Hemos vuelto, pero no para siempre

Ya llevamos casi tres meses en la patria, lo que significa tres meses fuera de Pamplona, fuera de Euskal Herria, fuera de España. Esta entrada será para los que hemos dejado allí, los con que hemos compartido unas experiencias inolvidables. En esta entrada veréis como vivimos en Pensilvania (que no tiene ningún vampiro, que yo sepa).

10 Octubre 2012: Llegamos en Filadelfia sin problema. (Bueno, solo hubo problema en el lado americano. El agente estadounidense dudaba la foto de Elliot en su pasaporte. Le preguntaba varias cosas anodinas. Una molestia.) Pero salimos con buenas relaciones con el gobierno español. Les sorprendimos a unos amigos que no nos esperaban. Y seguía la borrachera que ya había durado 2 semanas con las despedidas.

Amigos y Elliot tomando en una taberna que se llama Royal Tavern, ubicada en Passyunk Avenue.

Nos echaron de un bar en el centro a las 2...lo podéis creer?!

El ayuntamiento de Filadelfia, el edificio de albañilería más alto del mundo. 

En el sur de la ciudad, la calle donde vivía yo hace más que 4 años.

El metro de Filadelfia (SEPTA). No es tan conveniente como lo de Barca.

Este pan se llama "bagel" (bei-gul); tiene semillas de sesamo encima, y espinacas, queso Filiadelfia
y pimientos piquillos adentro. Se sirve este "Bike Shop Bagel" en Satellite Café en el oeste de Fili. 

13 Octubre 2012: Llegamos en el pueblo, Greensburg (gríns-burg), donde viven los padres. Seguro que nos habéis oido hablando de la pizza de Greensburg, la que es de la mejor que hemos probado en el mundo. Un pueblo de casi 15.000, el GBG es un sitio tranquilo con una subcultura de arte y medicina homeopática.

Vista del centro del pueblo, desde la calle de los padres Swauger. Y un camión de correos.

Seguro que unos han visto el tatuaje en las costillas de Elliot, lo que tiene una imagen del 

tribunal de Greensburg (se ve en la parte derecha).

El campo de fútbol americano para los futboleros de colegio y de universidad Está en el centro.

Third Street. Estoy sentada en un banco fuera del edificio de seguridad
social. Por arriba está la oficina de correos y la biblioteca.

31 Octubre 2012: Celebramos Halloween. La familia de Elliot y yo nos vestimos como los personajes de la peli "Wizard of Oz". A ver si os suenan los disfraces...

4 Noviembre 2012: Elliot votó por la primera vez. Desafortunadamente, su candidato preferido no ganó.

13 Noviembre 2012: Elliot y yo firmamos un contrato para una casa en Pittsburgh. Que nos visitéis!

21 Noviembre 2012: Conseguí un trabajo que no es enseñar inglés. Empezaré en enero como ayudante administrativa en el único centro de partera en Pittsburgh.

Las cosas que me costaron en acostumbrarme: tomar vasos tan grandes de cerveza, no comer queso de oveja con regularidad, conducir por todas partes

Las cosas estereotípicas que he hecho: comer mucha pizza, comer muchas hamburguesas, comer muchas alitas de pollo, comer muchas papas fritas (bueno, comer mucho en general)

Ya empieza un capítulo nuevo, pero tenemos otro hogar en Pamplona. Gracias a todos que conocimos, por vuestra amistad, bondad y hospitalidad. Claro que vamos a volver.

Philly to Pamplona

A little over a month ago, three Philadelphia phriends decided to visit us in Pamplona. It was like a vacation, because they were leaving their houses and their city to see something new and far away. It was also like a vacation because none of us were going to work. Elliot and I decided to halt our classes and enjoy a week with close buds.

However, they were coming to a place where people live. Leaving San Fermín out of the equation, Pamplona's a pretty normal town. You have your concerts on the weekends, dive bars, good restaurants, few museums, vintage shops, and bus stops. You have the folk who boast about being born and bred here, and the teenagers that complain about how boring it is. Our friends were coming to a city where people don't often come to vacation. So while they came to see a typical place, it was an atypical getaway. Get it? (Sheesh, and I was going to try to squeeze all that into a snappy post title.)

They seemed to really enjoy their time here, which pleased us as hosts. Plus, I got to blend in with them as tourists and take out my camera a lot more!

Thus, the following visual trip log:

Rainy Friday afternoon? No need to force tourist outings on your guest! Just stay in and play
guitar, then go out to drink later.

This kind of street vibe can be found during San Fermín Txikito (chee-kee-toe), the lesser known
San Fermín celebration, and for good reason. This weekend involves all the same traditions as the
infamous bull-slaying blow out (minus bull-slaying), except people of Pamplona actually stick
around for it. Its name translates to "Little Running of the Bulls". In this photo (and the video
below), parents are watching their children be run down by a dude with a bull head on two wheels.

While San Fermín Txikito is a special event, street celebrations are not uncommon in Pamplona's
old part. It seems like every other Saturday, we walk downstairs and there is a parade marching
outside our door, or a concert in some plaza. This photo shows (kind of) the crowd density
during a weekend of fiestas.

Typical post-lunch scene: cubatas (mixed drinks) and guitar performance from talented friends.
What's not in this picture is the beautiful salads and rack of lamb we feasted on beforehand.

You never know when you'll walk through the Plaza del Castillo and be surprised by fireworks.

Late night foosball @ Bar Terminal. Talking shit and making a fool of yourself in an empty bar.

Props to Matt who played an acoustic show with Elliot at a neighborhood bar called Onki-Xin,
despite the language barrier and only a day's notice.

While we didn't plan this, our friend's trip coincided with a union strike in Pamplona (Sept. 26).

We also made the hike up a mountain to visit an abandoned Franco-era
fort that was used as a prison for several years. It was like Eastern State,
but with a creepier, fascist air about it.

Bullet holes, possibly from the fort being under siege, or the 1938 prison break (see link above).

In some ways, a vacation can be more enlightening when you follow someone else's routine. Granted, we weren't working when our friends were here, but we went to our favorite spots and made them some choice meals. It was more about showing them how we live here, which we've learned from the people who actually do live here. It's exciting to show someone around, to introduce them to new things that were once new for you. I'm more often on the other end.

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.

Eating ecologically in Pamplona

Maybe I've said this a few times already, but I am both interested in and concerned about food. Not to mention, I really enjoy food. Yes, sure, in the way that we all enjoy food. But also in the way that I'm willing to spend more money monthly on food than on rent or bills (but not cumulatively).

Of course, we ain't pullin' in the dough neither. Wherever we are, we're always on the lookout for cost-effective outlets that can provide us with quality ingredients for our meals.

Upon moving to Philly as a vegan, having experienced the cruelty-free delights that filled the East End Co-op in Pittsburgh, I knew to look for a similar establishment in the city of brotherly love. And I found one. Well, two. But the one had better proximity than the other. And as I made my life in Philadelphia, I grew to know the many other organic local food outlets that the city has to offer. By the end of my Philly stint, I was hitting up the Fair Food Farmstand for some local meat, the Clark Park Farmer's Market (Urban Girls Produce, Urban Nutrition Initiative, Pennypack Farm, Lanisdale Farm, etc.) for eggs, cheese, & some veggies, Millcreek Urban farm for super cheap greens and root veggies, and ultimately the co-op for bulk grains, canned veggies, oils, teas, and other slightly processed food products. When Elliot and I felt saucy, we would go out to the various swanky farm-to-table joints for Pennsylvania gin, in-house pickled vegetables, or some roasted Lancaster chicken. After four years, you get to know the ins and outs of local and (sometimes) sustainable agriculture.

Then you leave the country. You move to another country whose food system is totally different -- perhaps just as fucked -- but very different. We're talking cured ham legs hanging from the ceilings. (Better yet, during Christmas, we're talking cured ham legs on every kitchen counter or dining table, gradually being picked apart by family, guests, and maybe a pet or two.) We're talking indoor markets like Reading Terminal, but better and more common. Sure, people love meat here just like in good ol' 'merica, but they also love their vegetables: white asparagus, artichokes, swiss chard, cabbage, endive, peppers. You will not meet kids here who stick their tongues out at veggies.

Despite the great differences between here and there, I was determined to find some shocking similarities. A few months ago, I tried asking some friends here for the down-low on the Spanish food system. I mentioned this in an earlier post, but I'll repeat anyway: I was looking for the "shit in the meat." Western industrialized food production is fucked anywhere you go, so why not here? While I can find countless books on the monocultures and genetic modifications in my homeland, the answers are not so clear here.

Of course, you know not to go to the supermarkets to search for organic veggies (verdura ecológica). But stores that sell organic food, or even organic food stores, don't represent a beat-all solution. For example, in the US, we have an affinity for fruits that don't really belong to us: bananas, oranges (in some states), mangoes, etc. In the specific case of Pennsylvania, weekly gallons of orange juice are typical, but not sustainable. However, I can easily find organic varieties of almost any fruit in organic superstores like Whole Foods. But the "organic" label and the 3,000+ miles that some fruits travel to reach us don't really mesh. And it's the same in Spain.

Sometimes, I think it could be even worse in Spain. My theory, albeit perhaps a bit premature, is that because some parts of European food production are so beneficial (exclusion of GMO's, farms' proximity to towns and cities, more appreciation for fresh foods, less public endorsement of fast food, etc.), people are blissfully unaware of the overprocessed, unhealthy, falsely marketed products that are leeching into the system. When you grow up believing, as they do in Navarra, that your community highly values food and drink, you also grow up thinking that what you find in your community is good for you. Increasingly, the food in your community is that which is provided by chain supermarkets and giant industrial food corporations.

Regarding organic food stores, I believe there to be a disconnect between organic and sustainable or local, as there often is in the US. I became accustomed to labels of origin on all produce at Mariposa, even at Whole Foods, and I don't really see any of that here. I walk into health food stores here (I know many, each with their pros and cons), and I just kind of hope that the vegetables I'm buying are at the very least from Navarra. Of course, I'm not so naive to think that about oranges (typically from Valencia) or a tomato in February. But when I buy broccoli or spinach, both vegetables that I know can thrive in Navarra, I just hope. There aren't any labels after all, perhaps because customers looking for organic products don't really care to buy local -- or maybe we're all just hoping, even the store owners.

Anyway, to really get to the point of this post, which is somewhat celebratory, at last I found TomateGorriak. This buyer's group is similar to a CSA in that members pay a flat rate to reap the benefits of local (we're talking within a few kilometers local) farmers. TomateGorriak is dissimilar to a CSA in that 1) it's super small scale as the farmers can only supply weekly veggies for a fixed number of people, and 2) members pay monthly as opposed to seasonally or yearly. Perhaps there are some CSA's that run this way, but I found TomateGorriak to be super DIY. They're a group of maybe 30 or so people, farmers included, that have arranged a system of providing locals with local produce. Members pay 50 euros each month to get a nice big bag of vegetables every Monday of that month, enough for 2-3 people. There are several groups like this throughout the region, each with their respective farmers.

I not only feel relieved to benefit from local and seasonal agriculture, but I am also somewhat relieved to find that there are other people in Pamplona that are as pessimistic about food as I am. I attended one of their orientational meetings to be debriefed on the organization and I felt at home, hearing one omen after another about today's food production. Like I said, we're interested and concerned.

Thanks for sticking with me this far. It's almost over now, but before I finish I wanted to ask you, as the reader, what do you value in food? We don't have to agree, I just want to know.

Going underground

Music, for myself and many of the people I know, is the glue that binds us. It often represents a state of mind, be it political or inebriated, to which friends can relate. Not only does it facilitate a successful chill session, but your music tastes can let people know how you like to feel, even if it doesn't show on the outside. Throughout my life, I have associated a kind of music (hell, sometimes I can narrow it down to a fuckin' song) with the people I know and love. 

The most all encompassing word I can think of is alternative, and that's what we tend to be. Our sexualities, our politics, our food, our clothes, our language, and our music reflect an alternative to what is considered mainstream, acceptable, or normal.

Continuously, to my surprise, I've found that this glue might be contained only within the US, perhaps just Pennsylvania. As I meet the alternative folk of Pamplona, we share a lot of things, but music isn't usually one of them. This has perpetuated a long series of thoughts about music, the scene, friendship, differences, etc. which I will try to get into here, as coherently as possible.

Take our trip to Elizondo last weekend: it's a rural little town north of Pamplona, very close to the French border. Elliot and I accompanied our friend in his camper to his band's show at Elizondo's gaztetxea (pronounced gaz-ste-che). Now, the best English to Basque translation we can come up with is infoshop, and even that phrase doesn't have a whole lot of meaning for some people.

In a lot of ways, this show was what I was used to in Philly.

You know, a lot of young people, makeshift stage, shit on the floor, BO smell, etc. There were posters promoting other shows or political protests plastered on the walls, folks drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, and random shouts and screams in between songs.

The differences were interesting though. Besides the in-house bar and the rural location, this show was distinct from anything I had ever experienced in Philly or Pittsburgh. This was mostly due, I think, to the persistence of tradition in everything unconventional.

Before the show, we marched through the town with other attendees and a band of drums, flutes, and violins. This folky spectacle was not really rooted in anything indie (i.e. bearded 20-somethings playing soft tunes), nor was it a harkening to old times (bearded 20-somethings playing the banjo). This tradition maintains itself as just that. We marched for an hour or so, stopping at a few bars along the way so musicians and marchers alike could wet their whistles and enjoy the night.

After the parade, people sat down to dinner (vegan-friendly) provided by the gaztetxea. While potlucks and the like certainly aren't foreign ideas to the alternative scenes in the US, I wouldn't call them common. Furthermore, we usually don't cook for 40+ people pre-show. After dinner, we heard bottles of patxaran clinking as people served themselves and passed them down the table. Eating, and eating with a group, is very integral to Navarran culture. This goes for its subcultures as well. I can't tell you how many times I've heard someone say to me, "Here in Navarra, we eat well, and we drink well."

Finally, the band was not punk at all. Nor was it metal, hardcore, or noise. It was an overall feel-good band with flamenco, reggae, and funk influences. That's not a bad thing, it's just...different. The singer, wonderful. The band, exceptional. The music, definitely rooted in genre(s) that have been popular in Spain (in some cases, across the world) for a long time. From what I could understand of the lyrics, it seems like they use words as a way of challenging norms, rather than the music. In the US, there are a lot of bands that do both, but the music is always somewhat (often very) provocative. However, the band we saw last weekend was pretty chill. Again, not a bad thing.

I wouldn't say my tastes in music are limited. But I will admit that I have some narrow perceptions of what it is to be alternative, or what it is to challenge a system. Sometimes, I think I will butt heads with people due to their ideas of what is radical. Consequently, I miss out on the opportunity to see the divergences in people. I neglect to see their extremes. And so dulls my own ax against a mutual evil we might have, figuratively speaking. 

Of course, I have my own nuanced philosophies, which I tend to hold back due to a fear of butting heads with people who think differently. People who think differently because they were socialized differently.

A question I ask myself, and now I ask you: How does the conversation begin?

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.

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?

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.

Where do nice people live?

When we travel, we tend to meet people that are welcoming, generous, and helpful. I found all of these attributes throughout the past week.

Veggies, old world spirits, and southern hospitality in North Carolina's triangle.
Abundant herb, loud music, and slices of pizza in post-move Philadelphia.

You hear it all the time: Everyone was so nice. They all seem so glad you're there.

Then you go home, where no one cares. Sure, my parents were glad to see me, but the majority of Greensburg's population is indifferent.

And that's because I live here. I'm no visitor, no special guest, no sight for sore eyes. If anything, I'm the annoyingly androgynous youth on a bicycle, riding in the middle of a lane; or the hippie at the bank.

Of course, I'm not particularly thrilled to see most of the people in Greensburg either. The bike shops are barren and uncomfortable; the bars host too many former high school classmates; and the grocery stores have a weak selection of cheese.

Drinks enjoyed whole-heartedly with sour puss Joe McFadden in Pittsboro, NC.

I remember telling myself, before I left Philly, that I would appreciate the calmer environment here in southwestern PA, where it's quiet, laid-back, and more scenic.

The city seemed so anonymous//heartless//mean.

This is also a stereotype of the east coast; or rather, more specifically, the tri-state area including Philly, NYC, and New Jersey. Compared to the west coast, we're more cynical, less polite, and generally ugly.

So I left. And not to San Fran or LA, but to the once-thriving-but-now-sort-of-sleeping town called Greensburg. It's easy to say that people are nicer here, mostly because I don't really have to see anybody. Living without a job or a large social network enables me, at times, to see more dogs than humans.

But really, they're all the same. And when I go to other cities -- on either coast -- I meet more lonely, apathetic souls. Does that mean they're not nice? I guess not. It does mean that they're less likely to smile at a stranger, or engage in conversation. As am I.

Philly, as awful and unhealthy as it is, has a soft spot in my heart. Now, when I hear some goof laugh and gurgle about how much they love their professor, or talk animatedly about a poetry reading, I think about how much I miss my Philly. Conflict, man -- it makes me want to slap that goof across the face just to see what happens.

So where do the nice people live? And is it worth it to find them? You tell me.

Tales from Manayunk

... or Manayunk puts the "hilly" in "Philly"
... or A fuckin' good day
... or Delayed update post


Whatever you'd like to call this post, it's about to get real.

August 7: Friends came over to celebrate leaving our house, as well as take some of our shit. To those of you who stopped by to bid your farewell and swipe a few things, I thank you. It was a delight.

August 10-11: Father and younger brother arrive to help us move out of 3712 Brandywine -- which proved to be an awful task. We were able to donate a lot of furniture, clothing, and housewares to AIDS Thrift and residents on our block. I am most grateful to the family down the street who took the organ. The curse has now been passed.

August 12-14: Elliot and I spent the weekend in Wheeling, WV with his parents to enjoy three days of their annual BluesFest. I can now say I've experienced 27 cumulative hours of the blues, as well as some new thoughts about age, race, and gender. I also got a straw hat and a sweet wrist bracelet tan line.

August 15: Elliot and I hightail it back to Philly around midnight, approximately 1.5 hours after the last Blues Fest band to beat the garbage truck so we could finally get rid of this busted and moldy futon in our basement. That was five hours of too much coffee, Gardettos, and lots of music to which we could sing along (The Killers, RATM, Silversun Pickups, etc). We successfully stayed awake to finish cleaning the house and leave for good.

August 16-19: The worst first week we could have had for our longer commute from Yunktown. Torrential downpour, but only when we were outside! Anyway, it was fun to bike together, soaking wet and singing made up songs about the weather. Like this one...

It's fuh-king -- ray-ning
It's fuh-king -- ray-ning
It's fucking ----- raining
It's fucking ----- raining


But all of that hubbub finally brought me to TODAY! One of the best days I've had in weeks, and I was all alone. First, I woke up at 11:30. And not because I went to bed at 3, but rather because I needed 12 hours of sleep.

Then I researched some key locations to visit in Yunkersville.

Map of Yunkshire; come visit sometime.

I went to the Chop Shop, a cheap chain salon, because I left my clippers packed up at my parent's house. I appreciated the hair dresser's honesty when she told me, in so many words, that I did a shitty job of cutting my own hair. Now my hair has texture, like a stucco wall or some really coarse sandpaper.

Then I ventured to the Weaver's Way Co-op storefront on Carpenter Lane, where I bought some food and marveled at the intersection where the market was located. A food co-op, "green" dry-cleaner, trendy cafe, and bookstore -- all at the same intersection. This led to a lot of thinking which now leads to a story within a story:

Pennsylvania Ave. in Greensburg, PA via jmd41280

This kind of neighborhood makes me think of Pennsylvania Ave. in Greensburg because of the great assortment of shops. Independent businesses are wonderful not only because you can shake hands with the owners, but also because they demonstrate the needs of an area. I appreciate these kinds of intersections because it sort of illustrates the people who live there.


However, the automobile makes neighborhoods like these accessible for those who don't live there; which can also prevent the development of similar intersections in areas that need them. That's why I had to bike 3 miles to get to Weaver's Way. And why most of the people I saw in these shops were white. Not to say that white people don't live in Mt. Airy, Manayunk, or Roxborough, but these areas also have an equal if not greater black population. Thus these intersections are not so accessible for some. 


And they cater to awful people who talk very loudly and explain to their granddaughters that they want to add red peppers to a recipe "for some color" and make pretentious book suggestions to other customers and shove me aside without saying excuse me. But I won't hold this against the co-op.


This all culminated in my decision to write down what my perfect settling place would include, but that's for another entry -- and possibly even another planet.


After that trip, I did some laundry down the street at a self-serve place called the Wissahickon Washaus. No one was there but some security cameras, and that was fine as I read my book from the library.

Finally bought a six-pack at a pub down the street and made a place on the side porch (a real-live porch!) with some cheese and crackers to write this blog for y'all.

I very much enjoyed my day in Manayunk today. Exploring is great. Still can't believe this whole other world resides in the city I've been living in for four years. Now I know how they fit over five million people in this place.

Philadelphia, man. Dig it.

Leaving Mantua

Most of the people I know living in Philadelphia have dealt with some kind of tension, either in their own neighborhoods, or in others to which they've visited.

Jumped in West Kensington
Pistol-whipped in Olney
Heckled in Francisville
Beaten in Center City
Punched in Fishtown
Cat-called in Point Breeze
Robbed on the Broad Street Line

For the most part, we all have something in common: we're kind of poor but not really poor. So we can afford to live on the edge -- that which lies between a more contentious area and one that is more, say, white.

Mantua, Philadelphia (via photographyclubcolumbia)

My edge is Brandywine Street. Technically in Mantua, but five steps away from Powelton Village where college kids have crept into the 150-year-old neighborhood over the last decade or so.

I feel safe on my block. It's usually quiet, except when the dude a few houses down blares his car stereo (old and new R&B that I don't really mind). No one has ever made me feel uneasy. Some neighbors have even expressed their enjoyment -- not annoyance -- of weekly band practices held in our living room.

But I wouldn't say that I feel completely comfortable in Mantua.

1. I avoid Haverford Avenue on my ride home, even though it technically represents a quicker route from the Spring Garden bridge. I take Hamilton Avenue instead because it's less likely that people are on the sidewalks or out in the street. Even more unlikely that people on the street are going to fuck with someone on a bike. Hamilton is lined with big, old houses with iron fences, English ivy, Christmas lights, and porches. Once you get past 34th Street, Haverford consists mainly of empty lots, boarded windows, and a sketchy pizza place. When my family was visiting a couple years ago, I told them to use Hamilton even if the GPS suggested to use Haverford. I wasn't necessarily worried about them being fucked with, but I figured they would have a better impression of my neighborhood if they got to my house via Hamilton. Anyway, they decided to go against my directions to see what the fuss was about and the first thing my 14-year-old brother said when he came through the door was "I think we just saw a drug deal."

2. I never made a decent effort to know my neighbors. Sure, I recognize most of them, but there's never more than a hello and a wave when we cross paths. During block parties, I hung out on the stoop for a hot minute, but never crossed the street to drink a beer with the dudes that grill all the time. Interestingly, I never got to know the other white college kids on the block either. Never really saw them outside. A kind of collective agoraphobia. There is a grass lot on our street, about the size of two rowhouses. Perfect for an urban garden -- sun, space, and proximity. I thought about this project, and the best/fairest way to go about it. Should I start it on my own, or get the support of other families on the block? Should we share a communal garden, or have individual plots? Should I push for organic and sustainable methods of gardening that I've only read about, or let everyone do their own thing? The final question I asked myself was, Should I even be the one to do this? I decided I shouldn't be. After all, I was one of the newest tenants on the block. It'd be pretty white of me to move in, not talk to anyone, stick a shovel in the ground, and start making "recommendations." So the lot remains empty.

3. I didn't plan to be here long. I moved to Philadelphia for school. I moved to Mantua because it was convenient, cheap, and relatively safe. Always wanted to live off of Baltimore Ave. (see previous post). Lately, I've been all too eager to leave. I never felt like a Mantua resident to begin with. No investment in this house or this street. Gave up on living in the city.

So in the next two weeks, I'm leaving this neighborhood. I'll be living in Manayunk for a few weeks (stay tuned!) and then moving back to the childhood comfort of Greensburg.

I realize that I am in a privileged position, to come and go as I please. On one hand, I feel like an intruder living in a neighborhood where I don't have any roots; on the other, I feel sheltered and naive living where I feel too comfortable. And as a traveler, I'm an outsider anywhere.

I don't have any conclusions. But I do have some advice: visit as much of Philly as you can (or substitute Philly with wherever you live). While I wasn't completely comfortable here, I feel confident in saying I've lived here because I know where things are, and I know what places look like.

GET A MAP

A case against bike lanes

First of all, hear me out.

Rather than use this post to complain about motorists, I'd like to instead form an organized argument against bike lanes -- both the infrastructure and the philosophy behind it. I want a dialogue, not a rant.

I bring this topic up for a few reasons...

Critical Mass - October 2009

1. Relevance: I ride a bike on Philly streets nearly every day, and have for the past 3 years.
2. Frustration: Recent run-ins with disgruntled and irrational drivers has made me raw.
3. Timeliness: City Hall plans to implement new lanes on 10th & 13th streets.

Bike lanes have a pretty good rap. They're often used as an indicator of the bike-friendliness of a city. And for good reason I suppose.

At the very least, it demonstrates that the city recognizes a cycling community. Furthermore, their presence acknowledges bicycles as machines that belong on the asphalt.

For the rider, bike lanes feel pretty good. They tend to be car-free, which makes a rider feel safer.

But there always seems to be a catch.

Sure, we're permitted to ride on the road. In fact, by law we're permitted to take a full lane for ourselves. But the bike lanes imply that we should only ride between the white lines. Thus, some drivers take it upon themselves to enforce this implication by yelling at riders outside the bike lane. In cases where there aren't any bike lanes painted on the road, the rider is still expected to stay far to the right, pinned between moving traffic and parked cars with unpredictable doors.

These lanes also make bicyclists invisible. Why else would drivers make so many right turns, or pull into the bike lane with their 4-ways on, despite the looming two-wheeler in their side mirrors?

It's as if the left edge of the bike lane represents an invisible shield through which drivers cannot see. And the moment we choose to move to the left to avoid a stalled bus, glass, or the occasional door, we suddenly appear within the driver's visual field. And they either honk or sideswipe us. Some states have implemented a law that requires motorists to give cyclists at least three feet of space between them while passing. In other words, we're forcing cars to notice us to avoid this shit.

The ultimate catch is what they expect from cyclists in exchange for these precious accomodations (bike racks, lanes, etc.). Earlier this spring, Philadelphia Police Department launched their "Give Respect - Get Respect" campaign for motorists, cyclists, and pedestrians.

While I agree with some of their sentiments (don't ride on the sidewalks, wear a helmet, don't use a cell phone while riding), I do not agree with the ticketing of cyclists for these "transgressions." For two main reasons.

1. Charging a $54 fine for something like riding on the sidewalk could significantly deter some riders from using a bicycle at all. The city has failed to consider why someone might ride on the sidewalk (i.e. the slowest way to get anywhere). This population consists of mostly inexperienced riders, as well as delivery guys. Both are probably terrified of being hit by a car. Why? Because cars can be fuckin' aggro as shit.

 2. The underlying message of this campaign is that if the city gives us (bikers) room to move around, we should return the favor by following their laws. The laws that were written and designed with cars in mind. Fuck that. I avoid certain activities like chatting on the phone, riding without a helmet, and riding on the sidewalk because they are unsafe, not because I respect Philadelphia government.

The city would like to think that they've done a lot for cyclists: transforming old parking meters into shitty bike racks, painting bike lanes that disappear for the winter under piles of snow, and taking pictures of the mayor wearing a helmet.

But most of the time, we're either pushed aside or lumped in with cars. And we're not cars.

Tour de Bronx - October 2010

I guess what I'm trying to say is bike lanes do not equal respect. The cycling community has exploded in Philadelphia over the last five years, and yet our laws have remained the same. Sure, the city has added new laws, but they have yet to alter those that were problematic in the first place.

Futhermore, "respect" from the city does not equal respect from its drivers. They're still going to honk and yell any time a rider tries to take the lane.

Respect will be achieved once the city acknowledges that the entire transportation infrastructure must be changed if they really want to accommodate cyclists completely. What this infrastructure change involves, I don't know exactly. But bike lanes don't really mean shit.

So for now I'm going to keep cruising, using my eyes, ears, and helmet to keep me safe.

Philadippy

"Have you ever seen so many hippies in one room?" my father asked in reference to me and my friends at my graduation party earlier this year.

My guess is that his main indicators for this kind of labeling were as follows:

- hair (long, dreads, beards)

- smell (some BO, maybe a little tea tree)

- clothes (second-hand, worn out sneakers)

I think that when I was 15 and I bought a long skirt and started listening to Bob Dylan, my dad decided I was a hippie. Even now when I dress either like a 13-year-old boy or a 90's mom, I'm pretty sure he'd hold his ground. After all, my legs and pits are hairy, I follow a veggie lifestyle, and I still listen to Bob Dylan.

In high school, I'd say I was a wannabe hippie.

The skirt, the

clogs, the

music, the

herb, and the

diet.

But one thing I didn't really have was the attitude. Sure I wanted peace, love, and harmony, but wasn't ready to fight for it, or sing about it. 

I went to all the drum circles, but was usually bored the whole time.

Guy Wathen/Tribune-Review (Greensburg, PA)

That's probably why this phase didn't really last all that long. And Philly isn't really any kind of mecca for hippies. So my skirt was doomed from the start, I guess.

Yet, when I moved here, I never really noticed the lack of hippies.

Until a couple weeks ago. My roommates attended a drum circle (hadn't heard that in a long time) deep in the belly of Fairmount Park. They said there must have been 100 people or so participating.

Holy shit. Where did all these hippies come from?

I started thinking about Philly neighborhoods and where these hippies could be hiding. I've seen dreads, vegans, and yogis all over this city, but not too many I would consider reminiscent of my Western PA teenage upbringing. And I live in West Philly.

One interwebber made a good point on this forum discussing hippie communities in the greater Philadelphia area:

I like to think that folks on this coast are rather impatient with the left coast, identity politics, "check me out, look how far out I am" crowd. 

It doesn't mean we don't ride bikes, drink organic soymilk, eat granola and drive cars that run on fryer grease . . . we just don't wear it on our sleeves. 

You'll find most of what you're looking in West Philly but it's certainly not a hippy aesthetic. Lots of anarchist enterprises in the neighborhood to include a food co-op, tool share, cafe, bar, a land trust and a book store off of South St.

Ok, so you might ride bikes and go to independent bookstores. But that still doesn't make you a hippie in the sense that I know hippies...

When I was 18, I sat in the attic of a house in rural Western PA with approximately 10 other people, mostly older than me, for a drum circle that went until approximately 6:00 AM. 

The house was pretty small -- just a kitchen, bathroom and a large, lofty bedroom that the couple and their daughter shared. They also had a vegetable patch, which at this point was dead and frigid because it was February. The couple planned to homeschool their young daughter, as this mission against government-funded indoctrination was written all over their kitchen cupboards. 

I was ready to leave after about an hour but had to wait for my ride home. There were drums, shakers, space cookies, reiki massages, and a dog. I fell asleep for a while with the dog on the floor. 

That was it, man. That was a hippie household. Off the grid. Truly anti-establishment. But solidly working for peaceful coexistence. And I was fuckin' bored.

So I'm thinking that the huge crowd in Fairmount Park that meet regularly for mega drum circles are not like the hippies I met in my hometown.

I mean, wouldn't living in the big city with a hippie philosophy wear you down? It's a fast-paced, heavily polluted lifestyle that doesn't really mesh with free love.

Or does the city just make you adapt? And if so, are you a still a hippie?

PS. The church linked above ultimately won the zoning battle, but lost the drug war.