GOAL!!!

A while back I attended a futbol match (yes, soccer) and would like to share with you my experience... it was a blast and definitely exhilarating. 

Today I worshiped at The Temple… along side thousands of other devout pais vascons. The air fills with murmurs and faint chants… people stream in… anticipation mounts. I’m welcomed into this sacred place. The grass lays green, a light rain dampens the field. A chill stings the nose but my vision clears as I enter the arena. The sky bears the residue of a passing storm… a blue begins, it creeps through the clouds… it’s time to take my seat and experience… it’s time to cheer and clap and whistle and boo and slap high-fives… I’ll twirl my scarf as the first goal materializes right in from of me. GOAL!!! A finesse cross, a header, a goal. screams. 

The rowdiest of the basques chant close and fierce. They raise banners and wave flags and shout unmentionable (and indecipherable) venom at the opposes… I join in, mimicking the gestures, the chants and am undoubtedly noticed and proclaimed as a Poser (wonder how to translate that one into Spanish). But I wear my scarf with pride. I carefully and deliberately wrap that thing around my neck, only to rip it off, waiving it wildly as a foot meets a ball meets the back of a net. Also, it just so happens I stand in the front row. Only a skinny barrier keeps me from the elite. Ever seen the streakers on t.v. running around all crazy? Yeah… I now understand the ease in which a streaker advances… hop and rock and flop… ha… I thought about trying it… I really did.

Half-time brings bocadillos and a full belly. Traditionally the devout munch on bocadillo sandwiches while preparing mind, body and spirit for the second half of the ensuing battle. I join in. I feel a part of something… more and more… I love this place… bilbao, getxo, the basque country, spain. The people, the lifestyle, the community, the countryside, the city, the cafes, the plazas, the ocean, the parks, the metro, the river… the victory! 2-0 Bilbao Athletic Club 

...agur ('goodbye' in basque)

 

a spanish symphony

hola... so this is a piece i wrote for a creative writing competition here in spain. and you might ask, "why is it not written in spanish evan?" and i respond with, "well... the only thing comparable to my wonderful way with spanish words is probably the broken cursive of a mixed up and possibly blind spanish first grader." "oh, i see," you respond. "well do you now... thanks for rubbing it in." so english it is... i decided to give it a shot and write a story inspired by some of the people i've been spending time with lately. it's my first try at writing something for a contest like this so... who knows... and i think i got a bit trigger happy with the alliteration... but the interesting thing is i wasn't really trying to season it... however, the pepper cap might have popped off for a prolonged moment... and maybe the salt's too. anyway... here's a take on friends and the spanish language.  

The Germans grace the living room. Their presence swells and enchants every nook of a comfortable apartment. Pidgins nip and twerp out a window open wide. A Basque breeze blows. The winds bring a Spanish conversation. Americans join the banter. For these people within, this second language is still yet loved and cherished and spoken with care. An array of ascents forms a melody sung by all. Among the words emerges a sound, pure in pitch and projection.

In perfect delivery and with flawless clarity, a native’s voice resounds. Its’ intonation unifies the already increasing chants. A symphony surfaces. The cultural orchestra twirls and spills and emerges from a bond that is Spain. The many stand in unity and in confidence they declare their allegiance to this glorious country. This land beckons and entices. The faces transform. The interactions and the community enlighten these lingual musicians.

The soft sounds linger, but wait, they escape through cracks forming in the walls. These mute observers stand tall as witnesses to such a momentous joy. Yet, the structures cannot contain the anthem. The tune presses outward. Through near and distant flats flows the sweet cornucopia of sound. Into the air the music dances, it sings. On the wings of a bird it propels past weathered rooftops and distant plazas. Ears perk as the pleasantries find those meandering along the harbor. Calm footsteps add a transforming beat. Along side these musical discoverers, waves crash. Now, the masterful voices gain momentum. Into a strengthening chorus they rise. Ripples fly out to sea where Spaniards row, oh they glide. With rising energy, the voices fill a flapping sail. In response, the skipper steers onward farther and farther into the blue. In the distance with flashes of lightening and crashes of thunder, the playful sky announces its’ approval. These cymbals signify a composed climax. A waving maestro, the wind howls in response.

Still, the coastline beckons once more. In a fantastic display and with grand speed, the opus plays in the wake of white-capped water tumbling onward. It rises and falls and pushes forward. The sun appears through ominous clouds with rays so radiant. A warm solo of strings descends from the heavens. Tenderly, the brilliance calms the masterpiece. It quiets and begins a lazy return. It wanders the streets. Trees softly ruffle and soon it greets its’ creators once more through the welcoming window not yet closed. The voices now settle to a gentle murmur. Warm in the people’s presence, the room provides a resting place for the refrain. With a whisper, they follow it to a final note.

Yet, the symphony shall not disappear. It simmers and steeps in the hearts of these Spanish orators. With a bond formed and a suture stitched, Spain and her people, natives and adopted alike, will live on forever.  

 

 

 

an eclectic romance: songs of a soul in search of love

I’m at Glass. It’s a café right outside the center plaza in las arenas, not too far from my apartment. Today I went home early, yet I forgot my keys. A minor detail. Ever heard of karma? So, I head to a café for a few hours and my ears perk yet again as I hear a familiar tune. 'only you' and 'when a man loves a women' are resonating clearly from the loudspeakers. Mr. Bolton belts it loud. I’m feeling romantic and am looking for some Spanish chica to appear with hair flowing, etc.

And the next song is… the star wars theme song, an obvious next course of musical dynamism. Nothing makes my heart flutter more than to picture those storm troopers, Luke’s father and Chewbacca marching in unison down some long corridor to the tune of “da da da dun da da dun da da!”

The Spanish women were swooning, let me tell you.

the battle

I'm siting in the park near the abondo exit right now. I’m minding my own business, just catching up on some homework… an examin arrives soon. All of a sudden I hear honking. Thinking nothing of it I resume my research of definitions concepts etc. it is a city after all. Honking’s commonplace right? Well yes but this honking frenzy is for no common occurrence. In the middle of the road (the streets here are barely a car width wide mind you) stands a gigantic bus… one of those touring buses. Can you picture it? The autobus stands approximately 26 feet high and looks like a monster come to squash little cars that stand as dwarfs in comparison. In a sense this bus/monster/t-rex does eat these cars, at least their time… these little fiats are getting quite upset. Short, frequent honks and long drawn out groan’s of disapproval…. Move move move… goooooooo moooovvve! Coooommmme ooooonnnnn mmmoooovvve ittttt!!! The bus driver frantically looks around. He peaks out the window and a look of shock hits his face… as if he should be surprised that his twelve-ton brick has spontaneously built an insurmountable fortress, against which the peasants’ mode of attack simply reverberates off. The attack continues for quite some time… the honks miss and the gestures… well they’re useless. Victory for these burdened and now quite late individuals only arrives as the bus raises the white flag. He pulls off in defeat.

unharmed and amused I return to my book. All the while, unflinching and oblivious in his reverie, the guy passed out on the bench across the park no doubt dreams of leading great charges and of plotting great courses and of slaying evil dragons while retrieving the captives. Onward toward the city of glory… or maybe that’s just me.

I just spent the afternoon sitting on this bench in the park cerca de café iruna. Very nice.

italy, spain, and the shire

Hi all! thanks for baring with me. I just returned from Italy! I visited Rome, Florence, and Venice. wow it was an amazing time and can't wait to share a story or two from the trip with you. but for now I have a few writings I wrote awhile back and haven't had the chance to post. For now I'm back in Bilbao and I'm getting resettled for the last weeks of my journey here. I hope all of you are well and are enjoying the spring. this excerpt comes from one of my explorations along the cliffs of Getxo. thanks for reading!

I just remembered something I saw when I was walking toward sopelona.

Statement: I found the shire… ‘what?!’ ‘yes,’ a little hobbiton tucked away in the green grassy knolls of the Spanish coastline. ‘did J.R.R. Tolkien ever visit spain?’ one might ask. Well, yes in fact such a spot may just have inspired the hometown of the fantastical furry feeted dwarflings. Now, at the present time no hobbitses seem to inhabit this little dwelling, most of them likely having long since emigrated to some distant land… perhaps to the very spot in the film… perhaps. After all, the ring has now been destroyed… they’re obviously free to move about the world.

However, the residences are now home to the obvious Spanish equivalent… rats… many of those little guys scurrying around… ‘oops, gotta watch my step.’

But it’s true. The cliffs give way to grassy fortresses, properly protected by 150 foot descents and razor sharp conglomerates. just the protection little Bilbo and Frodo needed from the evil powers of Mordor.

It’s no coincidence that just down the road an unsuspecting town happens to possess the name BILBaO. Just think about it… it’s all becoming clear 

-adios only for now