The old Basque man in his Basque hat is still drinking wine for breakfast at Bar Jamon every morning. Not that his Basqueness was ever in doubt (and I would like him and his hat and his wine even if he weren't Basque), but I also noticed that he has longish earlobes. This one book I read about Basques says that they have long earlobes, so now I'm going around checking out everyone's ears. They're not goofily big or anything, but once you start looking you notice that some earlobes here are biggish, and the bigger ones often go with a long straight nose which is apparently another Basque trait. It's sort of a fun game to play. Well, fun for me, anyway.
Basques are very Catholic, although as far as I can tell they're not very uptight about it, and they are apparently more socially conservative than Spanish people. If you ask me, they hide it pretty well. Anyway, someone was telling me that couples here pair up early and mostly stay together, and that Basque boys are shy, and that if a woman here goes to a bar by herself people will probably think she's a whore (as in an actual prostitute). I.e., maybe the Basque country isn't the most perfect place in the whole world. It was a nice silly idealization while it lasted.
"So if I moved here, with my 33 years," I asked, "would I stay single forever?"
"Well, things are changing. You could probably find someone, but he'd probably be a lot younger."
Ridiculous idealization restored.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
La más estúpida
Joder. (In case you didn't know, joder means fuck in Spanish. It's not as strong/bad as fuck is in English, though, at least not in Spain. Maybe it's different in other Spanish-speaking places. It's a good word. You can pronounce the h sound way in the back of your throat and drag it out like they do here, or you can be extra gringo and say it like hoe-DARE and either way it's very satisfying and sometimes makes Spanish people laugh when I say it.)
Anyway, like I was saying, joder. I'm back at the same Spanish school where I studied for a week last month, and at first I was all excited that they put me in a more advanced class than I was in before. But then the class started. And everyone else speaks sooo much better than I do. (In case you're thinking that this is just a case of my always being too hard on myself and my communication skills, I did think the easier class was too easy.) Whine. We happen to all be female which I guess is supposed to make me feel more confident or less like a disaster or something, but it doesn't. I hate being the stupidest one. (Not speaking a language doesn't make you stupid, but it sure makes you feel stupid.) I do like to torture myself though, and you learn more when things are hard, so I hope the Instituto Hemingway doesn't realize the horrible mistake it's made and demote me tomorrow.
Anyway, like I was saying, joder. I'm back at the same Spanish school where I studied for a week last month, and at first I was all excited that they put me in a more advanced class than I was in before. But then the class started. And everyone else speaks sooo much better than I do. (In case you're thinking that this is just a case of my always being too hard on myself and my communication skills, I did think the easier class was too easy.) Whine. We happen to all be female which I guess is supposed to make me feel more confident or less like a disaster or something, but it doesn't. I hate being the stupidest one. (Not speaking a language doesn't make you stupid, but it sure makes you feel stupid.) I do like to torture myself though, and you learn more when things are hard, so I hope the Instituto Hemingway doesn't realize the horrible mistake it's made and demote me tomorrow.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Back, and out
Everyone who ever travels likes to bitch about air travel, but it's almost never of much interest to anyone else. So I'll just say that it looked like I was about to get bumped from my flight last night but then I didn't and now I'm very happy to be back in Bilbao and not stuck in Newark. And I still suck at sleeping on planes and I'm very tired and I'm going to bed now. Buenas noches.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Dedicated to Gabe not Phong
I guess you've probably all stopped reading by now, since I stopped writing. But wait! Come back! I'm quitting my job and going back to the Basque country. And then, I'm going to try to make some kind of income from my writing. So you must keep reading.
In the meantime, here are some only-barely-organized photos: http://www.flickr.com/photos/61797406@N04/sets/.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Had to run away high
Is there such a thing as a food hangover? I woke up very early and still very full from last night, feeling not hung over but otherwise horrible. Walked to the bus station in the rain (whine), and twelve hours and some screaming kids later, was back in New York. One of the nice things about ground travel is how un-jarring it (usually) is. Wherever you're going, you ease into it.
Taking the subway 'home' from the airport, I sat across from a homeless-looking guy passed out directly under an ad for some kind of anti-bed bug sheets.
Yay, real world.
Taking the subway 'home' from the airport, I sat across from a homeless-looking guy passed out directly under an ad for some kind of anti-bed bug sheets.
Yay, real world.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Venga, hasta luego
So. This is it. By the time I get around to posting this, I'll probably be back in New York. I've done a pretty good job of not thinking about going back, so I'm not moping around all pouty or anything. (It's not like New York is a bad place to be, and I do miss my friends. But the thought of rejoining the real world is not appealing.) In order to not think about going back, though, I think I've managed to spend most of today not thinking about anything: I have nothing to say. Talk about going out without a bang...
...
Ok, here goes. I'm having my last dinner at the kind of restaurant that food people get excited about. This place has a different tasting menu every day and it's all allegedly made only from things bought this morning at the market across the river. Because it's Bilbao, it's a fairly good deal for a fancy dinner; it would be a really good deal if the US dollar were worth anything. (Although no one here has a job, so I know I shouldn't whine too much.) The food is good and fresh and interesting and all that; halfway through the tasting menu I've really liked all but one plate, which was too fishy. (But I'm super picky about fishiness.) I'll probably finish the bottle of vinho verde (I already forget how they say it in Spanish -- vino verdejo, I think) that I ordered because bottles are the only option here and because seafood plus red wine makes my mouth taste like a battery -- partly because I'm paying for it, but mostly because months of drinking east European beer 500ml at a time has noticeably upped my alcohol tolerance. That will right itself once I get back to some kind of a normal life. Anyway, what I really like about this restaurant, beyond anything in particular that I've eaten, is that it's sort of a nice little summary (microcosm is I guess what I mean to say here, but it sounds pretentious) of everything I like about Bilbao. The Basque country in general is always a fiesta and the people are hot and sidra and berets and blah blah blah. (Spanish people sound cute and hilarious when they say blah blah blah.) Bilbao in particular is arty and it has great food and some nice architecture and big hills slash little mountains in the distance. But it's also industrial and, as much as I've been mocking my roommate for freaking out about the neighborhood where my Spanish class is, there is actual grit here. So anyway, the restaurant is right on the river and lights shine on the water and it's very pretty. But it's also in a pretty grungy neighborhood that smells of urine and hash and is covered in Basque nationalist graffiti and clothes hanging out to dry. On the walkway right next to the river are some bags of trash that unleashed dogs sometimes stop to pee on. And the building itself has old exposed stone walls and some beams and pillars running through it, which they neither accentuate nor try to cover up. It's basically a lot of good, but with enough crap around to keep things interesting and make you appreciate the good even more. And, on that note, I'm going to take my head full of vinho verde and wander home and bask in a few more Basque hours.
Thanks for reading. :)
...
Ok, here goes. I'm having my last dinner at the kind of restaurant that food people get excited about. This place has a different tasting menu every day and it's all allegedly made only from things bought this morning at the market across the river. Because it's Bilbao, it's a fairly good deal for a fancy dinner; it would be a really good deal if the US dollar were worth anything. (Although no one here has a job, so I know I shouldn't whine too much.) The food is good and fresh and interesting and all that; halfway through the tasting menu I've really liked all but one plate, which was too fishy. (But I'm super picky about fishiness.) I'll probably finish the bottle of vinho verde (I already forget how they say it in Spanish -- vino verdejo, I think) that I ordered because bottles are the only option here and because seafood plus red wine makes my mouth taste like a battery -- partly because I'm paying for it, but mostly because months of drinking east European beer 500ml at a time has noticeably upped my alcohol tolerance. That will right itself once I get back to some kind of a normal life. Anyway, what I really like about this restaurant, beyond anything in particular that I've eaten, is that it's sort of a nice little summary (microcosm is I guess what I mean to say here, but it sounds pretentious) of everything I like about Bilbao. The Basque country in general is always a fiesta and the people are hot and sidra and berets and blah blah blah. (Spanish people sound cute and hilarious when they say blah blah blah.) Bilbao in particular is arty and it has great food and some nice architecture and big hills slash little mountains in the distance. But it's also industrial and, as much as I've been mocking my roommate for freaking out about the neighborhood where my Spanish class is, there is actual grit here. So anyway, the restaurant is right on the river and lights shine on the water and it's very pretty. But it's also in a pretty grungy neighborhood that smells of urine and hash and is covered in Basque nationalist graffiti and clothes hanging out to dry. On the walkway right next to the river are some bags of trash that unleashed dogs sometimes stop to pee on. And the building itself has old exposed stone walls and some beams and pillars running through it, which they neither accentuate nor try to cover up. It's basically a lot of good, but with enough crap around to keep things interesting and make you appreciate the good even more. And, on that note, I'm going to take my head full of vinho verde and wander home and bask in a few more Basque hours.
Thanks for reading. :)
Friday, July 8, 2011
The streets are clean and nobody died
...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."
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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