Costumes in Spain are like business casual garb in the U.S. In the last two weeks I have been both a carrot top and a vampire, I have feasted as a feathered masquerader and painted myself Irish; a makeshift leprechaun. For 3 weeks Spaniards celebrate carnival and use it as an excuse to regress 20 years and color themselves children. Men and women from 4-84 paraded the cities streets dressed as anything, from smurfs to pirates, boxers and Barbie dolls. Their rhythm came from music gasping through scratchy speakers in an overworked pickup truck. I often saw it pushed from the pavement as Alcala’s crowds swelled, fully dominating its cobble stoned streets. The Carnival crazies danced for days so I, in turn, bought costumes to compliment their passion for the holiday.
Carnival in Alcala and many parts of Europe is not unlike Valencia’s Las Fallas. There, the entire city also takes to the streets as their grounds for expression. In Valencia I encountered the most meticulous, expensive and destructive hobby; what essentially distinguishes Valencia’s festival as Las Fallas. All year participants construct massive paper mashie structures, sculpted in detail to the panorama of their choice. Sculptures ranged from twisted and trippy to supernatural, then humorous all on one block. Las fallas literally means the fires so on the final weekend of the festival, after the winner has been chosen, Valencia’s fanatics torch each painted piece and celebrate as it simmers to ash. The entire town encourages the mayhem that is Valencia. Bars move their business to the streets and pastry vendors operate their deep fryers on overdrive. Like Carnival it is an experience to magical to miss. I am so glad I get to be apart of this culture!
Monday, March 21, 2011
"The Valley of Falling"
I renamed the Valley of the Fallen the “Valley of Falling” immediately when I exited the tour bus to meet a starchy sheet of mountain snow with my butt. The Valley of the Fallen in El Escorial holds the world’s largest free-standing Christian cross. It is erected into the mountains and stands above a colossal Catholic church that houses the tomb of Francisco Franco. As I have not yet been to Rome, this church mesmerized me as most massive religious place I have been inside. I was a raindrop inside its ocean like vastness. To imagine its size, consider that when it was originally constructed, following the Spanish Civil War, the Pope insisted Franco downsize his cathedral because its immensity threatened the Vatican’s position as supreme Catholic authority. Both the cross and cathedral are products of republican labor after their defeat in the Spanish Civil War. Backbreaking construction was ordered by Franco and led to innumerable republican deaths; their graves now scatter the mountainous shrine commemorating Franco.
The intermingling of Franco’s corpse and those republican prisoners, who died under his iron fist, alone, makes the Valley of the Fallen in El Escorial a controversial place. Yet, it is more fascinating to note that those who were not tourists like me, taking posed pictures and being shhhhed by security, were Nationalists (historically defined as Francoists). WOw! Rebels still exist? They are not barbarian murderers now exiled in far away land? This is the first of many realizations that have widened my eyes and expanded my mind like elastic.
In my literature course abroad I’ve studied the Spanish Civil War extensively. The Bad Guys (Francoists) beat the Good Guys (republicans) and horrifically, Spain was overrun by Franco and fascism. This was my understanding before my visit to El Escorial. There I shared an aisle with Spaniards whose weekly routine it is to worship the Lord, and probably pay respect to Franco, in the Valley of the Fallen. It was first hard to understand why Spaniards would kneel beside Francisco Franco, the man who tore apart their nation less than a century ago. Then, I was introduced to a new perspective. “Under Franco Alcala was cleaner, it was safer for women and everyone was respectful; they cared about God.” From the many sweet Spaniards who frequented Franco’s cathedral and my friend, whose host mother raved about the city during Franco’s regime, I am able to recognize what was awful for some Spaniards gave peace to others. Thus, I am in no position to deem all Francoists bad nor their opposition totally good. It is like every mother has said; two wrongs do not make a right.
This visit, followed by a guided tour through King Phillip II’s summer palace, also located in San Lorenzo de El Escorial, is the first of many trips I will take to explore the culture and history of Spain. They differ from the tropical beaches and dazzling discotechas I will later frequent because they serve as a historical hiatuses from the beloved humdrum of life as a college student, schoolwork, sleep, party etc. To explore the cathedrals, palaces and tombs of the men and women who’ve both built a nation then bombed it down frees me from the bubble that so many college students have grown comfortable inside. I want to soak in Spain like a sponge so I am drenched and fulfilled and no bubble can find the friction to entrap me.
The intermingling of Franco’s corpse and those republican prisoners, who died under his iron fist, alone, makes the Valley of the Fallen in El Escorial a controversial place. Yet, it is more fascinating to note that those who were not tourists like me, taking posed pictures and being shhhhed by security, were Nationalists (historically defined as Francoists). WOw! Rebels still exist? They are not barbarian murderers now exiled in far away land? This is the first of many realizations that have widened my eyes and expanded my mind like elastic.
In my literature course abroad I’ve studied the Spanish Civil War extensively. The Bad Guys (Francoists) beat the Good Guys (republicans) and horrifically, Spain was overrun by Franco and fascism. This was my understanding before my visit to El Escorial. There I shared an aisle with Spaniards whose weekly routine it is to worship the Lord, and probably pay respect to Franco, in the Valley of the Fallen. It was first hard to understand why Spaniards would kneel beside Francisco Franco, the man who tore apart their nation less than a century ago. Then, I was introduced to a new perspective. “Under Franco Alcala was cleaner, it was safer for women and everyone was respectful; they cared about God.” From the many sweet Spaniards who frequented Franco’s cathedral and my friend, whose host mother raved about the city during Franco’s regime, I am able to recognize what was awful for some Spaniards gave peace to others. Thus, I am in no position to deem all Francoists bad nor their opposition totally good. It is like every mother has said; two wrongs do not make a right.
This visit, followed by a guided tour through King Phillip II’s summer palace, also located in San Lorenzo de El Escorial, is the first of many trips I will take to explore the culture and history of Spain. They differ from the tropical beaches and dazzling discotechas I will later frequent because they serve as a historical hiatuses from the beloved humdrum of life as a college student, schoolwork, sleep, party etc. To explore the cathedrals, palaces and tombs of the men and women who’ve both built a nation then bombed it down frees me from the bubble that so many college students have grown comfortable inside. I want to soak in Spain like a sponge so I am drenched and fulfilled and no bubble can find the friction to entrap me.
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