Stories from Segovia

el acueducto de Segovia

When my contract ended last summer, I boarded a bus with teary eyes to embark on a new adventure. My crazy-cool Uncle had decided to cross the pond for a visit! We met up in Madrid and set off, our first stop being not far away, just northwest of the capital in beautiful Segovia! Situated on the meseta in Castilla y Leon, Spain doesn't get much more Spanish than here. Its stunning scenery and easy access from Madrid make Segovia a popular tourist stop, but the Roman aqueducts, the Alcázar castle, and the cochinillo, or roast suckling pig, are what really put it on the map!

el Alcázar de Segovia

The earliest records indicate that the Alcazar began as a fortress during the Moorish invasion of Spain, and then continued to evolve with history. When I say that that Spain doesn't get more Spanish than this, think Queen Isabel I of Castille. After the death of Henry IV in Madrid, this is where she was crowned queen. Not of minor significance, Isabella and her husband Ferdinand of Aragón are credited with ending the Reconquista, starting the Inquisition, sending Columbus to America, and, oh yeah, uniting all of Spain under one rule.

The castle is beautiful (enough so to inspire disney fairy tales!), but imagining the history as I wandered the halls was a different kind of beauty, like sidestepping time. We made it up the tower, with a little huffing and puffing, but the applause from a group of students from Asturias at the top was absolutely worth it!

The applause and, of course, the view...

a view of Segovia

Segovia's historical significance extends beyond Spain's golden age and into modernity, having also been on the front lines during the Spanish Civil War. This history is also a bit more personal, and I was anxious to see it for myself, because a friend of mine is from Segovia and actually lived it. As a child, he remembers, it was an ordinary afternoon that his parents were debating whether his father should go down to Madrid on errands that day, or wait until the next. He went that same day, war broke out, and he couldn't come back for five years. My friend remembers seeing Franco's speeches from the balcony, and watching people run from the square into the church as the bombs fell. It was almost hard to believe as we wandered the same spot on a sleepy summer day, and sipped our coffee in the plaza. 

Segovia is a convenient tourist destination, but it's also a sleepy Spanish town. The man sweeping the plaza was happy to tell me an entire history of the cathedral, another man explained how the aquaduct appeared overnight after a tired farm boy made a deal with the devil to save time fetching water, and when we stopped in at the Mesón de Candido to sample some of Segovia's typical dish, roast suckling pig, the second-generation owner laughed as he wrote me a joke to tell my friend about the small neighboring towns. I loved Segovia for all of its touristic appeals, but I think that what I loved most was the grace with which it shares all of its stories, inviting you to be a part of its history. 

Have you ever been to Segovia? Did you stop in at the Meson de Candido for some cochinillo? 

Because Spain: The Definition of a Draft

Before I moved to Spain, I'm not sure that I understood the phrase drafty.

Sure, the meaning was clear conceptually, but this was terminology reserved for literature or television, not to be applied to day-to-day life. Perhaps this is telling of a privileged existence, the American bubble where movement centers around perfectly climatized houses, cars, and places of business; leaving exposure to the elements to be tolerated only intermittently on the in-between. Perhaps this is also telling of America's electric bill.

tina cozying up by the radiator

But, economics and global warming aside, some climatization choices seem more intuitively connected to the realm of sense than culture. The heat is on? Shut the windows. Trying to attract customers? The ambient temperature should encourage clientele. The building will be occupied all day? That's when the temperature should be controlled.

Spain disagrees.

At the public high school where I work, it's not uncommon for teachers and students to have class wearing their coats. Between classes and during breaks, radiators usually draw a crowd. And yet, the windows are open. As I write this entry in a popular café, everyone in sight is wearing their coat. And the door is open.

Whereas America tends to favor central heating, Spain is a radiator guy. I thought that this could be the key: One system is more effective than the other, maybe radiators operate by different rules. But Google, with its answers to everything, is ambivalent. Both systems are adequate, it says, rendering the difference merely a matter of preference.

So it's not the system, it's just Spain.

And the thing is, Spain doesn't seem to mind. This edition of "Because Spain" is a prime example of the effect that costumbre has on perception, because, to the Spanish, any discomfort is only minutely noticeable. The only effect of indoor temperature that I've seen has been as a source for small talk, an exclamation of "¡Que frío!" here or there to punctuate the day. My attempts to ask questions about the heat usually end up lost in the tangled mess of extralinguistic barriers to communication, in a foreign language.

As the foreigner, however, I have slept in my winter coat on more than one occasion. And I am not the only one. Many of my expat friends have shared this experience, and while asking a Spaniard about climate control is akin to speaking Greek, the first words exchanged among fellow travelers often center on this fact. Did she just ask me if I want the heat in my room on for one hour or two? A British man once asked me, taken aback and shivering. Bundle up, I should have said, you're in Spain!

French Basque Country: Where the Coffee is Bad

a view of biarritz

No, the coffee isn't really that bad in France, but that was the Spanish perspective that our guide offered as the bus rumbled northward towards my first adventure in the French Basque Country.

After curiously inspecting the tattered white flyers that kept appearing all over Bilbao, €20 seemed like a reasonable price for a quick adventure in San Juan de Luz and Biarritz. My roommates laughed at me, asking if I had seen the driver's credentials. In truth is I had no idea what to expect, but I convinced some other expats to come along with me to find out.

Although the flyers read "Los planes de Cloe," Chloe's Plans, the excursions seem to be organized by a  friendly woman named Amaya. She tapes the little white advertisements up around the city and then contracts a bus if there is enough interest. After a small chaos of trying to coordinate the foreign giris I had invited, I've now joined the ranks of repeat clients who are on a first-name basis with her.

Traveling independently allows you to wander and get to know a place through your own mistakes and misadventures, but traveling with a guide can offer a whole new cultural window. Visiting London with a bunch of Spanish students last year was enlightening, and although I don't think that the Spanish-French dynamic, or particularly within the Basque regions, is so polarized, there is still a lot to be learned from someone with experience. Like to avoid the terrible French coffee.

Along with the maps and informational tidbits Amaya distributed to the bus as we approached the border, "remember, the coffee is very bad," was a warning she announced more than once in a wholehearted attempt to be helpful. For many Spanish people, especially the older bracket on this trip, already set in their coffee-drinking ways, French coffee is bad.

Although we appreciated Amaya's advice, the first thing we did on a drizzly January morning in France was have a cup of coffee. After a serving pan au chocolat, of course, along with an obligatory helping of roscón de reyes. Since San Juan de la Luz was very quiet and mostly closed during the off-season, it was only logical to dedicate most of our time to pastry consumption. Accompanied by a not-so-terrible cup of coffee. 

san juan de la luz

san-jean-de-luz

Eventually Amaya rallied us and our trip continued in Biarritz, the costal town known for its glam. Many people on the bus had come for the soldes, or post-Christmas sales, but with our strength bolstered by pastries and coffee, we marched up to the lighthouse to take advantage of the scenic views.

Although we spent a perfect day of walking and pastries, my favorite part of the trip was not particularly related to San Juan de Luz, Biarritz, French Basque Culture, the French-Spanish relationship, or even bad French coffee--although the coffee did play its part. As the sun started to set and we began to seek our next caffeine buzz, this time accompanied by crepes, we bumped into a surrealist art exhibit in a church basement. This is the kind of small moment that reminds you you're in Europe: A surrealist art exhibit in a church basement. René Magritte's masterworks had never charmed me in the light of a classroom projector, but the collection of small etchings in the dim of a church basement touched me. I managed to snap a photo, before I was tsk-tsk-tsk'd in French. 

With a return to the French Basque Country on the horizon, I have set more lofty goals. At least six pan au chocolat must be consumed. Along with a coffee or two and a nod to Amaya.

Have you been to the French Basque Country? Do you think that the coffee is bad?

Festivals of the Basque Country: Markina & Lekeitio

the river meets the sea in Lekeitio

The Basque Country is a land of festivals, and spring means more than the hope for a bit of sunshine, it means a whole new lineup of activities. As I cover my wall with Post-its of all the towns I want to visit, and festivals I want to celebrate, (including, but not limited to the honey festival, the asparagus festival, and the chocolate festival!), I thought I would take a look back at my first festival in the Basque Country, an agricultural fair in Markina.

moo

On a warm day in October I hopped onto a bus that I hoped was the correct one, and made my way to the town of Markina to see what Basque agricultural tradition was all about. I had heard that the festival would be a good way to learn about the Basque Country, and I was not disappointed. In town I found a bustling market with everything from colorful produce to sweet Basque pastries and savory Idiazabal cheese samples. While the better part of me could make an entire meal out of Spanish cheeses, I opted for the traditional fare: talo. A sort of Basque burritio, talo is a thick cornmeal tortilla that can be filled with cheese or chorizo. Like many traditional foods, a generation ago it was food for the poor. In Markina it was €4.00.

Perhaps the most significant thing about the fair, though was its place in my burgeoning love of Basque livestock. Here I took my first photo with Basque sheep, and although I resisted purchasing a cowbell at this fair, it's on my list of things to do before I return to the States. 

my first photo with Basque sheep!

I could put it on my bike, right?

serving up talo is a lot of work with this crowd

my first talo

The Spanish say el mundo es un pañuelo, the world is a handkerchief, and it must be true, because on the bus to Markina I happened upon a couple of American girls also destined for the festival. After we'd done a good bit of exploring and snacking in Markina I tagged along with them on a windy, nauseating bus ride to the nearby costal town of Lekeitio.

the beach in Leketio

the island in Lekeitio

Lekeitio is, like a great many small costal towns in Europe, charming and scenic. The beach is nice for surfing and there is an island that you can walk to at low tide. As it was high tide on a blustery autumn day, my new friends and I chose to follow the river inland on a trail that led us past chestnuts, boats, and more sheep!

Both towns merit a stroll, but if you ever get the chance to festival with the Basque don't pass it up! 

Basque fruit

flyer for the festival--don't miss it!

Moledo do Minho: Small-town Portugal

One of my favorite small towns on the Iberian Peninsula is Moledo do Minho, a dot on the map, if listed at all, on the northern border between Spain and Portugal. You won't find this sleepy hamlet on destination websites, but it's one that always springs to mind when I envision perfect expat or retired living. 

The Minho River divides Spain from Portugal, winding its way to the coast and reminiscing on days when the border was relevant with the contrast of aging shoreline fortresses to the tiny, one-manned boat that guards the frontera today. The estuary hosts one last castle deteriorating in the breakwater and then gives way to pristine, surfable coastline. To the north is the Galician town of A Guarda in Galician, or La Guardia in Spanish, and to the south you will find Moledo, in Portugal.

Moledo, with a view of A Guardia across the Miño River

A place of cultural interlay, the border offers a glimpse of Spanish, Portuguese, and, in particular, Galician culture. The Galician language is just one example of commonality; it bears a resemblance to both Spanish and Portuguese, and most people on both sides of the border are, more or less, trilingual. From a historical perspective, the Kingdom of Galicia included parts of both modern day Spain and Portugal, something that feels obvious in the way that people interact today, and renders the river a convenient, though arbitrary, line. 

That's not to say that there aren't differences. Although crossing a European border is comparable to driving from Ohio to Indiana, it is combined with the state of actually being in different countries. The effect on day-to-day life is largely an economic one, with citizens of both nations tcrossing the border to purchase different goods and wares at an advantage. The symbiosis is fine by me, a stranger happy to enjoy the benefits on both sides of the line.

I crossed the border to visit Moledo about a year ago, when it was dressed up for Valentine's Day. The February sunlight offered a cool warmth without the crowds; perfect for strolling down country roads past sheep and donkeys, admiring the pretty white and tiled houses, and heading to the beach for a caipirinha or a francesinha. It's Portugal, after all.

coastline along the Miño River

the walk to town

francesinhas on the beach

I visited Moledo because some Galician friends had started a month-long rental for weekend getaways about three months earlier, and as far as I know you'll still find them there today.

My friends call their rental a casa abierta, an open house where visitors are always welcome. And this is true. Friends and family stopped by to stay the night and share meals, and everyone was met with a hug or dois beijos. As a new friend joining them for a weekend, I felt fortunate to be able to discover such a beautiful place with such beautiful people.

My friends' life in Moledo paints a pretty picture of relaxed, neighborly living. Breakfast was thick Portuguese toast dipped in rich Portuguese coffee, plus a loaf of fresh bread that seemed to tasty to leave without. The café is also the community center, where you can find most of the community and nearly all of the local children out to play. The rest of our meals were supplied by foods from the local market, excepting, of course, the tremendous francesinha on the beach. The time between meals is a peaceful blur of meandering country roads and long strolls through the parks, along the beaches, and around the neighborhoods. Nightfall brought everyone together for dinner and to appreciate the slow sound of crepitas escaping from the burning firewood.  

Spending a weekend doing each of these things with friends in leisurely turn felt like precisely the speed at which time was meant to pass. While I know that it is the experience and not the border that creates this impression, I think that an arbitrary line can sometimes have the power to delineate our perspectives, to draw the line between work and leisure, or reality and reality.