...the title was a headline on the news today about Pamplona post-San Fermin (aka the running of the bulls).
Anyway. My landlord/roommate is that kind of woman who might happily take over my life if I let her. Nothing specific about me, she's just one of those helpful/nosy/pushy women who talks a lot and likes to make plans and organize things. I happened to mention that I might prefer a private tutor to my group Spanish classes; then I went out to make a phone call and by the time I got back she had found someone online, called her, reviewed her credentials, and negotiated a price. And now I have a nice well-trained inexpensive Spanish tutor for two days. So today I had four hours of class, two hours of tutoring, and two hours of intercambio. And I think something finally clicked. For the first time in a long time, I felt like with some more time and some money and the complete absense of shame, maybe I could do this. (This = learn Spanish for real.)
In today's installment of verbally blowing the Basque country, there's this place where I go for coffee before class every morning. It's called Don Jamon and it's nothing special. It's just on the way to school and has good coffee, in a place where almost everywhere has good coffee. But it also has this old man who's there every morning, wearing a sweater and a beret, reading the paper and nursing a glass of red wine.
In case you think I just go around blindly adoring every aspect of everything here though, I do have some gripes, which I'll share now. (They're not unique to the Basque country, though.) For one thing, Spanish people cannot make French fries. They come unannounced with a lot of dishes, and they're always terrible. So oily that they're soggy. (As I write these gripes about Spanish people, an old man is buying me a beer and telling me I speak good Spanish (I don't), which kind of makes me want to just stop with my gripes. But, in the spirit of being fair and balanced, or something, I press on.) In class yesterday we were talking about food and had to describe our favorite dish. (I hate that question because I don't really have a favorite dish and I can never decide what to say in any language and I get all indecisive and weird.) I chose tacos. Tacos have tortillas, which are not like Spanish tortilla (which is made of eggs and potatoes and onions and gallons of olive oil) but are made of corn, I said. "No," said my teacher. "Tortilla always means something made with eggs." Me: "Ok, in Spain, but in Mexico tortilla means something made of corn." Him: "No, you probably mean torta, not tortilla." Me (silently): Joder.
(Now the old guy is saying that sidra is the fruit of the gods, or something to that effect.)
On a more general and unfortunate note, I've heard a lot of people here complaining about Latin American immigrants. (On various trips to Spain, in various parts of the country.) My heart doesn't bleed quite so blindly that I call racism on anyone who doesn't love all immigration. But I'm pretty sure that gangs of Latinos don't go around robbing blind all the good citizens of Bilbao. (Not betting Gabe's life here, but I'm pretty sure that both times I've personally been robbed in Spain, it was by Spanish guys.) And it's hard to put a nonracist spin on "No me gustan los latinos."
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