Free My Soul

I find myself suddenly surrounded by music. I can’t complain, it’s a great place to be. Here are two recent tales of travels and tunes.
(more photos here)

Caceres, WOMAD Music Festival

I find that it’s in those moments when you begin to doubt yourself, to wonder if you’ve really chosen the right path, when you finally stop and take it all in. After almost 8 months here in Spain I find myself filled with competing emotions. Itchy feet draw my mind to faraway places waiting to be explored, but comfort draws me home. My problem with the latter is that I’m not sure where home is at the moment. Yes, home is where your heart is, but I’ve taken my heart on the road and learned a valuable lesson; I can be happy anywhere (an after Malanville I mean it) because I bring my happiness with me. My heart is light, making it quite easy to pack.

Eight months into Spain and I find myself sitting at a café in Caceres, where I came for the WOMAD (World Of Music And Dance) festival with a group of friends. Though quite a bit older than me, they may be younger at heart. MJ is quick to laugh, happy to gossip and stays out until the sun comes up. Though she stands a good foot shorter than me, it’s easy to forget when you’re near her and feel the energy that seems to radiate from her.

The festival is held in an old Spanish city that dates back to the Romans and today it maintains much of its roman and medieval charms. Once a year musicians from around the world congregate in Caceres and bring this old town alive. Concerts are held in historic plazas, century-old cathedrals provide the backdrops. Wandering through the narrow stone-paved alleys takes you from one band to another, like traveling from England to Africa.

Click here to listen

The first group we saw reminded me of the power of music to transcend language barriers. They were a mix of nationalities and sang beautifully in several languages. Next we situated ourselves on the railing of old medieval steps to see a group that seemed to blend flamenco and Middle Eastern sounds. It was the kind of intoxicating beat that makes your body sway unconsciously. The singer had the voice of a flamenco singer, so full of emotion that understanding the words become obsolete. The kind of voice that hits you straight in the heart, fills your heart with such intense emotion that it chases the others away. Whether you came to the show happy, sad, angry, stressed, those emotions are swept away; there is suddenly only room in your heart for the emotion of that voice. After a stressful week, I let this music settle over me, free me, let me drift away. (Speed Caravan)

I awoke early the next morning to partake in my favorite activity, walking the tranquil streets partially lost but finding myself. The city is so well preserved it takes you back in time. You can picture men in togas or tights walking down the streets with their swords, ready to court women and start duels. Though these cities can be found all over Europe they never lose their charm.

I must stick out as an American. I suddenly found myself with a microphone before my lips and a camera in my face. The local news team was delighted to have encountered an American at the festival that spoke Spanish; so delighted in fact that they tipped off the radio show that I was there as well. I was suddenly very popular with my tales of Colorado and love of African music. I’m not saying it’ll go to my head, but the Spaniards are really starting to appreciate me.

Nostalgia

Lately I have felt like music flows around me. Luckily it fills my friend Michelle as well. We recently went to Frankfurt together on a mission to reminisce. We were like a moving jukebox roaming the streets. The simplest quote was enough to start us singing. Songs ranged from classic rock to Disney, intermixing French, Spanish, English, and even German. I like to think that this music filled our hearts, made light but the nostalgia that Frankfurt brought to us both.
Four years ago when I was still a traveling neophyte I came to visit a friend who had moved to Frankfurt for a year. I found it astounding that she could move somewhere so foreign and then adapt.
Now I walk down the same streets, seeing the same sights but with an entirely new perspective. My first time here I was disappointed by the modernity. Having just left the beautiful old cobble-stoned streets of Paris where the Eiffel Tower stands tall above the old ornate buildings, the jagged glass skyline of Frankfurt was unimpressive. To make matters worse, having little German and even less confidence the people of Frankfurt had seemed unfriendly and cold. But this time I was drawn by the smaller more subtle beauty.

This year I was excited to try out my German. The people of Frankfurt were immensely patient and willing to play along in our simple German conversations, but the truth was that they all spoke perfect English. I have found that the people of Frankfurt find my attempts as amusing as I do, or I just find them amusing enough for all of us. The challenge of getting a thought across or making sense of the world going on around me in a language I have far from mastered is invigorating. Even the smallest act becomes a challenge to overcome.

Most conversations revolved around food. We criss-crossed Frankfurt intent on trying all the best Germany has to offer. The wurst (bratwurst, currywurst, rindwurst), resembling hot dogs served on hamburger buns were delicious. By sitting in random restaurants and ordering the most difficult thing to pronounce on the menu we stumbled upon amazing food, people and music.

To add to the nostalgia, I went to Frankfurt to visit old friends from Malanville. They are two of those rare people that really get it; who understand without explanation all those little inside jokes and comprehend my Franglais (a French and English creole). Spending time with them sent me back to the hot, malaria and mosquito-infested nights of Malanville; when life was good if the fan worked and ice was better than gold.

We spent the nights reminiscing on the bad beer and worse customer service in Benin. Our English conversation invaded by French and Zarma. Marveling at how clean we are without the layers of African dust, but deep down we felt the pull of the roots that we had planted during our 2 years in the sub-Sahara.

Next it was Michelle’s turn to walk the misty roads of memory lane. Having lived in Frankfurt when she was 10 she was eager to roam once again the paths of Kronberg. This would turn out to be quite the adventure; diving into small town Germany.

Kronberg was magical. We visited Michelle’s former landlords who welcomed us both like cherished friends. They invited us to lunch and entertained us with life stories. My favorite was when Tilo, the husband, told the tale of how they met. “I lived in France for 2 years,” he said, his eyes glowing, “then one day I met her and I married her.” The glow of his eyes spread across his face and you could see that he still considers this the best decision of his life.
Next we explored Alt Kronberg which maintains a rustic German charm that has been lost in the blinding dazzle of Frankfurt. The houses, some dating back as far as 1573, lean a little after having watched centuries pass by. But it was the park that stole my heart. It was nothing more than simple paths through rolling meadows. The hills rose up in the background and the old tower (800 years old) looked over Kronberg.

The time soon came to say goodbye to Frankfurt and friends both old and new. We spent our last night calmly in our hostel. Enjoying the last moments with friends met on the road. Our last night, I found myself surrounded once again by soothing music. Michelle and one of our roommates, wearing matching Converse sneakers, passed a guitar back and forth, singing tales of homesickness and wanderlust that touched my heart. I let myself get lost in their songs as their Conversed feet kept the beat. I found myself once again befriending one of those fascinating strangers that sees the world through different eyes. But soon our time had run out. The time spent in the past as well as lost in music was soothing and yet revitalizing, charging me up for the adventures ahead.

Madrid Reawakening

Life doesn’t always go as planned. This seems to be a recurring theme. I don’t help really. My mind is constantly churning out fantasies of how things should be. So much so that some days I risk ruining by sticking so adamantly to my vision. The truth is that travel is anything but perfect. Unforeseen and unavoidable events have a way of reshaping and often superseding travel plans that were so diligently arranged. I’ve fallen into a slump recently; feeling as if traveling has become more of a hassle and far less of the adventure that it had seemed before. Yet sometimes all it takes is reexamining the situation and rediscovering the magic of the innate adventure in everything. The magic of life.

Adventures rarely originate from days that turn out exactly as planned. Adventures are most often found in the missteps, in the places where you’ve wandered to yet where you never intended to be. Unintentionally taking the proverbial road less traveled by. These adventures force you to open your mind and they enhance the sense of accomplishment you feel when things finally fall into place.

Where did this life lesson come from? It dawned on me during my most recent and impromptu trip to Madrid. From the offset things were not going right. As I mentioned above, my sense of adventure seemed to be fading. Bus schedules were all wrong, forcing me to head down to Madrid a day early; thus providing me with a superfluous day in a city who I thought had already shared all the charms it had. I followed the same old routine: find hostel, check in, go for a long walk around the ever more familiar streets, and call it an early night. Then something happened. I made friends. The kind of friendships that last for a night forming bonds across nationalities and bridging language barriers, if only for one night.

I was in heaven. We were quite an eclectic group, French, Australian, American, Colombian, Argentinean and even Swedish. The conversations were living entities, seamlessness shifting from French to Spanish, Spanish to English as needed to facilitate the comprehension of those involved at the given moment. Sharing multiple languages made any grammatical errors obsolete. I was spellbound by the way French and Spanish words, usually at odds in my mind, suddenly worked side by side. We learned so much about one another, opening up the way you only can with total strangers, sharing tales of adventures, mishaps and lives back home. As I finally laid my head onto my pillow I felt at peace, even in a room with five strangers, because for the night we were the best friend each other had. Thus, in one night my uncertainties about traveling alone began to crumble.

The next morning I was faced with my least favorite hassle of traveling with others, meeting up. The truth is that no matter how detailed the directions, there is always so much out of one’s control. This is made all the more difficult when one party is phoneless and thus uncontactable; an odd sensation in a time when everyone is constantly connected. There is no greater test of patience.

I had made plans to meet with a new friend; a kindred spirit I’d met on a recent outing. Having only met once, I was filled with slight trepidation about how the day would progress, having forgotten he innate trust I used to have in my gut about people. I was nervous that the conversation would not flow as smoothly as it had the time we met. As time passed I realized this was the least of my worries. After an hour had gone by I began to worry. As the second hour approached I had befriended the friendly gypsy woman selling jewelry and I was desperately trying to put myself in the head of someone I had met only once before. The doubt melted away when he turned the corner, as relieved to see me standing there as I was to see him no longer lost.

I dragged him to my favorite sites of Madrid. Every time I come I fall more in love with the city. So many friends have experienced it with me and each time I discover something new, and this time was no exception. We bypassed many of the monuments, opting instead for the parks that dot Madrid. It was magical, I can think of no better place to experience my first spring in three years.

We headed to my favorite park. A place I had found charming even when the trees were bare and the ground nothing by dirt. This time it was alive. The trees have exploded with color, flower petals rained gently from the treetops. The scent of fresh beginnings overwhelmed the air. Each part of the park has its own personality. One moment you are walking through arches covered in roses, the next you are surrounded by street performers. In one corner nature has been left to grow freely, and across the street there sits a well tended garden lined with statues. We spent hours wandering the paths. I became lost in the sounds of happily chirping birds and the scents of flowers that wafted by in the wind. We paused for a rest in the grass. I took my shoes off and felt the blades of grass slip between my toes as the sun beat gently on my back. I appreciated the spring like I was seeing it for the first time. Every sense enhanced by the lack of this season in Benin.

In the end, the conversation flowed more seamlessly that I could have ever imagined, even with my overactive imagination. His passion for what he does was addicting. As a musician, his descriptions of music were fascinating. By the end of the day I felt like I had learned so much and had gained a stronger appreciation of music. It was a pleasant reminder of how nice it is to make new friends on the road, especially the kind of friends that open your eyes just a little more to the wonders of the world around you.

As I awoke early the next morning I felt ecstatic, nothing could make this weekend better. I was so adamant in this belief that I decided to take the first bus back to Benavente before Madrid could ruin the enchantment which had been cast upon me. So, heart set on home, I packed up and headed to the bus stop only to discover that there was no bus until 5:30pm. I stood shocked and dejected trying to figure out how I could waste nine hours without spending a dime. My mind suddenly filled with roses, the park was calling to me, so I rolled my bag back to the metro.

In order to make the most of this unexpected day in Madrid I took a quick detour to Starbucks, figuring I’d sip one last American coffee. I heard a strong American accent behind me in line, asking if today was a holiday or something. (Aha! That explains the little bus dilemma.) I went to their table to ask where they were from and they immediately invited me to join them. In return I shared my expert advice on how to see Madrid without entering anything, since their plans of museums and palaces had been thwarted by the holiday. Through conversation we discovered that their son had been one of my patrons at Sweet Sinsations. It was one of those moments when the magic of events unplanned lights your heart and heals the wounds of things gone wrong. The American woman’s eyes light up as she recounted her year in France, one of the best of her life. Her eyes light up as she said, “I remember the feeling, I’m sure you know it, when after feeling so isolated by the foreign language that surrounds you, one day you just begin to understand.” Yes, it is a feeling I know all too well. I was comforted knowing that the hour alone I spent sharing tales and amazement at the diminutive size of the world was worth having to wait on that bus.

Soon the park began to call again. I rolled my suitcase down dirt paths until I found a sunny patch of grass on a hillside that called to me. I laid out my pagna (for one should never travel without one!) and gazed at the treetops, enraptured by the variety of colors and shapes.

Not long after sitting down an Asian woman approached me with her camera out. I prepared to agree to take a picture of her and her friends, only to be astounded by the question that left her mouth in broken English. “Picture can my friend with you?” Sure why not. Life can be so amusing when you let it. He sat beside me, posed, and suddenly I knew what it felt like to be a tourist attraction. Three others from the group approached with cameras and began clicking. The novelty of it was amusing so I handed over my camera; this was a memory worth recording.

In the end what threatened to bring this perfect weekend crashing down just enhanced it so much more. I’m not thinking of what should have been but rather what is. Although nothing about this weekend went quite as planned, once I accepted that, I opened myself to something so much better, I’ve rediscovered that magic that had originally drawn me too far away places. I woke up this morning just wanting to go home, but as I sit in the park and feel the breeze on my face, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

Spring

Villafafilla- Bird Sanctuary near Benavente

As my longest day of the week came to an end I felt…happy. It was a day well spent learning how to identify and deduce the meanings of slang from various English-speaking countries; the students as well as myself. Every day I become more comfortable in front of the class. My diffidence melts away and my ability to think up a lesson on the spot is improving rapidly. An average day starts with me seeing my fellow teachers in the hall, passing by they say, “We’re talking about American slang, modal verbs and the Saxon genitive, I’ll send the students to the lab.” Next I rush to figure out what the hell the Saxon genitive is. The teachers look at me as if I’m lying. “You have never heard of the Saxon Genitive before?” They ask with suspicion. The implied message being, but you use it so well! If I have time, I search out some activities on the internet before the students show up, worst case scenario we work out of the book and I try not to looked panic when I don’t know what “grouse” means in Australian slang.

My students at the high school are as intractable and apathetic as ever. I’ve learned through time though that they tire out much faster than I do, and if you just keep trying they are, in the end, quite harmless. At times the 50 minute classes (more like 45 minutes since teachers never arrive on time) creep slowly by. Other days I arrive at school with unmatched alacrity to get up in front of the class and force English into their brains. Some classes keep your spirits high. From time to time I watch the teachers and wonder how they continue year after year being underpaid, working far from home, driving over an hour each way to show up. They tell me it’s because they love teaching yet every so often their looks of exhaustion and exacerbation make me doubt it. Then Marta will run into the class, our latest lesson a success.

Her eyes were glowing, still feeding off the excitement of her students. This week, as we practice the simple future tense “will”, we asked the students in three classes to design a tv, car, or cell phone of the future. We spent the morning watching groups present their future cars with a level of enthusiasm matching that of taking the trash out when it’s raining. Then the next class arrived dressed in skirts and ties to present their visions of the future televisions. I missed the class but I could deduce how well it went from the excitement in Marta’s eyes. I won’t lie. I was jealous.

Moments like this make me fall in love with Spain a little more every day. The people are what make Spain great. What they lack in customer service, mail service and public restrooms, they make up for with their cheerful and contagious outlook on life. It’s the people you meet along the way that make these adventures worth it.

I recall a very important day. One of my first weeks in Benavente, I was looking for extra work. I walked up the stairs to the language academy practicing in my head, “Hola, alguien me dijo que quizas necesitais una profesora de ingles. Es verdad? Porque busco un puesto.” I walked into an office with three of the most talkative women I have ever met. There I was, Spanish coming at me from three sides. I must have looked like a deer in the head lights as I tried to pretend I was following them. Little did I know that this encounter would shape my stay in Benavente.

In the end I got a job teaching adult conversation classes and helping out in after-school classes for students. These classes have been by far the most challenging for me. No structure and no note to hang over the little ones, I find that my hours there are a constant battle. They have taught me the importance of changing perspective sometimes. I replaced the dread I used to feel as I walked to the classes with an excitement. It’s simply another challenge every week.

My Conversation Class mid-lesson

I love my adult class. They have the English, they just need to refine it and use it. That’s where I come in. I show up with a vague idea of what we’ll talk about and they take it and start talking. I am more of a catalyst and dictionary than anything else. This class has also taught me everything I know about Benavente. Through class discussions of the town or class outings to the bars I have learned about Benavente’s history, nightlife, surroundings and people.

Urueña- Fortified city near Benavente

And I met that person, I feel like she was life’s sign to me that I’m where I should be right now. The signs that Coelho talks about in The Alchemist (which is a good book by the way). I had no idea when I tried to follow her rapid words that she would become very important to me in Spain. Her, let’s call her MJ, and her husband have been all over the world, including Africa, and they host young boys from Africa together. I find them completely fascinating. They have helped me adjust to life in Spain and have taken my visitors and I on unforgettable adventures, to interesting places only reachable by car, the Whiskey Museum and their own wine cave which looks more like a hobbit hole. They have invited me into their lives to experience the Spanish culture more in depth. In all they have really shaped my time here in Spain, and I am very lucky that I did not run out of the office that first day.

As the world begins to thaw and spring weather creeps in I can’t help but get lost in thoughts of my first few weeks in Benavente when the weather was very similar, but Benavente seemed like a different world from the comfortable little city I know now. Benavente was still a large unknown to be discovered. Now it has become a familiar home to me, and soon instead of my hello it will be time for good-byes.

Wine caves in Pobladura about 10 k outside of Benavente. We are standing on top of MJ's cave.

Spain in Fiesta!

CARNAVAL

A little while back my good friend Matt came out to visit. We go way back. Well to CSU at least and what better reunion with an old college buddy than one of the big traditional Spanish party. This rational is what got us right in the middle of Carnaval 2010. We didn’t settle for a Carnaval festival which can be found, parades, costumes and all, throughout over Spain. We went to THE Carnaval down on the coast of southern Spain. Cadiz, labeled as one of the oldest cities in Western Europe. Cadiz was a charming city. Right on the beach, filled with castles, churches, old roman walls and hints of its history hidden down small side streets and twisting alleys, but we weren’t there for the historic charm.

Ingredients:

1. Chirigotes- Spanish groups that sing satirical songs. Despite our less than perfect, or nonexistent, knowledge of the Spanish language we saw some of the chirigote performances under a circus tent.

2. Timing- Overly eager on our first night in Cadiz we headed out only slightly after the supposed start of the planned activities. We found the roads practically deserted and not a costume in sight. After getting lost we suddenly came around a corner to find a plaza filled with costumed people packed in shoulder to shoulder. Lesson learned. The next night, the night of the big party we headed out much later, meeting up with a group of hippies from Cordoba. I am somewhat ashamed to admit that I don’t have much of the Spanish blood in me. After asking a Storm Trooper for the rest of his pizza around 1 I decided to walk home. Matt, much more a Spaniard than myself stayed out as the crowds grew more dense, the streets more littered with…everything. I awoke the next morning around 10 only to hear the party still going.

3. Costumes- The people in Cadiz proved to be far more creative than your average American and they have mastered dressing up in groups. We spotted Pac Man hanging out with his ghosts twice, the whole cast of Mario Bros, bull fighters complete with beer-cooler bull, police, pigs, pirate, hippies, and so many more colorful costumes.

The best part about Carnaval was the duel nature of it. Daylight hours were filled with children frolicking down the streets as princesses and super heroes (it’s not as dark as our Halloween), the streets are frequented by parades, and littered with confetti, then as the day turns to night it becomes the party for the adults. The people you see casual walking down the streets in ridiculous clothing gradually become older.

SEMANA SANTA

Semana Santa, or Holy week is Carnaval’s somber cousin. By far one of the most unique holidays that I have seen, Semana Santa is a mixture of traditions. Semana Santa is the Spanish Easter, though while we only focus on Easter Sunday, they celebrate every day between Palm Sunday and Easter Sunday, not to mention we get 2 weeks off of school. Semana Santa in Spain is focused around processions, when people dress up in colorful outfits, a possible inspiration for the KKK uniform, and walk down the streets while the costaleros or "sack men" carry large, heavy, historic statues, weighing up to 5 metric tons, on their heads. For more information Wikipedia is always there for you.

Having my two weeks of vacation from school I met up with a good friend in Madrid and we headed down to Sevilla, known for having some of the best Semana Santa processions in the world. But the processions happen in many parts of Spain. By far my favorite procession was the Palm Sunday procession I got to see before leaving Benavente. As I watched Jesus on his donkey being slowly carried up the hill that is Benavente I spotted one of my students under the burden, it made it more personal. I went with the other American Teachers and we had a great time rocking our Americanness. We went into the first café in Benavente that makes caramel lattes, wait it gets better, to go! They told us that the lattes wouldn’t be very good to go. We insisted, after all we practically invented the caramel latte to go! We sipped on our not-full to go cups as we watched Jesus and his donkey go through the doors of the cathedral. It was not the most exciting experiences in Spain but it was one of the most moving.

The processions of Sevilla were not any more exciting. I squealed with excitement when I saw the first few people dressed up for the procession walk down the street, but the actual procession is a very slow and popular event. So you get crammed into a large inescapable crowd and could potentially watch a large statue move at a pace or, well the pace you would walk if you had a 5 ton statue on your head. There are many variations to this traditional procession; including the Drunken Procession in Zamora and the race between a Jesus and Mary statue. However, we only caught the traditional ones, beautiful and fascinating but not quite as much sparkle.

After a whirlwind trip through Andalucia the home of the Spanish Stereotype. We raced through Cordoba, Granada and Malaga then headed north to Barcelona, a very unique Spanish city. Each with its own charm. But more on those later. Let’s stick to Spain in fiesta for now.

LA VEGUILLA

As my time in Benavente goes by, the little things begin to come together and the little details become more apparent. For example, I have noticed over the past few days that there are a lot of shops called “La Veguilla”. La Veguilla is a Benavente holiday when the youth get drunk and the population of Benavente gathers at the Main Plaza to ask the Mayor for the bull festival in June. To an outsider it seems silly. They get the bull every year. Although I do think it would be amusing to see the Mayor say no once, just to mix it up a bit. They take this all very seriously. On Benavente tv they have a scroll at the bottom of the screen stating the bull’s name and weight so that we can get to know him very well before we taunt him and serve him for dinner.