Spanish Street Theatre: Of Culture and Community

For the last three weeks the sleepy village of Santolaya de Cabranes (pop. 174) has been home to 26 university students drawn from the four corners of Spain, participants in a summer theatre workshop camp which culminated in a hugely successful performance of ‘teatro en la calle’ on Friday night.

The picturesque village served perfectly as the set for the performance, with a total of ten ‘stages’ dotted throughout, hosting ten different set-pieces that were reprised time and again as the audience was guided in carefully timed groups round the theatrical trail.

The theme of the show was ‘retratando el pasado’ – portraying the past. An apt theme for a production in a locality that is very much rooted in tradition, despite having some not inconsiderable modern trappings (e.g. the fastest fibre-optic broadband I’ve ever come across anywhere in the world!)

The show itself is only one part of the story however. The three week programme as a whole also tells a more contemporary tale of Spanish culture – a tale of collaboration, community and cross-generation co-operation.

The theatre camp (for the third year running) is sponsored by the local council. The students spend the three weeks of the camp sleeping in bunk beds in the village sports hall, being fed in the local bar, visiting some of the outstanding local attractions and learning about Asturian tradition from the very heart of elderly Asturians. In addition to all this, from 5pm – 7pm every day they offer their services as child entertainers for the very young in the village square.

The final show, product of this cross-generational collaboration, showcases the talents of the local children and old folk as well as the visiting students who all contribute to the set, costume and poster production in addition to performing. The players in the performance itself number 80 and range in age from 8 to 80.

Even those without a theatrical bone in their body willingly contribute their time and skills. My elderly neighbour Julián, for example, manned the sidra (cider, the typical Asturian tipple) stall, pouring ‘culines’ gratis for footsore and thirsty street theatre-goers. Contributing something, whatever you have to offer, is the name of the game.

Fame At Last?

I got a call from a tv producer today. No, really. Ok, it was only from our local tv station, TPA (Televisión del Principado de Asturias) but nonetheless. (Just to put things into perspective one of their ‘programmes’ is actually an hour-long feed of live web-cam images from the beach. Not that they’re desperate to fill airtime or anything.)

This related to an actual bona-fide programme in production however. And, no, before you say it, it’s not for an Asturian version of ‘How Clean is Your House?’ The show is called ‘Objetivo Asturias’ and it’s actually an Asturian version of a national show called ‘Destino Espana’. So that clears that up then.

For those of you unfamiliar with the output of Spanish tv (you lucky people) it’s a programme that shows Spain through the eyes of foreigners who live there, with Bolivians bigging up Barcelona, Ecuadoreans eulogizing Extremadura and so on. This was to be our chance to celebrate Cabranes, the beautiful concejo where we live, nestled between the mountains and the sea.

Naturally the mayor, el alcalde, is particularly keen on this programme being made and it was he who put the TPA in touch with us. We have form, you see. Over 5 years ago, newly-arrived in Asturias we were interviewed for both the TPA and La Nueva Espana daily newspaper.The hook then was two young(ish) foreigners moving into the back of beyond in a tiny concejo with the oldest demographic of all Spain and suffering from rampant de-population. Oh, and the local council’s new broadband scheme that enabled us to work from home here, in this unlikeliest of ‘connected’ places.

The piece in the paper was particularly lovely – a full page spread headlining us as ‘cabraneses’ or natives to the area. It ended with a sweet paragraph full of journalistic cliche hoping that we might bring ‘the greatest gift of all to the concejo – the gift of life.’(!) Which, sure enough, not wishing to disappoint, three years later we did. (I do wonder sometimes if I’m just too eager to please.)

So you see, normally I’m the kind of gal who likes to say yes but in what is surely just a sign of creeping middle-age,  for once I’d like to look before I leap and to actually ask the question, what’s in it for me?

Would we earn el alcalde’s undying gratitude? And if so, would we have some leverage to get the licence through that we’ve been awaiting from the town hall for nearly two years? (This despite the town architect telling me at the time of application that it was ‘nothing’ and would be dealt with in a jiffy. Ha.)

Maybe I could get the tv crew to follow me to the town hall in Villaviciosa while I complain about the latest completely unjustified ticket I’ve been sent by the Guardia Civil. (They’re on a campaign to single-handedly resolve the Spanish national debt. Starting by bankrupting me.) Perhaps that might persuade them to waive the fine? (Double ha ha.)

Back in the real world, what I do know is that I’d get super-stressed and caught up in it all and leave all the important things on my to-do list to fester for even longer than they already have. I’m afraid crossing things off rather than adding new stuff has to be my priority right now. I need to get tough, like a night-club bouncer. If you’re not on the list, you’re not getting in.

Of course, I can’t help but fantasize a little about how my 15 minutes of fame would be and I’ve been running through in my head exactly where I’d take ‘my’ film crew and what I’d say to them.

I could certainly ramble on at length about the many natural beauties of Cabranes and accompany them through the woods on a trek, perhaps on horseback with my friend and neighbour Luis and his horses, giving his awesome adventure activity business a plug.

Rayo, one of Luis' beautiful Asturian horses

I would show them the magnificent vistas of the Picos de Europa mountains to the east and of the sea to the north. I would introduce them to my wonderful neighbours who have made us feel so at home here. (Could be risky. Modesta is 90 and has rarely left the village. She’s never seen a plane or been on a train. Imagine the impact of having a tv crew in her house?! Maybe not such a good idea.)

View to the Picos de Europa. Not too shabby, eh?

Then I guess I’d also have to bring them to some of the local hostelries. Now, here’s where it could get tricky. I could take them to the 4 star hotel at Torazo, just up the road from home, where we occasionally go for a glass of wine on the verandah taking in the sunset over the Picos, or for fine dining on a special occasion. I’m sure they’d be very keen on being featured. (Hmmm, do I sense a free meal or Spa passes?)

Then there are the bars in Santolaya. Casa J, where we sometimes go to meet our friends after work early on a Friday evening would have to be first on the list. Here Jack plays football with the barowners’ daughter and the owner herself is not above lying on the floor beside him, kicking her legs in the air, if he has a tantrum. You’ve gotta love Spanish bars and the degree to which they are genuinely family-friendly.

Admittedly it’s maybe not the most telegenic of places. When we arrived 6 years ago it looked like it hadn’t been re-decorated in at least 10 years. And nothing’s changed in the subsequent six years. The neon strip lighting doesn’t do a lot for one’s complexion either (mind you, nor does a couple of glasses of rioja….)

Problem is, there are three other bars in the village (note: village population is 80!) How could we film in just one? Take the bar next door to Casa J. I’ve only just got over my fear of the somewhat surly owner, having decided that she’s probably just a bit shy. Also in her defence, strangling words with a strong foreign accent generally guarantees you’ll receive a pained squint in return from just about anyone.

Anyway, I don’t want to set our relationship back again. It was only really once I got pregnant shortly after her that she really thawed out with me. The lengths some people will go to just to elicit a smile and some friendly conversation from people they barely know. (Too eager? Note to self: a couple of glasses of wine is a far easier and less expensive way of oiling the wheels of social contact.)

And then there’s the corner bar where we sometimes go of a summer evening to sit in the garden and drink a cold cerveza while Jack plays on the swing set. We couldn’t leave them out. Or La L. – we haven’t been in there since the lunch we had some years ago when the owner spent forty minutes regaling us with her theories on alien abduction but, hey, that’s no reason to exclude them from the programme.

Aaaagh. You see, this is precisely what I’m talking about – the problem with being the kind of person who can’t say no. I have no filter. No stopping point. So I’d best not get started. Thank you very much TPA, but no thanks.

The Things Kids Say (And Husbands Don’t)

So, it’s Sunday morning and owing to a (yet to be proved right) rubbish weather forecast we are actually heading down to town from our hill-top hovel rustic cottage rather than out to the mountains for our usual weekend climbing.

In honour of the occasion (and just in case I bump into anyone I know) I decided that a bit of spit and polish was in order. The Spanish are very big on appearance and cleanliness. You will even see young children in play parks wearing things like impossibly clean light-coloured woollen suits with smart leather boots and perfectly coiffed hair. (This is a country where the hospital midwives take your newborn infant for his first bath and return him reeking of the baby cologne that now slicks his sparse hairs into place.)

I, by contrast, spend my life in either ragged, chalk-covered climbing clothes or tatty, muddy gardening gear. My son is dressed almost exclusively in hand-me-downs from English friends – all great gear, but decidedly more casual than that which Spanish children would wear on a Sunday outing. And likely to be accesorized with dried-on food stains/mud and odd socks. I confess, I am a slack mummy. You get the picture.

That’s a combination of climbing chalk and good old-fashioned dirt he’s sporting

Back to today. I conscientiously selected a matching outfit and shoes for the little prince and combed his hair neatly. I excitedly donned my favourite jeans and black sweetheart neckline top with a smart new brown cardigan that I bought in the sales this week (my clothes shopping excursions average about once a year so don’t underestimate my excitement at this.) I even accesorized the outfit with a lovely brown craft necklace that my friend gave me for my birthday in June, that I had yet to wear. So yes, I felt pretty good walking down the stairs to head out into town.

On seeing me my 2 year old virtually did a double-take. ‘Mummy bootiful. Smart,’ he said approvingly. Which, of course, melted my heart and confirmed to me the boy’s genius (natch). Did also tell me something about my normal levels of presentation but for now we’ll gloss over that.

I was quite excited to see the effect that ‘smart’ me would have on my beloved husband but, I think you already know where I’m going with this, he didn’t notice a thing. I mean, come on, if a two year old can notice I’ve made an effort?!

Or maybe I’ve just trained him too well to rise above the superficial valuing of a woman on her appearance? Sure, it must be that…..right?

An Octopus-y Odyssey

The 25th January was Richie’s birthday and after a nutritious breakfast of flumps (Jack’s marshmallowy and only ever so-slightly self-interested birthday present to his father) the day progressed into a galloping gourmand gourmet odyssey.

I know what you’re thinking – this woman feeds her family Flumps for breakfast….how well placed to pontificate on all matters culinary

It was a gloriously sunny day as we headed to Gijon, which with its beaches, restaurants and the best play park ever, satisfied all members of our (birthday) party.

San Lorenzo Beach, Gijon. Blue skies and sunbathing in January – North Wales it ain’t

From the beach, our attention was drawn to ‘La Bella Vista’ resturant (the blue one on the end in the photo above.) With a gorgeous terrace  shimmering in the January sunlight and very ‘bella’ views across the bay to the old quarter of town, it seemed like the perfect spot to celebrate.

A quick check of the menu on display by the gate confirmed that this was an upmarket joint with a menu selection that gave an inventive twist to traditional Asturian fare. Prices were correspondingly on the slightly sophisticated side but just enough so that we could feel like we were celebrating in style without risking bankruptcy.

The ‘Menu del Dia’ lunchtime formula option was priced at 14 Euros for three courses with wine/cider (weekday ‘menu’ price in Gijon ranges between 7 to 15 euros) but we threw caution to the wind and went a la carte.

The birthday boy had a yen for octopus (nothing new there – pulpo, as it’s called in Spanish, is a firm family favourite). As the only such dish was ‘pulpo a la brasa’ in the ‘to share’ section we naturally plumped for that for starters.

When the waitress deposited the gorgeously presented dish to us, Richie’s face fell like that of an 8 year old whose aunty has just bought him the wrong football strip for his birthday. ‘I think we’ve made a horrible error,’ he whimpered. (We actually have a history of making dodgy dining decisions on his birthday. E.g. seven years ago we spent Jan 25th in a deserted Polish restaurant in Sheffield. Pity for the proprietors should never be a factor in your choice of restaurants. If they’re always empty there’s probably a good reason.)

Jack tucks into the tiny but perfectly presented octopus dish

To be fair, the octopus tasted great. There just wasn’t enough of it. The portion wouldn’t even have been large enough for Jack on his own – and sure enough he polished off a good half of it. (Ways in which Jack is a Spanish toddler Number 3 – he happily devours all kinds of tentacled foodstuffs.)

At 16 euros for the portion it a) seemed rather pricey and b) just wasn’t going to satisfy our penchant for pulpo.

Our mains, albondigas de perdiz (partridge meatballs) and carpaccio de gacela (gazelle carpaccio with a cherry salsa) were a big improvement, being imaginative and well-executed but also more generous in size. (We’re really not that greedy, honest, but it’s a fairly basic requriement of the whole dining experience to leave the table sated.)

Carpaccio de gacela and albondigas de perdiz

We skipped dessert – mainly due to a crabby toddler who needed his post-prandial siesta (soooo Spanish, I’m telling you). Discretion being the better part of valour we beat a hasty retreat to the promenade where Jack soon nodded off in his pushchair.

A meander along the seafront brought us face to face with the dilapidated looking Galician Bar-Restaurant which we had previously pondered over as a dining destination, being, as it is, a dedicated pulpo restaurant. We caught each other’s eye. We couldn’t, could we? Well, it was his birthday….

Never mind the rundown exterior – it’s a pulpo palace!

The last lunchtime patrons were leaving the bar as we entered. The floor beneath the counter bore testament to the passage of a busy lunch service – hundreds of cider spattered napkins and toothpicks littered the floor. An excellent omen.  The frontage may be past its best but if the diners keep coming the food must be good.

We ordered a restrained half portion of pulpo gallega (priced at 9 euros, with a full portion at 16) and when it came, unlike its tentacled colleague from earlier in the day, it did not disappoint. It was a mound of succulent, olive oiled, rock-salted, juicy octopus. Perfect!

Finally satisfied we headed for home. If there’s one thing about getting older, you sure do know exactly what you want and, if you’re lucky, how to get it.

Rules of the Road

So, yesterday, I was driving in town and as I approached a Stop sign two Trafico cars (Spanish traffic police, as you’ve probably guessed already) drove past me. Cue accelerated heart rate and butterflies in my stomach. (I’m the same walking through Customs. I blame my Irish Catholic upbringing – it’s made me so good at guilt that I don’t ever need to do anything wrong to permanently feel like I deserve arresting.)

Picture courtesy of Outisnn, Wikimedia Commons. Well, you didn't think I'd be brave enough to take a photo of a cop car, did you? I'd probably be arrested for it if I did...

However, having fallen foul of Trafico on a few occasions already I feel my anxiety in this instance is slightly less neurotic than usual. For example, at 9 and a half months pregnant (yes, really) Trafico stopped and fined us for not coming to a complete halt (the difference was barely discernible) at a Stop sign whilst making a left turn on an empty road (into the maternity hospital for God’s sake!)

Despite having the dream excuse at hand (or rather, at belly) unfortunately I wasn’t in the mood for hamming it up and faking an emergency labour. Being a heaving mess of hormones, I’m afraid all I could do was sit there and sob uncontrollably while the heartless b******* wrote my partner a ticket and fined us a hundred euros.

At this point my heart attitude soured rather towards the Guardia Civil in general and Trafico in particular. Strong words indeed coming from a convent-educated authority fearer like me. Hell hath no fury like a pregnant lady fined unfairly.

On another occasion they caught us in a speed trap and in addition to ticketing us for speeding they threatened to fine us for carrying a surf board in the car. The board was stowed in the boot, with one of the rear seats folded down to accommodate its length. The officer told us that it was illegal to carry anything that didn’t fit in the boot and that required folding the seat.

Which made me wonder: why do car manufacturers make folding rear seats? So you can store things in your car while it’s parked? Or maybe just for drivers in countries other than Spain? In which case they should just glue the seats in the upright position on all Spanish cars.

I happen to know that this can be done as I once had a car in the boot of which my then boyfriend accidentally spilt an enormous bucket of construction glue. That rear seat never folded again I can tell you. (Practicality was not Simon’s strong point. He also once sawed a sofa-bed in half to try and fit it up the stairs to our loft. Never quite the same again either.)

I digress. Back to yesterday. I end up following the two Trafico cars, casually checking my speed every 2 seconds or so. We are all approaching a pedestrian crossing where an elderly lady is leaning heavily on her walking stick waiting to cross.  And both cop cars sail over the crossing without so much as slowing their speed. I’m outraged, I tell you.

A pedestrian crossing - you're supposed to give way to pedestrians on these. No, really. Even if your job isn't specifically road safety. Photo: courtesy wikimedia commons

The difference between driver attitudes to pedestrian crossings here in Spain and those in the UK and Ireland has always struck me as immense. Here, crossings are all about brinkmanship. You must stride out onto the road decisively and with confidence in order for cars to stop. You don’t stand there watching and waiting for the cars to stop for you – if you do, you’ll be there a very long time. Still, you might have expected better from the pernickety, self-righteous upholders of the laws on road safety.

Maybe I’ll eventually get used to it, as with so many other cultural differences, but I think not. I really can’t believe that this device that was designed to assist people to cross roads safely was ever really intended to be used as what amounts to a giant game of chicken.

Spanish Home Cooking – Croquetas

Today I feel like a real Spanish mamá. I just cooked some croquetas from chicken left-overs. It doesn’t get much more Spanish than that. Well, except maybe if I cooked it whilst wearing a supremely practical blue housecoat. And in a spotlessly clean house….Well, anyway…..today I cooked croquetas. And they were great.

Me and my homemade croquetas – plain but fabulous!

Croquetas are a classic Spanish dish and a fab finger-food that is beloved of children and bar-propping tapas eaters alike. They are also a fantastically frugal food, helping you use up every last scrap of any left-over cooked chicken (or ham) that you happen to have.

I have to confess that I always thought that croquetas were made with potatoes (maybe because I’m Irish?) so it was a revelation the first time I actually saw them being made, by my neighbour Rosi, and realised that the basis for the filling is in fact a thick white sauce or bechamel.

Watching Rosi make her croquetas also made me realise just what a simple, good home-cooked food they are (or can be at their best) and it inspired me with the confidence to incorporate them into my own kitchen repertoire. It’s the kind of plain, real cooking that is best learned at the elbow of a kitchen matriarch.

Real Spanish food as cooked in real Spanish kitchens

Just in case you’re not so lucky as I and that’s not an option for you, below is the basic recipe for you to have a play with. ¡Que aproveche!

Recipe for Chicken Croquetas / Croquetas de Pollo

You’ll need:  Nothing you don’t already have! (That’s the whole idea )

whatever cooked chicken you have left over and need to use up! I grind mine in my new whizzy food processor but Rosi just chops hers up into tiny pieces with some kitchen scissors

for the white sauce:  olive oil (note: not butter, this is a Spanish recipe!), milk, plain flour, onion, salt, black pepper, nutmeg (optional)

for the coating:  egg, breadcrumbs

Olive oil to fry

The quantities all depend on the amount of meat you have and how far you want (or need) to make it go.

On this occasion I made 12 croquetas and used approximately: 2 tbsp of olive oil, 4 tbsp plain flour and 8 fl oz of milk plus some finely chopped onion (a small handful).  I had 250g of chicken to hand.

Heat the olive oil then add the onion and fry gently for a few minutes until it becomes soft and translucent.
Sprinkle the flour in and stir for a minute or two more then add the milk slowly, stirring constantly and bring the paste to a boil.
The aim here is to make a gloriously thick white sauce that ultimately winds up with the consistency of a dough mix.

Once the sauce is thickened, turn the heat off and add the chicken and season to taste with the salt, pepper and nutmeg.

Spread the mix on a large plate and place in the fridge until fully chilled. This is important as it makes the mixture much more easy to work with and shape. Allow at least a couple of hours or even overnight.

Once it’s thoroughly chilled you’re ready to shape the croquetas – line up your plate of paste, a plate with beaten egg, a plate with breadcrumbs and a plate for the moulded croquetas.

Rosi uses a dessert spoon to get the perfect Spanish croqueta shape. You can do this or shape them with your hands by rolling. Next dip them in the egg and finally in the breadcrumbs, making sure they are nicely coated.

Now all that remains is to fry them in very hot olive oil. I use a deep-fat fryer set to 190 degrees c. You could also just do them in a deep frying pan.

Once they are a gorgeous golden brown (a matter of just a couple of minutes) take them out and soak off the excess oil onto kitchen paper.

Serve immediately.  Riquísimo!!

From the Sublime to the Ridiculous

After spending much of yesterday salivating over the prospects of some highbrow intellectual stimulation courtesy of the NY TimesTalks this weekend at the Centro Niemeyer, 10pm saw me installed on the sofa ready to relish some ‘telebasura’ (trash tv to non-Spanish speakers).

Telecinco’s Acorralados premiered last night and I have to say that I was excited to watch it.  Not because I have any particular affinity to reality tv of the ‘I’m a Celebrity Get me out of here’ genre but simply because the farm on which this particular set of Z list celebrities is currently marooned is just 10 minutes down the road from my house.

I only lasted 5 minutes.  Even the desire to catch a glimpse of my neighbourhood on national tv and perhaps even a neighbour or two and to see how both might be portrayed by the national media couldn’t keep me watching.  Sad, desperate has-beens, desperate to earn a buck and to re-gain some of the spotlight being humiliated through a series of ridiculous, artificial trials for the ‘delight’ of the public are the same the world over.

I didn’t even catch a glimpse of the Asturian countryside.  But to be honest, I don’t need to see this beautiful place reflected through the twisted glass of the ‘reality’ camera.

Gramedo Fiesta

Last Sunday, 19th October, was the day of La Fiesta de Nuestra Señora del Rosario, the patron saint of our parish of Gramedo and Giranes.  Despite being a country backwater and sadly depopulated, come fiesta time the loyal sons and daughters of the parish come back from the cities and towns to celebrate their roots and traditions and to drink a little cider together.

The day was hot and sunny, perhaps a little too hot for the many who were decked out in full traditional Asturian finery – the heavy wool skirts and trousers and intricately beaded shawls weigh a ton!  But the effect was worth it and it was a wonderful reflection of how aware Cabraneses (locals of this concejo of Cabranes) of the importance of upholding traditions.

Moving to this rural idyll from the busy streets of Sheffield 3 years ago, we swapped a daily soundtrack of traffic and siren for one of scythe sharpening and cow bells.  But wonderfully insulated from the modern world as Cabranes is, even here the old ways of life are in danger of dying out, as the younger generations turn their backs on  country life and move to the cities.   That’s why fiestas such as this one are so important – to bring people back for a day of celebration, unity and maintaining rooted traditions.  And for a good session of bonding with your neighbours over a few culins of sidra.  (That’s glasses of cider to the uninitiated!)

Check out our gallery of photos from the day in our Picasaweb album -

http://picasaweb.google.com/spanishpropertynorth/GramedoFiesta