Menorca

With the upcoming elections, I want to take a moment to point out one important issue that, disappointingly, the candidates have been conspicuously avoiding: increased vacation time. I'm not one to think that my short time in Europe, and my short time on this Earth in general, puts me in a position to preach about complex ways that European countries are different from America, but I think we can all remember elementary school when we learned that 4 > 1. This especially applies with summer vacation. Since the Spanish have a month of vacation time (in addition to adjusted work schedules to allow for beach time), it's the general rule in Spain that August is holiday month, and things pretty much shut down. Because no one wanted English lessons during their Sacred Vacation Time, this meant a lot of free time for me as well. And let me tell you, I'd give up having a dishwasher (and dryer, and microwave...) for life if it meant having more than a week or two of vacation every year. I've had people tell me, completely straight-faced, that there would be riots in the streets if the government tried to change the current system. They're in disbelief when I tell them that a lot of people in America have a week tops, and even more so when I explain the concept of sick days. Here, when you're sick, you just don't go to work. (But to be fair, they have been building the Sagrada Familia since 1882, so maybe there's something to be said about a few less siestas every year).  Anyway, after Tomatina, Ashley and I took a short Monday - Thursday trip to Menorca as soon as the prices dropped September 1st.

The first day, we only had to walk out of the hotel to find ourselves on the beach.  At one point I realized that I was paying the same amount to stay in the hotel on the beach as I did to stay in dreadful Hostel New York during the second half of my first month in Barcelona. But I probably would never have moved if my hostel had a pool with flamenco music and cheap pitchers of sangria.

How fun do these look?!




The second day, we took a bus from Calan Bosch, where we were staying, to Cala Blanca a little bit further north.  This is where the bus driver dropped us off:

 

Menorca's coastline is dotted with "calas," which don't really have an easy translation into English.  This is what a cala is:

Closer look:
There are dozens of these mini beach/coves all over the island, some more secluded than others.  I went snorkeling with a snorkel I "borrowed" from the hotel.  (By the way - in Spanish, you can say "gafas" for the mask, which is the same words for glasses and "tubo," for the tube.  It's so intuitive and makes you wonder who came up with words like "snorkel" and "goggles" that you can only use in a really specific context. This is why I sometimes find myself apologizes to my students for the complexities of our language.)

Back at the hotel:



On the last, and decidedly best, day we had an unexpected, amazing time completely by accident.  In order to kill time before we caught the bus to the other side of the island, we wandered towards the coast near Ciatudella, the main city on the west side...
There we came across the coastline, which was nothing like in Calan Bosch.  It was rocky, with cliffs that dropped down into the sea, and it reminded me a little bit of the way Northeast of America.

We found a secret cave/ homeless person's dwelling, and ventured in.

Ashley found her Favorite Spot in the World, and we carefully climbed down and dangled our feet off the edge, waiting for just the right wave to come along...



Then we walked down to the water, and played chicken with the waves.

Soaked!  Some boys fishing off the edge were looking at me like I was a crazy woman.  They signaled to me that they had caught 4 fish so far, then I waved bye and it was Ashley's turn.

Wait for it...

Classic!

Instant Replay!

With the sun setting, it was time to leave.

We made our way back to the bus, then fell asleep during the 45 minute ride to Mahon.

Downtown Mahon:

Mahon is known for having the second largest natural port in the world, or some other impressive statistic like that.  Here is it - it's really pretty at night: 

We caught a late flight back to Barcelona, the kind of flight that takes off, and after what seems like 5 minutes, the pilot announces the landing.  It's times like this that make me appreciate choosing to live in Barcelona versus another city in Spain and make me realize that I could never live away from the coast.  

"My life if like a stroll on the beach... as near to the edge as I can go." - Thoreau

El Fight de Tomatoes

When I found out the dates that Ashley wanted to come visit, I realized they coincided with La Tomatina, an annual, internationally-known tomato fight held in Buñol (near Valencia) every year.  Luckily, it was on Ashley's List of Things To Do Before I Die, so when I suggested we go, she was all for it.  I also invited my good friend Eric, who, if he had known what would happen at the end of the trip, probably would have stayed home and watched it on TV instead.

First things first, we prepared ourselves with goggles, waterproof cameras, and 2-euro tank tops painted for the occasion:

Given the choice of staying in the only hostel still available, with reviews like "there was a strange smell coming out of the ventilation," or taking the train to Valencia the night before and staying up until the morning, we chose the latter.  Eric and I have a habit of hanging out with large groups of Brazilians wherever we go, and that night was no exception.  We randomly met this group of people from Brasil, living in Madrid, and ended up spending the night with them.  At 6 am or so, the majority of them returned to their hotel to change clothes, and promised to meet us there.  Later on, we found out that they ended up falling asleep and missing the whole thing.  Four of us made it to the train station, but we got split up even more when the rush of people were boarding the train.  So unfortunately, I didn't get to nail Ashley or Eric with a handful of mashed up tomato.  But I had a new friend (and bodyguard) in Fanderson, one of the Brazilians, and after a short nap on the street we headed towards the center.  

Before the fight starts, there's entertainment in the form of "Ham Up a Greasy Pole," which is exactly what it sounds like.  Brave (or drunk) party-goers try to scramble up this crisco-ed pole to try to grab the chunk of ham taunting them at the top, and the fight starts as soon as someone gets it down.  Meanwhile, townspeople stand at their windows with hoses or with big tubs of water, throwing it onto the cheering rowd while overzealous boys throw their wet tshirts around like in a mosh pit.

This year, despite a valiant attempt by chickens and bare-assed men alike, no one was able to get a hold of the prize.  Luckily, they decided to start the fight anyway, as to prevent a riot.  Even though, that's kind of the point...

Bring on the trucks!  After the horn sounds, trucks come down the street every few minutes for a hour, with people flattening themselves up against the walls to avoid being run over.  The men and women inside get the crowd going crazy, then start throwing tomatoes over.  The trucks stop and the back lifts up slowly, letting the avalanche of tomatoes pour out onto the street.  They're scooped up and thrown around before they even get near the ground.

It didn't take long for me to have tomato in my ears, mouth, hair... and dripping down my arms.  Everyone was picking tomatoes up off the ground, scraping it off the walls, wherever they could get it to chuck it at loved ones and strangers.  By the time the horn sounds to signify the end of the fight, everyone is covered.

Somehow, my flipflops managed to survive.  

Afterwards, we followed the parade of people alternating between picking tomato out of their hair and splashing in the tomato soupy mess that flowed down the streets. On the way to the outdoor showers, people hung out the window with hoses, and grateful tourists hosed off. Since you can't get back on the train to Valencia without a shirt, the boys who earlier thought it was fun to throw around their soaking wet t-shirts now were searching through the muck to put on anything they could find. Fanderson and I found our way back to the street where a nice lady had offered to hold our things in her apartment, and after we yelled to her window from the street, she threw down my tomato-free bag. Still unable to find Ashley or Eric, we headed back to Valenica and got some Paella, since that's where it originates.




Later on, I headed to the bus station, hoping to find Ashley and Eric there before we were all supposed to head back at 8 pm. Instead of finding them together, I found a horrified Ashley talking to a Romanian man who had stopped to help her. When I asked where Eric was, she told me that while they were sitting and talking at the bus station, the police singled him out and asked to see his passport. Ashley didn't have hers since it was in my bag, but that didn't matter because she's blonde and had an American driver's license. When they saw that Eric had overstayed his welcome by a few months, they hauled him off and shrugged off his pleas to help Ashley since she doesn't speak Spanish. After she told me, we were both in shock, and it was a very solemn ride home. We had no way of reaching him, and didn't hear from him until the next night while I was trying to call his work to tell them he couldn't come in. I was convinced he was on a plane back to Mexico and was planning on going to his apartment the next day to talk to his roommates and get his things together. Apparently, the way it works is if they find you've overstayed your visa, you have 6 months to get everything together before you have to leave, and that's only if they follow through with the paperwork (otherwise you're off the hook). So he'll be here at least until February. What saddened me almost as much as the thought of losing one of my best friends here is the blatant racism involved (they gave Ashley no problem even though she didn't even have her passport, and treated him like a criminal from the start because they could tell he wasn't Spanish).

But despite the dramatic end, we all had an incredible time during the fight. Eric's back, and the only lasting problem was that we couldn't eat tomatoes for a week. I'm glad to say I participated in the tradition, and Ashley has one more thing crossed off her list.

*The illustration is "Immigration Barriers" by my lovely and talented sister. More can be found at www.steviefrench.com
Shameless plug.