journal 8/9

Yesterday the train pulled us smoothly though the galician countryside. We glided past lush farms, through forests and gorges and fast-moving rivers.

But it occured to me that if I'd been dropped off in any of the places I found so beautiful on the train, I'd be miserable. If I got off at the farm, I'd be stepping carefully between fenced-off plots of crops, enduring the suspicious eyes of old galicians. In the forest, I'd be lost without a trail. In the gorges I'd be stuck.

Food

Dave Rothstein requested a post about food here in Spain. So here goes.

Galicia has a strong maritime culture and therefore galicians specialize in fish and seafood. Especially octopus.

Restaurants in Santiago have glass cases in front displaying enormous purple octopus tentacles and tanks with somnolent lobsters and crabs and bags of clams and mussels and other shellfish that I can't quite identify.

But after two weeks here, I still have yet to go to one of these restaurants. Or go out for a big meal at all. And I keep forgetting to get the octopus in bars. I see other people eating it, though. It comes on a wooden slab and is usually seasoned with a red garlicky sauce.

I normally have one big meal a day with the family I live with. We have all different kinds of things:

• pasta or rice salad with olives, crab stick, carrots, corn...
• Pimientos de Padrón -- fried green peppers with sea salt. Padrón is a town nearby that's reknowned for its peppers. Most of them are sweet, but every once in a while you get an extremely hot one. So eating a plate of them is a little like playing Russian roulette.
• Tortillas españolas -- basically a thick omelette with potatoes inside.
• Sometimes we have a white bean soup made orangey with chorizo. Señora Matos says it's an Asturian dish.
• We had a dish of spaghetti the length of my little finger with tomato sauce and a purple, tentacled animal in the octopus family.
• Sardines fried and eaten whole, bones and all.
• Empanadas -- flat pastry with meat inside.
• For dessert we normally have peaches, sometimes ripe and sweetly dripping, sometimes hard and tart.
• We eat a lot of vegetables from the family's garden in the countryside. Right now, string beans, tomatoes and zucchini are in season.
• One memorable Sunday we had a homemade Tarta de Santiago. It's a cake made with 300 grams of sugar, 300 grams of ground almonds and 4 eggs. It's nutty and rich. In stores, it comes dusted with powdered sugar in the traditional galician sword shape.
• When I go out, the tapas are normally tortilla española, Iberian ham or chorizo on a round of bread, or small squares of empanada. But it depends on the place and the time of day. Sometimes you just get peanuts. In the late morning, if you order coffee you'll get churros (fried salty dough in a striated finger shape) or a small sweet baked good.

park - 8/1

We just got back from a park that used to be a cemetary -- there are big iron gates that lead into the park, and the paths form squares of grass. In one section, there are rows of sepulchres that form excellent acoustical space for concerts.

It was a hot afternoon and, like everyone else, we were lying in the shade on towels, napping. There's something odd about napping in a graveyard... you don't want to like it too much.

Mass 8/1/04

I went to mass today with Maria. It was a crowded, sweaty affair. We didn't manage to get seats, so we stood, subway style, at the back of the cathedral. An enormous old galician woman kept elbowing me until I was forced to step behind Maria. Then she started elbowing Maria. She's darn lucky we were in a church.

The highlight was of course the botafumiero, a huge censer held aloft in the middle of the cathedral by a long rope which hangs over a pulley on the ceiling. 5 men hold the other end of the string and swing the botafumiero higher and higher across the whole space, filling the cathedral with incense smoke. The clerymen who swing the botafumiero are treating like rock stars by the congregation, everyone claps and shouts when they step up to the altar.

Finisterre (7/31/04)

The name of the town means "The End of the World," and it sure feels like it.

The bus ride from Santiago is two hours of travel through small towns with frequent stops to pick up and drop off passengers. We wound through small fields dotted with the ubiquitous horreos, some with two crosses at either end, most with a cross on one end and an ancient phallic fertility symbol on the other. Very practical, those galicians of old. Just covering all of the spiritual bases.

When I stepped off the bus in Finisterre, I was assaulted by the smell of fish and wondered what I was going to do for six hours in a town that smells so bad.

But it turned out to be only an old lady passing by with a wheelbarrow full of fresh, shiny sardines.

We walked out of town and up a nearby mountain on a winding trail. It was hot and we were hungry by the time we got near the top. We finally stopped at a less than ideal spot at the side of the path for an ideal picnic lunch -- dried sausage, cheese, fresh whole wheat bread, olives, tomatoes, a pear... We talked about how there were as many people in Austria as the 5 boroughs and speculated about what it would be like if the residents switched places: New Yorkers spread out in Austria with the mountains and clear lakes, Austrians enjoying the attractions and conveniences of New York.

We hiked on, to the top of the mountain where you can see out into the Atlantic.

On the way down we stopped in a small 12th century church where a pilgrim was doing baritone voice exercises that echoed throughout the building.

Seagulls were everywhere, calling out loudly to one another. A little like the residents of Finisterre, who seemed to spend a lot of time standing far apart and yelling at one another.

On the way down from the church, the cool wind off the Atlantic bumped up against the warm air on the land, but did not mix completely. It was a little like wading in a lake, moving from cold to warm spots.

We stopped at a beautiful beach with clear blue water and lots of rocks to sit and sun on. The rocks were covered with barnacles and small mussels crowded together in the crevices.

We splashed around for a little while, then got back on the bus, damp and sleepy.

journal 7/31

As I was walking into the center of town a few minutes ago, I saw three kids tearing through the grass down the hill carrying laundry sacks with clothing peeking out of the top. Two of the kids were of South or Central American descent, and the other was most likely from Africa. All three wore ragged, dusty clothing.

When they got to the bottom of the hill, they tossed their bags into a dumpster and continued running down the hill right past me.

When they got close enough for me to see their faces clearly, I saw that they had huge, exhilerated grins on their faces. It was clear from the sacks and every element of their body language that they were doing something they weren't supposed to do and were thoroughly enjoying that fact.

And sure enough, as I crested the hill I saw two intent-looking guardia trotting in my direction. But the kids were long gone.

Museo do Pobo Gallego (journal 7/28)

I visited the Museo do Pobo Gallego today. A lot of people get the name (which is in Gallego) wrong and say Museo del Pobre Gallego. That would be Museum of the Poor Gallego as opposed to Museum of the Galician People.

And, in reality, the people who make this mistake are not far from wrong. The exhibits show every detail of an exceedingly difficult traditional galician life. Bending and scraping at wood to fashion instruments and shoes, digging huge holes to get clay to make pots and dishes, wresting fish from the sea for food, forcing string into a logical pattern to make lace and cloth. It's a museum devoted to documenting the imposition of stubborn human will on equally stubborn nature.

The best part of the museum is definitely the building itself. The centerpiece is a triple staircase -- like DNA, but with another thread. Picture forthcoming.

breakfast

I've been enjoying a breakfast ritual for the past couple of weeks. Every morning I sit in the kitchen and eat toast with jam and drink coffee. Señora Matos and I watch an exceedingly silly spanish soap opera and chat about it. It's a good way to practice spanish -- "Este chica está embarazada, pero su marido no es el padre del niño..."

big mistake

Note to self: do not go out drinking with Austrians.

Post-Xacobeo -- Journal 7/25

Today there were a number of religious activities as well as a tremendous nationalist procession through town.

The highlight of the religious stuff, for me, was watching the different spanish political figures kiss the statue of St. James in the church after mass. The king and queen (in a traditional mantilla, no less!) gave the saint sensitive kisses on the cheek. But President Zapatero just couldn't do it. He tried, closed his eyes, bent his face near the icon, then shook his head and walked away with a smile. I respected him for that -- he could have been a hypocrite and kissed the saint without having any religious conviction, but he was too honest with himself to do that.

The nationalist parade was in celebration of Galicia Day, which is always the day after St. James' birthday. It went from the south end of town all the way to the center to end in a big scary-sounding rally at one of the large plazas.

People carried a number of different flags and signs - the ubiquituous Nunca Maís, BNG (Bloc Nationalista de Galicia), and Galicia Nova (another nationalist group). There were also a number of communist flags and some national union flags in the mix.

The rally ended with a sonorous recital of the galician anthem, accompanied by bagpipes and tambourines. The anthem seems to be traditionally sung with both fists straight up in the air. Or, if you're holding a beer, one fist.