The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plains

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

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

A bitter,

grassy,

frothy,

golden,

PALE ALE.

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

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

Fotos & Haircuts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Transmitimos de Pamplona a los Estados Unidos

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

We've arrived. Oh, have we ever!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Better than donuts for sure via amarenas.blogspot.com

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

Un bar de pintxos via visitalltheworld.com

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

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

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

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

"Busco un cagador para pilas."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adverse advances

Recently, I made a second wave of major technological purchases.

The first consisted of 1990's essentials: a laptop and a camera (both previously owned).

This last wave finally brought me into the 21st century -- at the very least to 2009: an iPod touch and a Kindle.

I bought all of these products with the intention of benefitting fully from them throughout my travels. They'll help me better communicate with friends and family, as well as condense the media I carry with me (books, music, movies, games, etc).

The extent to which these things make others obsolete, however, has left me with some interesting thoughts. And not just me, but the rest of the modern world. We're literally killing certain mediums in favor of their digital alternatives.

The Kindle caused me the most soul-searching. When I first heard of the "e-reader" I considered it incredibly excessive. Books aren't bulky, especially because I don't intend on lugging 3,000 of them around with me. Plus, I told myself, I really love the feel of a book.

I like flipping through the chapters, gripping the spine, dog-earring the corners, and smelling the pages. Why would I want to give up a true experience like reading a book? And for a product that alone costs nearly a hundred bucks?

Then I did. Rather, I didn't give up the experience, but I did buy the Kindle for a hundred bucks. Plus accessories. Now I can carry 3,000 books with me (although it will probably be closer to 30) and not weigh down my suitcase.

Moving on, researching these products really brought to light the issue I mentioned earlier: these things are designed to make other things unnecessary.

Music, for example, has gone through a few stages of consumption. Vinyl records were replaced by tapes and CDs, which were then obliterated by mp3 files. 

E-readers like the Kindle or the Nook are marketed as eco-friendly tools, saving paper and consumers' money, while they also make books, magazines, and newspapers seem less convenient. (Hell, the Internet has been devastating paper media for decades.)

I have access to probably thousands of pictures documenting my life -- more than my parents or grandparents could dream of -- and yet so few of them are on my wall, or in my wallet.

It seems like my life is really going to change -- and not because of my travels but because of incredibly transformational technology. The way we access and distribute information and media is so vastly different from 10 years ago, let alone 100 years ago. 

And yet, some changes are making me think we're moving backward. I was listening to the radio today (yes, the radio) and they were discussing, well, the radio.

One topic: With satellite radio systems, Pandora or Spotify, and mp3 players, what is the fate of local radio stations?

One panelist offered: The radio is a great place to showcase local bands.

I stopped. The radio...a venue for showcasing local bands?! A novel idea. Straight outta 2011.

Have we really gone full circle?

When I was comparing e-readers on the Internet, I read certain users' speculations on the fate of the physical book: Books will become collectable vintage luxury items, as vinyl records have. They'll increase in value. 

And to think, books were luxury items a century ago. To have a library was to be wealthy, educated, and cultured. 

Vinyl records have become huge obsessions for many young people. My dad was infinitely confused as to why contemporary bands would want to release their music on vinyl. Ask any vinyl wiener about their collection and they'll probably tell you all about the superior sound.

Even when I look at towns -- like my own Greensburg, PA -- I feel like we've gone backward. Downtown used to be bustling with department stores, specialized shops, and shoppers. And now, that scene has moved approximately 3 miles down the highway, where you have to drive to get there. It's not called downtown, however; it's called a shopping plaza.

It's as if when suburbs started developing, the developers thought: Hey, wouldn't it be great to have sort of a central hub where people can go to run errands, grab a bite, or socialize? 

No kidding! Main Street USA, man! You can even grow vegetables in your own goddamn backyard! Did you know that?

Do we do go backward because we feel sentimental about older systems, older technologies? Do we do this because the past is truly superior? 

I can't tell whether my 50th birthday will be celebrated on a farm, or in fuckin' outer space. Will I be driving a hovercraft or still riding a bike? 

Most likely, following the current pattern, I'll be riding a bike on board a hovercraft.

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.

Packin' up, gettin' rid of stuff - Pt. 2

Although it felt really good to see the clean, empty house in Philadelphia, I still had to confront all of the shit I owned when I returned to my parent's house in Greensburg.

It's great, though, because my dad is a lot like me when it comes to throwing things away (or I guess I should say keeping things). As I was going through my tools, for example, I would find odd nuts, bolts, hooks, and screws.

I would ask, "What is this? Could you use this?"

And he would say, "Well, I don't know. But I'll take it."

So I feel better because I didn't have to throw it away; and he will feel better in the event that he actually uses the thing that he took.

I went through a second filtering process that allowed me to purge some more belongings that I don't need; and simultaneously another sorting process that forced me to decide what I might want to see or touch in the next year or so, and what I have to forget for a while.

It's very strange to plan for spontaneity. Strategically packing boxes and suitcases so that I can come and go, quickly and easily. Suddenly, decks of playing cards, bottle openers, and sturdy socks have become very essential.

Of course, I can still hoard. Finding spaces in drawers and cupboards at my parents' house is easy. But I keep seemingly useless things because I'm sentimental about them; I like to look at them.

So, inevitably, I'm giving stuff up. For a little while.

Art work from friends and family, bric-a-brac from my yellow bookcase, my yellow bookcase, a great glass carboy for wine-making, ceramic teapots, and a lot of books & movies I never want to revisit now but I certainly will when they're 3000 miles away.

This kind of planning doesn't really leave a lot of room for a home, which supposedly has all these things that I'm packing away. While I know there will be times when I'm grateful for living out of only a couple suitcases and a backpack, I'm sure there will be other times when I feel like a lonely ex-patriate.

(For those of you who read ex-pirate, please remember and write down your first image upon finishing that sentence)

Change is a given. My parent's house doesn't look at all like where I grew up. My neighborhood in Philly will have transformed a few times in the next 10 years. And my suitcases will probably evolve, too.


3712 Brandywine by Ashley Hayes (the Aussie couchsurfer)


PS. I hope y'all don't think I'm materialistic because I talk more about the stuff I have than the people I know. I'm not getting rid of anyone -- at least not on purpose. So you'll all get your weepy goodbye eventually, especially if you buy me enough beers.

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.