Silas Horst
Spanish Culture and Society
Midterm Essay-Regional Differences
When I first read about Galicia it sounded almost too strange, too different, to be true. I have always found it easier to imagine a place or a people based on what I have experienced, and thus it was strange for me to imagine a part of Spain unlike what I had seen briefly in Madrid, or especially what I found in Sevilla and the surrounding campo. Andalucía, from the southern portion of Badajoz all the way down to Cadiz on the coast was uniformly dry, hot, brown, and covered in patches of olive trees. I was told it’s not always so sweltering, temperatures reaching the mid 40’s Celsius during the afternoons, and that with the approach of winter relief would come; more than relief, truly cool weather, pants and jackets weather. I remained skeptical. Like I said, most of what I understand is based on what I have lived and nothing Spain could throw at me would compare to a northern Ohio winter. Al Andalus might get chilly at best.
When I let my mind piece together Galicia on its own I saw northern Oregon, which I visited briefly long ago. Maybe more standing water given the little fingers of ocean that protrude inward like in Scandinavian countries. I hoped it would be as beautiful as Oregon in the fall, when the rain didn’t so much fall everyday as exist as a perpetual part of life. This northern piece of Spain, so green and moist, felt positively alien after a month and a half of living in Sevilla. Was that soil, dark and thick-looking? Those certainly weren’t olive trees. The bus from Santiago de Compostela to Pontavedra wound its way past village after village. Growing up in the southwest and within spitting distance (relatively speaking) of Colorado, I hesitate to describe anything in this part of the world as mountainous. Still, Galicia had more elevation to be gained and lost in several hundred yards than in all of Sevilla. The second weekend of our semester our host family took my roommate and I into the “mountains”, to a small rural community called Segura de Leon an hour and a half north of Sevilla. The country there ought to be referred to as “hilly” or maybe “rolling” but certainly not mountainous, but I was courteous enough not to correct anyone. How does one communicate the majesty of the Rocky Mountains, or the vast expanse of Montana? There is no common ground for the average Spaniard.
I was drawn to Galicia because those writers who transcribed their experiences there all spoke about how it is a place for introspection: the rain and especially the nature of their livelihoods, farmers and fishers for the most part, lead to a more conservative, hearth and home attitude. From what I saw in Pontavedra the people still congregate in bars like Sevillianos, but the culture of life in the streets was nonexistent. At 5 in the morning one can round a nondescript corner in Sevilla and run smack into the middle of several dozen young (and sometimes not so young) people drinking, smoking, and conversing loudly beside their cars. My two nights in Pontavedra were notable for the relative peace and quiet. Despite having a tight budget I positively feasted during that time. Andalusian cuisine can get fairly repetitive, especially because my host mother stuck to a routine rotation. She is an exceptional cook and I wouldn’t take anything from her dishes. The paella, yellow rice and vegetables supplemented by small shellfish and whole shrimp cooked in the same pot is always delicious (I average three plates of the stuff), and whenever she says we are having lentajes (lentils) for lunch I feel tremors of excitement. She puts two types of sausage into the lentil pot, one a dark black blood sausage possessed of a singular flavor exquisite and overpowering. The secret to both dishes is dipping ungodly amounts of fresh bread into the mix. The jamon Iberico, thinly sliced salt-cured pork which never tastes heavy but somehow overwhelms you after one slice too many, is a rare delicacy which my roommate and I do our best not to scarf when it is provided. The rest is mostly just typical Mediterranean cuisine, tons and tons of bread and olive oil, fruits, the occasional store bought tortillas and such. I have warmed immensely to bread and olive oil, especially when the bread is fresh and soft. The plethora of seafood options in Galicia simply blew me away. I could have stayed a month and not sampled all the Cantabrican coast had to offer. Oysters and shellfish galore, fried, grilled, or steamed fish with strange names like turbot and hake; above all, once the sun lowered itself into the sea and the temperature began to dive, warm soups complimented by (what else?) fresh bread. I imagine, like the hardy frontier cuisine of old American West, the food tastes that much better, that much more satisfying after a long day hauling lines out in the ocean.
Oddly enough though, it had yet to rain and I began to feel slightly cheated. I was drawn to Galicia specifically because I prefer to be alone. I am self-sustained by nature and by preference. I refuel and think most clearly on my own. Furthermore, and this may seem to be an oddity for a kid who grew up in the deserts of the southwest, I love the rain. I began to fret, and seeing as I had exhausted what Pontavedra had to offer the weekend tourist I decided to head back to Compostela and stop along the way in the smallest village I could find or see from the bus. Halfway there we came upon a scattering of communities around the town of Valga and I seized my chance. There were half a dozen small groupings of the ubiquitous red roofed buildings and the much larger conglomerations surrounding Pontecesures and Padrón three or four miles north. Because the day was plenty cool I picked south and set out; over the next three hours I randomly selected lefts and rights, wandering, wondering, and wistful. When my stomach informed me that it was time to add purpose to my steps I oriented myself towards what I later found out was Ribocias. Feeling supremely confident I approached an amiable looking older gentleman leaning on fence on the outskirts. Sizing up my backpack and cheerful grin he squinted at me and waited.
Now, my Spanish was fairly good for simple interaction at this point and I told him I was looking for food and a place to stay for a night. He looked me in the eye and I returned the gaze. Muttering under his breath in Gallego (which sounds a little bit like Spanish and Portugese mashed together and softened. For example, los ríos ya llevan sangre becomes os ríos xa levan sangue) he seemed to make a decision. When he responded in crisp Castillian Spanish it took me back a little. Speaking to people in Sevilla, even for someone who grew up in New Mexico, is a bit like swimming through mud. They seem to take a perverse sort of pride in omitting a letter or two here and there, especially the last s or d or whatever they feel like. My favorite shortened phrase: “A come!” which is what our host mother yells at my roommate and I to inform us our food is ready. It would normally be ‘A comer’. There’s also the ubiquitous “No pasa nada” which is both a phrase and declaration of lifestyle all in one. It usually becomes “no pasa na” or even “No pa na”. The rhythm is so fast at times that I found myself asking for something to be repeated which I normally would have understood perfectly. Even funnier (but not in the moment) is the intonation of things which leads the inexperienced foreigner to feel he is being yelled at, persecuted for some crime or fault he has committed without his knowing. For the first couple weeks I thought my host family was a fractious, bitter group of people living together. On the contrary, much like the Cubans, they love each other to death but he or she who is loudest gets heard. Returning to the Galician farmer, he told me there was a place to stay in the town and one or two places to eat. He said he was heading home for food soon and I could follow him, all of this coming to me more clearly than most instructions I received in Sevilla. I asked a few questions, including if it was possible to sleep outdoors (I had done it before in my travels and one could save a lot of Euros by finding a secluded grove of trees). He said he wouldn’t do it but if I wanted I certainly could. And then, the golden words:
Va a llover manana.
It’s going to rain tomorrow.
I don’t know how he knew. I doubt he looked at weather.com daily or anything like that. Being a lifelong farmer, one who rose early to tend his livestock and care for his garden (both of which he showed me before I thanked him and we parted ways) one must get a sense for such things. He was quiet and reserved as we walked which I enjoyed immensely. I let the silence deepen, enjoying the countryside. Eventually I asked where he learned his crisp correct Spanish and he gave me a small glimpse into his life, speaking about an all-too-brief experience at the University Valencia on a scholarship. Surprisingly I could hear a sort of deep, old longing in his voice when he spoke. I asked if he liked being a farmer, working on the land. I told him despite my inclination towards studying and probing mankind’s history I liked the feel hard work. A man without calluses can’t be trusted. He smiled a little and rattled off a phrase in Gallego, way too fluid for me to get the gist. He translated it into Spanish: this is where I was born. This is what I do. It was stoic and sad but commendable. From the look of his farm, livestock, gardens, and stables, just because it might not have been his dream didn’t mean he put in half the effort. When I mentioned this he broke into the first real smile I’d seen, thought for a few seconds, and then asked me if I’d like to eat with him and his wife. I agreed instantly but I insisted he let me pay them for it. He didn’t seem to like it but I was adamant. For the life of me I can’t remember what was in the soup! It was delicious and filling but as is always the case it was the conversation which I will never forget. I gave them my story and my thoughts on their part of the world in return for their hospitality. They listened quietly and mumbled back and forth to each other in their language. None of it sounded malicious; more like they were gauging me, assessing my bright-eyed optimism and youthfulness with the experienced eyes of the old and wise. When they finally rose to wish me goodnight and point me towards a patch of quiet woods on their land I thought hours and hours must have passed. Glancing at my watch I did a quick double take at the little neon numbers. 10:22. It wasn’t even midnight. They must have seen my surprise because they chuckled.
“The cows rise at 5:30 and you have to beat them.”
Ah yes. True farm life. It had been a long time since I’d experienced it.
In my mind I had come to Galicia because I would be able to walk, as hundreds of thousands of travelers had before me, down an ancient road with a low wall on either side. The rain would drip off my jacket and create little puddles along my path but it would not hinder me; it would obscure the world and I would be left with a hundred yards in any direction, secluded, isolated, calm and quiet and perfectly at peace. When I had gone far enough into the countryside to be sure of my isolation I would do as I always did when presented with thunderstorms in the Colorado mountains. I would stop and say a little prayer of gratitude for the beauty of the world around me, for my health, the love of my friends and family. Then roll back the hood of my black rain jacket and let the rain run through my hair and down my face and smile. To keep a long story short, there were more trees than I would have imagined. The rain, when it came, was bitterly cold and driven in mad gusts. I smiled all the same.
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