Fun Facts about Spain

1. Spain is not Mexico.
2. Spain is not a third-world country.
3. No one's gonna bag your groceries for you.
4. God loves Spain, too.

I live in Spain, in case none of us were aware.

This morning, we started the day out with the middle school prayer breakfast, a healthy meal of churros y chocolate. Sitting at my table was the boy who spent all yesterday in drooling reverie over the wedding in his book, and today was no different. "I had a dream about my book last night! It was so nice! They got married!"

I had a dream the other night, too, in which visitors from the States came and complained about Spanish dinner times. I think this was prompted by Caitlin's and my attempt at ordering Chinese a few days ago. We were calling both phone numbers listed, wondering if the restaurant was closed for All Saint's Day...and that's when we realized it was only 7:30. In my dream, the visitors balked at the thought of waiting for supper until 8:30. "We could get on a plane and fly to the UK in the time it'll take us to eat!" they cried.

And I tore into them, screaming and crying, "This is Spain! You have to love Spain for what it is, and here we don't eat until 8:30! The restaurant doesn't open early. You need to stop! You need to just be patient and stop expecting everything to be American because you are in Spain."

It's possible that I am now releasing pent-up stress in my sleep.

However, I do wonder what it will be like when I go back to the States in a thousand years. Am I going to know what to do with all the space on those giant sidewalks? Will my heart sink at the lack of old people sitting on their plastic chairs in the median at night, just chatting away? Will I miss the men carrying man-purses and the leash-less dogs and finding plazas on every block? Am I going to be devastated that most restaurants don't have outdoor seating? Woof. I sometimes think that in 2013, I'll step off the plane and feel like Lucy tumbling out of the wardrobe. I will step back into the exact time and place I left, knowing that behind me is some other world, rich and deep and blazing with color, and I will be unable to pull others through rows of fur coats to find it again.

No matter how stressful my school days get, I do love being in Spain. Sometimes, as I walk to my friendly neighborhood ATM, I look up at the stork's nest perched atop the bell tower that towers over Camarma's town center, and I think, "Oh my goodness, I live in Spain. I LIVE IN SPAIN." I don't know if things like this ever hit you full-on, or if they only sink in slowly, little by little, small slaps that remind you of who you are and where you are and what on earth you're doing.

Which English do you speak?

While talking about which household chore they dislike the most:

Boy (Australian): "I hate going outside and brushing."

Other kids (grown up in Spain): "Brushing?!"

Boy: "Yes, brushing, you know, brushing the leaves."

Kids: "Oh! Sweeping!"

My brain: "Oh! What? Oh. Raking. Right."

Cheering for the Toro

Spanish pueblos celebrate their own fiesta days each year. This past week, it was Camarma's turn. That means music blasting from the plaza every night (getting an early start at 11pm and ending at 3 or 4am, maybe). It also means that peñas take over the street (to my best understanding, a peña is a group of comrades that makes matching group t-shirts and hangs out together all festival, laughing and drinking until daybreak). And it means fireworks, cheap carnival toys, and Camarma's own running of the bulls. All this in honor of the town's patron saint, Nuestra Señora del Rosario (Our Lady of the Rosary). She would be so honored.

This morning, a bunch of us met on our friend Juliana's porch, which is situated directly (and safely!) above the bull-running route. Camarma's toro fest is much less dramatic than the ones you see on TV: our toros run three days in a row, four times each day, the runs taking place over the course of an hour--and there are no drunken Australians. Also, there are only two toros. The "motivator bulls" are released first, zig-zagging about 4 blocks before they meet and fire up the actual running bulls, who then plow through the streets with the runners (which, I would like to point out, are mostly men).

 But this morning was a rainy morning. The streets were a little slick, and one of the toros slipped every single time he ran. First, he slid into a corner fence. The second time, he skidded on the pavement for several yards, and the third, he nearly crashed into a lamppost.



I hate when sad things happen to animals, and so on the sadness scale from 1 to Bambi, this definitely earned a Homeward Bound.

After the final run, one of the toros was let loose in a makeshift ring, where amateurs taunted him--and by "amateurs," I mean everything from random peña men waving t-shirts to rising matadors with their own personal mantle and sword.



At first, Friedrich was charging after them all, but then he got tired. (I have chosen the name Friedrich for this particular toro because it seems a noble name, the kind of name that one should have when they are forced to undergo teasing in the name of public spectacle. I mean, how sad to be forced into this big testosterone fest, especially when your taunters have the option of jumping behind a wall before you can peg 'em with a horn. I realize I'm anthropomorphizing a toro, but seriously, it's Friedrich! Get Friedrich a sword and some opposable thumbs and then we'll see who's brave!)

I really wanted Friedrich to get one of those guys. I mean, I didn't want him to cause major injury--just maybe a ripped shirt or a hole in their pants or something. I don't know for sure what happens to Friedrich once fiestas are over, but I have a pretty good guess--so he might as well go out with flair! And although Friedrich didn't get close enough to slice anyone's clothes off, he kinda got his comeuppance when he snatched away a mantle!

It dangled there on his horns for several seconds, then fluttered to the ground. Does Friedrich care about comeuppances? Probably not. I decided to care on his behalf. YAY, BULL!

I may have said that aloud a few times, too: "Yay, bull!" I guess I said it softly enough, or maybe no one around me spoke English, since none of them gave me dirty looks or tried to punch my teeth out.

As we were leaving, my friend Will reminded me that you're not supposed to cheer for the bull. I just can't help it. I hate it when the deck is stacked against the helpless (human or bovine). And I like it when the underdog (underbull?!) comes out on top. So, even if I have to whisper it, I'm going to cheer for the bull. Good job, Friedrich. Good job. I hope your last moments were happy ones. GO, BULL!