Saturday, August 23, 2008

I sleep in today—and I need the extra hours badly! Most of the girls have gone out of town and so I have no plans and no place to be today. As I’m lying in bed, having slowly woken up, I hear Isabel and some man talking about crab. “Cangrejos tan grandes!” (What big crab/These crabs are huge!) As I get dressed I hear them still fawning over these giant crab. When I finally make my way to the kitchen for breakfast I am expecting to encounter some giant sea monster of a crab displacing the normal contents of the kitchen with it’s huge claws and spindly legs… Instead I discover a foil sheet with rows and rows of the smallest hard shell crab I have ever seen. They’re about the size of the palm of my hand—and I have small hands! They’re like miniature Dungeness crab and I’ve never seen anything like them in my life.

I stand at the counter, staring at these baby crab, thinking they must have been joking, but no, Isabel turns to me and says, “Hey, how huge are those crab?!” I explain to her, laughing, that I heard them talking about huge crab and expected something enormous and I hold out my arms wide. I show her with my hands how big the crab are at home and explain that these look like the babies of the crab we eat in Seattle. Apparently in Cádiz, the crab are generally very, very small. These crab are in fact, large, as crab in Cádiz go (Debora will explain to me later that the crab are over-pulled and have no time to grow any bigger). Isabel explains how to eat a teeny-tiny crab, and I can tell she’s really excited about this special treat.

After breakfast I take my computer to the Plaza de Mina to check my email and do some work. It’s still pretty early and it’s fairly quiet—no screaming children… yet. I have an email from Jennifer, the advisor for the French and Italian department who will be joining us for a few weeks of the exploration seminar. The email is friendly and she tells me she’s arriving on Monday instead of Sunday and then includes a whole bunch of recommendations for restaurants and ice cream from a friend of hers who lived in Cádiz. I write down the names of the restaurants, but I’ve already been to some of them and have definitely had ice cream at all of the helado joints mentioned—I’m kind of proud that we’ve already managed to scout out a few of the places.

It’s not long before my computer battery is dead and it’s time to head back for lunch anyway.

Lunch, like I may have mentioned, is the big meal of the day in Spain. Today, lunch is the big meal in the sense that the whole family is eating together. Abel and Isabel’s other grandson are here, plus Debora, Isabel’s son Ezekiel, Mirella, and one of Isabel’s daughters, who doesn’t eat with us. We all cram in around the kitchen table and I feel completely at home as the volume of conversation rises and the family seems to really enjoy each other’s company.

Isabel serves me some sort of thick tomato sauce with a fried egg, which I scarf down. Then comes the fish sticks, the little patties of fish roe, and dumplings of breaded and fried crab meat. Oh, and let me not forget the ensalata mixta! Food is love in this and every house along the Spanish coast.

I’ve discovered that Spaniards have a different concept of what mayonnaise is used for. Generally, my understanding has been that mayonnaise is used sparingly and is often thought of as a very unhealthy condiment. In Spain it is a dipping sauce, a spread for crackers, and a topping for hotdogs, frequently abused in the same manner in which I abuse ranch dressing. [On a side note: there is no such thing as ranch dressing in Spain and I’m feeling its absence. The closest thing is ali oli, which is not the same at all.] I sit and stare in wonderment as everyone at the table squirts huge dollops of mayonnaise onto their fish sticks and crab dumplings. Isabel squirts gobs of it on each of the little roe patties and then puts a few on my plate. Oh well, when in Spain…

Lunch is my favorite part of the day I think. I love getting to chat with everyone, although I have to say that part of why I love it the opportunity to just listen to everyone speaking Spanish around me. I learn most of my new vocabulary and phrases around the lunch table. Everyone is so patient and nice and they never mind when I interrupt to ask what a word or a phrase means. Sometimes I don’t even have to ask, they just turn to me and explain. I feel very included—which is such a pleasure.

During lunch Isabel’s mother calls. Isabel is an only child and her mother, as I understand it, likes to call and complain about how awful everything is in order to get some attention and a little sympathy. This bisabuela is incredibly hard of hearing and I can hear her shouting into the phone. Isabel shouts back, having to repeat herself two and sometimes three times while the whole family snickers. Then the phone is passed to Ezekiel who has a grand old time playing with his grandmother at her expense, giving one answer the first time he replies, then a totally different answer when he has to repeat himself, shouting at the top of his lungs. Of course it’s a grand performance and one that isn’t lost on me.

Bisabuela: “Where are you living? Madrid is a dangerous city!”

Ezekiel: “I’m very safe, I live in an apartment with my boyfriend.”

Bisabuela: “WHAT? WHO DO YOU LIVE WITH?”

Ezekiel: “I LIVE IN AN APARTMENT WITH MY CAT!”

Bisabuela: “WHAT?”

Ezekiel: “MY CAT!”

For dessert I get to try a cactus fruit called higo chombo. It’s delicious. It’s about the size and consistency of a peeled kiwi, but not acidic or sour at all, just sweet and delicious. I eat two—a red one and a green one. The green one is sweeter. After lunch I pack up my bag and head to the beach. I’m hoping that maybe some of the remaining girls will be at our usual spot, but I’m all by myself today and it’s kind of a nice, quiet change. I read and soak up the sun until it’s time for me to head back home to get ready for the evening. I’m supposed to be meeting my group at about seven to go over our poem translation. I shower and put on a nice dress and a bright green necklace I bought from a chain-smoking gypsy at Plaza de las Flores yesterday after the market with Megan. I even put on high heels for the first time since I’ve been in Europe in an effort to embrace the cultural tradition of dressing up for the evening paseo. I grab my computer bag and head for the plaza. I’m early and I sit and make some phone calls while I scan the gathering crowds for my group members. I can’t see anyone and it’s getting late… I figure they all bailed so I drop my computer off at the house and then head out for a leisurely stroll.

Isabel had mentioned a fair going on in an area called el Popolo. It’s off to the side of the Plaza de Catedral so I head that way because the cheap sandwich shop is there and I’m eating by myself anyway so I might as well eat cheaply.

As I come into the plaza there are people everywhere. A huge exhibit of photos, blown up and mounted on stilts forms an informal outdoor gallery in front of the cathedral doors. A large painted tent crouches in the far corner that leads to el Popolo. I’m determined to eat something first so I brave the crowded restaurant and place my order. As I’m waiting for my name to be called (I submitted it as Lucia since no one can say my name here) a little boy walks right up to me and just starts screaming at the top of his lungs. At this point I’ve gone a little too long without eating anything and it’s crowded and I just want to get my food and get going and here’s this kid screaming his head off right in my face. I look his mother dead in the eye and tell her in my most vicious Spanish that her child is the worst behaved child I have ever seen. She grabs him by the arm and yanks him away. Wise woman.

I’m much more pleasant after eating and wander over to the tent to see what’s going on. What’s going on is basically the U-District Fair of Cádiz. This tent happens to be selling some Moorish treats and a whole bunch of Moorish art. Beautiful, but not very well-made jewelry boxes with inlaid shell or stones and mosaic wood decorations can be had for only slightly inflated prices. Mosaic mirrors and glass lanterns, scarves and ceramic vases all wait for someone to take them home. I pass on all of it, having no room in my suitcase, no money to waste, and no interest in stuff that can be found of better quality and cheaper price elsewhere.

I wander into the streets of el Populo, noting the flags hung from the buildings announcing that this is a fair to celebrate the roots of Andalucía. The name for this region of Spain actually comes from an ancient Arabic word meaning the land of the Vandals. The Moors ruled the Iberian peninsula for an insanely long time, perhaps so successfully because they allowed the various cultures and religions of the area to continue to live life freely. Many Spanish words actually have Arabic roots instead of Latin. Rio, the word for river, is Arabic in origin. The architecture of the Moors can be found across the country, but is most prominent in the South. Great domes and arches and palaces built like forts dot Andalucía.

The best-known, and perhaps one of the most beautiful buildings in the world is the Moorish fort and palace called the Alhambra, which is in Granada. Eventually the Catholics drove the Moors out of Spain and united the people under one nation and one faith. Everyone who was not Catholic was given three choices: leave, convert, or be killed. Despite this, the Muslim and Moorish influence remains, clearly an indelible part of Spanish culture. For instance, there is an incredible mosque in Córdoba that was converted to a Catholic church, but the original structure with beautiful arches and a mural of Mecca remains. The plazas, around which Spanish life seems still to revolve are Moorish in origin, as are the small courtyards on the ground floors of all the buildings in the south, sometimes with fountains or little gardens, most with mosaic or tiled floors and walls.

I wander through the confusing maze of el Popolo, slowed to a real Spanish pace by the dense crowd. There’s Arabic music and chanting playing over a loud-speaker and most of the people working booths are dressed in Arabic garb. Traditional Moorish and Andalucían crafts are represented. I stop to watch a man pain people’s names in Arabic, admiring his incredible calligraphy. There’s also an enormous stack of paintings which are poems, prayers or adages written in traditional Arabic calligraphy in such a way that the letters and words actually form images. Poems about peace are contained in images of flying doves or blossoming flowers.

There’s a stand with woven baskets, and another with men dressed as monks hawking herbal remedies for every malady you can think of. I walk through everything twice, taking in the leather goods, the jewelry made from bulls’ horns, and the crazy people that street fairs always seem to attract. It’s not even that late, but I head back home anyway, cutting through Plaza de Mina to stop and get some helado. Who should I find? The only remaining people from our entire seminar group: Carin, Cortney, Isar, and Jared.

Turns out, they’ve been sitting at the same table at this café for hours, since before I arrived at Plaza de Mina looking for them earlier this evening. Just my luck. I apologize profusely and explain that I wasn’t even sitting that far off, working on my computer, I just didn’t see them because I wasn’t expecting them to have been sitting under umbrellas at the café. I run home to get my computer and we share our translations of the poem, having, for the most part, come up with the same understanding.

I tell everyone about the fair and we agree on a plan for the next day. We’re going to meet to go to the beach, then definitely later to go out to dinner at one of the restaurants recommended in the email from Jennifer. We sit around, shooting the breeze, enjoying the true essence of Spanish nightlife, which involves nothing more than a nice night and nice company. Eventually we all split up for home.

As I walk in the door Isabel is surprised to see me home so early on a Saturday night. “Did you forget something?” she asks me. Nope, I’m home for the night! Her granddaughter, Mirella, isn’t even done getting ready to go out… I catch a glimpse of her as she leaves—dressed to the nines. As I climb into bed, I’m totally satisfied with my little Andalucian adventure.