Weekend recap: theft, paella, dubbed movies, and a new friendship with the feline. The glamour never stops.
A piece of advice: Whatever you do, never let anyone steal your cell phone in Spain. They can take your camera, your cash, your inhaler, an appendage — but do not let them have your phone.
You will only be punished for your vulnerability and your inability to understand customer service on the phone. And by punished, I just mean customer service told me I couldn’t understand English and then hung up. I may hit a daily limit on my bank account paying to replace the stolen phone.
I could juxtapose this advice with a killer story about how I bravely handed over my phone to an ETA member at gunpoint or something, but I have no idea what actually happened. The phone just sort of disappeared out of my back pocket. I never saw or felt anything. The woman on the phone totally didn’t believe the ETA story, so I just won’t flesh out those false juicy details.
Topic #2. Paella.
The first time Tina (my house mom) set paella in front of me, I started weeping. I was utterly terrified of what she had cooked. Paella is a Spanish rice dish, and its appearance would weaken the knees of most rational human beings. This paella was made with seafood, but the seafood still had its eyeballs, legs and feelers. I was frightened, and rightly so.
“But it’s yellow,” I told her. “They have eyes. Are you sure they’re dead? I’m afraid.”
Tina and the rest of the dinner table laughed. She told me that she’d sit there all night with me until I tried it. I didn’t want to spend my evening recapping dinner table memories from my entire childhood, so I closed my eyes and gave it a whirl. Everyone leaned in, enraptured with my facial expressions. It gave me a lot of confidence.
But you know, it wasn’t half bad. In fact, it was actually pretty phenomenal. Paella has quickly converted into my favorite dinner in Spain. I go to class and brag that Tina’s making paella for dinner, and my classmates drool. Tina cooks it with calamari, crayfish, mussels, tuna, salmon and shrimp. Be still my little taste buds. Paella is on the menu for tomorrow night — at my request.
Next up: dubbed movies. It turns out that sitting around watching TV doesn’t make me stupider, and spending large blocks of time watching it is actually helping out my Spanish. Yesterday, I watched Big, Lilo and Stitch, and Back to the Future. I may never leave my room again. In addition to the goldmine of dubbed American movies, I’m catching up on season three of “Lois and Clark: The Adventures of Superman,” hailing straight from the airwaves of 1997.
Need a memory refresher? Lois and Clark finally just got married, but Lois got cloned by some hot villain. He’s trying to woo her, but she’s too savvy for him. She meets her clone (oops) and immediately loses her memory. It goes without saying that I’m hooked and rekindling my crush on Dean Cain.
Also playing on a Spanish network near you: “Family Guy,” “Survivor,” “The Simpsons,” and a really horrible Spanish version of “Deal or No Deal.” Turns out this last show sucks in both languages, but Tina gets really worked up watching it, so I put up with it. The three of us really like our TV.
That’s right. I’m talking about me, Tina, and Zara the cat. If you’ll remember from June, Zara is the psycho-kitty who was breaking into my room and clawing apart my Steve Maddens every day.
You’ll be relieved to know that I finally decided to let this little gremlin into my life, and we’re becoming fast friends. Zara and I spend a lot of time together now. She watches me shower on a daily basis and has seen me naked more times than I’m comfortable sharing on the Internet. This afternoon we napped together, and we slept soundly until she began howling and sharpening her back claws on my skin.
I’m slowly exposing Zara to my musical library, and I think we may have a blossoming Radiohead fan on our hands. She starts purring and strutting when I play OK Computer, and then she goes and steals things from my bathroom. I knew she had to have some redeemable qualities.
Turns out, we have a lot of things in common. She can open doors and drawers, and she likes to drink water from the sink.
Oh, look at the time. I have to go pay my phone bill and cuddle with Zara while we watch Sweet Valley High in Spanish. Gotta boogie!
Peace and paella,
Ann
After watching my compatriots eagerly search for items most closely resembling hot dogs, corn chips, and red, white, and blue Bomb Pops in the supermarket, I went home to have dinner with my French family. We had nothing like the bizarre combo the other Americans had thrown together: andouille sausage stuck inside a baguette, sliced the long-way, with tarte aux pommes for dessert.
This meal arose out of their desire to celebrate the Forth of July, here in France. A desire I, for many reasons, did not share. Sure, I like picnics, fireworks, and the tingle of sunburned cheeks on a cool, summer night. But I guess I’m not one to celebrate my nation’s independence in a country far from my own. Patriotism generally tends to creep me out. It’s not that I’m not proud of where I come from. I am. I just don’t feel compelled to put it on display.
It turns out I’m not alone.
La Prise de la Bastille, or Bastille Day, took place this past Saturday, July 14. In preparation for the French national holiday, my professor prepared a few activities for us to complete during class. We reviewed the symbols of the French Republic: the flag, the rooster, the Phrygien bonnet. The motto: liberty, equality, brotherhood; the national hymn, “La Marseillaise;” and Marianne, the feminine face of the nation. As I looked around the room I noted that my classmates were more pumped about the quatorze juillet than any French people I’d seen. Most of the girls were outfitted in blue, white and red; their red pearls matched their red bracelets, which matched their red heels.
We broke up into pairs for the first activity. Our mission was to walk up to people on the street and ask them to explain the origins of these symbols. Easy enough.
Our first contestant was a middle-aged woman standing by an island of best-sellers in a bookstore. She was obviously occupied but politely told us that the rooster came from the Gauls, the people who lived in France during ancient times.
The following few people we asked were much more reluctant to answer our questions. Granted, I’m fairly threatening at 5’2”, speaking broken French with an American accent, determined to complete my questionnaire. But really, they didn’t clam up until after our greeting, until the actual questions started flowing.
“Hum,” one guy stammered in response to our question. “What does the 14 of July represent to France?”
“These questions aren’t for me. It’s not my thing.”
OK, onto the next.
“No, sorry. Not me.”
Damn.
When our time was up we headed back to our classroom, the survey half finished. Everyone, it seemed, had a similar experience.
Thinking that perhaps people didn’t want to talk to us because we were American students, I asked my host mom some of the questions at home. She explained that overall, the French are edgy around nationalism. They’re careful not to come off as patriotic and don’t feel responsible for celebrating a national identity. She said they take more pride in what comes out of France, like cuisine, wine, literature, or art, than in the nation itself. People don’t fly the French flag from their doorsteps, there are no “I’m Proud to Be French” songs on the radio, and you would never see someone sporting a “God Bless France” T-shirt. All of that would be really embarrassing, she said.
It’s no surprise then that in addition to playing Charles Trenet’s World War II version of the song “Douce France,” we also listened to Rachid Taha’s 1986 version, complete with Algerian background music and a new verse. We discussed the line “sweet France, dear country of my childhood,” and how it’s meaning might change for someone who has confronted racial prejudice or complications with immigration. We recognized that being a citizen of a nation means acknowledging the nation’s mistakes as well as its achievements.
As I observed the events of the holiday weekend, it seemed the French were more concerned about getting to the beach for vacation than about celebrating the storming of the Bastille. The small number of locals who stayed in the city strolled up and down the Boulevard des Pyrénées. No one knew when or where the fireworks were to take place, and most didn’t seem to care. They were content walking arm-in-arm with their sweethearts or carrying their children, asleep in little, baby backpacks.
I rode my bike home, the chain clicking with each turn of the pedals, through the silent streets and dark neighborhoods. I lay in bed waiting for sleep and after a while, heard the distant popping sounds of fireworks.
Rarely do I quote Elton John to you, but frankly, the bitch is back.
Pleased to make your bitchquaintance.
I just had the most stellar night I’ve had yet in L.A. Actually, it was the most stellar night of my whole life (aside from, of course, my first communion). It’s 3:50 in the morning here in the backwards-ass Pacific Time Zone, and I find it my journalistic, sassy duty to recount to you my night before I wake up tomorrow and reshape the whole experience in my head. Be prepared for my occasional wild, girly screams when I get to the celebrities. You think I’m kidding.
I pride myself on being honest with you all, but I have a confession to make. Well, two. One, I won’t be covering L.A. clubland this week. I know you bought a party dress and everything in anticipation, so sorry. But two, I’ve been doing a lot of… well, networking in the past few weeks that I’ve kept to myself. I recently got in touch with an agent who set me up to cover the premiere party of “Project Runway” mentor Tim Gunn’s new show for the Advocate. Here’s the thing about me: I am a sham journalist. I gleefully contrive story ideas around celebrities I want to meet. The minute I heard about the premiere party, I sat, thought of an idea for the Advocate website, and set out to find Mr. Funny Gunny. And guys did I pull through.
I took my sweet-’n-affable roomie Elizabeth with me. Later I would tell celebrities that she was my camera crew. They might have bought it. Anyway, we took the goddamn bus to this red carpet event in West Hollywood, signed in with some people who were born to wear headsets, and took our place with the paparazzi.
There I glanced back at the list of Bravo celebs scheduled to attend: Tim Gunn, supermodel and co-host Veronica Webb, Nick Verreos, Andrae Gonzalo, and Robert Best from “Project Runway,” Perez Hilton, William Sledd (a.k.a. the 22-year-old who runs that oh-so-insightful “Ask a Gay Man” YouTube blog… Jeez, I don’t know how I’d pick out a collared shirt without him! Barf x 3.), Tiffani from Top Chef, and a host of others.
I talked to all of them.
And though I’d lurve to discuss what I’m writing about for the Advocate, you’re just going to have wait with baited breath like the rest of my nine million readers. If you’re having trouble accepting this, suicide is still an option.
Let’s discuss who I loved:
Robert Best
This bitch is the s**t, even if he lost the third season of “Project Runway” thanks to an outfit that a monk could’ve worn. But that’s not important right now. First of all, Robert laughed at everything I said, and you know that wins me over every time. Secondly, when he started talking about Tim Gunn’s bizarrely huge vocabulary (”Sturm and drang? Tim, you made that up.”) and the potential for Tim as a celebutante (”First he gets his own TV show, the next thing we’re probably going to see is him passed out in someone’s convertible.”), it was just evident he didn’t take himself or celebrity nonsense seriously. And he’s tiny! 5′8″ at most, which is weird next to my 6′1″. I’m glad the interview ended when it did, because I sensed him turning me into a father figure.
Nick Verreos
How adorable was this Venezuelan puppy/bunny/rainbow maker? I heard a publicity woman approach him and say, “Would you like to speak with the Advocate?” and he replied, “Oh, of course!” At that point it occurred to me, wow, I’m doing real work for a real magazine that I won’t have to distribute at my high school drama club practice. And also that I’m the s**t. Chills.
Nick Verreos’ astute Tim Gunn observations: “He can hit every generation. Not just the twinkies, but the daddies as well, and the in-between.” When he said “daddies,” I about threw the recorder, dropped him in my shirt pocket, and fed him a carrot. I was in heaven.
And I guess Tim Gunn and Veronica Webb were cool, too:
I won’t reveal too much, because I’ve got a whole assignment on him to do… but Gunn was marvelous. Totally humble, and actually, totally shy. At one point, a camera man asked for a picture of Veronica Webb alone, and he almost fled the scene in a bashful blaze of shame. Veronica was a hot-ass, and she ruled almost as much. Thing is, she is a mortal, so it’s hard to compare.
Veronica: “[Tim] is the silver fox.”
Me: “Ooh, taking the title from Anderson Cooper, eh?”
Veronica: “Mm. He never had it.”
Me: “You’re right. You’re SO right! I’m going to give it to you, Tim. I’m the Advocate, watch me go.”
Tim: “You’re reducing me to a puddle!” (Can’t you just hear him say that?)
Veronica: “…There’s a certain dignity about Tim.”
Me: “The word ‘dignity’ has been thrown around a lot tonight… but they were talking about me.”
Tim: “Well, that’s wonderful!”
Me: “… I’m kidding.”
I was going to hold it back, but I guess I’ll show you my fave picture of all time. The theme was my idea, and Tim really found the muse quickly. Yes, that’s right: Tim Gunn blessing me like Mother Theresa.
Go in peace, bitches.
Until next week… and oh my God, is next week going to be thrilling (to quote Gunn and the echoes of him in my dreams).
Big love from me and my favorite star ever, Gilda Radner, xoxo,
Louis
I sat on the hot pavement, desperately devouring the words on the page. I needed to finish the nearly 200 pages left in the two hours before midnight. In a circle next to me, five men shouted, “Zip! Zap! Zop!” and pointed fingers at each other. Girls wearing green and gold scarves milled about, and at the front of the line stood someone wearing a pointed black hat.
This was me two nights ago when I joined a group of office die-hard Potter buffs, including my roommate, Tara, to go to the midnight showing of the fifth installment of J.K. Rowling’s series, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. I finished the book version a mere five minutes before the movie started, all to the tune of dueling wizards and witches pretending to hurl spells at one another with wands in the theater aisles.
And not only did we stay up until ridiculous hours Tuesday night, but we also held a pre-new movie marathon. We watched the first two Harry Potter movies Sunday, the third on Monday, and the forth Tuesday before getting in line for the fifth around 10 p.m. (James had been holding our places in line since 6 to secure good seats). Oh, and I also decided I needed to re-read all the books beforehand — and in the process I discovered that though I thought I’d read all the books and seen all the movies, I had actually only read the first two books and seen the first movie. I’m not sure what that kind of self-deception says about me, but either way, my last few days have been nearly wholly devoted to that tousle-haired pre-teen and his magical friends.
Seriously, what was I thinking? I don’t even like these movies that much!
And here’s the thing about being just a fan of Harry Potter among a group of Hogwarts die-hards: Every time you make a comment that might be construed as negative, you feel like you’re going to get your head bit off.
For example, while watching the fourth movie, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, I ventured to say that I didn’t find Dumbledore’s character quite convincing. Tara shot me daggers. And she threatened to make me sit alone in the back of the theater during Phoenix unless I promised I wouldn’t say a word during the movie. This happened after I laughed uproariously at the magical heavy metal at the Triwizard Ball in the fourth movie.
And while the whole experience was largely enjoyable (though I found myself dreaming about holding a wand a bit too often for comfort), I remain confused about the adult obsession with these books and films. Admittedly, The Order of the Phoenix was not a bad movie, though I did find myself looking longingly at the on-screen pillows, wishing I was in bed rather than in the theater. The acting is incredible, in particular Alan Rickman as the insufferable yet sympathy-invoking Severus Snape and the prickly new defense against the dark arts professor Delores Umbridge, played by Imelda Staunton.
But overall, the movie was disappointing after just reading the book. While the last 200 or so pages of the book kept me entranced and gasping over shocking imagery and plot revelations enough that I really was desperate to finish before the flick started, the movie merely kept me interested. When reading the first quarter of the Potter book, I was uncomfortable — nearly all the characters were rendered as speaking in all caps all the time. Everyone was angry, tense, and scared. In the movie, this sense of terror comes across only marginally — instead of Umbridge’s reign at the school feeling repressive, it feels funny. And the end fight scene in the book is terrifying, but on screen it seems predictable. In general, compared to the book, the movie feels skimpy. In their attempt to condense the thickest and darkest Potter book into a movie, screenwriter Michael Goldenberg and director David Yates have left it rather diluted-feeling.
Still, people do love it. Tara is desperately trying to switch with someone so she doesn’t have to work the day the last book comes out. And I imagine I’ll still read the last two books — but I mostly just want to find out if Ron and Hermione ever get together.
Bye for now,
Maggie
I darted through the drunken crowd, tailing my 65-year-old house mother. I couldn’t see or hear her, but I gripped her hand and prayed we wouldn’t get separated. My friend Danielle trailed somewhere behind me.
Atrocious odors hung in the air, and the stench of urine and beer oozed from everything and everyone. The sidewalks and grass were covered in broken glass, plastic cups, and smashed food containers. Thousands of drunken people swarmed the plaza stadium, chanting and dumping bottles of wine on their friends.
We tripped over a pile of young people, passed out at the foot of a monument of a giant bull. Five empty bottles of champagne and the remains of a case of Heineken sat at their feet.
“A San Fermín pedimos,
por ser nuestro patrón,
nos guíe en el encierro
dándonos su bendición.”
“We ask San Fermín,
as our Patron,
to guide us through the Bull Run
and give us his blessing.”
Welcome to the Running of the Bulls.
Every year, travelers journey across the world for the Festival of San Fermín, a week-long party in Pamplona, Spain: the only European city where it’s legal to sleep in the streets. The city nearly shuts down entirely, and the locals bolt their doors until the storm passes.
Just like the Hawkeyes wear variations of black and gold, San Fermín partygoers have a uniform and nobody strays from the dress code: white pants, white shirt, and a red pañuelo around the neck, displaying the region of Spain from which each comes.
We stopped, and Tina, my feisty house mother, picked a fight with a ticket scalper to get us into the plaza. My watch read 7:51. We had nine minutes to get into the stadium before the running began.
San Fermín defines chaos: It’s a mix between an anarchist protest, Kinnick stadium on a Saturday morning during football season, a Girls Gone Wild Spring Break video, and Ibiza.
Tina yanked on my hand. I grabbed my friend and we slipped into the stadium with minutes to spare. We squeezed onto a wet concrete bench next to a pack of what I imagined to be Animal House or Real World: Spain castoffs. The young fellow to my right dropped his joint on my lap, and Tina shouted in my ear.
“They’ve been awake and partying since yesterday afternoon,” she yelled in Spanish. She leaned over me, and he offered her the recovered joint. She laughed. “No thank you! To San Fermín!”
A roar went up from the wild crowd as four men came running into the stadium, pumping their arms. I lifted my camera to snap a photo, but Tina stopped me.
“They didn’t run,” she said, tapping my watch. The crowd began chucking trash at the men, and screaming vulgar chants about their mothers. “It’s not 8 a.m. yet. They snuck into the stadium. Wait.”
At 8 a.m., we heard the distant sound of a flare gun. The encierro, or the running, had begun. The half-mile encierro is a walled-in path through Pamplona’s cobblestone streets, and it ends in the bullfighting plaza. Running with the bulls is about as safe as diving naked into a tank of dirty needles, but hundreds of men poured into the plaza two minutes later, tailed closely by a pack of giant, furious bulls. The runners scrambled to get to safety along the outside of the ring, and the crowd went nuts as several men narrowly escaped getting gored.
Within minutes, all the bulls were herded out of the ring, and the entertainment began. Six vacas locas, or crazy cows, were released into the plaza one at a time to “play” with the runners. While crazy cows may just sound like a fun flavor of ice cream, playing with them gets a little rough. These are not friendly Iowa milk cows. They are dark and mysterious and very pissed off. They’re smaller than the bulls, and their horns have been covered to protect the runners from getting impaled.
“More violence!” the guy next to me shouted, spilling his beer on his lap. “Kill them all!”
Good to know that rednecks exist outside the States. One by one, the cows bucked and knocked down foreigners eager to prove their masculinity. By this point, the runners’ testosterone levels were sky-high. A few ran like they were on fire every time a bull looked in their direction, but the majority ripped off their shirts and egged on the bulls, begging to have their moment of Pamplona fame.
The runners milled around the arena as the plaza emptied out into the streets, some to pass out on the sidewalks and some to continue partying (“The night starts now!” the guy next to me shouted, smashing a plastic cup on his forehead). We picked our way through the trashed city with images of the bulls fresh in our minds, knowing we had just witnessed a famous tradition that we’d never forget.
“Pobre de mí, pobre de mí,
que se acaban las fiestas
de San Fermín.”
“Poor old me, poor old me,
They’ve just finished the festivals
of San Fermín.”
Ann
Daily Iowan reporters and editors write beyond the print edition.
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