La Feria

As much as we have loved to party in all the other countries we've been to, Spain has proven to us it loves to party the most.

Last week was the famous Feria de Abril, literally April Fair. It is a week long celebration of life and Spanish culture. It's a fair on CRACK. Rides, foods, tents with their own personal parties, and most importantly of all WAFFLES. Known in Spain as 'gofres', the waffles is a delectable play on the belgium treat smothered in chocolate or strawberry or whipped cream to your heart's desire and is the heaviest drug to which you can get addicted.

I refuse rehab. My addiction is so bad that one morning, I woke up in a cold sweat and drug the most willing human being from bed to accompany me to the fair (which doesn't close until 6AM) to get a waffle.

Best decision of my life.

This isn't just a creepy carnival fair with clowns and dunk tanks like we do in the states. This is a serious celebration. So much so that you don't even wear jeans when you attend; all of the girls, toddlers to twice divorced women wear full on flamenco dresses.

"But how do they ride the rides?" I also asked myself this question. But somehow, they get their tight mermaid-stlye dresses over the leg separator and lift off. No clue...

Los getting loco on the Inverter.

However, I must agree that if I were in that dress there wouldn't be venturing on the rides either.
My favorite: the Inverter!

Basically, there are four rows of four seats in a circular formation at the end of a pendulum. It starts swinging back and forth until eventually, you guessed it, you're completely inverted. And then there's that moment where your seat just buckles and starts swinging and your clavicle gets bruised.

It's AWESOME.

This ride, as well as the lamest haunted house I've ever enjoyed being in, a pirate ship cage, and a bouncing kangaroo ride, were all offering club music to wait in line to.

It is literally just a massive party. And it's awesome.

And it is now on my bucket list to come back in the most fabulous flamenco dress the world has ever seen and ride the Inverter.

The week ended with a 4th of July worthy fireworks show on Sunday night. Made me wanna bring the whole festival to us in July.

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!

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.

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.