So, I live abroad. I've been here for over a year, and could see myself staying a long time. This is full of amazing difficulties: buying groceries, going to the doctor, finding my way... it all takes much more work than it would at home. And I'm happy for these difficulties, because I believe they make me a better and more patient person. Beyond that, though, there are other questions and issues. And one that has been bothering me this weekend is: at what point do I earn the right to speak out against things that strike me as unfair?
Just as some background information: in Hungary children join a class of about 25 students in first grade. They remain in that same class until 8th grade, with some small adjustments if a child moves in or out. They have one main teacher for first through fourth grade, and a second for fifth through eighth, and their other teachers remain the same during those two periods as well. This certainly has some benefits for the children, as they develop close, family-like bonds with their classmates and teachers. It also has, in my opinion, the disadvantage that they do not learn to meet people. I think this can stunt their ability to welcome and effectively work with new people in life.
At the beginning of the school year we had a new student arrive in one of my third grade classes. All the children were rather unwelcoming to her, and I believe as a result, she became rather conflictive. About two months into the school year, her family moved across town and she switched to a different school. Apparently she is very unhappy there and her parents are considering bringing her back to Krudy, but are unsure because they know she wasn't really welcomed the first time. So somehow it was decided that the class should essentially "vote" on whether she should come back. This was kept "anonymous" by having them put their heads down while they voted. The majority of the children voted against her.
I, and every other American/Canadian that I have mentioned it to, was appalled by this. For one, I was upset that these sweet kids could vote against someone's happiness, against giving someone a second chance. Mostly, though, I was upset that the teachers could effectively encourage the children to express such ugliness. How could the children be given the idea that they have the right to decide whether one of their peers should be allowed to return? And when they chose intolerance, how could the teachers not have taken that as an opportunity to discuss kindness, and such basic concepts as treating others the way they would want to be treated?
Never mind the fact that the children certainly discussed the results among themselves afterward, now feel unified in their dislike of the girl, and should she actually return, will certainly tell her that they all voted against her. That the whole class doesn't want her there. Because children are cruel until they are taught not to be. Children are a blank slate, and I believe that as a teacher it is partially my responsibility to socialize them into decent human beings.
Now, the controversial part of my blog that will surely get me some angry comments from my Hungarian readers. I see things in Hungary that frankly astound me. The treatment of gypsies, for example. I've witnessed a gypsy get on a tram, and everyone gets up and moves away from them. The word that means the equivalent of "faggot" is a hyper-common word, and is treated as no worse than "damn." I've watched my 2nd graders toss the word back and forth at each other and receive no harsher admonition than "don't use bad language." In my mind, faggot is not simply bad language, but something hateful, ugly, and even threatening. I have several students of different ethnicities, and they all adopt a Hungarian name to use in school because using their real name is considered to be too difficult for everyone around them. I myself have been harassed, even sworn at, shoved, and threatened by crazy individuals for being a foreigner, while everyone around me did nothing to interfere.
Now, please notice that I in no way consider this to be a Hungary-exclusive problem. There is ugliness, intolerance, and fearful hate everywhere. The difference is in the reactions when I speak out against such things. In America I am "allowed" to mention the unfairness of the injustice I see. Maybe people will call me a bleeding-heart, but nobody ever questions my right to talk about what I see. In Hungary, however, whenever I mention that something is unfair, I am immediately dismissed. I'm told that I don't understand, or that I'm seeing things that don't exist. While nobody ever says so exactly, the clear implication is that as a foreigner, I have no right to see something as unfair, and should probably just be quiet now.
So when this "vote" happened by the class, and I expressed how disgusted I was by the whole thing, I was told I was overreacting. When I mentioned the fact that the student in question was half-black... oh, now I was just being hysterical. Surely the comments I had heard about her skin, or the texture of her hair, hadn't ever happened. And maybe, maybe I was misunderstanding them. They did occur in Hungarian. But even if I didn't speak a word of the language, tone of voice exists and is pretty universal. I was told that I was seeing connections that could never exist. Don't think that there are race issues here.
I love my life here. I really, really do. I also understand that I cannot, and never will be able to, completely understand how things happen in a country where I wasn't raised and socialized. I understand that in moving to another country, I put my voice into a coat check of sorts, to only be taken out when I could somewhat understand what was going on around me. But to be told that the issues I see don't exist, to have my opinion (and thus my worth as a being) totally discounted, to be totally denied even an honest discussion... how will I ever be able to understand?
I am starting to seriously wonder when, if ever, I will earn the right to have my voice back.
Hungarians are very proud people; one of the ways this is commonly manifested is through a desire to claim everything as being invented by Hungarians, or at least people of Hungarian descent. I've always wanted to somehow explain this to my non-Hungarian readers (aka, my parents and grandma). Happily, this video does it for me, with a very catchy song that I highly enjoy as an added bonus! So enjoy while Hungary claims to have invented everything from the ballpoint pen (actually true) to Vitamin C (dubious).
I'm borrowing the name of one of my favorite series of cookbooks for this post. I guess I must be ready to go home because I wanted nothing more than to cook America for dinner. So, I did. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, gravy, crudite... and mixed nut brittle to finish it off.
I must admit I was a bit scared to make a dry caramel, especially since the only appropriate pan is quite dark. It turned out fantastic, however. I just melted a cup plus a bit of sugar until it smelled like caramel over medium heat. I removed it from the heat and added about 2 square inches of butter, cut into little bits, let that melt, and then added a cup of toasted nuts and a dash of salt. The mixture was then poured onto a greased cookie sheet, spread, and allowed to dry. It's like eating delicious glass.
A photo of a sleepy Bencelita hugging my thumb is always a nice way to top off a post, I think.
On Saturday night I went to see Zombieland (hysterical and awesome, by the way, except for the OH MY GOD ZOMBIE CLOWN terror at one point). As Woody Harrelson mowed down zombies with a giant SUV and a sub-automatic, Lyla leaned over to me and whispered, "This is why zombie movies can't be shot in Europe. Can you imagine trying to kill a zombie with a Peugeot?"
Seriously, though, think about it. Tiny cars, limited access to weapons of any sort, virtually no access to guns, full cities, everyone constantly on public transport, and the tendency to kiss everyone you see on the face. The plague will spread like wildfire and there will be no way to escape. The zombie apocalypse will just totally destroy Europe!
Belgrade is not a particularly beautiful city. I don't think that anyone would claim otherwise. It is, however, an interesting and vibrant place full of loud, friendly people, bizarre history (some slightly rewritten), and a lot of energy. I think I'll let the photos do most of the talking for me.
These are batons given to Tito during the youth races every year. I particularly like the one with an anatomically correct heart on top.
Tito's grave At Tito's grave compound there was a small ethnographic museum filled with gifts he had received from other countries. Rather quirky inscriptions accompanied most of the items. This is my favorite.
trout and Swiss chard for dinner
a statue near the citadel
the view of the Danube bend from the citadel
Lyla and I in front of the juncture of the two rivers
taking a rest on a bump in the bridge leading to the fortress
Why is there a giant watermelon? You clearly haven't lived in Eastern Europe. The correct question is: why wouldn't there be a giant watermelon?
some of the massive display of weaponry at the fortress
a bit of the F-117 bomber shot down during the "NATO aggression" in 1998
the streets of Belgrade
a church spire
I ordered the "something something-style" and received a giant slab of meat in butter-cream. Happily, it was delicious!
the new Orthodox church- said to be the third biggest in the world
This photo is for Weasel: I attack a chandelier shop.
in front of the church during the day
the old artists' district of Belgrade, with the walls painted to resemble various buildings, courtyards, and alleys
a stop for a snack at a chocolate shop, where we got delicious hot cocoas and Lyla got a giant slice of a cake that tasted EXACTLY like a turo-rudi
some street art
the view of the city from a bridge crossing the Danube
We celebrated Thanksgiving a little bit early, on Saturday the 21st. About fifteen people came to partake in the event, including several Americans, one Canadian, a few Hungarians, and a Brit. Lyla made delicious little pumpkin (or, as availability demanded, butternut squash) tarts and I prepared the turkey. Everyone else brought sides, drinks, and such. The food was all delicious, fun was had by all, and we managed to all talk in one big group for the majority of the party rather than clique-ing off. And our neighbors didn't even call the police on us. Everyone left in the evening feeling a bit sick and slightly drunk... a great Thanksgiving success if you ask me.
Toasting to the success of the meal, in espresso cups, while Bencelita attempts to swim in the hazi palinka.
the turkey after coming out of its brine
rubbing turkey is a messy job (and that sentence sounds oh, so wrong)
the beautiful little tarts (Watching Hungarians poke at pumpkin pie is one of the greatest joys of Thanksgiving here. The concept makes them genuinely nervous. They honestly poke at them.) Bencelita wants in on the Thanksgiving action. Scott later fed her about a pound of turkey, don't feel bad for her.
Scott and Anna load up on food.
I feel this photo perfectly captures its subjects: Laci, Balint, Mate.
Every so often Lyla and I grow weary of traveling, adventuring, and so forth. Whenever this happens, we wind up having very productive lazy Sundays in. We clean the flat. We get work done. But most importantly, we cook. We cook up absurd amounts of food that we are then able to eat all week long. Today: eggplant cream, liters of sauteed veggies, a kilo of dried beans, oatmeal raisin cookies/muffins/minor baking disasters, and pork mole.
~400 grams of pork loin, cubed (bone in is best) 3 peppers 2 tomatoes 1 red onion 5 cloves garlic (all veggies chopped) 1 can diced green chiles (rinsed) 1 80 g can tomato paste 1 cube turkey bouillon 2 tbs paprika 2-3 ounces dark chocolate 1 tbs cinnamon 2 pinches red pepper flakes salt, pepper, and garlic powder to taste
Saute veggies in a bit of oil until they start to soften. Add paprika and green chiles. Add about 2 cups of hot water and bouillon cube, plus tomato paste. Once water is simmering, add chocolate in small hunks and cinnamon. Add pork (and throw in the bone, if you have it), plus pepper flakes. Allow to simmer until meat is cooked and tender, and sauce is thickened. Remove bone before serving and serve with rice. It makes about four servings.
This mole is quite mild in flavor, because Lyla doesn't like very spicy food. It does have a slight heat. If you want to kick it up a bit, add some diced ancho chiles or chipotles if you have them. If you don't (I didn't), some diced jalapenos in a bit of their juice is also very tasty. A small spoonful of sour cream on top is also yummy.
I was standing at the copier this morning, photocopying a test that I'd made that I was sure Balint was going to hide (he calls it "file") away and I would never see it again. I joked to Edit that I wanted just a copy of my baby. She smiled and said that they were lucky with me, that she appreciates finally getting a partner that she can count on. I almost cried.
Then at Avicenna one of my old students came and sat in on a class and thanked me for all my help with him last year. He said he got into university because of my work. I almost cried.
Then Mate commented that he finally realized how Americans and Hungarians are different at our Thanksgiving dinner this weekend (which was lovely and delicious! a dedicated post is sure to follow). How different we are! he marveled as I quietly raged that I had been saying that for over a year now. Wasn't I lonely? I explained the fact that I feel like I only have one Hungarian friend, that even the people I have that I really love, that I know care about me, haven't done everything to make me fully comfortable in their friendship by my cultural standards. That while my brain knows I am silly and cultural differences are real, sometimes I can't help but feel, really feel in my belly, that I'm totally useless here and nobody actually even notices my presence. And I finally burst into disgusting, hiccuping sobs in the middle of the sidewalk. And then I sobbed out all my angry frustration at my friends never inviting me to their homes, at everyone laughing at my attempts at Hungarian (in the oh-isn't-she-cute way, which still flusters me), at the fact that I can therefore talk in the conditional about economics but can't discuss the weather, at my lack of hugs, at just everything that a someone living abroad deals with and understands and embraces... but sometimes it still just feels lonely.
And poor Mate sat there and took it and looked terrified. And I feel much better now. The every-few-months cathartic sob is an interesting thing, because I feel it so passionately, and really mean it at the time. But as soon as it's over I move on and feel great again.
And it's weird, because I've had a great week. Everything has been going really, really well. I think it might have just been the shock that someone actually tried to understand me.
And now, the indisputably awesome part of my crazy life abroad: I'm off to a long weekend in Belgrade, done on night trains for next-to-nothing, where we will wander and sit and take photos of beautiful and exotic things. Not so rough, this life.
I have mentioned on here many times that Hungarian old ladies, nenis, hate me. Last night I was complaining about a particular episode where I got up to offer my seat to an old lady, and she hit me with her umbrella and starting scolding me. I was appalled by this. As I ranted, my friend Laci stopped me. "What exactly happened?" he asked.
"Oh, I don't know. I saw an old lady, so I got up and said tessek." And I demonstrated with my hands the way I had offered the chair with my hands.
Immediately the three Hungarians I was talking to shouted "Ohhh! That's why!" In response to my total flabbergasted-ness (it's a word if I say it is!), the explained that the way I offered her the chair with my hands while saying the basic equivalent of "please, take my chair," was most likely viewed by the little old lady as sarcastic. I sputtered in bewildered frustration. WHAT?!? Seriously.
Next time I have to deal with a neni, I'm keeping my hands in my pockets. We'll see how that goes.
On an unrelated note, I had two open lessons this morning. I woke up vomiting, infected with the stomach thing that has been running around Krudy. So I went into work, taught one open lesson, was sick again, taught my second lesson, and headed home. And thus took only the second sick day of my entire life (I still have never taken an entire sick day). And I did nothing productive. I feel quite guilty about it. Sometimes it's nice to be reminded of how very American I actually am! Now I'm feeling significantly better. If I had to choose only two things I really love about my physical self number one would be my hair, and number two would definitely be my iron stomach.
When I was little, one of my favorite things was school shopping. I loved few things more than school, and even fewer more than school supplies. I would spend an absurd amount of time picking out the perfect trapper keeper, the necessary Lisa Frank folders, the right type of pencil. I'm sure I drove my mother insane. There's just something about a new notebook though. Maybe it's the promise of all those empty pages, or maybe it's the perverse thrill of getting to put my own marks all over this pristine thing. Regardless, I still love school supplies. I have far too many pens, I tell others that I buy stickers only for my students but really love their shiny shapes myself, and I own a broad collection of notebooks. Notebooks for Hungarian, for work, for lists, to practice Spanish. All half-sized, all precious to me.
Today I bought a new notebook. It's full sized, graph paper. On the front is a Keith Harris drawing of two people holding a heart. And this notebook, oh, it's important. Because this is the notebook I will use to prepare for the Intermediate Hungarian Language Exam that I will take in the beginning of June.
Incidentally, has anyone seen any Lisa Frank designs lately? Seriously, google it. It's enough to break my heart. Everything has gigantic eyes, and the children have breasts. Gah!
So I finally posted a super-long post on my trip to Spain, complete with about a million pictures. It's postdated since I've been working on it for awhile now, so be sure to go down the page and check it out.
And ten days in Spain was such a blessing for me, and exactly when I needed it. Spain does good things to me. It makes me feel confident and happy. I was talking with someone the other day about how I honestly believe that people are better people in their second language. When I'm speaking Spanish, I'm more thoughtful, more honest, more straightforward. I use more elegant words and phrases. I try to speak beautifully. Because even if I am fluent, it's still not my native tongue. It still takes just that little bit more effort. And I think that effort makes me a better person. English can be too easy for me to be crass, unkind, short. In Hungarian I am still at a low level and just sort of sound like an idiot. I think I was missing that part of me, that beautiful and delicate me that I am when I speak Spanish.
There were a few times wandering the streets of Madrid, and especially of Salamanca, that it hit me that I lived in Spain four years ago. Or, to think of it another way... high school ago. College ago. Four years is still a significant amount of time for me (and I suppose that if I continue teaching in Hungary, in four-year cycles of students, that it will continue to be). Spain made me who I am. And I became who I am only four short years ago. Or four long, incredibly full-of-growth years ago, depending upon how I feel on a particular day. Because it feels like it was yesterday, and it feels like it was my whole life ago.
I really like who I am. I wish I could be a bit kinder, and I especially wish that I was a bit better at reaching out to people... I don't call people enough, message them enough. But beyond that, I like who I am. And I really wonder who I would have become if I hadn't gone to Spain and started this crazy adventure.
Popping into the bars and hangouts of my time in Spain also made me realize that I am no longer a teenager. Which is something that I have realized before (I can't party quite as hard as I used to, for one... at least without feeling serious consequences the next day!) but it really set in there. I have friends with children, I am starting to recognize my own need for sleep, I really enjoy cooking a large number of meals on Sundays so that I have dinner ready on the busy weekdays. I check the weather forecast the night before, regularly mop my kitchen for the first time ever, my dreams now include buying a little flat and a dog and working a job that I love instead of only the single word: travel (though of course travel continues to factor in rather heavily). I'm starting to demand respect in exchange for the respect I give.
I feel like I'm an adult. A woman. I noticed in the past few weeks, only, that I have almost always stopped referring to myself as a girl. And while the word woman still feels rather strange on my lips, I know it won't for long. And woman is a label I am very happy to wear.
So, what has been going on for the past two weeks? Honestly, not much. The weather has been pretty atrocious, and the flu is running around. Both the normal flu, and H1N1 also continues closer and closer to Hungary... first Ukraine, then Bulgaria got hit with quarantines. Work has also been pretty crazy for no real reason, just a lot of work. Balint and Edit have both been out a few times for different workshops and trainings, so I have had the class to myself, which is fun because it equals a bigger paycheck, but less fun because it equals a bigger class.
So I have done a frightening amount of staying at home. I have done this to give private lessons, cook beautiful meals (enchiladas, squash soup, baked mac and cheese, pot stickers, wontons...), to grade papers, and to rest off the general feeling of weariness that has been following me around.
Happily, that changed this weekend. It started on Thursday night, where we went out to celebrate Vivvi's birthday, and perhaps due to our weeks of responsibility, got a little too irresponsible. Friday night we had a night in, but not in our flat. We watched little Lucas, our friends' ten-week old angel baby. And he was adorable and sweet, and if I could bottle the scent of the top of his head, so soft, I would. Saturday it was off to the Tropicarium, which is in a mall in southern Buda. Nevertheless, it was surprisingly nice and complete, and I got to pet rays. Then we saw Julie and Julia, which was cute. Finally today we had a small viewing party of Up, which we downloaded and loved.
It has also been sort of strange, in that I keep bumping into people I know. Which is strange, because I don't feel like I actually know all that many people. But this weekend everywhere I go, there someone is. And it's lovely, and makes me feel like I'm at home.
I have been struck this week by how at home I feel. I head out to work, and nod at the corner shop employee having his smoke on the corner. I got pulled over by the cops for "incorrect signaling" and successfully told them they were mistaken (basically, correct signaling is just ignored here... you just have to point in the direction you're turning). Things have seemed clear and beautiful to me, despite the rain. I wore an irresponsibly short skirt out in the cold, just like everyone else, and could give snappy responses to the few comments I got. And I feel comfortable.
I don't know if I mentioned this on here, but one of my classes was having serious problems. We just couldn't find success together, and it was killing me. Their last test on Friday, though, was superb. 17 of the 25 got 100%s, and 7 of the other ones got As. I was so happy while I was grading their tests in the staff room that I was actually making happy noises and getting some strange looks. And I guess... that's all!
In times of crisis and recession, buy pork products!
Friday, Oct. 23: wake up early to catch the taxi to the airport. We overpacked. A lot. In the end it was almost worth it, because I wore almost everything I brought with me. After a whole summer spent living out of a twelve-kilo backpack, however, a twenty-kilo suitcase for ten days seemed a bit excessive. But it was a real vacation, not a "journey," so I justified it to myself.
Made it to Madrid without any hassles, picked up our bags, and went to where we were staying. Weirdly, it was right around the corner from where I lived when I studied in Spain, in a nice residential neighborhood I hadn't had any reason to return to while visiting the past few times. So to be back was a bit strange. The first thing we did, sure enough, was to find a little cafe to sit and drink chocolate, and eat lomo and cheese sandwiches. And I was happy. That night we went out dancing at a pretty chill place, after eating a delicious dinner of beautiful fresh vegetables and rice.
Saturday, Oct. 24: off to Toledo! After a small mishap caused by going to the wrong bus station, we caught our bus to Toledo. As usual, I didn't make it out of Madrid without being lulled to sleep by the comfortable chairs and Spanish pop music. As always, my body knew when to wake me up, and I shook awake just in time to see the giant toro on the side of the highway into town, and admire the old city raising up over the valley. The first order of business was lunch, a starter of garlicky setas (a kind of mushroom), followed by pork and sausage stewed in a spicy tomato sauce, so tender it was hard to lift with a fork. From there we saw the beautiful city: the cathedral, the monasteries, the synagogues. We bought some beautiful damasquin jewelry as our Spanish souvenir. Primarily, though, we just wandered the tiny, winding streets of the city, soaked in sunshine, and popped in and out of tiny shops. We caught the bus back as the sun started to set, and finished our day with a dinner of tapas: patatas bravas and tortilla from El Meson de Tortilla, topped with bitter Spanish beer.
happy toros come from Spain
I found a weasel!one of the monasteries
Sunday, Oct. 25: forgetting about the time change, we woke up disgustingly early (before 7!) to head to the famous Rastro flea market. There, we bought key chains of adorable monsters, some useless pretty things, and a Barcelona scarf for Balint. We chatted with the merchants, and again had some chocolate con churros for breakfast. Wandering the area between el Rastro and La Puerta del Sol, we discovered that there was a giant parade of people from the northern regions of Spain. They were playing traditional music, wearing bizarre shoes, and had also brought a lot of animals with them: whole flocks of sheep, dogs, giant cows and bulls, at least a hundred horses. So that was festive, and took at least an hour to fully appreciate.
We then did some sightseeing: the cathedral, the castle, Plaza de Espana. My beloved Pans & Company served us a delicious sandwich for lunch.
the interior of the Madrid cathedral
Don Quijote and Sancho Panza in the Plaza de Espana
Then we headed to the Prado for the afternoon, where we visited only the first floor. Having happily gotten in free (yay, teacher discount), we decided to come back another day and finish seeing the collection. In the evening, we took ourselves to see the lovely (500)Days of Summer, which it seems will never make it to Budapest. Afterwards: El Almendro. Oh, El Almendro. I dream of the food when I am away from it. Imagine: lomo (pork loin) that has been stewed in a delicious, garlicky gravy for over 24 hours, poured over fried potatoes so thin as to almost be chips, the juice from the meat soaking through them. Diced jamon serrano with perfectly fried eggs over the same potatoes. Olives and pickled beans. All washed down with the sweet-crisp taste of cold manzanilla sherry. This is the stuff that dreams are made of.
Plaza del Sol at night
Monday, Oct. 26: Lyla and I spent essentially the entire day laying in the Retiro park, soaking in the sun. We did very important reading and people-watching. We ate doritos and sandwiches of jamon serrano and cured cheese. We chased ducks. It was beautiful.
how we felt after a day in the park the Crystal Palace in the Retiro
Tuesday, Oct. 27: some more leisurely sight-seeing, mostly consisting of walking through tiny streets. A fair bit of shopping, of both the window (me) and purchasing (Lyla) variety. A yummy lunch of Thai food.
Gran Viaa bear and a strawberry tree, the symbol of Madrid
Then it was off to my interview for me and to the royal palace for Lyla. As I mentioned: the interview went well. The school is on the southern edge of Madrid, and when I came up from the metro I was struck by the desolateness of the area. It's totally new there, and still being built. You can see the desert around you, and feel the famous madness-causing hot southern wind in your face. It was stark and beautiful and something that I had no idea existed in Madrid.
To celebrate, Lyla and I drank mojitos under the stars near Plaza Mayor, followed by Sangria. I watched the crazy Spaniards milling about as if it were noon, when it was actually midnight on a Tuesday, and I was happy for their presence, and for the simple fact of how alive they are.
Wednesday, Oct. 28: We started the day by heading back to the Prado to see the second and third floors. Lunch was delicious sandwiches, and then it was to the bus station to head to my favorite place in the whole world: Salamanca. As always, the sight of the city cresting over the horizon took my breath away. Upon arriving, we settled in and then headed out for dinner at my favorite gyros stand and a few drinks.
these two are of the view from my friend's flat
the cathedral at night
Thursday, Oct. 29: Woke up pretty early and headed to my old school to visit with the professors there. It was really nice. Then headed off to my old home to visit my housemom, Mariela, who continues to be a totally lovely lady. Napped and layed about in the afternoon, then walked around the city. Salamanca is seriously one of the most beautiful places in the world, and every street and every building seemed to be welcoming me back. In the evening, it was out for a bit of a fun, as every student in town prowled the streets in Halloween gear.
me and Lyla on the Roman bridgethe cathedral, painted red by the sunsetthe above-mentioned sunset
a church on the outside of the town wall, surrounded by inexplicably painted dead trees
Friday, Oct. 30: caught up with another professora that I had missed the day before, and went to the Museo del toro with Lyla. This bullfighting museum is one of the more interesting museums that I've been to. Basically it's a small building crammed full of the most random assortment of stuff related to bull fighting, curated by this absolutely fanatical man. The afternoon was spent in a park reading magazines and soaking up the sunlight, then eating amazing food. That evening was more time out, including a long dinner of paella and chorizo at one of my favorite little restaurants, and a quick stop into the Irish Rover for old time's sake, which really just resulted in my feeling a bit old!
ears are given as trophies to good bullfighters
Lyla strikes a bullfighter's pose
smiley in the sunshine
Yum!the facade of the old cathedralThe Casa Lis lit up for the nightLyla and I in the Plaza Mayor
Saturday, Oct. 31: realizing that we were leaving the next day and until that point had basically only relaxed, we set about sightseeing with a vengeance. We visited the monastery, the cathedrals, and the art-deco museum Casa Lis. And... have I mentioned that Salamanca is beautiful? In the evening we bought cured meats and cheeses to bring home with us, then it was off to O'haras for a few drinks, followed by an unexpected and apparently impromptu flamenco performance in the square. Then we had a delicious dinner at Delicatessan, followed by a long slow walk home.
a monastery's cloister
the view of the cathedral
one of the facades of the old cathedral, depicting the nativity
inside the new cathedral
Look at that sky!
the Casa de las Conchas... the shell house
Sunday, Nov. 1: early up and to the bus station, as always staring behind me at the city as it dropped out of sight, as always promising to return. Then to the airport in Madrid for a rather uneventful flight home.
Finally, the cow bids you farewell, and of couse, since it's Spain... buen provecho.