Olentzero en los pueblos fuera de Pamplona

On Christmas Eve, Elliot and I were able to participate in a traditional Basque holiday event: the annual arrival of the Olentzero.

While the history of this figure goes back a long way, the more contemporary story of the Olentzero makes him out to be a portly, friendly, and modestly dressed charcoal burner who brings treats and gifts to children on the night before Christmas.

Cities and small towns alike throughout the Basque region of Spain carry out their own celebration of the Olentzero. These events usually involve people in traditional dress, candy, roasted chestnuts, as well as flute and drum playing.

With a friend, we ventured out to Pamplona's country side and participated in a multi-vehicle caravan that visited several pueblitos delivering treats and singing traditional songs.

Our first task was to get a fire going in the charcoal oven.

The Olentzero cottage, where the chestnut-roasting oven would be transported on the back of a pick-up

A better look inside the cottage

Scenic shot of a house and the setting sun

In the first pueblo, I recorded a video of the Olentzero who makes his first appearance coming down from the mountain, as it is told in many stories. Note his charcoal-covered face...very authentic, eh?

Each stop on the Olentzero's route was exciting because you greeted a new crowd of people offering you Patxaran, wine, and cookies -- as well as several children dressed in traditional garb, eager to meet the Olentzero and warm their hands with roasted chestnuts.

We returned to central Pamplona just in time to see the Olentzero celebration in the old part, which was very distinct from the more personal tradition in which we had just participated. This was more of a parade through the old part of the city, with live animals, lots of music, and a shit ton more people. All pretty much right outside our front door.

The banners read something like "Bring our oppressed and exiled back" and they refer to the
Basque people that have been imprisoned for terrorism in parts unknown to their family or friends.

A holiday celebration unlike any other I've seen. In this part of the world, it seems strange to stay inside, even when it's cold.

Just wait 'til New Year's. Shit gets crazy.

Since when do you eat meat?

Only a few days into our stay here in Pamplona, Elliot and I were bar-hopping during the siesta, drinking some beers and munching on some pintxos. After we ordered our second round of cured ham with green pepper, Elliot turned to me and said:

"So I guess we're not vegetarians anymore."

Fresh chicken legs from the carnicería ecológica (organic butcher) in an indoor market in Pamplona

Now, that's not to say we didn't eat meat occasionally before we came to Spain. Carnivorous consumption had been steadily increasing, however. And it became almost second-nature within 48 hours of being in Spain.

We've known for a while that our minds were changing. Not because vegan or vegetarian lifestyles are baseless, but because our reasons for leading such lifestyles were baseless. And it sure didn't help that a huge part of Navarran cuisine is pork.

Red bell peppers stuffed with brown rice, chorizo, onion, garlic; steamed borrajas and potatoes on the side

For several years, I followed a pretty strict anti-meat diet. I wanted humane animal treatment and less waste. At the time, with a limited scope of knowledge, I chose soy over flesh, or nuts over dairy as a way of saying that I was unsatisfied with animal products and the consumption of them.

Then I started becoming more preoccupied about food origins, regional agriculture, native species, and local communities. These concerns all led me to start consuming more meat, whether it was the very rare chicken dinner at White Dog Cafe, or the frequent hamburger from my parents' cow-share supply of red meat.

I'm not trying to lay my food politics down on the table for debate, but rather I'm trying to paint a picture. Believe it or not, giving up a vegetarian diet was harder than trying to follow one. When avoiding animal products was my only principle, approaching the "should I eat it?" question wasn't very hard. Widening my diet to include animal products made that question more difficult to answer at times. Maybe that's why a lot of people either go veggie or stop questioning.

Chicken curry with cauliflower, peas, peppers, garlic, and onion, over rice

Living in the US, this question came up every day. "Should I eat this?" And due to the previously mentioned concerns, as well as my own tendency to investigate, I researched US food production pretty heavily. This wasn't that difficult, mainly because of the resurgence of locavore movements that criticize the huge industry that is American food production. Various scholarly articles, movies, zines, books, and magazines exist to discuss US food politics, as well as how to circumvent the industry giants that dominate both knowledge and production.

Ever since we arrived in Pamplona, I've had my eye on food -- wondering where it came from, why it's there, how it was grown, etc. I was googling anything I could think of, in any language I could speak, that might lead me to that pivotal piece of literature that tells me everything that is wrong with Spanish food production.

Roasted chicken with seasoned rice and broccoli

And I have to say, I've had no luck. I cracked several books that looked promising at first, but then just went on to say how backwards the US is concerning GMO use or industrial meat production. I'm hesitant to give up my pessimistic search, but I might just have to accept that food production here is not like it is at home.

Some might even say I'm in the best region of Spain, as far as the region's gastronomy goes. The autonomous community of Navarra has three main elements that contribute to this reputation: the mountain, the river, and the plains. Much like parts of northern California, the varying landscapes of Navarra make it known for its food and drink -- mainly pork, cheese, wine, cider, and vegetables -- all grown/produced within approximately 4,000 square miles!

So no, we're not vegetarians anymore. And I don't think this really matters. I'm still not going to eat a McDonald's hamburger, even though I really would like to. And I'm still going to drink almond milk, because I think it tastes way better than cow's milk.

Ultimately, I'm learning to use the resources that are around me at any given time.

Broete de San Fermin: soup-style dish with chorizo, cured ham, green beans, cauliflower,
lettuce, carrots, and garlic, topped with a fried egg

Yes, all those pictures are meals Elliot and I cooked and ate. Yes, they were delicious.

The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plains

On this rainy day, which will be among several rainy days this week, I'm not thinking about My Fair Lady, but rather something I just realized I miss.

After a wet bike ride this morning, I came back to the apartment really craving a pale ale.

A bitter,

grassy,

frothy,

golden,

PALE ALE.

As many of you may already know, however, this country is not really known for its beers, but rather its wines. So the closest I can get to a PPA, is some kind of imported Belgian triple-ale. Sure it's high-gravity, but it just ain't the crisp and skunky I'm used to.

More like the beer in Spain stays mainly away from my brain...or something.

Fotos & Haircuts

Maybe I've mentioned this before, but I have trouble taking pictures.

I'm not a photographer. I rely on automatic focus and pre-set settings.
The digital camera I own now is my first in almost five years.
I have a lot of camera-talented friends, which can make me photography-shy.
Taking pictures makes me look like a tourist, and I'd hate to break character.

But I do get excited about the small things here, and I do want to take pictures of them. Things like the creamy head on a glass of Mahou from the tap, or cured ham legs hanging from every ceiling.

Even the things I can see in the US -- like children in church-going clothes or kittens playing with full-grown dogs -- I want to take pictures of them because now they're in Spain!

Gradually, I will overcome this. Because, gradually, I will feel less and less like a tourist.

I have a few photos, though, that I snapped quickly when no one was looking.

Calle de Chapitela, as it intersects with la Plaza del Castillo in the center of Pamplona.

A view of the plaza mentioned in the caption above. This location is totally bustlin' between about
7 and 8pm (i.e. after people leave work but before they go out for dinner).

Elliot, chattin' it up on the cheapest cell phone Spain would allow with a
prospective English student.

Elliot, sellin' his talents on Carlos III, earning an average of $15 per hour.
The little cardboard sign in his guitar case pleads "Thank you for your help."

Four trash/recycing containers, often found at busy intersections. The two on the left are for
"organic materials" and other trash, while the blue and yellow on the right are for paper materials,
and cans or bottles, respectively. 

Homemade pintxos, by Elliot L.Swauger. From left to right: goat cheese with jamón iberico
(Spanish cured ham) and roasted reds, the same except replace roasted reds with honey,
scrambled eggs with red and green pepper, and goat cheese with both chorizo dulce and
picante (sweet and spicy pork sausage).

In addition to my anxiety surrounding camera use, I've also been pretty hesitant about carrying out exchanges with people in businesses. Suddenly, something like buying cheese becomes a panic attack because I can't remember whether there are 2 pounds in a kilo or vice versa (it's the former) and thus can't decide how much manchego I should order at the cheese counter.

So, I figured I'd never get a haircut. Let my hair grow long, you know because I haven't in a while. Yeah that's it, I want my hair to be long, necessitate more shampoo, and require tools like a comb or a brush to maintain it.

Then we started setting up meetings with prospective English students, who seem to mostly be middle-aged women, and I started getting insecure about my appearance. My hair isn't super straight and flat, or thick and curly. It's worse -- it fluctuates (unpredictably) between kinda wavy and not-so-wavy. I started worrying that my blah hair would drive people away. Plus I don't have a comb.

So I set out to find a walk-in friendly peluquería that would satisfy my haircut impulse. While the story is one of success, I must admit it was...peculiar.

As I walked in, the first thing I asked the young gentleman who greeted me was, "Do I need an appointment?" As soon as I heard "no" I joined the five old ladies in the waiting area. Before going in, I was hoping to find a picture in a magazine or something so that I wouldn't have to scrounge up non-existent vocab in my brain for describing the hairstyle I had in mind. 

I grabbed a magazine and stood around browsing celebrity hair pics, until one of the old ladies started telling me a story. I'm not sure what it was about, but I know it was a story because her tone was affirmative, rather than inquisitive. Grateful that she was not expecting a real response, I just shook my head up and down and smiled when she finished. She seemed content with that reaction, as was I.

Finally, another young gentleman came over and said I could join the ready-to-wash club over at the sinks. I asked if I could bring my magazine, in which I found a decent hairstyle, and he said of course. So then I was sitting in a row with some other old ladies. One nudged me and asked me if it was raining outside, and I looked and shook my head saying, "I think it's just cloudy." She agreed and went back to her magazine. I started to wish that I could go to the pelu everyday without paying money, or even getting a haircut, just to chat with these old ladies. Not that I find them particularly interesting, or even that I can understand most of what they say, but it seems like a place where people just start talking to one another because they've been waiting so long.

Then it was my turn to have my hair washed, and boy did I get more than that. I'm not sure if this is commonplace in Spain, but the hair-wash that I got in Pamplona was more like a head-wash. Foamy lather was down my neck and in my ears. Afterward, the guy wrapped my head in a thin towel, and my earrings dripped on my collar while I waited for my stylist.

She was cute and short, with a Monroe piercing and a baby bump. When she asked what I wanted, I pointed to the picture I'd been clutching for an hour and she rattled off what she was going to do, pointing to different parts of my head, and I just said yes to everything. We were getting along fine until she asked me a question, gesturing to the razor scissors she was using to trim my sideburns. Now, I thought, she's either asking me whether she's hurting me or whether I've used that tool before. It was so obviously the former, but instead I just laughed nervously, saying I didn't understand. She laughed, too, asking the question again slowly. "No, it's not hurting me," I said, embarrassed.

So then she had to ask where I was from. I explained that I had just moved here from the US, and although I did know Spanish, I wasn't too familiar with terms related to haircuts or hairstyles. She understood. After that, she spoke in slow, simple sentences, which was helpful but also reminded me of my blunders. While cutting my hair, she also noted my remolinos (cowlicks), and I explained what we call them in English and why. She thought that was funny.

Although I entered the salon with caution, I left feeling pretty good. My stylist was very nice, and she did a great job. I certainly wasn't afraid to take this picture.

So I'm conquering my Spanish anxieties one by one. They tell you traveling is all about leaving your comfort zone. While I think that is true, I also think, for me especially, it is about humility. I'm the weirdo, here. I make the mistakes. I don't belong. I bring unwanted attention to myself every time I open my mouth. But I'm getting used to it.

Transmitimos de Pamplona a los Estados Unidos

Broadcasting from Pamplona, Spain to the United States...

We've arrived. Oh, have we ever!

Finishing up our first week in a foreign land, I have these major updates:

1. We have a place to live! We've been staying with Elliot's roommates (circa 2008) in an apartment in a neighborhood called Ensanche, off of the main drag Carlos III Avenue. Although they are great guys -- very welcoming and funny -- we are branching out. We came here to live Spanish lives, and that we will once we move into an apartment with our new friend via the interweb, Victor! He lives on the very top floor of an old five-story building divided into 10 apartments or so; and it is situated almost exactly in the center of the city -- right in front of City Hall. The rent for our room is cheap, Victor is muy majo (very cool) and he's got a puppy named Punset!

Our approximate view of el ayuntamiento (City Hall) from the front door
of the apartment building via viajeteca.com

2. We have contact with our first student! A couple days ago, Elliot and I taped flyers onto various poles, abandoned storefronts, and bulletin boards to advertise our English-teaching services. We had our first bite last night when a guy emailed us looking for more information. Elliot and he are currently attempting to arrange a first consultation. How exciting! Besides this, Elliot has been earning euros on the street as a professional minstrel, playing tunes by Neil Young, Bobby D, and Steve Miller Band.

A scan of our flyer for English teaching -- yeah I wish I had a photo of Elliot busking, too. 

3. We have bicicletas! Having a bicycle really opens the world up, especially when you're new to a city. I learned every nook and cranny of Philadelphia via bici and I intend to do the same in Pamplona. Elliot scored a vintage steel road bike equipped with Shimano 105, and I invested in an aluminum-frame hybrid with fenders, a rack, and a dynamo front hub. The guys who own the store are two basque brothers; they were very friendly, and just kept giving us discounts as we bought more things. Makes me miss working in a bike store.

Elliot's sweet ride leaning up against the clothes-drying rack. Take note of the sweet colors.

La bici mía -- still tryna name her, let me know if you think of a good one.

4. Elliot and I are still in love! Even after the stress of not living in our own space for the past 4 months, traveling nearly 24 hours straight, having practically zero friends in the city to which we moved, and spending more money than we've made, we've stuck it out. We aren't the kind to shout from the mountaintops, but this was a big step in both our lives and our relationship and I think it serves to say that we're good at being together.


Now for some not-so-important updates, but still fun-to-hear-about facts...

The best thing I've eaten thus far: 
I will divide this category into two sub-topics -- sweet and savory. The best sweet dish I've had, and will continue to seek out, was what the Spanish call a bomba. It is basically two halves of a bun, sprinkled in powdered sugar, with a rich, delectable, whipped cream stuffed between them. Fuckin' outta this world bomba! Goes great with beer.

Better than donuts for sure via amarenas.blogspot.com

The best savory dish I've had was a pintxo -- most of Spain would consider this kind of dish a tapa, but the basque country calls them pintxos -- an appetizer-like plate that usually contains a baguette slice topped with cheese, ham, calimari, egg, salad, etc. A few days ago I tried a pintxo with pancetta (Spanish bacon) and melted brie cheese. Also goes great with beer.

Un bar de pintxos via visitalltheworld.com

The worst thing I've eaten thus far:
Plain and simple -- Spain's version of delivery pizza blows. Elliot and I happened to stop by a Telepizza on a Tuesday night (when they have half-off specials) and even then it was barely worth it for a medium four-cheese pie.

The good news is they're hiring -- so Telepizza is plan B.

How Elliot and I have been passing the time:
We usually have a lot of down time before and after the siesta, which occurs from about 2 to 5 pm. Before the siesta, we probably make some breakfast, hang up some flyers, go for a walk, or watch a little Spanish cable TV. And after the siesta, I'll try my hand at being a writer-for-pay (i.e. writing and submitting drafts to various travel websites) while Elliot busks on a busy street for a couple hours. Keep in mind, this is not how all Spaniards live. Right now, we are just bums trying to find work. But I must say that the siesta allows for much relaxation, as most businesses close their doors during that time of day.

The most embarrassing thing I've done:
The other day I was shopping around for a few things, including a charger for rechargeable batteries. The background for this search involves my camera that requires AA batteries, and me not wanting to buy and throw away batteries all the time. So, I enter an electronics store, looking for this cargador (charger). I notice that they are behind the register, so I explain to the cashier what I need.

"Busco un cagador para pilas."

Translation: I'm looking for a shitter for batteries.

You see, I meant cargador but instead I said cagador so I got a weird look before I corrected myself and proceeded to buy the charger (which was way cheaper than the first place I stopped, so it was still a positive interaction for me).

Something I'm still getting used to:
The double cheek kiss! You've seen it in movies I'm sure. And I usually know it's coming. But some people don't do it upon first meeting, for whatever reason. So when I shake someone's hand, I lean in slightly, awkwardly, and wait until they do the same. And even if they do, I am still surprised. I hope I'm not giving anyone a bad impression. It's just something I'm not good at.

Non-human things I miss:
Along with ginger ale, hamburgers, my (other) bikes, and carrying around more bills than coins, I also miss a little puppy named Pedro! Not to say my parents' other dog Amos or my cat Abby don't matter as much, but I'm constantly reminded of Pedro. What with his latin-influenced name and his likeness to the donkey in the Shrek movies (which I've been watching -- in Spanish).

Like Pedro, the donkey has a long body, floppy ears, and just loves too much.

To remind you readers, I'm hoping to use this blog as both a travel journal, and as a log for loved ones to keep track of our expedition. While I hope to update with posts about differences between Spain and the US, comments concerning the European crisis, or discoveries as an English teacher abroad, I also welcome friends and family to use this blog as a venue for your own questions about the Pamplona, Spain, the trip, our experiences, whatever. Even though I'd love to sit down and Skype with every one of you, our busy lives may not allow us that chance. So ask away!