Bullfighting Woes

Many people are at a lost for words after seeing a live “Corrida de Toros,” or bullfight. It’s unlike anything they have ever seen, with all the brutality and machismo. I, however, found the scene to be all too familiar. As soon as the band started playing and the bull ran into the ring, I immediately identified with the poor soul. If you have ever witnessed me at a bar or club (or any place where cool kids go), then you know what I’m talking about. Consider this:

If I am ever found at such an establishment, it is usually because someone forced me to enter the “social ring,” alluring me with false promises like, “it’ll be good for you, Sachi” and “we’ll stick together--girls night out!” I stupidly believe them, and the second I enter the arena, I find myself alone and confused. All I see are bright colors; all I hear are loud noises; all I smell is my own fear. I am surrounded by strangers--some are laughing, some are shouting, some are even summoning me. Me? Really? I look behind me, assuming there’s a tall blonde in my direction, but I see no one. They holler again and even motion me towards them. I finally muster up the confidence to approach and scurry across the dance floor with uncharacteristic boldness. We lock eyes; he smiles; I attempt to flutter my eyelashes but end up snorting. Right when I am about to reach my target, he bolts away to “use the bathroom” or “answer a really important business cal” (from his silent phone). My hopes--dashed.

Throughout the night, a handful of guys send different variations of these mixed messages, all hoodwinking me in the end. Sometimes they find strength in numbers, inviting me over as a friendly group; other times they fly solo, even competing with each other for attention. And on occasion, nearby spectators even join in on the apparent joke, encouraging me to “go for it.” But they know very well what awaits me: another failed attempt at socialization. Ultimately, none of my peers are interested in anything beyond that particular arena. The signals, the lure, the hope for meaningful contact--it’s pure amusement to them. And I am a pawn in their game--an entertaining little puppet, a conquest. At the end of the night, they just want to see me die a slow and painful death before tying me up to two horses to drag me out of the ring, leaving a bloody trail in my wake. Okay, that might be stretching the metaphor...

The most striking similarity between myself and the bull is that we never seem to learn our lesson. We make the same mistakes over and over again. You’d think that after numerous red flags (literal and figurative), we would know not to chase after the cute guy in the corner (who’s way too well dressed to be heterosexual). You’d think we would learn to ignore the false signals, the mixed messages. But who are we kidding? These guys are well trained in their arena, whereas we, unfortunately, are just that day’s piece of meat.

Love Letter to San Sebastian

Dear San Sebastian,

I love you. I have never taken as many photographs as the day I spent with you. I have never mastered the discreet, one-handed self-portrait like I did in front of you. Your beaches expand endlessly, blanketed with sun-kissed people--young, old, playing, tanning, dressed, or naked--they do not mind the voyeurs or the UV-rays. They live life, not worry about death. Imminent skin cancer has no meaning when you are bronze and beautiful. Possible head trauma evokes only laughter when the wind is grazing your unencumbered head, as you soar on a pastel Vespa, behind an equally beautiful bronze god. Oh, how I will miss fantasizing that I am one of them--your lucky people. One day, I will return to be one of them--bronze and beautiful, riding my moto, playing on your beach, enjoying the gaze of voyeurs like my former self, and never taking my own self-portraits.

Until then,

Sachi

Trip through Catalonia, Basque Country, and Galicia

I (somewhat) recently returned from a 10-day trip across these northern regions of Spain. I traveled from east to west: from Barcelona, the capital of Catalonia, through the Basque cities of Bilbao and San Sebastian, and finally to the cities of Santiago de Compostela and La Coruna in Galicia. All in all, these were ten of the best days of my life. Since there are simply too many memories to chronicle in detail, I’ve condensed my most salient into the three H’s--hostels, heat, and history--and the three S’s--sport, sand, and scary men. Yea, I’ll explain...

1. HOSTELS

I spent my downtime in Barcelona at Graffiti Hostel. It only cost 10 euros a night, so I didn’t expect the most cleanly or accommodating experience. But I definitely did not expect the crowd that I found. Suffice it to say, there was a Narcotics Anonymous convention taking place that weekend. We had...fun? On the plus side, I bonded with some other solo-traveling girls who were equally overwhelmed by all the recovering narcs.

The other city with memorable hostel-mates was Santiago de Compostela, a small town known for its cathedral, which welcomes herds of religious backpackers as they complete the medieval pilgrimage route of St. James. Such a destination is bound to attract a different crowd than that of the NA convention in Barcelona. During my one night at Meiga Backpackers Hostel, I enjoyed a communal dinner with Bob, David, and Eve. Bob is a middle-aged Texan man who only eats vegetables and legumes (possibly manorexic). He is taking “the trip of a lifetime” after caring for his parents on their deathbeds. Now, he doesn’t know what to do with their antique collection. He enjoys sharing personal information. David is a twenty-something from England, with a guitar, a love for singing, and a severe speech impediment--an obvious recipe for success. Lastly, Eve is an Australian girl, seemingly younger than me, who is working her way backwards along St. James’ pilgrimage route. She didn’t find anything strange or funny about Bob or David. Enough said.

2. HEAT

Almost every night, I could not sleep because of the heat--well, indirectly because of the heat. After days full of walking, my body was exhausted enough to disregard the high temperature. Unfortunately, although walking tires one’s body, it does not tire one’s sense of smell. I literally smelled so bad that I could not sleep. Ever notice that no matter how you position yourself in bed, your body is always below your nose. It’s like one of God’s great jokes...or maybe His way of enforcing human hygiene...

The epitome of my grossness resulted from a night in Barcelona at ‘The Electric Bar.’ Johanna (one of my commiserators at Graffiti Hostel) discovered this venue, which is outside the city center and frequented, almost exclusively, by locals. On this particular night, the bar utilized its “Red Room” to host “A Contra Blues,” a local blues band. “Red Room” is a euphemism. A more appropriate name might be “room that is so hot you will sweat off everything you ate last week,” or possibly, “segue into to Hell.” I sweat (and drank) myself into a state of dehydration that was so debilitating I literally could not stand up. But after that crazy night when Lindsay Lohan drugged my sangria, this was nothing. Despite--or maybe owing to--my heat coma, I really enjoyed the band and even bought their CD. You can be the judge if you watch this short clip:

(music coming soon)

3. HISTORY

When traveling, I always try to take a break from my usual hunt for good food and good people (and celebrities) to learn a little bit of local history. As we all know, Europe is basically a living museum of western history, so I tried to treat it as such and approach its live exhibits with a critical eye. Here are my observations:

Barcelona must be a kind of paradise for fans of historical art and architecture. Not only does it house the most extensive collection of (surprisingly erotic) Picasso paintings, but the city itself is an architectural masterpiece, scattered with gothic edifices and the art nouveau of Gaudi. I instantly loved the bright colors, creative patterns, and fun spirit of Gaudi’s designs, especially those featured in Park Guell overlooking the city. See pictures below.

(photos coming soon--once i have internet access from my own computer)

Another famous Gaudi piece is the Sangrada Familia cathedral (pictures soon). It is famous for existing in a constant state of construction. How very Spanish.

To walk between all of the Gaudi sites, I had to cross the Eixamplo, the “newer” part of the city, which is historically significant as an experiment in city planning. Every street intersection is shaped like an octagon, with the four corners sliced off. Apparently, the hope was that these more circular--as opposed to square--intersections would foster a greater feeling of community and openness in the neighborhood. After about two blocks, I deduced that this experiment was an epic failure. The only effect of the octagon intersections is that pedestrians have to walk a heck of a lot farther to cross every street. Clearly, this attempt to design community love only fostered pissed off tourists who are in a hurry to reach their next destination and thus jay-walk across the octagons, causing confused drivers to slam on their brakes and trigger eight-car pile ups. I mean...new subject...

I don’t have much to report about the history of Bilbao, which is actually telling in itself. Bilbao is rapidly becoming one of the most modern cities in Spain, with new buildings and developments appearing every week. The cool thing is that this means my photos capture a unique moment in time. I like that.

Unlike Bilbao, Santiago de Compostela is a historic gem. Its famous cathedral houses the body of St. James (although there are mysterious rumors that his tomb is empty), attracting the aforementioned herds of religious pilgrims. What I found interesting about Santiago is that its identity as a religious destination is basically operated like a business. All of these pilgrims travel for days, weeks, or months on foot to reach St. James’ resting place, but they also support the tourism-driven economy by buying loads of commemorative walking sticks and cheap plastic shells (the symbol of St. James), which were probably all mass produced in China. The juxtaposition of faith and commerce is rather mystifying but also somewhat comical. I decided not to buy the walking stick, but boy are those shells enticing. (photos coming)

My last destination, La Coruna, is a city that is literally constrained by its history. The government has tried, time and time again, to update the infrastructure with more structurally-sound buildings and transportation, but every time they dig into the ground, they discover remnants of the medieval city walls. It’s really quite funny. There are excavation sites all over the city, where construction started and then abruptly stopped due to such discoveries. They just leave all the construction sites open (perhaps out of laziness) and call them historical landmarks.

4. SPORT

As a former soccer star (don’t doubt it), I couldn’t not watch a futbol game while in Spain, and I was lucky enough to attend a game at the Barcelona stadium--the largest stadium in Europe. I scored a pretty good seat and had a clear view of Barcelona’s victory over Bilbao. I was shocked to discover that they don’t serve alcohol at futbol games. whaaaa? that’s right...all those fans get hyped up on alcohol-free beer. who knew? there must be something in the water (like real beer).

5. SAND

For my full review of Spain’s beautiful northern beaches, please see my later entry entitled “Love Letter to San Sebastian.” For now, a quick story:

With three hours to kill before my bus ride out of Barcelona, I decided that I should really see the beach. I walked a good two miles in the blistering sun, with my sexy backpack on (sweating like none other), to arrive at the beach. When I got there, I was so happy to sit down on a beach chair and let my back sweat dry off, but after two brief minutes of glorious wind against my moist back, a man approached me an demanded five euros for the chair. I knew what this was all about. I had been living in Spain for over three weeks, and although I may look like an Asian tourist with a camera and fanny pack, I know what I’m doing. I don’t fall for these Spanish tricks--pretending that you own the public beach chairs and haggling seated tourists for their money. I love these moments, when I can shock the local peddlers with my knowledge of Spanish language and social rules. With a proud smirk on my face, I donned my best Spanish accent and told the man that I understand Spanish and was just sitting there to rest like everyone else. Score: Sachi - 1, sketchy peddler - 0. He threw back an equally smug expression and told me that everyone else had already paid their five euros. Sachi - 1, peddler - 1. Two Spanish girls then plopped down onto the seats next to me and leaned over to hand the man ten euros. Sachi - 1, beach man - 2. He reiterated his point; I acknowledged defeat, put my backpack back on, and walked away ashamedly. Sachi - 1, government employee - 3. Story of my life.

6. SCARY MEN

It was my second night in Barcelona, and I was roaming the streets for a place to eat dinner (naturally by myself) before the Barcelona futbol game. I had spent a good hour window shopping restaurants and scanning menus, when I was suddenly tapped on the shoulder from behind. The middle-aged man behind me asked if I spoke Spanish. “Si,” I said (thinking this was a prime opportunity to again show off my Spanish skills). “Estas buscando un lugar para cenar?” (He asked me if I was looking for a place to eat dinner). I said yes, assuming he worked for a nearby restaurant. “Yo se esto porque te he visto” (He told me that he knew because he had been watching me). Cue creep alert-level one. I tried to laugh off his last statement and make a clean break, when he asked if he could join me for dinner: “comemos juntos, como amigos” (he wanted to eat together like friends). I said that I was going to meet a friend and wasn’t alone (chapter one of ‘women traveling alone 101’). He then proceeded with a series of questions: what I was doing, where I was from, where I was traveling, who I was with, where I was staying, how long I was there, etc.. Okay, we just skipped creep alert-level 2 altogether and jumped right up to level 3. I answered in all the right ways (I am looking for a place to eat with my boyfriend, with whom I am traveling, but we are leaving soon, sorry, goodbye), but I was obviously uncomfortable. This man had been following me long enough to recognize that I was looking for a place to eat alone. After trying again to convince me to join him for dinner, he finally gave up...but didn’t fail to lean in for the cordial double-cheek kiss, which he did quite aggressively, reaching creep alert-level 4. I walked away as fast as possible and ducked into a fast-food Asian restaurant for some stir-fried noodles and veggies, lathered in a delicious combination of teriyaki, shanghai, and kung pao (!) sauce. The perfect comfort food after a very unnerving experience.

You would think that after that, I would exhibit a bit more caution in my aimless wanderings. You would think...

It was 3am, and the Electric Bar was closing after the blues band finished its set. Luckily I had befriended a seemingly trustworthy local, who advised me not to walk down “Las Ramblas” (the main pedestrian walkway through old town Barcelona) alone at night, especially since I am obviously foreign. As “Las Ramblas” was the only route to my hostel and I am far too cheap for a taxi, I decided to risk it. I put my headphones on--without actual music (if they’re going to mug me, I want to hear them coming...so I can mentally prepare...and channel my inborn karate/judo skills). I walked with a confident skip in my step. I looked like I knew where I was going. I felt like a black belt. Oh, and I had my hand on my pepper spray discreetly inside my purse. I had never used this pepper spray before, so I decided to do a practice spray in an empty street. I pushed the button and slid the trigger forward. Success! Being in my black belt (aka. tipsy) state of mind, I decided to be extra cautious and test the spray out further...on my hand. Note: Do not try this at home...or on the street...or anywhere other than a hospital. At least I now know that the pepper spray really works. My hand started to burn like the third degree. As soon as I got back to my hostel (victory!), I washed my hands and arms thoroughly. Then I took my contact lenses out. Bad idea. Both of my eyes started stinging like I had rubbed them with poison oak. After a futile attempt to wash out my eyes, I decided to go to sleep and assess the damage in the morning. Thankfully, I woke up looking normal (well, as normal as I ever do). I learned two valuable lessons that night: (1) always bring your glasses, and (2) it’s true what they say--pepper spray is a dangerous mode of self-defense because it can always be used against you. You’ve been warned.

-sachi

milestones

This is an entry I wrote two weeks ago, but failed to post until now:

So I recently reached a few landmark milestones here in Spain, which I think provide a good segue into my upcoming trip across the northern region of Spain...

1. Someone asked me for directions, and I could provide them.

I had been questioned about directions before, but could never actually answer.

2. I helped an American who was lost on a train and couldn't speak Spanish.

aka. I'm like a real local

3. I cut my toenails for the first time since leaving home.

ever notice that toenails grow at a good rate for measuring how long you've been somewhere? kind of like getting your period...

4. I got bored.

I wasted an entire day watching Jon & Kate Plus Eight on my computer. I even paid for it on itunes. is that rock bottom?

Well, I think those milestones--mainly the last one--illustrate that I have officially become too comfortable in Madrid. It's a pretty clear sign that you're ready for new surroundings when you'd rather watch eight annoying toddlers and their parents' crumbling marriage than explore one of Europe's capital cities. I remembered the wise words of my good friend Evan, "you only regret what you don't do," and I booked my train tickets to Barcelona, Bilbao, and La Coruna. Northern Spain, here I come!