Seeing as it’s our last week here (I know, what?), my roommate Arielle and I decided to live it up a little, break out of the routine, and head out to the streets for a crazy Thursday night of tapas in Triana. Triana is the “perfectly Spanish” neighborhood next door--I’m talking colorful narrow streets, a view of the river, a fair number of important churches, and loads of bars. After some careful research (highly recommend this woman’s website: http://www.sunshineandsiestas.com/), we set out at just before 9pm for a bit of an early dinner as evidenced by all the empty bars we passed...oh España…
The first stop on our ruta de tapas was Bar Santa Ana, a bar noted for its Semana Santa (Holy Week) paraphernalia. It definitely did not disappoint. The walls were completely covered (horror vacui??) with photos, decorations, signs, a countdown until Holy Week, and even a mounted bull head. Everywhere we looked there was a face of another virgin looking down on us (effigies of these virgins are paraded around in processions all throughout Holy Week). Quite the decor. We stumbled awkwardly for a bit, playing the ever-so-impossible game of whether we should seat ourselves and wait for someone to take our order or stand in the doorway and wait to be approached. We chose the former and hopped on a pair of barstools. “Buenas,” the bartender began, “¿Para beber?” (What would you like to drink?) Alright, Elana, here we go, “Un Cruzcampo para mí gracias.” Deep breath. After four months in Sevilla, I still had yet to try the prized Cruzcampo, and tonight was the night. I’m not a particularly big beer fan. Not actually a particularly big alcohol fan for that matter, but this is different. This is an experience, not a drink. Cruzcampo is a brand that was created in Sevilla, and it continues to be made here. It’s the drink of drinks. It’s on signs, the top of a building in bright red lights, beach umbrellas--you get the point. I’m not quite sure how I managed to avoid actually tasting it for so long, but avoid it no more. The verdict: Be it Cruzcampo or lo que sea (whatever), I still don’t like beer. May be the only person in Spain to leave half a glass of beer on the counter, but what can you do? Wasn’t about to hop on the bar and chug. One thing at a time in a night. The beer, however, was just the beginning of the novelties that Bar Santa Ana had to offer. Our tapas arrived, patatas bravas (basically french fries with a slightly spicy red sauce) and tortilla de bacalao (we weren’t sure what it was going to be, but it turned out to be exactly what we had eaten for lunch, which was like a fried ball of dough with some codfish), and so did the people. This group of men of all ages that had slowly been gathering in the corner finally got busy. Out came the guitars, the tambourines, the always-loved triangle, and the conductor’s baton reincarnated as a wooden spoon. After a bit of warm-up, the bar erupted in song. It was honestly such a beautiful sight. Just a bunch of guys, hanging around at a bar, singing and playing music. They were so happy, just high on life. Drinking their Cruzcampo, taking a drag on a cigarette, and singing their hearts out in an old bar with a lot of character in the middle of Triana. I felt like I was watching a scene from a movie. Bonus that they sounded good. “¿Una canción más?” (one more song?) I asked Arielle. Our plates were scraped clean and my beer was half empty and finished as well as I was concerned, but I couldn’t leave without savoring the moment a little longer. It was so perfectly joyous and so quintessentially Spanish that I felt like nothing like this, nothing quite like this, could ever happen anywhere else in the world. And so, one song later we were off to bar #2, which I don’t remember the name of (must be that half a beer really getting to me…). This place was written up for its legendary croquetas de puerro (leek croquettes), and I was psyched. However, a glance at the menu and a simple “no” confirmed that croquetas de puerro were no longer served and had not actually been served for three years. Bummer. Instead, we went for the merluza (hake) with some kind of sauce that was good and completely impossible to pin down. During this meal, however, I could hardly pay attention to the food because of the interesting conversation--or should I say the proximity of the conversation--we were having. The man next to us was quick to begin talking to us--in English, of course, but that didn’t last long--and even quicker to burst the thing we Americans call “the personal bubble.” I’m not sure if I’ve written about this already, but Spanish people don’t really believe in the concept of personal space. If they’re talking to you, their nose is inches from yours. Their hand is touching your arm. Their breath is on your face. I have to fight the urge to take a giant leap backwards and just roll with it, but I can’t help feeling incredibly uncomfortable. As we carried on a perfectly normal conversation with this friendly man--about his children, learning other languages, how we should come back to Spain to work, etc.--I had to keep reminding myself that this man whose mouth could literally have eaten the food off my fork and whose hand kept gripping my arm was not, in fact, a creep, but rather a Spaniard observing the normal laws of personal space (or lack thereof). As we paid the amount of 2.50 euros scribbled in chalk on the bar in front of us, the friendly and very close man suggested another place down the street called Blanca Paloma. We headed over to the packed bar, a bit more modern, a younger crowd, no singing men, no virgens. We once again astonished the waiter with our lack of drink order (because tapas and no drink is practically blasphemy here) and instead ordered queso de cabra con frambuesas y nueces (goat cheese with raspberries and walnuts). Yum. While waiting, a different waiter was kind enough to make polite conversation with us, give us some olives and glasses of water, which normally don’t arrive unsolicited. I was personally very touched and surprised by how welcomed we had been all night. At the first bar, a man approached us and asked how we were doing and where we were from. Before we left, I gave him a wave, and he blew back a kiss. Again, not creepy in Spain because that’s how greetings and despedidas (goodbyes) go. At the second bar, we had a whole conversation with a perfect stranger, a real rarity these days. And now this waiter was kind enough to ask about our classes and make sure we were taken care of. Small gestures, yes, but meaningful. I have serious doubts that this would happen in America. As Arielle pointed out, the culture is completely different. Spain, or at least southern Spain where I am, has this incredible dedication to socialization, and that in itself is in such stark contrast to our way of life. It’s not like you waltz into a bar to find a bunch of men belting it out everyday... In other words, a lot of what we lived tonight wouldn’t happen in America. In a way, I think the essence of Andalucía is contained in experiences like these, experiences that “wouldn’t happen in America;” they capture this element of socialization that is so foreign to us. Perhaps I only see them as essential because it’s so unique for me, but I really do think it is a huge part of the andaluz identity. Also, I will add my questioning of the distinction between being social and being welcoming. Although I felt welcomed, I am not sure if they were being welcoming per se or more just being social. I’m not sure I could tell you exactly what the distinction is, but I think there might be something there. In other words, perhaps our experiences tonight were less of a reflection of the “welcomingness” of people and more a product of the socialization ingrained in society. Not to say that socialization doesn’t include being welcoming, but I think being welcoming has a bit more... I’m sure my sister Shayna would have some ideas considering a project she did a couple summers ago about the meaning of welcoming. Let’s hear it, Shane! At the end of the day, however, whether you want to classify it as socialization or being welcoming, I felt welcomed over the course of the night, and that made for a great evening. Love to all, and happy Chanukah! See everyone in just one short week! For those in the midst of exams, good luck!! XOXO, Elana
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