La Tomatina

La Tomatina, another nonsensical Spanish fiesta that happens every year on the last Wednesday of August in the small town of Bunyol (close to Valencia). On 31st August 2011 thousands of internationals drained into the streets from early morning trains and night-long festivities.

By half-nine the streets are littered with people selling and buying Official white Tomatina merchandise. The drifting smell of BBQ food causes groups to hover around the smoke, whilst the main mob continue to march down the meandering hill.  People are standing on the sides of the road, furiously bandaging their flip flops and sandals to their feet and legs with great reels of industrial tape. I walk past carelessly with my flip-flops freely flopping about my heels.

The main road is marked by blue plastic decoration sheets that are protectively hung over the tops of buildings. Already it is packed. In the plaza before it people stand, chatting, laughing and gulping from large plastic cups of sangria. We join them, with a cheese puffs.

The festival had brought all sorts of people to this small town. The timid crowd by the walls, reluctant to join their friends in the festivities. Groups of muscles, stood with Australian tans, discuss tactics. English words fly around and land hard against my head like tomatoes. ‘Gonna absolutely pummel… jus’ push through… it’s going to be immense.’

By ten we’re in the crowd and have strategically placed ourselves on a crossroad, hoping for an easy escape from tomato chaos. Beside us there were a Bristol hippy couple and Tomatina advocates. His beard, pruned into a distinctive point was nestled into the curve of her neck as his hands searched her body, revealing a tattoo on her hip. She was laughing, a husky infectious laugh and he howled into the crowd. We became alliances, and together conspired to target the broad bearded ginger man who stood unkowingly in front. On our other side was an older American double date. The white headed men each huddling their prospective women into the cave of their body. Above our heads bemused townies stood at balcony windows with buckets and hoses, feeding the sweating festival goers with cooling water. On the balcony opposite a man was taking photos through the sizeable lens of an SLR. He waved furiously to the audience to provoke a cheer. He was blonde and consciously wore a tight beanie and denim shirt despite the heat. He disappeared and a Chinese photographer then climbed out through a white dust sheet on the window ledge. He had a broad grin. People cheered his eager flashing and he bowed with clamped hands, modestly thanking their cooperation. Slowly eyes were replaced by goggles which stare eagerly above and to the street ahead to spot the tomato lorry. But there was no indication of the festival beginning.

It had gone 11 and there was still no sign. A few distant dots of red in the foreground convinced muffled voices that it had begun. But they disappeared again. Cries for ‘agua!’ were repeated and turn into chants. A liquid solution to fill the tomato void. Still people were joining the already throbbing street. Human trains cheerily tunnelled through to the heart of the crowd. Angry feet are trodden into the ground and waves of bodies ripple back and forward. People were squeezed into windowsills, safe from the bustle of the crowds. I couldn’t see how a lorry was to get down the road. It couldn’t. There was no way. A sudden push of people and I’m immediately jolted into a crowd of strangers and my left flip-flop is kicked off and onto the floor of feet. I made a quick dive below the surface of people and grabbed it. I pulled it. Shit. It ripped. I tried to fix it to my foot as best I could but I was carried by the next wave. Through the crowd a hand grabbed mine and like rope I clung to it as it eased me back to my original spot and to my friends. It was the old American woman. ‘Are you okay?’

As the pushing increased we were slowly nudged into the side street. Rather than the handy escape route we had imagined, this street had become filled with people; separated by a gap bordered by a line of serious looking policemen standing along a silver fence. The pushing became more and more severe. Not only were people joining but there were groups of people leaving: some aggravated by a lack of action; others scared by claustrophobia. A few deep-breathing, tear-eyed girls were lifted over the silver fence. I considered going too. I could no longer see anyone I recognised or anything at all behind the shadow of the man in front. I lifted myself up and let my ribs wedge me between two sizeable men in front and behind me. I could now see the lorry, slowly passing through the street with people on it, wolf whistling to the crowd. It caused the crowd to pulsate, being pushed backwards and straining to get forwards. Clapping and cheering beckoned its approach. They threw a few tomatoes into the crowd.

There was not no space. The air pushed out of my longs. I couldn’t move anywhere. Still pinned between the two men my legs were left to dangle and flick flailing feet into the air. The van was slowly going past the street. Another heave and the man-clamp moved me back. A desperate leg contortion and now both my flip-flops had loosed themselves. I pointed my toes to feel around for them. But I was pushed back again. They were gone. I began to become hopelessly irritated and feeling as if my ribs might crack. Then a man on the pavement took my arm. He quickly picked me out from the road and brought me towards him. He was an American too. Steadied by the walls and street poles, the pavement became a solace. The empty man-clamp continued back in the wave of the busy road.

I stood and watched, bored and disappointed. I hadn’t thrown a single tomato. I hadn’t seen a tomato thrown close-up. I had lost everyone. As I was mulling this over I suddenly realised the people had trickles of tomato juice running down their faces. The crowd began to separate and people were bending down into the road, splashing up liquidised tomatoes which were now running freely down the road. From nowhere the road was filled with tomato slush. I dived in and like a dog started shovelling up tomatoes into faces, arms, legs. By the end I was covered. I found one friend and got his attention with a handful of tomatoes lobbed at his surprisingly clean face. My feet happily slopped around the gunk, delighting in having the tomato juice push apart toes. Juice was kicked up in satisfactory splats.

The horn went. The hour was up and the festival was over. People were still splashing in the tomato gunk with up turned feet. Lonely un-taped-flip-flops were drifting away down a river of tomato slush. I did not see mine among them. The window-water-sprayers were back and helping to spray down dripping tomato bodies. I got under the spray and let the tomato bits flow back into the street. With naked feet I walked back up the meandering hill.

Daily Fails for Fartons

Hola! Hope you enjoyed the beach. The Mail has a feature on Valencia today. In the old city you should go to the Horchateria de Santa Catalina Café close to Plaza de la Reina to drink horchata. It is the first incarnation of milkshake made from tiger nuts, water and sugar served with fingers of feather-light pastry for dunking (fartons!).

We receive this text message just as we find ourselves below the sign Santa Catalina and to our right is the Horchateria. Despite already feeling the slothish drain of a Spanish lunch we eagerly enter. It was surely fate after all.

The café was small and quaint looking and empty. Only three women sat there, between the ceramics walls, each dunking pastries into a long glass of white liquid. We walked up to the counter where there was an assortment of powdered pastries and ordered our ‘horchata con fartons’ – the original, as opposed to the more attractive looking iced fartons. We took seats close by to the women. Another couple entered and the place began to look a little fuller.

The waiter came over with our horchatas, which turned out to be same the long glasses of white liquid with a straw. Our pastries followed. I took the first sip. It was an extremely thin liquid, as you’d probably expect from sugar water, and exceptionally sweet. The closest thing I could compare it to would be an artificially sweetened coconut milk. I dunked in the farton, which shrivelled as the liquid touched it. Its sogginess made it feel like I was eating regurgitated food. It mulled around my stiff tongue and with a deep gulp it disappeared.

The women next to me were nearly finished as they slurped the last of their pastry around the rim of the cup like experts, before carefully searching the glass for remnants with their straws. Desperately trying to seem Spanish I drank again, mulling it over my jaw like a camel feeding. The pastry alone was delightful. As light as the Mail had recorded. I finished it happily whilst letting the glass of milky liquid stagnate.

Perhaps it requires a more mature pallet. Everywhere I looked horchata was either being sold or eaten. Even at the hotel I was staying at, every morning, I’d pass the horchata, not tempted in the slightest. Next time, I’ll just stay safe with ‘churros con chocolate’.

La Pepica, Valencia

It was unlikely that Hemmingway felt himself drawn to Valencia for his desire to attend Bunyol’s tomato throwing contest, but to Valencia he was drawn. So once the tomatoes were washed away, we were back following the Hemingway scent and the scent of paella.

La Pepica is beautifully located on the beach front on Paseo Neptuno. Having over indulged in the Valencian sun I decide to escape for a shaded lunch. When I arrive I feel a little awkward with my painful pink back glowing through the zig-zags of a strappy beach dress. Drawing the wrong kind of attention amongst the sensible men in chinos and flowery women who are sitting outside under the restaurant’s canopy. I get quickly ushered out of their company into the restaurant itself. Here waiters are going at a hundred miles per hour and I have already lost the groomed man who abruptly invited me inside. I meander to the back of a large square room, to one of the only spare tables available. It happens that where we choose to sit it directly opposite a large dedication to Ernest Hemingway, which stares prominently from the white washed wall.

Yet even Hemingway is a small fish in what seems to be a lake of dedicated placards for famous faces that litter the length of the walls inside. Perhaps Hemingway too was coerced into sitting at the back of the restaurant. Perhaps not. The food met the restaurant’s high reputation and was reasonably priced, perhaps explaining the restaurants popularity which was splattered across the walls and into contently filled seats.

 

Top 5 Places to Go in Madrid

1. Lavapies

This is the Asian quarter of Madrid and has it’s own unique feel. Many people gather in the main sqaure where sudden bursts of dance or song are common. But if you prefer to get off the streets then there are good music venue hosting top guests that can be found easily on the internet. And ofcourse (when in spain) the are a whole hoard of Asian resturants from Indian to Thai cusine forking upwards from the main square. On one of my frequent visits to the area I found myself walking the opposite direction and into a small peruvian cafe. Inside there was a consertment of ex-patriots who fed by cerveza sang for hours with guitars and triangle. No doubt there are many other hidden gems in this area waiting to be discovered.

2. Reina Sofia/Prada Museum

For art enthusiasts Madrid´s famous art museums are a must. Both can be reached from Atocha tube station. Whilst Reina Sofia´s international modern collection is definitely more crowd pleasing with it´s laser ligh display and opportune photo moments, the Prada´s more classical display of fine art and statues cannot be dismissed. It provides a great ouevre of Spannish art; be sure to head straight for Goya´s extensive collection.  They are both pretty big so if your determined to get through it all leave plenty of time. Both are free for students but also have specific times (after 6pm) when it is free for all.

3. Chueca

It has come to be known as Madrid´s gay area. At nights bars arespilling out onto the streets. It has several mexican resturants and bars, some of which have large dance floors of salsa with shaking hips and spinning bodies. During the day the area has a strip of good shops from Alonso Martinez to the Gran Via

4. Football

Not only are Spain’s football clubs some of the best in the world, but the fans are the most dedicated and excitable. Madrid of course hosts two world famous teams; Real Madrid and Athletico. Whilst the second may be less recognised internationally, they are often considered the popular Madrid team. Ticket prices will also be considerably cheaper, so if your going for the atmosphere then a visit to the Vicente Calderón stadium is a must.

5. El Son

For a real chance to experience Spanish moves in action head to El Son for a night of Salsa. It´s filled mainly with Spanish stallions so girls usually can get in for free and once your in the offers keep rolling in. Spanard after spanard, old young, short, tall, will offer you a hand to get you moving the salsa way. Sometimes this can be a bit irritating as a newbee monotomously whispers the steps in your ear, but mostly they are willing  just to spin you round and round. Unfortunately for boys there are few proffesional salsa chicas willing to give you a go, so you´ll spend your night propped up by the bar and with only cocktails on offer at 7 euros a whack this may end up a pricey night.  There are other salsa clubs in the area, but often the ones advertised on the internet are long closed. Be safe and call in advance to make sure you can paint the night salsa red.

Botellón in the Park

In Spain this is not a yearly event but a nightly occurrence, when young people will gather in the park and drink. The name is actually taken from the Spanish word for bottle – ‘botella’. Although officially punishable by a fine, the police seem to turn a blind eye. On my trips to these we played anything from the drinking game ring of fire, drums and had patient Spanish boys teach us the flaminco. The Parque del Oeste was my favourite place to visit for Botellón. People often celebrated birthdays there with glowing balloons by the  ‘Templo de Debod’ a 4th century Egyptian temple. From this spot the Great Palace can be seen clearly with a backdrop of the rest of Madrid glowing through the night.

Sombra, Sobrellevar y Sangre

Despite the modern preoccupation with sunning in Spain, the tradition of bullfighting continues to tickle touristic fancy. Madrid is known to host the most famous matadors in it’s grand stadiums. So on a drowsy Sunday, my friends and I made our way to La Plaza de Toros de Las Ventas.

The orange bricked arena casts an impressive shadow over the hordes of people emerging from the Ventas Metro station and swallowed them up as they walked towards the ticket office. We walked with them stopping in front of the price list which ranged from €4.50 up into the hundreds. A friend had already advised us on what seats to procure – ones in the sombre (shade) and to the right. It is here where all the action takes place without the glare of the sun to ruin the experience. After an awkward exchange of Spanglish we had the tickets and made our way to the substantial queue waiting outside the grand entrance.

Our bargain seats meant that we had to endure three flights of stairs. This also meant that we had a perfect overview of the stadium and were sat so that our feet could hang freely over the balcony. Promptly music began which signalled the start of what came to be a horrific two hours.

The participants first present themselves to salute the presiding dignity, accompanied by odd procession music fitted more to a fair. The matadors are easily distinguished by the gold of their traje de luces (“suit of lights”) as opposed to the lesser banderilleros who are also known as toreros de plata (“bullfighters of silver”) and the picadors on horseback.

A horn sounds and the bull enters. A hesitant, fiercely elegant creature, with strong defined muscles through a dark glossy coat destroyed my image of an unruly, blood thirsty beast. From my stand it seemed remarkably small. In fact my anticipated bullfighting experience was soon exposed as naïve. It was not a fight between man and beast against all odds. The Spanish don’t even have a word for bullfight. They call the event ‘the corrida de torros,’ which literally means the ‘running of the bull’. This succinctly connotes the tiresome tests that the bull endures. It starts off tame as he is teased by banderilleros waving pink capes. This is meant to test the bull’s ferocity and also begin to tire him. There were very few moments of excitement as the bull chases down a man who bolts behind a wooden protective fence. The thuds of the bull’s horns crashing into these wooden blocks are met by gasps of excitement and cheers around the audience.

Next two picadors enter the arena on the back of a severely protected horse and each armed with a lance. Prior to 1930, the horse did not wear any protection, and the bull would usually disembowel the horse during this stage. The famous Spanish painter Goya depicts this well in his portrait of a bullfight which is shown at Madrid’s Prada del Ray. However, now the torros are on hand to prop the horse up whilst the mounted picador spears the bull’s back. This departure from tradition is obviously to appease modern sympathies but consequently becomes a spectacle less about brave skill and more about the bull’s butchery.

As the incessant piercing of the bull’s thick skin took its toll, it begins to weep deep red tears that stains his coat and causes my eyes to fill with uncontrollable emotion. I looked up towards the purple sky and clouds began to conspire. The bull continued to thrash against the blindfolded and morphine endorsed horse. People opposite stare intently. They were too far away to see the deepness of the bull’s sangre. The horn sounded and the proud horseman trotted out of the arena and the banderilleros’ pink flags waved frantically around the arena. This signals the second round where the three banderilleros each attempt to plant two banderillas, coloured barbed spikes, into the bull’s shoulders. Some missed whilst others only managed one, leading to vocal disappointment from the audience.

The horn sounds again. The third and final round begins, darkly named the tercio de muerte (“the third of death”). The clouds provided thick coverage now, so that the whole stadium was rendered a dull sombre. The matador now enters the ring camply flaunting a red cape at the weakened bull who continued to chase the bait. Having sufficiently impressed the crowd, at an opportune moment the matador would reveal a sword which he would pierce through the bull’s spinal column. Six bulls were killed, one after the other, each enduring the three round bonanza. My skin hardened and my eyes dried. The clouds darkened and wept in my place. The last matador’s dispatched the sixth bull in torrential rain that blew through the arena of empty seats.

There were moments of art, where the matador de toros seems to dance with the bull, drawing it close to his body. When successful he would prance around the arena, soaking up the audience’s cheers, like Russell Brand might, with a crotch led swagger. Yet these moments were few and far between. The matadors seemed to lack prowess and precision of skill, each taking several attempts to spear the bull requiring the toros to repeatedly retrieve the spear from the bull’s flayed flesh. For me, the best parts where when the men had to fling themselves out of the bull’s course and the solitary occasion when a matador was barged to the ground by a raging bull. I do not deny there is skill involved but the end result that day was certainly unimpressive and barbaric in presentation. The greatest demonstration of skill was watching the bull dance with the matador, his final demise is merely subordinate. The bull’s death of course has traditional roots but it seems to have little currency nowadays. Either the bullfight should be taken back to its roots, where man and beast dual (of course this cannot happen in modern times) or they should change it so that the bull is not so agonisingly maimed.

Barcelona has banned bullfighting and it seems only a matter of time before Madrid follows suit. However, the issues surrounding bullfighting ethics are complicated and should not be judged on one sitting. All I can say about it is that I came, I saw, I cried.

The Hemingway Trail: The El Botin Experience

Just off the Plaza Mayor, on the Calle de Cuchilleros sits El Botin; the longest running restaurant in the world and favourite hangout of Ernest Hemingway.

As I stand outside the restaurant I see that Hemingway’s admiration for the place is fondly remembered. His picture and quote are garishly displayed on the front window, detracting from the modest antiquity of the building, although popular with passers-by who stop and admire the building before continuing along the cobbled street. Next to the main entrance a stoned arch records 1725 as the date of the restaurant’s opening and above it the faint outline of the names of Mary and Joseph, following contemporary custom. On the third floor a bar on the iron balcony is caved in, the only visible scar from the civil war.

As I wait for my tour guide as part of the El Botin Experience I impatiently peer through a window to the left of the main entrance and find a dozen waiters feasting before they begin work at 1pm. As one of them looks up I shyly cower away and bump into my guide, Joanna, a Yorkshire lass who fell in love with the people and culture of Madrid  ‘the most Spanish city in the whole of Spain’, as I imagine Hemingway once did.

She taps on the front entrance and an elderly waiter lets her in, greeting her with a Spanish two-sider. Inside the walls are decorated with plates collected by the Botin and González families, the only two to have owned the restaurant. Underneath thick white table cloths, marble tables are hidden and an old gold mirror hangs on the wall. Next to the stairs we see the wooden oven which also dates from the restaurant’s opening. People would once bring their own cuts of meat to be cooked here and so it is no wonder that El Botin is still renowned for its methods of cooking. We enter a small kitchen area, where a chef uses a wooden paddle to rotate the famous suckling pigs around the oven. Cooked pigs are then stored on the side on wooden shelves, their faces numbly staring out.

Down an old narrow staircase the restaurant continues. Traditionally used for storage it has a very modest feel, rimmed with Mrs. Botin’s original woven tapestry. At the end of the room a further flight of stoned steps leads down into a dark cellar; once a passage to a network of tunnels leading around the city.  Apparently the King used these for easy access around the city. Joanna tells me that when Napoleon conquered Madrid, he was unaware of these secret passages and couldn’t understand how people were gaining access to his castle, over the great wall he had built – giving old Spaniards the title of cat.

We then take the two flights of stairs up to another floor of the restaurant, where Hemingway has his two protagonists dine in The Sun Also Rises. Hemingway himself requested always to sit in the left corner. This spot is now marked by a framed Hemingway letter, commemorating his lunch with Princess Sophia. It is addressed to the owners of the restaurant and thanks them for the friendly service and traditional ambience and of course delicious food. Not only did Hemingway eat here, but he also would sit and write for hours on end. I was eager to sit in Hemingway’s seat and eat at his table where he spun his stories and drank his wine, but a regular had already booked. As I slumped into my window seat, I watched as a hunched and elderly man ambled to the famous seat. He dined alone, eating the restaurant’s famous suckling pig and potatoes like Hemingway would have done. I wondered if he liked Hemingway, if he even had read any of his stuff. Perhaps he was a writer himself.

The restaurant itself is a historical monument that stood before Hemingway and lives on after him. The ‘El Botin Experience’ provided a thorough insight into this past, which is so essential to its ambience that charmed writer Ernest Hemingway. It is with this in mind that makes Hemingway’s featured quote that much more poignant:

‘When one has the Prado, the Escorial just two hours away, Toledo to the South and a magnificent route leading to Avila and another towards Segovia, which is not far from La Granja, one feels overwhelmed by desperation when realising that someday we will have to die and leave all this behind.’

Papa’s got a brand new bag

It’s a hard feat in Madrid to leave your apartment without seeing the new JMJ bag (World Youth Day 2011) which has become symbolic of the Pope’s conflicted tour of Madrid. The bag features the official World Youth Day colours: Red, Yellow and Orange. But this is not exclusively for the religious sect. My Turkish house mate bounces home wearing a cheeky smile whilst sporting a JMJ t-shirt. Indeed papa delirium has infected the city and injected a spectrum of youthful colour. In every sticky street there are hoards of teens singing, playing instruments and chanting praises to their ‘Papa’. These young Catholics have quickly dominated the streets, the restaurants, the Cafes; even the bars are filled with songs and teenage frolic.

So as I walk down the Passeo de la Castellait I am not surprised to find it saturated with their bright colours and buzz. The idyllic and tranquil stretch through the city is suddenly overwhelmed with international languages. I stop briefly to fill up my water bottle at mobile water taps, which they hoard like bees, flicking their hair through the running taps. The sprays of water are a welcome relief from the hot Madrid sun. Further down on the Paseo de Recoletos the beautiful Post Office building has become a stage for a presentation of international flags enthusiastically waved through the air, practising for later. A nervous speaker can be made out over the cheering and flashing of cameras- ‘Gua-te-ma-la?’

I take a right down Alcala towards the Puerta del Sol where I’m planning to meet a friend. More colours. More chanting. More chanting. More chanting. I look up at a colourless block of protesters. I move towards them, but I’m stopped by a police officer with an authoritative hand and a wayward gesture. I back up a little. The protesters carry posters and placards and hostile looks aimed squarely at the pro-pope group opposite. The police are keeping a controlled wedge between the two. Shouts of ‘Papa’ are interchanged with ‘No Papa’. The police try to move the pro-Pope youth’s back, blurring my view. I re-locate to the other side and clamber on top of the railings of the Seville Metro to get a better view.

As I watch the two groups I can’t help but notice the age gap between the two. The pro-pope group look startlingly young and vulnerable in their colourful apparel, many with braces spluttering out ‘we want Papa’ to a mature crowd of Spaniards. A JMJ girl joins me on the railing and I ask her to translate what the protesters are saying and what is written on their posters. Perhaps because of my youth and where I stand she mistakes me for a pro-pope allegiance, and says simply ‘they are against us’. Unsatisfied I wait for her to leave before approaching a good looking Italian man to my right, who was drawn to the shouts as a diplomatic tourist. He translated the protesters chants as them wanting ‘a divorce of religion from state’.

I watch for a little longer as the police gradually move the religious group back, instigating cheers from the protesters. The police were still not letting people through so I was directed to follow a street adjacent to the Puerta del Sol, which was still bustling with JMJ. I walked for a while, took a few wrong turns until I reached the plaza. Here hundreds of protesters gathered. I burrowed my way through the crowds to the water fountain – our meeting spot. It was turned off and was being substituted as a podium for people taking photos and getting a better look. As I climbed up a father was grabbing his son down and ushering him out of the crowd of ‘people who don’t like the pope… because they’re stupid.’

Seville

There was an array of posters. One girl carried a poster in English which said ‘Get your rosaries off my ovaries’, another Spanish girl had painted on her umbrella ‘Lady Gaga is my religion’. The majority were similar in sentiment to those at the earlier protest. I saw my friend and stepped back down to greet her. ‘Bad place to meet, huh?’ We slowly made our way through the crowds in desperate need of solace and a drink. I was surprised to see individual JMJ’s dotted in the crowd. I saw a boy of sixteen put his hand out to a nearby protester – a sign of naive good will.

Lady Gaga is my Religion

The police were restricting more and more walkways so we felt almost penned in as we made our way underground into the Metro. We stood on the corner of the platform. It was stifling as the JMJ’s grew up number. In front of us were young Australian Catholics all boasting their flag on their backs and faces. They were shouting and whooping to the Italian boys opposite like excitable school children. A French Catholic ran up to them to give them a high-five before tearing back through the tunnel he had come through. The train arrived and we all bundled on and once it moved again the girls began to sing. First they did rounds of ‘Sweet Chariot’ which they remixed into the rock anthem ‘Seven Nation Army’:

And I will sing no more
And the stains coming from my blood
Tell me go back home.

So as the weekend rolls to a close the JMJ pack up their bags, allowing Madrid to enjoy a summer siesta.