Summer has arrived here in Granada, bringing with it high temperatures and a blazing mid-day sun, as well as the conclusion of classes at the two institutions of higher learning I've been attending; CEGRÍ and the University of Granada. So now that I'm freed from the "oppression" of homework-less classes and tie-your-shoe-easy exams, what type of work am I doing to forward world peace, end poverty, save the whales, discover a viable alternative to fossil based fuels, rid the internet of pop-ups, and contribute to the body of hypotheses behind the theory of what makes the wheel 'go'? A great deal, I'll have you know. In fact, my contemplation of these matters is so deep, especially while I'm fast asleep at night, that I have to spend the entirety of my waking hours lounging in the sun and eating bonbons, while concocting clever quips for my journals, just to catch up on my rest.
So when we last parted I was headed to Gloucester, (pronounced Gluster) England to watch my Traverse City buddy Phil play his final rugby game of the season. This weekend trip was a great success, and a fine time was had by all. And there was much rejoicing. Happenings of note (or potential disasters evaded, depending on your point of view) include some 4 AM wanderings through the mean streets of London, and some incorrect train boardings, led by naturalized "local" Phil. Luckily both circumstances terminated with arrival at the intended destination, wallets and intestines in place and intact.
Phil's team didn't win the day, nor did they get the glory, but they did succeed in entertaining me for a good two plus hours (a noble achievement, to be sure). Furthermore watching the contest bore in my soul a deep seeded nostalgia for the game, and with it a desire to get back onto the pitch myself; to return to the savage seeds of human instinct and rediscover a group dynamic that has nothing to do with civility, and everything to do with who's the biggest, fastest, strongest, and meanest. An anachronism in the study of social interaction where dialogue is replaced with sheer physical brutality, where those opposed clash not wits but bodies, breaking bones and crushing cartilage, shredding skin and bathing in blood. On second thought, put like that, the nostalgia melts away pretty quick. Maybe I'll stick to watching.
Here are a few photos from the trip:
A pair of debonair gentlemen
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Downtown Gloucester. No the dog isn't stiff dead, it's reaching for a doggie treat. At least that's what we'll tell the children
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Phil's living arrangement (the white half) in Cinderford, about 45 minutes outside of Gloucester
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Phil testing some new rugby headgear
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Phil is in the middle wearing #1 (I don't know why they gave him my number)
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The following weekend was spent in Sevilla (Seville in English) with a crew of fellows and a lady. Together, JT, Dave, Chris, Caitlin, and I (with scattered appearances by Mike and Andre) visited Sevilla's famous cathedral, one of the world's largest, the Real Alcazaba (AKA the Wannabe-Alhambra) attended a bull fight, and fraternized with the Michigan students who've spent this past semester studying there. The cathedral's sheer immensity was impressive and imposing, and the bell tower, the converted prayer tower of the mosque that once stood in the same place, offered a would-be excellent view out over the city. "Would-be" because of the thick horozontal iron bars, spaced three inches apart in a necessary attempt to prevent one of Spain's most common atrocities; guinea pig suicides.
From left to right, JT, Dave (both went to Morocco) Caitlin, and Chris
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Study this photo for a moment. Try to ignore the hideous glare. Sorry, it was a sunny day.
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Now stare in open-mouthed amazement at our clever mimicry
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Facade of Sevilla's cathedral
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The crew, plus Mike and Andre, having a quick lunch. Dave, appearing in the middle, tastes the sour grapes of defeat. At the hands of whom? The world may never know.
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The bell tower (sorry no pics of the penthouse jail)
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Out over the cathedral
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Let the pizza eating contest come to an end, my plate front and center, clearly the winner
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Let the pizza eating contest begin! Alright, it was over before it started
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The signs, left to right: For beer, for wine, for whisky, for hangover (Resaca is also the name of their dog). The one in the middle says At least we're sincere, and under that www.lazybeggers.com (very funny web site if you've got a few minutes)
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In Plaza Espana
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One of the two towers at either end of the Plaza
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The smallest and hairiest press salesman I've ever seen
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The Real Alcazaba (royal fortress) had some nice gardens, and it was interesting to see architecture and decoration so similar to that of Granada's Alhambra, however the lack of a dramatic vista out over the city, as well as its slight size and significance, place the Real Alcazaba firmly below the Alhambra in the grand hierarchy of remaining Moorish architectural works. Nonetheless, the experience was well worth the price we paid for admission (which was, coincidentally, nothing) and more.
A few shots from the gardens:
Heisman Poseidon
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The men. L to R, yours truly, Chris, Andre, JT, Dave, and Mike
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If you look closely at this one, you can see a hedge
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No flowers here, nope, none at all
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Bull fighting is currently a topic of some debate here in Spain. There is a contingent that fights for the abolishment of the sport, claiming it cruel to the animals and pointlessly glorified violence. Unfortunately (for them) no one seems to care. Their pleas and claims fall on deaf ears and bull fighting continues to be a source of amusement and national pride here in Spain. Against this background of ignorance come the five of us, indifferent to the controversies and moral questions behind the spectacle, as the majority of the Spanish people seem to be, and concerned instead with being able to soak up an aspect of Spanish culture that we had all, up to then, missed out on. One fact that most people don't realize about the bull fight is that it's not all just "Olé!"s and "Toro!"s. In between those two staple phrases there's a lot of stabbing and blood, and as a result, afterwards, either the torero or the bull dies. Due to its opposition to insurmountable odds, it's generally the bulls doing most of the dying.
Depite the fact that the bull has almost no chance to win the fight (I'll explain why later) most toreros, and unfailingly all matadors are ostentatious primadonnas in the ring, taunting the outnumbered bull as if it had a chance, flashing smiles at the crowd, and posing dramatically in the face of the charging bull, all in order to show the bull, but more importantly the crowd, that they are the undisputed heavyweight champion of the ring (and all the cosmos). I do concede that one must have some hubris, along with a belief that you are the boldest and bravest of all men, the master of nature (and its emissary, the bull) to be crazy enough to get into the ring with an angry half-ton bull, albeit with 7 or 8 buddies. Furthermore, the bravado adds to the spactacularity, and without it, if the matadors ran scared every time the bull came charging, the only vicarious pleasure that could be drawn from watching a bullfight would be that causing our riotous gaffaws upon seeing the bull open a new orifice in the matador's posterior.
However, the current state of affairs inside the bullring are such that Spaniards draw pride from the skill and bravado of their fighters, and the event itself is really quite captivating, especially if you can look past the whole gory death thing.
Each bull fight features three matadors (literally translated: killers) also known as toreros (toh-RARE-ohs), each of whom fight two bulls. The fight begins with the bull, raging mad, stomping out of a tunnel, just looking for some oblivious fool to introduce to the business end of his horns. At that point there are four toreros, all hiding behind protective barriers around the ring. Sequentially, they will bravely step out from behind their barriers, get the bull to charge, then, equally as bravely, leap back behind their barricade and wait for someone else to harass the bull into vacating their side of the ring. Soon after, as the bull tires a bit, men on horeback, called picadors, come cantering out to deliver the first piercings. Atop their armored mounts, these men will trot out in front of the bull, and allow the raging beast to ram the side of their horse at full speed (maybe 25 mph, achieved over a space of 20 meters or less). Amazingly, the horses are able to maintain balance in the face of this incredible transverse force. The only proper training regimen I can imagine involves speeding semi trucks and blue whales lunched from giant slingshots.
After the picadors stab the bull in the back a few times, the band blows its trumpets and the picaderos and their horses go loping off. Next come the banderilleros (ban-der-EE-yer-ohs), the most exciting bull-stabbers of all. A banderillero squares up to the bull from about 20 meters, and as soon as he capture its attention, rises up onto his tip-toes, and extends his arms in either direction above his head while holding a colorful feather-laden harpoon in each hand. For some reason, this really pisses the bull off, so he comes charging for the banderillero, who immediately starts a lateral sprint. Just as the two are about to make contact, the banderillero jumps into the air, feet together, and plants his harpoons into the bull's back, about 18 inches behind the head. The harpoons stick into the bull's spine, but the colorful feathered shafts fall to the side, opening the wounds to allow more blood flow, and weakening his strong back muscles to make the matador's final stab easier. Once the bull has six harpoons in his back, the next stage begins.
After some more taunting by the toreros, the matador finally struts into the ring. Raising a cupped hand to the crowd, he begs their acknowledgment and the raucous reply does not dissapoint. Initially, the matador will face the bull and whip his red cape up and down while shouting "Toro! Toro!". Literally translated, this means "Bull! Bull!" but in context it's more akin to "Come! Face me Beast! For I am Man; mightest of earthly creatures. Patriarch of fire, perveyor of shelter, and inventor of music, math, and the electric tie rack!" Since most bulls claim the electric tie rack among their own designs, the matador's implied claim really gets under their skin, to the point that ramming their horns into the matador's chest seems the only proper recourse. If the matador is good, the bull whiffs every time, bucking the air behind the cape to Timbucktu, and completely missing his intended target. If he's not that good, he gets an extended stay in a five star hospital and a free trial of the hot new "intraveinious" diet.
As the bull weakens, it is less and less inclined to spend it's draining energy stores on attacking the matador's cape, instead focusing on more basic operations like breathing and standing. At a time designated of his own discretion, the matador will face the bull from about 10 feet, stand tall, point his sword at the bull's exposed neck, then lunge forward attempting to plunge the blade down through the bull's spine and into his heart. The more skilled the matador is, the fewer attempts he needs, and the quicker he puts the bull out of its misery. The bull will lunge at the matador as well, attempting to open a new airway to the lungs, however most matadors are quick enough to dodge the slowed bull attacks. The best matadors are able to get the stab on the first try.
With a sword through its heart, the bull then retreats to the ring's wall, a dying beast backed into a corner. The toreros wave their capes in front of it provoking it to lunge at them and expend it's final stores of energy, after which it slumps to the ground not unlike a tired dog. It might wave its horns in the air, in a final gesture of defiance, but before long even it collapses into the dirt, dead. The toreros have some greusome tasks, which I won't detail here, and then a bell-adorned three-horse team drags the lifeless beast from the ring as workers begin preparations for the next round. Each round takes twenty to twenty-five minutes.
Photos from the bull fight:
At the fight, the hands on my shoulders belong the weird old man behind me
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Let the pomp begin. The three toreos up front are the matadors
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Getting artsy with the camera
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One more
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The bull ramming a picador's horse
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"Alright, which one of you jerks is hiding my hat behind that thing? I guess we're gonna have to find out the hard way."
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Ole!
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The guys again
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Sunset over Sevilla
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The banderillero vs the bull
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The final face-off
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The following weekend, I was on the move again, this time back in Madrid for a youth conference on bringing more world awareness back home to The States. Attendees included (mostly) American study abroad students from all parts of Europe, and of course, yours truly. Over the three days of the conference, 100 of us participated in a number of panel talks on such pertinent issues as immigration, terrorism, and the media's responsibility as information bearer to the world. They were all engaging and valuable, and panelists provided a number of different perspectives on the issues, although, the sponsoring organization (AID Democracy) being run by young people, the overall lean was quite liberal.
The most memorable of the program's events was a talk on political communication given by Oscar Martinez, one of Spanish President Zapatero's four speech writers. He began by informing us not to expect too much from him so early in the day (noon) because he was "totally hung-over". His appearance, in a compound word: hung-over (unshaven, shirt open with chest hair popping out, shoes with no socks) spoke to the college kid in all of us, and his attitude, "hey I'm still young and cool, just like you kids... even though I work directly for the President of Spain" rang loud the bell of an aging flyster clinging to a care-free past, even in the face of newfound responsibility and social standing. Despite slightly deceptive presentatation techniques, he was very funny, and it being that he's only 33, I'd say he's still got some gas left in the hipster-tanks. After all, like they say, it's not the date on the birth cirtificate that matters, it's the one on the printed label. Or something like that.
A couple shots from that weekend in Madrid
With friends, dirtying the merchendise (L to R, Emily, Marci, Tom, me)
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El Rastro street market in Madrid
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My final few weeks in Granada were spent fretting my only final exam, History of the Environment. Although I'd been in every single class all semester (except the one that coincided with the Champions League Final, I missed that one under the premise of "more important things to do") my reading of the required scientific articles had been stunted by my semester-long propensity to seek and find entertainment instead of doing class work. Come the end of the semester, my reading of these 25 highly informative and undoubtedly captivating works was as completed as it was begun; not at all. OK to be fair, I'd read half of the first article for the first class, and also an entire article (albiet in English), one which I had to present to the class. Beyond that, my knowledge base was contained completely to the two to three pages of notes I'd managed to scribble down in class while doing my best to shut out the the professor's prattle. This may seem indignant, but undermining classroom protocol wasn't my intent.
I knew from the start that I'd record a full exactly 0% of the auditory information thrown my way in the class, since I don't have the mental cues to help me remember the information as I do in English, nor can I write and listen simultaneously. Consequently, a hard copy of all important details from classroom Powerpoint presentations that I could review come exam time would be my only avenue to any measure of success on the test. So while other students happily participated in class, discussing (at times heatedly) various topics of environmental importance, orating personal beliefs and defending personal creedos, I simply took my seat and slumped over my paper, ready to blend with the furniture and floor tiling as best I could. That's not to say I didn't throw in a comment now and then, just to let the professor know I was in the house (more of a public relations move than anything else) but my comments' relationship to the forward motion of the debate, whatever it might have been about, could best be described as inverse. That is to say, my additions were more often wise cracks than actually wise in any dictionary sense of the word.
As such I approached my May 26th exam date, knowing that my knowledge base was deficient at best, and laying out on various Costa Del Sol beaches in an attempt to broaden it. Come the dreaded date, by all counts, my total exam study time had topped a full three hours. Include the work I'd done for the class all semester, and you're pushing a calculator's limits, but I'd say between 9 and 10. I know, I'm a machine.
Thus I walked into the professor's office on the exam day, fully expecting to crash and burn, and being pleasently surprised to find a pair of essay questions on the exam that I could actually answer with some coherence. A few days later I got an email from the professor informing me that I'd passed (with room to spare), and my semester in Spain was over.
Lesson of the day: you don't have to study, just hope for easy exams.
The following days, like those preceding, I spent on the beach with friends, my biggest gripe the fact lunch was once again one of my Senora's terrible bocadillo sandwiches. A bocadillo is a third of a baguette filled with cured ham and cheese. It being that I don't much like cured ham, or any incarnation of ham, I have my Senora leave that part out. So twice a week, and more often if I was traveling, I'd have a "boc" for lunch. What makes Sara's so terrible is the fact that the bread sits in the fridge for a full two days before I actually eat it, leaving it chewy and crustless. At first it didn't bother me, but five months later, I was ready to swear off cheese sandwiches of any sort for good. I've already broken that promise, so I've refined it to any boc made by my former Senora, a vow I don't expect a great deal of difficulty in honoring, since since a future encounter between the two of us is about as likely as Porky Pig is to come popping out of your screen squawking "Th-th-that's all folks!" Which I don't think is very likely.
A few shots from a seaside study session in Salobrena:
Paddleball with Dave
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Pure athleticism
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JT wins the Fly-Guy of the Day Award
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Currently I'm in Paris, and Mom just left for home after two weeks of traveling north from Granada. After spending a few days in Granada, we passed through Madrid and Bilbao, then crossed into France, where we made stops in Bayonne and Bordeaux before arriving here in Paris this past Wednesday the 14th. Altogether a highly successful and fun two weeks together. Tomorrow I fly to Bremen, Germany to begin my World Cup experience with Marcus, and yes, I'm very excited, especially considering that with a win over Ghana this coming Thursday and a win for Italy over the Czechs (also Thursday) we will be moving on to the second round.
The mood is tempered, however, by the recent passing (read: deletion) of the entirety of the 700+ pictures taken during the past two weeks, those of our experiences since my mother and me left Granada. The small plastic latch on the tiny door that protects the media card in my camera broke off about two months ago, and when that door is open, the camera immediately shuts off, supposedly to prevent you from removing the card while it's being read by the camera (something that could cause the formatting of the card). I've been holding the door in place with a rubber band, which seems to get me by most of the time (I can take it off to pull the card out and get pictures from it, and it normally holds the door shut while I'm trying to photograph something), except today, when I turned the camera on to look at some pictures, and it told me that I didn't have any pictures at which to look. Oops. So I guess the only pictures of my mother's and my travel experiences are those from before we left Granada.
Who's this beach hunk?
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Same deal
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With three new friends (two from the summer CEGRI group from University of Illinois)
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Running for my life
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Mother and her favorite son
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The hidden beach
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My alter-ego; Mediterranean Man
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From our visit to the Alhambra:
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Finishing the summer; on the 9th of July, the day of the World Cup final, I fly from Dortmund to Rome, and I'll spend 12 days roaming Italy. I fly back to Malaga, Spain (right near Granada) on the July 21st, and home to the land of baseball and apple pie on the 25th. August will be spent in Traverse City doing who knows what.
Expect one final update around the time I'm leaving, or just after.
Special surprise gifts for making it to the end:
Arnold's Clone Movie
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Lordi, winners of Eurovision 2006
