Yeah, really, San Sebastian Day, it's a freakin party for twenty four hours. Many times this city just seems to party for the hell of it, I mean how else would regattas (September 20th) on a Sunday afternoon mean a party, but since they were here people were dancing in the street to no music at 4:30 in the afternoon. Now this particular party is not what you would think, San Sebastian just inventing another party because they can and then naming it after themselves, no, this has a back story. The town is named after St. Sebastian, an actual dude, (Santo, San.=Saint, St.) and every saint has their own day. Thus they party on that day. Just like San Francisco or San José, wait, they actually don't celebrate the days of their saints, soooooo, I guess San Sebastian just likes its parties. Celebrating in the name of a Saint would mean alms giving and self sacrifice, and that sounded like a real downer to Spaniards, so they replaced virtues with drums, lots and lots and lots of drums. All the songs played on San Sebastian Day come from one man, one composer, with the guiding muse of turning the city into a violent mob with a massive headache.
The day starts literally as soon as possible, since it fell on a Thursday, everyone who is anyone (including me) piled into Constitution Square (La Plaza de la Constitution) at 11:45PM Wednesday. When I say piled I should actually say forced and squeezed and jammed as tightly as possible. So much so that while pushing our way in my friends and I needed to hold one another's shoulders to keep from losing each other. People looking like soldiers file onto the stage, this is the band, and for every person holding a clarinet or trumpet or some other less manly instrument there is at least one person with a drum. Percussion seems to have been selected because of ease of use, from small children, all the way up to drunk Australian tourists. No matter who you are it is physically possible to bang a stick against a piece of wood, and that seems to be what San Sebastian Day was going for anyways. Sure it is possible to get good at playing the drums, but that would take a lot of time, practice, and not drinking. That is not to say that San Sebastian does not have good drum players, in fact at midnight professionals start and is probably the one night of the year when all the nerds and wussys who spent their time learning a skill get to be popular. I got home at about four AM that night and went to bed to the sound of continuing drums. When I woke at ten to drums the following morning I felt a certain sense of familiarity with the song being played. In fact I was sure I had heard it before, actually multiple times before, the previous night. Well I suppose that the composer of the San Sebastian Day songs can hardly be blamed, I mean twenty four hours of straight playing, their bound to repeat the same song several times even if he had wrote thirty. Although he did not quite make it to thirty, or twenty, nope this composer decided that he had a solid five songs, and they could be played over and over and over, with the drums, drums, drums.
I accompany my host parents to La Playa de la Concha where my host sister was marching in the children's version of the Taborrada (Drums) band. It was definitely a great choice to have to professional adults playing the nights and the kids playing the days. Even though the sober day crowd would appreciate the professionals much more, I think the drunken night crowd would scar the children for life. So for two hours we watch the 52 middle schools march around the city. After the parade I head back to my host family's house to rest because everyone goes out again that night to celebrate the end of the day. This time I am hanging out with former Rotary Exchange students (I'm the only current Rotary student in San Sebastian) and we pack ourselves into the Plaza just like the night before. Just to mix things up a bit the band breaks away from the five songs we have heard all day and starts to play some futbal chants, which gets everyone in that violent hooligan frame of mind which everyone knows ends in happiness and peaceful discussions of feelings. With five minutes left until midnight the band whips out what I believe to be its grand finale, the crowd goes crazy and the band gets louder, and then all of a sudden, it's over. Everyone is cheering and the band has stopped, well I suppose that's that, nothing more we can do un... BANG BANG BANG, drums, drums, drums, boomboomboom, the band starts up again, how dare logic try to put an end to the party. The band marches through the street for another three hours. That's San Sebastian for you, they work and work until they can't take anymore, then they party for twenty four hours straight, then after all they partying the need to unwind, with some more partying. Not that I did not love the party, but I wish it was spread out over a few weeks, because I cannot squeeze all my partying into one day.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Saturday, January 22, 2011
The Three Kings
After Christmas in Barcelona and New Years in Bretagne I was talking to my sister (American version) who was getting ready to go back to school. I, meanwhile, was preparing for another full week of vacation, at St. Patrick's they take three weeks off instead of one because they can... no wait, I mean because there is another holiday they need to celebrate, and if you were thinking that this is just another excuse for them to drink heavily, your wrong, this one is for the kids. Specifically baby Jesus, or something else Christian-y like that. Basically the story goes that these three kings heard of baby Jesus so, deciding that they wanted an easy trip to eternal salvation, they would give their future savior loads of gifts. So Jesus was loaded down with crappy first century type gifts like butter churns, goats, and books I guess. Deciding his gifts weren't worth it Jesus contented himself by giving up worldly items, building houses, and becoming the leader of a following large enough to take over half the world. And then he is sacrificed or killed so we can all live happily ever after. I'm not sure but I think the bible would have gone a little differently had Jesus been born more recently, although he wouls still technically have been getting first century gifts (Had to think about that one for a minute didn't you). What if Jesus had gotten an Xbox 360 for his first birthday. He would have been far too busy pwning n00bs to even consider giving it up. It would make the gaming world a lot more dangerous as well, imagine a kid just roflstomped Jesus and, unaware the man he just sniped was the saviour of humanity, started with some light hearted 'Yo mama,' jokes. How soon do you think he would remain free of the black plague? It would be mere minutes before virtual barbarians came to slaughter and burn his Farmville. Instead, we have the day the Three Kings gave Jesus gifts a week after he was born.
Three Kings is a big deal in Spain. Many cities, no matter how small, want to celebrate with a parade. The theme: The kings (one of whom happens to be black) ride into town throwing candy to the children and bringing their gifts. The problem: Spain seems to be running on a shortage of black people (I would say African Americans, but, you know, they aren't American, just plain African sounds racist in and of itself, damn you political correctness, so I'm going with black people because people of any race can be of any nation, put that in your pipe and smoke it). The solution: Black face paint. Now San Sebastian was lucky enough to have a real black person. However it was offset when the city decided that even though the first two kings got to ride camels the black guy's trusty steed was going to be an elephant, because, you know, that's what they're all riding if Africa, right? Besides from the three kings there were also choirs, bands, and shepards hearding groups of animals. Sheep, cows, horses, cows, and sheep were just a few of the diverse range of animals represented in the parade, everyone of those animals is blessed with sphincter that functions independantly of their feet and absolutly zero shame. To sum up in less Politically Correct terms (Seeing as how I already smacked that smug grin off the goddamn socially accepted policy of making a term so confusing it loses its meaning) these beasts crap, a lot, no matter where they are, no matter how many kids will cherish the moments as their first memories. So behind the herds of animals there were herds of Spainards dressed up in neon yellow, armed with buckets and shovels, reminding us of the good old days when no one cared about the economic gap between royalty and shit scooper. Otherwise the parade was great, plenty of candy, lots of torches or other buring things to keep the pyros entertained, and it was not too long. Unlike a fair number of parades I have been to where I find myself gazing down the street wondering, "Did they make up more kings just to drag this out?"
That night we all left our shoes out so the Kings could leave us gifts. Apparently learning to write our names was a little too much work for the kings so they decided to go go with the classic "Recognize individuals foot odor," to leave us gifts. After presents we all ate a special breakfast that I imagine is something close to fruit cake, but with a twist. It is a ring of slightly sweetened bread, with some sugar sprinkled on top, and fruits, covered in sugar. The twist is that there is a bean and a king hidden inside the cake. Whoever cuts the slice with the bean becomes slave-for-the-day to whoever cuts out the king, because nothing says family love and gift giving like forced indentured servitude. But now the holiday season is over and we are all back at school or work, and it is true that it was tough for me to miss the traditions I grew up with while adopting a whole new set I had never experienced before, but I survived and enjoyed myself. However, even though I enjoyed it, I look forward to celebrating with my famliy next year, because even though I have changed this year, nothing back at home is allowed to be different when I returned. Do you hear that little sister, stop growing right now, don't grow above five feet tall, stay thirteen years old, wear Minnie Mouse themed cloths, and for gods sake, no boyfriends!
Three Kings is a big deal in Spain. Many cities, no matter how small, want to celebrate with a parade. The theme: The kings (one of whom happens to be black) ride into town throwing candy to the children and bringing their gifts. The problem: Spain seems to be running on a shortage of black people (I would say African Americans, but, you know, they aren't American, just plain African sounds racist in and of itself, damn you political correctness, so I'm going with black people because people of any race can be of any nation, put that in your pipe and smoke it). The solution: Black face paint. Now San Sebastian was lucky enough to have a real black person. However it was offset when the city decided that even though the first two kings got to ride camels the black guy's trusty steed was going to be an elephant, because, you know, that's what they're all riding if Africa, right? Besides from the three kings there were also choirs, bands, and shepards hearding groups of animals. Sheep, cows, horses, cows, and sheep were just a few of the diverse range of animals represented in the parade, everyone of those animals is blessed with sphincter that functions independantly of their feet and absolutly zero shame. To sum up in less Politically Correct terms (Seeing as how I already smacked that smug grin off the goddamn socially accepted policy of making a term so confusing it loses its meaning) these beasts crap, a lot, no matter where they are, no matter how many kids will cherish the moments as their first memories. So behind the herds of animals there were herds of Spainards dressed up in neon yellow, armed with buckets and shovels, reminding us of the good old days when no one cared about the economic gap between royalty and shit scooper. Otherwise the parade was great, plenty of candy, lots of torches or other buring things to keep the pyros entertained, and it was not too long. Unlike a fair number of parades I have been to where I find myself gazing down the street wondering, "Did they make up more kings just to drag this out?"
That night we all left our shoes out so the Kings could leave us gifts. Apparently learning to write our names was a little too much work for the kings so they decided to go go with the classic "Recognize individuals foot odor," to leave us gifts. After presents we all ate a special breakfast that I imagine is something close to fruit cake, but with a twist. It is a ring of slightly sweetened bread, with some sugar sprinkled on top, and fruits, covered in sugar. The twist is that there is a bean and a king hidden inside the cake. Whoever cuts the slice with the bean becomes slave-for-the-day to whoever cuts out the king, because nothing says family love and gift giving like forced indentured servitude. But now the holiday season is over and we are all back at school or work, and it is true that it was tough for me to miss the traditions I grew up with while adopting a whole new set I had never experienced before, but I survived and enjoyed myself. However, even though I enjoyed it, I look forward to celebrating with my famliy next year, because even though I have changed this year, nothing back at home is allowed to be different when I returned. Do you hear that little sister, stop growing right now, don't grow above five feet tall, stay thirteen years old, wear Minnie Mouse themed cloths, and for gods sake, no boyfriends!
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Feliz Navidad
I would like to start by saying that I had a perfectly content holiday season here with my Spanish family. Every person I was introduced to over the break gave me a card or a gift or money or some combination of the three. Despite having met some of these relatives only one or two times for a total face time of a few hours they all treated me like I was one of the famliy. From my family across the ocean I have so far recieved a single card, I do not know if that was all they sent or if some of it got 'lost' in the mail. I hope my family sent nothing other than a card or two because I asked them not to, but of course family usually takes your considerations as seriously as president Obama takes the drunken late night e-mails half the nation sends him about how to fix exconomic policy. It is possible that my family followed my advice, but more likely the case is that the terribly slow international mail system has yet to reach me, but most likely is that an employee noticed something in their mailbag that looked; delicious, pretty, fun, or useful, and decided, you know, who would really miss it.
So on to the actual holiday traditions. First Christmas. There are lights hung all throughout the city along with decorations and advertisments for over priced gifts, just like the U.S. Santa, however, is quite different, instead of the jolly fat bearded old man, the Basque Country wanted to be different, so they went with an image that more resembles that creepy uncle you're not allowed to be left alone with.
It looks like your gifts the next day will have the comforting smell of pipe tobacco, the message of course being 'Dammit kids, Santa is a working man, bet your daddy isn't perfect either, so how you gonna act! huh? HUH?! I thought so, stifle your gag reflex and get into the goddamn spirit of giving.' But I suppose it makes about as much sense as other hardcore Basque traditions, like a hairstyle I can only describe as a mullet made of dreadlocks. But I'm getting side tracked, I did not even spend Christmas in San Sebastian, but rather in Barcelona.
I was informed by my host parents we would be leaving San Sebastian on the 23rd and returning on the 3rd of January. Barcelona for 10 day! Oh my goodness, how lucky am I, plus New Years, the biggest party of the year in the second biggest city in Spain where 'making out' with the closest stranger/attractive friend is pretty much madetory, count me in. Now I have to mention that I was misinformed, well it was true we were not returning to San Sebastian until the third, we were defienately not spending all our time in Barcelona, My host mom has family in a different part of Europe that we need to visit, so on the 26th we all hopped back in the car, after the six hour car ride to Barcelona, for a twelve hour ride to Bretagne, and spent the rest of our trip there.
Barcelona is a beautiful city that has enough enough wonder to keep a person busy for a month, much less the three days I had. Bretagne is a region in France with beautiful natural features that apparently kills you if you stay there too long. Boasting one of the highest alcoholisim and suicide rates in France, Bretagne is the Emo kid of the European Union.
That photo is real. There are trees decorated like Santa swerved across the lane with his hatchback open and lost half his bag to the surrounding wilderness. But just because the region is depressing does not mean my time there was a downer, I think five days is the perfect amount of time to spend in a place like that, it represents about the point where your lying in bed thinking 'Is there any reason to really get up today... or ever...?' Then it hits you, 'We're leaving! I'm gonna miss this place.'
Besides location, tradition is significantly different as well. For meals on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day the whole family here dressed up. I was in a full suit with tie and looking very snazy if I do say so myself. This is in contrast to my family in the States where the major fashion choice was me deciding whether or not to put a pair of pyjama pants over my boxers, or just march to the Christmas tree as is, in all my liberated but pointy nippled glory. Instead I tried to eat a seafood dinner, statistically the most impossible meal to eat without butter dripping from your chin to your shirt, dressed up like Frank Sinatra Jr.
For New Years my family in the States stayed at our cottage in the frozen tundra that is Canada in winter time, or approximately 10 months of the year. They had no heat and no water, but on the bright side they had snow. If you'll remember I spent New Years in a depressed village with little more than one thousand inhabitants. I haven't spoken French in six months and found communicating more difficult than hiding from Sauron. But somehow I had a good time. Maybe it is the same reason why my family (and myself when I'm with them) enjoy the freezing cold, Hoth-like, cottage of ours. It's not the ball drop or the alcohol or the tons of explosions and confetti. No it is something much more special and close to our hearts. It's the food, the delicious and copious amounts of turkey, roast beef, pies, and cakes all whipped up at Grandma's expense. And love too, or something like that, I think, my brain isn't really working right now, my stomach is so full of meat and and sugar I'll explode if I don't go and take a nap right now, but I should be safe as long as Basque-Santa doesn't watch me while I sleep.
So on to the actual holiday traditions. First Christmas. There are lights hung all throughout the city along with decorations and advertisments for over priced gifts, just like the U.S. Santa, however, is quite different, instead of the jolly fat bearded old man, the Basque Country wanted to be different, so they went with an image that more resembles that creepy uncle you're not allowed to be left alone with.
 |
| The gifts in Santa's burlap sack this year somewhat resemble children, desperately trying to escape. |
I was informed by my host parents we would be leaving San Sebastian on the 23rd and returning on the 3rd of January. Barcelona for 10 day! Oh my goodness, how lucky am I, plus New Years, the biggest party of the year in the second biggest city in Spain where 'making out' with the closest stranger/attractive friend is pretty much madetory, count me in. Now I have to mention that I was misinformed, well it was true we were not returning to San Sebastian until the third, we were defienately not spending all our time in Barcelona, My host mom has family in a different part of Europe that we need to visit, so on the 26th we all hopped back in the car, after the six hour car ride to Barcelona, for a twelve hour ride to Bretagne, and spent the rest of our trip there.
Barcelona is a beautiful city that has enough enough wonder to keep a person busy for a month, much less the three days I had. Bretagne is a region in France with beautiful natural features that apparently kills you if you stay there too long. Boasting one of the highest alcoholisim and suicide rates in France, Bretagne is the Emo kid of the European Union.
 |
| Not even Santa can go through Bretagne without a few eggnogs |
Besides location, tradition is significantly different as well. For meals on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day the whole family here dressed up. I was in a full suit with tie and looking very snazy if I do say so myself. This is in contrast to my family in the States where the major fashion choice was me deciding whether or not to put a pair of pyjama pants over my boxers, or just march to the Christmas tree as is, in all my liberated but pointy nippled glory. Instead I tried to eat a seafood dinner, statistically the most impossible meal to eat without butter dripping from your chin to your shirt, dressed up like Frank Sinatra Jr.
For New Years my family in the States stayed at our cottage in the frozen tundra that is Canada in winter time, or approximately 10 months of the year. They had no heat and no water, but on the bright side they had snow. If you'll remember I spent New Years in a depressed village with little more than one thousand inhabitants. I haven't spoken French in six months and found communicating more difficult than hiding from Sauron. But somehow I had a good time. Maybe it is the same reason why my family (and myself when I'm with them) enjoy the freezing cold, Hoth-like, cottage of ours. It's not the ball drop or the alcohol or the tons of explosions and confetti. No it is something much more special and close to our hearts. It's the food, the delicious and copious amounts of turkey, roast beef, pies, and cakes all whipped up at Grandma's expense. And love too, or something like that, I think, my brain isn't really working right now, my stomach is so full of meat and and sugar I'll explode if I don't go and take a nap right now, but I should be safe as long as Basque-Santa doesn't watch me while I sleep.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Pick up your s***
After reading two political novels in a row I have to get my liberal frustration off my chest so I can continue to pursue the interests of the typical teenage male, namely, lady lumps. I read news on the internet occasionally and also watch CNN+ which I suppose just might be a Spanish version of MTV but I'm not sure. What I do know is that for a full thirty seconds at 2:30 pm there was a clip from a porno on the "news" channel, which shows me that they know what gets good ratings and they won't tip toe around like we do in the U.S with all our "moral censors" and "scarring children for life with inappropirate programming." But what do we know, I'm sure that the news channel gets much better ratings during its booby hour than any presidential debate. So I have been getting caught up in politics once again from a judge in California looking to overturn proposition 8 (Finally), to peaceful protesters, to violent soccer mobs. And now I have a complaint with one of the government programs in the Basque Country, and that complaint is that I stepped in dog crap this morning.
"But Andrew, how is dog crap the governments fault?" Well little Timmy let me take you on a magical journey and show you just how I can blame the government for everyone avoiding me this morning. So yes, first off, the title is not a metaphor, I really want people to start picking up their dogs' *ahem* leavings. Now picking up crap can be a unseemly job, it's... well I don't think I really need to describe it, but I can see why some people (everyone) don't want to do it. On the other hand, plastic bottles aren't gross at all, just kind of annoying to carry around, but none the less they are left all over the streets and the beaches. This is particulary painful for me because half my heart is pretty much green (This is a metaphor, I mean that I'm extrememly attached to the environment, if half of your heart is actually green please consult a doctor, especially because you can somehow see your heart). Walking through parks in the U.S I would stop to pick up a few pieces of trash and toss them in a nearby bin, or wait until I got home to recycle them or throw them out. Here when I see the ground littered there is just too much for me to pick up, I'm forced to walk by silently while Mother Nature quietly weeps.
Why do people think that they can act this way? Why is the government involved? Well here we go. San Sebastian has the most extensive public sanitation department that I have ever seen. Everyday there are government employees on their little sidewalk-zambonies and others with huge brooms just patrolling the streets waiting to clean up after someone else. What does this mean in terms of littering, let me provide an example. Every day of the weekend, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and why the hell not Thursday and Tuesday, are all great evenings that prompt the Spanish people to get off their Spanish mopeds, go into a Spanish bar, drink some Spanish beer, go outside into the Spanish streets, and then vomit some Spanish celebration all over the sidewalk. Weekend nights are not the only good times for heavy alcohol consumption, any holiday is also a great excuse for the beloved past time. Of course this leads to fairly leanient rules on what consitutes a holiday, "What's that you say Marcos? They're racing the boats today? It's already noon o'clock? I'm pretty sure we should be drunk by now." So that's exactly what people do, and then they throw their glass bottles all over the street. If you decide to leave your house at eight AM after a party night you will find all your mess convienitly picked up after you, like you were a small child, which, let's face it, after those three Jagerbombs you pretty much were, even vomiting all over the person trying to carry you home.
'Isn't it a good thing that the streets are all kept clean, you don't expect everyone to always remember to take care of all their garbage right?' Actually that is exactly what I expect. I want people to hold onto their garbage until they find a trash can, pick up after their animals, and puke their post-world-cup fiestas into a toilet. I don't know how much money is invested in these public clean up programs, but I imagine if it were invested somewhere else, lets say something crazy, like schools or fixing up the ghettos, people might be a little better off. So there, now that I know I have at least said something to the half a dozen people who read my blog on a regular basis I can sleep soundly at night, and continue day dreaming about Jessica Alba.
"But Andrew, how is dog crap the governments fault?" Well little Timmy let me take you on a magical journey and show you just how I can blame the government for everyone avoiding me this morning. So yes, first off, the title is not a metaphor, I really want people to start picking up their dogs' *ahem* leavings. Now picking up crap can be a unseemly job, it's... well I don't think I really need to describe it, but I can see why some people (everyone) don't want to do it. On the other hand, plastic bottles aren't gross at all, just kind of annoying to carry around, but none the less they are left all over the streets and the beaches. This is particulary painful for me because half my heart is pretty much green (This is a metaphor, I mean that I'm extrememly attached to the environment, if half of your heart is actually green please consult a doctor, especially because you can somehow see your heart). Walking through parks in the U.S I would stop to pick up a few pieces of trash and toss them in a nearby bin, or wait until I got home to recycle them or throw them out. Here when I see the ground littered there is just too much for me to pick up, I'm forced to walk by silently while Mother Nature quietly weeps.
Why do people think that they can act this way? Why is the government involved? Well here we go. San Sebastian has the most extensive public sanitation department that I have ever seen. Everyday there are government employees on their little sidewalk-zambonies and others with huge brooms just patrolling the streets waiting to clean up after someone else. What does this mean in terms of littering, let me provide an example. Every day of the weekend, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and why the hell not Thursday and Tuesday, are all great evenings that prompt the Spanish people to get off their Spanish mopeds, go into a Spanish bar, drink some Spanish beer, go outside into the Spanish streets, and then vomit some Spanish celebration all over the sidewalk. Weekend nights are not the only good times for heavy alcohol consumption, any holiday is also a great excuse for the beloved past time. Of course this leads to fairly leanient rules on what consitutes a holiday, "What's that you say Marcos? They're racing the boats today? It's already noon o'clock? I'm pretty sure we should be drunk by now." So that's exactly what people do, and then they throw their glass bottles all over the street. If you decide to leave your house at eight AM after a party night you will find all your mess convienitly picked up after you, like you were a small child, which, let's face it, after those three Jagerbombs you pretty much were, even vomiting all over the person trying to carry you home.
'Isn't it a good thing that the streets are all kept clean, you don't expect everyone to always remember to take care of all their garbage right?' Actually that is exactly what I expect. I want people to hold onto their garbage until they find a trash can, pick up after their animals, and puke their post-world-cup fiestas into a toilet. I don't know how much money is invested in these public clean up programs, but I imagine if it were invested somewhere else, lets say something crazy, like schools or fixing up the ghettos, people might be a little better off. So there, now that I know I have at least said something to the half a dozen people who read my blog on a regular basis I can sleep soundly at night, and continue day dreaming about Jessica Alba.
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