Taking it to the streets

A very visible difference between Spain's population and that of the US: the latter keeps its celebrations on the inside.

Maybe it was too presumptuous to infer these countries entirely. What I mean to say is that the street feel that I've felt here in Pamplona is very different from anything I've seen or felt in Philadelphia. Unfortunately, I can't really speak for other Spanish cities, or other US cities for that matter.

My argument, however, remains the same: we Americans don't take to the streets nearly as often.

This past Saturday was the Día del Casco Viejo (Day of the Old Quarter). We celebrated in the usual way: outdoors.

@ Calle de los Mercaderes

@ Calle de la Curia

@ Plaza Consistorial

@ Calle de Jarauta

@ Calle del Pozo Blanco

Sure, this weekend was especially alive with activity and celebration. But you'd be surprised how similar a typical Thursday night is to this scene. Hell, I've seen families (grandparents, children, and all) carrying birthday cakes to sit outside a bar, sing, and open presents. Street life is very present in this city of nearly 200,000. Consider cities of comparable size in the US: Chattanooga, Rochester, Boulder. Granted, I've never lived in those places, but I can bet that it just ain't the same.

Okay, alright, I'll stop making speculations for a minute and tell you a bit about my actual, lived experience in Pennsylvania.

Growing up, I got to know Greensburg, PA pretty well. My dad always liked to drive the long way somewhere, and my daycare teachers were big fans of taking a stroll through downtown.

As I got older, my parents would warn me about walking around at night. The worst hour, according to them, was 2 AM when all the bars let out (all 8 of them). That hour may have been the most bustling hour of the night in Greensburg, as everything else shuts down after quittin' time. Anyway, I avoided the night life in my hometown, whatever that was.

Entering my senior year in high school, I had a pretty solid group of friends and we had a pretty solid meeting spot: DV8, a sweet independent coffee shop downtown. Not only did this place offer music, board games, and soy milk, but it was also open until 11 PM on Fridays and Saturdays. Hallelujah!

Of course, one coffee shop and a city full of old people ain't gonna keep me around. So I moved to Philadelphia. I still wasn't of age to drink, so "going out" consisted of dorm parties and moonlit bike rides during my freshman and sophomore years. Even when I turned 21, going out was just too expensive to do too often. So we bought our beers at a six-pack shop and went to our houses to drink them. Occasionally, on a really nice day, we took our beers to the park. This was, and still is, illegal -- so you had to be discrete.

Even during specifically outdoor functions like parades or festivals, people don't really recognize the street as a place to be. My family has always been a fan of the Greensburg parades (4th of July and holiday parades, specifically). Rarely, though, did we ever stick around after the parade -- you know, to get a drink or a bite to eat. Mainly because nothing was open on a Saturday afternoon, but also because it just wasn't expected.

In Philly, block parties are the shit. But you celebrate maybe once a year and then never talk to your neighbors again until the next one. Plus, block parties rarely involve surrounding businesses that can offer food, drinks, atmosphere, whatever.

So back to speculating. I think that part of this cultural difference is due to some hard-to-change factors.

1. We can't walk around with a drink in our hands. I don't even want to go down the block. I just want to step outside, with my beer, and find a stoop or smoke a cigarette. But unless the bar has a designated terrace or patio, no way José. So we're stuck inside.

2. Pedestrians no longer dominate the streets. In Pamplona's old quarter, cars are permitted, but only at certain times of the day. Any other time you face blockades that can only be removed by police. Even so, people occupy every nook and cranny of these stone streets. As you can see in the pictures above, we're not worried about jaywalking or waiting for the light. We stand wherever we want and we're welcome to do so. In the US, cars dominate, even in an old city like Philly. We're lucky if we get sidewalks that are 10 feet wide. Occasionally, your street might be blocked off for a party. But that has to be arranged. Extra pedestrian space also better facilitates drinking and eating in the street (see #1).

Thus, we have learned to adapt our celebrations. Normally, when I consider the differences between here and home, I come to the conclusion that we're just different, that there are pros and cons to living either way. Regarding this issue, however, I feel -- pretty firmly -- that people benefit enormously from communal celebrations in the street. Even if it's just a Thursday night, and we're all going out with our separate circles, it feels great to be outside with other people. Businesses participate and benefit as well, making the community closer and mutually sustainable.

In other words, I dig this, and I will miss it.

Making judgments about judgers

How often do you attribute your behavior to your background? Are you loud because you're Italian? A good dancer because you're Black? Cultured because you're French? Drunk because you're Irish?

What about the not-so-positive things? Are you lazy because you're Spanish? Selfish because you're American? Bullheaded because you're Australian? Shy because you're Korean?

In my opinion, I was brought up with the rise of political correctness. I grew up in a house where potentially offensive jokes were made, and often. But I went to a school where we learned to avoid generalizations and stereotypes (of white people anyway). Making judgments across the board was bad, and still is.

But when you're sitting at the dinner table with people from all over (Columbia, Sweden, Turkey, US, Spain, Germany), generalizations are practically unavoidable. We don't judge, necessarily, but maybe we make statements like "You are that way and I am this way because you're from there and I'm from here." And then maybe you laugh if it's funny, or keep talking if it's not.

Perhaps it is because we are in a diverse environment that we feel comfortable pointing out our differences. We can talk about skin color, eye shape, and language without offending each other. And we don't ever intend to offend.

I can't help but wonder, does this only happen when you travel?


An example: people here keep telling me how mannerly and hospitable latinos are compared to Spaniards. The generalization can range from something like "They'll always invite you to a drink or a meal" to "They don't know how to say no." It doesn't seem so bad though, because Spaniards aren't afraid to say it in front of latinos, and the latter don't seem offended. So no harm, no foul, right?


Another example: people here tend to stereotype the population of young people studying abroad in Spain. These kids are often characterized by poor Spanish-speaking skills, lots of drinking, and white socks with cargo shorts. They're seen as naive and vulnerable, but also great party-mates. These abroad-ers are privileged, for sure. But does that mean they warrant generalizations?


A final example: friends here always say the people of Pamplona are very guarded, so it's difficult to get to know someone. The population of Pamplona is described as closed-off, suspicious, and maybe even stubborn. I always want to argue, because I've met many great people from Pamplona. Then again, they seem to be people that have traveled. 


I don't think this phenomenon is limited to transient circumstances. I think it has become more apparent to me because I'm often in culturally/ethnically/linguistically diverse environments. Most of the time, I don't think twice about it, because my friends never have bad intentions when they make certain speculations about differences between people. But...I was always told you can't do that. You can't take one example, and generalize it to a whole sect of people.


Maybe it's because I am the one that's self-conscious of being stereotyped. I hate to think that there are people in this very city who dislike me because of my background. But shit, who complains about being stereotyped as an American? I feel like a fuckin' chump whining about how people might pin me as fat, stupid, and cruel -- because I'm not, duh. The thing is, though, I tend to talk a lot in conversations. And halfway through, I realize that I'm talking a lot. I think, is that because I'm American and I feel I should dominate conversations, or is that because I'm me? Hard to tell. So I shut up so they don't think I'm just another big loudmouth.


There are times, though, where I can't let a generalization slide. Maybe it's coming from an unexperienced mouth, or a vindictive soul. So I take the opposite stance, even if I think part of what the person is saying might be true, just because I don't think they know enough to make the conclusion they're making. Is that pretentious of me? Perhaps. I guess it's just the way I try to mediate my own generalization tendencies as well as my need for fairness and accuracy.

An good example of this, I think, would be this guy. Although I don't prefer to give him publicity, because he's just another businessman, that blog post made me think.

Well, first it made me indignant. He could've met a completely different world of people and had a very different outlook. He acknowledges this, and yet continues to generalize Americans as sensitive, overly positive, religious, etc.

The thing is, though, I agree with a lot of things he says, because I've met a lot of people similar to those he describes.

However, I'd be willing to argue to the death with him --not in an effort to defend my country or any bullshit like that-- but because I grew up in that country, and I think I know it better. I will not leave Spain after a year, and draft a list of reasons why it sucks. One year spent traveling or living in a country does not represent the experience of a childhood, a family, or imprisonment in that country. Ya dig?

Anyway, enough rambling from me. Stay tuned for some posts about neighborhood celebrations, American bands in Barcelona, and semi-annual updates on teaching English.

Pintxo Week 2012 in Pamplona

So it's been a while, for a few reasons:

1. I just acquired a new job teaching a few hours a week (soon to be several) at a legit learning institution. While this requires a little more formality and presentation on my part, it's great to not have to ask these students for money at the end of each class. More on this later.

2. We had a visitor! A friend from Philadelphia had been studying in Rome the past few months. At the end of her semester, she decided to do some traveling, and somehow Pamplona turned up on her route among European gems like Paris, Berlin, and Brussels. It was great seeing a familiar face --unfortunately all faces once familiar to us are not familiar anymore -- and to hear about another side of Europe. Check out her pics on her tumblr and her words on her blog!

3. I had something really big planned for this post. Big and important things take time, especially when you coordinate them with a cool dude like Elliot. But here we are, our first ever blogging duet!

Below you'll find insight and wonder surrounding the pintxo (pin-cho), a very common way for Navarrans to snack. Pintxo is the basque term used here, but tapa is probably more recognizable around the world and it's the term used in the rest of Spain. However, I think the pintxos of the basque country are increasingly different from the tapas you see in other Spanish cities. It has become somewhat of a contemporary culinary concours. And it was especially so a couple weeks ago during the Semana del Pintxo, when bars and restaurants were literally competing to win best pintxo. So Elliot and I splurged on decadent but small plates of food and complementary wines.

We played the role of food critics, even though no one asked us to. Oh, did we ever! And we thought we'd publish a review of the pintxos we sampled, and our general opinion on the caliber of the week overall. Because damn it, our oohs and aahs and icks must be heard!

@ Café Iruña

Degustación #1: River crayfish tartar with ham & duck covered in a chocolate-orange sauce and onion confit over potatoes

Sarah: As you can see in the picture, the special pintxos for the week came as a pair at each bar, called a degustación. Anyway, I really enjoyed both of these pintxos, but I tended to prefer the duck. I felt that the crayfish really lacked something. Perhaps I was looking for a creole touch with some spice. Maybe I just dig potatoes in any kind of gravy.

Elliot: I wasn't looking for any type of cajun spice, because it didn't need it. The sweet and buttery crayfish tails weren't overpowered by the sauce; an homage to the shellfish and all the flavor that their juicy rears have to offer. The fried ramps added little complexity of flavor, and were undoubtedly thrown in for their aesthetic value (note the little cray-man chillin' in the ramp forest). Either way, it was one of my favorite pintxos. The magret, or duck breast pintxo, was a good piece of duck meat in a delicious and well thought-out sauce. It was appetizing, but lacked the creativity and presentation of the crayfish pintxo.

@ Bar La Comedia

Degustación #2: Carrilleras de cerdo ibérico (tender meat from the cheek of an Iberian pig) in Navarran red wine with potatoes and mushroom gravy (the small glass on the left) & pastries filled with Iberian ham salad and nuts, topped with whipped Idiazábal (ee-dee-Atz-abal) cheese, served with a shot of mojito sorbet

Sarah: I'm going to come right out and say it -- this bar really floored me. The presentation, the taste, and the fact that I had never so much as entered the place before. The pintxo on the left was literally Thanksgiving dinner in every bite. I dug the whipped cheese in the pintxo on the right, perhaps more than the pintxo itself. And the mojito sorbet...delicious! Very refreshing and a great surprise.

Elliot: If I had to pick a winner it would be Bar La Comedia. Not only were the pintxos elaborate, decadent and pleasing to the eye, but they offered something unexpected and out of the ordinary. The Iberian ham pastries stood out as being one of the few baked pintxos I had ever come across (most being fried). The whipped sheep cheese topping is what really sold me on this pintxo, though. A stinky meat and cheese lover's savory alternative to the traditional cream puff. The other pintxo continued the Iberian ham trend, adding potatoes and a mushroom gravy complete with scallions to the mix. The ham cheek pintxo wasn't as inspired as the first, but still a memorable and not so typical amalgamation of ingredients and flavors. I initially scoffed at the idea of a mojito sorbet and then became a huge fan when I discovered the intense aromas of freshly muddled mint leaves.

@ Chez Evaristo

Degustación #3: Bacalao (bahk-a-laow) topped with a red pepper sauce & fried artichoke in a mushroom and foie sauce

Sarah: Maybe it was the fact that the previous pintxos were so delectable, or maybe I was just getting full, but I was not impressed. I was really hopeful for both because I dig artichokes and I dig bacalao. But I was not into the fried-ness of the artichokes, and the bacalao didn't have the texture I'm used to. Overall, disappointed I was.

Elliot: A picture's worth a thousand words. These pintxos paled in comparison. The cod was gummy and the artichoke was so fried that I forgot it was an artichoke. 'Nuff said.

@ Bar Okapi

Degustación #4: Lambs' feet with foie and mashed potatoes, covered in a mushroom confit and toasted corn & a morcilla volcano, exploding with fried egg, roasted peppers, and raisins.

Sarah: As vegan as I once was, I've fallen in love with the blood sausage of Spain. So needless to say, I devoured the pintxo on the right. The morcilla, as always, had a warm and nutty taste. The lambs' feet, however, was not jiving with my taste buds. The texture was chewy and the flavor was, well, non-existent. Probably my least favorite of the day.

Elliot: Bar Okapi surprised me. I didn't expect this type of presentation from a bar that I had admittedly written off prior to this trip. The lambs' feet pintxo behooves me (ha ha get it?) to knock a few points off of this degustación's final score. A morcilla volcano, though? Come on. We're talking about a rice-stuffed pig intestine, blood-filled, pepper-topped volcanic eruption. And why not add some raisins? I'll be returning.

@ Bar San Nicolás - La Cocina Vasca

Degustación #4: Marinated salmon topped with tomatoes and avocado & a txipiburguer (baby squid burger)

Sarah: We had passed this place up earlier in the day, because I wasn't drawn by the description for either pintxo. Elliot still managed to drag me out of the house in the evening, after we had already had our post-pintxofest ice cream cone and nap, because he was really enchanted by the idea of fresh salmon and a squid burger. In short, I don't even remember what either one tasted like.

Elliot: Sarah, still somewhat squeamish when it comes to seafood, wasn't excited about this place, but I had to try it. Txipirón, or baby squid, was used in a number of bar's degustaciónes and I was determined to sample at least one txipi pintxo. The mini-burger was everything I had hoped it would be. Reminiscent of a crab cake, the txipiburguer came with a tangy mayonnaise based sauce and typical burger toppings (lettuce, onion and 'mater). It was the salmon pintxo, however, that stole the show. The tomato, salmon and avocado meshed to create a sort of 'seafood guacamole' (gross sounding comparison, but very tasty in practice). The freshness of the individual ingredients are what really made this pintxo. You know how disappointing a poor quality tomato/avocado/salmon can be? This was the opposite of that. In a pintxo like this, ingredients are everything and they nailed it.


Here are some pictures of the Pintxo Week scene...

We stumbled upon a parade of giant puppets...

Unfortunately, we did not vote on the pintxos we liked, which was the whole point of the competition. I'm pretty sure we just went home that night and fell asleep watching Breaking Bad or something.

Nothin' to write home about

When I wake up, I have to climb over Elliot's huge (to me) sleepy body because my side of the bed is against the wall. I suppose I could stand straight up and walk forward until my feet drop off the bed, but that always seems a lot harder in the morning. It's worse when he's on his side; then it's practically like jumping a hurdle.

I walk into the kitchen, rubbing my eyes, to put some water on the stove for green tea. This gives me just enough time to grab my computer, my notebook, and a pen out of the bedroom, leaving Elliot to sleep peacefully without the tick-tack-ticking of my keyboard. By then the water is at a rolling boil; the burner I use gets too hot for rice cooking, but it's perfect for a quick cup of tea.

I finally sit down in the living room with the computer open in front of me on the coffee table, my notebook and pen on my left, and a steaming mug on my right. And I work.

Because, you know, that's what people do to make money and make a living. My job might not be ideal for some -- hell it's not even ideal for me -- but it does allow me to rent an apartment here in Pamplona, pay for local/organic/artisanal food, indulge in the occasional big night out, but work less than 25 hours per week.

Well, shit if this doesn't get old, too. I'm not yet ready to come home, but work is work. And work in Spain doesn't necessarily beat work in Philadelphia or anywhere else in the US, just because it's in Spain. I've finally achieved here the routine that I've had everywhere else that I've ever lived (i.e. Greensburg and Philadelphia).

Get up. Go to work.
Leave work. Eat. Drink with your friends.
Go on a trip. Forget about work 'til Sunday.
Get up on Monday. And go to work.


Part of me is conflicted. What benefit is there to living in Spain when you work/don't make quite enough money, which prevents you from exploring everything you came here to see?

The other part of me is like "Duh doofus, you knew that when you came here."

Damn it. She's right. I came here to learn a language, not to spend all my money waltzing through Europe. I just hope family and friends aren't too bummed out to hear upon our return that we never went to Amsterdam or Paris or Berlin or anywhere cool. (You know that Spain is always at the bottom of everyone's list of places to visit in Europe. You know it.)

Anyway, the routine always sparks another tendency in me: the fantasy of something to look forward to. So, all of a sudden, in the midst of my post-college exotic getaway, I'm starting to think about my next step. Where do we go after we leave Europe?

Believe me, the "plan" changes all the time. A few stellar examples...

1. The better place where they speak Spanish. Leave Spain in December to come home for the holidays. See family, friends, and "The Hobbit." Then hop a flight to Cancun in January to stay at hammock hostels in the Yucatan for 2 months or so. Basically avoid Pennsylvania winter at all costs.

2. The place that totally contradicts the reasoning for #1. Leave Spain in December to come home for the holidays. Find an internship for Elliot in Alaska. Spend 6 months writing and learning to fish and hunt. Embrace the cold by investing in super warm socks and long underwear.

3. The place where all our friends and family live. Leave Spain in December to come home. Stay in Pennsylvania for a year at most. Work a shit ton and save up money to achieve one of the above plans, or something better. Maybe go on a bike trip because we're due.

Is it because the grass just looks greener? Or because I'm at a point in my life where settling makes me restless? I'd like to think the latter, because there are times when I really, really like it here. When I don't want to leave in December. There are also times when I think I should return to a city I know, because I miss the people and places there so much. I just think I owe it to myself to see more before I stay put anywhere.

Doesn't mean train rides through southern France don't get fucking boring. Doesn't mean living in a city with people you love doesn't get fucking old.

We move around and we change our minds. Doesn't mean we're weak or not dedicated. But yeah, it definitely means I don't know what I want.

PS. To any concerned family members, Elliot and I have not made any decisions you don't know about, so no worries. Just humor us, I guess.