a word can give it a completely different meaning. My post today is about when that happened to me, creating one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. But before I share this experience, I need to set up the scene from several different angles.

First, anyone who has studied Spanish knows that there are a lot of words that are similar to English ones. So, if you want to say “excursion” in Spanish, you just change the accent of the English word a bit, and say “excursión.” Similarly, “radiator” is “radiador,” and “theater” is “teatro.” And so it is for many other words, though it didn’t work that way for the word I chose (and I still blush as I remember the scene.) Nevertheless, I will be brave and write about it for the whole world to laugh at, I mean, with, me. But I still need to set it up a bit more.

Second, you may know that in Spanish, objects are either masculine or feminine. So, if, for example, in English you say “look at it” (meaning, look at the moon), in Spanish you would say “look at her”. Or if you are looking for a book, which is masculine, instead of looking for it, you are looking for him. Okay, you get the picture.

The third part of the set-up is situational. I was a graduate student in the small city of León, which is northwest of Madrid, maybe two hours away by car. I was practically the only foreigner in the city at the time (that was 1986—now there are lots of foreigners there), and I had received a Rotary International Foundation Scholarship to study my first year of graduate school. One of the scholarship requirements was that I make contact with a local Rotarian, who would be my counselor, answering any questions about Spain and helping me make the adjustment to the different style of life. Since there were no Rotarians in León, I was told that I had to go to Valladolid, about an hour away by train, to meet with him there. So I called and set up an appointment to meet with this counselor person, and on the weekend I went with a couple of my friends (I wasn’t very brave) and when we got to his apartment, the Rotarian was not in. The housekeeper suggested we go to a café close by to look for him there, but he wasn’t there either. The waiters knew him and said that he had gone on to a restaurant, so we decided to follow him there, but still no luck. So, a nice trip to see a new city, but no Rotarian. And now for the embarrassing story.

It’s Monday afternoon, I’m sitting in the university cafeteria with a big group of graduate students, many of whom I don’t know well yet, and they’re all speaking in their super fast Spanish and I’m smiling and mostly tuning them out because I don’t understand them. Then one of them, a really nice guy with whom I’m still friends today, but who loves to kid around, says to me, “So, Christy, what did you do this weekend?”

Suddenly my heart is pounding in my ears as all eyes focus on me, and the part of my brain that has been acquiring a lot of Spanish freezes up. “I…I went to Valladolid.” Good, Christy. Five years of middle and high school Spanish, and a year of Spanish Literature and Spanish Conversational class in college paid off. I could answer a simple question in Spanish. Yeah.

“And, did you enjoy it? Did you see any sites?” He pursued, speaking slowly so I could understand.

“Yes,” I answered, willing myself to be courageous and expand the thought. “Actually, I was looking for my…” I hesitated. How in the world do you say “counselor” in Spanish? Everyone leaned a bit forward.

“Your…?” He prompted.

I decided to hazard a guess. How far off could I be, right? “Mi consolador” I answered. There. Not so bad. I was sure they’d be able to figure out what I meant.

But when I said that word, pretty much every single person at the table started turning pink. Okay, that was strange.

Tu consolador?” he repeated, a smile playing on the edge of his lips.

“Yes,” I answered in Spanish, noticing people now covering their mouths in an attempt to hold back giggles. And everyone, all ten of them, were leaning in closer to the large, circular table to listen to me.

“Y donde lo has buscado?” Where have you looked for him? He persisted. He really is a funny guy, but at the time I did not appreciate how far out on a limb he was going.

“Por todas partes” I answered. Everywhere.

I was sure that I was understanding the questions and making myself understood, but I also knew that somehow I was putting my foot in my mouth, as the blushes intensified and many of the boys started giggling louder. Since when had looking for a counselor been so hilarious?

“¿Y fuístes a Valladolid a buscarlo?” He asked. And you went to Valladolid to find him?

“Yes, and I went all over, but he was nowhere,” I answered in good Spanish. By this time I noticed that one of my closest friends was gently shaking her head at me. No, she was saying silently. Just stop right there. I stared at her and she surreptitiously shook her head again, to make sure I got the message. I was thoroughly baffled.

“Christy,” she now announced aloud, “how about another cup of coffee?” And rising, she walked over and took me by the wrist to pull me away from the table while everyone else laughed harder and harder.

When we got out of earshot she whispered, you must mean “consejero” not “consolador.” You weren’t looking for your vibrator!

If you enjoyed this blog post, you might also like my series of novels, Bueno, Sinco and Brujas, which takes place in Santander, Spain.

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