This Made Me Want a Burger

Plaza de Toros Monumental

Last Sunday a few friends and myself went on an ambitious endeavor to watch a bullfight in Barcelona, after realizing that most days off we each respectively lay around without leaving our apartments. So upon hearing a rumor that there was a bullfight in the Plaza de Toros Monumental, a gorgeous amphitheater built in 1914 and is only a short walk from La Sagrada Familia (see previous post) where concerts are also held during the year for the biggest of bands. From our brief conversations with locals compounded with lecture information from the "Spanish Sports Culture" course, we effectively presumed this would be a great few hours of entertainment. Bullfighting is not very accepted or held in favor among Catalans, or people from Barcelona. Bullfighting is seen as inherently 'Spanish', and the stubborn inhabitants want to be seen as 'Catalan' - ergo more civilized. The Barcelona regional government has gone so far in the past to ban bullfighting in 2004 but the decision was overturned for what I can only assume were financial reasons. Due to the alleged unpopularity of bullfighting, we presumed that we wouldn't need to buy tickets in advance. This is where plans went horribly awry.

Bullfights are held every Sunday with the last and greatest bullfight of the year taking place on the Sunday of La Merce. So when we arrived at the stadium, we were surrounded by the 25,000 patrons from the Barcelona elite who were holding pre-purchased ticket in hand. Furthermore, everyone was dressed to the nines, with ostentatious fur shawls thrown over their new fall Dolce & Gabanna frocks and wide brimmed hats that I have drooled over in the windows on the walk to class every morning. After feverishly hunting for the ticket booth, and watching our better-prepared friends enter without delay, we found that the venue was sold out. This is when we learned that the last bullfight of the year is the biggest and best event, and any decent seat has been typically sold out for months (probably the same time period when the trophey wives ordered their designer customer made clothes). So I slumped away in my bargain cotton dress feeling dejected and despondent. I reported the news back to my friends who were trying to find a scalper at this point, which proves a much more difficult task when you aren't in Camden, where the scalpers come to you and... they stand out in the crowd, per say. So with tears welling in my eyes, the three boys went into panic mode (a girl crying in public is probably right up there with nuclear disaster or admitting you like Miley Cyrus' music). So they split up and within 15 minutes we had purchased four scalped tickets for only 30 euro each and were on our way inside. We made our way to the nose-bleed section, where we found our unmarked cement bench with enough space to fit the four of us.

NB: content below is pretty gruesome, so don't read if you are a vegetarian or PETA member

Inside the stadium was the first time I have seen guns in Spain - the guards all held them as protection due to the increasing PETA/Animal-Rights groups that tend to protest and cause a stir at these events. I understand that it is a very violent and bloody sport, where you essentially watch a one-sided barbaric gladiator fight and throw the word "culture" or "tradition" in front of it and people all adjust their monacles and appreciate the historic significance of the sport. I don't have a problem with it too much (they sell the meat after all, probably just to the pretentious D&G clad elite sitting 400 rows in front of me at an obscene price). I just wish it was a little more even than the one sided event I watched. Each bull enters the arenas with a large knife already in its back. From there it chases and is stabbed repeatedly by a whole team of apprentice matadors, which seems a little unfair already (6 v. 1?). Each matador has six assistants — two picadors ("lancers") mounted on horseback, three banderilleros ("flagmen"), and a mozo de espada ("sword page"). Collectively they comprise a cuadrilla ("entourage"). So already the bull is outnumbered, has no weapons, and plus the people get the time-out-zones for when the bull chases them behind four wooden gates where they can hide and regroup while the bull has no such safety zone. As the banderillos distract the bull with pink and yellow capes, the mozo de espada chases the bull and stabs six separate knifes (maybe about a foot long each) into the neck/back of the bull - weakening it as it becomes slower, more disoriented, while also becoming increasingly angry (thereby the entertainment factor). During this time, the bull goes after anything it sees, which is where the picadors come in. The bull charges and gores the two horses every time, while the picador mounted on horseback just stabs the bull repeatedly with a six-foot-long spear in attempt to wedge the bull out from his horse. Once the horse is bleeding sufficiently enough and the bull has lost interest, the horses & picadors leave the stadium (they kind of seem useless actually, although they significantly bloody the bull at the expense of their horse). To protect the horse from the bull's horns, the horse is surrounded by a peto — a protective cover. Prior to 1909, the horse did not wear any protection, and the bull could literally disembowel the horse during this stage.

Picador on horseback getting gored by the bull.


The banderilleros carry pink and yellow capes, as opposed to the matador's red cape.


Finally the matador comes in. He salutes the crowd, dedicates the death to the president/king, etc, removes his hat, and then begins the fight. He is even more ornately dressed then the other men and instead of carrying knives he actually has a long stick, a sword or two, and a red cape ("muleta"). This begins the final stage, the tercio de muerte ("the third of death"). Despite what your 5th grade world history teacher taught you, the color red does not actually anger the bull, as bulls are colorblind. The real reason is that the red cape is supposed to mask the appearance of blood (a la the British "Red Coat" uniforms during the War of Independence). The matador uses the cape to attract the bull repeatedly, and a good matador is able to demonstrate artistically his control over the bull by having it remain very close to him throughout the match, sometimes even walking around him in slow circles as it chases the flag and his body remains motionless. A good pass is usually rewarded with a loud "Ole" from the crowd, only used when the bull charges. When the bull walks slowly the crowd adamantly shhh's anyone who makes a sound, as to preserve the attention of the bull to the cape. Ultimately, after maneuvering the position of the bull, the matador uses his sword to stab the bull between the shoulder blades, through the aorta or the heart. The act of thrusting the sword is called an estocada. Sometimes, when things don't go well, the assistants come out and stab the bull behind its skull repeatedly until it dies (the bull at this point is usually laying on the ground but is still alive, just slowly bleeding).

We saw three matadors, who each fought two bulls for a total of six fights. The bull died in all but one of these matches. The woman sitting with us explained that if the bull fights bravely the entire time, without slowing down or giving up despite the swords in its body, the public or the matador will petition to grant the bull an indulto. This is when the bull's life is spared. The matador used the cape to slowly coerce the bull to run into a small cage (very very difficult to do), where the tail is cut off as a prize since the bullfighter was talented enough to complete such a task. The bull then leaves the ring alive and gets to stud the rest of its life. However, few bulls survive the trip back to the ranch. With no veterinarian services at the plaza, most bulls die either while awaiting transportation or days later after arriving at their original ranch. Death is due to dehydration, infection of the wounds and loss of blood sustained during the fight. However, the crowd likes to believe there is a happy ending for the bull.








The man who allowed the bull to live was actually José Tomás, who is pretty much the most famous and best matador in Europe. He had been gored several times this summer, only to finish the match before leaving in a stretcher to go to the hospital (youtube video of one of these incidents: http://es.youtube.com/watch?v=O4SSZL6WoI0&feature=related).











...and the eventual death of the bull.

...Like A Cultural Mardi Gras

This weekend I stayed in Barcelona to experience La Merce, which is their biggest festival of the year. It is a Catalan holiday, therefore is only celebrated in Barcelona and surrounding towns. Originally in 1971 the local government organized a program of special activities to observe the Roman Catholic feast day of Our Lady of Mercy, which is set to be September 24th. However the celebrations ran this year from the 19th through the 28th or so, with hundreds of concerts, cultural shows, fireworks at the beach, fairs and vendors lining the streets, and overall debauchery. I suppose the American equivalent would be if you meshed the patriotism and family atmosphere of 4th of July with the insanity and hedonism of Mardi Gras. So it was somewhat conflicting as families bring their small children to the Correfoc (Fire Chasing) where there are huge metal floats that spray fire and sparks at the crowd while celebrating youths run into the flames, whilst covered from head to toe, and anything uncovered is maimed by the flames. Nothing really to compare it to in the states, so I think I will just post pictures and hope for an illustrated translation.

Correfoc is amongst the most striking festive events, where devils play with fire and entertain and sometimes engage the crowd in the fire displays (and what come off to be assaults when you are in the front row of the crowd). The devils are more meant to be festive and celebrational, rather than of the evil variety and dance through the streets to the ruckus of drums and cheering, usually overshadowed by the screams of the inebriated and the clashing of fireworks and sparks only feet from onlookers. Crowds line the streets and participating spectators run through the fire and sparks, although the crowd winds up in equal peril.

We attended the Correfoc on Saturday night, and afterwards went to one of the many concerts around Barcelona in a closed off street of plaza.

My roomate Valerie and myself @ Correfoc.

Sunday starting at noon the Catellers (Human Towers) began in the Plaza de Jaume, in the center of Barcelona. This tradition originated in the southern part of Catalonia at the end of the 18th century. A castell is a human tower traditionally built during festivals in many places in Catalonia, Spain (the region of Barcelona). At these festivals, several castellers (tower building teams) meet and try to build the most impressive towers they can. In Catalan the word castell means castle, although a castell with two persons per level is a torre (tower). A castell with one person per level is usually called a pilar.

Teams of men stand on each others' shoulders in an effort to build the highest human tower. Each tower, which can be up to seven stores high, is topped by a small boy called the anxaneta. Castellers can be seen in action in many towns, especially Vilafranca del Penedès and Valls.

A castell is considered a success when it is properly assembled and dismantled, that is, when everyone has climbed into place, the enxaneta (the last one) climbs up to the top, raises one hand (with four fingers erect, said to symbolize the stripes of the Catalan flag), climbs down the other side of the castell, and then everyone else comes down safely. Besides the people who actually climb, many are also needed to form the pinya (the base of the castell). They help sustain the weight and act as a sort of safety net, even though when they fall, people have died in the past which is why la enxaneta (the top person) who is usually only between the ages of 5-9 years old, now wears a helmet. No one died this year but we did see an entire tower collapse which was not pretty.

The Unsuccessful Casteller:

Moving on Up?

The first week of classes has been off to a rough start, considering I am essentially living on a cot in someone else’s room. My closet has completed collapsed in upon itself and I am living off dirty heaps of clothing scattered across the apartment floor. To exacerbate matters, we don’t have functioning internet or locks on our doors (both of which were promised), as well as a balcony door which has fallen apart the first time we opened it, which leaves us looking at essentially the inside of a garage door. Quite the view. The only upside is now the morning sun doesn’t wake us up at 7 am, so we get to sleep in for another hour or so until the regular sirens begin to blare from the prison next door. Yes, I live next to the Barcelona Prison, and on a habitual basis one of my incarcerated neighbors attempts to make a quick escape for freedom. Unfortunately for me, this entails sirens for a solid thirty minutes interrupting otherwise subpar sleep. So not much loss there, especially since the public transportation coming and going from the brothel across the street continues through the bulk of the night anyways. Luckily we haven’t had to listen to any drag queens fighting, because from what I have seen via Jerry Springer and movies, that will definitely impede my sleep.

I thought some imagery might help you understand what 150 pounds worth of clothing and shoes looks like scattered across an apartment, hanging from doorknobs, etc. Enjoy.

My closet post-destruction. Note the hole in the wall where I can play with asbestos and wires if I am feeling adventurous.
Gabby uses my clothing as a booster seat when online
Doorknobs, abandones carpets, any available surface is now designated for clothing storage.
cords cords everywhere, but not a wireless signal in sight.
this is what it looks like when your balcony door closes and your room becomes a prison cell.

All the Who's Down in Whoville

"Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up." -Pablo Picasso

This week I started three of my five classes here in Barcelona, and fortunately for me, these are the three that are taught in English. I am taking two others at La Universitat de Pompe Fabra. I an anxious to see what happens when I am sitting in the class and understand so little that I can’t even participate in roll call. I will have to hire a classmate to be my translator in exchange for me writing an essay or two for their English class. However, the critical selling point of UPF is that it is a brief and breezy three blocks from the beaches. Yet another downside to this is I anticipate napping on the beach through a disproportionately large percentage of these classes. Needless to say, I am enjoying going to the beach every other day here.

This weekend was a Catalan Festival. September 11^th here is like their version of 4^th of July, except in Catalan history, this is the day they were defeated by the French and forced to succumb to the powers and ownership of the Spanish empire. Obviously we have very different definitions of independence days in our respective cultures. There wasn’t too much celebrating aside from the gloriousness of the four day weekend. Anticipating independence day-esque festivities we decided not to go anywhere only to be disappointed when there were no barbeques, fireworks, and overall debauchery as is compulsory in all American holidays.

Friday, after sleeping through our program’s walking tours, Gabby and I decided to venture out on our own adventure. We started at Parc Guell, an amazing park and architecture built by Gaudi. It is a bizarre and unconventional venue located on a hill overlooking Barcelona where the view reaches out from the western mountains, across the city, and to the tips of the coastline. The park begins like a nature park with bizarre cacti and flora reminiscent of something from a abstract painting. We walked along a twisted path to the top of the park where there were three cross statues on a small terrace like structure. Then we walked down to the area of the park that was designed by Gaudi, which was a huge plaza adorned with mosaic seats and benches, walls and columns, like colorful structures leaping from the pages of a Dr. Seuss book with rounded edges, spiral columns, and architectural lines mimicking those in the surrounding park environment.

me at the top of Parc Guell
The edges of the mosaic plaza
Sitting at the top of Parc Guell
Gaudi's brilliant mosaics everywhere
Me and the famous lizard mosaic in Parc Guell.

After Parc Guell, Gabby and I took the metro to La Sagrada Familia, an unfinished work by Gaudi. It was built to honor the holy family, and the outside is completely adorned with sculptures of them and other biblical figures including different scenes from the new testament. The inside was under construction, but we still got to see the incandescent glow of the enormous stained glass windows illuminating the entirely white interior. After we went through the museum showing which portions Gaudi had completed upon his death and how subsequent architects followed his intended designs.

Outside of La Sagrada Familia (Holy Family)
Gorgeous stained glass windows inside
Tons of construction in the center of the church
Scultures covering the outside of the church.
Me inside the museum connected to the church with one of the castings of the holy family.

We then went home for the day, stopping only at the Arc de Triump which is a huge arch constructed in the downtown area of Barcelona and originally served as the entrance point for one of the international fairs held in Barcelona in the early 20^th century.

Arc de Triomf
Top of the Arc
Me & the Arc

Peñíscola and Valencia

This weekend we went on a school trip to Peñíscola and Valencia. Friday morning we all met in downtown Barcelona at the chipper hour of 9:30 am (and we were booked on the latest bus, fortunately) and due to my less than stellar immune system, I was already feeling sick. Separated into groups based on Spanish class, we boarded the buses and head to our respective starting point destination. Our group began in Peñíscola, a small beach town to the south of Barcelona and is one of the biggest tourist centres in the province of Castellon. We arrived at the beach and had two hours to lay around and grab some lunch. Gabby and I ordered two baguette sandwiches to go and went to the beach to lay on some allegedly reserved hotel chairs for two hours. Of course the moment we laid down the gorgeous sun disappeared behind some miserable and ill-timed clouds for a perfect two hour span, as if fate put an egg timer to prevent us from thoroughly enjoying the beach. Nevertheless, it was a relaxing two hours after spending way too many hours on a bus. At the end of our daily allotment of freedom, we traveled back to the edge of the beach to meet with our group to begin our tour of the city.

Our tour was entirely in Spanish, and I swear the guide went out of her way to whisper into the wind while facing walls or any direction where we were not standing. To that extent, I will try to convey what we were able to piece together about the history and culture of the city. We began in the tour in the central plaze, where they were setting up tall blue painted iron gates around all of the entrances/exits and streets around town. That night, they were bringing in a bunch of young bulls which they chase through the streets for twelve days straight through the beginning of September. There are different times during the day where men, children, women, young adults, etc run and chase the bulls around the plaza and surrounding streets. This is their most important holiday during the year which they honor the town's patron saint the Virgen de la Ermitana. Unfortunately we weren’t able to see any of the bulls but all of the families were preparing for the event by hanging streamers across the narrow streets from apartment window to apartment window and putting chain links over their doors to (hopefully) protect it from the bulls.

We walked through the town which was narrow cobblestone streets bordered by small apartment buildings. We followed the tour guide through winding streets that culminated at the highest point of the peninsula, upon which there was a gorgeous castle overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. The castle was built on a mound that looks as if it was anchored to the sea bed, and was used from the age of knights and battlemented fortresses that occupied the lands of Maestrazgo. During the 13^th century, Pope Benedict (nicknamed the Moon Pope) chose this castle to shut himself away and fight for the unity of the Catholic Church, was essentially entailed all of that torture, discrimination, and lovely intolerance the catholic church became so renowned for. Now it is basically a museum and hosts many festivals, celebrations, and events in Peñíscola. We took pictures around the castle and were nearly blown off the top due to the strong winds heading out to the Mediterranean. Next we left for the three hour bus ride to Valencia.

We arrived at Valencia, had dinner at the hotel, and rested before heading out for the night. Unfortunately stores were closed so we wound up at all places – a TCBY yogurt shop to drink before heading to the club. It was run by an older couple who were so cute and friendly and told us where all the younger kids hung out and stayed open extra late just for us. Then a group of us headed to the nearby disco which was ENORMOUS! It was about two blocks long and had an upper outdoor area with lounge tables and couches and then the downstairs was a disco nightclub area. The music was an eccentric mix of early 90’s rap music from the USA (think House of Pain a la Mrs. Doubtfire) mixed with techno-reggaeton music, which made for some interesting dancing, including when us tacky Americans busted our the limbo around 3:00 am. We stayed until probably 5ish (the Spanish lifestyle is killing me), only to take a quick catnap and be ready for breakfast by 9 am.

I felt sick after breakfast, but presumed it was nature’s punishment for the lack of sleep and overzealous drinking the night before (as if the 100 euro bar tab wasn’t punishment enough). We went traveling around Valencia, which was much larger than Peñíscola and a decent distance inland from the beaches. We saw some amazing churches and parks, although my nausea led me to the back of the group where my ability to hear was even further limited. I laid on the ground in a park for about two hours during lunch, and mustered the strength to stay with the group the rest of the day. The tour guide was sub par at best, which definitely put a damper on the day, as we were basically on a long walk through a city we knew nothing about. After lunch we got back on the bus and headed to the Ciudad de las Artes y las Ciencias (City of the Arts & Sciences) and the Oceanografico (Aquarium built into multiple underground cities resembling the various aquatic habitats of each ocean/region). The aquarium was cool, but very similar and smaller than anything we would have in the states. The most enjoyable part was probably the walruses and beluga whales, to which I convincingly argues that beluga whales were on the dumber spectrum of marine life due to their frequent unplanned visits into the fresh waters of the Delaware River in Philadelphia (http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/7486673/). This instance was reaffirmed when the whale spent about twenty minutes swimming in the exact circle pattern around its tank while ignoring its food and fellow beluga. Furthermore, seeing the sharks and archaic looking sea-monster-esque squids reminding me why I abhor all natural bodies of water, thus bringing my decade long fear of the Atlantic with me to Barcelona.

We got back to the hotel around 5, napped until dinner, and then went for a brief walk before realizing many of the places we hung out were closed. We returned to the hotel to hang out for a couple hours and opted to stay in for the night. Sunday we checked out of the hotel and returned to the city to a few of the cathedrals we missed. There was a square in which there was a large sign written on the ground in Latin, upon which the useless tour guide asked if anyone could read Latin. I was nominated by my group to translate and finally found a use for the excruciating two years of Latin courtesy of the Magistra in high school. After this shining moment, we proceeded to a very brief tour of the central cathedral and boarded the bus back to the port and beach area. We ate lunch of paella (oily fried rice with seafood, rabbit, chicken, and/or vegetables) which is a traditional Spanish dish that originated in Valencia. After we laid on the beach for two hours before boarding the bus for our 5 hour trip home.

Apartment Photos

After a laborious struggle resulting in the ultimate repulsion of my apartment neighbors, I gained access to our apartment, where I collapsed inside the doorway for 40 minutes until I was able to regain composure to explore the apartment.
Our gorgeous kitchen
Living room with a view
Our balcony, which extends the length of our apartment, including up to my room.
View from the balcony

View of Carrer de Entenca below
Our computer room, which I convereted into my closet/changing room
The prison cell of a bedroom shared by Gabby & I

The City That Never Sleeps

My first two days here were great. I settled into my apartment which is gorgeous and overly spacious with a balcony overlooking carrer de entenca, which isn't too congested of a street. The rooms are pretty small and barren, and my room (given my stellar luck in these situations) is eerily similar to a prison holding cell - i.e. small bed that barely fits my whopping 5'2'' frame, and then one other bed for my roommate Gabby, who sleeps an adorable two feet from my face. Luckily we get along really well so it isn't as creepy as it should be. Our closets were too small for the plethora of clothing each of us brought, so I turned the computer room into the walk in closet of my dreams, although I think they will get tired of me changing in a communal area after a few weeks. Allegedly our apartment is wireless but it hasn't been working, so we have long cords running through the hallway, which I have failed to step over and fallen to my doom a few times already. My other roommate Hilary was gone the first two days b/c her parents were in Barcelona too, and we also live with an RA named Sara who is awesome and so much fun. She is the same age as me, which is a rarity on this trip where I am like the middle-aged college student abroad during their quarter-life-crisis. The first night I went out with Gabby and two of her friends to walk around the city, then we went to a restaurant on the port where we took in more than our fair share of wine and even convinced the owner of the restaurant that he should bring us four complimentary double-shots. Knowing the word for "free" accompanied by an onslaught of "por favor"s is coming quite in handy. We got back to the house around 10 and proceeded to go out to "La Oveja Negra" a local Spanish bar which we found after several near death experiences meandering through the shady alleys of las ramblas. We definitely stood out as the loud and hedonistic Americans, fulfilling all the glorious stereotypes that come along with that. Our presence definitely caught the locals off guard but they were happy to talk with us and humor us by pretending that the drunk noises we were making resembled anything Spanish.

After four hours of sleep we woke up and found our way to school, although in my delirious state I misread my schedule and went to the wrong orientation, and as luck would have it, this one was for "Heritage" speakers, which is most certainly not me or anyone I know. So I sat there under-slept and over-imbibed trying to understand the slightest bit of what they were saying, as the instructor rambled on in mile-a-minute Spanish and all the bilingual students participated. To add insult to injury, this orientation was three hours before mine, which sacrificed much needed sleep and recovery time. After orientation we went to lunch, bought cell phones, etc and finally made it home for a quick nap before yet another orientation activity, which we slept mostly through and arrived just in time for wrap-up appetizer time. We made plans for the night and left for "Carpe Diem" where there was a no cover open bar for all study abroad students. Of course this attracted way too many people for way too small of a space so a group of us left for the next bar on the beach where we stayed until 4:30 or so, only to get back to our apartment and fall asleep an hour later. After a refreshing four hours of sleep, we woke up and realized we were all late to the Spanish placement exam which was all the way across town.

Moral of the story: I need an alarm clock and sleep.

Maggie Takes on the Dept. of Homeland Security

September 1, 2008

So the journey definitely got off to a jolted and rather aggressive beginning, primarily due to the superfluous and tedious regulations of American airports. Unbeknownst to me, apparently they decided to start weighing carry-on baggage, which had never happened to me. And of course, being the materialistic 22-year old girl I am, I had crammed twenty pounds of crap into the proverbial 5 pound bag, or in this case suitcase. Scrambling on the floor of the Philadelphia airport for about 40 minutes, I sniffled as I sacrificed skirt upon skirt upon dress upon completely necessary 6^th bathing suit while muttering words that only sailors in remote parts of the world know. I weighed my suitcase again with each article removed from it, including each bobby pin which I hoped to be the culprit behind the 16 extra kilograms (yes, about 22 lbs) that had mysteriously tucked itself away inside my petite little carry on. So I could have fit a small child and a family of harp seals within the bag – I firmly believe I am entitled to this extra abundance of luggage due to my miniature stature, and thus, extra room beneath my seat. Unfortunately for me, and the ears of all small children around me, the airport staff did not agree. So after forty minutes of impending meet-the-parents-esque airport doom (a la bombs on a plane?), I successfully brought my luggage down to a bare 8 kilo and had successfully broadened the vocabulary of all the children within a twenty yard radius. Parents, you can thank me when their speech will now be fitting at any Philadelphia sports game. And to top it all off, the moment I walked away squirreled away that additional 20 lbs of crap back into my suitcase. Scoreboard: Maggie – 1, Department of Homeland Security – 0. However, this was only to unpack it when a bunch of alarms went off through security when the x-ray machine detected four months worth of AA batteries tucked away in my bag (this accounted for about 10 of the extra 20 lbs – very impressive feat).

Sitting in the airport I intelligently presumed every 20-something person walking by would be my new classmate. Thus ensued me creepily smiling at everyone who walked by, waving like they were my long lost best friend. After about 10 people darted away while avoiding eye contact and I was pointed out to the roaming airport security men, I quietly took my seat and awaited my flight. Barcelona, here I come.