Thoughts on Culture

We’re reading, or have read part of, a book about culture, Learning from the Stranger by David I. Smith. We’ve only read the prologue, “Relinquishing the Center,” and the first chapter, “How Not to Bless The Nations,” but I am a nerd and find it quite interesting, so I read the following chapter: “Culture and Bad Breath.” I love the way everything is deconstructed in this book—the notion of “culture,” the trouble with any one person addressing culture, the assumptions taken into “cultural experiences,” etc.—with a plethora of examples and excerpts for concepts, for words, for the concept of words . . . and of course, I love the words the author chooses—the underhand humor, eloquent and concise, the section titles (Behaving Yourself in Public, for example, or Talking Past One Another). 

Alrighty, enough nerdiness. What sermon is about to be unloaded? Look out . . . you’ve been warned. No, really, no sermon, just some little ah-has and hmms and ohs and os (not the reflexive of vosotros os but the difference between Oh! and O!)

Café behavior: the cafés here are like little restaurants. Anything less it is a café/bar, which most all are anyway, but point being, my mind goes into restaurant mode. I’ve known for some time that American restaurant service is, well, different. And generally speaking the message is “Hi, how are you, eat, drink, tip, (and leave so we can accommodate more revenue, er, guests).” There is not a high regard for letting people set and enjoy a meal unless there is a hefty price tag. This has always been an annoyance for me, even more so when whomever I am eating out with is impatient with the “slow service.” Take your sweet time, I think without a tint of sarcasm and refrain from kicking my dining buddy under the table. Anyway, I went to a café here to have, well, a café and found myself tense until I paid and left. I could have set there probably a full hour before they brought me the tab, but I happened to only have a quarter-hour to burn. It was exactly the type of environment I wish we had more of in the U.S. but there I was all balled up inside, bracing myself to get hurried along, nagged, hovered over by an anxious waiter. Despite how much I dislike such environments and wistfully wish for others, I subconsciously expect it . . . no wonder the world here is always telling me “tranquila.” I am a tense americana.

On that note: americanos. Eh? Yup, that is us. What does that mean? And what does one say when asked “are all Americans so _______?” Well, no, but I don’t know if we are all generally more so in that direction than the general population here . . . No we don’t all have guns at home. No I do not like ketchup, therefore, not all Americans like ketchup. I couldn’t make you a hamburger safely if you wanted it. Not all of our homes came out of a TV show. But it is shocking what one learns about oneself by hearing cultural assumptions based on personal habits. For example: “¡Annie! ¡Eres super timída!” The following question translated something to the effect of “Are all Americans so bashful/shy/timid?” It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that one is more introverted or extroverted, but that it is written all over one’s face to someone of another culture makes one think. More on that situation—this question came from a Columbiana to an Americana in España. I just love that fact.

Huevos revueltos. Food, no I cannot write without addressing food. Sorry. Last night I taught my mamá here how to make scrambled eggs. Trust me, she is a genius in the kitchen—it is as simple as scrambled eggs are not a common food here. Eggs tend to come (in my experience) steamed on spinach, in the form of a tortilla, or hard-boiled. I did not realize my not spicing food completely to my liking was a quirk. I do not put any spices in my eggs unless I am the only one eating them, and generally I like salt and pepper on top of the eggs rather than cooked in anyway. Mi mamá asked twice about putting salt in and when I mentioned pepper she asked immediately if that should be cooked in, and I shrugged and told her I generally think it’s better to let each season to his or her own liking with eggs and certain foods. I think she found it amusing—she just grinned and said “so you really do like it that way? Each person to his or her preference . . .”

What I’m doing write now: sitting in my room on my bed typing. Completely normal. For me. I’m a cave troll. I’m either in the cave (my room) or out and about (exploring the great outdoors) or hunting (playing in the kitchen) or attending cave-troll school (popping in and out of classrooms and academic buildings at Calvin). I have to remember that my cave dwelling sends bad vibes. And I think worse here than at home. At home it’s a given—look, the troll left her cave!—but here it is an unusual level of time alone. Even if I am doing homework or reading, there is a certain amount of time everyone spends together, it is an unspoken rule (of at least this house), even if that time together everyone has their face in a different screen (Jaime watching the game in his iphone, Raquel on her laptop checking facebook and tuenti, Alicia juggling her ipad, iphone, and computer, while the TV rambles on . . .) they can look up and chat because they are together. Hmmm.

Enough un-profundity for one night. Buenas,

Annie

CHOCOLATEEE!!!!!!

Pronounced oh goodness this is proof of heaven . . . CHO-CO-LA-TAY.  The restaurant: Chocolate Valor. Sí, I mean it, a restaurant dedicated to Chocolate. Mm. Riquisímo. Eight gals, two tazas (mugs) full of chocolate (70% cacao, warm) three plates of churros (yeah, fried, regular old pan would have been just fine, but they don’t serve it) . . . good times my friends. We have decided this needs to happen again. Monthly. The gals are thinking twice a month, but I think I’ll try to limit myself to once. Chocolate, Friday girls night out, need I say more? 

Fish, Fish . . .

I eat like a queen here.

Saturday, para almorzar (I love that meals come in the verb form: desayunar, to breakfast; almorzar, to lunch; cenar, to dine) we had a three course meal.

First mejillones, mussels, from the shell . . . mmm, steamed with lemon. ¡Come! That is what Alicia and Jaime tell me every meal, ¡Come! It means eat, in the imperative form. :) Outside of meals I am always hearing “tranquila.” Anyway . . .

Part two: Sopa de Pescado. Dump a bunch of little fish (whole) and the head of a goosefish (? the fish name in Spanish is rape—rah-pay) into a pot with hot olive oil in the bottom and add onion, tomato, red bell pepper, garlic, fresh parsley, oregano, laurel leaves, paprika, salt, and water. But the water, and this is important, is added bit by bit—add some, wait for it to boil, add more, etc. Then cover the pot and let it cook for two hours, and vòila: broth. Of course, strain out the fishies and veggies and what not. With the broth, 4:1 ratio, cook rice, and that is it. It seems so sparse, broth and rice, but the broth has such a smooth and amazing flavor. Just believe me, fishies and veggies make the best broth I have ever tasted. Yum, yum, yum.

Part three: Fish. Yeah, umm, I should have taken pictures, but I didn’t, so trust me here: mussels, soup, fish. As in two pieces of fish, each about two centimeters high, six inches long, and two to three inches wide. Seafood, anyone?

That was amazing. But so was Sunday’s comida: pimentones rellenos. Stuffed bell peppers. Stuffed with rice. Alicia told me she’d teach me how to make them next time, but she did explain to me that the rice is cooked entirely by the liquids of the pepper. She puts the rice in raw with a bit of meat sautéed in garlic and olive oil, wraps it in tin foil, sticks it in the oven and it comes out cooked. I saw a handful of good sized bell peppers come home from the mercadillo, but on my plate was an enormous, swollen pepper, splitting and spilling out red rice which would form a mountain on the skin, covering my entire plate. I’m running out of descriptors for wow and yum and it is only week two . . .

Since I lack foody photos, the ones I included are of the view from the deck and a close-up of the ocean. 

La Paella de Arroz Negro

Okay foodie friends, here we go with something exciting and fun and riquísima! But first, primero, en español. Comimos en el domingo paella y arroz negro. Las ingredientes (afuera del arroz, lo que recibe su tinto de la sepia) incluyen el aceite de olivo, alcachofas, habas, ajos enteros, sepia, y tomate rayado. Todos comen directamente de la paella. Mientras esperábamos la paella, comimos de mejillones, tomates, aceitunas, y (claro) jamón serrano.

What we ate before, while the paella was finishing: olives, tomatoes, mejillones (the word in English, I don’t know, it is the meat from mussels), and, you guessed it, jamón serrano. People can eat pork, sure, and I’m not used to it, of course. And I am not being sarcastic or ridiculing, trust me, but I do find is surprising that the “dieta mediterránea” is considered so healthy, according to mi mamá. Perhaps it is because although pork and meat is here, there, and everywhere, as seen in the picture the plate is full of little slices that five people (not including me) were picking from rather than a hunk of meat in every person’s plate with a side of vegetables.

Anyway—paella. ¿Qué? What? Delicious, that is what. And why is the arroz, the rice, black? And what is sepia? I’m working on the sepia part. But the ink from the sepia is what gives the dark tint to the rice. Alicia, mi mamá aquí, told me how to make several hours ago—and I did not memorize it on the spot, but I have the general idea.

In the pan one heats up, of course, olive oil, nice and hot. Then the sepia (a relative to squid, I suppose—yup, “cuttlefish”) that one has cleaned is added and cooked almost entirely before adding artichoke (leaves and hearts). Then bit-by-bit one throws into the mix beans, whole garlic cloves, rice (not cooked), and grated tomato, then water, twice as much water as rice, and it is covered for twenty minutes. And magic. It is delicious. Truly delicious. 

Un Poco de Español and English

Del Torre de Jarro (y sí pronuncia la “j” porque es Valenciano)

¡Dénia! ¡Bienvenidos a Dénia mis amigos! Llegue aquí, a España, del día que salí de San Francisco, he hablado más español que inglés (en Alemania fue más conveniente usar el español), y solo he perdido una cosa: el biscotti (con naranja, canela y cardamomo, no me di cuento de que esas ingredientes serían problemáticas) que había hecho para la familia. Hoy caminábamos por una ruta a lado de la mar Mediterráneo  . . . un pedacito de lo que había (y había mucho a ver), de lo qué recuerdo lo más (horita): la manera en que el viento corría por la mar, bailaba por la mar, contra las corrientes y olas (¡y que pequeñas fueron las olas!). Y un momentito de Valencia (donde me quedo con una familia bien amable de cuatro): la noche antes del día de los reyes Lara hablaba y hablaba aunque su madre la había dicho que fue la hora para acostarse pero Elsa (la hija menor), cuando su mamá mandó que se prepara para dormir respondió con cara de un angelito «Vale» y dobló a su hermana y dijo «Lara, ¿me acompañarías?» y las dos se fueron. Tal vez la razón que me hizo sonreír fue la amistad de las hermanas o la sinceridad de Elsa, no sé, podría ser, simplemente, que el verbo acompañar me parece formal (y vino de la boca de una niña muy joven y pequeñita) . . . De lo que he visto de España: hay un “hunk of meat” en cada cocina que he visto de que he oído. Jamón serrano. Sí, mis amigos, lo como, pero hay que saber, después de un semestre sin comer carne y después de evitar por unos años la carne afuera de pollo y pescado, es un poco raro ver carne y comer carne cada día así. Pero, vale, la comida ha sido riquísimo.

 [That meat is jamón serrano, and although I did not eat meat almost all last semester-two days exception of turkey and chicken, I do eat it here. It was suprising to me to see so much meat at once in every kitchen. Next time I'll have a picture of what I ate yesterday which is more appetizing to look at :)]

¡Saludos de Dénia!

Para mis anglohablantes . . . I’m here and alive! From San Francisco to Frankfurt, from Frankfurt to Madrid, Madrid to Valencia, the only thing I lost was the biscotti (with orange zest, cardamum, and cinnamon . . . I didn’t realize that was dangerous enough to be removed from my checked baggage) I had made for my host family.

In Valencia I spent the night with a family (many thanks to the family and my sister) with two adorable little girls. It was the night before el día de los reyes, which is similar to Christmas. “Los reyes” are the three magi, and they come and leave presents for the children who have behaved, so the girls where quite excited that night and the next morning they were all smiles. Ana made me a cup of coffee . . . and tell you what . . . coffee here is a whole . . . “nother” I just re-realized, is not a word, it is sloppy English, instead of another story, a whole nother story . . . do I speak this language? . . . anyway, coffee here is superb. Ana y Juan drink it watered down a little . . . coffee is espresso. So what they drink is what one would order as an americano at a café in the U.S. Except with less water and darn good espresso. Mmmm.

First impressions of Dénia now: wow. Between Valencia and Dénia one can see how parts of Spain and California resemble each other . . . and there are oranges everywhere. Brilliant orange oranges. Delicious oranges. Natural, freshly squeezed orange juice every morning. Two oranges in one glass. 

Lo Nuevo

A New Year, a new blog. Not really. But to an extent, yes, it will be different. January 4^th I fly out of San Francisco, touch down in Germany, Madrid, and finally Valencia, where I spend the night of the 5^th, leaving on bus the 6^th to Denia with the Calvin Study in Spain program. The posts will probably still pertain mostly to the scenery and food, but whatever adventures I run into are fair game . . .and the last twenty days will regard the adventure of arriving to Brussels in time to see the city and catch my flight out in June. Unfortunately, there will not likely be a Sem-Pond Jump in Spain for me. Seeing as I too much enjoyed wearing a walking boot last spring, summer, and fall, and so upon returning home, I just had to get another; having a stress fracture in my heel made that quite easy.