Trials and Travels in Catalonia
The last month has been a busy one, with olive harvest well-underway and mills working at capacity. I was fortunate to experience this month as there is always a sense of anticipation with the fruition of harvest. And, as I was fortunate for the experience, so too perhaps, were the people of IRTA to have the extra set of hands, as I was there to assist with their various trails and travels in Catalonia.
FIELD TRIALS
As with land grant universities, IRTA – being a publicly-funded entity – conducts applied research both at the station and on private farms in order to best serve the public. This last month, I participated in research that spans from Mas Bové to several regions of Catalonia. Dr. Joan Tous specializes in studying olive varieties to observe the growth, yield, and behavioral differences of common types in varying environments. I visited these variety trials to learn and assist with harvest. Harvesting days were often exhausting, as my job was to lay out the drop clothes under the trees and then collect the olives into boxes once the others had passed through with the backpack mechanical harvesters. But despite my weariness at the end of the day, I have always enjoyed the great outdoors, and on these trips, I was also able to witness more of the beauty which is Catalonia.
Terra Alta Variety Trial
The region of Terra Alta lies west of Reus about 45 minutes by car. My first time to the Terra Alta, I was awed first by the scenery of our passage and then by that of the farm. To travel to Terra Alta from Reus, one passes over two mountain ranges. The first of these ranges is dappled with hazelnut and olive plantings, some still attended while others abandoned for steadier ground. When at the climax of this range, one witnesses the magnificence of the Priorat Valley below. Once abandoned, as people ventured to the coastal cities for industrial jobs, the region has recently experienced a new exuberance. Younger generations have returned to family farms to culture wine grapes on the valley floor and terraced hillsides. Some have developed their own wineries to complete the vertical integration, while others concentrate on cultivation. In either case, the wine emerging from this region is of premium quality and expensive by Spanish standards. Once the Priorat Valley and the second mountain range are traversed, eventually one passes over the Ebro River, the largest and most important waterway of Catalonia – originating in the Pyrenees Mountains, fed by snowmelt, and emptying into the Mediterranean Sea via a massive delta network south of Terra Alta. Water from the Ebro River is used to irrigate farms in the region, and our farm destination was just beyond the river.
We arrived at the farm via a rocky, curving driveway, eroded in places due to the course soil type and terrain. Off the beaten path, the farm was pastoral and serene, with the olive groves juxtaposed to almond and peach orchards, cover crops still in flower, and mountain peaks in relative proximity.
The purpose of the variety trial is to compare various Spanish, Italian, and Greek olive varieties with the variety Arbequina i-18, the clonal strain of the Arbequina variety which was developed at the Mas Bové Center. Arbequina is the most common variety in Catalonia with greater than 90 percent of the olive acreage planted with it. This trial also has the added experimental factor of irrigation versus non-irrigation. Though much of the olive acreage in Catalonia is non-irrigated, many farmers in Terra Alta have discovered the benefits of applying water. The Terra Alta, being farther north than other olive-producing regions, is a greater distance from the coast and receives less rain than coastal areas. Though olive trees in general need little water to survive, irrigation has helped to augment yields. Irrigation must be closely monitored however, as too much water plumps the fruit and reduces oil concentration. Nonetheless, the water is valued in this sometimes parched region, and cover crops are planted between rows to protect water resources and prevent soil erosion in the sloping, often windy region.
Montsiá Variety Trial
Montsiá is a region south of the Terra Alta, where the Ebro River divides into the expansive delta and empties into the sea. Here rice fields dominate the landscape, and it is a popular destination for bird watchers in the spring and fall as migratory birds make their ways north and south.
To pass beyond the finer soil textures of the river delta into areas of courser ground, however, olives once again are found. The terrain is still relatively level, which has a profound effect on orchard maintenance and harvest, and on oil quality. Because of the flat ground, orchard floors are kept absolutely clean of vegetation, which helps to mechanize harvest and reduce the economic burden of hiring laborers for hand harvest. The olives are harvested much like nut crops. Machines come through, grasp the trunk of the tree firmly, and shake the olives to the ground. The olives are then swept off the ground with another machine, transferred to a trailer, and transported to a mill. All the while, however, the fruit is damaged. Dirt and oxygen enter through wounds in the skin, and the oxidation process begins. All of this results in poor quality fruit and oil that must be refined.
Because of the nature of the research, nevertheless, the IRTA variety trial in Montsiá is hand harvested. Thus, a cover crop is maintained to preclude topsoil wind erosion. The winds in this region are often very strong – coming off the river, and Montsiá is not protected from these winds by the Pyrenees, like places further northeast. For this reason, many trees actually grow at an angle – their shallow roots providing weak foundation – and large mounds of soil are positioned next to each tree for protection. But, it was not this plague for which the variety trial was intended. The purpose of this trial is to examine variety differences in the presence of Armellaria and Verticillium soil fungi. In general, olives are not grafted; specific rootstock and scion varieties have not been established as with other fruits. Thus, there is no rootstock/scion interaction in this experiment, so it will solely compare variety differences under these disease conditions.
IRTA Variety Trial
Though the two variety trials thus described are studies of non-grafted trees, in the near future, grafting may be a more popular procedure with this crop. Graduate student Núria Mallen is conducting innovative research to this end. Her project involves studying variety performances as rootstocks having a common scion – Arbequina i-18. As Arbequina is the most important variety of Catalonia, Núria is hoping to find varieties that, when used as rootstocks, will impart favorable characterics on Arbequina growth and yield – such as soil fungi resistance; olive fruit fly (Bactrocera oleae) resistance; earlier or more uniform ripening; and/or dwarfing capabilities; among other benefits. Before harvest began, much of my time was spent helping Núria prepare cuttings for grafting. In the future, her experiments may provide insight into the advantages or disadvantages of olive tree grafting.
MILL VISITS
Every town has a cooperative mill where growers bring their crop for processing. Because farms are generally only 2 to 10 hectares, it makes economic sense for growers to consolidate what they reap to create a blend labeled with the name of their town. Because most growers in Catalonia are growing the Arbequina variety, there is a consistent character of flavor from farm to farm, and mill to mill. Nonetheless, environmental conditions, maturity, and percent fruit damage also have an influence on taste, and these will undoubtedly differ with location. When all of the factors are optimized, a rich product is achieved. Visually, however, this is difficult to identify, especially for the untrained consumer perusing supermarket shelves. Thus, a classification system was established by the International Olive Oil Council to provide labeling standards for oil producers and protection for oil consumers.
Olive oil quality is designated by four categories from premium to poor: extra virgin, virgin, ordinary, and lampant. Extra virgin oil is made from olives with a very low percent of damage and has acidity less than one percent. Virgin oil may have come from a crop with 15-20% damaged fruit and acidity up to two percent. These two classifications of oil may be bottled and sold. When there is up to 50% damaged fruit and acidity up to 3.3 percent, the oil is called ordinary; and when the fruit is completely damaged and has acidity greater than 3.3 percent, the oil is lampant. Oils that fall into these two categories must be blended, though lampant oil must be refined before blending. Extra virgin oil or virgin oil is used in blending to bring the acidity down to 0.4 to 1 percent. The blended oil is then labeled as “olive oil,” and though it is lower quality, it is uniform because of the blending process and thus sells well in American markets.
Nonetheless, olive oil classification is not solely a numbers game. In order to be labeled and sold under the International Olive Oil Council standards, all oil must also be tasted by a panel. The panel is trained to detect taste compounds, which account for just two percent of the oil. As 98% of the oil consists of triglycerides, it is the remaining two percent that contains the polyphenolics, alcohols, esters, and other compounds that we recognize as flavor. As conditions vary from mill to mill, and even within a mill, the purpose of the panel is to properly label oil for the protection of the public and the integrity of the industry.
Once introduced to this classification system, through observation and laboratory practice, my understanding for making quality olive oil developed. Samples from IRTA trials, both on and off-site, are brought to the lab for processing. First, the samples are graded for maturity. Maturity is rated from 0 (green) to 7 (fully ripe). Oil is produced using olives in all stages of maturity, which imparts unique flavors. Olive maturity does not influence the quality rating of the oil, as richly-flavored oils may result from green olives, black olives, and everything in between. The optimal stage for harvest, nonetheless, is grade 3 because at this stage, oil content is high but because the fruit are not fully mature, damage is low.
After maturity grading, samples are processed in the small-scale laboratory mill. It is a multi-step process beginning with fruit washing and leaf and stem removal. Then, the olives are put into a mill, where both flesh and pits are ground into paste. This paste is a mixture of liquid and solid matter. The liquid matter is an emulsion of water and oil. To aid in the extraction process, the water/oil emulsion must be broken. This is done by putting the paste in a mixer. Once the paste has been sufficiently mixed, the paste is centrifuged to separate the liquid and solid forms. With the water/oil emulsion broken, the oil is then titrated from the water and then centrifuged a final time to separate any remaining sediments. These denser sediments sink to the bottom of the centrifuge canister, and what resides on top is the final product. Assuming that the oil would meet the IOOC standards for either extra virgin or virgin labeling, the procedure would end here. As described above, however, oil not meeting proper standards would go on to be blended or refined and blended.
Santa Bárbara Mill
Once introduced in the oil-extraction process in the lab, I was taken to a mill to see the procedures at full-scale. The mill was in the town of Santa Bárbara, in the region of Montsiá. Again, Montsiá is the region where olives are grown on level ground and often mechanically harvested and swept from the ground. For this reason, the mill in Santa Bárbara has multiple lines to keep separate the olives of varying quality. As I walked these separate lines, there was an obvious difference in aroma between the oil made from the ground-swept olives, which would later be refined, and the carefully-harvested crop, which would be awarded either virgin or extra virgin labels. There was also an observable difference in color, with the quality oil rich as gold and the oil in need of refinement less clear and having a mustard hue.
Mills of the Priorat
Though the Priorat region is most famous for its quality wines, there are also many mills in the area producing oil that is equally acclaimed. I went on a tour of the region to collect oil samples, which would later be tested in the IRTA laboratory, and I learned more about the processes involved in making quality oil. For example, a major problem in many mills is the occurrence of fermentation among the various procedures. This process can be reduced simply by monitoring the temperature of machinery. This monitoring can also reduce the incidence of burning, which results in the oil absorbing off-aromas. Among these mills, I also saw both two and three phase system, named such because they either produce two or three products. Two-phase systems produce oil and paste as the byproduct; whereas, three-phase systems produce oil and paste and water as the byproducts. Two phase systems are more modern than three-phase systems, developed to reduce the environmental impact of improperly disposed salty wastewater. Perhaps what was the most interesting observance of my mill tours was seeing a traditional mill at work. At a traditional mill, oil is made how the Romans made it: with stones to crush the fruit, pressure to extract the oil, and settling pits to remove sediments. Though apparently primitive, it was fascinating to watch the process. The major disadvantage of traditional extraction is cleanliness; nonetheless, the advantage is quality oil, as there is generally less oxidation throughout the process.
CULTIVATION AND MILL INTEGRATION
As already stated, most olive farms are small, family operations. Large, corporate, or integrated operations are not common in the Spanish olive industry. There is, however, as with most things, an exception to the rule.
La Boella Variety Trial
Another excursion took me to see an operation completely different from those I had previously observed. La Boella is not a typical Spanish olive farm; it is overwhelming compared to the few hectare parcels of most farmers and even overshadows the “fincas” that I visited in the Terra Alta and Montsiá regions. At over 100 hectares outside of Reus, La Boella is truly grand, with land spanning for miles; a private mill; and restaurant, tasting and conference facilities. In fact, La Boella resembles some of the large wineries of California, though of course, with a different crop and product. Perhaps it was from California wineries that the owners took their model because, after talking with an owner, I learned that they also own the Olive Ranch in “Orovilla,” California.
At La Boella, the purpose of the variety trial is to study variety characteristics suitable for mechanical harvesting using a large, over-the-tree tractor. Favorable characteristics include tree growth habits, like the ability to be maintained at a short stature, and fruit habits, like the ability to withstand the machine with little fruit damage.
At over 2000 trees per hectare, La Boella is an intensive enterprise, and it was interesting to learn about the pros and cons of such an operation. The obvious benefits of intensive planting are the shorter time to production – as fruiting generally begins in the third year, and the reduction of labor due to the mechanization of harvesting and sometimes pruning. The faults of the system include trees that live only 15-20 years – with peak production about half way through then falling; the initial expense of planting and purchasing the harvester; and the reduction of light and air penetration due to the closer spacing, which can lead to fungal diseases and is not appropriate for the vigorous varieties preferred in the southern regions of Spain. After witnessing the harvest one day, we returned to La Boella on a later date to count damaged trees, as this is another downfall to mechanical harvesting.
In conclusion, as the month of December comes to a close, the work in the olive industry starts to slow. As most of the fruit has now been harvested, mill work will too decline, and I feel fulfilled with all that I learned from these trials and travels.
To view pictures of the places I visited, go to my Shutterfly website, and click on the Field Trips folder.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
A Christmas to Remember
For better or worse, my Christmas of 2005 will never leave my memory. Considering that this was the first Christmas I spent away from home, I am overwhelmingly grateful for the people that included me in their family celebrations. There were, however, a few bumps in the road that I would much rather forget.
As the series of events spanned what was more like a long weekend, I will begin this tale with Thursday evening. That night, I was invited to a concert that brought me a little bit closer to home. The Mississippi Gospel Choir was on tour here in Spain, and on Thursday, they made a stop in Reus. I enjoyed myself, and apparently the crowd did too, even though I don’t think they could understand all that was being sung. Though I was with a group that speaks fairly good English, I still was doing a fair amount of interpreting, but it was a nice change of tides for once.
Friday night was relaxing. As there were only two students left in the residence hall at that time, the small group of us had dinner together and talked about the traditions of Christmas in Spain, which are varied. The Spanish people are familiar with Santa Claus (Papa Noel), but it is only in the last year or two that he has been celebrated here, and many families still do not celebrate this northern European and American tradition. One of the girls who is from Catalonia explained that instead, “Tió” is the special gift-giver on Christmas. Tió is, in fact, a log with a face painted on it. It is placed under a blanket on Christmas Eve, and if children leave food for it, they receive a present in the morning. This custom is only found in Catalonia, however, as the other girl, who is from the northern Basque region, said that on Christmas Eve, they celebrate with candle-lit processions through the mountains. What is customary in all of Spain, however, is the celebration of Three Kings Day on January 6th. In accordance with the three kings bringing gifts to Jesus, this day is the celebrated gift-giving day throughout Spain. Thus, the holiday season spans the course of the two weeks between Christmas and Three Kings Day.
The two girls left for their respective homes on Saturday morning, and since then, I have had the residence hall to myself. I’ve managed to stay busy, so it has not been a lonely time. Saturday night, for Christmas Eve, I was invited to have dinner with Maria and her family. Maria is a secretary at IRTA, and she takes me to work every morning, as we live very close to one another. Dinner was late, as is typical, and it spanned the course of a couple hours or more. After dinner, the family had an “invisible friend” gift exchange. Each family member had drawn the name of another, bought a gift for that person, and then drafted a letter giving hints as to who was their invisible friend. Maria was very sweet and even picked something out for me. She drafted a letter, which I had to read out loud, and in it said that, among other things, she wanted to get me something practical and easy to carry with me on my journeys. Having seen my presentation at IRTA a few days earlier, she saw my snowy pictures of New York, and thus gave me a small, red thermos to carry hot drinks. I was touched by her thoughtfulness.
I did not leave the celebration with Maria’s family until about 3:00am, and then I was up early Christmas Day to catch the 9:00am train to Barcelona, as Núria had invited me to spend the day with her family. When I arrived, we went straight to the port, as there is an annual swim on Christmas Day, and her sister always participates. I had considered doing it myself, but I’m glad I didn’t, as most of the swimmers were of far better caliber than I. Instead, Núria, her other sister, and I sat on the edge of the deck and watched. Before the race began, a man that worked for the Frigo ice cream company – the sponsor of the event – came over and gave us bright red hats and scarves to wear because we were in line with the TV cameras. As it was a little chilly, we accepted the hats and scarves and laughed about the circumstance. Ironically, the theme of the event was “Espíritu del verano” (Spirit of summer), so I figure the next time I find myself in Ithaca, I should wear the bright red apparel and remember the chilly – though by no means frigid – temperatures of Barcelona, knowing that by comparison, perhaps it did feel like summer there. When we returned to their house, we had another huge meal, and I tried snails for the first time. I found that they basically just taste like shellfish. After, we played some board games, and then I went to mass and Núria’s family prepared to go to the theater. This is where circumstances made an about-face.
Mass was nice, though perhaps anticlimactic. It was very brief – only 40 minutes – and it wasn’t quite as celebrated as I am accustomed to for Christmas masses with large crowds, processions, and music. I left the church and made my way to the train station to catch the last train of the night back to Reus. (Now, if that isn’t foreshadowing, I don’t know how I could suggest more obviously what would come to pass.) The city streets of Barcelona were busy, as I’ve been told they always are, but it was a little bit of a surprise given the day. And as I walked up las Ramblas toward the station, a couple stopped me to ask the location of a certain plaza. It’s funny because whether I’m in New York City, Barcelona, or even smaller towns, I am often asked for directions. I suppose I either look like a nice person to ask or I look like I know where I’m going, so either way, I consider it a complement.
I arrived at the train station about 35 minutes before my train was supposed to arrive. I waited, thinking about what a nice holiday it had been, but I looked forward to getting back to my bed, as it had been a long couple of days. Soon, it was 9:30pm, 5 minutes passed the time of my train. I thought it a little strange, as usually the trains are on time. I waited more, as there were others on the platform waiting for trains, and I asked them if they had seen the train to Reus – just in case I had missed it – and they had not. At about five minutes until 10:00, I decided to go up to the ticket window and ask. The man there was not very nice. I asked him if the train from Reus had arrived, and he looked at me funny. I pulled out my schedule, which does in fact list exceptions to the usual schedule but lists none for Christmas Day, and he told me there were no trains to Reus that night. I felt helpless. I tried calling Núria, but it was too late; they had already left for the theater. Not knowing what else to do, I decided to take the subway back to the stop nearest their apartment and wait. Thankfully, I was able to find my way to their apartment. It was 10:30 at this point, and their show was only beginning. I knew it would be a long wait for me, especially long given how tired I was. And yes, I was a little scared. I thought about calling home to help pass the time, but my phone card had expired, and it was probably best that I didn’t call, as my parents would have only worried. Instead, I sat outside in the plaza across from their door. I wanted to stay there so that I would see when they arrived, but it grew awfully cold, and the sore throat I’d felt the night before – which I dismissed as merely the result of the second-hand smoke I was breathing – came on stronger in the cold air. I finally decided I needed to move to get the blood flowing, as it was down near freezing at this point. I passed a bank and saw a homeless person sleeping on the bench in the ATM enclosure. I didn’t think that looked half-bad at that point, but he had taken the only available bench. I kept walking, and at one point, a man that could not maintain a straight course started making kissing noises at me. I felt like slugging him, but my hands were too cold to withdraw from my pockets. Once back on a main street, I noticed a fancy hotel. I figured, “What the heck, I’ll give it a try,” and I went in and sat in there lobby. I picked up some tourist pamphlets, acted like I belonged there, and ignored the security guard that meandered back and forth. I sat there for about an hour, warming up and feeling more secure with my surroundings, but at about 12:45am, he approached me and asked if I was staying there at the hotel. I answered truthfully, with an innocent ignorance, and then was asked to leave. So, back in the cold, I made my way back to Núria’s apartment, and when I arrived, I was thankful to see the lights on in their apartment. I called up, and they received me. They had arrived only 5 minutes before, so the timing was perfect. I was very thankful for the warm, safe place to pass the night.
When I woke the next morning, my cold had taken hold. Núria was also not feeling well, so Davíd walked me to the train station. After some hassle with redeeming my ticket and more cancelled trains, I finally was on a train to Reus. As I sat there, I thought about something my mom always used to say, which was “If that’s the worst thing that ever happens to you, you’re pretty well off,” and I tried to convince myself that the events of the previous night could have been a lot worse. When I returned to Reus, I had another engagement. Clara, the woman that runs the residence hall, had invited me to her house for lunch, and though I was tired and not feeling well, I didn’t want to belittle her invitation. (By the way, the 26th is another holiday in Catalonia.) It was another big meal, and I had another “first,” as I tried caviar for the first time. Clara’s son was also there, and the three of us conversed as we ate. At one point, I asked if either of them had been to the U.S., and they both replied in the negative. The son said that since smoking is prohibited on planes, he couldn’t travel anywhere that would require him to give up his cigarettes for such a duration. Then, he started to rant and rave about the new law that will take effect on the 1st, requiring smoking and non-smoking sections in public places, and though I had plenty of arguments in support of their new law, given my place, I decided not to criticize the son of the woman that was hosting me. Gerard left after the meal, and Clara and I continued talking. That afternoon, Clara and I talked more than we had talked throughout the length of my two month stay. But what began as fairly docile conversation soon turned heavy when she asked me my opinion about the war in Iraq. What followed was a two hour debate on political, social, and economic perspectives. Clara is very opinionated and dare I say a bit radical on some issues, which I won’t go into here, so I basically just maintained my usual, diplomatic stance. In the end, I was tired, as I don’t generally talk politics with anyone but my father, so to talk them for two hours – in Spanish no less – was a completely new experience for me.
After our debate, we sat on the couch and watched a live broadcast of a Christmas choir concert in Barcelona. I was starting to not feel well, so it was nice to “veg-out” and lose myself in the music. But, soon, 8:30pm rolled around, and there was a choir concert in town at which I told some people from work I would see them. I ventured out into the cold, now feeling quite a bit worse. When I got to the church, all the seats were filled, so I stood in the back. I listened to a couple songs, but when the room started to spin, I decided it was best to go to bed. When I got back to the residence hall, I dealt with my fever and a bout of food poisoning, and from here on out, I have decided, I’m not going to be as liberal about trying new foods. The cold, well, I just hope that with rest it passes soon.
As the series of events spanned what was more like a long weekend, I will begin this tale with Thursday evening. That night, I was invited to a concert that brought me a little bit closer to home. The Mississippi Gospel Choir was on tour here in Spain, and on Thursday, they made a stop in Reus. I enjoyed myself, and apparently the crowd did too, even though I don’t think they could understand all that was being sung. Though I was with a group that speaks fairly good English, I still was doing a fair amount of interpreting, but it was a nice change of tides for once.
Friday night was relaxing. As there were only two students left in the residence hall at that time, the small group of us had dinner together and talked about the traditions of Christmas in Spain, which are varied. The Spanish people are familiar with Santa Claus (Papa Noel), but it is only in the last year or two that he has been celebrated here, and many families still do not celebrate this northern European and American tradition. One of the girls who is from Catalonia explained that instead, “Tió” is the special gift-giver on Christmas. Tió is, in fact, a log with a face painted on it. It is placed under a blanket on Christmas Eve, and if children leave food for it, they receive a present in the morning. This custom is only found in Catalonia, however, as the other girl, who is from the northern Basque region, said that on Christmas Eve, they celebrate with candle-lit processions through the mountains. What is customary in all of Spain, however, is the celebration of Three Kings Day on January 6th. In accordance with the three kings bringing gifts to Jesus, this day is the celebrated gift-giving day throughout Spain. Thus, the holiday season spans the course of the two weeks between Christmas and Three Kings Day.
The two girls left for their respective homes on Saturday morning, and since then, I have had the residence hall to myself. I’ve managed to stay busy, so it has not been a lonely time. Saturday night, for Christmas Eve, I was invited to have dinner with Maria and her family. Maria is a secretary at IRTA, and she takes me to work every morning, as we live very close to one another. Dinner was late, as is typical, and it spanned the course of a couple hours or more. After dinner, the family had an “invisible friend” gift exchange. Each family member had drawn the name of another, bought a gift for that person, and then drafted a letter giving hints as to who was their invisible friend. Maria was very sweet and even picked something out for me. She drafted a letter, which I had to read out loud, and in it said that, among other things, she wanted to get me something practical and easy to carry with me on my journeys. Having seen my presentation at IRTA a few days earlier, she saw my snowy pictures of New York, and thus gave me a small, red thermos to carry hot drinks. I was touched by her thoughtfulness.
I did not leave the celebration with Maria’s family until about 3:00am, and then I was up early Christmas Day to catch the 9:00am train to Barcelona, as Núria had invited me to spend the day with her family. When I arrived, we went straight to the port, as there is an annual swim on Christmas Day, and her sister always participates. I had considered doing it myself, but I’m glad I didn’t, as most of the swimmers were of far better caliber than I. Instead, Núria, her other sister, and I sat on the edge of the deck and watched. Before the race began, a man that worked for the Frigo ice cream company – the sponsor of the event – came over and gave us bright red hats and scarves to wear because we were in line with the TV cameras. As it was a little chilly, we accepted the hats and scarves and laughed about the circumstance. Ironically, the theme of the event was “Espíritu del verano” (Spirit of summer), so I figure the next time I find myself in Ithaca, I should wear the bright red apparel and remember the chilly – though by no means frigid – temperatures of Barcelona, knowing that by comparison, perhaps it did feel like summer there. When we returned to their house, we had another huge meal, and I tried snails for the first time. I found that they basically just taste like shellfish. After, we played some board games, and then I went to mass and Núria’s family prepared to go to the theater. This is where circumstances made an about-face.
Mass was nice, though perhaps anticlimactic. It was very brief – only 40 minutes – and it wasn’t quite as celebrated as I am accustomed to for Christmas masses with large crowds, processions, and music. I left the church and made my way to the train station to catch the last train of the night back to Reus. (Now, if that isn’t foreshadowing, I don’t know how I could suggest more obviously what would come to pass.) The city streets of Barcelona were busy, as I’ve been told they always are, but it was a little bit of a surprise given the day. And as I walked up las Ramblas toward the station, a couple stopped me to ask the location of a certain plaza. It’s funny because whether I’m in New York City, Barcelona, or even smaller towns, I am often asked for directions. I suppose I either look like a nice person to ask or I look like I know where I’m going, so either way, I consider it a complement.
I arrived at the train station about 35 minutes before my train was supposed to arrive. I waited, thinking about what a nice holiday it had been, but I looked forward to getting back to my bed, as it had been a long couple of days. Soon, it was 9:30pm, 5 minutes passed the time of my train. I thought it a little strange, as usually the trains are on time. I waited more, as there were others on the platform waiting for trains, and I asked them if they had seen the train to Reus – just in case I had missed it – and they had not. At about five minutes until 10:00, I decided to go up to the ticket window and ask. The man there was not very nice. I asked him if the train from Reus had arrived, and he looked at me funny. I pulled out my schedule, which does in fact list exceptions to the usual schedule but lists none for Christmas Day, and he told me there were no trains to Reus that night. I felt helpless. I tried calling Núria, but it was too late; they had already left for the theater. Not knowing what else to do, I decided to take the subway back to the stop nearest their apartment and wait. Thankfully, I was able to find my way to their apartment. It was 10:30 at this point, and their show was only beginning. I knew it would be a long wait for me, especially long given how tired I was. And yes, I was a little scared. I thought about calling home to help pass the time, but my phone card had expired, and it was probably best that I didn’t call, as my parents would have only worried. Instead, I sat outside in the plaza across from their door. I wanted to stay there so that I would see when they arrived, but it grew awfully cold, and the sore throat I’d felt the night before – which I dismissed as merely the result of the second-hand smoke I was breathing – came on stronger in the cold air. I finally decided I needed to move to get the blood flowing, as it was down near freezing at this point. I passed a bank and saw a homeless person sleeping on the bench in the ATM enclosure. I didn’t think that looked half-bad at that point, but he had taken the only available bench. I kept walking, and at one point, a man that could not maintain a straight course started making kissing noises at me. I felt like slugging him, but my hands were too cold to withdraw from my pockets. Once back on a main street, I noticed a fancy hotel. I figured, “What the heck, I’ll give it a try,” and I went in and sat in there lobby. I picked up some tourist pamphlets, acted like I belonged there, and ignored the security guard that meandered back and forth. I sat there for about an hour, warming up and feeling more secure with my surroundings, but at about 12:45am, he approached me and asked if I was staying there at the hotel. I answered truthfully, with an innocent ignorance, and then was asked to leave. So, back in the cold, I made my way back to Núria’s apartment, and when I arrived, I was thankful to see the lights on in their apartment. I called up, and they received me. They had arrived only 5 minutes before, so the timing was perfect. I was very thankful for the warm, safe place to pass the night.
When I woke the next morning, my cold had taken hold. Núria was also not feeling well, so Davíd walked me to the train station. After some hassle with redeeming my ticket and more cancelled trains, I finally was on a train to Reus. As I sat there, I thought about something my mom always used to say, which was “If that’s the worst thing that ever happens to you, you’re pretty well off,” and I tried to convince myself that the events of the previous night could have been a lot worse. When I returned to Reus, I had another engagement. Clara, the woman that runs the residence hall, had invited me to her house for lunch, and though I was tired and not feeling well, I didn’t want to belittle her invitation. (By the way, the 26th is another holiday in Catalonia.) It was another big meal, and I had another “first,” as I tried caviar for the first time. Clara’s son was also there, and the three of us conversed as we ate. At one point, I asked if either of them had been to the U.S., and they both replied in the negative. The son said that since smoking is prohibited on planes, he couldn’t travel anywhere that would require him to give up his cigarettes for such a duration. Then, he started to rant and rave about the new law that will take effect on the 1st, requiring smoking and non-smoking sections in public places, and though I had plenty of arguments in support of their new law, given my place, I decided not to criticize the son of the woman that was hosting me. Gerard left after the meal, and Clara and I continued talking. That afternoon, Clara and I talked more than we had talked throughout the length of my two month stay. But what began as fairly docile conversation soon turned heavy when she asked me my opinion about the war in Iraq. What followed was a two hour debate on political, social, and economic perspectives. Clara is very opinionated and dare I say a bit radical on some issues, which I won’t go into here, so I basically just maintained my usual, diplomatic stance. In the end, I was tired, as I don’t generally talk politics with anyone but my father, so to talk them for two hours – in Spanish no less – was a completely new experience for me.
After our debate, we sat on the couch and watched a live broadcast of a Christmas choir concert in Barcelona. I was starting to not feel well, so it was nice to “veg-out” and lose myself in the music. But, soon, 8:30pm rolled around, and there was a choir concert in town at which I told some people from work I would see them. I ventured out into the cold, now feeling quite a bit worse. When I got to the church, all the seats were filled, so I stood in the back. I listened to a couple songs, but when the room started to spin, I decided it was best to go to bed. When I got back to the residence hall, I dealt with my fever and a bout of food poisoning, and from here on out, I have decided, I’m not going to be as liberal about trying new foods. The cold, well, I just hope that with rest it passes soon.
Practicing Spanish
The Wednesday before Christmas, I made a presentation to a group of IRTA folks – professors, staff, and students – about my research and other research taking place in the Horticulture Department at Cornell. This was something that Joan asked that I do in order to familiarize the people at the station with research going on abroad. I accepted the tasks weeks in advance and even promised to give the talk in Spanish. As the presentation drew near, however, I was a bit nervous about the situation, so I scripted what I wanted to say. Though I am usually more free-form with presentations, I was glad to have my “security blanket” script, and overall, the presentation went well. I think everyone enjoyed seeing my pictures of New York and learning about the research. They even laughed at my jokes and gasped at some of my snowy pictures, so the effect I was looking for was there. In the end, we had a nice discussion, and they even complemented my Spanish speaking ability!
A Race in Spain
I made a goal before I left the States that I would run a race in each country that I visit. I satisfied a third of that goal with a race in Barcelona recently. And not only did I satisfy the goal, I topped it with a 2nd place woman overall finish. I won a trophy which, not to sound ungrateful but frankly I wish I hadn’t received, as it will add to the weight of my suitcase. I also won a bottle of “Cava” – Spanish Champaign – but I know that friends will help me so that I don’t have to carry it home. I can’t say that I’ve ever won something from a race that would allow me to toast the victory.
But, the winnings were only a fraction of the excitement! Just getting to the race site was an adventure. Luckily, Núria supplied me with maps, but I think both she and Joan were a little worried I might end up lost in Barcelona and not make it to work the next day. I will explain. I woke at 5:45am that Sunday morning to catch a 6:45am train. I wanted to give myself plenty of time to get to my 12:00pm race. An hour and a half train ride later, I was in Barcelona. I navigated my way to a bus stop and caught the bus Núria told me to take. This bus, however, would only take me so far, and she told me to ask the bus driver to notify me when we’d arrived at a certain plaza. I did just that, but he didn’t know the plaza. Luckily, another passenger did, and I got off in the right place. The race, however, was not in Barcelona exactly; it was in the mountains that surround the city. So, from there, I hoofed it through the suburbs and up the mountains to Parque Collserola. As I was hiking my way up, there was a man grazing his sheep in the shrub brush. I wasn’t exactly sure how he gotten the sheep there, so I found the situation a bit humorous. Up, up and more up, I finally made it to the park an hour and 15 minutes after I’d left the train station. It was still only 9:30 when I arrived though, so I had two and a half hours to kill before the race. But, I found a way to occupy my time. Park Collserola is a popular park for hikers and mountain bikers. I decided to follow a hiker up a trail. I figured that on the other side of the mountain there would be views of the city below, and in fact, there were! Magnificent views in fact! Luckily I had my camera.
After some walking, I made my way back down to prepare for the race. The lady in charge had noticed me when I arrived, and when I returned to the starting area, she decided to check in with me to make sure I didn’t have any questions. She told me something, I said “gracias,” and she immediately followed with “Oh, you speak English.” And then she started speaking to me in English, which she spoke very well. I don’t know how she was able to assume my language from my “gracias,” but somehow, I gave myself away.
And now for the race… It was awesome – a true cross-country course! There was some unsteady, rocky footing where the trails had eroded from bikers, but it was still a great course! It started and finished with downhills, but in the middle of the 8K, there were about 2500 meters of climbing. It was tough, and my quadriceps felt the aftermath a few days later, but I managed to pass a lot of people in that section. When we came down off the mountain, we were near the starting line, so there were fans there to cheer for us. Many were surprised to see the “chica,” and the lady in charge chanted “Fuerte! Fuerte! Great job!” So, all in all, it was tough, but it was fun, and I got my race in.
I was lucky that the race was sponsored by a golf and tennis club, which was nearby, because I had a place to shower afterward. Then, I hiked my way back down the mountain and happened upon a different bus route that took me directly to the city center. I took advantage of my day in the city by touring Casa Batlló, another of Gaudí’s architectural masterpieces, built 100 years ago and recently restored. Casa Batlló is, in a word, fantastical, with tile work that resembles candy on a gingerbread house and a rooftop that resembles the back of a dragon. It is rumored that perhaps that is exactly what Gaudí intended for the roof, as St. George – who is famed for killing a dragon – is the patron saint of Barcelona. And inside, the marvels continue, as Gaudí upheld his natural theme with staircases that resemble the backbone and arches the ribcage of a sea creature, a mushroom fireplace, a ceiling which swirls like the ocean, and columns that bear semblance to bones. The typical central patio was also prudently-designed with darker tile at the top of the building, fading to lighter shades at the bottom so that sufficient light is sensed throughout the building. The rooftop is also breathtaking, with beautifully-tiled though oddly-shaped chimneys. The first floor and rooftop are the only levels of Casa Batlló that are open to the public, as the other levels are private dwellings. I can’t help but think what luck the people have to live in such a spectacular building!
That evening, I wandered the streets of the city center and Barrio Gotic, festively illuminated for the holidays. And yes, there was a sense of holiday magic in the chilly air.
Before catching the last train back to Reus, I went to mass at the church of Santa Maria del Mar, which offered a service in Spanish! I was very excited to be able to understand what was said – having only attended Catalan masses since I arrived – and took the opportunity to meditate on the season and my blessings. Every aspect of my day was richly fulfilling.
And both Joan and Núria were glad to see me at work the next day, no worse for wear after my adventurous day.
To see pictures, go to my Shutterfly website, and view the Barcelona 2 folder.
But, the winnings were only a fraction of the excitement! Just getting to the race site was an adventure. Luckily, Núria supplied me with maps, but I think both she and Joan were a little worried I might end up lost in Barcelona and not make it to work the next day. I will explain. I woke at 5:45am that Sunday morning to catch a 6:45am train. I wanted to give myself plenty of time to get to my 12:00pm race. An hour and a half train ride later, I was in Barcelona. I navigated my way to a bus stop and caught the bus Núria told me to take. This bus, however, would only take me so far, and she told me to ask the bus driver to notify me when we’d arrived at a certain plaza. I did just that, but he didn’t know the plaza. Luckily, another passenger did, and I got off in the right place. The race, however, was not in Barcelona exactly; it was in the mountains that surround the city. So, from there, I hoofed it through the suburbs and up the mountains to Parque Collserola. As I was hiking my way up, there was a man grazing his sheep in the shrub brush. I wasn’t exactly sure how he gotten the sheep there, so I found the situation a bit humorous. Up, up and more up, I finally made it to the park an hour and 15 minutes after I’d left the train station. It was still only 9:30 when I arrived though, so I had two and a half hours to kill before the race. But, I found a way to occupy my time. Park Collserola is a popular park for hikers and mountain bikers. I decided to follow a hiker up a trail. I figured that on the other side of the mountain there would be views of the city below, and in fact, there were! Magnificent views in fact! Luckily I had my camera.
After some walking, I made my way back down to prepare for the race. The lady in charge had noticed me when I arrived, and when I returned to the starting area, she decided to check in with me to make sure I didn’t have any questions. She told me something, I said “gracias,” and she immediately followed with “Oh, you speak English.” And then she started speaking to me in English, which she spoke very well. I don’t know how she was able to assume my language from my “gracias,” but somehow, I gave myself away.
And now for the race… It was awesome – a true cross-country course! There was some unsteady, rocky footing where the trails had eroded from bikers, but it was still a great course! It started and finished with downhills, but in the middle of the 8K, there were about 2500 meters of climbing. It was tough, and my quadriceps felt the aftermath a few days later, but I managed to pass a lot of people in that section. When we came down off the mountain, we were near the starting line, so there were fans there to cheer for us. Many were surprised to see the “chica,” and the lady in charge chanted “Fuerte! Fuerte! Great job!” So, all in all, it was tough, but it was fun, and I got my race in.
I was lucky that the race was sponsored by a golf and tennis club, which was nearby, because I had a place to shower afterward. Then, I hiked my way back down the mountain and happened upon a different bus route that took me directly to the city center. I took advantage of my day in the city by touring Casa Batlló, another of Gaudí’s architectural masterpieces, built 100 years ago and recently restored. Casa Batlló is, in a word, fantastical, with tile work that resembles candy on a gingerbread house and a rooftop that resembles the back of a dragon. It is rumored that perhaps that is exactly what Gaudí intended for the roof, as St. George – who is famed for killing a dragon – is the patron saint of Barcelona. And inside, the marvels continue, as Gaudí upheld his natural theme with staircases that resemble the backbone and arches the ribcage of a sea creature, a mushroom fireplace, a ceiling which swirls like the ocean, and columns that bear semblance to bones. The typical central patio was also prudently-designed with darker tile at the top of the building, fading to lighter shades at the bottom so that sufficient light is sensed throughout the building. The rooftop is also breathtaking, with beautifully-tiled though oddly-shaped chimneys. The first floor and rooftop are the only levels of Casa Batlló that are open to the public, as the other levels are private dwellings. I can’t help but think what luck the people have to live in such a spectacular building!
That evening, I wandered the streets of the city center and Barrio Gotic, festively illuminated for the holidays. And yes, there was a sense of holiday magic in the chilly air.
Before catching the last train back to Reus, I went to mass at the church of Santa Maria del Mar, which offered a service in Spanish! I was very excited to be able to understand what was said – having only attended Catalan masses since I arrived – and took the opportunity to meditate on the season and my blessings. Every aspect of my day was richly fulfilling.
And both Joan and Núria were glad to see me at work the next day, no worse for wear after my adventurous day.
To see pictures, go to my Shutterfly website, and view the Barcelona 2 folder.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
More Random Thoughts and Commentary
1.) Sports fans. There are a few of us living here at the residence hall that are not students at the university. Various work-related reasons bring us to live here, and our age and maturity separate us from the younger student population. We don’t have much interaction, as we all have busy schedules, but we occasionally come together at the dinner table. There is Eduardo – a fast-talking judge from Valencia. He is nice, but I can rarely understand him, and to try to concentrate on what he’s saying makes me very tired. Jordi I mentioned before, as he showed me around Barcelona. He is an architect whose firm is working on an apartment building here in Reus. Jordi knows a little bit of English, so he often interprets Eduardo for me, and he also admits that Eduardo speaks crazy-fast. Finally, there is Luis – a young doctor at the hospital here in town but also from Barcelona. He returns to Barcelona every weekend and brags about the ragging parties he attends.
One night, the four of us were sitting together at dinner. We hopped from various topics of conversation, one being sports. Luis, having a sister in Miami, has made several trips to the States. He has even taken a liking to American football, which most Spaniards don’t like and/or don’t understand. Luis told me that his favorite team is the 49er’s. Not being a fan of professional football, I didn’t really care that he had taken a liking to the team closest to my home. But then, he told me that when it comes to basketball, he is a Lakers fan. I immediately gave a thumbs-down with an emphatic “No way!” He asked if I was a Kings fan, and I let out a “Go Kings!” with my fist in the air. We started bantering back and forth, and I think it was the first time the “viejos” were louder than the “jovenes.”
Later in the conversation, we got onto the topic of movies and television. I was pretty quiet for much of this part of the conversation given that I haven’t watched a movie or even seen a television in more than a month. Eduardo, in rapid speed, kept asking me about certain movies, and when I couldn’t understand him, I just said I hadn’t seen the movie. But then, puzzled, he asked me what are my hobbies. I answered simply “sports” and went on to say which. Luis then chided that I am “one of these modern women.” I didn’t, and still don’t know what to make of this comment.
2.) On the topic of movies, here is a cultural observation. Spaniards love Woody Allen films. I have no idea why, but I have been asked several times about his films – which I’ve seen, which I enjoy. I think I’ve only seen one Woody Allen film, and I can’t at the moment remember the title. Hmm, does that say something about the impression it left on me? I think I walked away feeling rather disenchanted, and I will admit that I am a sucker for happy endings. So, if that says something for my personality, what does it say about Spaniards being fans of Woody Allen?
3.) To the “campo” we go. I have helped harvest several times at an off-site farm in the Terra Alta region, west of Reus. Juan Francisco, who oversees these studies, had said something to me the day before one of these particular trips about how we’d be eating “en el campo” the next day. I didn’t really know what that meant. Should I pack a lunch? We’ve got a lot of work, so we’re just going to eat in the field and keep on truckin’? Eating in the field is nothing unusual to me, but given the culture of the lunch meal here, it is not generally done. I didn’t ask any questions and just nodded my head. By the next day, I had completely forgotten the mention of it. We finished our work by lunchtime (2:00 remember), and I was starving. Thinking we’d be leaving to grab some food, we piled into the car but ventured further into the farm instead of leaving by way of the driveway. We eventually pulled up to a run-down stone cottage, and Juan Francisco said something about the owner inviting us to have lunch with him. We went into the chilly, dark structure with dirt floors and then went upstairs to the second level. We found ourselves in a somewhat more civilized compartment. There were no panes in the window, so the air was still a bit chilly, but it was slightly warmed by an open fire in one corner of the room. I looked around and made the assumption that there was no bathroom, which I really could have used. There were Styrofoam plates set around the dirty table, and there were vegetable roasting on a grill on the fire. On the table, there was also a plate of grilled sardines and sausages. The grower decided to use me as an example to show what we’d be eating. He pulled out of bags large rounds of bread. He told me to start cutting one in half and then to pull out the middle from the crust. Then, he proceeded to tell me to start putting everything in it – tomatoes, garlic, onion, sausage, and sardines. I just did what I was told, though not thrilled about the sardines. I picked up a sardine by the tail and started pulling the meat off the bones. And then, I tediously started pulling the tiny bones from the meat, and at the sight of that, the grower told me, “no te preocupes.” My eyes grew large in question, and I thought, “I’m not supposed to worry about the bones?” I started up again, and again they all told me not to worry with the bones. So, I didn’t, and I hoped that the massive amount of bread would help to collect them from my throat and carry them down. I sat down and attempted to put my mouth around the massive sandwich, but alas, I had forgotten something, which they were quick to point out – olive oil, of course. Finally, I was left in enough peace to start eating. I looked up, and across from me on the wall was a calendar of scantily-clothed women. As if the situation wasn’t already uncomfortable! For most of the lunch, I didn’t say anything, and just ate my sandwich. They were talking in Catalan most of the time anyway, so I didn’t understand much of what was being said. At one point, though, the grower told me to chill out – “tranquila.” I guess I couldn’t really hide my discomfort, but can you blame me?! And then, he joked about the story I would tell to people back home about the situation.
3.) Somos amigos. IRTA celebrated its 20th anniversary this year, and a luncheon for all employees throughout Catalonia was celebrated earlier this month. It was a large affair with good food and drink, speakers and awards. On of the speakers was, in fact, the Minister of Agriculture for Catalonia, whom I met at the luncheon celebrating the olive oil fair in Reus. By this time, word had spread through the station that I had met the minister. So, people were quick to point him out to me again and asked if I remembered him. I joked back, “Claro, somos amigos.”
4.) Anti-outsider. I have now had several people comment to me that Spaniards are unfriendly toward outsiders. Admittedly, I have had several experiences where I thought I was getting a cold shoulder, but I usually wrote these off as my imagination or insecurity. Nonetheless, Justin, my South African hiking guide in Granada, and Elisa, the American woman I befriended in Sevilla, supported this notion I had suppressed. Both Justin and Elisa speak Spanish very well, and though Justin has only lived in Spain for three months, Elisa has lived more of her life in Spain than in the U.S., as she moved here with her parents when she was nine years old. Elisa said her upbringing in Spain mattered little in terms of her acceptance, and even Josefina agreed, saying that when she traveled in the States, she perceived Americans to be generally kinder to strangers than are Spaniards.
5.) Women and their boots. Boots are popular among women now that winter has – though not officially by the calendar but at least by the frost on the ground – commenced. The boots to which I am referring, however, are not the rugged kind that I used to wear in Ithaca to trudge through the snow. Instead, the boots they wear are high, often stiletto-healed and come up to the knee. Some are stylish I suppose; others are extravagant; most are ridiculous given the cobblestone streets. This was illustrated to me especially well when I was in Granada hiking up and down the hill which accesses the Alhambra. I was literally shaking my head at a woman grasping the arm of her husband as they cautiously proceeded down the path. I nonchalantly passed them in my sneakers. After all, one’s access to the different sections of the Alhambra is time limited, and I was glad not to be slowed down by style.
6.) Women and their dogs. Though most people live in flats, it is common to see people out and about walking dogs. Their dogs are generally small breeds, as Labradors and Retrievers just wouldn’t be convenient in an apartment circumstance. I’ve never been a fan of small dogs. For some reason, they are usually rowdier and bark more, and I’ve had more small dogs nip at my ankles while running than large dogs. But these things aside, what perhaps gets to me most about small dogs is something that the dogs cannot control, and that is their owners. For example, why do I see women carrying these small breeds in purses, their fur made into a fountain on the top of their heads by way of a bright pink ribbon? All I can say is – the poor mutt…. It is no wonder they are aggressive; they are probably just letting out their frustrations.
6.) Bad luck. I learned that Tuesday the 13th in Spain is the equivalent to Friday the 13th in the U.S. This month of December saw this “unlucky” day. Juan Francisco mentioned the superstition to me at work, and while watching the news at the gym, I noticed a story about it as well. I’ve never been one to believe in superstition, and luckily I experienced nothing adverse on that day; although, I did receive emails from a couple friends saying that they had strange things happen to them that day. I think it’s just coincidence.
7.) The lisp. I should have mentioned this when I wrote about language. In any case, before I came to Spain, I was informed that the Spanish speak differently than Latin Americans in that they speak with a “lisp.” Yes, I have noticed their pronunciation of “s” and soft “c” to sound like “th.” Though it sounds strange to me, I have found myself doing it on occasion, but I don’t think it will become habit.
One night, the four of us were sitting together at dinner. We hopped from various topics of conversation, one being sports. Luis, having a sister in Miami, has made several trips to the States. He has even taken a liking to American football, which most Spaniards don’t like and/or don’t understand. Luis told me that his favorite team is the 49er’s. Not being a fan of professional football, I didn’t really care that he had taken a liking to the team closest to my home. But then, he told me that when it comes to basketball, he is a Lakers fan. I immediately gave a thumbs-down with an emphatic “No way!” He asked if I was a Kings fan, and I let out a “Go Kings!” with my fist in the air. We started bantering back and forth, and I think it was the first time the “viejos” were louder than the “jovenes.”
Later in the conversation, we got onto the topic of movies and television. I was pretty quiet for much of this part of the conversation given that I haven’t watched a movie or even seen a television in more than a month. Eduardo, in rapid speed, kept asking me about certain movies, and when I couldn’t understand him, I just said I hadn’t seen the movie. But then, puzzled, he asked me what are my hobbies. I answered simply “sports” and went on to say which. Luis then chided that I am “one of these modern women.” I didn’t, and still don’t know what to make of this comment.
2.) On the topic of movies, here is a cultural observation. Spaniards love Woody Allen films. I have no idea why, but I have been asked several times about his films – which I’ve seen, which I enjoy. I think I’ve only seen one Woody Allen film, and I can’t at the moment remember the title. Hmm, does that say something about the impression it left on me? I think I walked away feeling rather disenchanted, and I will admit that I am a sucker for happy endings. So, if that says something for my personality, what does it say about Spaniards being fans of Woody Allen?
3.) To the “campo” we go. I have helped harvest several times at an off-site farm in the Terra Alta region, west of Reus. Juan Francisco, who oversees these studies, had said something to me the day before one of these particular trips about how we’d be eating “en el campo” the next day. I didn’t really know what that meant. Should I pack a lunch? We’ve got a lot of work, so we’re just going to eat in the field and keep on truckin’? Eating in the field is nothing unusual to me, but given the culture of the lunch meal here, it is not generally done. I didn’t ask any questions and just nodded my head. By the next day, I had completely forgotten the mention of it. We finished our work by lunchtime (2:00 remember), and I was starving. Thinking we’d be leaving to grab some food, we piled into the car but ventured further into the farm instead of leaving by way of the driveway. We eventually pulled up to a run-down stone cottage, and Juan Francisco said something about the owner inviting us to have lunch with him. We went into the chilly, dark structure with dirt floors and then went upstairs to the second level. We found ourselves in a somewhat more civilized compartment. There were no panes in the window, so the air was still a bit chilly, but it was slightly warmed by an open fire in one corner of the room. I looked around and made the assumption that there was no bathroom, which I really could have used. There were Styrofoam plates set around the dirty table, and there were vegetable roasting on a grill on the fire. On the table, there was also a plate of grilled sardines and sausages. The grower decided to use me as an example to show what we’d be eating. He pulled out of bags large rounds of bread. He told me to start cutting one in half and then to pull out the middle from the crust. Then, he proceeded to tell me to start putting everything in it – tomatoes, garlic, onion, sausage, and sardines. I just did what I was told, though not thrilled about the sardines. I picked up a sardine by the tail and started pulling the meat off the bones. And then, I tediously started pulling the tiny bones from the meat, and at the sight of that, the grower told me, “no te preocupes.” My eyes grew large in question, and I thought, “I’m not supposed to worry about the bones?” I started up again, and again they all told me not to worry with the bones. So, I didn’t, and I hoped that the massive amount of bread would help to collect them from my throat and carry them down. I sat down and attempted to put my mouth around the massive sandwich, but alas, I had forgotten something, which they were quick to point out – olive oil, of course. Finally, I was left in enough peace to start eating. I looked up, and across from me on the wall was a calendar of scantily-clothed women. As if the situation wasn’t already uncomfortable! For most of the lunch, I didn’t say anything, and just ate my sandwich. They were talking in Catalan most of the time anyway, so I didn’t understand much of what was being said. At one point, though, the grower told me to chill out – “tranquila.” I guess I couldn’t really hide my discomfort, but can you blame me?! And then, he joked about the story I would tell to people back home about the situation.
3.) Somos amigos. IRTA celebrated its 20th anniversary this year, and a luncheon for all employees throughout Catalonia was celebrated earlier this month. It was a large affair with good food and drink, speakers and awards. On of the speakers was, in fact, the Minister of Agriculture for Catalonia, whom I met at the luncheon celebrating the olive oil fair in Reus. By this time, word had spread through the station that I had met the minister. So, people were quick to point him out to me again and asked if I remembered him. I joked back, “Claro, somos amigos.”
4.) Anti-outsider. I have now had several people comment to me that Spaniards are unfriendly toward outsiders. Admittedly, I have had several experiences where I thought I was getting a cold shoulder, but I usually wrote these off as my imagination or insecurity. Nonetheless, Justin, my South African hiking guide in Granada, and Elisa, the American woman I befriended in Sevilla, supported this notion I had suppressed. Both Justin and Elisa speak Spanish very well, and though Justin has only lived in Spain for three months, Elisa has lived more of her life in Spain than in the U.S., as she moved here with her parents when she was nine years old. Elisa said her upbringing in Spain mattered little in terms of her acceptance, and even Josefina agreed, saying that when she traveled in the States, she perceived Americans to be generally kinder to strangers than are Spaniards.
5.) Women and their boots. Boots are popular among women now that winter has – though not officially by the calendar but at least by the frost on the ground – commenced. The boots to which I am referring, however, are not the rugged kind that I used to wear in Ithaca to trudge through the snow. Instead, the boots they wear are high, often stiletto-healed and come up to the knee. Some are stylish I suppose; others are extravagant; most are ridiculous given the cobblestone streets. This was illustrated to me especially well when I was in Granada hiking up and down the hill which accesses the Alhambra. I was literally shaking my head at a woman grasping the arm of her husband as they cautiously proceeded down the path. I nonchalantly passed them in my sneakers. After all, one’s access to the different sections of the Alhambra is time limited, and I was glad not to be slowed down by style.
6.) Women and their dogs. Though most people live in flats, it is common to see people out and about walking dogs. Their dogs are generally small breeds, as Labradors and Retrievers just wouldn’t be convenient in an apartment circumstance. I’ve never been a fan of small dogs. For some reason, they are usually rowdier and bark more, and I’ve had more small dogs nip at my ankles while running than large dogs. But these things aside, what perhaps gets to me most about small dogs is something that the dogs cannot control, and that is their owners. For example, why do I see women carrying these small breeds in purses, their fur made into a fountain on the top of their heads by way of a bright pink ribbon? All I can say is – the poor mutt…. It is no wonder they are aggressive; they are probably just letting out their frustrations.
6.) Bad luck. I learned that Tuesday the 13th in Spain is the equivalent to Friday the 13th in the U.S. This month of December saw this “unlucky” day. Juan Francisco mentioned the superstition to me at work, and while watching the news at the gym, I noticed a story about it as well. I’ve never been one to believe in superstition, and luckily I experienced nothing adverse on that day; although, I did receive emails from a couple friends saying that they had strange things happen to them that day. I think it’s just coincidence.
7.) The lisp. I should have mentioned this when I wrote about language. In any case, before I came to Spain, I was informed that the Spanish speak differently than Latin Americans in that they speak with a “lisp.” Yes, I have noticed their pronunciation of “s” and soft “c” to sound like “th.” Though it sounds strange to me, I have found myself doing it on occasion, but I don’t think it will become habit.
Hot Topics
1.) Immigration. People had their ears tuned to the news when France was experiencing a series of uprisings back in November. Immigration is a contentious topic here in Spain, as the country experiences a large influx of people from Morocco specifically, but also from other parts of Africa, the Middle East, and South America. I’ve overheard some discontent regarding this influx, and with the uprisings in France, I think many feared a wave of similar disruption here.
2.) GMOs. As an agriculturist, I have often heard presentations about the strict European policy against the importation of transgenic crops. But just as Americans cannot all be classified into one stereotype on the matter, I figured the same of Europeans, so I decided to probe Núria and the two lab technicians, Salvadór and Josep, one morning. The 10:00 breakfast break is often a time where we embark on interesting discussions. At the mention of GMOs, Salvadór became a bit hostile, commenting that transgenics are the ploy of large American agribusinesses to make a profit at the expense of small farmers. I asked if he thought there should be more research done on them by public enterprises and what he would think if the technology was brought to olive. He emphatically stated that he would not work on transgenics, and with his reaction, no one else ventured to further the discussion, and I let the topic die.
On a later date, I asked Núria her opinion, and she confirmed my assumption that not all Europeans feel the same, saying that she believes GMOs should be properly researched and perhaps be put to use if deemed safe, as we never know what the future will bring.
3.) Gas prices and American gas-guzzlers. If European countries sold gas in gallons instead of liters, gas would be about a dollar more per gallon here than in the U.S. Because of the cost of this non-renewable resource, the people I’ve spoken with cannot understand Americans’ desire to drive large, gas-guzzling SUVs. Núria had never even heard of a Hummer until mention was made of it in her English class, and so the next day she asked me why anyone would want to drive a modified army vehicle. I am baffled myself.
4.) Medical care. At another breakfast break, we got onto the topic of medical care, and we discussed the differences between that in Spain and that in the U.S. Though there are many people in the U.S. disgruntled with the current situation and view the European pervasive care as an example to emulate, all three of my lab mates expressed discontent over their free care. The reason for this is not about the taxes they pay in order to receive this care; nor is it about the quality of care. In fact, they said that the quality is very good in most cases because of the tax money which funds the service and research. The aspect with which they are unhappy is the time it takes to receive care. They said that people most often wait weeks, even months, to see a doctor, whether it be for a chronic disorder, a broken limb, or a tooth ache. For this reason, many people buy private health insurance because this guarantees them more timely service at a private hospital. In the case of teeth and eyes, they said that everyone that can afford it pays for private insurance. So, free or not, it seems as though medical service is not only controversial in the U.S.
5.) Politics and Tradition. While in Sevilla, I was privy to interesting discussions between Santiago, his sister Josefina, and the others. Many of these discussions revolved around politics, and I have observed that whenever politics is the matter at hand, rarely does it progress without at least mention of Franco. I will try to be brief in this outline of Spanish government, but it is important to understanding the current political climate and culture of this country. Spain emerged from WWI relatively unscathed, but by the 1930’s, two opposing faces were developing. One of these was a right-wing group, adhering to traditional military values and Catholic tradition, later to be known as the Nationalists. Their counterparts to the left – the Republicans – gained status during the progressive Second Republic, but this period proved transient. A bitter civil war erupted between these two factions and persisted until WWII, with Nationalist success due to the aid of Hitler and Mussolini. General Francisco Franco emerged as the leader of this group, and his dictatorship spanned from 1936 until his death in 1975. This, as discussed in a previously blog excerpt, was a period of repression all over Spain but specifically for the Basque and Catalonian people, as Franco attempted to squash opposition and cultural identity. Today, in general, the portion of the population under the age of 40 is either too young to remember, or was not alive during, the Franco era. Nonetheless, they know the stories of their parents and grandparents, and that knowledge alone is enough to make the history alive in their minds. Predecessors to Franco established a democracy but maintained strong ties with the Catholic Church, despite a dwindling Catholic population. It has only been in the last eight years that a more left-wing government has been in place, but old habits die hard in Spain. Thus, the Catholic Church is still a strong influence in government. Taxes are paid to the Church, and Catholic feast days are national holidays. I have heard discontent over paying taxes to the Church, but I have not heard anyone complain about their feast day holidays.
And I think the recount of my discussion with the painter on the street in Sevilla illustrates well the general feeling of Spaniards toward our current U.S. administration. In a sentence, Bush and Rice are only popular as puppets, during a nationally-broadcasted, parody news, television program.
6.) Education. The subject of education also arose in Sevilla one night at dinner. Many Spaniards are not satisfied with the education system, with students emerging undisciplined and lacking in mathematical and language skills. I commented that when I was growing up, grammar took a back seat in curriculum. Teachers stressed the importance of reading and writing but often neglected the mechanics. My companions agreed that this too has happened in Spain, and we all agreed that this is poor procedure. I feel fortunate that I reaped the benefits in high school of Mr. Mulvihill, who was technically retired during the years of my high school career but loved his work so much that he returned to teach one English class per day. He often scoffed at “mandatory” curriculum and instead taught what he believed to be important, making it fascinating at the same time. Mr. Mulvihill was easily one of my most influential teachers, and I can probably thank him for this blog, as I don’t think I would enjoy writing nearly as much had it not been for his tutelage.
7.) This side: no smoking. After the first of the year, a law will take effect that will require restaurants to have smoking and non-smoking sections. I am delighted by this but can’t help but marvel at how behind-the-times this seems. I was thinking the other day about the current situation. For example, in the current state, a pregnant woman and small children for that matter, cannot go to a restaurant and be “safe.” I find this repulsive! Yet, Núria told me that even with the new law, a mere line on the floor can serve as “separation.” Sigh. And, of course, there are people up-in-arms about this new law. Sigh again.
2.) GMOs. As an agriculturist, I have often heard presentations about the strict European policy against the importation of transgenic crops. But just as Americans cannot all be classified into one stereotype on the matter, I figured the same of Europeans, so I decided to probe Núria and the two lab technicians, Salvadór and Josep, one morning. The 10:00 breakfast break is often a time where we embark on interesting discussions. At the mention of GMOs, Salvadór became a bit hostile, commenting that transgenics are the ploy of large American agribusinesses to make a profit at the expense of small farmers. I asked if he thought there should be more research done on them by public enterprises and what he would think if the technology was brought to olive. He emphatically stated that he would not work on transgenics, and with his reaction, no one else ventured to further the discussion, and I let the topic die.
On a later date, I asked Núria her opinion, and she confirmed my assumption that not all Europeans feel the same, saying that she believes GMOs should be properly researched and perhaps be put to use if deemed safe, as we never know what the future will bring.
3.) Gas prices and American gas-guzzlers. If European countries sold gas in gallons instead of liters, gas would be about a dollar more per gallon here than in the U.S. Because of the cost of this non-renewable resource, the people I’ve spoken with cannot understand Americans’ desire to drive large, gas-guzzling SUVs. Núria had never even heard of a Hummer until mention was made of it in her English class, and so the next day she asked me why anyone would want to drive a modified army vehicle. I am baffled myself.
4.) Medical care. At another breakfast break, we got onto the topic of medical care, and we discussed the differences between that in Spain and that in the U.S. Though there are many people in the U.S. disgruntled with the current situation and view the European pervasive care as an example to emulate, all three of my lab mates expressed discontent over their free care. The reason for this is not about the taxes they pay in order to receive this care; nor is it about the quality of care. In fact, they said that the quality is very good in most cases because of the tax money which funds the service and research. The aspect with which they are unhappy is the time it takes to receive care. They said that people most often wait weeks, even months, to see a doctor, whether it be for a chronic disorder, a broken limb, or a tooth ache. For this reason, many people buy private health insurance because this guarantees them more timely service at a private hospital. In the case of teeth and eyes, they said that everyone that can afford it pays for private insurance. So, free or not, it seems as though medical service is not only controversial in the U.S.
5.) Politics and Tradition. While in Sevilla, I was privy to interesting discussions between Santiago, his sister Josefina, and the others. Many of these discussions revolved around politics, and I have observed that whenever politics is the matter at hand, rarely does it progress without at least mention of Franco. I will try to be brief in this outline of Spanish government, but it is important to understanding the current political climate and culture of this country. Spain emerged from WWI relatively unscathed, but by the 1930’s, two opposing faces were developing. One of these was a right-wing group, adhering to traditional military values and Catholic tradition, later to be known as the Nationalists. Their counterparts to the left – the Republicans – gained status during the progressive Second Republic, but this period proved transient. A bitter civil war erupted between these two factions and persisted until WWII, with Nationalist success due to the aid of Hitler and Mussolini. General Francisco Franco emerged as the leader of this group, and his dictatorship spanned from 1936 until his death in 1975. This, as discussed in a previously blog excerpt, was a period of repression all over Spain but specifically for the Basque and Catalonian people, as Franco attempted to squash opposition and cultural identity. Today, in general, the portion of the population under the age of 40 is either too young to remember, or was not alive during, the Franco era. Nonetheless, they know the stories of their parents and grandparents, and that knowledge alone is enough to make the history alive in their minds. Predecessors to Franco established a democracy but maintained strong ties with the Catholic Church, despite a dwindling Catholic population. It has only been in the last eight years that a more left-wing government has been in place, but old habits die hard in Spain. Thus, the Catholic Church is still a strong influence in government. Taxes are paid to the Church, and Catholic feast days are national holidays. I have heard discontent over paying taxes to the Church, but I have not heard anyone complain about their feast day holidays.
And I think the recount of my discussion with the painter on the street in Sevilla illustrates well the general feeling of Spaniards toward our current U.S. administration. In a sentence, Bush and Rice are only popular as puppets, during a nationally-broadcasted, parody news, television program.
6.) Education. The subject of education also arose in Sevilla one night at dinner. Many Spaniards are not satisfied with the education system, with students emerging undisciplined and lacking in mathematical and language skills. I commented that when I was growing up, grammar took a back seat in curriculum. Teachers stressed the importance of reading and writing but often neglected the mechanics. My companions agreed that this too has happened in Spain, and we all agreed that this is poor procedure. I feel fortunate that I reaped the benefits in high school of Mr. Mulvihill, who was technically retired during the years of my high school career but loved his work so much that he returned to teach one English class per day. He often scoffed at “mandatory” curriculum and instead taught what he believed to be important, making it fascinating at the same time. Mr. Mulvihill was easily one of my most influential teachers, and I can probably thank him for this blog, as I don’t think I would enjoy writing nearly as much had it not been for his tutelage.
7.) This side: no smoking. After the first of the year, a law will take effect that will require restaurants to have smoking and non-smoking sections. I am delighted by this but can’t help but marvel at how behind-the-times this seems. I was thinking the other day about the current situation. For example, in the current state, a pregnant woman and small children for that matter, cannot go to a restaurant and be “safe.” I find this repulsive! Yet, Núria told me that even with the new law, a mere line on the floor can serve as “separation.” Sigh. And, of course, there are people up-in-arms about this new law. Sigh again.
A Week of Adventure
I sat comfortably in seat 17D, by the window as I like it, on a train en route to Sevilla, in the southern region of Andalucía. I had a week off from work because of the holidays – Constitution Day and the Feast of the Immaculate Conception – and thus, I took the opportunity to travel to Sevilla and Granada. I was invited to Sevilla by Santiago Pereira, the Spanish horticulture professor from Lugo (in the region of Galicía, north of Portugal), whom I met at Cornell over the summer when he was visiting there. He has a sister in Sevilla, and they invited me to stay with them and see the southern part of the country. It was a very amiable invitation. And, since my uncle Dennis told me I had to visit the Alhambra before I left Spain in neighboring Granada, this seemed like the opportunity.
I anticipated an eventful week, and in fact, it certainly started with an adventure. I woke early to catch a train from Reus to Tarragona, in order to catch my Tarragona to Sevilla train. But, when I arrived at the station in Reus, I was informed that the Sunday schedule differed and there wasn’t a train to get me to Tarragona on time. I was informed of buses, but I didn’t know their frequency, length of ride, or where in Tarragona they would take me. I panicked, first calling Núria, but her phone was off. Then, the only thing I could think to do was call Maria, the secretary at IRTA that takes me to work in the mornings. I felt terrible calling just before 8:00 am on a Sunday morning, but there was nothing more I could think to do. Thankfully, she graciously took me to Tarragona, racing along the highway to get me there on time. She dropped me off and said she would park the car and come in to make sure I’d made it on time. I arrived on the deck with a few minutes to spare, only to look up at the monitor to see that my train was delayed a half hour! Unbelievable! I sat down to wait, and Maria waited with me to see me off. We joked about the situation and the chuckling helped me to relieve my tension.
On the train, I looked up from time to time to see the glistening of the pale, blue Mediterranean waters in the morning light. I saw the terraced olive trees and the perfectly-arranged citrus groves, and the leafy vegetables growing on the level ground. We passed through cities and villages painted white to reflect the light. Given all of this and all that had happened, I was merely amused by little Raul sitting behind me, poking at my head. The train ride was long and tedious – 11.5 hours in total. I used the time to read and write, but my interest in those dwindled as the time passed. When it grew dark, I didn’t even have the passing scenery to interest me, but I took amusement in a group of women laughing like hyenas.
I arrived in Sevilla, thankful to depart the train and equally thankful to be received so warmly by Santiago, his friend Matilde, his sister Josefina, and her American friend Elisa. We took my backpack to Josefina’s flat and then headed out for a night tour of the old city. Our meanderings took us through various plazas in the Barrio Santa Cruz. This used to be the old Jewish ghetto, with its narrow, cobblestone streets, but it has since been revitalized as quite the tourist scene. We stopped at a bar for a glass of wine and olives (“tapas”). I had the choice of a sweet or a dry white, but as the dry white is typical of the area, Santiago recommended that I try that one. It was good, but it was strong, and being dehydrated from the trip and a bit hungry, I had to be conscious of picking up my feet a little bit higher than usual on those cobblestone streets. Back at the flat, we had a traditional meal of bread, cheese, sliced meats, and vegetables, and of course, more wine.
Monday, we woke, breakfasted, and prepared for a day of hiking in the hills east of Seville. It was overcast, and it appeared that rain might threaten our plans, but we packed appropriate gear and went on our way. Once out of the city, we were surrounded by rolling countryside, replete with olive groves. The trees were large, many had already been harvested and were starting to be pruned, while others were laden with crop. I observed some in the process of harvest, their limbs out of reach being knocked with poles. Such a practice seemed primitive considering available mechanization. As we moved further east, the sky grew darker, and eventually it started to rain. ¡Que mala suerte! We thus gave up the plans to hike and progressed north to Córdoba. As we moved north, the sky lightened, and eventually the clouds broke to reveal an impaired, blue sky. But, the occasional patches of light and dark did wonders for the scenery below! Hillside after rolling hillside was the landscape we witnessed – each with soil marbled from red to brown to white as a neapolitan of mineral flavors; some blanketed in green from the evergreen canopies of the timeless olive trees consistently spaced so that even the texture of the blanket was there; others freckled with acutely pruned grapevines so short that the fruit nearly touched the ground, but prudently managed given the generally dry conditions. And the “pueblos blancos” steeped on these hillsides were marvelous to behold. We arrived in Córdoba for lunch and feasted on a delicious, traditional Andalucian gazpacho (thicher than those I’d had in the past) and tapas.
After lunch, we leisurely passed by white-washed buildings, lining the narrow streets of the old city. Pedestrians were more common on these streets than cars, but there were cars that occasionally passed, and I gasped every time they turned the tight corners. Aside from the fact that there were no cars when the old part of the city was built, the streets are narrow, and the tall, white homes are prudently placed in this region where summer temperatures often exceed 100 degrees F. The white color reflects the light, and the buildings provide shade for their neighbors. Internal patios are the coolest, most comfortable places at that time of year, and often, people leave their external doors open to reveal to passers-by their beautifully-tiled, flower-abounding retreats.
Our main purpose in visiting Córdoba was to visit the cathedral. I was fortunate to visit the site in such company, as Elisa is an archeologist and provided invaluable insight! Built in the 16th century, the cathedral is actually the sight of a deeper religious history. Córdoba was a city founded by the Moors in the 700’s and was one of the three world capitals in the 8th, 9th, and 10th centuries (with Rome and Constantinople). As the Arab capital, a mosque was erected for religious observance of the founding population. Interestingly, the mihrab – the location in the mosque toward which prayer is directed – does not face Mecca, as is the tradition. Instead, it faces the river, the means by which to exit the city for the Mediterranean and make one’s way to Mecca. Elisa divulged this, which my guidebook described as a “miscalculation” in the construction. But eventually, the Christians conquered Córdoba in the 1200’s, and the cathedral was finished approximately 300 years later. Instead of using a new site, however, the cathedral was constructed within the mosque! Córdoba’s cathedral is not alone in this, as Sevilla’s cathedral is of the same design, and Christian palaces were built within the Alhambra of Granada. The cathedral is beautiful, as is the mosque, but having one inside the other seemed a little strange – more like a museum than a place of worship. Nonetheless, I was thoroughly impressed with the meticulous tilework of the mosque and carved mahogany of the cathedral.
We did a little more walking in town after our cathedral tour and then departed for Sevilla. We left Córdoba via a less circuitous route than that of our detoured morning. It was dusk, and the evening light revealed a landscape like that of eastern Washington state. Here, cereals, rather than olives, were the crop of choice. The winter grains had only recently been planted, and their emergence from the soil gave a hint of green, which in spring would dominate the hillsides in pastoral splendor. It was dark when we arrived back in Sevilla, and we called it a day.
The next day, I woke early and went for a run along the River Quadalquivir. This is the same river that winds down from Córdoba, and as the river had significance for the Moors there, it had significance for the Christians in Sevilla. It was from Sevilla that Ferdinand and Isabella sent Columbus to “discover” America, and between the 16th and 18th centuries, all ships bound for the New World were required to commence their journeys in Sevilla, giving the city a monopoly on the treasures of the new lands and thus great wealth. I enjoyed my run along this historical river, where, since it was before sunrise, there were only a few other walkers/runners but numerous fisherman. I would later that day walk part of this route with my friends in the daylight. During the morning we toured the old city again to see the sites by day. We returned to Josefina’s apartment for lunch, and then Santiago and Matilde left for Lugo. In the afternoon, Elisa, Josefina, and I went for a fantastic bike tour through the Plaza de España, Parque de Maria Luisa, and down the Avenida de los Palmeros, where there were beautiful buildings constructed for the 1929 World Fair. It was so much fun getting back on a bike again, trying to keep aware of the crazy traffic and thrilled by weaving through the dirt paths in the park. The Plaza de España was magnificent, with stunning tilework to represent each province in Spain. Elisa helped clarify for me the differences between regions and provinces in Spain. There are seven regions in Spain: Andalucía, Galicía, and Cataluña being three, and then the regions are further divided into provinces, Sevilla being in the Province of Sevilla, and Reus being in the Province of Tarragona. After our bike tour, we relaxed for the evening.
Wednesday was another fantastic day in Seville. I woke, ran, and breakfasted as I had the day before, but then I set out on my own, as Josefina and Elisa had to work. My first stop was the cathedral. I weaved my way through the narrow streets of the old city, keeping my eye on the vantage point – the Giralda, or bell tower of the church. The 15th century cathedral is like the one in Córdoba in that it was built on the site of an Islamic mosque. Unlike the cathedral in Córdoba, however, less of the former mosque remains. Those structures which were preserved are part of the protective wall which now encloses the Patio of Orange Trees and the minaret, now called the Giralda. The cathedral is a grand, Gothic structure and is the 3rd largest cathedral in the world. Inside, it houses a fine collection of Renaissance religious artwork, elaborate Eucharistic treasures, and a supposed tomb of Christopher Columbus. I say “supposed” because two other cities in Spain also have tombs dedicated to Columbus, and according to Elisa, DNA work has not yet provided conclusive evidence of his actual location. Although, Elisa said it is possible that pieces of him are in all three places. After meandering around the floor, I climbed the Giralda for the view. It was amazing to see the city from such a height, and it reminded me of the times I climbed McGraw Tower at Cornell, except that there was a brilliantly white city below me. (Yes, that is a jab at Ithaca’s weather.) There were many school children and teachers touring the cathedral. I became disgusted with one girl who spit over the edge of the tower and then laughed about doing it. And I grew annoyed with a boy who pushed his way up next to me and behind the girls to startle them. Fearing his aggression would knock my camera out of my hands, with my sunglasses to hide my blue eyes, I mustered up my best Spanish accent and tersely told him “Cuidado.” This, of course, led him and the girls to start whispering, and when I started to leave, he triumphantly said “hello” and they laughed. So much for me trying not to look like an imposter. Perhaps it was my disciplinarian attitude that gave me away.
I departed the cathedral via the Patio of Orange Trees and made my way through the main shopping district of the city center. It was the middle of the 2:00 lunch hour, so the streets were fairly calm. I walked leisurely down the pedestrian-only passage, on my way to the Museo de Bellas Artes. I stopped to glance at some artwork at a table that a man and woman had just set up. They painted using watercolors, and their paintings were very beautiful. Though I had no intention on buying, the woman tried to hold my attention. Having noticed that they had no pictures of olive landscapes in their collection, I asked if they had any, thinking that their negative response would be my opportunity to exit. Instead, she said that she would paint me one on-the-spot and started doing it. I was trapped, but I felt like I couldn’t decline at that point. So, as she painted, the three of us started talking. Laura was from Galicía, Tupac was from Bolivia, and the two of them travel back and forth between Spain and Bolivia selling their artwork. They asked where I was from and what I was doing, so I told them my story, which of course made sense of my request for a picture of olives. Having my attention while Laura painted, Tupac used the opportunity to probe me about the U.S. At that point, I learned that Tupac was quite an opinionated person, stereotyping all Americans as consumption-driven, war-supporting, and environment-degrading people, thinking with their heads only of the present and neglecting to feel with their hearts for future generations. I responded diplomatically, as usual, and said that just as all Europeans do not fall into one category on controversial issues, neither can all Americans be grouped as such. I then curved the discussion to tell him of my interest in sustainable farming practices, in hope of lightening the conversation and redeeming my country, about which I remain patriotic. Confronted with his criticisms of the U.S., I should have taken the opportunity to tell him that the U.S. is far ahead of much of the world, including Spain, in terms of sustainable agriculture practices (from what I have observed), but not having the brain power to translate my thoughts to Spanish, and not wishing to get into an argument in the street, I refrained from any criticisms myself. I ended the conversation by saying that perhaps all we can do to improve our world is consciously make efforts ourselves, in the ways we see appropriate. He chided that we cannot change others, but I responded that perhaps, by example, we could. All in all, despite his occasional anti-passion toward my country, I appreciated my conversation with Tupac. And, in the end, I may have, by example, left him with a different opinion of Americans, the motley crew that we are. Before I walked away, he and Laura gave me a card and told me that if I ever ended up back in Spain or in Bolivia to look them up.
From there, I went to the art museum. It was not a large museum, but it had an impressive collection of medieval, Renaissance, and Baroque religious artwork by notable Spanish artists, like Murillo and Zubarán. And not only were the paintings beautifully passionate, they were also grand in scale, larger than life in some cases! But my favorite painting of them all was a subtle portrait of the Virgin and Child by Murillo. I liken their expressions to that of the Mona Lisa – mystically optimistic. When I left the museum, I weaved my way back through the busy streets of the city center. There was a festive feeling in the air, with Nativity scenes set in store windows, lights spanning the narrow streets, and a string quartet playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. When I got back to Josefina’s apartment, we had a nice dinner with more nice conversation, and then we went to bed to await my departure the next day. I lucked out the next day and bought the last available seat of the morning train to Granada.
Back on a train, the music went from ethnic guitar to elevator saxophone to Sinatra ballads. From my window-vantage seat, the scenery was not disappointing by any means: rocky mountains with white villages at their bases. In lowland valleys, there were olive orchards and vegetable fields and olive orchards intercropped with vegetables, like the one I saw intercropped with artichokes. But those majestic olive trees, as I have described before, don’t need fertile valley floors to be productive, and thus, the mile after mile after hundreds of miles of rolling countryside was a patchwork display too breathtaking to put into words. I tried snapping pictures from my seat, but upon peering through the lens, the powerful rays of the sun created an image of my own reflection, my face obscured by the camera. Passing through San Francisco de Loja, terraced fields of alfalfa, asparagus ferns, artichokes, and corn neglected of harvest were in the forefront, while the snow-packed Sierra Nevada Mountains – Spain’s tallest mountains – were in the background.
And they were in view all the way to Granada. When I arrived in Granada, I hiked my way to a hostel and checked in. Once settled, I went walking in search of a look-out point that Elisa suggested I find. I started walking up the streets of the Albaicín, the site of the immaculately white houses of the former Moorish neighborhood. I weaved my way up the tangled streets, and eventually came upon the road to Sacramonte – supposedly where the gypsies live in caves and tourists go to watch flamenco dancing. I walked for a little while, but as the sun waned, I opted to turn around, as my guidebook recommended avoiding Sacramonte after dark. Back in the Albaicín, I found the Plaza of Saint Nicolas, which is the look-out Elisa suggested, and much of the tourist population had also found it. I stayed there through the sunset, which was glorious, talking to a German guy some of the time about our various travels. As darkness settled in, I made my way back to the busy market streets, bought some falafel and baklawa for dinner, as there is still a dominating Arabic influence in Granada, and went back to the hostel. When I decided to retire to the room for the night, I thought I was alone until I heard someone in the bed across from mine. Having thought I reserved a space in an all-female room, I was surprised to see it was a guy. Turns out, he was equally surprised to see me, as he thought he was in an all-male room.
I slept well in the hostel actually; earplugs helped. I learned from my mistake of forgetting them when I stayed in Barcelona, where a lone snorer kept me awake most of the night. I wandered the city the next day, visiting the Chapel Real, where King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella are entombed. This was an unintentional visit, however, as I thought I was visiting the cathedral, and was a bit frustrated that my three euros was spent visiting a place where photos were not allowed. Although, noticing no guards, I took some anyway, without flash, of course, as to respect the artwork. Hopefully there were no cameras recording my villainous behavior, but if there were, I wasn’t the only culprit. I visited the cathedral in the afternoon and was a bit disappointed to see scaffolding, but it was beautiful nonetheless. But, now for a little bit of commentary… I had to pay another three euros to get into the cathedral. In fact, entry payment was required at all three cathedrals that I visited during the week. I suppose I can understand the purpose of the entry fee. In Spain, churches are like amusement parks in that they are tourist attractions. With large crowds comes the need for cleaning, maintenance, and personnel. But, the payment, not to mention the direction of security guards, makes me feel like an outsider in a place that should feel comforting. But, I suppose that’s the price I pay for the chance to take pictures.
In between the chapel and the cathedral, I went for a hike with a guide from the hostel and one other traveler. The guide was originally from South Africa and the other traveler Australia. We went on a fantastic hike in the hills behind the Alhambra and had incredible views of it but also of the snow-packed Sierra Nevadas. We passed through olive orchards with the mountains behind and beheld a picture as perfect as a postcard. And after all the walking during the day, I ended with a restful night at the hostel, where there was a community meal that was cheap but delicious – paella, a Spanish standard. At dinner, I also befriended a few Kiwis and Ausis and enjoyed lively English conversation.
And, on my final day in Granada, well, I saved the best for last. This was the day I visited the Alhambra: the 13th century Moorish fortress, palace, city, and gardens all in one. Essentially, the Alhambra is the reason tourists flock to Granada, and for this reason, I booked my ticket online in advance. My entrance was at 8:30am, and they are strict about timing in order to prevent huge influxes at one time. Though hiking up the hill warmed me up, it was a chilly morning, and the sun didn’t rise until well after 8:00. My route began in the Nasrid Palaces and moved to the gardens of the Generalife. The chill and the pale light offered a certain peacefulness, regardless of the other visitors. But how could one not find peace there amidst the intricate tilework and carvings, trickling fountains, dormant gardens, and quiet city down below?! And I can only imagine the marvel of the gardens earlier in the year: roses flourishing, walnuts and figs in leafy glory, and color throughout. Although, seeing the pendant persimmons and pomegranates still clinging to their limbs was beautiful even if most of the leaves were already a golden carpet on the ground. I ended my tour at the Alcazaba – the fortress. As I stood on the stone towers, I soaked up the warm rays of the sun, just as Ithacans do on their rare occasions. I gazed upon the city below, the cultivated farmland beyond, and the mountains in the distance. I imagined what the view must have been like when the Alhambra was in its glory. I’m sure the view below was quite different, unlike the Alhambra itself, which except for its age, is well-preserved.
That afternoon, I did some more walking through town with my Ausi and Kiwi friends, and then I made my way to the train station to be a true “mochilera,” passing the night on the train.
To see pictures from my week, visit my Shutterfly website, and visit the folders labeled Córdoba, Sevilla, and Granada.
I anticipated an eventful week, and in fact, it certainly started with an adventure. I woke early to catch a train from Reus to Tarragona, in order to catch my Tarragona to Sevilla train. But, when I arrived at the station in Reus, I was informed that the Sunday schedule differed and there wasn’t a train to get me to Tarragona on time. I was informed of buses, but I didn’t know their frequency, length of ride, or where in Tarragona they would take me. I panicked, first calling Núria, but her phone was off. Then, the only thing I could think to do was call Maria, the secretary at IRTA that takes me to work in the mornings. I felt terrible calling just before 8:00 am on a Sunday morning, but there was nothing more I could think to do. Thankfully, she graciously took me to Tarragona, racing along the highway to get me there on time. She dropped me off and said she would park the car and come in to make sure I’d made it on time. I arrived on the deck with a few minutes to spare, only to look up at the monitor to see that my train was delayed a half hour! Unbelievable! I sat down to wait, and Maria waited with me to see me off. We joked about the situation and the chuckling helped me to relieve my tension.
On the train, I looked up from time to time to see the glistening of the pale, blue Mediterranean waters in the morning light. I saw the terraced olive trees and the perfectly-arranged citrus groves, and the leafy vegetables growing on the level ground. We passed through cities and villages painted white to reflect the light. Given all of this and all that had happened, I was merely amused by little Raul sitting behind me, poking at my head. The train ride was long and tedious – 11.5 hours in total. I used the time to read and write, but my interest in those dwindled as the time passed. When it grew dark, I didn’t even have the passing scenery to interest me, but I took amusement in a group of women laughing like hyenas.
I arrived in Sevilla, thankful to depart the train and equally thankful to be received so warmly by Santiago, his friend Matilde, his sister Josefina, and her American friend Elisa. We took my backpack to Josefina’s flat and then headed out for a night tour of the old city. Our meanderings took us through various plazas in the Barrio Santa Cruz. This used to be the old Jewish ghetto, with its narrow, cobblestone streets, but it has since been revitalized as quite the tourist scene. We stopped at a bar for a glass of wine and olives (“tapas”). I had the choice of a sweet or a dry white, but as the dry white is typical of the area, Santiago recommended that I try that one. It was good, but it was strong, and being dehydrated from the trip and a bit hungry, I had to be conscious of picking up my feet a little bit higher than usual on those cobblestone streets. Back at the flat, we had a traditional meal of bread, cheese, sliced meats, and vegetables, and of course, more wine.
Monday, we woke, breakfasted, and prepared for a day of hiking in the hills east of Seville. It was overcast, and it appeared that rain might threaten our plans, but we packed appropriate gear and went on our way. Once out of the city, we were surrounded by rolling countryside, replete with olive groves. The trees were large, many had already been harvested and were starting to be pruned, while others were laden with crop. I observed some in the process of harvest, their limbs out of reach being knocked with poles. Such a practice seemed primitive considering available mechanization. As we moved further east, the sky grew darker, and eventually it started to rain. ¡Que mala suerte! We thus gave up the plans to hike and progressed north to Córdoba. As we moved north, the sky lightened, and eventually the clouds broke to reveal an impaired, blue sky. But, the occasional patches of light and dark did wonders for the scenery below! Hillside after rolling hillside was the landscape we witnessed – each with soil marbled from red to brown to white as a neapolitan of mineral flavors; some blanketed in green from the evergreen canopies of the timeless olive trees consistently spaced so that even the texture of the blanket was there; others freckled with acutely pruned grapevines so short that the fruit nearly touched the ground, but prudently managed given the generally dry conditions. And the “pueblos blancos” steeped on these hillsides were marvelous to behold. We arrived in Córdoba for lunch and feasted on a delicious, traditional Andalucian gazpacho (thicher than those I’d had in the past) and tapas.
After lunch, we leisurely passed by white-washed buildings, lining the narrow streets of the old city. Pedestrians were more common on these streets than cars, but there were cars that occasionally passed, and I gasped every time they turned the tight corners. Aside from the fact that there were no cars when the old part of the city was built, the streets are narrow, and the tall, white homes are prudently placed in this region where summer temperatures often exceed 100 degrees F. The white color reflects the light, and the buildings provide shade for their neighbors. Internal patios are the coolest, most comfortable places at that time of year, and often, people leave their external doors open to reveal to passers-by their beautifully-tiled, flower-abounding retreats.
Our main purpose in visiting Córdoba was to visit the cathedral. I was fortunate to visit the site in such company, as Elisa is an archeologist and provided invaluable insight! Built in the 16th century, the cathedral is actually the sight of a deeper religious history. Córdoba was a city founded by the Moors in the 700’s and was one of the three world capitals in the 8th, 9th, and 10th centuries (with Rome and Constantinople). As the Arab capital, a mosque was erected for religious observance of the founding population. Interestingly, the mihrab – the location in the mosque toward which prayer is directed – does not face Mecca, as is the tradition. Instead, it faces the river, the means by which to exit the city for the Mediterranean and make one’s way to Mecca. Elisa divulged this, which my guidebook described as a “miscalculation” in the construction. But eventually, the Christians conquered Córdoba in the 1200’s, and the cathedral was finished approximately 300 years later. Instead of using a new site, however, the cathedral was constructed within the mosque! Córdoba’s cathedral is not alone in this, as Sevilla’s cathedral is of the same design, and Christian palaces were built within the Alhambra of Granada. The cathedral is beautiful, as is the mosque, but having one inside the other seemed a little strange – more like a museum than a place of worship. Nonetheless, I was thoroughly impressed with the meticulous tilework of the mosque and carved mahogany of the cathedral.
We did a little more walking in town after our cathedral tour and then departed for Sevilla. We left Córdoba via a less circuitous route than that of our detoured morning. It was dusk, and the evening light revealed a landscape like that of eastern Washington state. Here, cereals, rather than olives, were the crop of choice. The winter grains had only recently been planted, and their emergence from the soil gave a hint of green, which in spring would dominate the hillsides in pastoral splendor. It was dark when we arrived back in Sevilla, and we called it a day.
The next day, I woke early and went for a run along the River Quadalquivir. This is the same river that winds down from Córdoba, and as the river had significance for the Moors there, it had significance for the Christians in Sevilla. It was from Sevilla that Ferdinand and Isabella sent Columbus to “discover” America, and between the 16th and 18th centuries, all ships bound for the New World were required to commence their journeys in Sevilla, giving the city a monopoly on the treasures of the new lands and thus great wealth. I enjoyed my run along this historical river, where, since it was before sunrise, there were only a few other walkers/runners but numerous fisherman. I would later that day walk part of this route with my friends in the daylight. During the morning we toured the old city again to see the sites by day. We returned to Josefina’s apartment for lunch, and then Santiago and Matilde left for Lugo. In the afternoon, Elisa, Josefina, and I went for a fantastic bike tour through the Plaza de España, Parque de Maria Luisa, and down the Avenida de los Palmeros, where there were beautiful buildings constructed for the 1929 World Fair. It was so much fun getting back on a bike again, trying to keep aware of the crazy traffic and thrilled by weaving through the dirt paths in the park. The Plaza de España was magnificent, with stunning tilework to represent each province in Spain. Elisa helped clarify for me the differences between regions and provinces in Spain. There are seven regions in Spain: Andalucía, Galicía, and Cataluña being three, and then the regions are further divided into provinces, Sevilla being in the Province of Sevilla, and Reus being in the Province of Tarragona. After our bike tour, we relaxed for the evening.
Wednesday was another fantastic day in Seville. I woke, ran, and breakfasted as I had the day before, but then I set out on my own, as Josefina and Elisa had to work. My first stop was the cathedral. I weaved my way through the narrow streets of the old city, keeping my eye on the vantage point – the Giralda, or bell tower of the church. The 15th century cathedral is like the one in Córdoba in that it was built on the site of an Islamic mosque. Unlike the cathedral in Córdoba, however, less of the former mosque remains. Those structures which were preserved are part of the protective wall which now encloses the Patio of Orange Trees and the minaret, now called the Giralda. The cathedral is a grand, Gothic structure and is the 3rd largest cathedral in the world. Inside, it houses a fine collection of Renaissance religious artwork, elaborate Eucharistic treasures, and a supposed tomb of Christopher Columbus. I say “supposed” because two other cities in Spain also have tombs dedicated to Columbus, and according to Elisa, DNA work has not yet provided conclusive evidence of his actual location. Although, Elisa said it is possible that pieces of him are in all three places. After meandering around the floor, I climbed the Giralda for the view. It was amazing to see the city from such a height, and it reminded me of the times I climbed McGraw Tower at Cornell, except that there was a brilliantly white city below me. (Yes, that is a jab at Ithaca’s weather.) There were many school children and teachers touring the cathedral. I became disgusted with one girl who spit over the edge of the tower and then laughed about doing it. And I grew annoyed with a boy who pushed his way up next to me and behind the girls to startle them. Fearing his aggression would knock my camera out of my hands, with my sunglasses to hide my blue eyes, I mustered up my best Spanish accent and tersely told him “Cuidado.” This, of course, led him and the girls to start whispering, and when I started to leave, he triumphantly said “hello” and they laughed. So much for me trying not to look like an imposter. Perhaps it was my disciplinarian attitude that gave me away.
I departed the cathedral via the Patio of Orange Trees and made my way through the main shopping district of the city center. It was the middle of the 2:00 lunch hour, so the streets were fairly calm. I walked leisurely down the pedestrian-only passage, on my way to the Museo de Bellas Artes. I stopped to glance at some artwork at a table that a man and woman had just set up. They painted using watercolors, and their paintings were very beautiful. Though I had no intention on buying, the woman tried to hold my attention. Having noticed that they had no pictures of olive landscapes in their collection, I asked if they had any, thinking that their negative response would be my opportunity to exit. Instead, she said that she would paint me one on-the-spot and started doing it. I was trapped, but I felt like I couldn’t decline at that point. So, as she painted, the three of us started talking. Laura was from Galicía, Tupac was from Bolivia, and the two of them travel back and forth between Spain and Bolivia selling their artwork. They asked where I was from and what I was doing, so I told them my story, which of course made sense of my request for a picture of olives. Having my attention while Laura painted, Tupac used the opportunity to probe me about the U.S. At that point, I learned that Tupac was quite an opinionated person, stereotyping all Americans as consumption-driven, war-supporting, and environment-degrading people, thinking with their heads only of the present and neglecting to feel with their hearts for future generations. I responded diplomatically, as usual, and said that just as all Europeans do not fall into one category on controversial issues, neither can all Americans be grouped as such. I then curved the discussion to tell him of my interest in sustainable farming practices, in hope of lightening the conversation and redeeming my country, about which I remain patriotic. Confronted with his criticisms of the U.S., I should have taken the opportunity to tell him that the U.S. is far ahead of much of the world, including Spain, in terms of sustainable agriculture practices (from what I have observed), but not having the brain power to translate my thoughts to Spanish, and not wishing to get into an argument in the street, I refrained from any criticisms myself. I ended the conversation by saying that perhaps all we can do to improve our world is consciously make efforts ourselves, in the ways we see appropriate. He chided that we cannot change others, but I responded that perhaps, by example, we could. All in all, despite his occasional anti-passion toward my country, I appreciated my conversation with Tupac. And, in the end, I may have, by example, left him with a different opinion of Americans, the motley crew that we are. Before I walked away, he and Laura gave me a card and told me that if I ever ended up back in Spain or in Bolivia to look them up.
From there, I went to the art museum. It was not a large museum, but it had an impressive collection of medieval, Renaissance, and Baroque religious artwork by notable Spanish artists, like Murillo and Zubarán. And not only were the paintings beautifully passionate, they were also grand in scale, larger than life in some cases! But my favorite painting of them all was a subtle portrait of the Virgin and Child by Murillo. I liken their expressions to that of the Mona Lisa – mystically optimistic. When I left the museum, I weaved my way back through the busy streets of the city center. There was a festive feeling in the air, with Nativity scenes set in store windows, lights spanning the narrow streets, and a string quartet playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. When I got back to Josefina’s apartment, we had a nice dinner with more nice conversation, and then we went to bed to await my departure the next day. I lucked out the next day and bought the last available seat of the morning train to Granada.
Back on a train, the music went from ethnic guitar to elevator saxophone to Sinatra ballads. From my window-vantage seat, the scenery was not disappointing by any means: rocky mountains with white villages at their bases. In lowland valleys, there were olive orchards and vegetable fields and olive orchards intercropped with vegetables, like the one I saw intercropped with artichokes. But those majestic olive trees, as I have described before, don’t need fertile valley floors to be productive, and thus, the mile after mile after hundreds of miles of rolling countryside was a patchwork display too breathtaking to put into words. I tried snapping pictures from my seat, but upon peering through the lens, the powerful rays of the sun created an image of my own reflection, my face obscured by the camera. Passing through San Francisco de Loja, terraced fields of alfalfa, asparagus ferns, artichokes, and corn neglected of harvest were in the forefront, while the snow-packed Sierra Nevada Mountains – Spain’s tallest mountains – were in the background.
And they were in view all the way to Granada. When I arrived in Granada, I hiked my way to a hostel and checked in. Once settled, I went walking in search of a look-out point that Elisa suggested I find. I started walking up the streets of the Albaicín, the site of the immaculately white houses of the former Moorish neighborhood. I weaved my way up the tangled streets, and eventually came upon the road to Sacramonte – supposedly where the gypsies live in caves and tourists go to watch flamenco dancing. I walked for a little while, but as the sun waned, I opted to turn around, as my guidebook recommended avoiding Sacramonte after dark. Back in the Albaicín, I found the Plaza of Saint Nicolas, which is the look-out Elisa suggested, and much of the tourist population had also found it. I stayed there through the sunset, which was glorious, talking to a German guy some of the time about our various travels. As darkness settled in, I made my way back to the busy market streets, bought some falafel and baklawa for dinner, as there is still a dominating Arabic influence in Granada, and went back to the hostel. When I decided to retire to the room for the night, I thought I was alone until I heard someone in the bed across from mine. Having thought I reserved a space in an all-female room, I was surprised to see it was a guy. Turns out, he was equally surprised to see me, as he thought he was in an all-male room.
I slept well in the hostel actually; earplugs helped. I learned from my mistake of forgetting them when I stayed in Barcelona, where a lone snorer kept me awake most of the night. I wandered the city the next day, visiting the Chapel Real, where King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella are entombed. This was an unintentional visit, however, as I thought I was visiting the cathedral, and was a bit frustrated that my three euros was spent visiting a place where photos were not allowed. Although, noticing no guards, I took some anyway, without flash, of course, as to respect the artwork. Hopefully there were no cameras recording my villainous behavior, but if there were, I wasn’t the only culprit. I visited the cathedral in the afternoon and was a bit disappointed to see scaffolding, but it was beautiful nonetheless. But, now for a little bit of commentary… I had to pay another three euros to get into the cathedral. In fact, entry payment was required at all three cathedrals that I visited during the week. I suppose I can understand the purpose of the entry fee. In Spain, churches are like amusement parks in that they are tourist attractions. With large crowds comes the need for cleaning, maintenance, and personnel. But, the payment, not to mention the direction of security guards, makes me feel like an outsider in a place that should feel comforting. But, I suppose that’s the price I pay for the chance to take pictures.
In between the chapel and the cathedral, I went for a hike with a guide from the hostel and one other traveler. The guide was originally from South Africa and the other traveler Australia. We went on a fantastic hike in the hills behind the Alhambra and had incredible views of it but also of the snow-packed Sierra Nevadas. We passed through olive orchards with the mountains behind and beheld a picture as perfect as a postcard. And after all the walking during the day, I ended with a restful night at the hostel, where there was a community meal that was cheap but delicious – paella, a Spanish standard. At dinner, I also befriended a few Kiwis and Ausis and enjoyed lively English conversation.
And, on my final day in Granada, well, I saved the best for last. This was the day I visited the Alhambra: the 13th century Moorish fortress, palace, city, and gardens all in one. Essentially, the Alhambra is the reason tourists flock to Granada, and for this reason, I booked my ticket online in advance. My entrance was at 8:30am, and they are strict about timing in order to prevent huge influxes at one time. Though hiking up the hill warmed me up, it was a chilly morning, and the sun didn’t rise until well after 8:00. My route began in the Nasrid Palaces and moved to the gardens of the Generalife. The chill and the pale light offered a certain peacefulness, regardless of the other visitors. But how could one not find peace there amidst the intricate tilework and carvings, trickling fountains, dormant gardens, and quiet city down below?! And I can only imagine the marvel of the gardens earlier in the year: roses flourishing, walnuts and figs in leafy glory, and color throughout. Although, seeing the pendant persimmons and pomegranates still clinging to their limbs was beautiful even if most of the leaves were already a golden carpet on the ground. I ended my tour at the Alcazaba – the fortress. As I stood on the stone towers, I soaked up the warm rays of the sun, just as Ithacans do on their rare occasions. I gazed upon the city below, the cultivated farmland beyond, and the mountains in the distance. I imagined what the view must have been like when the Alhambra was in its glory. I’m sure the view below was quite different, unlike the Alhambra itself, which except for its age, is well-preserved.
That afternoon, I did some more walking through town with my Ausi and Kiwi friends, and then I made my way to the train station to be a true “mochilera,” passing the night on the train.
To see pictures from my week, visit my Shutterfly website, and visit the folders labeled Córdoba, Sevilla, and Granada.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
November Dreer Fellowship Report
The Olive in Spain - An Image, an Identity, and an Insight into Sustainability
In the United States, it is not uncommon to hear opinionated voices speaking out against the “horrors” of chemical pesticides and lauding the organic produce at their local cooperative market. In Europe, segments of the population agree that genetically-modified foods are “evil” and should not be consumed, much less even allowed within their borders. A movement toward “sustainability” is sweeping much of the upper-middle class population in developed countries around the globe; yet, many of these people are so far removed from the food production system that it is difficult to know whether they are campaigning from emotional ignorance or with researched principles.
Nonetheless, in the developed world, where we are fortunate to have the means and flexibility to adapt our farming practices to a changing palate – unlike in the developing world where food might be a luxury or its production a means of subsistence – “sustainable” farming practices are becoming more common, or at least receiving some attention among farmers as they realize the niche of catering to those with the aforementioned convictions. If the public wants food produced by environmentally “sustainable” methods, farmers – though sometimes gradually – are beginning to modify their operations to meet these demands. But, just as farmers in the developing world may neglect the environment as a means toward subsistence, growers in developed countries, too, have subsistence, or economic, considerations. For this reason, the principal of “sustainability” has taken on the definition of “meet(ing) the needs of the present without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own…” (UC SAREP). Thus, the meaning of “sustainability” has evolved to include not only an environmental but also an economic component. As farmers are also businesspeople in the developed world, practices favorable for a healthy environment will most often only be adopted if they are also economically-sound.
It is with this inclusive definition of sustainability in mind that I conduct my travels, work, and studies, made possible by the Fredrick Dreer Award, awarded to me by the faculty in the Departments of Horticulture and Landscape Architecture at Cornell University. From November of 2005 through October 2006, I will be traveling among three countries on three continents to learn more about sustainability issues. I have begun in Spain, residing here for three months, traveling next to Chile for three months, and finishing in New Zealand for six months. In each place, I will focus my attention on a regionally important crop (or crops) and the sustainability issues involved the production. Here in this first of monthly summaries, I document an overview of my studies and observations of the olive (Olea europaea) in Spain.
The Olive as a Symbol
From historical times to the present, the olive has come to symbolize many virtues. Durable, living in poor soils and needing very little water, the olive tree has been a symbol of strength and resilience. Olive branch coronets were awarded to winners in the early Olympic Games for their physical prowess. Mediterranean populations in the centuries B.C. understood the healthful properties of olive oil, using it as both an internal and external elixir. Worldwide religions have recognized the olive tree: awed by its longevity, viewing its fertility at an old age as magical, and considering the food and shelter it provides as benevolence from a god. Jews and Christians have further reference of its symbolism, using its oil in anointing ceremonies, burning the oil to give light, and having reference to branches as peace offerings in the Old Testament. In fact, the olive branch as a symbol of peace was extended to our own country’s origin, as our founding fathers developed our national seal of an eagle griping arrows and an olive branch, illustrating our ability to make war and peace. Finally, how can one not become enveloped by the pastoral serenity of an old, gnarled olive tree? And thus, for centuries, the olive has symbolized so much that is good.
The Olive and Spanish Culture
In Spain, nonetheless, the realm of the olive surpasses symbolism. The fruit is more than an appetizer served on a fancy platter or the palatable decoration in a cocktail. But, as appetizers and cocktails are social foods, so is everything consumed in the Spanish culture, as meals are generally social events. And so the olive finds itself, needing no special occasion to warrant its display on the dining table. It is eaten daily – for breakfast, lunch, or dinner – amongst jovial conversation. Its oil is a staple in every kitchen – replacing butter, margarine, and other refined oils in dishes, dressings, and on bread – and the noses and palates of Spaniards are trained to detect quality and preference.
The olive tree also has its place in the culture. The roads connecting towns and villages are often lined with a corridor of olive trees. The countryside is a patchwork of olive orchards, young and old. Hillsides are speckled with trees planted and abandoned for steadier ground, and mountains exhibit the remnants of nature’s doing long ago.
And every village has a mill – the core of these small, remote locations. Every winter, farmers bring their product there for processing. Those without land of their own help with the harvest or work in the mill to create that region’s specific blend, carefully crafted in hope of attaining that coveted ‘extra vigin’ label. In the air wafts the sweet aroma of its product, and to street fairs they take it for the public to sample, compare, and buy.
The olive could, perhaps, be considered the lifeblood of Spanish culture.
The Olive and the Spanish Economy
Not only is the olive a cornerstone of Spanish culture, it also gives life to the country’s economy. With one third of the country’s approximately 195,000 square miles of land under agricultural production, (roughly 41.6 million agricultural acres), 4.7 million acres are under olive cultivation (approximately 11% of arable land). Most of the olives are processed into olive oil, making Spain the largest producer of olive oil in the world, followed by Italy, which has less than half of Spain’s total acreage, and Greece.
With the three largest olive oil producing nations in Europe, it should come as no surprise that the European community outputs 79% of the world’s annual olive oil. Various other regions with Mediterranean climates are responsible for the remaining yield in small quantities. As the European community produces most of the world’s olive oil, so too does it consume the majority at 71%. As the health advantages of olive oil are learned, nonetheless, consumption in other countries is escalating. Increased consumption in the United States, Australia, and Japan, for example, has resulted in importation of the product, primarily from the European community, which exports approximately 68% of its production. And again, as Spain is the largest producer of olive oil in the European community, there is no doubt that the making (by means of employment), domestic consumption, and exportation of olive oil are major factors contributing to the Spanish economy.
The Olive and the Environment
It seems dichotomous that in a country where petroleum refineries freckle the coast and smoking is a common practice that awareness of environmental and human health would be recognized to any great extent. As with any move toward something new, as is the case with the sustainability “movement”, change usually comes slowly and starts little by little. It is perhaps then no surprise that environmental sustainability in Spain has evolved with this little fruit.
From the canopy to the roots, sustainable environmental practices are penetrating the industry. In the past, before mechanization of olive culture was in full fruition, olive trees were planted on steep mountainsides, and navigating roots excelled in preventing soil erosion. Today, however, growers have generally abandoned these steep hillsides for more moderately sloped lands, where high-density plantings can excel, machines can aid in cultivation and harvest, and larger profits can be reaped. In these intensive cases, the roots cannot withstand soil degradation alone, and cover crops have become increasingly observed as a means of conserving valuable topsoil and water resources.
Pest management is another avenue through which environmentally conscious research is taking hold. The two pests of greatest concern to the industry are the olive fruit fly (Bactrocera oleae) and Verticillium wilt fungus (Verticillium dahliae). The larvae of the fruit fly bore into the olive fruit, making noticeable tunnels. These tunnels lead to oxidation of the flesh and poorer quality fruit. Verticillium infects the xylem tissue and disrupts water movement. Symptoms begin as chlorosis, move to necrosis, and result in complete limb defoliation. Trees may even succumb to death when the condition is severe. Environmentally sustainable practices to control these pests are still in their infancy of investigation but include kaolin clay for the fruit fly and genetic resources – both varietal and rootstock – for Verticillium wilt.
The Role of IRTA
There is obviously much to consider when examining this important, changing, and growing agricultural industry. Thankfully for growers, however, there exists an institute – comparable to land grant universities in the United States – that investigates these issues for the public good.
I am working at the Institute of Agricultural Research and Technology (IRTA), Mas Bové Center outside of Reus. IRTA, a public institution funded by the government, has several centers throughout Catalonia, each specializing in specific agricultural commodities or sectors. For example, at Mas Bové, there are two departments: the Department of Mediterranean Fruits (walnuts, almonds, pistachios, hazelnuts, carobs, and olives) and the Department of Animal Nutrition. The professors of IRTA are not associated with a university; thus, they do research and extend their findings to growers as their public responsibility, but they have no formal teaching appointment. The scientists with whom I am working are Dr. Joan Tous and Agustí Romero. Joan’s research is in olive tree culture: variety and rootstock evaluations, training systems, and density plantings. Agustí concentrates on olive oil evaluations and sensory panel training to the guidelines of the International Olive Oil Council (IOOC). There is a graduate student working with Joan, Núria Mallen. Núria is a student of the University of Barcelona, College of Biology, and is evaluating olive rootstocks for her Ph.D project. These, along with various lab technicians and field staff, are the people with whom I spend my work days.
In just the first two weeks, I have learned so much and am filling a journal with information to take home. From the laboratory to the nursery to the field, I have worked in all, making cuttings for propagation, measuring tree diameter, harvesting the crop, and evaluating olive maturation and oil quality. I have also been doing quite a bit of reading to understand olive culture in general and more specifically the environmental and economic sustainability issues (as described in the previous sections) about which I proposed studying and for which I was awarded the Dreer fellowship. Perhaps what has been the most valuable aspect of my days, however, has simply been shadowing some of the workers – learning more about varieties, diseases, olive oil processing, etc. This has also allowed me the opportunity to practice speaking Spanish – another objective for my time here.
In the weeks to come, I will become more involved in the olive harvest and oil processing. I will be visiting farms and mills throughout the region, learning the practices involved in producing quality olive fruit and training my palate to evaluate quality olive oil. I expect the coming months to be physically and intellectually challenging but educational and interesting as I come to appreciate the olive as an image, an identity, and an insight into sustainability.
References
2005. El mercado mundial del aceite de oliva. Olivæ. 103, (June 2005): 4-7.
2005. Information Please Database. Pearson Education, Inc. www.infoplease.com/ipa/A0194020.html.
Feenstra, G., C. Ingels, and D. Campbell. 1997. What is Sustainable Agriculture?. University of California Sustainable Agriculture Research and Education Program. Viewed November 2005. www.sarep.ucdavis.edu/concept.htm.
Ferguson, L., G.S. Sibbett, and G.C. Martin, (eds.). 1994. Olive Production Manual. University of California: Oakland, California.
Taylor, Judith D., 2000. The Olive in California – History of an Immigrant Tree. Ten Speed Press: Berkeley, California.
Vossen, Paul. 1997. Spanish Olive Oil Production Technical Report on the Olive Oil Production Tour. University of California Cooperative Extension. Viewed November 2005. cesonoma.ucdavis.edu/HORTIC/pdf/spain_olive.pdf.
In the United States, it is not uncommon to hear opinionated voices speaking out against the “horrors” of chemical pesticides and lauding the organic produce at their local cooperative market. In Europe, segments of the population agree that genetically-modified foods are “evil” and should not be consumed, much less even allowed within their borders. A movement toward “sustainability” is sweeping much of the upper-middle class population in developed countries around the globe; yet, many of these people are so far removed from the food production system that it is difficult to know whether they are campaigning from emotional ignorance or with researched principles.
Nonetheless, in the developed world, where we are fortunate to have the means and flexibility to adapt our farming practices to a changing palate – unlike in the developing world where food might be a luxury or its production a means of subsistence – “sustainable” farming practices are becoming more common, or at least receiving some attention among farmers as they realize the niche of catering to those with the aforementioned convictions. If the public wants food produced by environmentally “sustainable” methods, farmers – though sometimes gradually – are beginning to modify their operations to meet these demands. But, just as farmers in the developing world may neglect the environment as a means toward subsistence, growers in developed countries, too, have subsistence, or economic, considerations. For this reason, the principal of “sustainability” has taken on the definition of “meet(ing) the needs of the present without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own…” (UC SAREP). Thus, the meaning of “sustainability” has evolved to include not only an environmental but also an economic component. As farmers are also businesspeople in the developed world, practices favorable for a healthy environment will most often only be adopted if they are also economically-sound.
It is with this inclusive definition of sustainability in mind that I conduct my travels, work, and studies, made possible by the Fredrick Dreer Award, awarded to me by the faculty in the Departments of Horticulture and Landscape Architecture at Cornell University. From November of 2005 through October 2006, I will be traveling among three countries on three continents to learn more about sustainability issues. I have begun in Spain, residing here for three months, traveling next to Chile for three months, and finishing in New Zealand for six months. In each place, I will focus my attention on a regionally important crop (or crops) and the sustainability issues involved the production. Here in this first of monthly summaries, I document an overview of my studies and observations of the olive (Olea europaea) in Spain.
The Olive as a Symbol
From historical times to the present, the olive has come to symbolize many virtues. Durable, living in poor soils and needing very little water, the olive tree has been a symbol of strength and resilience. Olive branch coronets were awarded to winners in the early Olympic Games for their physical prowess. Mediterranean populations in the centuries B.C. understood the healthful properties of olive oil, using it as both an internal and external elixir. Worldwide religions have recognized the olive tree: awed by its longevity, viewing its fertility at an old age as magical, and considering the food and shelter it provides as benevolence from a god. Jews and Christians have further reference of its symbolism, using its oil in anointing ceremonies, burning the oil to give light, and having reference to branches as peace offerings in the Old Testament. In fact, the olive branch as a symbol of peace was extended to our own country’s origin, as our founding fathers developed our national seal of an eagle griping arrows and an olive branch, illustrating our ability to make war and peace. Finally, how can one not become enveloped by the pastoral serenity of an old, gnarled olive tree? And thus, for centuries, the olive has symbolized so much that is good.
The Olive and Spanish Culture
In Spain, nonetheless, the realm of the olive surpasses symbolism. The fruit is more than an appetizer served on a fancy platter or the palatable decoration in a cocktail. But, as appetizers and cocktails are social foods, so is everything consumed in the Spanish culture, as meals are generally social events. And so the olive finds itself, needing no special occasion to warrant its display on the dining table. It is eaten daily – for breakfast, lunch, or dinner – amongst jovial conversation. Its oil is a staple in every kitchen – replacing butter, margarine, and other refined oils in dishes, dressings, and on bread – and the noses and palates of Spaniards are trained to detect quality and preference.
The olive tree also has its place in the culture. The roads connecting towns and villages are often lined with a corridor of olive trees. The countryside is a patchwork of olive orchards, young and old. Hillsides are speckled with trees planted and abandoned for steadier ground, and mountains exhibit the remnants of nature’s doing long ago.
And every village has a mill – the core of these small, remote locations. Every winter, farmers bring their product there for processing. Those without land of their own help with the harvest or work in the mill to create that region’s specific blend, carefully crafted in hope of attaining that coveted ‘extra vigin’ label. In the air wafts the sweet aroma of its product, and to street fairs they take it for the public to sample, compare, and buy.
The olive could, perhaps, be considered the lifeblood of Spanish culture.
The Olive and the Spanish Economy
Not only is the olive a cornerstone of Spanish culture, it also gives life to the country’s economy. With one third of the country’s approximately 195,000 square miles of land under agricultural production, (roughly 41.6 million agricultural acres), 4.7 million acres are under olive cultivation (approximately 11% of arable land). Most of the olives are processed into olive oil, making Spain the largest producer of olive oil in the world, followed by Italy, which has less than half of Spain’s total acreage, and Greece.
With the three largest olive oil producing nations in Europe, it should come as no surprise that the European community outputs 79% of the world’s annual olive oil. Various other regions with Mediterranean climates are responsible for the remaining yield in small quantities. As the European community produces most of the world’s olive oil, so too does it consume the majority at 71%. As the health advantages of olive oil are learned, nonetheless, consumption in other countries is escalating. Increased consumption in the United States, Australia, and Japan, for example, has resulted in importation of the product, primarily from the European community, which exports approximately 68% of its production. And again, as Spain is the largest producer of olive oil in the European community, there is no doubt that the making (by means of employment), domestic consumption, and exportation of olive oil are major factors contributing to the Spanish economy.
The Olive and the Environment
It seems dichotomous that in a country where petroleum refineries freckle the coast and smoking is a common practice that awareness of environmental and human health would be recognized to any great extent. As with any move toward something new, as is the case with the sustainability “movement”, change usually comes slowly and starts little by little. It is perhaps then no surprise that environmental sustainability in Spain has evolved with this little fruit.
From the canopy to the roots, sustainable environmental practices are penetrating the industry. In the past, before mechanization of olive culture was in full fruition, olive trees were planted on steep mountainsides, and navigating roots excelled in preventing soil erosion. Today, however, growers have generally abandoned these steep hillsides for more moderately sloped lands, where high-density plantings can excel, machines can aid in cultivation and harvest, and larger profits can be reaped. In these intensive cases, the roots cannot withstand soil degradation alone, and cover crops have become increasingly observed as a means of conserving valuable topsoil and water resources.
Pest management is another avenue through which environmentally conscious research is taking hold. The two pests of greatest concern to the industry are the olive fruit fly (Bactrocera oleae) and Verticillium wilt fungus (Verticillium dahliae). The larvae of the fruit fly bore into the olive fruit, making noticeable tunnels. These tunnels lead to oxidation of the flesh and poorer quality fruit. Verticillium infects the xylem tissue and disrupts water movement. Symptoms begin as chlorosis, move to necrosis, and result in complete limb defoliation. Trees may even succumb to death when the condition is severe. Environmentally sustainable practices to control these pests are still in their infancy of investigation but include kaolin clay for the fruit fly and genetic resources – both varietal and rootstock – for Verticillium wilt.
The Role of IRTA
There is obviously much to consider when examining this important, changing, and growing agricultural industry. Thankfully for growers, however, there exists an institute – comparable to land grant universities in the United States – that investigates these issues for the public good.
I am working at the Institute of Agricultural Research and Technology (IRTA), Mas Bové Center outside of Reus. IRTA, a public institution funded by the government, has several centers throughout Catalonia, each specializing in specific agricultural commodities or sectors. For example, at Mas Bové, there are two departments: the Department of Mediterranean Fruits (walnuts, almonds, pistachios, hazelnuts, carobs, and olives) and the Department of Animal Nutrition. The professors of IRTA are not associated with a university; thus, they do research and extend their findings to growers as their public responsibility, but they have no formal teaching appointment. The scientists with whom I am working are Dr. Joan Tous and Agustí Romero. Joan’s research is in olive tree culture: variety and rootstock evaluations, training systems, and density plantings. Agustí concentrates on olive oil evaluations and sensory panel training to the guidelines of the International Olive Oil Council (IOOC). There is a graduate student working with Joan, Núria Mallen. Núria is a student of the University of Barcelona, College of Biology, and is evaluating olive rootstocks for her Ph.D project. These, along with various lab technicians and field staff, are the people with whom I spend my work days.
In just the first two weeks, I have learned so much and am filling a journal with information to take home. From the laboratory to the nursery to the field, I have worked in all, making cuttings for propagation, measuring tree diameter, harvesting the crop, and evaluating olive maturation and oil quality. I have also been doing quite a bit of reading to understand olive culture in general and more specifically the environmental and economic sustainability issues (as described in the previous sections) about which I proposed studying and for which I was awarded the Dreer fellowship. Perhaps what has been the most valuable aspect of my days, however, has simply been shadowing some of the workers – learning more about varieties, diseases, olive oil processing, etc. This has also allowed me the opportunity to practice speaking Spanish – another objective for my time here.
In the weeks to come, I will become more involved in the olive harvest and oil processing. I will be visiting farms and mills throughout the region, learning the practices involved in producing quality olive fruit and training my palate to evaluate quality olive oil. I expect the coming months to be physically and intellectually challenging but educational and interesting as I come to appreciate the olive as an image, an identity, and an insight into sustainability.
References
2005. El mercado mundial del aceite de oliva. Olivæ. 103, (June 2005): 4-7.
2005. Information Please Database. Pearson Education, Inc. www.infoplease.com/ipa/A0194020.html.
Feenstra, G., C. Ingels, and D. Campbell. 1997. What is Sustainable Agriculture?. University of California Sustainable Agriculture Research and Education Program. Viewed November 2005. www.sarep.ucdavis.edu/concept.htm.
Ferguson, L., G.S. Sibbett, and G.C. Martin, (eds.). 1994. Olive Production Manual. University of California: Oakland, California.
Taylor, Judith D., 2000. The Olive in California – History of an Immigrant Tree. Ten Speed Press: Berkeley, California.
Vossen, Paul. 1997. Spanish Olive Oil Production Technical Report on the Olive Oil Production Tour. University of California Cooperative Extension. Viewed November 2005. cesonoma.ucdavis.edu/HORTIC/pdf/spain_olive.pdf.
My Fourth Weekend
I am convinced Gaudí was a genius, and if he was not by the strict definition of the word, than at the very least, he was brilliant. Antoni Gaudí, the famous Catalan architect, who is renowned for his works in Barcelona, though with humble roots seeded in Reus, is perhaps the reason many flock to Barcelona. Though, some of his masterpieces are scattered in other Spanish cities, the majority – both finished and not – reside in Barcelona. For those that come to the city with intentions other than to view Gaudí’s masterpieces, surely they will be acquainted with Gaudí, along with other Modernist architects like Doménech i Montaner (responsible for the Modernist Trail in Reus) and Puig i Cadafalch (a successor of the previous two) before they leave. These three men transformed the face of the city into something uniquely fantastic but organic at the same time.
I visited Barcelona my fourth weekend in Spain and had an amazing though exhausting, but exhilarating time! My first stop in the two-day tour was the site on the top of my list of places to visit: Gaudí’s la Sagrada Familia. This is perhaps Gaudí’s most noteable work – a temple to the Holy Family, afforded by wealthy financiers, commenced in 1882, and still under construction today, long after Gaudí’s death. Some wonder if it will ever be completed, having broken ground in the countryside and now surrounded by city. In fact, the blueprints show that a city block will have to be demolished and a road made subterranean when that section of the structure is to be constructed. I learned these tidbits from my friend Jordi, a Barcelona native who is also staying at the residence hall, as work (as an architect, in fact) has brought him to Reus. It was great to have a native as a tour guide!
We entered la Sagrada Familia on the Nativity side, with its richly-ornate but tastefully-hopeful façade. This side was Gaudí’s brainchild – his design and work before his untimely death. Inside, the church is still a skeleton, but Gaudí’s fascination with nature shines through, literally. Unlike Gothic cathedrals, la Sagrada Familia is illuminated. By formulating a natural design for support – central columns constructed like trees – Gaudí was able to eliminate the need for flying buttresses on the outer walls, which thus allowed for larger windows. In my mind, it’s breathtaking and genius. I think cathedrals are beautiful, but they usually are dark and perhaps a little eerie. La Sagrada Familia is just the opposite, and if described by only one word - awesome. After perusing the floor, we climbed one of the towers for a view of the construction from above and of the surrounding city. We exited the temple on the side of the Passion, which is the design of a Gaudí successor. With stoic, almost robot-like figures, many have come to criticize this façade, saying it does not follow Gaudí’s original design. But, as Jordi argued, it could, perhaps, be just the intention of the architect to present the scene in such a way. Afterall, as the Nativity was for many a joyous miracle, the Passion was a miracle as a means to an end. It is an interesting point for reflection, if not spiritually, than at least artistically.
After la Sagrada Familia, Jordi and I also toured la Pedrera: another famous Gaudí work, named for its rock-like façade. Constructed as an apartment building, it is now office space for a bank, but one floor is preserved as an apartment for tourists to marvel at the central patios, well-lit spaces, and airy appeal. La Pedrera also has an oddly amazing rooftop with sculptures, and of course, great views.
The remainder of the day was spent seeing other fairytale-like Modernist buildings – like Puig i Cadafalch’s Casa Terrades and Gaudí’s Casa Batlló, learning my way through the city, and enjoying great paella!
Sunday morning, I went to mass at the cathedral, which unfortunately is covered in scaffolding. Also to my dismay, the mass was in Catalan, so I didn’t understand what was being said on that first Sunday of Advent. Nonetheless, and not surprising, the inside was beautiful, and just being in such a place instills a sense of calm and peace, even in a city like Barcelona. The rest of the day I spent with Núria and Davíd from IRTA, who had also come to Barcelona for the weekend to visit Núria’s family. In the morning, they took me to Barcelona’s mountain – Montjuïc. We first went to the Castle of Montjuïc to see the great views of the city and Mediterranean. The castle is now a military museum, depicting much of the Franco era (1936-1972). For this reason, Núria does not feel comfortable going inside. Though she was not alive at the time of Franco’s dictatorship, she has heard the stories of her parents. I will save a more detailed discussion of Franco for a future blog excerpt, but to bring some understanding to the situation here, I will just say that, during the time of Franco, Catalonian culture was suppressed, and in fact, people were sent to prison for speaking Catalan. It was a tumultuous era for all of Spain, but it was particularly difficult for the Catalonian people’s identity. We left the castle at the top of the mountain, and went on a walking tour of the rest of Montjuïc, seeing gardens, the National Palace (now housing the National Art Museum), Olympic stadiums, buildings for the 1929 World Fair, and the Plaza de España. After lunch with Núria’s family, we spent the afternoon in the Barrio Gotic. We saw the Palace of Catalan Music, with its gorgeous tile work, and the church of Santa Maria del Mar, which with its columns drawing the eyes toward the central statue of the Virgin behind the alter is, perhaps in its simplicity, more beautiful that the cathedral. We also walked through various quaint plazas and las Ramblas – the central pedestrian way to the sea. Even after sundown, these places were busy and illuminated with lights for Christmas. The lively atmosphere merely added to the enchanting ambiance which is Barcelona. And, without a doubt, it was an enchanting weekend.
To view pictures of Barcelona, see my Shutterfly website, and open the folder entitled "My Fourth Weekend - Barcelona".
I visited Barcelona my fourth weekend in Spain and had an amazing though exhausting, but exhilarating time! My first stop in the two-day tour was the site on the top of my list of places to visit: Gaudí’s la Sagrada Familia. This is perhaps Gaudí’s most noteable work – a temple to the Holy Family, afforded by wealthy financiers, commenced in 1882, and still under construction today, long after Gaudí’s death. Some wonder if it will ever be completed, having broken ground in the countryside and now surrounded by city. In fact, the blueprints show that a city block will have to be demolished and a road made subterranean when that section of the structure is to be constructed. I learned these tidbits from my friend Jordi, a Barcelona native who is also staying at the residence hall, as work (as an architect, in fact) has brought him to Reus. It was great to have a native as a tour guide!
We entered la Sagrada Familia on the Nativity side, with its richly-ornate but tastefully-hopeful façade. This side was Gaudí’s brainchild – his design and work before his untimely death. Inside, the church is still a skeleton, but Gaudí’s fascination with nature shines through, literally. Unlike Gothic cathedrals, la Sagrada Familia is illuminated. By formulating a natural design for support – central columns constructed like trees – Gaudí was able to eliminate the need for flying buttresses on the outer walls, which thus allowed for larger windows. In my mind, it’s breathtaking and genius. I think cathedrals are beautiful, but they usually are dark and perhaps a little eerie. La Sagrada Familia is just the opposite, and if described by only one word - awesome. After perusing the floor, we climbed one of the towers for a view of the construction from above and of the surrounding city. We exited the temple on the side of the Passion, which is the design of a Gaudí successor. With stoic, almost robot-like figures, many have come to criticize this façade, saying it does not follow Gaudí’s original design. But, as Jordi argued, it could, perhaps, be just the intention of the architect to present the scene in such a way. Afterall, as the Nativity was for many a joyous miracle, the Passion was a miracle as a means to an end. It is an interesting point for reflection, if not spiritually, than at least artistically.
After la Sagrada Familia, Jordi and I also toured la Pedrera: another famous Gaudí work, named for its rock-like façade. Constructed as an apartment building, it is now office space for a bank, but one floor is preserved as an apartment for tourists to marvel at the central patios, well-lit spaces, and airy appeal. La Pedrera also has an oddly amazing rooftop with sculptures, and of course, great views.
The remainder of the day was spent seeing other fairytale-like Modernist buildings – like Puig i Cadafalch’s Casa Terrades and Gaudí’s Casa Batlló, learning my way through the city, and enjoying great paella!
Sunday morning, I went to mass at the cathedral, which unfortunately is covered in scaffolding. Also to my dismay, the mass was in Catalan, so I didn’t understand what was being said on that first Sunday of Advent. Nonetheless, and not surprising, the inside was beautiful, and just being in such a place instills a sense of calm and peace, even in a city like Barcelona. The rest of the day I spent with Núria and Davíd from IRTA, who had also come to Barcelona for the weekend to visit Núria’s family. In the morning, they took me to Barcelona’s mountain – Montjuïc. We first went to the Castle of Montjuïc to see the great views of the city and Mediterranean. The castle is now a military museum, depicting much of the Franco era (1936-1972). For this reason, Núria does not feel comfortable going inside. Though she was not alive at the time of Franco’s dictatorship, she has heard the stories of her parents. I will save a more detailed discussion of Franco for a future blog excerpt, but to bring some understanding to the situation here, I will just say that, during the time of Franco, Catalonian culture was suppressed, and in fact, people were sent to prison for speaking Catalan. It was a tumultuous era for all of Spain, but it was particularly difficult for the Catalonian people’s identity. We left the castle at the top of the mountain, and went on a walking tour of the rest of Montjuïc, seeing gardens, the National Palace (now housing the National Art Museum), Olympic stadiums, buildings for the 1929 World Fair, and the Plaza de España. After lunch with Núria’s family, we spent the afternoon in the Barrio Gotic. We saw the Palace of Catalan Music, with its gorgeous tile work, and the church of Santa Maria del Mar, which with its columns drawing the eyes toward the central statue of the Virgin behind the alter is, perhaps in its simplicity, more beautiful that the cathedral. We also walked through various quaint plazas and las Ramblas – the central pedestrian way to the sea. Even after sundown, these places were busy and illuminated with lights for Christmas. The lively atmosphere merely added to the enchanting ambiance which is Barcelona. And, without a doubt, it was an enchanting weekend.
To view pictures of Barcelona, see my Shutterfly website, and open the folder entitled "My Fourth Weekend - Barcelona".
Thursday, November 24, 2005
My Third Weekend
My third weekend, with much improved weather over the last, was full of activities for the tourist and non-tourist. It started off Friday night with a visit to the olive oil festival, held at Liberty Plaza in Reus. I went with Agustí and his family, and had the opportunity to taste a variety of oils. The plaza was lined with tents, each one occupied by a local cooperative handing out samples of their product to taste. These local blends truly are the pride of these small towns, each with characteristic color and taste. I tried to scrutinize each one and detect individual differences. With some I could, noticing particular fruitiness and acidity, but I can’t say that my palate has yet learned to distinguish the finer characteristics. Once I had had my fill, and because the night was chilly, I left the festival and returned to the residence hall to rest before my next day’s outing – a trip to Tarragona.
As mentioned in a previous excerpt, I had visited Tarragona previously, with Núria and Davíd one evening when it was pouring rain. And for that reason, our sight-seeing was drastically curtailed. With hopes of better weather, we returned there one evening the following week. That night, the weather was cooperative, so they were able to direct me around the city and show me the major tourist destinations. This whetted my appetite to see these sites in the light, so I returned on my own, Saturday by train.
Tarragona is a modern city with a rich history. The Romans adopted Tarragona in the 2nd century B.C. as they were advancing their empire, and it became the main Roman city in Spain. The Emperor Augustus lived there for a time, and Pontius Pilate was born there. The Roman relics, including remains of the amphitheater, circus, surrounding city wall, among others are juxtaposed to modern apartment high rises, parks, and shops. The cathedral is described as ‘Romanesque-Gothic,’ and it is truly a sight to behold, with its beautifully managed courtyard and its architecturally awesome sanctuary. I walked the entire day, making my way from relic to relic. I only took time to rest to gaze from the perched balcony out over the Mediterranean. I don’t think there’s much more I can say about Tarragona except that the pictures are worth thousands of words.
On Sunday, Joan invited me to a luncheon, which was a concluding ceremony of the olive oil festival. Before the luncheon began, people were mixing and mingling. I was introduced to many people as ‘la americana,’ which made me feel a little self-conscious; nonetheless, I suppose that justified my reason for not talking much. One of the people to whom I was introduced was, in fact, the Counselor of Agriculture for Catalonia. He was a hefty man that mumbled with a thick Spanish accent, making him difficult to understand. When I extended my hand, he shook it with a firm grip, which I, of course, returned. He asked me about the olives in California, and I said that currently there aren’t many (in terms of oil production, which is the most important consideration here). But, I continued jovially, “pero, en el futuro…” and he laughed along with me, saying “ah, la competencia!” And that was how our discussion trailed off. Joan later told me at lunch that meeting the Counselor was certainly something to write home about. The luncheon itself was also a noteworthy experience, and something to which I had been looking forward. It was one of very few meals I’ve eaten outside the residence hall and station cafeterias, and it didn’t, by any means, disappoint. It was a multi-course meal. We started with appetizers of various deli meats and breads, all eaten with olive oil. I ate by example, putting olive oil on bread already having it but figuring I’d better given the company I was in. To not drench my bread in olive oil amongst people of the industry would be like asking for a vegetarian plate at a beef council’s dinner. It was followed by two other plates, the main entrée being a leg of lamb. I’ve never eaten much lamb, but it wasn’t bad. And this was followed by dessert. Perhaps the most profound part of the meal was the drinks. During the appetizers and dinner, there were three wines to choose from, and when a bottle went empty, the waiters immediately brought another. I, being ‘la americana’ of the table was poured a sample of each one, as those at my table insisted that I fully experience Spanish culture. Thinking that would be the end of my drinking, they then served champagne with dessert and after dessert, I was brought a Kahlua (sp?) and cream. Whew! That was certainly more drinking than I had planned on doing, but in situations such as that, it is best to follow the example. Plus, after dessert people started lighting up cigarettes and cigars, and the air in the lofty room turned a hazy grey. I sipped my Kahlua slowly, as sticking my nose into that tall, narrow glass was the only breath of clean air I was getting. When all was said and done, I was comfortably full and had a nice walk back to the residence hall through the park to digest, air out, and sober up.
Visit my Shutterfly website for pictures of Tarragona.
As mentioned in a previous excerpt, I had visited Tarragona previously, with Núria and Davíd one evening when it was pouring rain. And for that reason, our sight-seeing was drastically curtailed. With hopes of better weather, we returned there one evening the following week. That night, the weather was cooperative, so they were able to direct me around the city and show me the major tourist destinations. This whetted my appetite to see these sites in the light, so I returned on my own, Saturday by train.
Tarragona is a modern city with a rich history. The Romans adopted Tarragona in the 2nd century B.C. as they were advancing their empire, and it became the main Roman city in Spain. The Emperor Augustus lived there for a time, and Pontius Pilate was born there. The Roman relics, including remains of the amphitheater, circus, surrounding city wall, among others are juxtaposed to modern apartment high rises, parks, and shops. The cathedral is described as ‘Romanesque-Gothic,’ and it is truly a sight to behold, with its beautifully managed courtyard and its architecturally awesome sanctuary. I walked the entire day, making my way from relic to relic. I only took time to rest to gaze from the perched balcony out over the Mediterranean. I don’t think there’s much more I can say about Tarragona except that the pictures are worth thousands of words.
On Sunday, Joan invited me to a luncheon, which was a concluding ceremony of the olive oil festival. Before the luncheon began, people were mixing and mingling. I was introduced to many people as ‘la americana,’ which made me feel a little self-conscious; nonetheless, I suppose that justified my reason for not talking much. One of the people to whom I was introduced was, in fact, the Counselor of Agriculture for Catalonia. He was a hefty man that mumbled with a thick Spanish accent, making him difficult to understand. When I extended my hand, he shook it with a firm grip, which I, of course, returned. He asked me about the olives in California, and I said that currently there aren’t many (in terms of oil production, which is the most important consideration here). But, I continued jovially, “pero, en el futuro…” and he laughed along with me, saying “ah, la competencia!” And that was how our discussion trailed off. Joan later told me at lunch that meeting the Counselor was certainly something to write home about. The luncheon itself was also a noteworthy experience, and something to which I had been looking forward. It was one of very few meals I’ve eaten outside the residence hall and station cafeterias, and it didn’t, by any means, disappoint. It was a multi-course meal. We started with appetizers of various deli meats and breads, all eaten with olive oil. I ate by example, putting olive oil on bread already having it but figuring I’d better given the company I was in. To not drench my bread in olive oil amongst people of the industry would be like asking for a vegetarian plate at a beef council’s dinner. It was followed by two other plates, the main entrée being a leg of lamb. I’ve never eaten much lamb, but it wasn’t bad. And this was followed by dessert. Perhaps the most profound part of the meal was the drinks. During the appetizers and dinner, there were three wines to choose from, and when a bottle went empty, the waiters immediately brought another. I, being ‘la americana’ of the table was poured a sample of each one, as those at my table insisted that I fully experience Spanish culture. Thinking that would be the end of my drinking, they then served champagne with dessert and after dessert, I was brought a Kahlua (sp?) and cream. Whew! That was certainly more drinking than I had planned on doing, but in situations such as that, it is best to follow the example. Plus, after dessert people started lighting up cigarettes and cigars, and the air in the lofty room turned a hazy grey. I sipped my Kahlua slowly, as sticking my nose into that tall, narrow glass was the only breath of clean air I was getting. When all was said and done, I was comfortably full and had a nice walk back to the residence hall through the park to digest, air out, and sober up.
Visit my Shutterfly website for pictures of Tarragona.
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