Burning bridges

Spain has a reputation alright -- apart from its phenomenal food, contentious history, and dreamy scenery, the country's people have become known as kind of, well, loafers.

Sure, the first lazy latin stereotype to come to mind is the sombrero-dawning Mexican sleeping in the shadow of a cactus. However, especially in northern Europe, Spanish people are often pigeon-holed as lousy workers who mooch off other countries' euros. Because of this, the new conservative government is cutting back, not only on social programs, but also something called the puente (literally "bridge").

Spaniards have a total of 14 religious and municipal holidays per year. This seems like a travesty to some Europeans; take the Germans, who only get between 8 and 11 holidays per year, depending on the state. Keepin' it relative: the US has 10 federal holidays. To top it off, it's common for Spaniards to take an extra day or two off, especially if two holidays occur close together. That's what we call a "bridge holiday".

Let's say, for example, Constitution Day (Dec. 6) falls on a Tuesday and the Immaculate Conception Day falls on the following Thursday (Dec. 8). It's possible -- hell even probable -- that some workers may take off the Wednesday in between. Some businesses might even close for the whole week.

So in the eyes of those who don't live in Spain (i.e. Northern Europeans), they're taking advantage of the European Union. Not only do they take three-hour lunches every day, but they go on vacation all the time, even when there isn't a legitimate holiday. And who takes off for the immaculate conception anyway?

In response to this, the current conservative prime minister has declared that most public holidays (excluding Christmas or New Year's Day) will be moved to Monday -- you know, like they do in the states. That way, Spaniards can only take a three-day weekend, and nothing more.

To some, this is a blow to tradition. After all, these holidays have long been an opportunity for relaxation, maybe a little travel, and celebration.

To others, however, the elimination of bridge holidays have been a godsend. Namely, workers paid by the hour are thrilled to have work. In fact, they found these extra days annoying. After all, they don't get paid for time off.

Salaried workers, of course, could give a shit. They often have paid vacation days, and thus, take off when they want to, whether federally mandated or not.

Now that you know the scoop, join the debate. Because I'm not quite sure how I feel about this issue.

On one hand, you have a society less preoccupied with work. A society that likes spending money to enjoy themselves; whether that means a weekend beach trip, a fancy dinner, or a drinking binge. They value relaxation and recreation, and they try not to take life so seriously.

On the other hand, you've got a bunch of slackers who may be holding other people back. In an increasingly globalized world, it serves to work a more compact schedule that's compatible with that of other countries (especially those within your time zone). And tradition is no excuse; we've been giving up the tradition of oppressing women for decades.

On one hand, I hate this kind of legislation because it encourages a work ethic with which I can't agree. More and more, the 9-5 workday of the Western world is expected, whether you're really working or not, and whether you enjoy your job or not. To assimilate, Spain has changed its retirement age to 67, just like Germany. Spain's life expectancy is somewhere around 81 years old. Doesn't leave a lot of time to enjoy your spoils, does it?

On the other hand, I understand the need to eliminate public holidays. Most of them celebrate a religion I don't support anyway. Plus, there are people who want to work, because they don't have any money. If they can't work, they can't support themselves or their families. The unemployment rate has peaked at somewhere around 23% (nearly 50% in some demographics). But my next question is, why can't they find jobs? Is there a deeper problem with the economy? Will more workdays boost employment?

Something I am really proud of is my own work ethic. I'm organized and I have a great method of conquering projects. But I can't decide if that is my own nature, or whether I've been taught to value production and nothing else. I haven't learned a new skill in a long time, although I've attempted many: banjo, painting, knitting, gardening. Some of my efforts have failed because of outside forces, but most failed because I couldn't get ahead of the learning curve. I wasn't producing anything, so I gave up. It was easier to spend an extra 10 hours at work anyway, because I was guaranteed to make something: cash money.

The good news I used that extra dough to get myself here, another country, another continent. But I face the same troubles in Spain. I plan English lessons, almost compulsively, all the while wishing I had time to devote to writing, reading, or taking a walk. But I can pump out lesson plans like a champ. So I do it.

It comes down to a really difficult question: why do we work? The answer seems so simple: to live.

Who's living?

The way it's always been...

I chose to embed this song for two very good reasons:

1. Diana Ross, a babe and a legend, is beltin' out a classic.
2. I'm comin' out to y'all...as a writer.

Maybe you already figured it out. Many of you know me for journal-keeping, news-reporting, note-scribbling, and blog-posting. But chances are, I've never said to your face: "I'm a writer." To be honest, I never say it out loud.

In the same way I've been afraid to call myself fluent in Spanish, I've been hesitant to call myself a writer. Just like I constantly make mistakes in my second language, I often find myself in situations where the words don't come out right. And sometimes, they don't even come out at all.

But this trip has opened up more than one door for me. I came here, primarily, to perfect a language -- to discover new words, new expressions, new accents. An opportunity I did not foresee, was a shit ton of free time to perfect my writing.

Perfect seems like such a stronger word when I see it before writing as opposed to before language. I've learned to abandon all inhibitions when using Spanish. It's a must when it comes to learning, and later practicing, a foreign language. I'm much more inhibitive about my writing (better read: much more sensitive to criticism).

When I was younger, I went through the typical "what-I-wanna-be-when-I-grow-up" phases. First, I wanted to be a paleontologist. Then a tornado chaser. Finally, in 8th grade, I remember promising myself to be the youngest published author in history. Unfortunately, 13-year-old me didn't realize the world of competition for child authors.

Anyway, as I got older, I became more cynical about...you know...dreams. Duh, they don't happen. At least not before a long streak of disappointments. I continued to keep a journal, even through college. I continued to get paid very little for journalistic ventures, which were, for the most part, easy and fun. But attempting anything more creative, more autonomous, was pretty intimidating.

Now, seeking employment, or even feedback, for my writing -- outside of a less competitive, more laid-back university publication -- is downright terrifying. Because the worst that could happen is that I get rejected. Yeah, it's the absolute worst.

To make a long story short, I ain't gonna be a coward no more. I'm still cynical, but I'm going to stop hesitating, and start trying. Many life plans have come and gone, just as easily as a cheese pizza, but writing has always been at the back of my mind. It's always been something I knew I wanted to do. Now, it's just about letting more people see what I write.

So here I am...

Name: Sarah Sanders
Profession: Writer
Interests: Gender, travel, language, cities, psychology
Inspiration: The two Georges (Carlin & Orwell)


This is what it's all about.

Tales of a drunken ex-pat

First thing's first: being drunk in Spain is pretty much like being drunk in the states. The main difference is instead of thinking things like "Woah, I love my friends, man!" you think things like "Woah, I'm in Spain, man!"

But maybe I should be more precise. Because drinking is not just a way to get drunk. Here, in fact, drinking is part of the very fabric that is la cultura Pamplonica. So I'm just doing as the Romans do, ya dig?

Anyway, I often have the same thoughts when I'm out at a bar:

Man, I am so geeked out on being here. Maybe I'll never leave.
I speak Spanish way better when I'm a little tipsy.
I bet I could entertain everybody just as well as this band.
I just wanna kiss everyone, because they are all so awesome.


It's funny, though, how those thoughts can completely turn themselves around with a little more cerveza:

I speak Spanish way better when I'm sober.
I wish friends from home were here.
I would kiss all of them, because they are all so awesome.
I hate this band.


Sometimes, I even get a little rowdy. I don't start fights or anything, but I start nudging Elliot and saying things like:

You see all these white people?
Dude, you are so handsome.
Man, ain't nobody here who knows how to dance.


Most of my nights out bar-hoppin' end up with me talking to some random dude from Pamplona about Philadelphia:

Philly is the best place for music, man.
New York City isn't at all like Philly.
I'm not really from Philly.


In general, I get emotional when I drink. Whether it's feelin' on top of the world, or lonely as hell, it gets real. Can't wait to share a beer with y'all on the other side. For now, I'll just keep on clinking glasses with the Pamplona folk.

How I miss the American drinks on the table...
This is the impression I give Spaniards as an ambassador to the free world.

There's a dude in my house

For the past three years, he's been following me around. Sleeps with me every night. Makes me food sometimes. Doesn't like when I leave a mess.

For the past seven years, he's been calling me, wanting to talk to me, asking me questions. For a little while, we didn't live so close, and so it was harder to communicate. We've exchanged gifts, secrets, insults, and sometimes clothes.

But now, he's in Spain. And I'm in Spain. And we share everything.


Pop quiz! Is the emphasis on everything good or bad?

Ha just kidding, of course it's mostly good.

Moving here was a bit of a gamble on both our parts. Not because we were going to a place where we had few friends and no job, but rather because we were going to a place where we really only had each other. And one of us lost the other, I think we would both come running back to the US with our tails between our legs. But after 2.5 months, I haven't seen any clear signs of self-destruction.

We've always had a weird power struggle. Constantly competing, often arguing, and occasionally wrestling. So like it would anywhere else, that continues here. You might call us stubborn. That doesn't sound like it should work, does it? Two stubborn people spending 90% of their time together. Dishes should go unwashed, clothes unlaundered, bed unmade, legs unshaved. Yet all these things get done (except for the last one but we agree on that).

I can hear you saying, "Ok, ok, but there's gotta be times when you go for a while without talkin' to each other."

Yeah, there are times like that. You'd be amazed at how childishly brief they are though. Like I said, we're dogs with our tails between our legs.

While we're both very good at voicing our likes and dislikes (about money, about food, about each other), I think we're also rather good at preserving each others' feelings at the same time.

For example, Elliot has an irrational fear of heights. I can't enjoy great lookout spots anywhere: cliff sides, balconies, tall stairwells, bridge underpasses. I can't even fuckin' hang the laundry out the window without being told "Both feet on the ground!"

Ain't such a long way down now is it?

So rather than call him names or tease him (because I mean come on, I'm not going to flip over a rib-high railing) or criticize him for never doing laundry (just like a man), I hurry up and hang the clothes when he's not around. Result: no fuss. Plus I get the chance to do my acrobatic routine on the clothesline.

In the end, I don't have any relationship advice. I can't tell you how this works, or why. All I can really do is assure everyone who knows us that we're doing just fine. We care about each other, and we can make each other laugh.

That's our lovesun, shining right into our eyes, because it's so bright n'all.

It's tourist -- I mean cider season!

We came here to see the real thing. We aren't interested in spending a lot of money for sight-seeing, swanky hotels, and guided tours. We came here to meet locals, eat their food, and wander off the beaten path. We're not tourists, we're travelers.

That's what I said -- or maybe you said that -- actually I think it was a kid from my high school -- maybe some random blogger on the internet? I guess it doesn't matter.

What does matter is that this kind of trip doesn't really exist. Try as we might, Elliot and I will not leave Spain knowing how the people here live. Mostly because we have no foundation here: no family, no friends from childhood, no tradition. And yet we consistently attempt to throw ourselves into the lives of others. Not rudely, of course -- we always wait for an invite. But we'll gladly join your dinner on Christmas Eve or your housewarming party. We genuinely want to learn your traditions.

Take a cidery, for example. This kind of establishment is a major part of basque culture, and highly visible throughout this region. Elliot and I have already been to a "cidery" in Pamplona a couple times. It was less a place of production, and more a restaurant. But we loved the style of having a meal at a sidrería.

Elliot standing in front of the cidery in Astigarraga.

They start you off with some chorizo a la sidra, which consists of some delicious sausage cooked in cider. Then you move onto your second course: pimientos piquillos (closely related to roasted red peppers) and a tortilla de bacalao, which is what we Americans would recognize as a big ol' fish omelet. Next, your main course: txuleton (pronounced chu-le-TON), which is a briefly cooked slab of steak from near the cow's ribs or spine. Finally, dessert. And all the while, you're drinking as much cider as you can stand from a tap in the wall. When you leave, you pay a flat rate per person (usually in the ballpark of $35-40).

Halfway through the txuleton; as you can see it's served pretty pink on the inside.

Cheese, jam, and walnuts for dessert. At this point, I wasn't super hungry.

Our experience in Pamplona was great: food, drink, and atmosphere all added to our enjoyment of the place. But when you get right down to it, that place just ain't a cidery. It's a restaurant. So off to San Sebastian we went this past weekend.

View of San Sebastian from a hillside. During July and August, that beach is swarming.

An aside: A few weeks ago, when we were planning a sort of get-away, we considered Paris. After all, it would be the weekend before Valentine's Day, and I had never been. We quickly realized the great expense involved in getting there (let alone staying there), and thus settled on a spot a little closer to Pamplona. That was San Sebastian: 20 km away from the French border, but only an hour away from Pamplona by bus!

We stayed at Hotel Parma, right where the river meets the ocean. And boy did we have a view!

San Sebastian (or Donosti as it's called in basque) is an awesome little seaside town in Northern Spain, on the coast of the Baltic Sea. It's also a lot more basque than Pamplona, so you see and hear the language everywhere. Our plan was to arrive, eat, drink, and sleep on a hotel bed in a room with heat. We also wanted to check out the city's aquarium, and do some walking along the coast. Talk about a tourist adventure!

All the signs in the aquarium were in four langauges: Basque, Spanish, French, & English.

That green thing is a little shark egg, and that shadow inside is a little baby shark!

On the previous Thursday, we mentioned to a friend that we would be staying in San Sebastian that weekend. And to our surprise, he said: "Well, hey! My girl and I are going to be in Donosti, too! And we also want to go to a cidery!" (Notice: dialogue not a direct translation, nor even a real memory of what was said)

Sure enough, as soon as we got of the bus, our friends were on their way to pick us up and take us out into the country to visit a real, authentic cidery in the mountains. Elliot and I shouted "Ye haw!" and we set out to fill our bellies with food and bubbly ferments.

Find the apple!

To avoid redundancy, I'll just say the menu was pretty much the same. The portions were a little bigger, and the food tasted a little better, but we knew what to expect.

It's like a kegger, except with cider...and way better food.

The atmosphere, though -- totally different. There we were, in this big hall with eight or nine huge cider tanks (some were metal, and some were wooden barrels). Everyone ate at great long wooden tables, communal style; and no one sat down, for two reasons.

1. It was cold as shit. I'm saying the temperature inside was equal to the temperature outside (even in the bathrooms!) and so everyone was standing to eat, wiggling their hips and doin' the little cold pants dance.

2. We were at a cidery. And there's a method to drinkin' the stuff. It involves filling up your glass at an angle to produce more carbonation, and only filling up your glass a little so you can drink what's in it before the bubbles disappear. If you don't make it to the bottom of your glass before your cider goes flat, you pitch the remains in one of the various buckets positioned in front of the tanks. Thus, if you want to drink a lot of cider, you kinda gotta stand around the barrel.

Awesome action shot showing how you have to catch the cider in your cup from a distance.
No kidding! Had to use the "sports" setting on my camera.

In Pamplona, we only had one cider tap to choose from. In the little village of Astigarraga we had several, and they all had different tastes. Some were noticeably more sour or sweet, some were strong, some were bitter. They all used the same apples, but little things can affect the way a ferment turns out. So you end up with several different ciders. As we drank more, we started to notice which tanks the guests (including ourselves) preferred.

That's one of the many cider barrels to the left, and an old but very functional apple press on the right.

I'd like to think we were among village natives, or at the very least people from Donosti. But alas, we were not the only out-of-towners. Knowledge of the cidery tradition is spreading, and the region where cider is often made gains more tourists every year from neighboring cities, and even neighboring countries (like France). Our friends were explaining that many people have even started arranging tour buses that struggle up and down mountain sides to transport people to these village establishments. Elliot and I aren't the only foreigners that love a good meal and endless booze.

While I can certainly acknowledge that our weekend get-away would have been largely different had we not gotten a lift from friends outside the city, it's hard to ignore my own role as a naive tourist. Even when you think you may have found a hole-in-the-wall, a secret place that has preserved its tradition and authenticity, chances are it isn't what it seems. It only takes one person to post something on the internet (as I do now) to let the cat outta the bag.

Sometimes I think this situation in Europe is far more advanced than in other continents, mostly because everyone wants to travel in Europe -- even Europeans. People are enchanted with the old and traditional. They marvel at the little villages, the stone houses, maybe even the clothes hanging outside a window to dry. It seems like you have a better chance of escaping tourist exploitation in the US -- but maybe I just think that because I'm American. After all, I know more people, more places.

I suppose you could even compare the cideries in basque country to the vineyards in California. Eating in cideries was once a tradition for the basque people to decide what bottles they were going to take home for the year. Similarly, wine tasting rooms were a way for people to get to know grape-growers and wine-makers, as well as their products. Now both are tourist destinations for natives and foreigners alike.

Me, me, me! Hammin' it up like a tourist should. That's San Sebastian's port behind me.

I can't say tourism is bad -- I'm a tourist. But what's too much? When is authenticity lost?

Cycling in Pamplona (aka I'm never satisfied)

While I've only been here for 10 weeks, I jumped back on the bike pretty quickly. Within a week of our arrival, Elliot and I had purchased some wheels. A few days later, I was rolling all over this town to parts near and far to meet and teach students. Currently, my weekly commute is approximately 57 kilometers (35 miles-ish). So, I think I have a good idea of what biking in Pamplona is like -- at the very least, I have a better idea than most people I know here (most of whom walk rather than ride). And I gotta say, Europe may have the better rep as far as competitive/recreational cycling goes, but I would take Philly commuting any day.

A view of Pamplona from about 6 km out (little less than 4 miles).

I should clarify something first: Pamplona, like many cities (big and small) throughout Europe, has a very tangible cycling infrastructure. At first glance, the system looks way better than anything you've seen in the US, mainly because of the abundance of bike paths. They often run alongside the sidewalk (like many in Philly); sometimes the white lines are painted on the sidewalks (which are extra wide to accommodate pedestrians and cyclists. And they really are everywhere! And people really use them! There are even traffic lights specifically for cyclists -- lights that tell you when it's okay to cross the intersection and when it's not. There are also often short barriers between the bike paths on asphalt and the part of the street used by cars, mainly to keep drivers from driving or parking in the bike lanes. I'll say it again: Pamplona's cycling infrastructure is very visible, well-used, and widespread.

I just can't like it. As much as I scorned the haphazard system in Philly, I miss it. Although some find this to be a major fault, there wasn't really a distinct line between where bikes should go and where they shouldn't. I endured so much public shaming for riding on the sidewalk, against traffic, in the bike lane, beside the bike lane, in the grass, in front of a car, behind a car, beside a car, etc. I learned to ignore anyone in a car, and just ride as safely as I could, with a helmet securely over my skull. This usually meant taking a full lane because cars always gave me a lot of room, even when they were attempting to throw something at me.

Secret bike path that a student's mom told me about -- it's secret because I didn't know about it.

Here, however, it is very clear where bikes should be. And riders follow the rules. Probably because if you roll off the bike path, you're riding with European drivers -- who can be a little intimidating. Plus, we Americans ain't so used to roundabouts. Every street is like the Ben Franklin parkway, and every intersection like Logan Square. So riders stick to the paths, because they're well-marked and car-free. Not me, though. Following a roundabout on the pavement may be a little stressful, but following it on the sidewalk is down-right frustrating. A lot of waiting, rolling up and down handicap curbs, dodging wandering pedestrians, and more waiting. Can't take it, don't want it, won't have it. I'll follow the cars.

Sometimes, though, riding on the sidewalk ain't so bad. On longer stretches of road that leave the city, very few pedestrians can be found walking on the paths. Plus, the traffic picks up a little bit so it does feel better off to the side. But just like they heavily regulate cycling traffic, the Spaniards also like to keep the walkers in line. So there are hip-high barriers that border the lengths of sidewalk where pedestrians shouldn't cross. This makes hopping off the asphalt that much harder. And on top of that, the asphalt doesn't gradually taper off on the sides, creating a gutter for water run-off. Instead, there's a shallow but pretty sudden drop on either side of the roads (Philly: think "trolley tracks"). 

To make a long story short, Pamplona wants you to stay in one line or the other. You can't be a part of pedestrian traffic, and also vehicle traffic. Unfortunately, I think this is what most major US cities dream of when it comes to reforming cycling regulations. But I got wheels! I want riding to be smooth and efficient (i.e. not on the sidewalk). I miss the cycling limbo in Philly.

And the weirdest thing is that I'm often the only person I see in the street. Sure, I see other riders. But they're rollin' along on the paths, and I'm huffin' and puffin' to keep up with traffic (and probably because I stayed in siesta-mode a little too long before class). Why do they settle for the safer albeit slower route? Am I just another impatient American?

I have to cross this bridge once a week to get to the other side of some railroad tracks,
where my student lives. I hate the bridge but I enjoy the student, so I suppose it's worth it.

Part of me thinks that there aren't as many distance commuters as you might find in Philly. Riders in Philly use bikes for a variety of different reasons, but a major perk is commuting power. Here, most people work a few blocks from home; and if they don't, they drive or catch the bus. Furthermore, you're guaranteed to find any commercial necessities (groceries, apparel, pharmaceuticals, etc.) within a few steps of your door. Most of the people I know here are more likely to have a car they use more than their bike. Populations are very concentrated, so you're never very far from where you need to go. Thus, Spaniards don't expect much of their city's cycling infrastructure.

Then again, Pamplona must have really coughed up some dough to build the infrastructure they have now. Why not a better one? Or, am I really just another impatient American?