Riding Lessons
Valencia is really a great place for bike riding, both in the city and out in the surrounding areas. I am reading the Vicente Blasco Ibañez classic, Cañas y Barro, which is set in the Albufera marshland just south of Valencia. I ride my bike there a couple of times each week so I thought that I’d head there today. One of the biggest challenges for me is dodging traffic to get to the outskirts of town. I have learned a few tricks over the course of my bike riding life and I have recently added a new one to my repertoire. I now use newborn babies as human shields. Intrigued? Keep reading.
You read that correctly folks, I use human offspring to shield me from getting run over by automobiles. When I am tearing down a busy street on my way out of town it is pretty much a crap shoot if drivers in oncoming side streets will respect the red light they face or if they have their own interpretation of what red means. Because I am such a pansy about having grave bodily injury inflicted upon me, I slow down when I come to the side streets, even if I have the green light. If, however, I see that a woman pushing a baby stroller is crossing the opposing intersection, I feel that it is fairly safe for me to proceed through the green light. No one wants an infanticide on their driving record, not even psychopaths, not even moped scum. That kind of thing will raise your insurance rates.
To be fair, Spanish drivers are exceptionally courteous to cyclists. Sport cycling is very popular here and on any given day you will see hundreds of cyclists on this highway south of town. No one has ever honked their horn at me, and we all know how much Spanish drivers enjoy honking their horns. Sport cycling is thoroughly ingrained in the culture in Europe. Let me give you an example.
Today on my way out of town I went through a traffic circle and caught up with a line of cars backed up behind a cement mixer that was having a bit of difficulty climbing a rather steep overpass. I was able to slingshot through the traffic circle and pass the whole line of cars and the truck. On the next overpass a few hundred meters farther, someone in the passenger seat of a car stuck their arm out the window and offered me a box of juice as a reward for my recent uphill sprint. I didn’t take the juice because I was carrying more water than I needed for this ride but it was a nice thought. This is the sort of thing you see during the Tour de France and shows the positive view Europeans have toward cyclists. We aren’t just people in their way as they drive from point A to point B; we’re heroes.
When I got to the hamlet of El Saler in the Albufera, I backtracked along the beach path. I was coasting along when I noticed a beautiful woman walking ahead of me. Just as I passed, her little dog came out of the bushes and starting sprinting after me. I picked up some speed and looked behind me: little Rex was gaining on me. I went into an all-out sprint for about a half a kilometer and yet the little Jack Russell/Dachshund mix was still snapping at my heels. I didn’t want the dog chasing me all the way home so I stopped. He caught up to me and looked disappointed that the chase was already over. His master was running up from behind so I slowly pedaled back with the dog following.
When dog and beautiful master were united she thanked me and I said, “De nada.” I spent the rest of the ride home going over in my head all of the clever things that I should have said to her. I don’t blame my lack of seduction skills on my Spanish; I’m not too rico suave in English, either.
Besides negotiating my way out of town, the next big challenge in my bike rides is getting me and my bike into the tiny elevator in my building, then I have to somehow manage to push the button for my floor. I am usually too beat at the end of my rides to carry my bike up to the fifth floor. I’m getting better at this elevator yoga thing but I still find it kind of comical. One day I was waiting for the elevator and an older woman walked up. I let her take the elevator and told her that I would wait for it to return. I said that we could all three—she, I and my bike—go together but only if we got married first. She didn’t get it. I told you that I’m not much of a charmer with women.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Life and Death and Spanish Football
Life and Death and Spanish Football
I was just about to head out on my bike to go watch one of the opening ceremonies for the Fallas festival here in Valencia. I’ve been told that Fallas is one of the biggest and most extravagant festivals in Europe. This was in conflict with a Valencia CF football match on television. I have been watching enough football lately and it wouldn’t kill me to miss a match. Simply making the decision to do something cultural instead of drinking beer and watching soccer made me feel superior.
Good thing that I just happened to walk out on my balcony just before I headed out the door because I saw that it was starting to rain pretty hard. That’s a good thing to know before you carry your bike down five flights of stairs. It looked like drinking beer and watching football was going to win out over a cultural excursion. The slobs once again beat the snobs. I couldn’t very well be expected to hike downtown and then stand outside in the rain. I had no choice, my hands were tied.
Instead, I walked the two blocks* over to my favorite sports bar in the Plaza Valencia CF in the shadows of Mestalla Stadium. It had stopped raining on my way over and I was feeling a bit guilty for not going to the ceremony, but about three sips into my first beer I noticed that it started coming down pretty good. That should teach all of those blue-blooded elites who went to the Fallas opening.
Valencia was playing Gimàstic from Tarragona. The left leaning accent on the “a” in Gimàstic should clue you into the fact that Tarragona is another Catalan city. All that I know about Tarragona is that it is somewhere on the coast between Valencia and Barcelona. The game would be there on this evening which explained why my part of town near the stadium wasn’t in complete chaos as it is on game nights.
There were a lot of draws in the games played so far in the Spanish league on this Sunday and at halftime it was 0-0 in this match. Since I have arrived here in Spain some three months ago I have seen the build up that one Spanish television station has been creating for the Barcelona-Real Madrid match in March. That station is going to televise the game and they have been counting down the days. The first commercial that I noticed mentioned that the epic confrontation was 100 days away, as if they were referring to some looming catastrophe or biblical reckoning.
The halftime commercial for this game showed a man in the shower. They showed his bare ass as he was washing up (It’s hard to believe Americans went ballistic over a woman’s breast). He gets out of the shower and slips, hitting his head really hard on the sink. They show him lifeless on the floor of the bathroom when suddenly his eyes open and he gets up. They cut to a caption that says, “This isn’t a good time to die,” and then you are reminded that there are only 14 days until the Barça-Real Madrid match. No one in the bar laughed at this commercial but me. Then I realized that maybe it wasn’t supposed to be funny and perhaps I should start taking my Spanish Professional League soccer a little more seriously. This same station was urged to pull another similar commercial that showed a man apparently dying in a traffic accident and then getting back on his feet as if nothing had happened. You can see the spot here.
Valencia scored in the second half. I paid my tab and walked outside to watch the remainder of the game on one of the outdoor televisions. I was really hungry and I wanted to go home to eat but I couldn’t drag myself away. Tarragona ended up scoring in extra time so Valencia had to settle for another draw. I must have jinxed Valencia by leaving early.
*In Spain, city blocks are called manzanas which is the same word for “apples.” I just learned this when someone I was talking to corrected me on my Latin American use of cuadras to signify “blocks.” Not that any of you give a shit but I just thought that I would write this down so I would remember.
I was just about to head out on my bike to go watch one of the opening ceremonies for the Fallas festival here in Valencia. I’ve been told that Fallas is one of the biggest and most extravagant festivals in Europe. This was in conflict with a Valencia CF football match on television. I have been watching enough football lately and it wouldn’t kill me to miss a match. Simply making the decision to do something cultural instead of drinking beer and watching soccer made me feel superior.
Good thing that I just happened to walk out on my balcony just before I headed out the door because I saw that it was starting to rain pretty hard. That’s a good thing to know before you carry your bike down five flights of stairs. It looked like drinking beer and watching football was going to win out over a cultural excursion. The slobs once again beat the snobs. I couldn’t very well be expected to hike downtown and then stand outside in the rain. I had no choice, my hands were tied.
Instead, I walked the two blocks* over to my favorite sports bar in the Plaza Valencia CF in the shadows of Mestalla Stadium. It had stopped raining on my way over and I was feeling a bit guilty for not going to the ceremony, but about three sips into my first beer I noticed that it started coming down pretty good. That should teach all of those blue-blooded elites who went to the Fallas opening.
Valencia was playing Gimàstic from Tarragona. The left leaning accent on the “a” in Gimàstic should clue you into the fact that Tarragona is another Catalan city. All that I know about Tarragona is that it is somewhere on the coast between Valencia and Barcelona. The game would be there on this evening which explained why my part of town near the stadium wasn’t in complete chaos as it is on game nights.
There were a lot of draws in the games played so far in the Spanish league on this Sunday and at halftime it was 0-0 in this match. Since I have arrived here in Spain some three months ago I have seen the build up that one Spanish television station has been creating for the Barcelona-Real Madrid match in March. That station is going to televise the game and they have been counting down the days. The first commercial that I noticed mentioned that the epic confrontation was 100 days away, as if they were referring to some looming catastrophe or biblical reckoning.
The halftime commercial for this game showed a man in the shower. They showed his bare ass as he was washing up (It’s hard to believe Americans went ballistic over a woman’s breast). He gets out of the shower and slips, hitting his head really hard on the sink. They show him lifeless on the floor of the bathroom when suddenly his eyes open and he gets up. They cut to a caption that says, “This isn’t a good time to die,” and then you are reminded that there are only 14 days until the Barça-Real Madrid match. No one in the bar laughed at this commercial but me. Then I realized that maybe it wasn’t supposed to be funny and perhaps I should start taking my Spanish Professional League soccer a little more seriously. This same station was urged to pull another similar commercial that showed a man apparently dying in a traffic accident and then getting back on his feet as if nothing had happened. You can see the spot here.
Valencia scored in the second half. I paid my tab and walked outside to watch the remainder of the game on one of the outdoor televisions. I was really hungry and I wanted to go home to eat but I couldn’t drag myself away. Tarragona ended up scoring in extra time so Valencia had to settle for another draw. I must have jinxed Valencia by leaving early.
*In Spain, city blocks are called manzanas which is the same word for “apples.” I just learned this when someone I was talking to corrected me on my Latin American use of cuadras to signify “blocks.” Not that any of you give a shit but I just thought that I would write this down so I would remember.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
The not-so-simple life
The not-so-simple life
The days are slowly getting longer: tomorrow there will be two minutes and 31 seconds more daylight than today. It doesn’t sound like much but it adds up over the course of a mild, Mediterranean winter. The sun won’t set until 6:48 this evening. The added light and the mild temperatures make it easier to sit outside and enjoy the terrace of my favorite cafe. We are always told to enjoy the simple things in life. I don’t consider cafes to be simple things; I think they are an essential ingredient of a happy existence.
Cafes here in Valencia are as casual as humanly possible. They work pretty mush the same everywhere that I have been in Europe. You sit down and eventually some one will even take your order. A cup of coffee or a glass of wine will show up sooner or later. On this evening I sit back and take a sip and watch as throngs of bewildered tourists, desperately looking at maps, try to navigate the labyrinthine Carmen section of Valencia.
That was me only three short months ago. Now I know just about every street and alleyway in this old quarter. I come down here on my bike almost every Sunday morning. There are few other people on the streets. It is so quite that I can hear the vibrations of the church bell after it has stopped ringing as I coast silently through the narrow streets. I can get around almost wearing a blindfold now but as a writer I like to have a name for everything. I have been photographing every plaza, cathedral, street sign, and everything else of interest in Valencia so that I can remember what everything is called.
I am sitting in the Plaza Esparto which is adjacent to Plaza Tossal. My conversational Spanish has improved quite a lot since I arrived, and although I have a long way to go, I am not stumbling blindly in the language like the tourists with their maps in this beautiful old part of town.
You never finish things in a café; it is more like “to be continued.” On evenings like these—and things will only get better—Spain seems hopelessly romantic and charming to me, but what would you expect from someone who calls his bicycle “Rocinante?” We haven’t seen the server in quite a while so I walk inside to pay the bill. The girl recognizes me as if I were someone she vaguely knows and is trying to remember my name. I ask for the check and have to remind here what we ordered. I no longer have to force myself to say “Hasta Luego” when I leave, it just comes naturally.
Enjoying a café is not as simple as it seems. It is simple like a glass of wine is simple or like a wonderful olive is simple. It takes a certain amount of skill and learning to arrive at where I am now. It takes a while to know your way around and there are no maps to show you the way. All that I can say is that you will know you are there when you arrive.
The days are slowly getting longer: tomorrow there will be two minutes and 31 seconds more daylight than today. It doesn’t sound like much but it adds up over the course of a mild, Mediterranean winter. The sun won’t set until 6:48 this evening. The added light and the mild temperatures make it easier to sit outside and enjoy the terrace of my favorite cafe. We are always told to enjoy the simple things in life. I don’t consider cafes to be simple things; I think they are an essential ingredient of a happy existence.
Cafes here in Valencia are as casual as humanly possible. They work pretty mush the same everywhere that I have been in Europe. You sit down and eventually some one will even take your order. A cup of coffee or a glass of wine will show up sooner or later. On this evening I sit back and take a sip and watch as throngs of bewildered tourists, desperately looking at maps, try to navigate the labyrinthine Carmen section of Valencia.
That was me only three short months ago. Now I know just about every street and alleyway in this old quarter. I come down here on my bike almost every Sunday morning. There are few other people on the streets. It is so quite that I can hear the vibrations of the church bell after it has stopped ringing as I coast silently through the narrow streets. I can get around almost wearing a blindfold now but as a writer I like to have a name for everything. I have been photographing every plaza, cathedral, street sign, and everything else of interest in Valencia so that I can remember what everything is called.
I am sitting in the Plaza Esparto which is adjacent to Plaza Tossal. My conversational Spanish has improved quite a lot since I arrived, and although I have a long way to go, I am not stumbling blindly in the language like the tourists with their maps in this beautiful old part of town.
You never finish things in a café; it is more like “to be continued.” On evenings like these—and things will only get better—Spain seems hopelessly romantic and charming to me, but what would you expect from someone who calls his bicycle “Rocinante?” We haven’t seen the server in quite a while so I walk inside to pay the bill. The girl recognizes me as if I were someone she vaguely knows and is trying to remember my name. I ask for the check and have to remind here what we ordered. I no longer have to force myself to say “Hasta Luego” when I leave, it just comes naturally.
Enjoying a café is not as simple as it seems. It is simple like a glass of wine is simple or like a wonderful olive is simple. It takes a certain amount of skill and learning to arrive at where I am now. It takes a while to know your way around and there are no maps to show you the way. All that I can say is that you will know you are there when you arrive.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
La Afición
La Afición
I first learned the word “afición” from Hemingway, and because he didn’t bother to give me any guidance I mispronounced it for years afterwards. It should sound like “a-fee-thion.” For Hemingway in the 1920’s afición meant a passion and understanding of bullfighting. He always spoke of it as something almost secretive and meant only for a chosen few, and of course he was one of the chosen. As much as I’d love to write about Spanish life like Hemingway, I can't for a lot of reasons. Besides my lack of writing talent I can say that things are radically different here in Spain many decades after Hemingway’s time. I think the changes are almost entirely for the good.
This is my fourth trip to Spain. I have spent a lot of time in Mexico and Peru and now in I live in Spain. I have yet to go to a bullfight. The season for the corrida, as it is called in Spanish, is still months off. I will probably go at least once while I am living here just to see what it is all about although I must say that I’m not very curious about it.
Even as a young kid reading Hemingway, I thought that having afición for the bulls was probably not my style—no matter how much I wanted to be Hemingway, or Spanish, or French, or some kind of Euro-weenie. I admired Hemingway because he spoke French and Spanish, not because he went to bullfights. I completely didn’t understand his thing about fishing, either. We pretty much see eye-to-eye on the whole issue of booze but I would imagine that his eyes were a lot more bloodshot than mine.
Since my first visit to Spain I have witnessed a drastic change in the standard of living and the overall progress of this country. My first visit was in 1979, a few short years after the fall of a brutal and stifling dictatorship. Back then I remember Spain as dirty, inefficient, and rudderless. Today the country is liberal, progressive, and highly modern in almost every way. It is only natural to assume that their attitudes about bullfighting and soccer have also evolved.
Afición now relates more to soccer here in Spain than it does to anything having to do with bulls. You don’t see little kids imitating matadors when they play, but they try their best to duplicate the artistry of their favorite soccer players. There are several daily newspapers dedicated almost entirely to soccer. It is a national obsession unlike anything we have in our country. If you were to combine basketball, football, and baseball you might approach what soccer means to the Spanish public. Hemingway would be writing about the games being played in the great stadiums of Spain were he alive today. As a disciple of the one of the greatest American writers I feel that it is my duty to chronicle the most important Spanish obsession of my era, and that obsession is fútbol. There isn't anything exclusive about afición for soccer, it's the most inclusive club in all of Spain.
Some of the most difficult passages that I have thus far read in Spanish have been florid accounts of soccer matches. Instead of recruiting their sports writers from the country’s journalism schools, Spanish newspapers must troll university poetry departments. Every Spanish Hemingway wannabe must be a sportswriter. Today the newspapers are filled with accounts of Valencia’s “glorious tie” with Champion’s League rival, and Italy’s best club, Inter Milan.
The match was played in Milan’s San Siro stadium in front of only 35,000 fans while back in Valencia every bar with a television was standing room only. Every seat faces the screen making the restaurants look more like movie theaters at game time. In the three bars in the Valencia stadium plaza there were hundreds of fans screaming and cheering. It was a terrifically exciting match. Twice Valencia came from behind to tie the game, the second time with only four minutes left to play. The two teams will meet again on March 6, 2007 to determine who goes on to the quarter finals. You can bet that Valencia will play in front of a packed stadium.
I could completely ignore bullfighting while living here in Spain but trying to avoid soccer would be next to impossible. You are literally hit on the head with it; at least you are if you don’t pay close attention when walking by a group of young boys kicking a ball around. It is especially hard to become a fan when you are living in a city whose team is doing rather well and has high hopes of a championship season.
I don’t claim to have afición, I just like to drink beer and watch sports on TV.
I first learned the word “afición” from Hemingway, and because he didn’t bother to give me any guidance I mispronounced it for years afterwards. It should sound like “a-fee-thion.” For Hemingway in the 1920’s afición meant a passion and understanding of bullfighting. He always spoke of it as something almost secretive and meant only for a chosen few, and of course he was one of the chosen. As much as I’d love to write about Spanish life like Hemingway, I can't for a lot of reasons. Besides my lack of writing talent I can say that things are radically different here in Spain many decades after Hemingway’s time. I think the changes are almost entirely for the good.
This is my fourth trip to Spain. I have spent a lot of time in Mexico and Peru and now in I live in Spain. I have yet to go to a bullfight. The season for the corrida, as it is called in Spanish, is still months off. I will probably go at least once while I am living here just to see what it is all about although I must say that I’m not very curious about it.
Even as a young kid reading Hemingway, I thought that having afición for the bulls was probably not my style—no matter how much I wanted to be Hemingway, or Spanish, or French, or some kind of Euro-weenie. I admired Hemingway because he spoke French and Spanish, not because he went to bullfights. I completely didn’t understand his thing about fishing, either. We pretty much see eye-to-eye on the whole issue of booze but I would imagine that his eyes were a lot more bloodshot than mine.
Since my first visit to Spain I have witnessed a drastic change in the standard of living and the overall progress of this country. My first visit was in 1979, a few short years after the fall of a brutal and stifling dictatorship. Back then I remember Spain as dirty, inefficient, and rudderless. Today the country is liberal, progressive, and highly modern in almost every way. It is only natural to assume that their attitudes about bullfighting and soccer have also evolved.
Afición now relates more to soccer here in Spain than it does to anything having to do with bulls. You don’t see little kids imitating matadors when they play, but they try their best to duplicate the artistry of their favorite soccer players. There are several daily newspapers dedicated almost entirely to soccer. It is a national obsession unlike anything we have in our country. If you were to combine basketball, football, and baseball you might approach what soccer means to the Spanish public. Hemingway would be writing about the games being played in the great stadiums of Spain were he alive today. As a disciple of the one of the greatest American writers I feel that it is my duty to chronicle the most important Spanish obsession of my era, and that obsession is fútbol. There isn't anything exclusive about afición for soccer, it's the most inclusive club in all of Spain.
Some of the most difficult passages that I have thus far read in Spanish have been florid accounts of soccer matches. Instead of recruiting their sports writers from the country’s journalism schools, Spanish newspapers must troll university poetry departments. Every Spanish Hemingway wannabe must be a sportswriter. Today the newspapers are filled with accounts of Valencia’s “glorious tie” with Champion’s League rival, and Italy’s best club, Inter Milan.
The match was played in Milan’s San Siro stadium in front of only 35,000 fans while back in Valencia every bar with a television was standing room only. Every seat faces the screen making the restaurants look more like movie theaters at game time. In the three bars in the Valencia stadium plaza there were hundreds of fans screaming and cheering. It was a terrifically exciting match. Twice Valencia came from behind to tie the game, the second time with only four minutes left to play. The two teams will meet again on March 6, 2007 to determine who goes on to the quarter finals. You can bet that Valencia will play in front of a packed stadium.
I could completely ignore bullfighting while living here in Spain but trying to avoid soccer would be next to impossible. You are literally hit on the head with it; at least you are if you don’t pay close attention when walking by a group of young boys kicking a ball around. It is especially hard to become a fan when you are living in a city whose team is doing rather well and has high hopes of a championship season.
I don’t claim to have afición, I just like to drink beer and watch sports on TV.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Valencia CF vs FC Internazionale Milano
The European Champion’s League soccer season is heating up, Last night Real Madrid defeated Bayern Munich 3-2 in Madrid. Tonight Valencia travels to Milan to plan Inter. I haven’t made too much of an effort to fully understand the intricacies of the different leagues and how points are awarded, but I have watched a lot of the crucial matches. I will definitely be parked in front of a television this evening for the Valencia game.
Soccer provides me with a nice bit of cultural literacy that I can share, not only with Spaniards, but with fans from all over. After Sunday’s game against Barcelona I struck up a conversation with a group of Japanese soccer fans at a bar by my house. Two of them spoke pretty good Spanish after having lived in Valencia for a couple of years. I can’t imagine how difficult Spanish must be for a Japanese student. It is hard enough for me and English shares thousands of words with Spanish.
I found it a little odd that none of the Japanese fans spoke any English at all. What they all did speak, including the two women I their group, was baseball. As soon as they found out I was from Seattle the first question that pops up is, “What do you think about Ichiro?” It was great to talk about baseball although I had to help them along with a lot of the Spanish terms.
After baseball we talked about how Spanish people are total sissies when it comes to eating hot food. We all agreed that the food here is excellent but sometimes you just need to scorch the inside of your mouth with something spicy. What I wouldn’t give for a tearfully hot bowl of pho but there are no Vietnamese restaurants in Valencia. I already asked around.
It is really a kick to be able to watch all of these great games live. I believe that tonight’s match begins at 19:45 local time here in Valencia which means you can see it on the East Coast at 13:45—a good way to spend your lunch break…and then some. Although the game is in Milan I will still go over to my sports bar on the other side of the stadium from where I live as there is more of an party atmosphere in this square. I watched the second half of the Real Madrid game over there last night and there were quite a few people in attendance. I will try to remember to bring my camera this time. I could curse myself for not bringing it to Sunday’s game because the square was a complete madhouse before that home game. I only live two blocks away and I was going to go get my camera between halves but it was raining pretty hard so I did the smart thing and continued drinking under the patio canopy.
Soccer provides me with a nice bit of cultural literacy that I can share, not only with Spaniards, but with fans from all over. After Sunday’s game against Barcelona I struck up a conversation with a group of Japanese soccer fans at a bar by my house. Two of them spoke pretty good Spanish after having lived in Valencia for a couple of years. I can’t imagine how difficult Spanish must be for a Japanese student. It is hard enough for me and English shares thousands of words with Spanish.
I found it a little odd that none of the Japanese fans spoke any English at all. What they all did speak, including the two women I their group, was baseball. As soon as they found out I was from Seattle the first question that pops up is, “What do you think about Ichiro?” It was great to talk about baseball although I had to help them along with a lot of the Spanish terms.
After baseball we talked about how Spanish people are total sissies when it comes to eating hot food. We all agreed that the food here is excellent but sometimes you just need to scorch the inside of your mouth with something spicy. What I wouldn’t give for a tearfully hot bowl of pho but there are no Vietnamese restaurants in Valencia. I already asked around.
It is really a kick to be able to watch all of these great games live. I believe that tonight’s match begins at 19:45 local time here in Valencia which means you can see it on the East Coast at 13:45—a good way to spend your lunch break…and then some. Although the game is in Milan I will still go over to my sports bar on the other side of the stadium from where I live as there is more of an party atmosphere in this square. I watched the second half of the Real Madrid game over there last night and there were quite a few people in attendance. I will try to remember to bring my camera this time. I could curse myself for not bringing it to Sunday’s game because the square was a complete madhouse before that home game. I only live two blocks away and I was going to go get my camera between halves but it was raining pretty hard so I did the smart thing and continued drinking under the patio canopy.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)