In the past two weeks I have taken two journeys due East: first, to Valencia for the festival of Las Fallas; and second, to Mallorca for some Mediterranean flavah.
On March 19th, my friends and I boarded a bus at 9 am full of university students bound for the east coast city of Valencia for one of the most unique festivals in existence: las Fallas! The origins of this celebration have been obscured by time, but they are associated with the spring equinox and perhaps some sort of rebirth and yes, pagan rituals. The whole community of Valencia divides into units to build these huge ninots, or giant figurines made of paper mache like material. The ninots are usually satirical in nature, and are often representing local pop culture icons, political figures, or old legends brought into the modern age. We noticed many “crisis’ themed ninots , as well as internationally known figures like Woody Allen, Obama wearing punching gloves and defeating a tired looking Bush, Kim Jong Il… Each plaza, big or small, hosted a ninot, and during the proceeding weeks the statues were celebrated with fireworks and outdoor cooking spectaculars where paella or sausage was prepared over a large fire on the street. There were also very traditionally dressed princesses (with princess Leah buns to match), and Moorish looking kings or regal figures of sorts parading around the city. The general ambience was satirical Disneyland meets pagan Spain.
The night we were there is known as 'crema' de Las Fallas, where a firework displays signal the comencement of each 'Falla': or the celebration of the burning of each ninot. Yes, I said burning. Crazy destruction of art, environmental nightmare, or sheer madness, this festival is legit. By 8 AM the next morning, only one of the 500 plus ninot stands: the 'best' ninot as judged by the Ayuntamiento, or the govt's cultural department. Firefighters are abound during the celebration, but usually spend the majority of their efforts on spraying the groups of teenagers who venture near the burning ninot singing drunkenly. All in good smokin' fun.
We spent most of our night hopping from one Falla to the next, scrambling up and down trees or posts to get better views, and generally being pushed by the massive crowds which inhabited the city. We left our friends who were staying in Valencia at 4 am to catch our bus back to Madrid, where we were met with continued revelrly and Mexican curse words being tossed about (some Mexican kids decided to befriend us on the bus ride). After waking up from my quasi-bus-reveries as we pulled back into Madrid, I wondered if it was all a surrealist-inspired dream.
This past weekend, 5 of us decided to take ourselves to Mallorca, one of the Islas Baleares on the Mediterranean. A bit ill informed of the weather, we didn't opt for the German-tourist standard of yachting and beaches and 25 euro discotecas. And we didn't rent a car, which limited our mobility in many ways. Oh yeah, we are po' students. Nevertheless, sin embargo, we made the most of it. On Friday we went to Castell Bellver, a circular castle with a gorgeous view of the mountains and sea and later hung out by la playa. That night we had tapas and were serenaded by a Spanish wannabe cowboy wearing way too tight jeans crooning such songs as Bobby McGee (a la Janis Joplin). Saturday we took a bus up north to Puerto Alcúdia, a less touristy spot where we became senderistas (hikers!) and hiked out of the port towards the mountains and through bucolic pastures full of sheep and horses and sycamores. The only sound we heard besides our own buzz was the lulling chime of the bells strung around the sheeps' collars. We ended up at this refugi (cabin) nestled into a cliff and overlooking the sea. A kind family had set up camp in the refugi, and offered to show us inside. We plopped down on a well placed picnic table outside and had lunch. We returned via a different route and calculated that we had walked about 13 kilometros total (around 7-8 miles!). That night we collectively cooked our own feast of brown rice and beans, salad, and calamari for the pescatarians. It was so rewarding and delicious to cook our own food. On Sunday, the morning greeted us with rain and daylight savings time. We headed back to Palma after a lovely hostel breakfast and wandered a bit in search of the Joan Miró studio and museum. Eventually we found it, and what a view he had of the sea! The Fundacio Joan Miró contained numerous paintings, mostly from his later period, female inspired sculptures, his studio, stray cats, and a neat exhibition from an artist who used dandelion seeds and miniscule bits of nature to create interesting art forms. Later we walked around the old city (which was much nicer than the rest of the city, which I found a bit too touristy) and watched the sun set behind clouds on the beach (while bundled up from the cold). We dined and hookah-ed (or arguille) at a Lebanese/Syrian joint where the owner, "Omar Shareef" as he called himself, told us of his restless relocations and reassured us of his sanity while his eyes darted everywhichway, suggesting otherwise. But, oh, the hummus!
This was not a typical Mallorcan weekend for your average package tourist from the Rhineland (a good chunk of the people in Palma). Thank god.
No comments:
Post a Comment