The Return to Normalcy

Spring break ended with a bang. My mom and I went ghost hunting at the Parador in Santiago, but with no luck. We did however manage to experience (entirely by accident) one of the oldest and most sacred traditions in Spain. The week before Easter in Spain is called Semana Santa, or Holy Week, and every night, at every church or at least in every town, there is a processional depicting a different stage of the death and resurrection of Christ. My mom and I were coming back from a long day of wandering the old city, throwing our jackets on the beds of the hotel, when I heard bagpipes and drums out in the cathedral courtyard. I listened, thinking that perhaps one of the street musicians had been joined by a friend or a band. As I hung my head out our third story window, I started to see figures with candles appear around the corner. One by one they emerged from the darkness, some with candles, some drumming, and all of them wearing emerald green cloaks and canonical hoods. I grabbed my jacket and ran downstairs in time to catch the procession. In awe I watched as they proceeded beat by beat barefoot through the street, clanking metal canes on the cobblestones in a ghostly rhythm with the drums. A hush fell over everyone as a gilded glass sarcophagus came by on the shoulders of ten men, a replica of the bloodied body of Jesus inside. It was slightly creepy because the hoods and cloaks of the men look identical to those worn by the Ku Klux Klan in America. Interestingly enough, the KKK actually took the design of their outfits from these religious ceremonies, as the men who participate in these rituals have been doing so in Spain for hundreds and hundreds of years. A little known fact but very important to note if you don’t want to get the two groups mixed up. Upon researching these processionals after I first saw them, I found out that the hooded men are members of a Catholic brotherhood whose job is to maintain the figures they carry on their shoulders and present them every Semana Santa to the community. Some of the statues that they carry are over a thousand years old. I don’t care if you are religious or not, the whole spectacle was enough to inspire somber respect and a sense of awe. It was an experience that I think very few people are ever lucky enough to have.
Other highlights in Santiago included the new discovery of the fact that I actually do like seafood. I ate slices of octopus tentacles, what the people in Galicia call “pulpo”, and loved it. In addition, I found a new love for langostinos, creatures that resemble large shrimp but which are really small lobsters. They are a very tasty fingerfood delicacy in Galicia. I was awed, in addition, by the splendor of the cathedral. On the outside, it looked like an old Baroque building covered in green and orange moss, with three high towers and a friendly pilgrim statue presiding over it all. Upon entering, my jaw dropped. I have never seen so much gold in one place in my entire life. The sacristy façade was gilded, top to bottom, with columns of golden grapevines and golden-haired angels four times the size of a human being upholding the canopy. I also enjoyed my first rainbow in years while sitting under an awning with my mom in a deserted hillside neighborhood. It was an entirely unique experience, wholly satisfying and awe-inspiring. I may never pass that way again, but what I saw and felt there will last me for a lifetime.
Back in Barcelona I have been trying to enjoy my time to fullest. The weather has been phenomenal, the sun shining every day, and thus I have been spending my time at the beach, having lunch outdoors at the local cafes, and at night with my window open listening to the sound of traffic and wanderers on the street below. Tonight I enjoyed a particularly exciting time at a soccer match between Barcelona and a team from the UK. I haven’t heard a stadium roar that loud since I left Cal, and it melted my heart to experience a sort of athletic-fan solidarity once again. Not to mention the fit of laughter that ensued after witnessing a Santa Claus-looking old man in a red communist cap screaming Spanish vulgarities and insults at the two teams for “playing worse than his mother”.
Everything I am doing is making me love Spain all the more, but also miss home more than I ever did before. Half of me is going to be devastated to leave. I finally feel like I have gotten into a groove of living. I am not shy about talking to strangers in Spanish anymore; I have learned the city streets like the back of my hand and can navigate myself easily through shortcuts and back alleys without a map; I finally know the best routes for taking a walk, the best places to find a good deal on scarves and earrings, and where to buy the best bocadillo within 10 miles; I figured out that even the street vendors whom tourists usually stay away from are quite interesting men to talk to; I know how to make a phone call from an international calling café; I know where to buy the cheapest beer in town, coupled with the best patatas bravas. There is no end to the list of things I feel I have mastered, or the list of things I could master if given more time in this city. But then there is half of me that has already started the countdown until I come home. Every day that half gets a little more ancy, a little more excited, and a little more ready to say goodbye to Barcelona and hop on that plane home. Just 20 more days. 20 more days and I am going to be ripped in two, and then put back together again. 20 days till goodbye…and 20 days till hello.