“Quieres ir a Santander este fin de?” Fonsey asked me one Thursday morning. “Sure,” I replied, excited to have the chance to experience yet another region of Spain. Santander, she told me, is the hometown of one of the more wealthy banking families in Spain (I immediately pictured the Santander bank logo) and lies in the north, a little west of Bilbao and not far at all from the coast. Carmen and Rafa, good friends of my host parents, live there, and had invited us all to visit for the long weekend. As Fonsey was explaining to me, Carlos walked into the kichten. “A ti te gustara Santander,” You will like Santander, he told me. “We’re going to go to the natural zoo and see the prehistoric caves at Altamira.” He continued to tell me about giant holes that served as natural cages for elephants and giraffes, and prehistoric cave paintings. The more they told me, the more I looked forward to going. The drive would be over three hours, and I would inevitably be stuck in the middle again (Carlos and Fonsey in the front, the girls on either side of me) but I wouldn’t mind. I packed my bag, and the next day after school ended, we were off.
Santander is the quintessential Spanish town. The mountains make up in vegetation what they lack in altitude, and all of the buildings are made of quarried stone, most of which probably dates back hundreds of years, if not more. As we drove through the valleys, I found my self reminded of Williamstown in the spring.
Rafa and Carmen live in a large brick house with the traditional Spanish terra-cotta roof. On either side of their house are giant fields, behind which continue endless cow pastures and vegetable patches. When we finally got there they welcomed us in to their beautiful renovated farmhouse. Before heading to bed, we ate a large dinner together, which happened to include cow stomach. I tried to think of a way to get out of trying it, but in the end I just went for it. It was sort of chewy. Though discouraged by the cow stomach, I was still hungry, so I took an empanada from the plate in the middle of the table.
“Caroline!!” Patricia shouted, outraged and shocked. I looked up with a questioning glance.
“Que?”
“Nunca con tus dedos!!!” Never with your fingers!!! Suddenly embarrassed, I felt my cheeks turn red. I mean, I didn’t think it was a big deal, as empanadas are as much a finger food as pigs in a blanket, but maybe the rules were different since we were in someone else’s house. I was about to take another one when I saw Carlos’ hand going in for the same one. I pulled away, and shot an annoyed look at Patricia. She smiled, almost viciously, and I was reminded of the first time I ate at her grandparents’ house.
Her grandparents, two cousins, Patricia, Carlos and I were all seated around the table in the living room, serving our selves macaroni. As always, there was a bar of bread sitting on the corner of the table. Carlos grabbed it, ripped off a piece, and put it on the table next to his plate (in Spain bread goes on the table cloth, not on plates). He offered me the bread, so I took it and did the same. I looked up to find him staring at me in disbelief.
“What?” I asked him.
“Caroline,” he said in a low voice, “with your knife, not your hands, for the love of God.”
“But you just…”
“Yes, but I’m family!!”
I nervously searched his face, looking for a sign that he was joking. About five seconds later he burst into a legitimate giggle fit, pleased at having deceived the unknowing American (for the umpteenth time).
Like father, like daughter.
The next day, Carmen and Rafa took us to see more of Cantabria. We drove for miles along the coast. It could have been a bmw commercial it was so picturesque; a winding road, brilliant sun, sharp cliffs that drop directly down to an azure ocean. Better yet, I could have been driving right along where Prince Eric found Ariel lying on the beach.
At around three we headed into a small town to eat lunch. We went to a restaurant where they were serving paella – one of the most traditional Spanish foods. The last time I had paella it had been cooked in a giant vat the size of a roomy kiddie pool. I didn’t expect the same thing at a nice restaurant, but it was pretty close. They wheeled out a huge cast iron pan and then continued to shovel paella on to our plates. That was probably my favorite part of the day, until I had to stop eating. That’s always a bit of an issue. As soon as you stop eating, people start serving you more (whether you like it or not) and commanding you to eat. It’s like peer-pressure, but with adults. The bull-fights aren’t the only reason Spain’s national animal is the bull.
We got home a few hours later. I was headed straight to the guest room to take the siesta I had been daydreaming about for hours, but the girls had other plans. “Let’s go on an adbent-hur,” Natalia said to me. No sooner had I said no than she and Patricia were dragging me outside. I would have complained, but as soon as I got outside, I was game. The sun was starting to set and everything was golden, even the moths flying around in the tall grass. Natalia pulled me towards the hedge surrounding the yard, and jumped through. She poked her head out and said, “come own! Here we can go to Narnia!” I laughed and ran through.
A few minutes later we came to a little road, and since it was light out, we followed it. Patricia started to sing Party in the USA, and I was obliged to join in. We stopped suddenly though when we came upon a pen full of bulls, toros. “OHW MAY GOT! We have to fid dem!!” So I ended up pulling up crab grass by the roots next to the pen. Patricia was especially fond of a bull with blue eyes, a white tuft of hair on top of his head, and an disproportionally large nose.
It started to get dark so we headed home, walking beneath a bower of old trees covered in Spanish moss. I thought we might have been lost, but right as I was about to say something, we saw the end of Rafa and Carmen’s driveway. We raced each other back, and so ended our last day in Santander.
