Semana Santa, Part 2

The first week of vacation I spent at home with the girls. As the days got sunnier, we started hanging out up on the mesa. Natalia was the one who first showed me the mesa around a month ago. She and Patricia took me on a bike ride to show me around their pueblo, and we ended up on a little dirt road, heading to the highest accessible point in the village. As we got further from our development, the houses started to look more rustic, more like how I imagined a little village in Spain would look.

We turned down a little street, passing the corner store and a little market. Laundry was hung out side the windows of the short houses that lined the streets. As the street turned to dirt, the buildings that lined it turned to pastures. Soon we were heading up a steep hill, at the top of which was a sand soccer pitch. Behind the field, there was yet another hill, although we would have to carry our bikes up this one. Natalia and I raced up it, ignoring Patricia’s protests. We got ourselves and our bikes to the top of the hill, and I was delighted at what I saw: a rocky footpath leading to who-knows-where. I looked over my should to see Patricia clambering up the hill behind us, disinclined to wait alone at the bottom.

As soon as Patricia made it up, Natalia took off down the trail, shouting “Oh my god – dis is going to be the best adventer hever!” The girls had decided before we left to speak only in English. Patricia and I followed. The trail skirted the edge of the mesa, and soon opened up to one of the most gorgeous views I have seen. The edge of the trail was made of cliff-like rock faces, jutting out every once in a while. I could see a little tree growing on far side of the mesa. Behind it rose ginormous snow-covered mountains in the distance.

One afternoon we went up to the mesa to play soccer with Natalia's best friend, Alvaro. The pitch was enclosed by a chicken wire fence, behind which rose tall, rather oddly placed bushes. Behind them we could hear the sounds of other children playing.

- “OYE!!!” Natalia shouted to them. “QUEREIS JUGAR CON NOSOTROS?” Want to play with us? We waited for a response from the shrubbery.

-“QUE SOIS HIJOS DE PUTAS!” You guys are sons of bitches! Wait. What? “TU PADRE ERA UN CABRON, Y TU MADRE ERA UNA PROSTITUTA!” Your father was an a**-f*****-b****, and your mother was a prostitute. And that was how a war of insults began, a group of slightly dirty children emerging from behind the greenery. One of them, a girl who looked to be about 7, had the voice of the chain smoker, and began to make fun of my Colgate Univ. sweatshirt.

- “Por que llevas esta sudadera de pasta de dientes?” Why are you wearing a toothpaste sweater?

-“Es una Universidad,” I replied.

-“NO ME IMPORTA, INGLESA!!” I DON'T CARE, ENGLISH GIRL. To that, Natalia stuck up for me. “Ella no es inglesa, es Americana, bonita,” She's not English, she's American, honey. That riled the little thing up even more, and she began to screech out swear word after another, past the point of sounding like a lunatic. Patricia and Natalia however returned them, and with relish. Finally, I made the executive decision to leave. On the walk home, I asked them why they didn’t just ignore those kids.

-“Porque si alguien te insultas, hay que insultarle!” Because if someone insults you, you have to insult them back. Of course. "Pero no digas nada a nuestros padres..." But don't say anything to our parents... And that was the lesson I learned over spring break.

Semana Santa, Part 1

Here, the equivalent of spring break is Semana Santa (Holy Week), or the last week of Lent before Easter. On Palm Sunday (the day of Jesus' death), there are huge processions in every city, and the next week all the kids get out of school. The weekend of Palm Sunday my real family came to visit me. I had never been so homesick before, so it was so nice to finally see them after two months. We hung out with my host family, wandered around Salamanca, and watched Salamanca's Palm Sunday procession.

The first night was a little awkward; we invited my host family out to this trendy restaurant called la Hoja, and I failed to properly translate the menu. We ended up accidentally ordering a seven course meal rather than the normal three. The first three plates were pretty difficult to sit through, as the only people who were having a fluid conversation were Natalia, who is 11 and speaks pretty good English, and my little sister Kia, who's also 11. A glass of wine and another course later the adults were finally starting to warm up. It was like they were all planes and I was the control tower; everything they said had to go through me. So, I spent the night translating from Spanish to English and vice versa. Of course I didn't make the connection that my mom and my host mom both spoke French until the next day at lunch.

When they finally figured it out, we were sitting in slightly smokey (but bearable) authentic Spanish restaurant, eating one of the most typical foods of Salamanca: cocido. It's made with these tiny short noodles and garbanzo beans. First you eat some of the soup in your bowl to make room. Then you fill the space you just made with carrots, potato, chorizo, chicken, and beef. I giggled to myself when Fonsey insisted that my mom try a piece of lard on bread. My mom kept trying to refused, but Fonsey passed it to her anyway, and not wanting to offend, she took it. A little later a thought occurred to me, because I'd been getting tired of translating. "Mom, don't you speak French??" She replied yes. "Dude! Fonsey speaks French too!" and that started a whole new thing. Now I only had to worry about translating for Carlos and Mr. Saleh, both of whom had been cracking jokes the entire time (Carlos about his mafia-like business and Mr. Saleh about terrorists). I was slightly annoyed with Carlos; he knew enough English to tell me mom things like, "Oh Caroline - so sad - only drink and smoke, never study! never comes home!" but he needed me to translate his other jokes.

The next day my family and I barely had to eat, we were still so full from the previous two days, so we passed the time wandering through the church of San Esteban, the Cathedral, and watching the Palm Sunday procession. This was something to see. When I first saw the people in the their white robes, pointed hats and face masks, I was immediately reminded of the Ku Klux Klan. Then second thing I thought of was New Moon. Because this was really similar to what was happening in that little village in Italy when Edward went to go provoke the Volturi: a very religious, robe donned mob. While they were both religious festivals, the contrast between this procession (really a funeral march) and the parade of falleras bringing flower to the Virgin was astounding.

That night we went to my family's house, and I showed my family around. To get back at Carlos, I showed them the basement first. "This is where I sleep," I told them. "Sometimes they give me a blanket."

We went back upstairs for snacks (though no one was really hungry) and eventually said good-bye. I had school in the morning and my family had a flight home at 6 am. It was really hard to say good-bye, only having been able to see them for three days, but at the same time I realized that I only had three months left. Yes - I was sad to see them go, and wished they could have stayed, but I might as well enjoy the time I have left here, because it's not too long, and I will see my family again soon enough.