And somehow I thought my trip might conclude quietly…

I thought maybe I’d go back to Madrid for a shower and a final Spanish meal before navigating the Barajas airport. It started out in that direction until I ran into the protestors (los indignatos). Let me backtrack. On my first day in Madrid, June 19th, there were protests of tens of thousands of people in the streets. They were protesting the economic crisis that has plagued Spain since before the U.S. housing market collapsed in 2008. They carried signs asking for basic human rights such as food, a job, and more interaction with their local governments. These protests began on May 15th and henceforth the movement became known as 15-M. At one point hundreds of indignatos camped in the main plaza of Madrid, Puerta del Sol. Others in nearly every city in the country followed suit. The numbers dwindled over the course of the summer, and on August 2nd the last protestors were forcefully removed from Sol, the cultural and literal center of the Capital city.

August 5th: After failed attempts to re-establish their camp in Sol, 20 people are injured during protests outside of the Minister of Interior’s office. This was the first violence of the entire summer. The protestors blamed the police. The police shut down the plaza. Rumors circulated that the protestors had been removed because of an upcoming visit by the Pope.

August 6th: I find Sol devoid of protestors, just a few youth holding a sign: Atocha Station, 8pm. I take my camera and grab a delicious kebab, and walk to the train station that had been bombed by Al-Qaeda seven years earlier, killing 192 commuters. The streets are packed. Old people, young people. Mostly 20 and 30 somethings, a demographic which complains of a 40% unemployment rate. Staggering. The protest grows and marches. The indignatos shout at police, but remain peaceful. After nearly two hours of marching the protestors stop again in front of the ministor of interior’s office. They are met by dozens of riot-gear clad police. They are not intimidated. There are shouts “Vamos a Sol!” They turn and march again. I follow. This is not my fight, but a veteran of many similar types of protests in the U.S., I felt a peculiar and joyous energy amongst this group.

Dark has fallen. We march up the hill past the National Bank and are expecting to be met by barricades of police, just like they had over the past two days. I am staying toward the front to try for better pictures, the crowd is in the thousands. We crest the hill and as we march down there are shouts…”It is open!” and “It is ours!” The police have been ordered to let the masses in. The jubilant cheers are followed by hugging and running. Signs are plastered everywhere in the plaza. As long as the crisis continues, the protestors aim to remind the government of its responsibility to its citizens, not the banks and companies. Score a win for the indignatos, they will sleep in Sol again tonight.

1. Sunflowers in Amayuelas 2. Cafe con Leche 3.  Candles in Pedraza, 4. Me and the Sierra de los Gredos mountains,

After Madrid came Sebulcor. Nobody in Spain has heard of this tiny pueblo in the Castille Y Leon region. It’s rural, yet hosts a small but successful tourism industry. Our stay in an inn across from endless wheat fields was relaxing. Delicious food and cool evenings defined our stay. A tranquil kayaking day on a emerald green river surrounded by cliffs inhabited by hundreds of vultures was fantastic by itself. Add to it the ruins of a 800 year old monastery perched on the rivers edge and you have yourself a pretty fine day.

And then came the candles. We took a bus to a nearby town called Pedraza. The town is a medieval village that has been meticulously kept for centuries. The walls and castle are well preserved and the narrow streets allow you to lose yourself for just long enough to forget that anything else in the world exists. Oh yeah, and the entire town turned every light and lined its windows, sidewalks and streets with candles. Thousands of candles. Some were in designs, others just decorated terraces and waist high walls. Speakers were strategically placed throughout the town playing classical music.

I took a group of 8 students on a wandering walk through the village. There were thousands of Spaniards also meandering the streets. We only came across two American all evening. I turned a corner to encounter a large crowd gathering. We pressed up to the front only to see a dozen military officers dressed in camouflage standing next two five cannons. Let’s not call them canons, but rather the type of modern weapon one might use to rouse Qaddafi from a bunker deep below a fortress in Tripoli. A 17 year-old student of mine quickly identified the music playing as Tchaikovsky’s Overture of 1812.  We waited…and waited. Then, seemingly when we thought it wouldn’t happen, the cannons exploded. Fire, smoke…and the sound. We were standing no more than 10 feet from the closest cannon. The warm air seemed to blow us back several feet. The noise was deafening. The ringing in my ears subsided only for a moment until more cannon blasts. Our faces teemed with excitement drawn from the adrenaline. It was a feeling hard to describe, but somehow through that incident the nine of us bonded that evening. Candles and cannons. Go figure.

I joined the other global works group for the evening at the bullring. We sat in the bleeders with the other tourists. Most of the kids left after the first bull was killed. It was clean as a brutal animal slaughter amidst a dance as one can imagine. The second bull did not fair so well and exited early with the cows.

And then came the third bull. It charged and kicked with its hind legs. The matador egged him on. They danced. The matador drew the bull nearer and nearer as he turned his back on the bull with his chest puffed like a proud bird. More dancing. Then, the bull clipped the matadors leg, staining his sequined outfit a deep crimson from chest to knee. The next charge was even closer. The bull got both of the matadors legs, flipping him head over heals a full three feet in the air. Advantage bull. He landed with a thud that we could hear from the upper level as the crowd drew to a whisper. Only a second passed before the matador got to his feet and showing no fear continued to show the cape. It ended the same as it always does, but the drama we witnessed left an indelible if not unsettling reminder of culture and drama in me.

My kids come tomorrow and then the adventure really begins. I have taken pictures, and will upload soon, I promise.

A few days ago Chelo asked me posed the same question to me. Hers was a bit more flattering, indicating that I fit in well as a Spaniard (despite her semi-frequent grammatical corrections). I could easily pass, she said. I suppose this would be true if I didn’t open my mouth. Except then she follows the comment by complimenting my language skills. Go figure.

But the icing on the cake came last night. Out with an old friend from my study abroad in Sevilla, we meet two of her friends at the metro Anton Martin. Her friends introduce themselves to me. A Texan named Kate asks me, completly earnest “Como te llamas?” I pause. She thinks I am Spanish. I momentarily toy with the idea of playing along. Instead I’ll take the gratification that I can blend…at least in Spain. Next trip I’ll have to try to pass in Nepal.