The Devils of Mallorca

The past week in Mallorca has been a string of holidays and parties loosely tied to the religious figures of Sant Antoni and Sant Sabastia. I use the word loosely as I am sure that both of them are rolling in their graves at the sight of such unruly drunkenness and bad behavior. The overall theme was rather demonic, as both saints had their fair share of battles with the forces of evil. Many locals wore demon masks and threw lit fireworks into crowds of people, but all in good spirit. During the week, I had several encounters that change my outlook on Mallorquins completely.
Friday night (17th) was the first night of parties; the day of Sant Antoni (18th) was intended as a day of collective hangovers. I spent several hours with Tyler walking around Palma, but at midnight he had to go home and I took off for the real parties. My friend Alvaro drove me and some friends across the island to the small village of Muro; and its there that the problems began.
Almost immediately after getting out of the car, we were verbally attacked (me in particular) by the Mallorquin speaking village inhabitants. Altres! Altres! Altres! Our crime: we were speaking Spanish. I had known before that the Mallorquins prefer Catalan, but I never imagined us being attacked for speaking Spanish in Spain.
We made our way quickly to the center of town and found some people that we recognized. Some girls that I know (whom happen to be attractive) began dancing with me and passing out drinks; we were all having a really good time. That was until some village idiot came up to one of the girls I was dancing with, and asked in Catalan, why they were dancing with a foreigner. I, understanding what he said, cursed at him in Spanish and gave him the finger. Within an instant, my friend Alvaro grabbed me by the arm and pulled me from the circle. Vamos Andreas, lets get the hell out of here. So we left.
In the car, we all talked about how inhospitably pig-headed the Mallorquins can be. All of my friends prefer Spanish and refuse to speak Catalan unless it is absolutely necessary; thus, they are like outsiders in their own country.
We decided to try a bigger town, Sa Pobla, that was having a fiesta that night. Like before, we headed to the center of town, but now speaking Catalan whenever we passed people on the street. We got to the main plaza and met up with some friends of Alvaro. After a while, Tony (another friend of mine) and I got restless and decided to go for a walk. One of the traditions of these parties is to build bonfires in the middle of every intersection. Tony and I found one that was deserted and found seats near the fire.
After a few minutes, some teens from the village appeared out of the darkness and seated themselves. They began throwing insults at us from across the fire; we had slipped on our cover and had been speaking Spanish. We threw some of our own back, and the battle of words almost became a battle of fists. So, like Muro, we got the hell out.
The following night, the night of Sant Antoni, my family and I went to Binisalem, another pueblo. This town was different from the others; it had a large population of people who spoke Spanish as their language of choice. We met up with some friends of the family who lived there and together, we had a spectacular time. Wine bottles were passed around, cooked meat on the open bonfires, and song and dance as the Demonis marched down the street. Perhaps it was just the wine, but my problems and worries from the night before vanished into the smokey, starry night.
Unfortunately, I had to go to school on Monday; I had a Philosophy test on Aristotles. I wanted to make a Puente (long weekend/bridge) as we had off Tuesday for the day of Sant Sebastia. Well, you can't always get what you want.
Monday night was a party. All of the streets in Palma were shut down and, like in the towns the weekend before, all of the street corners and plazas had huge bonfires. Every major plaza had a stage set up with live music from almost every genre imaginable. Pop. Rock. Hippie. Rap. All of the latest and greatest names in the Spanish music scene were there. Everybody who lives in Mallorca showed up, including the nationalist minority, so I had no fear of speaking Spanish. I met up with Tyler first, and we went and had a couple of drinks around town. Then, por desgracia, it began to rain.
At midnight, like before, Tyler left, and I headed to the Plaza of San Fancisco where my host cousin Jaime and his friends were. The plan was for me to spend the night at his apartment. Well, I´m going to leave out the details of the rest of that night because mothers are reading this blog, but we had a really great time. When we finally set foot in Jaime's apartment, the sun had already been up for quite some time.
Tuesday was a very special day, and it was important that I was in front of a television by six o` clock. I got home, showered, and put on my Obama T-Shirt (perhaps for the last time) and sat on the couch, eyes glued to the screen.

"I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute

the office of President of the United States,

and will to the best of my ability,

preserve, protect and defend
the Constitution of the United States."

A moment that will be remembered forever in history; a country that has shown its true colors; a pride that will never be deminished. Step aside Sant Sabastia, there is something else to celebrate today.
I went back to school for the remaining few days of the week, but that didn´t mean the partying was over. Sunday night was the carrefoc, which is a parade of moving fireworks. Unlike the parades in the US, the crowds are invited to participate in the dancing in the street. More then once I caught fire, but its all part of the tradition. We marched with the Demonis to the Cathedral; our arrival was greeted with more rain, and a fireworks display.

And so ended my week of weeks. I had some ups and downs, and a slight change of heart towards the Mallorquins that I so dearly loved. I´m sure that there are many more positive things about the Mallorquins then I have seen, but their ignorance has really turned me away from their pitiful cause. I will continue to return to the small towns of Mallorca, and they will just have to accept me- the mallorquinas are too pretty to let go that easily.

I would like to note that my friend Alvaro did not consume any alcohol the night that he drived us around Mallorca, he had a cold.

A National Crisis (Its snowing)

This is a little dated. I apologize for the wait.

I got home from school two Fridays ago to find my host mother and father talking in the kitchen. Their faces were darkened and I could tell by the way they were speakingthat something was wrong. I asked.

Its snowing on the Peninsula.

With the faces they had on, and the tone of their reply, I assumed it was a terrible blizzard and that the abuelitas were freezing to death in the streets of Madrid. People with frostbite and without power. Wind whipped faces and frozen eyelashes. But when they told me how much snow was on the ground, my doom and gloom mental picture fell apart completely.

5 inches.

I couldn't help from laughing. We turned on the television to see what was happening. Every single channel had an "Emergency Broadcast" of the news; live from the Peninsula. We picked Cuatro to watch, which is a station with a good, honest reputation. What we got, though, was Fox News with Danger Dan.

The highways were shut down. Schools were closed. Supermarkets bare. People were afraid to leave their homes. Israeli tanks were approaching the city. Okay, maybe not that last one, but judging by the reactions of the Spanish populous, it wouldn´t be too far of a stretch.

In all the pictures that I saw, I could still see the grass poking through the snow. In Haddon Heights, we call this a dusting. What was most surprising of all, was the governments lack of ability to respond to this dusting. They completely lost control in face of a snow shower. I can only imagine what would happen in the case of a real disaster. If the Blizzard of the Century hits Spain, everybody will freeze to death.

Unfortunately, Mallorca only got some snow in the mountains; however, if we got the same here as on the Peninsula, the four horsemen wouldn´t have been too far behind. Tyler spent the night on Friday, and on Saturday we took a family excursion up to the mountains to play in the snow. Tyler and I showed those Spaniards a thing or two about the power of American ingenuity in an all out snowball war. Our trophy; Puerto Rico.

Mi banco, tu banco

Never in my life have I had a more hectic Christmas.

I woke up Christmas Day, half expecting to have my sister walk in and remind me "itssss chrisstmasssss" and to hear the snores of my father, who had been up all night doing the work of Santa. Instead, I heard Spanish talk-radio blaring in the kitchen and the sounds of Marie Angeles trying to wake up Miguel. The funny thing about talk-radios and angry mothers is that through a closed door, they sound the same.
I quickly got dressed and threw my remaining clothes into my suitcase. Despite my being the last one to wake up, I was the first out the door. Of course we were rushing, as we always do, and I could hear the occasional ¡Me cago en la leche! booming from an open window in the house. Finally, we all piled into the car and took off for the Airport.
In security, the guard asked me if I had a "Lah-py-toop". I, not knowing what the hell that was, asked him to repeat several times. Finally, in frustration, he shouted: ¡¿Llevas un portatil?! I responded calmly in Spanish and assured him that speaking Spanish with me would be fine. This was the first time I´d ever actually seen a persons jaw drop. Its not to often one sees someone as blond as I speaking Spanish. My mother and I are real rarities.
When we boarded the plane, I said "Feliz navidad" to the stewardess. When we all sat down, my family told me that I was a "Pelota" which is like an ass kisser. I politely told them to "shove it" and that I would say Merry Christmas to whomever I feel like.
The flight was short, an hour or so, and I passed the time listening to A Fairytale of New York on repeat.

You were handsome

You were pretty

Queen of new york city

When the band finished playing

They howled out for more

Sinatra was swinging,

All the drunks they were singing

We kissed on a corner

Then danced through the night

It is by far my favorite Christmas song, and I can feel thur Irish blood boilin´ in meh.
When we got to Madrid, we caught a cab to a "cousins" house, who had left a car for us to use. Before we took off for Salamanca, we drove around a bit through the center of Madrid. I was impressed by its clever mix of historical architecture and modern retail outlets.
"Wow, its so beautiful! I can´t believe- wait, is that a TGIFridays? Son of bitch! WHY GOD WHY!?" Some things arn´t meant to be exported.
We drove across the endless plains of Castille for a few hours; the road to Salamanca. It´s really unbelievable how much space there is in Spain. It has to be one of the most underdeveloped countries in Europe. When you leave a "city" there are no suburbs, and in many cases no farms. Just...nothing. One can see cows and the skyscrapers of Madrid in the same view.
We got to Salamanca late, nine or ten perhaps, and we were in Angel´s fathers house by 10:30. I was in bed by 10:35.

The next few days were spent walking around Salamanca, taking pictures, and bar hopping. There was one bar called "La Oficina", which gave us a plethora of jokes involving "going to work".
One day we decided to take a little excursion to Portugal. We crossed the border without having to show a single form of identification. There wern´t even guards for that matter. Just a bridge. Oh the beauty of the EU!
In Portugal, we ate like pigs. A ton of food at an incredible price. Its like the Mexico of the Iberian Peninsula.
Before the year changed, we left for Valladolid. It is a much more dreary city then Salamanca, and not nearly as beautiful. Much like Wilmington, Delaware; which is not a complement.
On New Years Eve, all of Marie Angeles twelve brothers and sisters, and their kids, showed up for the traditional dinner and consumption of 12 grapes (one for each toll of the bell in Madrid). There were some 40 of us, and my lips were tired from kissing cheeks. I had the aftertaste of makeup in my mouth for several hours. After all of the family traditions were over, all the cousins older the 16 (about 14 of us) went out to a bar to party a little. We left for the bar at one in the morning, and didn´t get back until sometime around eight, and two of the older cousins didn´t come home until noon!
We spent a few more days in Valladolid, and on the last night, a few of us went out for Mexican food. Never in my life did I expect to show Spanish speaking people how to roll a Fajita. "Andreas, what is a Burrito?", my host brother asked me as we sat at the table."Well," I said, slurping my Margarita, "Its beans and chicken, wrapped in something like a crepe." With things like Taco Bell and San Lucas in the US, we are used to things like Tacos, Burritos, Fajitas, and Margaritas. To Spaniards, its an exotic, spicy cuisine.
We left Valladolid on the morning of the 3rd to catch our flight in the evening. It was only a three hour drive, and we arrived with plenty of time to spare. Of course, some bad judgement calls were made (none by me) and we ended up being late anyhow. If the flight hadn´t been delayed, we would have missed it for sure.
Overall, the trip was amazing. I learned much more about real Spain, and about its cultures and customs. More importantly, I made friends from all parts of the country (as well as from Germany and Chicago) and I am welcome to use their houses or apartments whenever I am in the area. A growing network of European friends. Spain and I are truly in love.