Thursday, September 30, 2010
On the General Strike in Spain
Yesterday was an interesting day. Workers' rights leaders called for a general strike, the first in eight years in Spain, to protest austerity measures called for by Spain's Prime Minister, Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero. Zapatero had called for the measures--basically a 5% pay cut for civil servants, and a 15% pay cut for government ministers, with a hanging threat/risk/fear of raising the obligatory retirement age to 67 (it stands now at 65)--in an effort to combat Spain's crippled economy, which has the highest unemployment in the EU and significant problems with debt obligations and the like. (This is kind of boring stuff to anyone, I would guess, who wasn't an economics major. I'll speak very generally about this, but if you'd like more of a frame of reference, you can refer to a very good summary on this NYT page, or to this interview with the two union leaders who organized the strike, from Tuesday's leading Spanish daily [it's in English].)
This strike, all along planned for 9/29, was announced way back in June, a long-planned effort by two prominent labor unions to organize critical mass to make a statement about this. Emily and I, however, hadn't heard about the strike until Emily's teacher reminded her the buses would be on "bank holiday" hours; this was not a targeted strike--teachers or nurses protesting their lack of contract, for instance--but rather an effort to get as many working people, of any industry, onto the streets as possible. Some of you, perhaps if you've ever traveled through Europe, already know that when Europeans strike and/or take to the streets in protest, they mean business. Though there wasn't any evidence of the strike in Raxó, Emily had to miss class because of it (the earliest bus was canceled, and she couldn't have gotten to school before more than half the day was gone), and airports/trains/bus terminals all across Spain, from what we gathered on the news, were all scenes of disorganized chaos.
I'm not sure what side of the political issue to stand on here; my natural sympathies always stand with workers, though I've seen enough selfishness and manipulation on the part of organized labor leaders (a lot of it through personal experience) that I don't really trust them anymore than I do elected politicians. In a sense it isn't my fight at all--I'm not likely to ever benefit from Spain's generous social state--so I hesitate to really opine much. Though I find it very difficult to comment here with an informed opinion--it's difficult enough, after all, to keep informed and filter through the truth and the lies in American politics, much less Spain's--I had some visceral reactions to the strike that I don't really ever feel in the United States. On a simplistic level, I was very excited and proud to see such a strong, organized display by working people across the country. It is the kind of people-driven movement, one with actual tangible results, that is all too rare in the United States. (Sorry, a bunch of uninformed, grumpy people protesting their tax rate and accusing Obama of being born in another country does not qualify as a "strong, organized display" in my book, whether or not they call themselves a "Party.") I would love to see Americans take to the streets one-tenth of as much as they complain at work or on their blogs (oops, I'm doing that right now!), or start worthless Facebook groups to see which polarized opinion of Sarah Palin can reach one million followers first. Discourse in America, I guess I'm trying to say, strikes me as much more narcissistic than it is in Europe, but also, ultimately, much more narcissistic than it is anything else--that is to say, people have less of a sincere care for the issues they are ostensibly debating than they do a concern for how their opinion will make them look, and what social, moral, and intellectual circles those opinions invite them into. A lot of these feelings are what have made me, in the last year and a half, far less (personally) invested in politics, and reminded me to focus my energies in constructive arenas. Nevertheless, it's nice to see that political action can still be, seemingly, about actual measures to prevent/inspire real changes, in things that tangibly effect people's lives.
My family here, for their part, seem fairly uninterested in politics. In the times that politics have come up since I've been here, they have all, to a person, agreed that all politicians are the same, regardless of party or promises, and I'll bet you didn't need me to tell you that their opinion of them defaults to negative. (Incidentally, I have to add, since I found it so funny, all of my family here was under the assumption that 100% of America, basically, was in a state of pure, unadulterated joy when Obama was elected. When I informed them that very much the contrary was true, and that today more than half the country is pretty feverishly anti-Obama, they all responded with puzzled looks and surprise. "That's not how it's presented here," I've been told on several occasions. Seems that the cult of Obama is not merely an American phenomenon.) When Emily asked Manolo what he thought the greatest social and governmental problems were in Spain, he listed a long, carefully thought list of problems, but I noticed that he left off the economy; when I reminded him of that, he stopped himself and said "Yes, ultimately it's the economy, because that is the root of all the other problems." All I can say to that is that I hope in the rest of the year I am here I can watch Spain rise out of these difficult times. Regardless, it seems like Zapatero may need to start looking for a new job ahead of elections.
This strike, all along planned for 9/29, was announced way back in June, a long-planned effort by two prominent labor unions to organize critical mass to make a statement about this. Emily and I, however, hadn't heard about the strike until Emily's teacher reminded her the buses would be on "bank holiday" hours; this was not a targeted strike--teachers or nurses protesting their lack of contract, for instance--but rather an effort to get as many working people, of any industry, onto the streets as possible. Some of you, perhaps if you've ever traveled through Europe, already know that when Europeans strike and/or take to the streets in protest, they mean business. Though there wasn't any evidence of the strike in Raxó, Emily had to miss class because of it (the earliest bus was canceled, and she couldn't have gotten to school before more than half the day was gone), and airports/trains/bus terminals all across Spain, from what we gathered on the news, were all scenes of disorganized chaos.
I'm not sure what side of the political issue to stand on here; my natural sympathies always stand with workers, though I've seen enough selfishness and manipulation on the part of organized labor leaders (a lot of it through personal experience) that I don't really trust them anymore than I do elected politicians. In a sense it isn't my fight at all--I'm not likely to ever benefit from Spain's generous social state--so I hesitate to really opine much. Though I find it very difficult to comment here with an informed opinion--it's difficult enough, after all, to keep informed and filter through the truth and the lies in American politics, much less Spain's--I had some visceral reactions to the strike that I don't really ever feel in the United States. On a simplistic level, I was very excited and proud to see such a strong, organized display by working people across the country. It is the kind of people-driven movement, one with actual tangible results, that is all too rare in the United States. (Sorry, a bunch of uninformed, grumpy people protesting their tax rate and accusing Obama of being born in another country does not qualify as a "strong, organized display" in my book, whether or not they call themselves a "Party.") I would love to see Americans take to the streets one-tenth of as much as they complain at work or on their blogs (oops, I'm doing that right now!), or start worthless Facebook groups to see which polarized opinion of Sarah Palin can reach one million followers first. Discourse in America, I guess I'm trying to say, strikes me as much more narcissistic than it is in Europe, but also, ultimately, much more narcissistic than it is anything else--that is to say, people have less of a sincere care for the issues they are ostensibly debating than they do a concern for how their opinion will make them look, and what social, moral, and intellectual circles those opinions invite them into. A lot of these feelings are what have made me, in the last year and a half, far less (personally) invested in politics, and reminded me to focus my energies in constructive arenas. Nevertheless, it's nice to see that political action can still be, seemingly, about actual measures to prevent/inspire real changes, in things that tangibly effect people's lives.
My family here, for their part, seem fairly uninterested in politics. In the times that politics have come up since I've been here, they have all, to a person, agreed that all politicians are the same, regardless of party or promises, and I'll bet you didn't need me to tell you that their opinion of them defaults to negative. (Incidentally, I have to add, since I found it so funny, all of my family here was under the assumption that 100% of America, basically, was in a state of pure, unadulterated joy when Obama was elected. When I informed them that very much the contrary was true, and that today more than half the country is pretty feverishly anti-Obama, they all responded with puzzled looks and surprise. "That's not how it's presented here," I've been told on several occasions. Seems that the cult of Obama is not merely an American phenomenon.) When Emily asked Manolo what he thought the greatest social and governmental problems were in Spain, he listed a long, carefully thought list of problems, but I noticed that he left off the economy; when I reminded him of that, he stopped himself and said "Yes, ultimately it's the economy, because that is the root of all the other problems." All I can say to that is that I hope in the rest of the year I am here I can watch Spain rise out of these difficult times. Regardless, it seems like Zapatero may need to start looking for a new job ahead of elections.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Chelo's Pig
I haven't posted for a bit, so I wanted to at least get a new photo up. Here is a picture of Chelo's pig, Chirrichin. They bought it as a baby and are rearing it for a few months, it will be slaughtered in November (post on that when it happens, for sure). They used to slaughter the pig by slitting its throat, but that's been made illegal and so now they hire a man to come in with a cattle gun (captive bolt, a la "No Country For Old Men"); unfortunately my references to Anton Chigurh went unappreciated, in spite of the fact that Javier Bardem (who is hugely popular in Spain) became the first Spaniard to win an Academy Award by playing that role (orgullo).
They feed Chirrichin three times a day, and each time he is fed he squeals in anticipation when he hears them approach and talk to him. The noise he makes is incredible (Emily is terrified of him, hahaha).
They feed Chirrichin three times a day, and each time he is fed he squeals in anticipation when he hears them approach and talk to him. The noise he makes is incredible (Emily is terrified of him, hahaha).
Friday, September 24, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Kids' fútbol in the town square
Spain's Skinniest Cow?
Spaniards do not eat a lot of beef. Everyone in my family expresses grave concern about the dietary effects of beef, and their notion of the average American diet (basically that everyone eats two cheeseburgers a day) is positively horrifying to them.
While waiting for the bus today I saw this cow across the street. It doesn't seem to be a farm, but rather just somebody's property; nevertheless, it seems safe to assume this cow is not being raised for commercial butchering.
While waiting for the bus today I saw this cow across the street. It doesn't seem to be a farm, but rather just somebody's property; nevertheless, it seems safe to assume this cow is not being raised for commercial butchering.
La Vendimia, Part 3
Yesterday we filtered the must, and pressed the pomace of the tinto, and placed the wine into the barrels for aging. The forecast I had made in an earlier post about this year's yield being comparatively low--a forecast Gonzalo made off-the-cuff before picking the grapes--turned out to be, fortunately, incorrect; the yield turned out high, with full, juicy grapes, and the total amount of wine produced is roughly 600 liters (800 standard sized bottles), 500 tinto and 100 albariño. The wine will sit in the barrels until March or April, when it is bottled, and has a peak shelf life of about one year. On Christmas night, it is a tradition at Gonzalo's to drink the wine of the new vintage, so we will get our first official taste of the wine that night. Though it won't be entirely finished aging in barrel, Gonzalo said that by then the wine will reflect its final character; "If it's a good wine it will already be good," he said, "and if it's a bad wine it will already be bad."
Unofficially, we took a first taste of the wine (it had fermented fully since the initial pressing), which was interesting. The wine was really more like grape juice, since it was nearly impossible to sense the alcohol or any wine characteristics yet. It was a very smooth, almost sweet juice that is entirely devoid of any tannin at all--in a few months we'll see what the aging does to it.
Oh, and to those who were kind enough to express some of their concerns about the winemaking process to me--so far, no aroma of feet or leg hairs in the wine. Phew.
Unofficially, we took a first taste of the wine (it had fermented fully since the initial pressing), which was interesting. The wine was really more like grape juice, since it was nearly impossible to sense the alcohol or any wine characteristics yet. It was a very smooth, almost sweet juice that is entirely devoid of any tannin at all--in a few months we'll see what the aging does to it.
Oh, and to those who were kind enough to express some of their concerns about the winemaking process to me--so far, no aroma of feet or leg hairs in the wine. Phew.
Monday, September 20, 2010
La Virgen del Carmen y La Virgen de la Saleta
This weekend marked an important religious celebration in Raxó, La Virgen del Carmen y La Virgen de la Saleta. Spain is an overwhelmingly Catholic country (you may have heard of the Spanish Inquisition), and within Spain the region of Galicia tends to be a bit more conservative and old-fashioned than the country as a whole, and thus the Church still plays an important role here.
For those who may not be familiar with Catholicism, it is very common for Catholics to pray to particular saints in lieu of God/Jesus Christ, as most Christians do. (I read an article once that cited a poll taken amongst Catholics in Italy--Jesus Christ was only the sixth most popular figure to whom Catholics prayed.) Spanish culture, though patriarchal and occasionally victim to machismo, is a culture in which the men have deep love and reverence to women, particularly their mothers. Consequently, several of the most important saints to Spanish Catholics are women. La Virgen del Carmen is the patron saint of marineros (sailors/mariners/fishermen et al.), and since Galicia as a whole (and Raxó in paticular) is so dependent on the ocean for its livelihood, Carmen is an important, oft-invoked figure for local Catholics. Saleta, meanwhile, is the patron saint of Raxó; together these two figures were celebrated this weekend, and Emily and I attended mass on Sunday to observe the celebration.
While I was raised Catholic, I rejected a lot of the beliefs and practices of the Catholic Church at a young age (my mom allowed me to stop attending CCD after my first Communion), and have been effectively without religion for about the last 12 or 13 years. While my beliefs now are closer to atheism than anything, I am still very interested in religion and believe in the edifying principles that many of them retain (at their best). I approached Sunday's mass in that vein, and found myself able to enjoy a Catholic mass for the first time in a long time (even Emily, a professed-hater of all things organized religion, enjoyed herself).
The mass was held in the larger of two small churches in Raxó, the larger/newer one was built to accommodate crowds that the smaller/older church could not hold. (The older church, probably over 100 years old now, is the same church my mom, aunt, and grandparents were baptized in [and also where my grandparents were married.]) When we arrived, Emily and I found seats behind Manolo and Margarita (Chelo and Gonzalo were also there, in a more crowded section). Priests in Spain, I was told later, have a habit of speaking very, very slowly, as if each word is a measured and calculated decision; fortunately for me, this meant that I could understand almost the entire sermon, even after the booming acoustics and priest's proclivity to avoid the microphone were factored in. In addition to the celebration of the two saints, a young girl was also taking her first Holy Communion, so there was an added air of celebration in the church.
In the priest's sermon, he asked us to look at the statue of Carmen and notice her tears; he said that Carmen cried because she knew the state of life on earth--that it was a life of pain and suffering, but that the suffering was necessary because it reminded Man of the salvation that was to come in heaven. He spoke about this for a while, before smiling slightly and gesturing to the young girl that, on her first Communion, neither God nor Carmen wanted her to be sad, and that it was a cause for happiness and celebration that she was entering the Church. The priest also reminded the congregation that people often have a tendency to elevate money to a godly status, revering it in our daily lives, but that ultimately money could not give the kind of spiritual fulfillment that Man needed (a notion that, I'm sure, was not lost on this economically-devastated country). The themes were easy to appreciate in a non-religious way.
The church also had an incredible choir, one man's voice in particular was utterly gorgeous. After the sermon, the statues of the virgins are carried by men past the cemetery and around the town a bit, before returning back to the church. The whole congregation marches along, followed by a band composed of drummers and bagpipers (similar to the Feira Franca video) in traditional Galego clothing.
After we made it back to the church, the band continued to play for a while and then fireworks were shot off in celebration. It was a lovely festivity. I'll get some video links up on YouTube soon of the march, check back.
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| La Virgen del Carmen (note the fisherman iconography) |
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| La Virgen de la Saleta |
The mass was held in the larger of two small churches in Raxó, the larger/newer one was built to accommodate crowds that the smaller/older church could not hold. (The older church, probably over 100 years old now, is the same church my mom, aunt, and grandparents were baptized in [and also where my grandparents were married.]) When we arrived, Emily and I found seats behind Manolo and Margarita (Chelo and Gonzalo were also there, in a more crowded section). Priests in Spain, I was told later, have a habit of speaking very, very slowly, as if each word is a measured and calculated decision; fortunately for me, this meant that I could understand almost the entire sermon, even after the booming acoustics and priest's proclivity to avoid the microphone were factored in. In addition to the celebration of the two saints, a young girl was also taking her first Holy Communion, so there was an added air of celebration in the church.
In the priest's sermon, he asked us to look at the statue of Carmen and notice her tears; he said that Carmen cried because she knew the state of life on earth--that it was a life of pain and suffering, but that the suffering was necessary because it reminded Man of the salvation that was to come in heaven. He spoke about this for a while, before smiling slightly and gesturing to the young girl that, on her first Communion, neither God nor Carmen wanted her to be sad, and that it was a cause for happiness and celebration that she was entering the Church. The priest also reminded the congregation that people often have a tendency to elevate money to a godly status, revering it in our daily lives, but that ultimately money could not give the kind of spiritual fulfillment that Man needed (a notion that, I'm sure, was not lost on this economically-devastated country). The themes were easy to appreciate in a non-religious way.
The church also had an incredible choir, one man's voice in particular was utterly gorgeous. After the sermon, the statues of the virgins are carried by men past the cemetery and around the town a bit, before returning back to the church. The whole congregation marches along, followed by a band composed of drummers and bagpipers (similar to the Feira Franca video) in traditional Galego clothing. |
| Carrying Carmen (Gonzalo facing the camera) |
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| Carrying Saleta (Manolo holding the back right, turned from camera in between two priests) |
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| Marching past the cemetery (my grandfather's mausoleum is the one being blocked by the tall crucifix) |
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| Young girls in church dresses listening to the band |
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| Fireworks |
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Contact Information
If anyone has the urge to contact Emily or me in the old-fashioned ways, here is our contact information:
My cell: 615 635 262
Emily's cell phone: 645 215 069
Apartment phone: 986 741 383 (the way to dial Spain from the United States, in any case, is 011-34 before the 9-digit number)
Our mailing address:
Ramon Encinas #11
Primer Piso 1A
Raxo, Poio, Pontevedra 36992
Spain
My cell: 615 635 262
Emily's cell phone: 645 215 069
Apartment phone: 986 741 383 (the way to dial Spain from the United States, in any case, is 011-34 before the 9-digit number)
Our mailing address:
Ramon Encinas #11
Primer Piso 1A
Raxo, Poio, Pontevedra 36992
Spain
"¡Chau Rocky, chau!"
I wanted to share my favorite video that I've taken so far. On Day 1 of la vendimia, several of us followed Chelo as she went to feed her pigs and chickens. Chelo's oldest grandson, Angel (not featured in the video), is a champion swimmer who, on a challenge from his swim coach, caught a duck in the ria and, not wanting to get rid of it, gave it to Chelo to keep; the duck, who he named Rocky (which in the video sounds like Roque, or Roquiño [Little Rocky]), now lives with some of Chelo's chickens. Mario, the 4-year-old grandson of Chelo's late brother, wanted to see the duck, and fortunately I had my camera on me. My favorite part is after Mario's father, Vicente, finally catches the duck, but Mario hides in fear, mustering up only enough courage to mime "¡Quieto!" (Keep still!). That's my laughter you can hear in the video...I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
(I couldn't get the video to load here, as it exceeded the site's file size limit. But here is the link to get it at YouTube, where it is available in HD.)
Friday, September 17, 2010
2nd Week Roundup
Emily and I arrived in Raxó two weeks ago tonight, and are by now now set in a routine that is starting to feel very much like home (if still new and foreign, both literally and figuratively).
Barring any unforeseen complications, this coming week we will take care of my DNI (national identity card), and Emily's foreign equivalent, and will be all set with that paperwork. Beyond that, we've taken care of most priorities and purchased most one-time things that we anticipate needing while here, and have approached each day lately with the same kind of goals and urgency as we did while living together in Buffalo. The main difference has been, of course, that we now have a luxury of free time and limited-responsibility that we have not really ever known. While Emily started her Spanish language classes this week (and has been doing well, trying hard, and maintaining great enthusiasm), she is bound to nobody but herself to go. Similarly, I have no outward responsibility to anyone or anything, a kind of freedom that can border on the frightening.
To combat this, Emily and I have been very diligent about keeping to a routine that avoids the temptation of being in "vacation mode"; I wake up with her every morning at around 7:15, and as she leaves to take the bus for school (at around 7:50), I get ready to start my morning, which consists of a small breakfast, some exercise, a shower, and then sitting down to write. Emily gets home slightly before 3 PM, and from there we have been granting ourselves the freedom to spend the rest of the evening as we like.
I've found the routine very helpful so far--a productive and edifying discipline. This week I've been focusing on finishing the supplemental material writings I need for my applications, assignments that have been maddeningly frustrating for me, but still not without legitimate merit. I am periodically still very stressed about the prospect of completing and submitting these applications, and I don't think I'll be able to truly relax until I get them all in (which I am hoping to do by around mid-October).
Things have relaxed and quieted down a lot here in the second week as compared to the first. My family, by and large, seems to have trusted that Emily and I can fend for ourselves, and haven't felt the need to check in or worry about us. The summer season is pretty much officially over now--it seems to have happened, unannounced, the middle of this week--and though the weather is still lovely there is an unmistakably different vibe in the air here. Raxó, the tiny town we live in, benefits a lot from tourism in the summer months (mainly from Spaniards from other parts of the country, but occasionally from other Europeans as well), and many of its businesses sustain themselves solely through that. On account of the fact that we live directly on top of the beach, our awareness of those changes have been heightened: today, despite lovely weather (the aforementioned weather forecast was wrong), barely anyone graced the beach at midday; when Emily and I got coffee and ice cream at the bar below us in mid-evening, the proprietor of the usually-buzzing (now-empty) establishment told us they would be open only on weekends until next Spring. Though I've heard a lot about the differences in Raxó in the off-season, I've never been here other than during summer, and I am very intrigued to experience the town in this new light.
Still, not much has changed in the grand scheme of things. In spite of all that I've just mentioned, life this week maintained the same jovial spontaneity and focus on simple pleasures that I've always known here. Walking home from the grocery store this evening, Lalo spotted us from within a bar and called us in, demanding we share a glass of wine with him. Manolo is having us over for a special asado (barbecued/roasted meats) lunch tomorrow, already the fourth meal we've shared with him. Tina is having us over for lunch on Sunday, during which she will also teach Emily some special recipes. This weekend also marks a special Catholic holy celebration here, Virgen de la Saleta and Virgen del Carmen (which seems to be, as I've gathered, simply more classic examples of Catholics celebrating chicks who don't put out), and though I am uninterested in the religious aspects of the of it I may venture to the church to explore it from a sociological perspective.
Well, that's all that's on my mind for now. Check back later, ¡chau!
Barring any unforeseen complications, this coming week we will take care of my DNI (national identity card), and Emily's foreign equivalent, and will be all set with that paperwork. Beyond that, we've taken care of most priorities and purchased most one-time things that we anticipate needing while here, and have approached each day lately with the same kind of goals and urgency as we did while living together in Buffalo. The main difference has been, of course, that we now have a luxury of free time and limited-responsibility that we have not really ever known. While Emily started her Spanish language classes this week (and has been doing well, trying hard, and maintaining great enthusiasm), she is bound to nobody but herself to go. Similarly, I have no outward responsibility to anyone or anything, a kind of freedom that can border on the frightening.
To combat this, Emily and I have been very diligent about keeping to a routine that avoids the temptation of being in "vacation mode"; I wake up with her every morning at around 7:15, and as she leaves to take the bus for school (at around 7:50), I get ready to start my morning, which consists of a small breakfast, some exercise, a shower, and then sitting down to write. Emily gets home slightly before 3 PM, and from there we have been granting ourselves the freedom to spend the rest of the evening as we like.
I've found the routine very helpful so far--a productive and edifying discipline. This week I've been focusing on finishing the supplemental material writings I need for my applications, assignments that have been maddeningly frustrating for me, but still not without legitimate merit. I am periodically still very stressed about the prospect of completing and submitting these applications, and I don't think I'll be able to truly relax until I get them all in (which I am hoping to do by around mid-October).
Things have relaxed and quieted down a lot here in the second week as compared to the first. My family, by and large, seems to have trusted that Emily and I can fend for ourselves, and haven't felt the need to check in or worry about us. The summer season is pretty much officially over now--it seems to have happened, unannounced, the middle of this week--and though the weather is still lovely there is an unmistakably different vibe in the air here. Raxó, the tiny town we live in, benefits a lot from tourism in the summer months (mainly from Spaniards from other parts of the country, but occasionally from other Europeans as well), and many of its businesses sustain themselves solely through that. On account of the fact that we live directly on top of the beach, our awareness of those changes have been heightened: today, despite lovely weather (the aforementioned weather forecast was wrong), barely anyone graced the beach at midday; when Emily and I got coffee and ice cream at the bar below us in mid-evening, the proprietor of the usually-buzzing (now-empty) establishment told us they would be open only on weekends until next Spring. Though I've heard a lot about the differences in Raxó in the off-season, I've never been here other than during summer, and I am very intrigued to experience the town in this new light.
Still, not much has changed in the grand scheme of things. In spite of all that I've just mentioned, life this week maintained the same jovial spontaneity and focus on simple pleasures that I've always known here. Walking home from the grocery store this evening, Lalo spotted us from within a bar and called us in, demanding we share a glass of wine with him. Manolo is having us over for a special asado (barbecued/roasted meats) lunch tomorrow, already the fourth meal we've shared with him. Tina is having us over for lunch on Sunday, during which she will also teach Emily some special recipes. This weekend also marks a special Catholic holy celebration here, Virgen de la Saleta and Virgen del Carmen (which seems to be, as I've gathered, simply more classic examples of Catholics celebrating chicks who don't put out), and though I am uninterested in the religious aspects of the of it I may venture to the church to explore it from a sociological perspective.
Well, that's all that's on my mind for now. Check back later, ¡chau!
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Hazy Morning in Raxó
The sun, like seemingly everything else in Spain, is late to rise in Raxó. It was hazy this morning, and the next few days are expected to be rainy.
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| View from the patio, 16 September 2010, 9:26 AM |
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Final impressions on the wine
A few people have asked me how I enjoy the homemade wine here, since I have in the last year-and-a-half developed a strong interest and enjoyment in wine. Having developed my own tastes and methods for appreciating various kinds of wines, do I objectively enjoy what my family makes? And so, for a critical opinion on the wine: it is some of the most pleasurable wine, in its own way, I have ever drank. In a sense, it is unrecognizable as wine when compared with what you find at a wine store in the United States; there is no body, tannin, or real layers to this wine like you would find in a conventional bottle (either red or white, “good” or “bad,” and regardless of price). Both the tinto and the albariño are so light, so devoid of the sensations (both in flavor and taction) of alcohol, that you can almost forget you are drinking wine at all. If that sounds unappealing to wine drinkers, I would say only that conceptually it sounds unappealing to me too, but that the actual experience is, to my tastes, absolutely delightful. One of the things serious wine drinkers rave about most is terroir, the idea that a great wine should reflect the specific place it is from, imparting flavors distinct to the earth it is born from; I have never experienced terroir so clearly and richly expressed as I have in these wines, which taste as simply and purely delicious as I can imagine. These are wines that mask nothing, and without the concern of critical reviews/sales & marketing/ageability (or whatever other things affect the greater wine world), these are made to enjoy on the most basic level--and they do.
La Vendimia, Part 2
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| Picking grapes is back-breaking work...literally! |
After everyone has gotten their fill, and relaxed sufficiently (la siesta, an afternoon nap, is still a common practice), it’s back to work. At this point we picked the grapes for the tinto, which each year is a blend of five to six varietals. Each year the blend is overwhelmingly composed (around 80%) of an indigenous varietal called Foio Redondo, a large, round, dark-purple grape that is very juicy and, though it has large seeds, has absolutely no discernible tannin. This year the rest is composed of a blend of tempranillo (the celebrated Rioja varietal), Catelan negro, and a very small (maybe 2-3%) presence of Catelan blanco (a white grape, oddly), which Gonzalo says mixes nicely with the reds. In the last few years Gonzalo has been experimenting with how well certain varietals produce on his land, so currently not everything he is growing is ready for the wine (vines need to produce grapes for at least two years before the fruit is suitable for winemaking, and sometimes up to four), and among those right now are moscatel. (Currently Gonzalo calls these grapes uva de mesa [table grapes], as they are brought in and placed on the table to snack on.)
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| Sorting through the grapes |
When all the grapes have been picked, they are sorted through bundle-by-bundle. The idea is to pick our any individual gripes that are either overripe, not-yet-ripe, dried out, victim of rot, or otherwise unappetizing (removing the plentiful spiders helps too). This process is a point of particular pride for the family (“This is what wineries don’t do” says Marichelo, Gonzalo’s daughter). This job is long and tedious, and it leaves your fingers and hands totally sticky and full of spider webs (the vines are one of spiders’ favorite places to hang out, evidently). To make the job go by quicker, everyone joins in, and for a point that included even my great-aunt Amelia (Chelo’s mother/Gonzalo’s mother-in-law), once the family matriarch who has, since her husband (and, more recently, son) died, been mostly sedentary and reclusive. To pass the time there are plenty of jokes (Jose quipped “Bienvenido a Bodegas Gonzalo, donde todo el vino es malo,” a rhyme that means “Welcome to Gonzalo’s winery, where all the wine sucks”), and at one time there were songs; Tina, Amelia’s daughter-in-law (the widow of her son, Mundo, who died last year), tried to get Amelia to remember some of the old songs the women used to sing while sorting through the grapes, but she could not recall them (“They didn’t mean anything,” Amelia said, “the men just wanted us to sing to be sure we weren’t eating the grapes” [laughter]).
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| The spiders really do love the vines! |
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| See him hiding there, on the right? |
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| Plenty more to be done! |
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| The tray of discarded grapes in bottom-right of frame |
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| Stomping time |
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After only the best grapes have been selected, then comes the fun part—stomping on the grapes! This old practice is still a functional way for Gonzalo to take the whole quantity of grapes and get it down to an initial must (juice plus solid portions [skins/stems/seeds/pulp]) before pressing it fully. Emily and I each took turns stomping on the grapes…an interesting tactile experience to say the least. The amount of juice the grapes provides, even after a few initial steps, is unbelievable; as you step down further (“More! More!” the family heckled us, “reach your feet to the bottom [of the barrel]!”) the must really begins to stick to your legs, and by the time you exit your legs are covered with a thick slime reminiscent of “Double Dare” (those of you my age should know what I mean). Throughout the stomping we got some funny commentary from my family, mainly along the lines of the 2010 Cosecha (vintage) tasting like American feet. Nicolas’ wife, Concha, also helpfully suggested I remind Emily not to urinate in the grapes as she stomped on them, a piece of advice that *hopefully* is not offered due to experience. (Marichelo also told us about how, many years ago, women were prohibited from stomping on the grapes during their period, which was an amusing point to convey since I did not know the Spanish words for either “period” or “menstruation.”) Anyway, after stomping, the initial must of the albariño then macerates in a barrel for 24 hours for partial fermentation, to be continued on Sunday.
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| Pomace, after pressing |
On Sunday we went back for lunch, and continued work thereafter. Jose’s job was to squeeze the rest of must down with Gonzalo’s press, squeezing out every conceivable drop of juice and leaving only pomace (pure physical matter of the grapes [the skins/stems/seeds/pulp]). Jose squeezed it down so tightly that, when the press was taken apart, to my amazement the pomace had formed a huge, thick, hard crust, which broke apart only when picked at with sharp tools. The juice, brownish-green, had hardly fermented, and tasted instead like the most rich, fresh, semi-sweet juice I had ever had. (Nicolas, who owns the family’s dry sense of humor, put on his wine critic hat, and joked “Este no es albariño. Este tiene sabor Americano. Yo no voy a beber este vino (“This is not albariño. This tastes American. I won’t drink this wine.”) From there the juice sits in an open barrel for 8 days fermenting, before being placed into a stainless steel barrel for 6-7 months of aging.
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| Stained feet! |
After taking care of the albariño, we stomped on the blend of reds, which had been sitting overnight. This process was pretty much identical to the stomping of the albariño, only really, REALLY freakin’ messy. The juice from the red grapes is unbelievably staining! When I got out of the barrel it looked like I had committed bloody murder, and after 4 showers and over 30 hours the soles of my feet are still slightly black from the process. This must sits in a wooden barrel for three days before being pressed like the whites, and then is placed back into wooden barrels for an additional 7-8 months of aging. Gonzalo uses small barrels of Spanish and American oak, though they are old and have been in use for several years, so by now give off no flavor or tannin at all. Consequently these wines are not well-suited for aging, and are meant to be drank in the same year, or in the next year after bottling. (This process is well documented on Emily’s blog; for more pictures of what I’ve described, you can check it out there. For those of you unfamiliar with it, it can be found at booeyinspain.blogspot.com)
Earlier I mentioned aguardiente; aguardiente, or orujo, is a type of liquor (like the Italian grappa) which is made by distilling the pomace leftover from winemaking. The “hard crust” I mentioned earlier—the pomace—is added to the must of the red grapes as it sits in the barrel for three days, soaking up some juice and alcohol to prepare it for distillation. What is produced from that process, which Gonzalo used to do but now pays a friend about $50 to do for him, is what produces aguardiente (literally “fire water”). “Fire water” is a good name for this beverage, which is clear like water but ranges from 100-120 proof, and has the aroma of pure hell. Aguardiente is unique to Galicia, and a source of local pride; when I recounted to my family that a friend I made in Madrid literally cringed when I mentioned aguardiente, they laughed and cheered, and joked that Madrileños were not real men. Aguardiente is drank after big meals, and is used as a kind of cure-all in the malady department (as a beverage, but also sometimes rubbed on chests to fight colds & congestion). My grandmother, who never touches alcohol, still occasionally puts a healthy pour in a glass of milk when she is feeling ill (which is, without exaggeration, the most revolting thing I have ever witnessed). Aguardiente is also popular amongst Gallego fisherman in the wintertime, who—after long winter nights on the cold, windy, rainy ocean—“come into the bar blue in the face,” as the saying goes, “and, after a glass of aguardiente, leave red in the face.” When Jamerson and I brought American friends to Spain, Gonzalo immediately made them try aguardiente, and I always laugh when I remember how amused and pleased he was when Chris took down a 2 ounce shot in one gulp (“¡Bravo, bravo, que valiente!”)
The whole experience is a wonderful, family-shared process that I actually felt honored to be a part of. Gonzalo recalled how he learned winemaking from his grandfather, who learned from his grandfather; in turn, Gonzalo will teach it one day to one of his grandchildren; “Siempre,” he said, “de abuelo a nieto, de abuelo a nieto” (“Always from grandfather to grandson”). Though I’ve got some great, expensive bottles of wine aging in my “cellar” at home for a future special occasion, I don’t think I’ve ever been so eager to try a wine as one of the bottles I’ve had a hand in making. April can’t come soon enough!
Monday, September 13, 2010
La Vendimia, Part 1
Every year at this time, give or take a week or two, this part of Spain—which has earned the D.O. Rias Baixas—harvests this season’s wine, a process called La Vendimia. In addition to all of the professional bodegas in the area, winemaking is still very commonly practiced by locals on a micro-level; judging by a quick visual survey of the homes I pass on a daily basis, a majority of people are also practicing viticulture—the process of actually growing the grapes used for winemaking—which is by far the most difficult part of the process of winemaking. (My cousin Gonzalo estimates that 90% of people locally use their land for some kind of personal-use farming, be it viticulture, potatoes, tomatoes, peppers, onions, the keeping of animals, et cetera, or something else. In his few plots of lands he and his wife, Chelo, somehow manage to do all of the above, and more.)
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| View of Chelo & Gonzalo's backyard, with barn cat |
This week marked La Vendimia for most of the area, Gonzalo included. It was a very dry summer—there was a stretch of about seven weeks with absolutely no rainfall—and thus not a particularly good season for growing (the total yield was comparatively low, though it was not overly hot and thus the grapes still ripened at a good rate). Fortunately it rained very heavily for two straight days leading up to La Vendimia, which everyone seemed to believe was very good for the grapes (“The grapes drink now, so that we can drink them later” Gonzalo said with a smile on the rainiest day).
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| View of Ria Pontevedra (Pontevedra Estuary), part of the Atlantic Ocean, from their patio |
Our part of Galicia is on the 42nd parallel North, which, for frame of reference, puts it on a parallel with central NY, the border of California & Oregon, the southern tip of Ontario, the island of Corsica, and Rome (which is a bit south of the prime wine making areas of France and Italy). We are also immediately off the ocean: Rias Baixas (the name of the D.O.) is Galego for “Lower Estuaries,” or “Lower Fjords”; if you look at a detailed map of the coast of Galicia, you will see several estuaries of the Atlantic Ocean that cut into the coast almost like fingers. The climate here is Atlantic temperate, windy and rainy (most of the year) with temperatures that bottom out at around 45 F on the coldest winter days, never getting much hotter than 85 F on the hottest summer days (usually a bit cooler). All of the unique aspects of a region’s climate radically determine what kinds of grapes grow well; further, the local cuisine of any area tends to have a major affect on its winemaking style. In these areas, Galicia is no different, and the wine made locally is the unique product of climate, history, and culture unlike I have ever before tasted.
Galicia is most known for its Albariño, an indigenous varietal that produces light, crisp white wines which are now very popular in the United States. Albariño is a wine ideally suited for both the cuisine and culture of Galicia: the consummate pair to shellfish and white fish of any kind, it is also perfectly drinkable on its own, making it popular with lunch/dinner, tapas, or any of the isolated social drinks Gallegos might have in the course of a summer day. Though white wine (generally albariño, but also other varietals such as Moscatel) grows better and is more popular here overall, red wine (or tinto as it’s called in Spain) is also beloved here. Though red wines of La Rioja, Spain’s most celebrated winemaking region, are very popular here, generally speaking most reds locally are much lighter, softer, and easily drinkable that Rioja’s tempranillo-based reds. Gonzalo grows both red and white grapes, with roughly half of his plot devoted to Albariño (which produce a 100% varietal), and half to a blend of grapes which becomes his tinto.
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| Albariño grapes in Gonzalo's vines |
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| Red grapes (Foio redondo) |
On Saturday morning at around 10:30 we met Gonzalo at his home for La Vendimia. The plan was to begin picking the albariño at 11 AM, break for lunch (the biggest, most important meal of the day here), and resume picking the reds before pressing the albariño. Gonzalo’s property consists of a medium-sized backyard behind the house (for people in Buffalo, imagine more or less the average yard in Kenmore), and another small plot across the street, right over the ocean, where they keep their chicken coops and pig sties. (The vines here are all above head, entwined with wire fencing to keep them up.) In the morning I began picking the albariño across the street with Gonzalo and Jose (his son-in-law), while Emily started on lunch with the other men’s wives. “Picking” the grapes is, of course, actually cutting down the bundles from the stem and collecting them in a large bucket; it is like any manual labor in that it is rote, though it was a task I found serene and pleasurable, perhaps because it had a leisurely weekend pace and would the end product we were working towards was so palatable and perceptible. To pass the time, Gonzalo, Jose and I had a conversation about wine and wines from other countries, which I found hysterical. Spaniards are, by nature, very, very proud people, beginning first with their region (in this case Galicia), but extending to the country as a whole whenever compared or contrasted to another land. Jose—a loud, brusque, uncharacteristically heavy man (for Spain’s standards)—proclaimed, as Gonzalo dropped the first bundle of grapes: “Albariño, el mejor vino del mundo (albariño, the best wine in the world).” Casually, I responded “It’s delicious, though I prefer reds.” Gonzalo, mild-mannered and even-tempered, diplomatically offered “Albariño is the best for drinking, but tinto is better with food,” which prompted Jose to catalogue which foods pair best with albariño, and which with tinto, causing a mini-debate between the two. Switching gears a bit, I asked them if they ever drank wines from other countries; Spain, owing in part to their pride, imports less wine per capita than any nation in the world, drinking domestic wine almost exclusively (while still maintaining a healthy level of export [Spain has more acreage of vines planted than any nation in the world]). Gonzalo and Jose each responded to the effect of “I’ve tried most of them, but I prefer our wine.” What followed were their quick summaries of some of the world’s major winemaking nations:
France – Gonzalo: “They make some very good wines, but it’s only really drinkable with food. You can’t drink French wine on its own.” Jose: “They are like scientists when it comes to wine. Everything is about blending, what goes with what. They play with their wine a lot. It’s all like a science to them. Some of the wines are good. I’ve had French champagne before.”
Italy – Jose: “Their wine is really just made for cooking. For the most part, it’s made for cooking, it isn’t wine that should be drank.” Gonzalo: “The thing is, all Italian wine is sweet. Their reds, their whites, they’re all very, very sweet.” (When I responded that that’s not actually true, and that some Italian wines, like Nebbiolo, are very strong and tannic, Gonzalo paused, wrinkled his eyes dubiously, and said finally “Puede ser (it’s possible).”
America – Jose: “I’ve never had American wine, but I hear it’s actually supposed to be pretty good in some parts.” Me: “Yes, American wine is very diverse, and some of it is among the best wine in the world.” Jose: (Laughs) “No, it’s not that good. The California wine is supposed to be good. The thing is, America doesn’t have the right kind of land for growing grapes.” Me: “Well, it’s not my favorite, but it is considered to be amongst the best. Land for grapes in Napa is the most expensive in the world, along with Bordeaux.” Jose: “I don’t think so.” Gonzalo: “The problem is, all of the vines are very young there. Winemaking in the United States is very new, they’re still figuring things out.” Me: “I was in Napa with Emily in March. Some of their vines are older than the oldest vines in Europe. They have vines of a certain type, Zinfandel, that are over 100 years old. And there are lots of winemakers who have come from Spain and France and have vineyards in California.” Gonzalo: “Yes but the problem is, they are still learning how to make wine there. They don’t really know what they’re doing yet.”
And so on. That the underlying tone was one of pride and self-preservation softened the generalizations they used so cavalierly, and, ultimately, no one should be faulted for having a strong opinion (lord knows I’ve got my share). After getting the first batch of grapes, we returned to the backyard where Emily helped, joined by Chelo, Marinieves (20, Chelo & Gonzalo’s granddaughter), and Jose’s niece (19). The work at this point, while still easygoing, became literally back-breaking, owing to the low height of the aforementioned hanging vines; Emily and I joked that it was the first time in our lives we were thankful to be short. If any bundles of grapes were entirely unripened, they were to be thrown back to the ground and forgotten, though that was a rarity. All the rest of the bundles were thrown together, to be sorted through later.
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| Lunch :-D |
At about 2 PM we broke for lunch, which was delicious fish on the open wood-fire grill, boiled potatoes with olive oil, and noodles with roasted chicken and peas in a thin tomato sauce. Of course fresh bread is standard with any meal in Spain, along with requisite bottles of albariño and tinto (Gonzalo drinks only his own wine, or occasionally that of a friend). After lunch there is always desert, which is a curious mix of fruit, nuts, sweet breads, cakes/tarts, and especially ice cream (no Spanish home seems to be without ice cream in the freezer, particularly cucuruchos, the individually-wrapped cones); all of the above is served with coffee and, usually, liquor (a chupito, or shot, of aguardiente [more on this in a bit], whisky, coffee-flavored liquer, sherry, or rum, depending on your taste). Generally I pass on the liquor, having already had a few glasses of wine with lunch and unaccustomed to the taste of liquor with the sun still up, which my family seems to find peculiar (“Everyone says a shot of whisky a day is good for your heart…everyone” they tell me). (As for the aguardiente? “Cura de todo, cura de todo” [“It cures everything.”]) The meal is slow and leisurely, especially on weekends, often taking 2 or 2-½ hours, during which point it is not rare (at least in Gonzalo’s home) for family or friends from the neighborhood to drop by unannounced (and, inevitably, eat and drink with everyone else).
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Reflections on my first week
Highlights:
-Celebrating my first anniversary with Emily :-) We had a delicious, huge lunch with family at Chelo & Gonzalo's house, then spent the remainder of the eveing alone. Late at night we went out for a small Spanish style tapas dinner, sharing a few small dishes over some drinks. After dinner we went for a walk around Raxo, taking in the view from all around while most of the town was already in home and silent.
-Feira Franca. (See previous post)
-¡La Vendimia! Separate blog post to follow, but making the wine at Gonzalo's was the most fun experience so far, by a long shot.
-The return of dolphins to our Ria (estuary). I remember dolphins swimming up to our little boat when I 5, but I hadn't seen any the last four or five times I've visited here. They've been easy to spot this year, and are a majestic view in the ocean. I will try and post a photograph soon, but they're so fast that they are hard to catch...especially without a telephoto lens :-(
-The family. Emily and I have been treated phenomenally by all of our family, who never cease to amaze me in their generosity, sincerity, and capacity for sweet gestures.
-The food. Subject for a future post, but bears mentioning here.
Lowlights:
-The weather. We had two very rainy days in our first four days here, forcing us to alter our plans a bit, though as of late the weather has taken a tremendous turn for the better (beach, boat time recently).
-Spanish bureaucracy. I'll spare readers the boring details, but suffice it to say it has been a headache to secure the paperwork needed to get me a DNI (national identity card, essential for Spanish citizens to get anything more than a carton of milk), and to register Emily appropriately so that she can live here without a visa. Basically, nobody seems to really have any idea what we need to do, so my only hope is that we can accomplish everything necessary in under three months, so that Emily doesn't get deported. (Doubly frustrating since the Spanish consulate in New York assured us we had done everything necessary prior to leaving.)
-The language barrier. When people ask me if I'm fluent, my answer has always been "I'm proficient, which is to say I could carry a conversation with anyone so long as we want to understand each other, but I could never translate a book." That's a pretty good summary of where my Spanish skills are right now (getting better bit by bit the longer I am here), but the limitations of my language become amplified every day. Especially as a translator for Emily, I have become very frustrated in the things I cannot properly convey. When you define your eloquence by saying "I can get around what I don't know," you find yourself saying a lot of the same things, and inconsequential things and/or jokes, puns, playful jibes (basically, the crux of friendly communication) often become not-worth the effort in attempting to explain and translate. I have always prided myself on my ability to communicate and express myself, and my ability to get along and carry on conversations with anyone; I will have to work very hard to get to that point in Spanish. (Add in the fact that almost all of the locals here speak what is called Trapaso--literally, Castilian Spanish mixed with Galego, an entirely distinct language indigenous to Galicia--and that is harder than it may sound.)
-My computer. One of my major goals this year was to work on my documentary project about my family's immigration story, all the while becoming a much better technical and practical editor of my own work. To have a year to work on that was like a dream come true. Unfortunately, I've spent the last few weeks agonizing over the decision of how to get my computer to Spain, and more lately whether I should at all. (Note, for those who don't know: the computer in question is my new very special, very expensive, very tricked-out 27" iMac, the specs of which I had specially ordered to function perfectly for HD video editing.) The computer is very heavy and, unfortunately, I completely underestimated the cost of shipping it to Spain. As of now, my only option seems to be shipping costs that would likely exceed $1200 total, which still does not include a potential duty at Spanish customs that nobody can yet give me an accurate prediction for (but which might, on its own, exceed the shipping costs). At that point, it would nearly match the cost of buying an identical computer brand new, and, needless to say, I don't have sufficient bankroll for that kind of unplanned cost. If I don't get better news in a hurry, I might choose to keep the computer at home, and put my editing training on the back burner. Fortunately, I would still be able to work on my documentary project, if even in a limited form, without the luxury of being able to critically review my footage as its shot.
All in all, the highlights still have it. It's been a great first week, and I am thus far completely pleased and at peace with our decision. Tomorrow morning Emily starts her language classes, which puts us both on a more rigid, daily work schedule that should prove very productive. I am looking forward to becoming more situated in our new home.
-Celebrating my first anniversary with Emily :-) We had a delicious, huge lunch with family at Chelo & Gonzalo's house, then spent the remainder of the eveing alone. Late at night we went out for a small Spanish style tapas dinner, sharing a few small dishes over some drinks. After dinner we went for a walk around Raxo, taking in the view from all around while most of the town was already in home and silent.
-Feira Franca. (See previous post)
-¡La Vendimia! Separate blog post to follow, but making the wine at Gonzalo's was the most fun experience so far, by a long shot.
-The return of dolphins to our Ria (estuary). I remember dolphins swimming up to our little boat when I 5, but I hadn't seen any the last four or five times I've visited here. They've been easy to spot this year, and are a majestic view in the ocean. I will try and post a photograph soon, but they're so fast that they are hard to catch...especially without a telephoto lens :-(
-The family. Emily and I have been treated phenomenally by all of our family, who never cease to amaze me in their generosity, sincerity, and capacity for sweet gestures.
-The food. Subject for a future post, but bears mentioning here.
Lowlights:
-The weather. We had two very rainy days in our first four days here, forcing us to alter our plans a bit, though as of late the weather has taken a tremendous turn for the better (beach, boat time recently).
-Spanish bureaucracy. I'll spare readers the boring details, but suffice it to say it has been a headache to secure the paperwork needed to get me a DNI (national identity card, essential for Spanish citizens to get anything more than a carton of milk), and to register Emily appropriately so that she can live here without a visa. Basically, nobody seems to really have any idea what we need to do, so my only hope is that we can accomplish everything necessary in under three months, so that Emily doesn't get deported. (Doubly frustrating since the Spanish consulate in New York assured us we had done everything necessary prior to leaving.)
-The language barrier. When people ask me if I'm fluent, my answer has always been "I'm proficient, which is to say I could carry a conversation with anyone so long as we want to understand each other, but I could never translate a book." That's a pretty good summary of where my Spanish skills are right now (getting better bit by bit the longer I am here), but the limitations of my language become amplified every day. Especially as a translator for Emily, I have become very frustrated in the things I cannot properly convey. When you define your eloquence by saying "I can get around what I don't know," you find yourself saying a lot of the same things, and inconsequential things and/or jokes, puns, playful jibes (basically, the crux of friendly communication) often become not-worth the effort in attempting to explain and translate. I have always prided myself on my ability to communicate and express myself, and my ability to get along and carry on conversations with anyone; I will have to work very hard to get to that point in Spanish. (Add in the fact that almost all of the locals here speak what is called Trapaso--literally, Castilian Spanish mixed with Galego, an entirely distinct language indigenous to Galicia--and that is harder than it may sound.)
-My computer. One of my major goals this year was to work on my documentary project about my family's immigration story, all the while becoming a much better technical and practical editor of my own work. To have a year to work on that was like a dream come true. Unfortunately, I've spent the last few weeks agonizing over the decision of how to get my computer to Spain, and more lately whether I should at all. (Note, for those who don't know: the computer in question is my new very special, very expensive, very tricked-out 27" iMac, the specs of which I had specially ordered to function perfectly for HD video editing.) The computer is very heavy and, unfortunately, I completely underestimated the cost of shipping it to Spain. As of now, my only option seems to be shipping costs that would likely exceed $1200 total, which still does not include a potential duty at Spanish customs that nobody can yet give me an accurate prediction for (but which might, on its own, exceed the shipping costs). At that point, it would nearly match the cost of buying an identical computer brand new, and, needless to say, I don't have sufficient bankroll for that kind of unplanned cost. If I don't get better news in a hurry, I might choose to keep the computer at home, and put my editing training on the back burner. Fortunately, I would still be able to work on my documentary project, if even in a limited form, without the luxury of being able to critically review my footage as its shot.
All in all, the highlights still have it. It's been a great first week, and I am thus far completely pleased and at peace with our decision. Tomorrow morning Emily starts her language classes, which puts us both on a more rigid, daily work schedule that should prove very productive. I am looking forward to becoming more situated in our new home.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
More pictures from Feira Franca
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| Some kids posing in front of what remains of a 13th century cathedral in Pontevedra |
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| There were archery contests |
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| Turns out Spanish Celts used to "get low" wayyyyy back in the day... |
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| If this doesn't make you salivate, I submit you have no pulse. |
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| Jarra de vino tinto. All food was served on & with 14th century-equivalent utensils. |
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| Mmmm, carne. |
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| Smoke from all the open fire pits. Under the tents are tables to eat at...but you were only allowed to sit if you were in costume! (Emily and I found a bench, haha.) |
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| Crowd shot--Pontevedra was packed, and I'd estimate conservatively that at least 85% of all people were in costume. |
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