IRES Assignment 4: Honduras, Trucks, and "It's Complicated"

If you have read at least one of my blog posts, you can tell I'm an opinionated person. I generally have a well defined idea of what something is, what it should be, and what others should think about it. It's not the best tool for making friends, but it's simply the way I am. But when you're out here in another continent altogether, there are things that you simply don't know, and you need to form a criterion on. I have been adapting to changes, both cultural and geographical, for quite some time now.

As far as where I'm from, I think I've always consider myself as an in-betweener, not from here nor from there. I was born in the Honduran capital city of Tegucigalpa, but by the time I was in 3rd grade I had already spent an equal amount of time living in two cities. My extended family (all of it) lived in Tegus and both my parents were both raised back there, but I myself was pretty much raised in San Pedro Sula. I had a very heavy influence from both cities, since we did travel a lot to visit family. So naturally, when asked where in Honduras I was from, I would get stuck and have to think about it (I still kind of do).

S.O to both.

After third grade, the plot thickened. I moved to the U.S for two years, specifically Arkansas. The issue of my identity did become simpler though, I was now just Honduran. As it normally happens when abroad, it was here that I developed my strong sense of patriotism and love for everything back home.

At the end of the two years I moved to Miami. Miami was a strange limbo. Everyone was from somewhere else, but at the same time they were predominantly South Floridian. I think the most telling example of this Miami culture is the language. The conglomeration of so many Spanish accents melded with English into one strange Spanglish dialect. It really didn't matter where you were from as far as you were there. I was only there for a year, so it wasn't terribly important in my life. The fun began back home in Honduras.

I was back in San Pedro, having spent three very important years abroad. I might as well have grown up my whole life in Topeka, Kansas as far as my schoolmates were concerned. It was hard to explain how I grew up in Tegus, San Pedro, Arkansas and Miami; all the while speaking a little bit more English than Spanish. I was a bit of a snobby kid too, already fairly smart and wanting to prove it in the classroom by trying to answer as many questions as possible. Good thing I got that under control (somewhat). Thanks to a very welcoming group of friends, though, and the time I was allowed to grow up in San Pedro, I grew up into my (mainly) Honduran north coast identity.

When I moved to Texas for college, people were again confused. If I was an international student, why did I speak in an almost perfect American accent? Why had I taken a mainly American curriculum in High School if I was in another country? (Bilingual schools being another good example of in-betweens). If I lived in the US before, was I American?

Not quite. 

These almost-three years living in Texas also rubbed off on me. I again got another identity to add to my collection, but at least this time it had a lot smaller effect.

So, why is this relevant now in Spain? Well, as a general pattern to this story you can tell that relocating tends to make things more interesting. How am I supposed to explain to your average Spaniard the cultural snowball that has been my life up to now? I'm a research student in Spain from an American university, in which I am an international student from Honduras (even this sentence gets more complex, since I am not technically an international student because I am a U.S resident; but I am a foreign national and thus not American). So I have just learned to answer "It's complicated", and hope they don't ask me to explain in detail.

All this change, though, does comes with its benefits. I have learned to adapt easily to changes, having been exposed to them all my life. I think Spain has been where I have most noticed my resiliency. I have adopted as much of Spanish culture as I can, since I have come to learn that the best way to learn from your experience, and to make the most of it, is a "Do as the Romans do" approach.

I think traveling, at the heart, is about learning; that's the main reason I want to do it. I have always thought that what I've learned from personal experience up to now will help me to adapt to foreign cultures in the future and that will allow me, in turn, to take them in as richly and fully as possible. This experience, so far, has proven that hypothesis.

LBB Note #8: Alicante (Day1: Night Festival and Day 2: Tabarca)

At night the San Juan festival came alive. The whole city was out of their homes and out on the street, either in one of the many Barracas (private, fenced-off block parties organized throughout the year. Some are also open to the public) or in parks throughout the city. As we walked through some of the darker, more secluded blocks of Alicante, we were often surprised by the large, well-lit ninots (the tall figures that Alicantinos burn the Night of Saint John) that hid around the corner. They seemed much more impressive at night with their strategic lighting; a towering figure coming out of the void.

The night smelled of gunpowder, like a Fourth of July multiplied times ten. Kids were running around, throwing firecrackers at each other. A thick cloud of smoke floated over the entire city.

The biggest crowds were at the port. Here all the parties were public and, for a small fee, you could get into the parties and have something to eat and drink while enjoying the live music and entertainment. While it was around 1 AM, the crowds were still...erhm demographically varied. Children, senior citizens, teenagers and adults were all out on the street; it seemed no one had a curfew during Saint John's.
.

Alicante

Tabarca

I looked back on the hungover castle from the stern of a boat the next day. Syed and I had caught a ride  to the small island of Tabarca, a few miles off the Spanish mainland. Tabarca is the smallest permanently inhabited island in Spain, with a population of 68 people (We almost doubled the population with our boat). Because it was separated by about ten nautical miles from the mainland, the island fort was used as a prison; but not before being a pirate haven. My kind of island.

We were now in open water, with about 48 other people, on our way to Tabarca. The sea was calm, and the boat pleasantly rocked back and forth like a big wooden hammock. With each period of a wave the boat would creak gently at the seams. I decided to get a nice place upstairs, next to the bridge. I kind-of wish it had been choppier, that way I could have seen Syed's face go from a nice tan, to a pale greenish color until he was feeding the fish. I, on the other hand, had spent a fairly large amount of time on boats, and God knows I have done my time bending over the port side of a boat begging the waves would stop. I did miss being out in the ocean (in the Mediterranean this time, no less), feeling the salt spray and the breeze blow over the bow and through your hair. I'm on a boat.

Boating shoes on a boat? How innovative.

Tabarca was a patch of land with the remains of a fort and a prison tower, a large church that was closed for renovations, a really nice beach, a dozen restaurants, twice that many houses and little more than that. It was a quaint, stereotypical Mediterranean fishing town. The houses were whitewashed, and the streets narrow and cobbled.




After exploring the island from end to end (which took us about 20 minutes) we decided to go for a swim. By this point a lot more ferries had gotten to the island, and all the tourists they brought were bunched up on the only beach there was. Since we had checked out of our place in Alicante, we had all our stuff in our bags. I, being the paranoid Honduran that I am, didn't want to leave our stuff on the beach while we swam. So, in the same bay, we decided to climb down a cliff and settle down on one of the large rocks that cropped out of the ocean floor.

The sky was cloudless, and it was around noon; so we sat like iguanas on our rock. Periodically we dove into the cool (and fairly deep) turquoise water. Syed took out his speaker and started playing music. We were pretty much set on this little American enclave in the smallest island in Spain. We eventually named our little escarpment: the American Commonwealth State of Dwayne Johnson.

 I had another Alhambra-esque moment of not wanting to leave the place I was at but alas, I was really hungry. So we climbed back up the cliff and decided to eat in one of the restaurants overlooking the pier our ship would dock at. I decided to order some of the famous Mediterranean seafood. I got the gambas, which are large (and I mean pretty large) shrimp. 

In good Spanish form, I took the head off, squeezed lemon juice in it, and slurped all that creamy, fatty goodness. The shells had sea salt encrusted on them, so I ate those whole. The entire meal was fine and delicious until the check was brought. I had to shell out (hehe) 50 euro. I wanted to jump into the sea and swim all the way back to Valencia.

The boat picked us up, and we sailed back to Alicante just in time to catch the car back home to Valencia. This trip was the most pleasantly surprising one of my life. 

The Castle framed by our bow

IRES Assignment 3: Speaking in Russian, Corrosion and Sailboats

                                   

Career aspirations; what I want to do with my future. We're on a topic that seems recent, like I did it before.

Hello, old friends.

I'll do my best.

Before my time here at the UPV, I generally didn't think too much about Civil Engineering lab work. I thought most of the norms used in textbooks and manuals were devised in concrete labs or purely through mathematical analysis. Working at the Electrochemistry department at the Politecnica has shown me how useful cross-discipline cooperation is to solving problems in the real world. I've had to work with a lot of chemicals, using lab protocols that I learned in High School and had to dig in the back of my brain for; but it is all for applied use. While it is true my work here at UPV is a narrow field of study, the researchers I'm working with are spearheads in this field. They're patenting sensors and following several branches of study, all part of the same big corrosion-studying tree. I find it interesting, not only the actual study, (which frankly sounds really interesting to me, but whenever I explain it to someone they always blank look on their face, like I'm speaking in Russian) but also the fact that all the doctors and doctoral students do this for a living. 

As far as what this is all going to be useful for back in the classroom at UTA, that's a different story. I don't think we have a Corrosion class in undergraduate Civil Engineering back home; so, as far as the actual practical knowledge goes, it won't be very useful. But then again, a lot of the classes taught in the first two years provide next to no use farther ahead in your studies, but instead teach you to think analytically. I think that that is what this study is going to be useful for, as well as looking good on my resume and maybe opening the doors for further undergraduate research down the line.

In respects to how this research experience has changed my decisions looking forward to future objectives, I'd say that it's made me more determined to try to follow through the path I had drawn in my head. I think research is cool and everything, but I honestly see my future out on the field. Lab work is fun, but I see it as too far removed from practical applications and solutions. I don't think there is a doctoral degree in my future.

I have, though, seen plenty of sailboats while here in Spain. Maybe I'll be even be able to buy one someday. I'll use that as an incentive. 

Or maybe just rent one.

LBB Note #8: Alicante (Day 1: Bullfighting)

Since I came to Spain, I have not come across a topic as divisive as bullfighting. If you bring the topic up in a crowded room, you're going to get embarrassed grimaces and an awkward silence; but as we walked into the Plaza de Toros with a couple thousand Alicantinos, bullfighting seemed as popular and alive as ever.

I honestly shared some of Syed's nervousness on the topic of cruelty. I have seen my fair number of animals get put down, even actively doing so myself; but at the surface this seemed a more drawn out version of that. It did not seem like the same clean and, hopefully, quick death that we hoped for when hunting. 

The Plaza was a lot like what you imagine a Roman arena would look like. It was a round stone auditorium. In the center was a red clayish dirt with two concentric circles in white chalk. The majority of the seating was in the "bowl" area, but there were nosebleeds, as well as box seats.

With the sound of fanfare, the players came into the stage.

In a normal bullfight you have a total of six bulls to be paired two each by three bullfighters. What finally convinced me to come watch is that I recognized the name of the headliner, El Fandi. El Fandi is currently the best bullfighter in Spain, and he guarantees a show wherever he goes (You kinda have to when you are called "El" anything).

The first fight was exactly what I didn't want to watch; slow, torturous and full of mistakes. I was really surprised when the entire crowd recognized this and let the bullfighter know; the disapproving whistles coming down from the crowd drowned out any of the sounds from the arena. Disgraced, the bullfighter had to put down the bull by severing the spinal cord and not by the preferred sword to the heart.

The second fight was better, the crowd was more into the fight and the bravery and bravado of the Torero got the crowd going. 

The third bull was taken on by El Fandi. He had been on the sidelines talking with the other two Matadores, and, it appeared, giving them pointers. He and his cuadrilla stepped into the arena with chants of "Fandi, Fandi" going around the crowd. All of them were dressed in a similar style, but Fandi's Traje de Luces shimmered in the sunset light. It was almost like a million camera flashes coming from every point in his jacket. 

A fanfare sounded, a door opened, and a charging black mass ran into the arena. The black bull was massive, a large hump behind the neck, and menacing horns that you definitely wanted to stay away from. El Fandi got on his knees with his purple and yellow cape, and, in one move and while still kneeling, brought the cape over the bulls head, over his own, and down to the dirt. The crowd went wild. He then continued in a more orthodox style, making the bull dance for him and waving the cape in amazing geometric patterns. The men on horseback came out, lanced the bull behind the head, and, with a second fanfare, the first period was over. 

The second period of a bullfight is called Tercio de Banderillas, in which flags on barbed hooks are driven into the bull's back. This is usually done by Banderilleros, who assist the Torero in this duty, but El Fandi walked out himself, one flag in each hand. He then told his assistants with capes to stand back, and he was suddenly one-on-one with the bull. As the bull charged, he placed both flags perfectly on each side of his spine.

 He then went to the sideline and grabbed four, two in each hand. Murmurs could be heard from the crowd, uncertain of what he was going to do. As the bull charged a second time, El Fandi strafed sideways and with a steep arch, drove both flags in his right hand into the bull's large hump. As the bull turned, annoyed, and came at him a third time; El Fandi was ready, one flag in each hand. As he drove the final two flags into the gored back of the bull, the crowd exploded in cheers and applause. A now bare-handed torero was being chased around the ring by an angry thousand-pound bull. El Fandi put a hand forward, around the bull's forhead, and, as he ran backwards, managed to coerce the bull into stopping his charge. A final fanfare announced the start of the third period.

At this point I had understood that this show wasn't about making an animal suffer for amusement, or just a way to provide the town with around 6,000 pounds of beef in one sitting (which it is), but rather a celebration of bravery. Proving to everyone in attendance that you have complete control of a bull to the point to where you can make a killing machine dance with you, and doing it nonchalantly to make it seem easy. Proving you've got the biggest cojones in the entire arena (including the bull's), and that no one would even try to do what you're doing. Looking danger literally in the face and laughing. Maybe if I would have been born in Sevilla I would have wanted to be a torero, and maybe in an alternate universe I am one, because honestly it sounds like something I'd like to do.  

El Fandi picked up his red cape and his sword and, as the in-house band started playing traditional Spanish music, prepared for the final dance. 

The final round was the mano-a-mano and the fitting and honorable end of the fight. The bull charged time and time again at the Torero's request, and after three or four charges, El Fandi would turn his back on the bull to salute the crowd and celebrate as the entire arena yelled Ole.

 As the fight wore on, the crowd began to take out their white handkerchiefs to salute the Matador. 

The biggest surprise of the event came as El Fandi was coming towards the end of the fight. The arena began yelling "Indulto! Indulto!", which in Spanish means Pardon. If a bull performs exceptionally well in the ring, the crowd may decide to spare his life; which was what was happening now. The entire arena was pleading to the Presidente (who presides over the arena and serves a the main judge) to pardon the bull, let it get treated by a vet and get released back to his free-range ranch to become a breeding bull. It was a scene straight out of a Roman gladiator arena, and I could even imagine (I couldn't see the President myself) the President sticking his thumb out to decide the bull's fate. 

El Fandi was standing over the bull, red cape in his left hand lowered to keep the bull's interest, and in his right hand, his sword, menacingly pointed at the bull. He was looking up for a decision from the Presidential balcony. I saw him register the order with a sigh and a look of disappointment. He turned his attention to the bull. The entire arena grew silent. 

With one sleek, coherent movement, El Fandi lowered the cape and began thrusting the sword towards the bull. With one final charge, the bull dipped his head to reach down towards the red cape, exposing his weakened neck. The sword began burrowing into the bull's flesh, driven by both the Matador's strength and the bull's charge, until the entire blade had impaled the bull and only the hilt of the sword stuck out from the bull's back. El Fandi, at this point, had jumped to dodge the final cornada, and was out of harm's way as the bull's heart bled out and the bull began to lose its footing. 

The arena was a mixture of somber applause for the bull and Torero, and vulgar insults directed at the President. As the bull hit the dirt, he was quickly granted the coup de grace with a dagger by one of the assistants. Two large workhorses came in, and the bull was granted a lap of honor around the arena as the entire crowd paid their respects. Half-way through the lap the horses stopped, and El Fandi came over to kiss the bull, pat it a couple of times and give it a half hug. It was then hauled off to insides of the arena. 

A short time afterwards, a man dressed in what I can only describe as Medieval minstrel chic gave El Fandi two large tufts of fur; the bull's ears. The entire crowd cheered as El Fandi held the trophies up (proof of an excellent fight) and eventually parted with them by throwing them into the crowd (after he threw the first one, I half expected a t-shirt cannon to be brought out and used for launching bull ears into the upper sections of the arena).

There were three more fights after this one, and they were alright, but it was nothing compared to the third fight. As we walked out after the third one, we got the rare chance to see the final bull get hauled off the arena and up to the slaughterhouse, where he would be cut down to his tasty component parts. He was hung by one of his hind legs, and a guy with a belt of knives started working in a process I have become quite familiar with. As I was walking out, through the large trail of blood left by the animal, I got some on me. That had me thinking about the symbolism of almost literally having blood on my hands, and it honestly didn't worry me that much.

LBB Note #8: Alicante (Day 1: Festival)

Uncertainty is always a big part of traveling, especially if you're coming along with me.

After Granada I was exhausted. It was three jam-packed days, with jogging, walking and exploring every crevice of the city. The following week also got pretty busy and tiring as far as work goes. We were separated from our common lab training group to go into our particular research topics, already with our individual mentors; so it was no surprise when it was Thursday already and I had no plan for the weekend. I asked around the office and they all recommended different cities around the Valencian Community, so I decided to at least stay within the larger Valencia area. After a quick look at the tourism page of the Valencian Community, I learned that was a festival going on in Alicante. Alicante is the second largest city in the Valencian Community, about a two hour drive south along the same highway that took us to Granada. The fair that was coming up was the city's big annual party.

The Hogueras de San Juan (The Bonfires of Saint John) are a yearly festival celebrated all along Spain's eastern coast, from Catalonia all the way down to Valencia. The biggest celebration is in Alicante, and it was going to be this same weekend. As soon as I got home from work I booked the trip there. Syed volunteered to go with me; Brandon was staying home and Chris was going to Paris with Alkali and Kameron (A trip I had originally considered, until I realized they'd only be there for two days, and would be going to all the touristy areas. Another time Paris).

So Saturday we took off, on the road to parts unknown for the last time here in Spain. We were only going for one night because the first day of the festival was that same Saturday. The whole trip there I was uncertain. Uncertain that the festival was going to be any good, uncertain that there would be anything to do at all in Alicante, uncertain even of where we were staying.

When we got there we were met by a throng of people and three-story tall paper-mache figures. Maybe it wasn't going to be such a boring weekend.

We sat down and mooched some Wi-Fi to find a place to stay. In the meantime, I got some Paella Alicantina. This version of Paella is actually mixta, with both game meat and seafood; a big no-no in Valencia city. The rice was a darker shade, and overall a stronger course.

At 2 PM, the famous Mascleta (when the whole town lights off firecrackers for 15 minutes, starting at 2 o'clock) went off. We had our reservations, and we crossed downtown to go drop the bags off and explore the city properly. After walking a  bit away from the center of town, the line of tall buildings broke and we were able to look at the Santa Barbara Castle, the dominant feature in the Alicante panorama, and a symbol of the city. 

As soon as we dropped off the bags and we checked in, we were off towards the castle. On the way there I convinced Syed to go with me to the bullfight that was happening later in the day. He was reluctant at first, but he finally decided to go. I was finally going to get the Spanish trifecta: flamenco, tapas and bullfighting. 

There are two main options to get up the castle. You can either walk up the whole side of the mountain, all 166 vertical meters up; or you can take an elevator. The mountain ends right before the beach, so they dug a tunnel into the mountain, first horizontally and then vertically to make the elevator shaft. Inside the shaft they installed a high-speed elevator that can get you up to the summit in about thirty seconds. 

"The Turquoise door"

On the way to the elevator, and
through colorful alleys, we finally got to the coast. It was a white sand beach, a lot like Valencia, with the added bonus of a better backdrop. It was a very deep bay, where cliffs rose in the background and the buildings of the city were bunched up against the sea due to the rocky terrain around Mount Benacantil (the cliff the castle is on).

Just 100-meters from the beach was the tunnel to the elevator. The castle was completely different from the Alhambra. A Christian fortress, it was never the seat of power and it was purely a military structure. The view from here, though, was amazing. It is a single outcropping on which they build a castle, so from the turrets you can see everything for miles around you. From up there you could see the Mediterranean go from the cobalt blue of open ocean to the teal of the shore, to the white sand of the beach; and then see the city sprawl off into the distance of the far away mountains. 

I could have stayed up there for a good while longer, but we had a date to catch with a bull.

                                   

IRES Assignment 2: Sausages, Pulp Fiction and Life in Europe

Let's do some word association exercises. I'll type a word, and you say the first thing that comes to mind. Ready? The word is: ..........................Spain. What did you say? Lisp? Flamenco? Siestas? Tapas? Sun? Bullfighting? The truth is that Spain is a lot like the Spain you imagine.

I definitely had an upper hand when it came to Valencia. I come from a culture that has a diluted Spanish heritage. In Honduras we also eat dinner a bit later, we also say hi by kissing on the cheek, and we also have that loose interpretation of time and schedules that Anglo-Germanic people can't seem to comprehend (or stand). But, as I said earlier, it is a diluted culture. While we eat dinner later than in the U.S (at around 8 PM), it is not nearly as late as Spain's 10 PM dinner schedule. We also kiss on the cheek, but only once, not twice as Spanish do. 

All this ends up giving me less of a culture shock throughout this experience, but that isn't to say that there are things that don't surprise me. Take, for example, the general work day. Brandon found this video that pretty much describes it perfectly. 

Yep, that's it. Awfully stereotypical, I know, but also pretty much spot-on. We have found ourselves quoting this video every time we come across a relevant situation.

I mentioned in one of my earlier blogs that the work day is much more different than in pretty much any country I've ever been in. Before leaving for work they just have a cup of coffee. Later on they have a larger breakfast at around 10 am, then a large lunch at 2 pm.  After lunch they have their famous siestas, and then it's either off to work again or the end of the work day. 

As strange as this might seem, it's actually a pretty logical schedule. It's so logical, in fact, that we have already adopted it as our own daily routine. Getting straight to work after getting ready in the morning means I can sleep in a bit later, and so I am better rested and less groggy in the morning. After having an hour to check emails and set up what I need to do for the day, I go out for the light mid-morning breakfast. After this, at my most productive stretch of the day (already well rested and fed), I can get in a solid three and a half to four hours of work. At two you get back to see your family, and save money by eating at home instead of eating out. After the large lunch you can curl up like a boa and sleep with a full stomach. Since you slept a bit more in the morning, you don't need a large two hour nap. You can just doze off for thirty to forty minutes and get ready for the rest of your day. By the time it's 8 PM you're not even hungry since you ate a large meal not even 6 hours earlier, so that's why dinner is pushed back a bit. See? Logical and civilized.

As far as language and communication, it has gone off without a problem. Since some of the mentors here don't speak English that well or at all, I have helped with the translation. I have next to no problem understanding what they're saying to me, and it seems like they have no problem understanding me. The accent doesn't really change much (other than to make them sound really, really cool and educated) and the idioms and phrases all seem to be almost identical. Obviously, you get short phrases that are characteristic to the accent, like "Vale" (If I had 5 cents of a Euro every time someone said "Vale" to me I could buy myself a nice country Villa by now), and the always funny sounding "Madre mia". But, and I say this with a bit of shame, it has already grown on me. I say "Vale" on a daily basis now. 

In some of last year's blogs I read about unfriendliness and bad customer service, a sentiment that I have seen over and over again in American forums all over the internet. I think I'm gonna have to chalk that one up to American sensibilities because no one I have encountered has been rude to me. Everyone has a good demeanor as long as you say please, thank you and don't think that you're entitled to anything. I feel that's something I don't miss about the States. A general feeling of "I'm paying for this so I want it to be just the way I want." Over here you still have to behave kindly towards servers, and recognize that there are things that are out of your (and their) hands. I can honestly say that, as long as you're nice to Spanish people, they're gonna be some of the friendliest and most attentive people you have ever met. 

Another relevant clip (watch from 0:40-1:40):

Like Vincent Vega said in that profanity-riddled conversation (tried finding a censored version, but there wasn't one. Oh well, it's a Tarantino script and it's very well written. Sorry mom.) it's all about the little differences. So throughout these last couple of weeks I've tried to keep up with the little differences that, while not obvious, are worth mentioning:

-Commercials on TV are bunched into one single 10 minute slot before the final bit of a show. It gives you some real time to move around the house and do stuff before the last five minutes of the show. 

-Everything is small. Everything. They have little trucks, their elevators are like a square meter, little baking ovens. It's like living in Bilbo's house. 

-Smoking is not stigmatized and almost everyone smokes. Men, women, senior citizens.

-Every now and then a sewer smell creeps into the window or during a walk. You don't know where it comes from, but it's there.

-When something costs 10 euros, you pay 10 euros. No taxes, no tipping. This is incredibly convenient, you can know right away if the five euro note in your pocket is gonna be enough for that kebab they sell down the street (and you'll regret an hour or so later).

-You can get a beer and a cup of wine next to everywhere. They sell them in the University's cafeteria at 10 AM if you want. You can get one in place of a cup of coffee at 9 AM (and I've seen them do it).
-They curse on TV. Openly. And not like little words, the big ones. And in creative ways. 

-And finally...this: