Toro, Toro

Men in tight pants is not a sports tradition distinct to American baseball. And man, am I glad about that.

Yesterday, I saw my first bull fight in the bullfighting capital of the country.

Originally, I had no pretense as to what these were and what exactly the angle they were to take.

They don't race. They're not up against criminals. They are dangerous as Hell. So they just wave a flowy cape around?

BASICALLY.

The whole idea is that a family in Spain raises the bull as its own. A pet, in a sense... and sends it to be slaughtered in the ring for honor.

In Italian-American tradition, or at least in my house, we would say "Saus-eege is own." Meaning, alright Spain, do your thing, but I will never sell my dog for honor.


For the past few days there had been one resounding question among the dorm: "What do we wear to the bullfight?" So naturally, we staked it out the arena for the congregation of spectators. They were all dresses as if they were going to church. That's when we realized this is not bullshit. (lol?)

So the day came upon us, we all got fancied in dresses and blazers and khakis and whatnot to appear to blend in as much as possible before we spoke.

I was surprised at the ease in which we waltzed in. We showed our ticket only at the gate we were to go through to get to our seat section and that was it.

When the show started, there was a relatively modest procession of the matadors followed by the caballeros yielding lances in the stadium. The matadors took respective post behind blockades around the outside of the ring and the bull was released.

GAME TIME.

The matadors would pop out from behind their little doors with a cape that was not red, but pink on side and yellow on the other. My brilliant drummer of a friend suggested that they may taunt them with the pink and then turn it to yellow to blend with the sand/confuse them.

Spot on.

The whole point of the round was to see if the bull would fight and kick and ram its horns. If it did not, as the second bull did not, the crowd clapped a continuous tri-beat applause. At this point, they released cows into the arena and the matadors backed off. The point of the other nonviolent heifers was to have the bull herd together with the rest and be ushered out of the arena.

Brilliant.

So after that bull was not up to par, and the family was most likely put to shame and sent to Puerto Rico, they brought out the one with the real fight in him. This bull was HUGE and had a lot of fight.

El toro quiso pelear!

After the crowd gets a little excited to see the matador(s) dance with the bull and their capes, out comes the caballero with his lance. No worries, the horse has armor on. The job of this horse rider is to spear the bull, kind of provoke him and simultaneously impair him.

After the bull is bleeding and finished taking its anger out on the poor caballo, the matador come out with fancy little colored spears.

Then it's all up to the matador to perform. We got lucky enough to see EL PRIMER MATADOR DEL MUNDO in his pink pants of glittering wonder. He had green and red spears; I am assuming he may or not be of Mexican decent. He is certainly not Italian... I've forced myself to have a mental block on all things Non-Hispanic.

So there he was, face to face with the bull, dancing with his spears in the air, awaiting the charge. The bull obliged, and most certainly regretted it shortly after.

Número uno con sus panalones rosadas.

The whole point of the spears, which by the end of the fight total in 6, two at a time, along the spine of the bull. And even after all of the six spears/hooks are strategically and artfully inserted into the bull, it is still kicking...literally. BEHOLD another bull-related expression!

At the point, the bull is exhausted. It has been impaled and hooked and still taunted into running around. Now, the matador takes out the red cape and you know it's about to get real. With the red cape comes a long sword.

Not a little hook or spear or lance; a sword. The bull knows it, but doesn't give up. The matador even grabs the bull by its horns to get it to keep fighting. And the bull, with its infinite stubbornness, does.

We watched this happen to six bulls. But this third bull (second if you don't count Mr. Docile) was one for the books. When that red cape comes out and you know it's a wrap, the bull is stabbed in the head with the sword until dead. This bull went down so dramatically that I regret not having enough camera memory to have videoed it.

His legs collapsed underneath him, he swung his head into the air, spewing blood from his nose, and laid down.

*Que Spanish music of defeat*

*Que ceremonious chariot*

The horses are again employed, much less dangerously this time. They hook the bull up and drag it from the arena as, in this specific fight, other ground keepers come out and shovel up the blood and rake the sand.

...and the next bull is released.

I have to admit, the first bull I saw stabbed and fall onto its little knees kind of struck a chord with me. Then I thought about hamburgers and got over it and was able to enjoy the rest of the show. It really gives you an idea as to what it was like to watch gladiator games, though we knew who would most likely win.

Also have to admit, there were points in which we were rooting for the bull to win.

Next stop: Running with the bulls!

I, Amsterdam

So it was spring break; 10 days off with no plans. All it took was a light kebab lunch for us to decide: we gotta go to Amsterdam.

So we booked it. After a few days of trekking to Spanish beaches and lying along Sevillan rivers, we took two buses, a plane, a train, another bus, and a tram and ended up in the general area of our Amsterdam hostel.

Que my very erroneous belief that I can figure out words in any language through phonics: "Could you tell me where [Court Leeds-ed-war-strat] is?"

"LOL oh Korte Leidsedwarsstraat, of course."

Not to mention our hostel was called "Leidseplein" and we were referring to it as "Led Zeppelin."

At least Dutch people are so nice. There's not time to be mean in their language because words just have too many random assortments of letters that there's no breath to fight with. Or the fact that their whole culture is based around sex, drugs, and rock and roll. We got off the plane with a group of 4 men with choppy haircuts and black studded jackets, walked through the red light district to indulge in a space brownie.

Basically.

So after getting that out of our system, we figured we should get some sort of idea as to what we would spend the next three days doing without burning a hole in our pockets on absolutely nothing [of sustainability.]

Luckily, I stumbled upon the Amsterdam key which provided us access into over 100 attractions, museum, and offers in the city in addition to a 48 hour tram pass.

FIRST STOP: VAN GOGH.

The man I wanted to see ever since I had taken art in Paris, where I had been face to face with some of the absolute most legendary faces of art. But an entire Van Gogh museum? Nothing like that in Paris with all that David running around.

Like I said, Van Gogh. What a guy. He did, after all, cut off his ear for his lover, who may or may not have been a man and art partner, Gaugin. Just sayin', when you live and paint together, sparks fly. And I support. The reason his museum is in Amsterdam is perhaps due to the liberal nature of the city and the controversy surrounding both artists and their mental states, sexual orientations, and methods of art.

Personally, I love it. Van Gogh was one to push the envelope with his style of painting during the realist movement. Instead of portraying things as they are, he chose to portray things through evoking feelings.

Only illegal to take photos if you use the flash (or get caught.)

My favorite painting, Skull Smoking A Cigarette, wasn't supposed to be an anti smoking campaign, but rather a way for him to express the death of artistic freedom through taking formal lessons, as he did not.

BRILLIANT.

Much more famous and recently seen by my own two eyes in Paris (I get around A LOT), is The Bedroom. The bed is outrageously too large in his attempt to accentuate the importance of sleep. Even though I find it ugly ass Hell, I can give him props for trying and his reasoning for it. I'm a fan, Van Gogh.

And that was just the first stop!

We also went to the zoo, several other photography galleries, got a free singing pen from the Heineken store, saw the oldest church in the Netherlands (which was filled with creepy Illuminati like art), and deemed ourselves Amsterdam.

It looked so good I forgot to take a picture before it was half consumed.

In the event in which I make a travel guide for Amsterdam, I would put the Van Gogh museum first and Burger Bar second. Burger Bar exactly what it seems like it would be: place where very hungry young people can go and indulge in the most delectable of handheld foods on either side of the Atlantic Ocean.

If I were a dude, I'd skip the hooker and go right for the explosion of pleasure provided by Burger Bar.

I am so serious.

space brownie.

The first time we went, I got the single burger with cheese, avocado, jalapeños. It is absolutely phenomenal, and was definitely our go-to spot before we discovered Wok to Walk and then had to leave. Had I been there more than four days, I would definitely have gained my weight in Burger Bar concoctions.

The only other food I could recommend would be Baba's space brownies. Good price and very unsuspecting taste. Oh, and you have to be at least 18 to eat it.

So besides the food, the hookers, and the art, the city is beautiful. It is situated in its own coordinates shared with several canals and bridges.

I love bridges.

They don't quite provide the same splendor as the Brooklyn Bridge or the Verrazano, but it's still cute.

bike racks on bike racks on bike racks

For those of you who have been conscious of origins, our city, New York, was formerly New Amsterdam. I can somewhat see the resemblance. The big difference is the fact that everyone in OG Amsterdam is white, Dutch, and speaks English. Their public transportation is much faster, too. Perhaps because it runs above ground. I don't mean above head, but on street level, right along with the cars. I truly questioned the safety of this, but it works so efficiently that it doesn't even matter.

The other major staple of Old Amsterdam citizenship is bike riding. They love bike riding so much (and avoid cars as much as possible since the tram hogs the road), that they have bike garages in place of parking garages.

And coffeeshops.

Such a happy go lucky place! So easy to navigate as well. When we were looking for Burger Bar our second time with our handy dandy blinking tourist badge (aka- map), a nice man gave us directions by sending us down the street, a left, and into the square that has in the center of is what can only be described as a "giant dildo."

Gotta love the Dutch.

Top Ten Gelatz

Yes, I know I'm in Spain now. But if there's one thing I miss about Italy, especially on days under a sizzling Sevillan sun, is gelato. Sweet, creamy, multi-flavored gelatz topped in a crunchy waffle cone.

I'm drooling (or just sweating...)

So, while in Italy, I took careful notes on all of my gelato excursions and came up with what I consider the best. You may want to study this very carefully if you ever venture to Italy.

I pledge my allegiance to Gelato.

1. Biscottino
Oddly enough, it’s not quite gelato. The sign always says “Gelato non gelato,” but two gelatos in a sentence means gelato to me. It’s a lot creamier than the actual gelato, pretty much like a heavy whipped cream. What makes it really delectable is the little crunchy cookies in it. It is oreo ice cream, Italian style. So therefore, better.

2. Walnut
Sounds a little strange, but I swear it is a pleasant surprise. It is the same color of walnuts, kind of helps support the idea of minimal artificial flavoring. Since it’s cold and creamy, I’m not going to say it tastes like a walnut, but I think the reason I like it so much is because it reminds me of when I used to get cinnamon bun batter ice cream (before they discontinued it </3) at Cold Stone and put walnuts in it.

Pit stop in Venice for Pistachio.

3. Pistachio
All I think of in my head when I request this is my Dad screaming through the phone to request this when I go to Rita’s. Rita’s doesn’t always have it, however. Italy does. It is their staple flavor, so much so that McDonald’s has a Pistachio McFlurry. Walnut isn’t quite a walnut but Pistachio is most positively a pistachio. I didn’t think it was possible, but they made a frozen creamy treat salty to perfection. The tiny little grains of ground pistachio aren’t even bothersome. The rich green color is just as natural as the Sicilian taste of the expensive ass nuts. It is my official go-to flavor.

4. Settevelli
This is a magical concoction paying homage to a cake like dessert of the same name. It is a rich dark chocolatey base with what tasted like a sort of whipped cream, but not quite marshmallow, swirl. Definitely my go-to flavor when I needed a quick chocolate fix.

5. Cannoli Cream
Hello? Need I say more?

6. Cinnamon
I actually got this on accident, but what a beautiful disaster it was! So the girl’s like “wanna try this gross rice cherry flavor?” So I was like, YEAH. And I hated it. So I asked for pistachio then a sample of cinnamon, so she just slopped it on my cone. My nerves immediately shot through my face. I thought it was going to be the first gelato cone I would throw out. One lick, however, and I was in love. THIS is where ColdStone modeled my favorite ice cream flavor after: Cinnamon Bun Batter. I don’t know if Turkey Hill has a version of this, but I am surely going to die without it in the States.

7. Cookies
This delicacy is a rarity; so much so that the only place I’ve found it was the infamous “Old Bridge” right near the Vatican. Appropriate; this is a God of gelatos. Not quite chocolate chip and still not chocolate chip cookie dough, but it’s my favorite part of a cookie making experience: the dough. Straight, delectable, buttery floury frothy dough. In gelato form, which I’m assuming means no raw eggs. Acceptable NOW?

King of Gelato. Old Bridge <3

8. Ricotta and Pistachio
Also only experienced thus far at Old Bridge, this doesn’t leave much the imagination. I already explained the way pistachio is a blend of chunks and salt to make an oddly sweet desert. Now stir it up with some delicious ricotta that I was under the impression only the South Beach Diet noted as a scrumptious treat, and you have yet another Holy Relic of desserts.

9. Cappuccino
My favorite ice cream in the states is coffee, but for some reason I was never truly enticed into choosing coffee gelato. Perhaps because the name is just not Italian enough. Cappuccino certainly steps up to the plate. It doesn't quite have the coffee bite like the self named flavor. It's much more creamy, directly simulating the experience of drinking the foamy coffee concoction with triple the calories.

10. Tiramisu
The Italian dessert that, if not made right, will get you drunk in a quite unenjoyable way isn't just at our favorite 24-hour bakery. In gelatz form, it is not layered, but rather a fully combined experience. When you lick into it, you can certianly be fooled into thinking that it actually has a cake like consistency. And no fork needed.

Felices Pascuas

Even without weekly scheduled group excursions to mass, I was able to get myself up this morning in time to attend mass for Easter Sunday.

Mom, how proud are you?

Even though it wasn't Notre Dame, I knew that I wouldn't regret doing so. The cathedral that we decided to trek into the city center to chill with God in was Alcazar Cathedral. This is the elusive cathedral I spoke of earlier. It's the one that holds Christopher Colombus and whatnot.

Just a tiny corner of what is the massive cathedral.

We did think, by the way it sits on a plot of land equivalent to what looks like three city blocks, that it was the biggest cathedral in Europe. Unfortunately, we were wrong. It is actually the third largest; the first being St. Peter's Basilica in Rome (check...) and a cathedral in London whose name escapes me. This, however is the largest gothic cathedral in the world.

NO BIG DEAL.

We were walking into the city center from what I explained to you all (vosotros) as our suburbia haven and saw an amazingly low number of people outside. Those who were were all decked out in either adidas or wearing their one shoulder backpack to the front.

AKA: American tourists.

Inside of Alcazar, not to be confused with Alcatraz.

Santa Domingo in Spain is not a time to enjoy the sun, which had peaked out today for the first time in weeks to celebrate JC's ascension I guess. It is a time for church and siesta. The entire city is shut down.

Naturally, our first fear was that we would get to the cathedral and find the entire population of Seville inside, since it was only 9:30 and there was no sign of native life. We got lucky. We got there, and though it was swarming with tourists and the mass had literally just begun, we were able to explain to the high security team that we actually wanted to pass through their gated area to attend the mass.

We were seated in an awkward area off to the right of the elaborate floral decor alter in wooden fold chairs. The smell of the waving ball and chain filled with incense brought me back to my early Catholic school girl days when we used to cover our noses for dear life. I guess the fact that it was in Spain made me appreciate it a little more.

The mass was such an elaborate show that we saw
all the side stage action.

The Spanish mass especially made me appreciative of the holiday and chillin' in the house of the Father. Though it was long, I like the challenge of piecing together the lisps into comprehensive spanish.

What really struck a chord of familiarity, being in a gothic church, was the music. Remember me describing the Halloween-esque music of Notre Dame? Well, this wasn't quite as creepy, and the alter boys didn't emerge from the depth of a pit of punishment, but when they played Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, I truly felt like I was in a vampire movie (one in which they don't sparkle.)

Considering the sun that had taken a vacation from us until this moment, it didn't feel like I was doomed to the inner circles of Hell for all eternity. Leaving church made me feel good about myself, and even better about my friends who all also agreed to wake up early to pay homage to our religious practices in the most important Catholic city behind the Vatican itself.

Soaking in some sun and sangria; the Spanish way.

That didn't change the fact that we were starving and the whole city was shut down to celebrate the finale of holy week. After walking for a good half an hour we stumbled across a little outdoor cafe who must be either in the red or run by heathens that would feed us. Not my favorite paella de tapas, but it did the trick.

I think God is finally as appreciative of us as we are of Him, that's the only reason I can think of that he finally provided us with a beautiful day.

La Isla Tranquilla

Spain is in a league of its own when it comes to European tourist cities.

Paris was more saturated in history and art than the Chip Shop is saturated in fat. It took no attempt at all to learn; I simply walked not even out of the building, but out of my room and shot back in time with what the signs on the door warned us to be "old Parisian staircase."

Rome was much more full of its own solid culture of the oldest civilization that somehow echoed through time and was maintained in artifacts, culture, and customs. Hearing the Italian was a little bit more familiar than the snotty French, but still not quite comprehensive to my native English mind.

Now here I am in Spain, the country who doesn't take lessons from the others and does its own thing.

This program was originally supposed to take us to Salamanca, but changed to Seville due to it being more urbanized for us little city students. Even though I know the feeling of being secluded from any type of urban setting and requiring modes of transportation to interact with other humans, I'm not used to it during my school time months.

It's not nearly as bad as my shaded house in the hills, as we can walk down the block for restaurants, bars, and markets, but the real action is a 40 minute walk.

THE HORROR.

I supposed we would be able to live without the 3 minute distance between the nearest department store like we had in Paris and Rome, but didn't realize how truly quiet of a setting we were capable of living in as a group.

All of our basic conveniences are very close by which is a convenience, except between the hours of 2 and 5.

Perhaps you've heard of something called Siesta? Basically, it's nap time. All the stores, restaurants, gelaterias, farmacias, and even the cervecerias close their doors and have lunch and a nap.

Oh you smoke and just finished your pack of cigarettes? Well you get a chance to dabble with the cold turkey method because you're not getting a drag until everyone wakes up.

Oh your brand new flip flops ripped and you're walking on one foot? Well you're going to waltz the Walk of Shame like no other broad after Halloween, because you're gonna do it with no quick fixes available with a quick debit purchase.

Or maybe you just need something to eat, or your sweet tooth is begging you for some churros and chocolate? Not until after dinner, which isn't until 9 o'clock anyway.

I didn't understand their late dinner until I got here, and went out to the club. You see, in New York, we would always be ready by about 10 or 11, be out by 12, stay there until anywhere between 2-3:30 depending on who had too much to drink, and go home.

In Spain, they eat because they need to have the food in their stomach close enough to when they start drinking, which is at least 2 hours after we even finish pre-gaming. Most clubs are free before 1AM because no self-respecting siestaing Spaniard would even dare hailing a cab to the club until 2AM.

Spain is so chill, it's unbelievable. I don't chill like "dude I been drunk for days, spain is so chill."

I mean you walk outside, and the traffic, even with all the stop lights, is a maximum of 5 cars. They sleep in the middle of the day and give you tapas for 2 euro. The bike lanes, which run directly roads, are possibly the most serious aspects of Spain; if you're walking on the bike lane, approaching simply ding the bell and you step aside onto the designated sidewalk.

I'm telling you, neanderthals.

What I could probably appreciate the most is tapas. Since Spain was announced on my itinerary, all Dad said was "you havta get tapas." And I finally have and understand why.

A bowl of paella, plate of calamari, and a chicken selection: 2 euro each; 6 euro lunch.

Absolutely delicious.

The sunshine? Yeah, that's been on spring break too I guess. But otherwise, the palm trees and calm winds are everything to reckon with.

Y yo hablo español todos los dias.

Domingo de Ramos

pensé que Roma era reliosa….

Seville takes it to a whole different level.

Today was (and still is for you American based Americans) Palm Sunday. After a long day of siesta and getting rained on I walked down the hall of our family complex and ran into one person who simply said, “we’re going to church.” It has been a few weeks since I’ve partaken in a nice little sit down with the Man Upstairs, so I jumped into as conservative a dress as I own and joined in the march to the city center.

pretty elaborate for a no name church.

The city was mobbed with people of literally every age in there absolute best attire. All the guys, from the tiny tots to the abuelos were in full suits and the girls were dressed in the most modest form of club attire.

Easter in Seville is a fiesta like no other.

Without knowing exactly which church we would be attending mass, we followed the crowds of people, though they seemed to be going in every direction imaginable.

Maybe the massive cathedral there will have mass was our mindset. This particular cathedral was so large that the general consensus was that it was most likely the largest in Europe. We have still yet to confirm that, however what is confirmed is that the actual body of Christopher Colombus is here. That’s pretty monumental in itself.

What they didn’t have, however, was mass.

So we continued on, hoping to find at least a church to say a little prayer in to (partially) earn a beer that we were planning on having afterward.

Joe modeling his Palm Sunday attire and palm.

We got lucky in finding a church that was holding mass within the next ten minutes. We entered to discover that the group of 11 of us made up the majority of the congregation. That was fine. The mass was obviously still in Spanish. It is helping me get much better at it, so I have no complaints.

We sat through the shortest Palm Sunday mass in history and collected our palms that are more like little olive branches than the palms I’m used to folding into little crosses.

At the conclusion we exited to find the city had erupted into a full party. It can best be compared with New York’s Halloween parade, or the Rockefeller tree lighting. It was a big deal.

Having been warned beforehand, we avoided the shock of seeing the traditional tall pointed and face covering robes that Americans can identify as racial hate groups. Not in Spain, everyone. This is a very sacred tradition rooted in medieval ritual. Even the little Spaniards wear them and were part of the parade into which we were thrown directly into.

And this is only Palm Sunday….

The Klan has NO originality...

From what I collected from the mass, the priest was very intent on emphasizing that being in Seville during Easter is a very fortunate occurrence. No other city in the world embraces the religiosity of the season like Sevilla.

I’m interested to see what other types of messages God is trying to extend to me by bringing me to this continent that loves Him more than I could have ever learned from Bibles and theology class.