castles, castles everywhere

DAY 202

“I’m just fascinated by visiting actual castles in the countryside.”

§ Lily Collins §

I love castles. Do you want to know why? Well, it might be because we are flat out of castles in Washington, so the whole idea of a castle in each ancient town is…well…what a novelty. What’s even better is that in Europe in general, we’ve got castles, castles everywhere.

It’s not just me.  Now, yes, it’s true that castles fascinate some for their historical importance. But for many people, castles are fascinating because of the life that Hollywood and fairy tales have made us associate with castles. Fairy tales gently glaze over the extreme conditions—the bugs, the rats, the lack of food, the disease, the lack of running water or ever clean water, the constant fear or battle or plague or mass starvation.   The whole taking a bath once a month, wearing the same clothes day in and day out—skipped over.  Fairy tales glamorize castles and I can say with 100% certainty that I am not immune.

To me, castles are the place to go, the highlight of the weekend. What did you do last weekend? Oh, I found a castle. And you do always have to “find” it. Castles always involve walking…because they are always at the top of everything to afford the best views and the best defenses.

To get the Xátiva castle, I refused to take the train, electing instead to go walking.  It was so worth it.  I found so much on the way—castle walls, magnificent views, a hermitage, a watchtower I climbed on, blooming flowers, forests of catii, so much. And the castle itself—about a kilometer of walking just to see it all—was amazingly intact.  It had at least 4 sets of gates, so that in times of war, the inhabitants could literally blockade themselves off in sections depending on how far the invaders got.  It had several wells, a dungeon that once housed kings and noblemen, stores for food, for weapons, for people.  And it was gorgeous as well, both the views and the castle itself (which, with the way it was perched on top of the cliffs, almost reminded me of photos I’ve seen of China’s wall).

And at the top, I did what I always do these days—I asked for a photo. Asking for a photo gets me all kinds of interesting stories…but this time, it got me a new English-speaking friend.

Xátiva and it castle? Fantastic.

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it’s always ourselves we find in the sea

DAY 201

“maggie and milly and molly and may

went down to the beach(to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang

so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles,and

milly befriended a stranded star

whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing

which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and

may came home with a smooth round stone

as small as the world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)

it’s always ourselves we find in the sea”

§ ee cummings §

 As a general rule, I don’t like beaches.

That said, I adapt quickly. I moved to Spain. Spain has lots of beaches. Spanish people love beaches. Spanish people spend a lot of time on the beaches.  Therefore, I go to the beach.

But why? Why are beaches so popular? Because there isn’t much variation to beaches. Sand, grit, water. Hot sun, sunburns, suntan lotion (the Brits call it sun cream…I think that sounds nasty).  Some have more people and therefore more trash. Both Ocean City MD and Ocean City NJ have so many people that finding the sand is a full time job. In Costa Rica, they have palm trees and monkeys. In British Columbia, they have bald eagles.  In Maine, the water is freezing.  In North Carolina you have to watch out for things that sting and bite. In England, no one goes in the water, they just have these atrocious boardwalks (it’s good that my love of England isn’t hindered by it’s less-than-attractive beaches, as beaches are never a priority for me). In Italy, you can find beaches with locals in various states of undress.

And in Spain, well, is there anything special about the beaches here? In one sense, no. Sand, water, sky.  I like the beach by night better than the beach by day. The nighttime beach is quieter—and for some reason, I feel like if I stare out at the depths of the sea, the waves will spit out the answer to my nagging questions. As ee cummings put it, “it’s always ourselves we find in the sea…” and maybe that’s true.  So in another sense, yes. I am used to the water being an ugly sheen of dark grey that we call blue.  Here in Spain, the Mediterranean Sea is a brilliant turquoise, the most beautiful colour you can imagine! The photos can’t even capture the true colour.

But why are they so popular? I don’t know. Perhaps because people enjoy running around in fast-drying underwear (going off that, why is it okay to wear a speedo or a bikini on the beach, but if I were to walk around the street in my bra—which covers more than most bikinis—I’d be considered insane?)

But maybe that’s it. The beach allows behavior that is normally not allowed.  Undressing until most—if not all, on some beaches—of our skin is exposed, is not only normal, it is encouraged, even necessary.  You can lie in the sand and ignore the world. So-called beach-reads are nothing more than cheap paperbacks, the kind that even the authors tend to admit are crap.  You can be as loud as you want, you can invade each other’s personal space.  Packs of beer and bags of chips–none of those green vegetables we eat at out dining room tables. The rules are chucked out the window.  And in the process, you can get a tan, which is of course today’s fashion. (Though just as dangerous as the white skin enhanced by white makeup mixed with lead that the Victorians used to find fashionable).

The beach will probably never be my thing.  But alright, I’m here, so time to enjoy it!  (By the way, that book in the photo is a collection of children’s stories in French…not your typical beach-read…)

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the romans really did build it to last…

DAY 200 !!

“All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages…”

As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 7, 139-143, Shakespeare

I have always loved history, old things. Art, beauty, architecture.  Maybe that’s why I love Europe so much.

But what I love even better than old things is the melding of the old with the new, preserving the old, yet keeping it in use today. Restoration rather than mere preservation.

One of the best things I love about my community here is the Roman Theater. And okay, I don’t live IN Sagunto, I live some kilometres away, but I can get their easily enough. (In fact, I ran there today. A killer run, truly. I did take some breaks, but I ran about 12 kilometers at 7 minute pace…). 

This theatre is OLD. The town as founded about 219 BC, and the theatre dates back to the first century! (And here I was, thinking the 1800’s were a long time ago…) It was used by Romans, Moors, Iberians, probably some others along the way, and then finally, the Spanish.

And they–we–still use it today.

They’ve built modern (but not ugly) bleachers over the crumbling originals, but only in the center. In age where progress means bulldozing entire forests to build a useless highway, this intertwining of modern and ancient is rare.

On the sides, and of course, the Roman nosebleed seats, are still the originals. Now, we can’t stomp our modern feet all over the pretty Roman rocks, but we can settle down onto the modern rock benches and enjoy the same view of the same stage that people have enjoyed for, well, a heck of a lot of years.  SO that posses the question…have we really changed? We still do the same basic things for entertainment–of course, not we prefer motion pictures over live actors, but the theater is still a night out on the town.  I recently read a BBC article equating our current economic decline with that of the decline of the Roman Empire. Was that historian right? I certainly hope not. I don’t want Europe to decline, I love it here! It has become home.  But in the end, it makes you wonder…how much, in the past few thousand years, have we actually, truly changed?Havewe progressed, or are will the same, just with fast cars and power tools and nuclear weapons, and this wonderful thing we like to call the internet.  The world has certainly grown smaller, and more connected. But actual change? Perhaps not. 

All the same, I find this place just…so damn impressive. 

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la casa de las conchas

DAY 199

You walk, meander among little Spanish streets. White buildings, white towns. Pueblos Blancos. Spanish floats from second-story windows, vendors attempt to thrust cheap goods in your hands.  A clank of forks sounds, the clatter of cooking escapes from the open doorways, enticing smells encase the air.

Starving, you search for a place to eat, a place to settle into a chair, listen to the sound of the sea, pull out your novel (which, incidentally enough, happens to be in French), sip your sangria, enjoy your food, fall in love with life itself. 

But, suddenly—you stumble upon this—La Casa de las Conchas.  It is unexpected. You didn’t know much about this town, aside from the castle. You came here for the castle. You came here because you had to go somewhere. You came here because someones else told you to. Word of mouth—the best way to travel, the best way to find the local flavour. 

But now that you’re here, you’re ready to discover—and you do! See what you’ve found? Here is house, a tall narrow house, a house that is completely covered with beautiful seashells.

How? Why? Who?

Even utilizing the internet, it is difficult to know, difficult to find the answer.  Who covered this building with shells? And why would one go through that much work?

This house, it is a work of art. Sadly, the only thing that is inside is more tourist traps.

I didn’t go in.

I took a photo, and moved on.

Later, if I translated the webpage correctly, I got the full story.  In the 1950’s, a family of five needed work.  The woman, Justa, intrigued by history and full of love for her city, became a the first local tour guide. She found enough tourists to eventually buy this little house by the sea, a house for her and her family to reside in.  The father loved the sea so much that he began designs of sailors and ships to decorate the walls. He added a shell, then another.  With the support of the townspeople, he kept going, Another, another. All shells found in the area, all shells collected from the local sea, until the entire façade was covered. Thus, La Casa de las Conchas was born. By 1961, it had become a local landmark.

So the family went from giving tours of the local monuments to creating them. A full about-face.

I find that fascinating.   

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“tienes un novio? no? te quieres un novio? si? umm tienes amigos??”

DAY 198

§ Longed for him. Got him. Shit. § – Margaret Atwood

It seems like everyone is getting married in Spain. A line of cars covered in flowers or squares full of loud music and people in pretty clothes are not uncommon.  Or else they are already married, very young of course, with plenty of kids. Or they have boyfriends who they seem inseparable from. PDA is an everyday thing here.  (Someone told me the age of consent is 13? Maybe not true.) But it is true that my 11 year olds act like 13 year olds, and my actual 13 year olds act like they are 15 or 16. I’ve had eight and nine year olds ask me about my love life. I’ve had complete strangers ask me point-blank if I had “un novio” and when I said no, they just seem really confused and ask “why not?” like it’s the simplest thing in the world. How are you, where are you from, do you have a boyfriend…wait, you don’t, why not?? My answer: I don’t know! Maybe because I haven’t met anybody?

It’s frustrating, mostly because I want to meet people here, it’s just that not living in Valencia makes things rough.  I live in a suburb, and I don’t really know anyone besides my workmates and a few vague acquaintances, like the baker, the barista, and the fruit-stand guy. Everyone anywhere near my age who lives in this town is either pregnant, has children or is a beach bum. Sometimes all 3. Or else they are scared away by my shaky Spanish.  (Because it is a fact that Spanish people cannot speak English…).

The solution? Move to a city.  Check! Go to a country where people actually speak some English. Okay! Join clubs.  Will do! Seek out the expats. Right! Get involved, do more.  Got it!

I’m moving to Poland.  Warsaw, to be exact, and I want to live near the center of town so that I can find other people who speak English, and befriend them. Finally, for the first time, I get to be IN a city, not just near it. There will be English-speakers and young people and students.  Or else I can travel, stay in hostels, and befriend my fellow (generally European) tourists.  So exciting! And then if I return to Spain to visit, maybe I can provide a different answer to than most annoying question: “tienes un novio?” And hopefully, Margaret Atwood’s terse response to romance is not true.

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confessions of a photographing obsessee

DAY 197

§ A work of art is useless as a flower is useless. A flower blossoms for its own joy. We gain a moment of joy by looking at it. § Oscar Wilde

 Oh I am so terrible at this!! I am always too busy. But I shouldn’t be. There is always time for photos, there is always time to write!

That said, I am obsessed with photos, I really am. I am obsessed with beautiful photos. And okay, Oscar, maybe, in some ways, they are as useless as pretty flowers, but…but…I love them, I can’t resist taking them, I need to have the photos. I can’t just go someplace beautiful and NOT take a photo, at least, not without feeling sick and terrible.  They are beautiful, yes, like flowers. Perhaps useless to others, but to me, they are so much more.

I went to this castle in a place called Peñiscola (yes, you can laugh) which is possibly the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.  In the center, there is a castle. The blue of the Mediterranean goes on as far as the eye can see, row after row of white houses blanket the ground, topped by row after row of orange roofs. It is the perfect combination, and sort of makes you think that maybe you’re dead after all, and this is what heaven looks like. Or maybe you’ve fallen down a well and are now in wonderland. Or perhaps this is just paradise.

I fell in love with those photos. On the train-ride back to my flat, I was antsy with anticipation to look at them. I tried to resist temptation—no, you can’t look at them on the tiny screen, wait until you can view them on the computer!—but I failed, and couldn’t resist a peek. Oh, so gorgeous. I almost died again.

Then what happened, you ask? Well, I went home. I plugged in the card reader. And….nothing. The card reader was dead. It had committed suicide somewhere along the way. Oh NO! I tried everything. I looked it up online, downloaded programs, tried and retried and retried. I went to the camera store, and then he told me the sad truth, the truth I already knew but didn’t want to admit. My baby was sick, and the card was unsalvageable.

I was so sad, so depressed. You see, I am obsessed with the photos. It’s as if having no photos of something means it didn’t happen. I know it makes no sense, but bear with me!  It doesn’t help that I have a terrible memory. So I use my photos to make sure I never forget something worth remembering.

What did I do? The next weekend, I paid another €25 for the train ticket, spent another couple hours on the train, bought another pricy (but delicious) meal of sangria, pizza, and ice cream, enjoyed the views all over again—because I went back. Yup, I went all the way back to Peñiscola to get back those photos.  I’m glad I did. I found a lot more this time. I appreciated it even more than the first time. I met some interesting, and very proud, Dutch tourists who were fond of telling me about Holland’s Golden Age and how they made America what it is today (they voted for America to be it’s own governing state way back when) etc. I saw the cliffs.  I enjoyed the views. I didn’t get lost.

In the end, both days were perfect…and the resulting pictures were so worth the return!

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round and round and round the roundabouts

DAY 195

“All we do is hide so we can dig, and dig so we can hide!”

§ The Lion King §

Doing the same thing over and over again is one of my greatest fears. Going in circles, doomed to repeat yourself, your actions, your thougts, your life over and over again, is…terrifying.  Hide so we can dig, dig so we can hide…circles, circles…even Disney realised this!

I once had a friend named Thomas. He was a TomTom.  He was a terrible friend.

Never trust a GPS. I’m serious. Oh, they are so convenient, yes…for getting lost, that is.

When my family visited Andalucia (southern Spain) I, of course, wanted to visit them as well.  So off I went. After picking me up from the airport, we tried to figure out how on earth we were going to find the American School of Malaga with a rented car, a whole bunch of signs in Spanish, a confusing set of interlocking Spanish highways and Tom.

Tom took us here and there and everywhere. We had a nice tour of Southern Spanish freeways, which in case you are wondering, are maybe not the most beautiful part of this country.

He especially liked the roundabouts. And when I say “liked,” what I really mean is “they confused the hell out of him but he kept on taking us to the blasted roundabouts.”

“Turn left on the roundabout (umm the whole point of a roundabout is that you can only go one way, RIGHT, as my father was fond of shouting), then take the 5^th exit.” I’d bet my life that there wouldn’t even be a 5^th exit. Sure enough, there were only 3 exits.

Spain itself has a strange fascination with roundabouts. So does England, for that matter. I can’t stand ‘em. I love driving, I love the flow, the rhythm of a moving vehicle. I love pressing the gas and just zooming along without changing speed. (According to my mother, this love of the rhythm of movement and moving cars started with infancy. I would cry unless in a car or a swing. Still love cars and swings, actually…).  Well, those dang roundabouts really mess up the flow of driving. You have to slow down, jerk the wheel, curve the car around the stinking circle.  Ahh the freedom of roads without roundabouts—one of the few things I miss about the States (along with Cheerios, Reese’s, instructions for cooking things in English, American commercials–the Spanish ones are so obnoxious!–and gas prices).

Well, poor Tom must have forced us to cross about 50 roundabouts (often the same roundabouts, he liked to take us back and forth and back and forth yay circles!), and I think he got it right about twice. Well, odds were with him that he’d eventually get it right.

We spent a lot of time shouting at the thing, cursing Spanish circles, and getting dizzy as we spun around the roundabout a second or even a third time, having a shouting match at which turnoff we should pick.

We must have passed this building 5 or 6 times. Which was good for me as I was quite fond of taking photos out the window.  It is really neat—definitely built by the Moors.  Spain is full of strange and interesting ruins—many of which are falling apart, forgotten and uncared for.  The government is already making cuts right and left—who’s going to stop and pay for the upkeep of magnificent old dwellings like this one? I’m glad that, despite my loathing of roundabouts, the one benefit of heading up and down the same roads and highways meant I got to see the scenery several times.  Most of it was fairly brown and dead and unattractive, but this building was worth it. Just wish it was in better repair.  It’s sad.

We managed to get where we were going most of the time (never DID find that dang American School though), but by the end, we were all in agreement. Sometimes, newfangled is unnecessary, sometimes going old school, going back to the basics, is just better. Next time, we were bringing a map.

 

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chocolate-coloured beauty

DAY 194

“For in the true nature of things, if we rightly consider, every green tree is far more glorious than if it were made of gold and silver.”

§ Martin Luther §

Spain is, in fact, a desert.   It’s cold in the morning, and you wake up with the covers pulled over your head. It’s chilly enough to want a coat, at least right now. Then it heats up until you are drenched in sweat and you start wondering why they ever invented coats in the first place.  Then the 9 pm rolls around and you go back outside and, what? It’s cold again. Where’d I put that coat?!

For a girl from the East Coast of the US, green is something I grew up with—and I’m not talking about money here.  No, I mean green, you know, nature. Trees, grass, plants.  Rain. Storms. Leaves.  Then I moved to England for a few months and everything was green. Heck, I didn’t even mind the rain, in fact, I rather liked it. It made everything more green than I’d ever seen.

Spain…isn’t so green.  Especially in the towns and cities. Especially in and around my town. Lots of concrete. Then you walk outside and there’s lots of brown.

Yet, still, there is beauty. Still, there are places that, green or not, take your breath away.  Sometimes—not most of the time, but some of the time at least—a deep, rich brown can be beautiful.

Like this here photo. This is taken in Andalucía, the southern region of Spain.  On my way to the region’s gorgeous villages dubbed Pueblos Blancos because of the beautiful white towns–specifically, I was on my way to Zahara–I spent the entire journey leaning out the window, taking photo after photo.  I must say, my camera is spectacular. I took over 50 photos out the window and less than 5 of them have a motion blur.

But anyway.  Spain may have a desert-like climate. The temperature may rise and drop like a freaking pendulum.  The nature might be brown as a slab of chocolate (yeah, I’m a little hungry…).  It may not have anything on England.  But you have to admit—Spain has it’s own deep, intense, chocolate-coloured beauty.

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fire fire burning bright

DAY 193

“In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?”

§  William Blake §

Remember what I said about how the Valencians are showy? Yes, well, this is probably the biggest example. Bigger than the modern buildings in the river. This is…well, this is Las Fallas.

Las Fallas is a big celebration in the region of Valencia during March—before Easter.  It is characterized by the exploding of gunshot-like firecrackers by annoying children, girls and women dressed in traditional garb (complete with gold plates in their elaborate hairdos) called Falleras, marching band wake-calls at 8 am (very early for this country) to make sure the falleras are wide awake and ready to seize the day, never-ending churro stands that line the streets and tempt poor souls into eating the dish affectionately dubbed, “obesity on a platter,” and finally, by the hundreds of giant sculptures that suddenly appear around town.

The falleras and their followers log hours upon hours planning, designing and building these massive art projects. They are supposed to tell a story; sadly, not being Spanish, the references and sarcasms and jokes usually escape me, and not being able to speak Valenciano, the helpful signs aren’t so helpful.

But regardless, I could appreciate the structures as pieces of art.

I spent the final day of Fallas in Valencia with my two friends who live in Madrid.  None of us knew much about the city or it’s traditions. The streets were teeming with onlookers—locals and tourists alike. The noise was deafening.  Everywhere, people were eating, people were shouting, people were watching. Street performers were going crazy.  Tourists—including me—were whipping out their cameras. As it grew darker, people started to get rowdier.

We sat down to a lovely dinner of paella. Paella, a dish consisting of Spanish rice seafood or meat, is the most typical, traditional dish of this region. I ordered the mariosco (seafood), which included an unfortunate prawn that was dubbed “Bob”  by my friends. They insisted that the nasty 4-inch spawn of the sea was actually a delicacy, but there was no way in hell I was eating that. I may be able to gone the legs and the eyes on the smaller shrimps or whatever you call them, but “Bob” had to go. I gave him away to the friend who insisted it was a delicacy, and his eyes lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning. Bob was gone in seconds.

Back to Fallas.

Why was everyone gathered outside? Why, to watch them burn all of the Fallas, of course! Yep, that’s right. They spend close to 365 days planning this massive art exhibitions, display them for a few weeks, then set them on fire and gleefully watch them burn. Now, I couldn’t stay in the city; the last bus to my town left at 10 and I had work the next morning. My Madrid friends were leaving on the 3 am bus, so plenty of time to watch the fires!

Never fear though—I still saw them burn. Luckily my town, still being in the region of Valencia, had their own Fallas, and burned their own Fallas.

As sad as I was to see the art burn—you have to admit that there was something wildly fascinating about the fire, about it’s destruction by flames, about that resilient stork there that refused to burn. Fire has that effect.  The destruction is both horrible and fascinating, ugly and beautiful—all at the same time.

I was glad I got to watch it burn.

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valencia is always more beautiful with old friends

DAY 191

 

“The only certain happiness in life is to live for others.”

§  Leo Tolstoy  §

Living in a small suburb with families and elderly people, lacking young people or students and not being able to talk to anyone anyway because you barely speak Spanish—well, that sort of puts a stopper on your friend-making abilities.

So when I was on facebook the other night, lazily scrolling through newsfeeds of people I no longer knew and I suddenly saw a new album full of photos of Valencia, I sat up straight.  And lo and behold, there was my old roommate from Barcelona from the year before! And she’d been to Valencia.  I contacted her and it turned out she was here for a business trip. I had literally nothing to do this weekend besides grade tests, do research about the Cambridge exams I am trying to teach, and watch re-runs of every American crime drama ever invented, so I proposed we meet up in the city.

Thank goodness I did. I really needed it.  I still don’t know anyone here besides my workmates and my students here.  I have a couple of friends scattered across the continent—Madrid, England, etc—but at the end of the day, I live a pretty quiet life here on the coast of Spain.  So meeting up with my former roommate in Valencia sounded perfect.

Valencia isn’t a huge city but it’s big enough for someone who’s only gone a few times and inherited her mother’s uncannily terrible sense of direction (sorry, mum….).  Regardless, after a lot of wandering around, a few stops to ask for directions (a topic I can actually understand. Hell, if I knew my way around, I could probably even give directions in Spanish!), and several wrong turns, we ended up getting to La Plaza de la Virgen by literally the longest possible route.  No matter.

There is something wonderful about sitting on the steps by the cathedral eating a caramel crepe, chatting with a Dutch man and taking photographs; something fantastic about catching up with old friends. I wish I could that more often.  I hate losing contact with people.

I have friends spread out across at least 8 countries—and spread out within those countries. Everyone is always busy, always caught up with the present, with the immediate future, that no one wants to relive the past. No one has time to set aside, no one has time to go out of their way. Just because I moved away, I don’t want to lose my friends. So I am going to take this into stride and try to do better with reuniting and keeping up with old friends—while trying to figure out a way to make some new ones here.

At the end of that day, I was just glad that I did something, saw someone, had a lovely evening in a beautiful city with an old friend.

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