I tutor these incredible, intelligent twins every Tuesday and Thursday. If I’m feeling down, their energy brings me up. Today I told them about the presidential inauguration and we watched videos of Beyoncé singing the national anthem and a little bit of the ceremony.
“Is your president bad? Ours is,” Sandra asked me.
She’s probably echoing what her Mom said, but it’s still interesting that she said it.
Then we had a photo shoot.
Tuesday was an off day for me. Not a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, but little things just piled up to frustrate me. Overall, I was stressed about what I’m always stressed about — speaking and learning Spanish.
So I was particularly quiet to my roommates yesterday, and took my frustration out on them by not really answering their questions.
This morning, I woke up, got ready and when I opened my door I found a gift bag hanging on the knob. Inside was a note and a coffee mug. Bea and Jorge wrote me the sweetest, nicest note that said, “We know it has to be really hard to be far from your family and friends, so we would like you to confide in us like a pseudo family, and that we share happy, sad and worried feelings. We will always be here to help you with whatever we can.”
I teared up. On the coffee mug they wrote, “We love that you’re a part of our family!” and signed it.
What a sweet sweet thing to do. They really are awesome — Jorge always makes me laugh and puts me in a better mood and Bea asks me to tell her about my weekend adventures and takes me to lunches and to go shopping. I love them and am so thankful to have met them.
Today, people in Spain went on strike to protest, well, everything — labor, social and economic problems. “In less than a year, this country has taken a jump backwards 35 years,” said Cándido Méndez, general secretary of General Workers Union.
Things are bad here, that’s no lie. Soaring unemployment (about 20 to 25 percent, depending on what age groups you count), increases in tuition and cuts for public schooling. I’m grateful to be working here and to have a skill that’s invaluable — being a native English speaker.
The strike officially started at midnight, and while all I heard in my comfy bed were flares, fireworks, chanting and police sirens, I had friends at a bar who experienced something different. The bar owners told them they were closing at midnight, and so everyone was paying for their items and starting to leave. About five minutes before 12, a group of 60 protesters surrounded the bar, and some people entered. The people pounded on the windows, knocked over the tables and threw chairs into the streets. My friends quickly left and weren’t hurt, but as they walked away they heard the protestors light firecrackers near the bar.
I talked to a person about this violence and asked them how this helped the Spanish economy, how this made a difference. He said, “Well, why were the people in the bar? They’re buying stuff. On strike day we don’t spend any money anywhere. They should support the strike and join us on the streets.” He didn’t think the violence was wrong and said the picket lines work.
Though I support people’s right to protest in the streets, I support the right to peacefully protest. Hurting each other, smashing windows, bottles, etc. — what does that do? I understand that people are angry, but you have to find better ways to express that feeling and fix your country.
Today at 11:30 a.m., hundreds of people gathered in Vigo at Plaza España and walked to Plaza America. My roommate attended to “give his voice.” That protest was peaceful, but violent acts such as the one my friends witnessed have occurred.
Later, I met up with my friends Peter and Joe, who were at the bar last night. We wandered around Vigo and miraculously found a café that was open. Nearly every store was closed, because if stores don’t close, people will yell at the people inside, smash windows and break stuff. We were hurried out because the owner wanted to shut due to the protests.
So we went on Calle Principe, the main shopping street. There were about 300 people holding flags and signs, but not doing much more.
Calle Principe was trashed. Litter everywhere. A fire truck was on the street tending to a fire inside Blanco, a clothing store, which also had a window smashed. As we turned down my street, there was a garbage bin knocked over and on fire. Police had surrounded it, but it was crazy to think that this happened a few buildings down from my room.
After witnessing Vigo, talking to Spaniards and foreigners and reading news articles, I’ve figured out there are two different feelings about the strike. First, Spaniards who support or attended the strike think that this is the best way to show that they are angry with the government, want things to change and to have a voice. Many U.S. and U.K. people think that this way of handling things won’t help anything nor change the economic situation.
My view: People have a right to protest, but violence is bad. Why are you hurting fellow citizens? How does that help the economy? Furthermore, Spain is full of small business owners — clothing stores, cafe and bars — no big chains here. So how does boycotting (boikot, the Spanishization) businesses protest the government and its policies? You hurt the small people, not the big banks or “terrible” government.
I understand that people are angry, and striking is a form of expressing that. So okay, we understand that you are upset and furious, but tomorrow, after the strike, what are you going to do? Are you going to look for jobs? Go to the government buildings and talk to policymakers? Elect new politicians? (Galicia just had an election, and many young people didn’t vote, so what does that solve? I voted, so at least I made a choice on who I wanted to be in office).
Spain is in trouble, and if things don’t turn around, they will stay in a bad economy for many years to come. I don’t know how to solve the situation, but smashing windows definitely won’t fix it.
People at the afternoon strike.
“Thieves,” painted on a bank window.
Trash on Calle Principe.
A statue on Calle Principe with a strike flyer on it.
Blanco, which had a fire and a broken window.
The fire on my street.
A bridal store with paint splattered on the window.
Galicia has some great desserts, and I just had two of them tonight.
First, Tarta de Santiago, which is a firm cake made of mashed almonds and has powdered sugar sprinkled on top. It’s simple, but delicious. We were craving it one night last week so we went to our favorite “old person” bar and had it for 1.75 a slice. Marshall, an au pair whose girlfriend is an auxiliary, was with us and was chowing down on it. “Is there lemon in it?” No, we told him, only almonds. He stopped, fork midway to his mouth. “I’m allergic to almonds.” Craaap, we thought. We might have just killed this kid. He went to the bathroom to try to get rid of the cake he had eaten, if you know what I mean, but failed. We asked the bartender if there was a lot of almonds in the cake and he looked at us stupidly because, it’s an almond cake! But he said no, there actually aren’t a lot of almonds in the cake, just for flavor. Marshall survived to live another day, but he won’t be eating the cake anymore.
Tonight, Bea brought home rosquillas, which look like mini donuts but they’re much richer in taste. They’re called that because rosco means circle. These have layered filo dough with a caramel-like icing in between the layers and on top. Melt in your mouth delicious.
Then, Bea said, “Just you wait. If you liked those, you’re going to love this.” She had a chunk of cheese which is called tetilla (because it’s shaped like a boob, Jorge told me, smiling). There was also a jello-like block on the plate, called membrillo. The membrillo can be any flavor, usually fruit. Bea cut a slice of cheese, cut the the wax off and put a slice of membrillo on it — tetilla con membrillo. It was savory and rich. I love cheese anyway, so just the cheese was fabulous.
Tarta de Santiago
Rosquillas
Tetilla
I hate hate HATE when Spaniards stare at me. It’s obvious why, my friends tell me, you’re tall and young and blond! But really, it’s SO RUDE. They don’t just look at me while passing by (normal, I enjoy a bit of people-watching also). They intently stare at me and don’t stop until they’re past me or they have a green light. Or they never stop.
So, I’ve resorted to my solution that I discovered in Salamanca: Stare back. Hard. Mean. Stare back directly in their eyes like you know what they’re thinking. My mouth is usually pressed into a firm line or in a McKayla Maroney Is Not Impressed scowl. ‘Hey, yeah, so I know I don’t look Spanish and therefore aren’t Spanish. I get that. But stop staring at me. It’s rude. You’re rude. So I’ll be rude back.’
And it works. Instead of staring at me for 20, 30, 40 seconds, it’s only 5 or 10. They look away, at the ground and shuffle away, seem a bit embarrassed. If they try to steal another stare they’ll see my terrifying glare and look away forever. That’ll teach them.
Okay, so Galicia is awesome in that at many bars around here, if you order a drink (beer, wine, soda, tea, juice, water, whatever), they’ll give you a small plate of food, called pinchos. These pinchos can be crappy, like a handful of potato chips, popcorn, or corn nuts, or delicious and can serve as dinner, like zorza, tortilla, bread slices with meat and cheese, potatoes and empanada.
So the key is to find great bars that give you the better pinchos — more bang for your buck. My friend went to a cafe with his coworkers, and when they only brought out potato chips for a pincho, one of the ladies yelled at the server, “Really, is this all? We are never coming back here, NEVER! Never!”
When I’m walking through the city I look at people’s tables and see if they have potato chips or something heartier, and make a mental note so I know what cafes to go to later.
There’s one restaurant all the auxiliares go to often called Ourensanos, and it’s probably the best pinchos place I’ve found thus far. Just ordering a glass of wine will get you a full plate of tortilla, or empanada, or zorza and potatoes, or sandwiches. After a few drinks, you’re feeling happy and full.
Pinchos
Spanish Tortilla
Spaniards know how to have a good time. Here’s how they do it: Like I said earlier, dinner is at 9 or 10. Usually on the weekends you go out with friends and eat tapas, which is just little bites of food, so you’re not too stuffed after dinner. Of course you have a few glasses of wine with dinner. You’ll hang there for a few hours, chatting and taking your time. Then, you move to a bar good for sitting and talking some more. You might move on to drinking licor café or crema de orujo, both specialty drinks in Galicia. Licor café is like black coffee liquor (they call it cocaine for poor people) and crema de orujo is much milkier and smooth, like baileys or rumchata.
After hanging out until 2 or 3, you might head to a chupiteria, or a shot bar. Have a few drinks there, then head to the bars with loud music so you can dance. Then at 4 or 5 you’ll go to a discoteca, a place where there’s a big dance floor and everyone’s had a few drinks and having fun. Then at 6 or 7 you’ll wander down the streets full of people screaming and yelling and find a kebap or burger or sandwich place to eat drunk food before heading home. Then you sleep until 2 p.m., and recover for another night out.
Crema de Orujo
Licor cafe
I already knew about Spanish culture and daily life before coming here, because I was in Salamanca for four months, but here’s a refresher for others who might not know.
For breakfast, Spaniards eat galletas, or cookies — usually little biscuits with chocolate, oatmeal cookies or mini croissants. Fruit is also an option, but in general breakfast is tiny and fueled by coffee, not food.
Principe, one of my favorite galletas
Lunch is from 2-4. In Salamanca, I ate at 2 p.m. sharp. Here, I get dropped off at 2:30 in Vigo and by the time I walk home it’s 3 p.m. Sometimes I’m not hungry and take a short nap before eating. The opposite of breakfast, lunch is huge — a hearty soup, big sandwich with chorizo or chicken, tortilla or eggs or a big entree. At restaurants, you have a primer plato, or first plate, which is a salad, empanada, tomatoes and cheese, shrimp, or something smaller. Then a segundo plato, second plate, which has the filling protein and rice or pasta. The “menu del dia” comes with a drink (wine, beer, water or soda), bread, postre (yogurt, fruit, flan or tarta) and coffee. All this for 8 – 12 Euros — a steal!
After lunch you can take a siesta, with I often take advantage of. All the stores are closed from 2-5 so I sleep, hang out with Jorge or go for a run
Dinner can be from 8ish to midnight, depending on how hungry you are and if you’re slowly bar hopping eating little tapas or staying at home. At my host home in Salamanca, dinner was at 9 p.m., but Jorge eats much later, at 10 or 10:30. So if he’s making a big dinner meal to share, of course I’ll wait to eat.
I’m eating very healthy here — Jorge only cooks with fresh veggies, meat, olive oil and spices. But everything is so good, I’m probably eating a lot of it! Oh well, buen aprovecho!
Like all Europeans, Spaniards walk everywhere, which is why everyone is thin. I laugh at the U.S. studies saying that “people who eat past 8 p.m. are found to have more fat!!!!” This is probably because they don’t exercise, they’re mostly sedentary during the day and they’re eating unhealthy foods. It doesn’t matter what TIME you eat at, just that you eat healthy and stay active for most of the day. I’m walking MUCH more that I would in the U.S. Of course, I don’t have a car, but I walk to the bus stop, walk to my private tutor sessions, walk to the grocery store, walk to meet my friends at bars. It’s great and I love living in a walkable city. Of course, I plan to join a gym soon to take Pilates and other fitness classes to stay in good, strong shape!
My roommates are GREAT. After having terrible/sub-par roommates for the past few summers when I didn’t live in good old G Phi, I’m so happy that I’m happy living with them.
Jorge is an optimistic, funny dude who’s always singing. He knows quite a bit of English and is also learning Portuguese and German. He studied biology/environmental studies in school and is very knowledgeable about the outdoors. During the summer he helps plant trees and educates people about nature at Las Islas Cies and now on the weekends he leads tours through Vigo mountains and shows hiking groups about the wild setas, or mushrooms. He’s also a fabulous cook and makes lunch and dinner for me all the time. I love talking Spanish to him because he patiently listens and politely corrects me, which is exactly what I want him to do.
Bea is a wild, energetic, fast-speaking chica with fiery, curly hair. She’s a personal trainer and has many clients in Vigo and neighboring cities. In January she’s going to start her master’s and right now is training a future professor because she did so well on her interview! My first Sunday here, Jorge was working and we decided to get something to eat. I was so intimidated by her but we had a great conversation — she told me she was reading 50 Shades of Grey (“it’s very terribly written,” she said) and said she’d let me borrow it after she finished. She’s fascinated by art — paintings, murals and tattoos. Jorge is asking the piso owner if we can paint our piso, and I hope we can! We’re planning a huge mural on one big wall and another wall all chalkboard for random notes and doodles.
The first night we went out they took me to an oldies bar which was hidden downstairs behind a door that didn’t look like an entrance to anything. There were people our parents’ age who were getting down — drinking, dancing, making out — it was hilarious. Jorge told me this bar used to be a brothel, that’s why there was a back room that now served as the dance floor (I don’t want to think about what happened there in the past). On the walls were naked girl posters from the seventies. Later they took me to Churruca, which is the group of streets where all the bars are at. Jorge and Bea knew
Us on our first night out together! Bea loved this mural, so do I.
was cray.
I let myself sleep in until 10 a.m., but woke up disappointed after checking my email and didn’t receive any responses back about apartments. So, I arranged a meeting with another auxiliar to see if she knew about anything.
As I was leaving my room, two other guys were in the foyer of the hostel. I couldn’t figure out how to lock my door and they had to help me. They looked American and asked me if I was an auxiliar too. I said yes, and the usual first question was asked — Where are you from? I said Nebraska and they said, “Yeah, us too!” Both did track and field at UNL and one, Matt is from Nebraska while the other, Scott, is from South Dakota. Incredible. Husker Nation around the world!
So I met up with Erin, who told me about an apartment she looked at but couldn’t live in because she had a boyfriend and a guy was living in the apartment. I was happy to look at any apartment and agreed to go at 8:30 that night.
I went to get a Spanish phone…aka a flip phone smaller than the size of my palm. Woah, take me back to the early 2000s. I told the cashier I wanted red for the Huskers. (I guess I was in a Huskers mood).
In the afternoon I met the contact teacher, Maria, from my elementary school. She picked me up and gave me a driving tour of Vigo. We headed to Samil Beach, where we got to know each other and she told me about my schedule and what I’d be doing. Maria is very easy to talk to and was just so excited to have me as an auxiliar. They didn’t have one last year but did the year before.
After a couple of hours we headed back to her car. Maria literally had just told me that her car is old and small and I said, Yes but that doesn’t matter because at least it works! And we entered her car and the battery had stopped working because she accidentally left her lights on. So we laughed about that, but Maria called the AAA spaniard version and dropped me in the center of the city, because I had to see the apartment.
I rang the bell, and didn’t see that there was an elevator, so I climbed four flights of stairs to the apartment, or piso. Huffing and puffing, I said Hi to Kati, the girl who wanted to move, and Jorge, who lived there. The other roommate wasn’t there. The living room was large and open but the kitchen was tiny. We went upstairs to see the bedroom and I was happy to see it was a double bed with tons of closet and drawer space, a desk and my own bathroom. I talked to Jorge and Kati for a little bit, and told them I wasn’t sure if I was going to take it because it was the first piso I’d seen and I didn’t know what to expect. But then they said that another girl was coming to look after me, so I sounded more enthusiastic about the place so they would choose me over her.
After about 15 minutes, I left and climbed five gigantic hills to get to my hostel. Jorge called me on the way home, and I decided to take the piso, after hearing about Erin’s struggles with finding a good piso.
Once at the hostel, I was hungry so I headed to the Nebraska boys’ room to see if they wanted to grab something to eat. We went to the bar downstairs and drank a copa (glass) of Estrella Galicia (the region’s beer) and ate mucho, mucho chorizo.
So on my first day, I met fellow Nebraskans, got a phone, spoke Spanish with my coworker, took a walk on the beach, enjoyed the view of the sea, landed a great apartment and finished it off with a beer.
I slept well that night.
Alia Valentine in Vigo 