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.

Detoxing in more ways than one

In short, the past 5 weeks have been very busy.

In long, I made a lot of money (and spent a lot of money) in the past 5 weeks. The first part can be attributed to working 10-hour days of non-stop lesson-planning, document-translating, and bike-commuting. The second part can be attributed to Spain-traveling, beer-drinking, and rent-paying.

In the past 2 weeks. I climbed a mountain, reached two different bodies of salt water, and had wine poured on my head repeatedly. We had friends visiting, with as many as 6 sleeping in one room at any given time. We made food together, slept together, got drunk together (and thus had our hangover together). This can all be attributed to San Fermín (i.e. the Running of the Bulls).

Thus, my blog went on the backburner.

In many ways San Fermín was like...

a party, where there are endless friends, shenanigans, alcohol (well, not really endless alcohol), and shit on the floor.

a war, where every time you leave your house you have to be prepared for battle.

an apocalypse, where all the stores are shut down and the only ones that remain open are taking anything you have, and no one really cares what day or time it is.

a commune, where 13 people can peacefully share approximately 50 square meters and only one bathroom, even if they only just met each other.

a break, where I didn't have to think about work or checking my goddamn email.

Now, I'm on a different kind of vacation. There's no one in the house except the two of us, and a dog. And I will have very few classes this month. So I'll be at home, writing as much as I can.

At the Txupinazo in the Plaza del Ayuntamiento. See those blue signs in the back of the crowd? 

That's our building. We came downstairs about an hour before the rocket, and we still didn't get 

much further than 5 meters from our front door. (via eleconomista.es)

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.

Olentzero en los pueblos fuera de Pamplona

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

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

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

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

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

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

A better look inside the cottage

Scenic shot of a house and the setting sun

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

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

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

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

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

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