So I finally made it to a church service here in Madrid this week. For one reason or another (the one, more so than the other) it’s taken me six weeks to get there, but I finally got my act together. And it wouldn’t be Far From Home if I didn’t throw in a quirky, self-opinionated yet strangely compelling (strange being the operative morpheme) set of ecumenical observations every few weeks. Furthermore, it’s almost the end of February (!) and I’ve only posted once this month, which is well below quota, even for a day-deficient month like February. So here we go.
First up, I think I went to the wrong service. I was hoping to catch the service for families and young people, but I found myself at a traditional Church of England Eucharist. That was fine; I’m reasonably flexible in terms of worship style. But I was surprised to find myself caught unawares by the Book of Common Prayer.
Normally it’s all good; we used the Australian Book of Prayer at college chapel services all through my uni years, so not only am I familiar with it, I know most of the responses from memory. However the version we used back at St. John’s was the most recent version, updated into contemporary Australian English. The version at the church I visited hadn’t been updated since some time in the 1800s. All the words were different; I had to flip through the book and find the script, which was bit embarrassing. Fortunately no-one noticed. The Anglican tradition of hiding in the pews at the back still applies in Spain.
It was Transfiguration Sunday, and the priest gave a really interesting (well… I thought so) comparison between Transfiguration and Gethsemane. Obviously there were contrasts, but I was surprised by how many similarities there were also.
It was also the last Sunday before Lent starts, so the congregation threw an early pancake lunch ahead of Shrove Tuesday. While the preparation team got the lunch ready, we all stood around in the courtyard enjoying a glass of strawberry champagne (what?). One of the old couples of the church had bought in a crate of the stuff, thinking it would be nice to have a drink together before they all give it up for Lent (um…) so I drank my pre-lunch bubbly and stood in the sun, partly to warm up on a chilly day, and partly to keep away from the group of parishioners smoking on the other side of the courtyard. Spain hasn’t quite caught up with the whole “smoking is bad for you” bandwagon yet.
It was a pretty standard sort of fellowship lunch. Casseroles and rice; just the way it should be, with savoury pancakes thrown into the mix for the occasion. Most of the congregation were British or American ex-pats as opposed to Spanish nationals, so there wasn’t the feeling of having no idea what was about to happen that I’ve become accustomed to. The red wine for sale on a table off to the side was a little unexpected, but not unwelcome. I spent most of the meal chatting to the priest, who was really nice, and with a woman from New Zealand who wanted me to bring her a copy of the words to Waltzing Matilda. I’m not sure why.
Far From Home
Garry with 2 Rs
26 February 2009
17 February 2009
Eulália
So where was I? Oh that’s right… Barcelona.
I took off last weekend for my first intra-spanish adventure. I’ve just come back to Madrid after three days with a friend in Barcelona: home of Gaudi, The Ramblas, the 1992 Olympic Games, and the most disturbing Sunday school presentation I have ever seen. I had a fantastic time. With it’s oddly shaped architecture and a taste for strange looking modernism, the city has a reputation for being just a little bit wacky and unpredictable. Just the sort of place you might expect to find an out-of-control stunt linguist like me.
Actually, although I realise it betrays me as something of a cultural Philistine, I really wasn’t that excited by the whole modernism and crazy-lah architecture thing. I can respect Gaudi for being so successful whilst being so completely off the wall - full credit to the man – but buildings just aren’t my thing; even really cool buildings. It’s some kind of reverse-psychological symptom of being the son of an architect.
At the insistence of the locals, we did go and check out the Sagreda Familia church, Gaudi’s most famous work. The sculpture decorations were pretty cool, but again, it was just a building. Apparently you’re supposed to go in and climb the towers. We didn’t.
Much cooler than the cathedral in my opinion was Parc Güell, which is a big botanic garden in the north of the city. Gaudi got his hands on that too, and it’s all laid out with stone carvings and bizarrely shaped pathways, as well as buildings that look like they’re made out of marzipan.
The foreshore got a complete overhaul in the lead up to the games, and is really modern, clean and fun to walk around, with weird impressionistic sculptures randomly dotted around the place. We took a cable car from there up to the Olympic Village. We visited the Olympic stadium, the sports museum and the cultural institute. There were some great views of the city from on top of the hill where they built the village.
We spent some time wandering down the Ramblas, which are a large open air mall. The weekend markets were on, which was nice. There were people selling the usual souvenirs and stuff made out of locally produced fabric, but the coolest ones were the pet stalls. They were selling pigeons, rabbits, ferrets, various types of lizard (one shop had an iguana for sale) and tortoises of various sizes. But remember kids, a bearded dragon isn’t just for Christmas.
The attraction of visiting Barcelona this particular weekend was that it was the festival of Santa Eulália, the local patron saint (and here’s a shout out to any Redwall fans out there).
According to tradition, Eulália was a devout Christian girl and the Romans wanted her to recant her faith. She refused, and was subjected to a number of tortures, including crucifixion and being rolled down a hill in a barrel full of knives. Eventually she was martyred by decapitation, at which point a dove flew out of her neck. Make of that what you will.
So anyway, I was expecting a local commemoration with bands and choirs and stalls and things. What we got was a thousand (no exaggeration) children dressed as demons parading through the streets playing drums. It was a little macabre, but fairly harmless until they bought out the fireworks. It was the craziest pageant I’ve ever seen, but after the drumming they gave each kid a stick with a catherine wheel on in it, set it alight and sent them off to run through the streets showering us all with sparks until they exploded. The catherine wheels, that is, not the children.
This went on for about an hour, until they had run out of children. Then a band started playing, and a few of the older generation started doing a kind of traditional dance in a circle. I think they were mourning (or maybe even celebrating, I don’t know, it was all very dark and disturbing) the saint’s death. They must have been, because apart from that, Eulália herself didn’t make an appearance at all, just an army of pyro-maniacal infant drummers. And when you think about it, it’s just the perfect recipe for a great religious festival for the whole family; exactly the right combination of demonic iconicry, fireworks and small children.
Yep, the city sure lives up to its reputation for wackiness. But bizarrely shaped buildings are the least of their worries.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
I took off last weekend for my first intra-spanish adventure. I’ve just come back to Madrid after three days with a friend in Barcelona: home of Gaudi, The Ramblas, the 1992 Olympic Games, and the most disturbing Sunday school presentation I have ever seen. I had a fantastic time. With it’s oddly shaped architecture and a taste for strange looking modernism, the city has a reputation for being just a little bit wacky and unpredictable. Just the sort of place you might expect to find an out-of-control stunt linguist like me.
Actually, although I realise it betrays me as something of a cultural Philistine, I really wasn’t that excited by the whole modernism and crazy-lah architecture thing. I can respect Gaudi for being so successful whilst being so completely off the wall - full credit to the man – but buildings just aren’t my thing; even really cool buildings. It’s some kind of reverse-psychological symptom of being the son of an architect.
At the insistence of the locals, we did go and check out the Sagreda Familia church, Gaudi’s most famous work. The sculpture decorations were pretty cool, but again, it was just a building. Apparently you’re supposed to go in and climb the towers. We didn’t.
Much cooler than the cathedral in my opinion was Parc Güell, which is a big botanic garden in the north of the city. Gaudi got his hands on that too, and it’s all laid out with stone carvings and bizarrely shaped pathways, as well as buildings that look like they’re made out of marzipan.
The foreshore got a complete overhaul in the lead up to the games, and is really modern, clean and fun to walk around, with weird impressionistic sculptures randomly dotted around the place. We took a cable car from there up to the Olympic Village. We visited the Olympic stadium, the sports museum and the cultural institute. There were some great views of the city from on top of the hill where they built the village.
We spent some time wandering down the Ramblas, which are a large open air mall. The weekend markets were on, which was nice. There were people selling the usual souvenirs and stuff made out of locally produced fabric, but the coolest ones were the pet stalls. They were selling pigeons, rabbits, ferrets, various types of lizard (one shop had an iguana for sale) and tortoises of various sizes. But remember kids, a bearded dragon isn’t just for Christmas.
The attraction of visiting Barcelona this particular weekend was that it was the festival of Santa Eulália, the local patron saint (and here’s a shout out to any Redwall fans out there).
According to tradition, Eulália was a devout Christian girl and the Romans wanted her to recant her faith. She refused, and was subjected to a number of tortures, including crucifixion and being rolled down a hill in a barrel full of knives. Eventually she was martyred by decapitation, at which point a dove flew out of her neck. Make of that what you will.
So anyway, I was expecting a local commemoration with bands and choirs and stalls and things. What we got was a thousand (no exaggeration) children dressed as demons parading through the streets playing drums. It was a little macabre, but fairly harmless until they bought out the fireworks. It was the craziest pageant I’ve ever seen, but after the drumming they gave each kid a stick with a catherine wheel on in it, set it alight and sent them off to run through the streets showering us all with sparks until they exploded. The catherine wheels, that is, not the children.
This went on for about an hour, until they had run out of children. Then a band started playing, and a few of the older generation started doing a kind of traditional dance in a circle. I think they were mourning (or maybe even celebrating, I don’t know, it was all very dark and disturbing) the saint’s death. They must have been, because apart from that, Eulália herself didn’t make an appearance at all, just an army of pyro-maniacal infant drummers. And when you think about it, it’s just the perfect recipe for a great religious festival for the whole family; exactly the right combination of demonic iconicry, fireworks and small children.
Yep, the city sure lives up to its reputation for wackiness. But bizarrely shaped buildings are the least of their worries.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
01 February 2009
Australia Day
I’m trying to work out when the last time I had a really convincing Australia Day was. 2008 I was in still new in Sydney and really didn’t have a clue what was going on. I think 2007 I was in a car in Tasmania for most of it, but I can’t remember where we were driving to. 2006 must have been in either Brisbane or Adelaide and so monumental that I can’t remember it at all. I think I might have been at our Indooroopilly Unit, but everyone else was still on summer holidays. Whatever. I think 2005 was in Darwin. We all went down to Casuarina beach reserve for some cricket and a bbq. That was probably the last time Australia Day felt like I think it’s supposed to.
“And what of 2009?” I hear you ask. And when you think about it, the fact that I can hear you asking it as I sit here and type, before you’ve had chance to read the first paragraph, displays a remarkable level of precognitive ability.
Well, the first point to make is that they don’t celebrate Australia Day in Madrid. It was your average working Monday over here. That wasn’t such a big deal for me as I’m still trying to find more work. I only had one class to teach, so it was practically a day off for me anyway, but somehow it wasn’t the same without everyone else getting into it as well.
I tried to find out what the other Aussies I’ve met so far were up to. One of them was working and the other had her birthday on the 26th of January (how cool is that?), so she was off with friends for the day. So it was just me and my very patriotic green and gold jumper.
I went to make myself a vegemite sandwich for lunch only to discover that my vegemite was nowhere to be seen. Either some baggage handler along the way thought it looked like a nice treat (he’s in for a surprise) or I left it in a cupboard in Sydney.
I worked in the afternoon, teaching office workers about Australia Day and Chinese New Year, and asking them about their favourite celebrations. Apparently St. Isidro’s day in Madrid is the closest equivalent. He’s the local patron saint. The stupid woman had never even heard of cricket.
So far I wasn’t doing very well as far as iconic Australian celebrations went, but I decided I was going to try to carve it up anyway. I put on my drover’s coat and headed for the city. I was going to try the local custom of bar hopping and trying stuff from all over the place. The first bar I tried was staffed by rude grumpy old men. I think they were disgruntled at having to work on Australia Day. I didn’t stay there long. I had to walk for ages before I found another one that was open. So much for the famous Madrileño nightlife. Alright, it was Monday night, but that’s no excuse for being shut while there are Australians out and about. Alright, one Australian.
In the end I wound up at a pub around the corner from my house which advertises that it sells Fosters. I figured that seemed kind of appropriate; ending a rubbish Australia Day with a rubbish Australian beer. Unfortunately the bar seemed to be hosting some sort of darts club meeting. Everyone was watching a darts game, and the guy behind the bar was eating a hamburger, looking at me and trying to work out what I was doing there. I watched a couple of games and then left to go find myself some Spanish hot chocolate.
Unfortunately it was now half past ten, and everything was shut. Softest city in the world, apparently. So I took my drover’s coat home and went to bed. Oi oi freaking oi.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
P.S. Blogger informs me that this is my 50th Far From Home post (raises bat to dressing room). Everyone loves a milestone.
“And what of 2009?” I hear you ask. And when you think about it, the fact that I can hear you asking it as I sit here and type, before you’ve had chance to read the first paragraph, displays a remarkable level of precognitive ability.
Well, the first point to make is that they don’t celebrate Australia Day in Madrid. It was your average working Monday over here. That wasn’t such a big deal for me as I’m still trying to find more work. I only had one class to teach, so it was practically a day off for me anyway, but somehow it wasn’t the same without everyone else getting into it as well.
I tried to find out what the other Aussies I’ve met so far were up to. One of them was working and the other had her birthday on the 26th of January (how cool is that?), so she was off with friends for the day. So it was just me and my very patriotic green and gold jumper.
I went to make myself a vegemite sandwich for lunch only to discover that my vegemite was nowhere to be seen. Either some baggage handler along the way thought it looked like a nice treat (he’s in for a surprise) or I left it in a cupboard in Sydney.
I worked in the afternoon, teaching office workers about Australia Day and Chinese New Year, and asking them about their favourite celebrations. Apparently St. Isidro’s day in Madrid is the closest equivalent. He’s the local patron saint. The stupid woman had never even heard of cricket.
So far I wasn’t doing very well as far as iconic Australian celebrations went, but I decided I was going to try to carve it up anyway. I put on my drover’s coat and headed for the city. I was going to try the local custom of bar hopping and trying stuff from all over the place. The first bar I tried was staffed by rude grumpy old men. I think they were disgruntled at having to work on Australia Day. I didn’t stay there long. I had to walk for ages before I found another one that was open. So much for the famous Madrileño nightlife. Alright, it was Monday night, but that’s no excuse for being shut while there are Australians out and about. Alright, one Australian.
In the end I wound up at a pub around the corner from my house which advertises that it sells Fosters. I figured that seemed kind of appropriate; ending a rubbish Australia Day with a rubbish Australian beer. Unfortunately the bar seemed to be hosting some sort of darts club meeting. Everyone was watching a darts game, and the guy behind the bar was eating a hamburger, looking at me and trying to work out what I was doing there. I watched a couple of games and then left to go find myself some Spanish hot chocolate.
Unfortunately it was now half past ten, and everything was shut. Softest city in the world, apparently. So I took my drover’s coat home and went to bed. Oi oi freaking oi.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
P.S. Blogger informs me that this is my 50th Far From Home post (raises bat to dressing room). Everyone loves a milestone.
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