Chicarrón del Norte…or something like that

I LOVE Northern Spain. For sure my favorite part of Spain. The people, the climate, the landscape, the everything are all perfect. I went over the long weekend between sessions with Noelia. I met her, Nana, and Lidia in Madrid then we drove up to Caín in León to stay in a hostel with Noe’s brother Miguel Ángel, his son Miguel, their neighbor Tori, Lidia’s brother Jelete, and a friend Nacho. There were nine of us. I know what you are thinking, and yes, it was just like the Fellowship of the Ring. It gave me a whole new respect for Gimili who probably carried at least 100 pounds or more of armor and weapons and had stubby limbs. Plus, those hobbits weren’t exactly tall either and they carried pots and pans and what not. Then they hiked around mountains all day, every day. I just don’t understand how those fictional, semi-magical beings could have possibly done it.

We started off in Caín on La Ruta de Cares, which is a really easy, flat trail along the Río Cares. This is the route we did last time I went north with Noe. Off of Cares we went up, up, up Canal de Trea. This “trail” was unmarked in a lot of places, but the occasional pile of rocks helped us know we were on the right track. The piles of rock are called “jitos” but Nacho kept calling them “Paris Hiltons” because Hilton in a Spanish accent sounds more or less like jito. He’d then ramble off some Spanish that I didn’t always catch, but I think the gist was that Paris wouldn’t go in the mountains but if she did she’d be a pile of rocks. You’d be able to tell you were on the trail when you pass her passed out body.

It was definitely a lot harder than I was expecting. I’m thankful Jelete lent me a pair of boots and Nana a walking stick. The way was rated “alta” which is one level in difficulty below using ropes and carabineers and hooks and what not. There were some places where we had to “crawl” vertically. It was awesome. The air was noticeably thinner toward the top of the peak, Juntayu. It was so discouraging because I thought I was in shape, but then I could only go MAYBE 20 feet before needing to catch my breath for a while. Nana and I were talking about the psychological effect of thinking you’re almost at the top then you catch a glimpse of the peak again and realize you’re going to die. Then you see these cows meandering around like it’s easy and some goats prancing around like they’ve adapted to their habitat or something. Combined with a bit of oxygen deprivation, it takes a toll on your resolve.

Eventually, we DID reach the top. It was one of the best feelings ever. It took us about 6 hours to get to the peak, and it wasn’t easy. It’s been a while since I’ve done something physically challenging, and I almost forgot how rewarding it is. We took a break at the top to eat some bocadillos and look through the binoculars at Caín a few thousand meters below. Then it was time to go back down and make our way to the refugio. Going down from Juntayu was definitely easier than going up because of the air difference, I think, but when we eventually went all the way down the next day, that was just as hard as going up.

The refugio where we stayed the night was 1.5 hours from the peak of Juntayu. The refugio was part of a community called Ario. By community, I mean people used to live there. There were ruins of a bunch of houses used by shepherds. It was kinda cool. The bathroom was only for women and only during certain times of day. Otherwise the campo was used but only if you burned your paper when you were done. The only running water was outside and a little bit of a walk and came from a rock. There was a kitchen, however, and they cooked us some cena. We ate with a Romanian guy we had passed on our way to the refugio while he was on his way up to the peak. Meeting him was a highlight. He works for the European Parliament as a translator. He translates English to French and Romanian and back and can translate Spanish to English (and the other two, I imagine) but not the other way because he’s just starting to learn Spanish. He’s travelling around Northern Spain on vacation by himself. It was fun sitting around before cena and not being the only one who speaks like a child in Spanish. Now that there were two of us who needed to be spoken to a little slower, everyone actually slowed down. Plus, I think we understood each other better than the others understand us because we make the same kind of mistakes and have similar accents. We all slept in the same room with long triple bunks. My sleeping bag consisted of a sheet folded in half and clothes pinned together, a nice invention by Nana. I think I slept the best out of everyone according to the way they talked in the morning. It was also in the morning when I saw my horrendous tan-line across my forehead from the bandana I wore. Nana told me it was ok because it made me look like Nadal, which was clearly what I was going for.

Staying at the refugio I realized something: I would hate to have a bell tied around my neck. Almost all of the cows on the mountain had bells. Think about it. Wouldn’t that be the most annoying thing ever? It’s almost torture. Every step you take an irritating bell rings. It’s always the same tone and it’s always there. There was a chorus of cow bell music on the mountain, but not in the cool way Minus Six uses cowbells. There were also three dogs. Of course, I made friends with them right away. My favorite one loved rocks. He reminded me of my dog, Hans, with the way he would come to you while looking for anything on the ground to bring to you. The only things on the ground were rocks, so we played fetch with rocks. If the rock broke on other rocks, he could find both pieces and place them both very nicely directly between your feet.

After some muffins, bread (of course), and signing the refugio’s book thingy in the morning, we headed down the mountain. The Romanian, Victor, was going to go down Canal de Trea, but we convinced him to come with us down Canal de Culiembro. This way was flatter for more parts, but that was only because most of the vertical work was very, very vertical and all at once. Going up has pros and cons that are traded when going down. When we finally reached the flat Ruta de Cares, it was like heaven. There’s an aqueduct along La Ruta de Cares that takes water to Asturias. We sat there for a while sticking our feet, heads, hands, and hats in the freezing, refreshing, glorious water. It was hot, by the way. It’s the north, but it’s still Spain. Then we went back to Caín. It took 6 hours to get back down. Being let into their group of friends in such a welcoming way was incredible. I tried to tell them how much it meant to me to be a part of their trip. I’m not sure if the words got across or not, but I have a feeling they the idea and feeling was communicated. I was appreciative.

Then we headed off to Madrid because Lidia needed to catch her flight back to Barcelona. On the way, Nana and I made a bet on the soccer match. The match before, the US had beat Spain. I know you probably already knew that. Most of you live in the US where soccer is life, after all. If only the US would have beaten Brazil, Nana would have had to do the dishes.

During the whole trip, I got to practice and learn a lot more Spanish, especially some slang, curse words, and idioms. My favorite was “jodido pero contento” which I was told is an appropriate response to “qué tal” after such a climb. I’m not going to translate it for you. Of course, being around so many Spaniards, there was also a lot I didn’t understand. One phrase that I always caught no matter how fast it was said was “explica a Justin porque el pobre no entiende nada” which means “explain that to Justin because the poor guy doesn’t understand anything.” It wasn’t always completely true, but a lot of the time things needed clarification with a slightly less complicated vocabulary and sentence structure.

Commencing unconnected paragraphs of thought:

We had plenty of time to talk during the few hours from Madrid to Caín. Noelia explained the Spanish medical system to me a little bit more. It doesn’t seem so bad even though I’m still pretty upset with the situation I went through. Apparently, there’re quite a few people who will come to Spain when they need heart surgery. Even if you aren’t a Spanish citizen, you get free healthcare if it’s an emergency. She also told me a sad story about a friend she had in the States who died because she couldn’t pay for cancer treatment. That doesn’t happen in Spain. If you need medical help, you get it. I think I need to read some English articles about this to get a clearer idea of what it’s all about. We also talked about Malvern again because Lidia was with us and wasn’t in on the last reminiscing fest. I realized I don’t know anything about anyone anymore. It made me sad, which genuinely surprised me. I’ve always thought that in order to grow up, you have to move away from home and do everything on your own. I guess that is one way to grow up, but is staying in or near your hometown any less valid? No. I know that seems like a fairly simple revelation and I actually had it a while ago, but I realized in that car that I had to move away from Malvern to see how good the people are there. I’d like to think I was pretty involved in my community throughout high school. By doing so, I formed some serious relationships that I underestimated. There were always more than a few people I could count on when I needed something done for a project or a good story or a laugh. “Good hearts” was the best way I could describe it in Spanish and Noe agreed. I know I haven’t lived for a significant amount of time in any other regions of the US, but I’ve found I really like Iowa and Iowans…winter still sucks, though.

I was watching this TV show for people who are learning English. It was an advanced lesson so it was a completely English interview with a woman who had lived for a considerable amount of time in South Africa and Spain. She said a lot of interesting stuff, but one thing reminded me of something I had written in a previous blog. Basically, there is a big cultural difference between South Africa and Spain. She said she had some trouble adapting and learned that the trouble was her preconception. I thought about this and it’s so true. No matter what we do or where we go, we always think we have an idea of what to expect, what it will be like. This is completely natural. It’s just the way the brain works. The problem is that more often than not, we stick to those conceptions instead of letting them change when necessary. The same is for all stereotypes, which are also the brains natural way to categorize information (we can’t have a separate category for every single person on earth, can we?). Then the host said, “If you don’t get rid of those misconceptions, you’re always a tourist.” That’s also true. Ok, I think I’ve been hard on tourists. Sometimes it’s fun to be the tourist, see tourist things, take tourist pictures, eat in tourist restaurants, and stay in tourist hotels. It’s another side of the country you can see, and if you want to see all of the country, you’re gonna hafta be a tourist for part of it. Just don’t keep separating yourself from the population and culture you are learning about because chances are that the new culture does some things better.

Comparing yourself to others is the best way to solidify who you are and who you aren’t (comparing is different from judging, btw). Seeing and living another lifestyle gives me plenty of opportunity for self-reflection. I’ve always thought it sounded lame and cliché when I’d hear about people going to Europe “to find themselves,” but it is kind of true. Then again, don’t you “find yourself” everyday? Experience is who you are. You are your experience. Living in a foreign country is an experience just like living in Iowa City, it’s just different so I learn different sides of myself or relearn the same ones in a new way. Identity. I wrote a short paper on this argument for my Civ and Culture class. I’d include parts of it, but I don’t want to translate it to English.

Funny things I’ve learned in Spain:
--Spanish
--Taking public transportation is the best thing to do if you want to think. That’s where the guts of my blogs are thought up.
--The Simpsons are super popular.
--A six-pack (on a person) is called a bar of chocolate.
--Madrileños por el mundo is an excellent show to learn vocabulary and about the world.
--Cell phones are way over priced in the US. Mine here was 19€ and came with 12€ of credit. Calls are only .05€/min and you’re only charged if you make the call.
--Running to catch a train is one of the most exhilarating things ever. It either ends with an incredible sense of accomplishment or a surprisingly intense feeling of helplessness and failure.
--I hate tourists and love Alcalá for this reason.
--I love Spanish words with j’s, ge’s, and gi’s. Also, I rolled an r for the first time. It was everything I imagined it would be.
--If something is described as “leche” (milk), it’s probably pretty cool.
--I like taking pictures of things no one else notices, like trees and drains, Adam. Similarly, I decided I want to be a photographer/travel guide writer or work for National Geographic. My current degree tracks will surely help with this, right?
--Soccer is not as boring as it seems especially when an upset of Spain by the US is watched in a Spanish bar. I’ve seen so much fútbol now that I’ve become quite a fan.
--When cows and babies make their respective noises, they sound different than they do in the US.
--There are a few Spanish words, like in English, that differ by only one or a few letters but have incredibly different meanings. Here are some that I’ve learned and remembered (I’ll just have to keep messing up until I remember all of them):
-Chupitos--> shots like the drink.
Chopitos--> little fried pieces of calamari.
-Conejo--> rabbit
Cojone--> balls like testicles
-Chulo--> cool
Culo--> ass but not the animal
-Frutos--> nuts
Frutas--> fruit
-Cono--> cone like for ice cream and stuff
Coño--> that slang word used for feminine parts
--There have also been times when I realize I’ve been using a word wrong for over a month. I can’t remember all of these but I know it’s happened more than once. The most recent of which was the use of the word vergüenza. I used it on my final paper I wrote for art history. I thought it meant vengeance or revenge. It, in fact, means shame. Vulcan wouldn’t be looking “to exact shame” on Mars after finding out that Aphrodite was cheating on him, but that’s what I insisted had happened.