"Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night”

- Edgar Allen Poe, as found on my sugar packet at d'Platos (in Spanish). My weekly dose of sugar packet wisdom.

Yes, readers, I realize it's been a while since my last post. Well, more than a while. However, if I had all the time in the world to update my blog I wouldn't have much to write about, would I? I’m not going to lie, winter break threw me off a bit. But, to catch you up a bit...

The Spanish are very proud of their home-towns, or “pueblos,” and surely won’t miss the chance to tell you that they are not in fact from Granada, but hail from a “pueblo” outside the city. Their evident attachment to their town, combined with a strong sense of family, is what seems to draw these Spaniards back to their hometown many-a-weekend. While my roommates often stay in the city, I won’t pretend that they don’t go home to be with their family and friends in Baza more than I would have guessed for 24 and 29 years olds. Not to mention that, according to David (29), that’s still not enough in his mother’s eyes.

Rebeca, David and I out and about in Baza

The weekend before my big adventure to Berlin (queue next post), my roommates Rebeca and David invited me to their hometown of Baza. About an hour's drive outside of the city, Baza is a small town quietly situated in a valley of the Sierras distinguished by cave-homes, black handprints, and a strong sense of community. At this point, I suppose you’re wondering about the black handprints. You can find them on most of the buildings in the center of town; a constant reminder of the “Fiesta de Cascamorras,” a festival that takes place in Baza and the neighboring town (Guadix) every September. This is Spain we’re talking about, and that something as random as black handprints covering the city is the result of a festival shouldn’t come as a surprise.

A brief background of Cascamorras: In 1490, a worker from Guadix found a statue of Virgen de Piedad (Our Lady of Mercy) in Baza. Encouraged by Guadix, he unsuccessfully attempted to carry the sacred statue to his hometown. From the Guadix-Baza contention over the ownership of the Virgen arose the tradition of the Cascamorras. Every year, a person from Guadix is commissioned to run through the town of Baza in an attempt to “retrieve” the statue. If he takes the image without stain, which is to say without being covered in paint, he is allowed to take the image back to Guadix. So as to stop the Casscamorras from stealing the sacred Virgin, everyone in Baza covers themselves in black paint and tries to coat the Cascamorras in black handprints. The result: black handprints over everything and everyone, and what seems to me like an overall good time. Why cant towns in the States have such obscure traditions that beings everyone together, running around like crazy, painted people? Oh, the beauty of Spanish festivals.

Playing Foosball at a bar called "Feisbuuk"

around the small table in the living room, brasero by our feet and fire (“alumbre”) crackling at our backs. Chocolate, as prepared in Spain, is very, very rich. Rebeca and I both admit that we can’t even drink it- only use it to dunk our hot, crispy churros. And we were not lacking those. There was an entire bag-full, and after about two I was done for. But then Rebeca’s mom would chime in and I found myself with another churro sitting in my belly. Rebeca’s brother, JuanRa: “I can usually only eat about five, then I’m stuffed!” Well, I’d hope so, JuanRa.

As for to my weekend in Baza, no, I didn’t get to experience the Cascamorras festival first-hand (Get it? First-handPRINT). Unfortunately, it seems like all of the cool Spanish festivals are celebrated during the Summer months. However, Baza does have a sort of wine festival during in December, which I was able to experience. Just like every Spanish festival is usually based on a Saint or Catholic tradition, the wine festival coincides with the “Día de Santa Bárbara” to commemorate the conquest of Baza by the Reyes Católicos and expulsion of the Moors from the city.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is that the people of Baza found a reason to celebrate. The town plaza catered to the various citizens that made their home-brews (I’m obviously a beer lover- is wine even “brewed”?), and to those that came thirsty. There was also traditional Spanish dancing- however, as flamenco is about as far as my knowledge of Spanish dancing goes, I can’t say exactly what it was.

With Rebeca's friend Gema, her sister and brother at the wine festival

Rebeca, David and my taste test of the wines didn’t end there. They took me to a typical Spanish bar owned by a friend of David. White-washed walls, small windows, plain table-and-chair setup, and a huge fireplace with “careta” roasting on an open flame. What’s “careta” you might ask? Well, it was on the menu that night, and I was willing to try just about anything. It must be a living-in-a-foreign-country-thing. After a bit of the newly made wine poured from small clay pots (and some of the wine from last year- the good stuff courtesy of David’s friend), we delved into the “careta.” Pigs face, people. Pigs. Face.

And it tastes just like you’d expect. The cheek just sort of, explodes in your mouth. I wouldn’t call it meat, more like... crunchy fat. I’m cringing right now. Then there’s the ear. David (en español): “It’s my favorite part, it’s just like a chip!” Chip, hah! Cartilage is chewy, let’s leave it at that. After getting a few laughs from the expressions on my face of utter disgust (“¡qué asco!”), we ordered steak. Now there’s something I’m familiar with.

There were more than a few questionable things I ate that weekend. Blood sausage, something weird that was in my calamari (not the nice little circle calamari, either), and why does the fish have to have bones? Which leads me to Spanish mothers and food. Rebeca’s mother, who I now associate with all Spanish mothers (and I apologize for the generalization), was constantly at the ready to feed us. I suppose it’s not unlike Omi, come to think of it. But where the Spanish parts way with the German is the olive oil.

Rebeca’s mom: “How does your mother usually cook fish?”

Me: “Well, she usually cooks it in the oven... sometimes we grill it...”

Rebeca’s mom: “Better fried!” (and proceeds to pour all the fish, bones and all, into a fryer full of olive oil)

Yes, it is tasty... But oh, boy. The amount of fried food I ate. I was eating salad for a week to detox. As I recall, Sunday morning consisted of the Spanish classic: Churros con chocolate and the entire family and I huddled

I’ll leave you with Sunday’s lunch. A typical “Spanish” experience if I’d every had one. Every Sunday, Rebeca’s family goes to her abuela’s home for paella. I say home instead of house because, well, Rebeca’s abuela lives in a cave. Yes, una cueva. It’s actually rather typical in Baza and cave-homes outline the town. Although it wasn’t my first “cave” experience (I had been to a tetería- tea house- in a cave the night before), it was a sight to see.

Above: The cave-home, with white-washed walls and various little rooms, was not at all what I expected. No, it was a true “home,” and besides the walls not being straight had all of the same comforts of a house. The neat things about these cave homes is that the temperature is naturally regulated year-round no matter the temperature outside.

Rebeca’s grandmother sitting in a chair by the fire, her mother bent over the fire with an enormous paella pan filled to the brim, perched atop the flames. Oh, right, and in a cave no less.

So there I was: In a cave, sitting at the table with Rebeca’s family, eating paella.

Kate’s gone native.

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