Time spent with new friends in Sierra Elvira

“We are all family here,” the 18-year-old Moroccan boy told me, keeping one eye on me, another on his dinner that he insisted I help eat.

On this Thursday afternoon in the pueblo Sierra Elvira, Misae and I sat at a table inside the Fundacion de la Solidaridad, a mini barrio where abused children, orphans, single parents and lost souls come for sanctuary.

Two brothers, Ignacio and Carlos, created the foundation 20 years ago, and have never asked for anyone to pay to live in peace. Two of the teenagers I met today have grown up under the founders’ eyes, and the 28 residents in this “walled city” range from 4 to 40.

The Rotary Club of Granada connected us with the Foundation in hopes that the scholarship recipients could volunteer. The moment I entered the school gate, four children rushed up to give the customary dos besos. I was hooked.

Misae and I navigated the Granada bus system to head 15 minutes out of town. Little travel time for such a big difference. From the bustling city to a quiet pueblo with 25 houses. The bus left us at a stop where as far as you could see, there were nothing but mountains and modest homes. So we started walking, and immediately found the school. As Misae rang the doorbell, I peered through the fence, taken aback at what I saw.

The conditions were curious, piles of broken ceramic, shovels, mountains of dirt and construction. After our greetings by the little ones, Carlos arrived and greeted us with a hug. I chuckled because the children couldn’t stop staring at Misae, who kept explaining that she was from Japan.

Carlos gave us the grand tour, and we stopped in a warehouse filled with beautiful pots, vases, wall hangings and more waiting to be painted. Local artisans stop by the school to create works in ceramic and copper, which are sold all over Spain to raise money for the school.

We walked past a pool drained of its water, then to the chicken coop. Little Felix, 6-years-old, explained to me that since it’s winter, the chicken lay less eggs. Then in his tiny voice, he ticked off the names of his “mascotas” or pets. One of course, was named Felix-the biggest. In the summer, a garden flourishes with fruits and vegetables, and as Carlos put it, “there’s always free food.”

After plucking Felix from a pile of timber and nails, Carlos escorted us to the mess hall for a coffee, and said, “We are so happy you are staying the night.”

Huh?

Somehow he thought we were here to live and work for a week. Currently volunteers from Italy and Germany are living at the Foundation, and spending their days with the residents. I felt horrible telling him we couldn’t stay, but it made sense to him when he realized we lived 15 minutes away.

As we entered the kitchen, a group of teenage boys approached us for an introduction. Though they were told I was from Italy and Misae’s name was skipped over, we sat down in a huddle and quickly became friends.


This is where Naval offered me his schwarma-the best concotion of beef, olives, cheese and onion-after plunking down right next to me at the table. Nazem jumped up to get us all coffee, and the boys fought over who got to spoon out sugar. Then I realized that guests were few and far between.

After I explained I was from the US, one boy told me he had a relative in Washington State, but bashfully said he didn’t know where it was. So I drew a map, pointed out Washington and Florida, and that transformed in to Misae drawing everyone’s name in Japanese characters.

I hadn’t noticed, but the crowd of people around us had grown, and children were sitting on the table, sprawled in chairs, one practically on my lap. But I’ve never felt so comfortable surrounded by strangers.

We talked and talked, snapping photos of Fatima making typical Morrocan pastrys and such. A quiet boy from Argentina wearing two sweatshirts and a beanie approached me, and asked if we wanted to see his room. I have never seen a neater room for an adolescent boy in my life, and I told him so. On the wall were pages of magazines, all with famous Formula One racecar drivers.

As I sat back down to finish my coffee, Carlos had just finished telling the boys that I was the new English teacher.

Huh?

Sure! I can do that, I said. Now everyone was crowding me, shouting out their English phrases with glee. But I noticed the cutest little boy I’d ever seen tugging at Carlos’ pant leg unnoticed. He was asking to play futbol, and at the moment, everybody was chatting. I gave him a look, nodded my head toward the door and raised an eyebrow. He understood, and ran out, looking back for me to follow. We kicked the ball around for a bit, until the younger kids came home from school.

The last bus leaves Sierra Elvira at 6:30, so unfortunately it was time to go. But I did not want to leave. Now I understand why volunteers sleep here. Walking out of the gate, one of the teenagers asked me, So, when are we getting married? in English and dissolved in to giggles. After many goodbye kisses, we rushed to our bus stop and waited in the dust, the mountains behind us and the city in the distance.

There is so much work to be done at school, walls to be built, sinks to fix, clothes to mend. But there is nothing lacking at this school. Understand?

What's that white stuff?

The view from my window this morning....It's pretty cold here. And as a Floridian-this is amazing!

You're about as boring as an oyster

I wish my teacher was sick more often. That sounds awful, because I really like her. But when she’s not feeling well-today she could barely speak from her killer cold-she gives the grammar a rest and shares something fun! Like common sayings, which I just love to learn and use to surprise my host mother….But we have a specific theme today….animals…but more along the lines of calling someone a “bird brain” or a “fat pig.” All nice of course.

So here’s a little lesson for you…

“Never look a gift horse in the mouth,” They have that one here, but it’s teeth, not mouth.
“A caballo regalado no le mires el diente”

To make something harder than it should be…like “Looking for a three-legged cat.”
“Buscarle tres pies al gato”

"Bird brain"….or "mosquito brain"
"Tener pajaros en la cabeza"…or "tener cerebro de mosquito"

To sleep off a night of drinking…."sleep like a monkey"
“Dormir la mona”

Need to hire a babysitter? Call your favorite kangaroo or “canguro.”

Say you’re at a party and there’s nobody there…you look at your friends and say, “Hay cuatro gatos.” Basically there are only four cats here….we should leave.

"To be bored"….
"Aburrise como una ostra"…or be as boring as an oyster…who just sit there and make pearls….you should have seen the teacher’s face trying to imitate this one.

And finally "to get goosebumps"…but it’s more henbumps…
"ponersa la piel de gallina"

Study them, use them, impress or confuse your friends and family.

As requested

My face is a mixture of "what am I doing?" and fright....but the gypsy looks happy!

Coge la manzana, comela y tirela-Flamenco!

With one bobby pin, the bailaora reached up and deftly twisted her damp hair in to a knot. That’s while her feet where tapping a mile a minute. The gypsy had already been dancing for 10 minutes, and with each fling of her arms or twist of her neck she lost more accessories. Her flowers had fallen out of her hair long ago, her earrings slung across the room. But she didn’t stop, and the crowd didn’t care. This was real flamenco, performed in a tiny whitewashed cave in the hills of Granada.

We had been invited to Sacromonte, where the gypsies have carved their homes in the mountains for centuries. About 50 people were packed in to the living room of Enrique de la Castanera

Decorated with hundreds of copper spoons, pot and other cooking essentials, the curved walls also displayed photos of flamenco dancers and singers from years past. But you didn’t have time to inspect everything. The show started the minute after we arrived, and listening to our teachers, we quickly snatched seats on the perimeter of the room. Much better to see the lightening fast feet.

When five women outfitted in polka dot dresses and typical coral jewelry starting clapping-it was so loud and fiery, that I thought I might cry. And that’s before everyone starting singing and dancing. Taking turns in the middle, the women twirled, snapped and manipulated castanets for an amazing show. But my favorite was when the older women and guitar player performed songs typical of Granada. There is no smiling involved in flamenco, it’s a sad, dramatic song and dance-something to recount the past. But we were told the families always dance for holidays and in their homes, so I’m sure there’s much more laughs then.

So here’s the best, or worst, part depending on who you talk to. For the last song, each dancer asked a crowd member to get up and shake it. I was trying my best not to stick out and not to be too eager so I wouldn’t be picked. I had two cameras in my lap and was balancing the complimentary glass of wine to boot. But when the purple polka dot dancer asked me to leave me seat, I said, No, Gracias, one time, but then after a look I couldn’t decipher, I quickly plopped my belongings with my teacher and got up.

Remembering “Coge la manzana, comela y tirala” basically pick the apple, eat it and throw it away….I twirled my fingers, did a few stomps, laughed way too much and saw lots of flashes from cameras. So I would call that a success. And I know I would have been disappointed if I had been a wallflower….

P.S. The word for dancer in Spanish is bailador or bailadora. But in flamenco it’s bailaor or bailaora, minus the d. Don’t ask me why, but if you say the first-you’re just not right.

Medieval music in the streets

In the shadows of the towering cathedral, a crowd of gypsies, tourists and Granadinos danced to the drums, fife and bagpipe at the Medieval festival this past weekend.
Nobody cared that it was the same song over and over, the driving beat kept everybody clapping, including me.

Sheridan and I were walking past the plaza on the way to a café, when we heard happy shouts and the music, so we pulled up a seat on the marble steps. Only then did we see the tents and tables filled with medieval crafts, cheeses, crusty breads, cakes of all kinds, wooden toys and more.

There were herbs for everything that ails you-cellulite, headaches, poor circulation. Silver jewelry and sausages, bows and arrows and beeswax candles. So much to see, including the people in their period costumes.

It was so easy to transport myself back to the time period here in Spain. It just seems impossible to do so in the US, since our country had yet to be discovered by the Europeans. History is everywhere here, and I love that every local knows the story behind every church, monument and plaque.

This weekend, Granadinos celebrated Columbus Day, the day for La Virgen de Pilar and then, this lovely festival. So therefore, no school on Monday!

Aces are high...but so are horses

Forget an ace of hearts or a queen of spades, in Spain, it’s better to have a King of Cups or a Horse with gold..

"La baraja" Espanola, or the Spanish card deck, has been around since the 14 century, though many people here play with the French cards that Americans use for their beloved poker and such.

You’ll often see older men playing cards over coffee in the local cafes, but the younger set will be itching to tell your fortune regarding money, health and most importantly, love.

Espadas- swords-signify conflict while copas-goblets-represent emotions, beauty, pleasure etc, the gold of course represents the material world, and the bastos-scary looking wooden clubs-somehow symbolize spirituality.

I’m already confused. The teacher had Misae and I practice the future tense by asking each other questions like….will I be able to buy a new car next year? Or How many children will I have?

Later, our teacher Cristina treated us by reading our “fortunes” just like she did when she was a teen. For example, if she pulled a Caballo de oro-a man on a horse with a coin of gold in the corner of the card, it would mean that I’m a mature person, methodical, hardworking and responsible. But if she turned over a Caballo de bastos-same guy on the horse with the menacing club-it means I have no emotional stability, but will have fortune with money or my work…..Seems to me, any card could mean anything.

So I closed my eyes, and cut the deck with my left hand. While dealing some intricate pattern, Cristina would mutter things like, good, or ooh, no good. Finally, in the end, I had two kings, cups and one sword for conflict. Which basically means I have a 50/50 percent of being happy. Misae had a 75 percent chance….what a bummer.

But I do know this, I’m heading to the dollar store-yes they have those here-and picking up a deck to tell my friends’ fortunes….get ready.

Not to disappoint....here's the jamon

Hiking and of course...HAM

I nearly touched a cloud today. After yet another nauseating busride up the Sierra Nevadas, I-along with 25 other foreign students from various schools-climbed up to the highest pueblo in Spain. Capileira has only 580 inhabitants, who are about as sturdy as the rocks we had to climb. The town was oddly quiet, and we only saw a few of the locals. A little boy playing with a glove tied to a stick, a very elderly woman stooped over her cane, silently climbing the stones we were all complaining about.

Capileira was truly something out of a movie. The smallest walkways I had ever seen were made smaller by a tiny stream cutting through the middle. We walked on either side, hanging on for dear life to the walls of the adjacent homes. The water comes right from the Sierra Nevadas, and the constant movement makes it easy for the locals to dispose of anything they please with a single toss….
Homes made from mountain rocks and wood were painted white to reflect the sun in the summer, and also to kill any bugs that might be living in materials. Truly a staggering effect when you see a tiny village carved in to the mountain. But my favorite architectural aspect was the chimenea. Roofs here are flat, and the conical shaped chimeneas frame your view of the hills. The resemble little homes themselves, with rounded tops and little windows for vents…Potted plants of purple, yellow, pink and red are everywhere, blooming their best before the big freeze.. Now I know why the streets are so zig-zagged-better to block that winter wind from zipping down the street. I was freezing today, and I can only imagine when the snow hits.

We also visited Trevelez, and here’s where my ham story begins. Do NOT read further if you are a vegetarian. Ham has never been my favorite, nor will it ever be after standing in a refrigerated warehouse with 90,000 piggy legs dangling from the ceiling. Our tour guide Jose warned us, especially me since I was American and therefore more “sensitive to such smells,” that what we were about to see and…smell….would be overwhelming. I blanched, thinking of how I get queasy from the scent of the cold cut counter.

When Jose swung open the huge metal door, the warm aroma of HAM hit me smack in the face. Ok, time to breath through the mouth. This is not “Mom’s ham out of the oven at Christmas” smell. It’s a bit more like, “smells about as raw as it looks” smell. So, the first thing I notice is the big sign that says, “All workers must wear boots and gloves upon entry.” Why didn’t we have to wear those things? Also, where was everybody who worked with these ham hocks? I was half expecting Spanish oompa loompas to start singing about the benefits of pork.

No explanation, just straight on to a creepy room where pig legs were stacked in mountains of salt. Our shoes sloshed in what I really hope was water and salt…..After a quick explanation of a strange machine that removes all the blood, hair etc-GROSS-we then went to the hall of HAM. 90,000 to be exact, all hanging with hooves intact. The ones with black hooves or Pata Negra, is Jamon Iberico, the white hooves, Jamon Serrano. I can’t taste the difference…..But just like a wine sommeliers, jamon inspectors-I don’t know the fancy term- are a finicky bunch. With one sniff, they can tell if a ham leg is a bit off. The ones that are not fit to be eaten are taken to a valley and burned. Seriously. Ironically, there is no fire or cooking involved in the Spanaird’s beloved ham. That’s why the place is called a Secadoro-seca mean dry. So the secret formula is lots of salt, dry mountain air and I suppose, lots of three legged pigs limping around. That was a joke, because here’s another icky part.

The natural fat from the pig seals everything in with a yellow layer. That same fat is on the floor, and seemingly in the air. To make matters worse the tour guide kept touching the ham, therefore leaving a slimy film on his hands that seriously made me a bit ill. We all slipped and skidded across a floor that can only be described as walking on a thin layer of Karo syrup. DOUBLE GROSS. And here’s the kicker-the tour guide said we should be thankful because the “ham people” let us in, and they weren’t allowed to be there because they “couldn’t know” that we were inside. Huh? Sounds sketchy and very unsanitary to me. And why, why, why did the German girls keep blowing their noses in there???

I hope I haven’t made anyone ill with this entry. But just think of me! Surrounded here by EVERYTHING ham-flavored. Ham in my sandwiches 4 out of 7 days in a week, ham flavored potato chips, ham on bread for breakfast….I might get a pet pig just for the hell of it….and how will I ever sing, “This little piggy went to the market” to children?