Las Fallas

In most situations I have short fuse, low tolerance for other people’s stupidity and no patience. However, while trying to interact with a new and different culture, I tend to give other people the benefit of the doubt. Nonetheless, I frequently find myself inadvertently upsetting Spaniards. This outcome is usually related to strange side effect of being submerged in an unfamiliar language. I subconsciously assume that because I cannot understand the people around me, they cannot understand me. I have run into problems with this assumption several times. Not only do many Spaniards understand and speak English, but there are also, believe it or not, other native English speakers living in this country. The most awkward example of this happened in Valencia during the Las Fallas Fiesta.

Las Fallas is a fantastic example of what I love about Spain. The people of this country share a belief that each person should do exactly what he or she wants regardless of the consequences and dangers involved. No where is this more apparent than during each city’s fiesta. Every year the people of Valencia throw a week-long party celebrating the Fallas; enormous paper-mache and wood constructions that serve multiple purposes. First, they depict some aspect of local or national politics and are usually constructed to get a laugh out of the audience and poke fun at a few politicians. More importantly, they provide an avenue for each neighborhood to devote time, money and effort into the timeless battle for annual bragging rights. On the last day of the festival, after the winner of the contest has been decided, the remaining 25 or so Fallas are burned to the ground in a spectacular, if not altogether safe, display.

I spent most of the day during the last day of the festival basking on the beautiful Valencian beach, consuming much alcohol while dodging the local children who make a sport of throwing firecrackers at tourists. I enjoy firecrackers as much as the next closeted pyromaniac and I love the fact that Valencian children are allowed free reign to discover the dangers of matches, but the fireworks they throw aren’t your average ‘pinch of gunpowder-wrapped in tissue paper’ noise makers. These fireworks more closely resemble quarter sticks of dynamite than anything. Several times throughout the day I heard car alarms go off by children with poor aim.

Leaving the beach at sundown was a welcome relief. We picked our way through the city to find a nice place to eat some food before the giant monstrosity in the center of the city was scheduled to be incinerated. I was accompanied by group of five Americans who were all secretly hoping to get laid, and all severely intoxicated. The conversation quickly turned to sex. After the usually round of ‘what’s the strangest…what’s the dirtiest…” questions, we turned to the timeline discussion. The earliest sexual encounter is normally a recounting of cringe worthy teenage hook ups and good for a laugh or two. Unless, of course, you are having that discussion with a group of emotionally broken psychopaths who have had just enough alcohol to be a little too honest.

It started off normal enough. One girl gave a blowjob in eighth grade. One guy fucked his girlfriend sophomore year of high school. Then some crazy happened. The other guy at the table shared that when he was five years old he molested his four year old ‘girlfriend’. I was a bit speechless. Everyone does strange things while they are growing up and discovering their sexuality. To be honest, when you are that young, you have no fucking clue what to do with your body. I’m not terribly surprised that he had a sexual encounter at that age, but I am a bit surprised that he decided to tell the table about it. “Earliest sexual encounter” is supposed to be a funny game of “how dorky were you in high school”, not a trip to the psychologist couch. After he had told the story, the table was quite silent and I noticed a few more glances than usual from a nearby table.

Suddenly, the last girl blurted out that she when she was six years old, she hooked up with her babysitter.

“Your what? Was it a guy or girl? How old was he?”

Nineteen. Male.

“You fucked your nineteen year old babysitter when you were SIX!?!” I blurted out across the restaurant, feeling a little bad for being so shocked, but absolved by the fact that we were in Spain, and only our table spoke English.

Suddenly a man from the nearby table turned and shouted “Good god, can you keep it down? I’m trying to have a meal with my fiancé and her mother!”

I can’t say I feel too sorry for the guy. If you bring your future wife and mother in law to a no-holds-barred fiesta in Spain, you deserve whatever punishment comes your way.

Introduction

There have been hundreds of great books written about Spain by people who are far more intelligent and insightful than I am (Amazon shows over 300,000 results for a "Spain" search). Part of the reason for this is that the country seems to reinvent itself every ten years.

I'm not going to pretend to be an expert about Spanish history, but I am going to attempt to describe the modern Spain that I experience through unfiltered eyes and untrained ears.

I arrived in January 2009 to stay with a family in the center of Madrid. The abuela of the family has been a very good friend of my grandfather (who she frequently refers to as my father) for many years. Because of this relationship, she has decided that it is her duty to treat me as she would her own son, except that I can barely understand her and she can barely understand me. One of the most common and comprehensible communications that I recieve from her is when she yells "NO NO NO NEVER NEVER NEVER!" at me when I incorrectly attemt to accomplish something.

The most recent example was when I tried to fry an egg (a task which I normally accomplish with very little drama). Apparently, in Spain, frying an egg over easy is a sin that sends you to the deepest depths of hell. Abuela was washing a dish in the sink when she saw me, out of the corner of her eye (I've never met another person for whome the old "eyes in the back of her head" addage is more appropraite) flip my egg over. In a flash she had dropped her dish and appeared at my side. I held my breath, bracing myself for the storm:

"NO NO NO YOU MUST NEVER! NEVER! NEVER DO THIS!!!!"

My favorite part of these interactions is that I don't really know what to say to her. Do I ask if there is something wrong with the eggs in Spain whereas they become deadly poison when they are flipped over? "No entiendo". Do I try to explain that I prefer them cooked this way in the States (the most reasonable response, but unfortunately even this simple sentence is difficult for me to convey at this point), or do I tell her to chill the fuck out and mind her own business? I don't know much about etiquitte, but it seems a bit inpolite to curse at an old lady who has opened her home to you.

My typical reaction, and the one I followed in the above scenario, is to wait out the Spanish rant until she gives up on me and allows me to continue in peace. For the most part, she doesn't care what I do. She simply feels an obligation to act like a caretaker and attempt to teach me the "Spanish" way of doing things. At the end of the day I appreciate her concern, but her dramatic delivery can be overwhelming.