Seville Snapshots: Domingo de Romería

May 13, 2013 by · 3 Comments

“The hilly encinas are my office,” said Jose, not looking away from his ham leg, from which he took thin cuts and arranged them neatly onto a plate for us. I’d been eating since arriving to the Ermita de San Diego in teeny San Nicolás del Puerto, my favorite village in Spain, and my stomach could only hold so much.

Springtime in Andalucia is all about a healthy mix of hedonism and religion (which surprisingly go hand-in-hand). Holy Week revelers pay a somber penitence to the cruxifiction and resurrection, then sherry is drunk by the bucketfull during ferias all over Andalucía, and concludes with romerías in nearly all of the pueblos from late April until September.

I’ve mentioned San Nicolás del Puerto, a tiny dot of a town on Andalucia’s map. At 700 people and seven bars (seven more than in my hometown of 55,000), the city is the source of the Hueznár River, part of the Vía Verde and the birthplace of San Diego de Alcalá. Nearly all of the town’s festivities revolve around the poor man’s saint, including the Romería de San Diego, held the second Sunday of May each year.

For a small village, San Nicolás throws a big party for the romería, which is like one-part religious procession, one part tailgate. Everyone brings their coolers full of food – chacina, tortilla de papas, filetes empanados, and homemade cakes – and finds a shady spot in the hills near the hemitage for setting up their picnic. They’re often reserved by parking cars, using a fruit crate for a makeshft sign, or by tradition – I always know where Rafalín and the Novio´s father will be with their own portapotty.

At noon, the saint comes dancing in, carried on the shoulders of locals and preceeded by a brass band from the nearby Alanís de la Sierra. It’s kind of like a homecoming, and I can almost imagine my high school’s fight song instead of the paso doble that accompanies the saint before mass. Diego bobs up and down as partygoers watch on horseback, some dressed in flamenco dresses and trajes cortos. The Novio and I watched from afar, busy kicking back a few bottles of beer and helping ourselves to everyone else’s food, lest it go to waste.

Have you ever been to a Romería? Spain’s biggest and most popular, El Rocío of Almonte (Huelva) is this coming Sunday. Read about my experience at last year’s fair here.

Filed Under: Andalusia Tourism, Beer, Featured, ham, religion, Rural Tourism, San Nicolás del Puerto, Seville Province, Spanish Traditions ·

You Know You’re in Small Town Spain when…

December 4, 2012 by · 14 Comments

I’ve lived in just three cities in Spain, all de-facto capitals of their respective comunidades autonomas. While cities offer all the amenities that make living abroad un pelin easier – from vegetarian options to world-class entertainment – Spain’s pueblos are its soul.

It seems that every Spaniard has his or her pueblo. Kike’s family has had land in teeny San Nicolas del Puerto, a hiccup of a village in the Sierra Norte de Sevilla, for centuries. The mountain air, fresh meat and raucous fiestas – among them, a haunted house in the middle of the summer – make it our preferred destination on the weekend. This is the kind of pueblo where everybody knows your name and all of your business.

Apart from San Nicolas, I spent 12 days living in a monastery outside of Madrid. The town of Uclés had, apart from the commanding monastery, one church, one bar, one plaza and one house converted into the “super club” during the months the guiris were up the hill. We happened to be there during the village’s super fiesta, a pilgrimage which allowed the village to swell to nearly twice its size.

While every pueblo has its trademarks, there are some things you just can’t escape. You know you’re in small town Spain when…

…eating, drinking and merry-making are dirt cheap

…saint is being exalted 

…all roads lead to the church

…there’s a low-budget charanga butchering every Bisbal song in existence

…mixed drinks look like this:

…everyone knows your name and your business

…someone throws a chicken in the air for fun (or does anything else strange)

What’s your favorite village in Spain? Why do you like it?

Filed Under: A Few of My Favorite Things, Andalucia, Andalusia Tourism, culture shock, expat life, Featured, gastronomy, ham, living abroad, Places with Encanto, Rural Tourism, San Nicolás del Puerto, Spain, tourism, typical Spanish · Tagged: , , ,

Tapa Thursdays: The Effervescent Jamón Ibérico

October 25, 2012 by · 21 Comments

Some thing are just better experienced than written about.

Among my favorite moments of my five years in Spain are the “early nights” that turn into café con leche as the sun rises the following morning, the way my feet magically stop tripping over themselves the minute I don my flamenco dress, and the hours mulling over great food with gorgeous Seville as a backdrop.

Food has given me a greater understanding of Spanish culture and family life, as well as the way people socialize. I’ve come to scrutinize wedding fare, steer clear of certain establishments and get filled to the brim with tó lo bueno.

The common theme throughout virtually any dining experience? El cerdo ibérico, Spain’s prized pig.

I suppose it doesn’t help that Kike’s father owns a farm that raises pigs until they’re nice and fat, ready to be sold to a matadero and served for a Christmas splurge. Pork, a food I once ate reluctantly, is now a staple in my diet.

I dragged the Novio along to the annual Feria Internacional del Cerdo Ibérico, a ham fest in one of Spain’s foremost regions in production. Under the Denominación de Origen de Huelva, 20 million euros are earned yearly from the production and distribution of the hind legs, called a pata. I’ve been waxing poetic for years about the fair, one in which you can eat, drink and practically be Miss Piggy for under 20€, stocking up on artisan products and anise.

It’s one of those things you’ve just got to experience.

What it is: One of Spain’s most expensive pork product, jamón ibérico is thinly sliced ham from the hind leg of an acorn-fed pig. The meat is conserved in salt, then hung to dry for a year or two. The white part, called tocino, is fat and considered to be the tastiest part.

Where it’s from: The mountain range that separates Andalusia from Extremadura is the hotspot for jamón in the south. Here, pigs feast on acorns until the springtime matanza, when they’re slaughtered. The best places to eat ham are in these small villages.

Where to get it in Seville: Many establishments offer tapas and plates of ham, particularly in the center and at smaller bars in outlying neighborhoods. Try it on a mantecaíto sandwich at Bodeguita Antonia Romero, C/ Gamazo, 16.

Goes perfectly with: Good friends and a glass of fino. Ham tends to end up on panes, on montaditos and in tacos, or small bits as a garnish.

Check out my second appearance talking on Spanish TV, around minute 31:30

http://www.canalsuralacarta.es/television/video/viernes-19-de-octubre/31222/13 - Even my neighbor from 2ºIzq. has seen me!!

The Feria del Jamón y de Cerdo Ibérico is held yearly in the village of Aracena, 90 kilometres northwest of Seville. The fair tends to take place the third weekend of October, but the village can be visited year-round and boasts many beautiful sites.

Filed Under: A Few of My Favorite Things, Andalucia, Andalusia Tourism, Extremadura, food, gastronomy, ham, Huelva, photo post, Rural Tourism, San Nicolás del Puerto, Seville, Tapas, Tapas Thursday, travel photography, typical Spanish · Tagged: , ,

Everybody Was Pueblo-Timing

February 17, 2012 by · 4 Comments

Everyone in Spain is, sorry to tell you, not fútbol- or flamenco-obsessed. Not everyone in Spain loves jamón. Not everyone in Spain speaks Castillian. But, yes, everyone in Spain has a pueblo (and not-so-secretly loves it).

I learned this during my second year at IES Heliche. While discussing holidays (summer vacation for you gringos), I asked if anyone was going to a second home of theirs. Virtually all Andalusian families spend their summer months away from the sweltering cities at the hundreds of kilometers of coastline down here, so I expected to hear names of beaches within an hour’s drive (for the record, the lack of beaches is one of my extreme dislikes about Sevilla, along with the ever-shrinking airport and lack of live music – the good ones, I mean).

Nearly everyone in Olivares listed their summertime destination as Olivares. Like the ones below:

Vamonos al pueblo…OUR pueblo!

Ok, I assumed, there’s a financial crisis, and it’s likely that people are sticking around their hometowns, trying to stay in the shade. Qué no, the olivareños were simply moving house across town to their parcela – or little shack houses – with pools. Why leave your pueblo when all of your friends are around?

En fin, the pueblo is to Spaniards as our dogs are to Americans.

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Filed Under: andalú, Andalucia, Cazalla, Extremadura, family, gastronomy, ham, religion, Rural Tourism, San Nicolás del Puerto, Seville, Seville Province, Spain, Things to do in Sevilla, toros, tourism, typical Spanish · Tagged: , ,

Going ‘Round in Circles

May 26, 2011 by · 1 Comment

Olivares, the village where I worked for three years, is exactly 16 kilometers away from my old house in the Triana neighborhood. This meant a 40-minute bus ride (barring cows and tractors in the two-lane highway) or a 25-minute trip with a coworker. I soon found out that this was equivalent to 10 miles to metric system-challenged Americans like me.

And then, one day, I walked 16 kilometers. I remembered Martin, my bike-wielding Dutch workmate, who came daily on two wheels and wondered how I could have walked the distance from Triana to Olivares (and, yes, uphill in the hot Spanish sun).

Monica and I, not feeling the beach or wanting to stick around in Sevilla, hopped a Cercanias short-distance train to the town of Cazalla de la Sierra, a mountain pass away from Kike’s village. Known for its enormous cathedral, white buildings and liqueurs, it is the one of the major tourism towns in the north of the province.

As we boarded the train in Santa Justa, it became apparent that the town is heavily-touristed. Scout troops, families and bikers boarded the train, leaving hardly enough seats for those who got on at other stops along the route. The train climbed higher and higher into the Sierra Norte, the farmland rich in acorn trees that feed those delicious piggies that give us ham and caña de lomo. When it let us off 90 minutes later in Cazalla, we saw no emblematic Miura signs or that big ol’ castle. We saw wilderness.

I approached a toothless man sitting outside the train station, which had no attendant. “Which way to Cazalla?” I asked.


He responded in perfect English: “Where are you from?” and, despite not having teeth, said it without any trace of an accent. I had to repeat Chicago about six times, and my neoyorquina friend kept her mouth shut before he pointed to the highway and said, “Just up that road, eight kilometres. The scenic route is flooded.”

I apologized six times to Monica, who just laughed at me as we watched the bikers head down the scenic route. So, up we went, with our sturdy walking sticks, Herbert and Leonard.

Poppies were in full bloom around the fincas full of olive trees and ganadería, livestock ranging from chickens to sheep to the elusive pigs and bulls we’d seen from the train windows. We hiked. And hiked. And kept hiking as cars and bikes whizzed past us. The clear sky coupled with Kike’s army-issued backpack that carried nuts, sunscreen and a book made for sweaty hikers, but we found some shade when we reached a fork in the road. At this point, we’d seen just one house, so the crossed-out CAZALLA was a bit ominous.

“Let’s Robert Frost this,” Monica suggested when we reached a fork in the road 100 meters up. An uphill path lead us to the gate of the Cartuja monastery overlooking horse pastures and a pristine view of the surrounding valleys. I peeked inside at the crumbling brick masterpiece of ochre and cerulean blue before a woman came face to face with me.

“You come for visit, or to stay the night?” she asked in crisp English. Geez, everyone here speaks my tongue! We told Mari Carmen, the supposed proprietor of the place, that we were headed into town. “Well, it’s three miles, so you better hop in the back.” She motioned to her blue van and Mon and I got in. Turns out that the cordobesa had bought the monastery over three decades ago and was lovingly restoring it. She was certainly weathered and looked like she’d dedicated 34 years to that place.

MC dropped us off at one end of the pueblo near a wholesale grocery store. Figuring our first stop should be the tourism office, we followed signs for the cathedral, passing pensioner’s homes and abandoned anís factories. The only people in the plaza were pensioners, and the tourism office, supermarkets and, um, everything were closed. A bar was the next stop.

People marveled at the two guiris in the two bars we had two beers in (yes, I prefer even numbers). We were treated to fried pig, sautéed mushrooms and nuts, free advice and a whole lot of stares. I asked numerous partons how long it would take to hike the Via Las Landeras back to the train station, the apparently flooded route. Tongues wagged when they told us it would take us about three hours and we had far less that to make it. Skeptical, I stopped at another bar and asked and was told I had the pleasure of meeting the town drunk, Rafael. He swore to be from Triana and asked where I was from.

“Chicago.”

“That’s not a real place. You’re from Carolina, then?” Si, por alli. Around there. We followed Rafael’s advice to take the main road down past the Cathedral until we got to a fountain and look for the small sign marking the start to the Via Verde, a green road established through a collaboration of the Environmental and Tourism office. What we found was a dirty and a dead-end. Now fearing we may never make it to the train station, we asked several more people before ending up at the other end of the main street.

The sign marking the trail claimed the hike down would take up to three hours. Monica and I tried jogging it, which didn’t last long due to horseback riders, steep turns and the intense sun on our backs. The flat path through fields of poppies quickly gave way to craggy farmland full of sheep, slate rock rivers and clandestine fields.

We made it down to the train station in just over an hour, sweating and beat. My butt hurt after the 16-kilometers. Monica’s calves quivered. It took us not even three minutes to fall asleep on the train.

I thought of Martin and realized that his 40 years looked good because, after a full 16 kilometers on his bike, he must be beat.

Filed Under: Andalucia, Cazalla, Rural Tourism, San Nicolás del Puerto, Spain, tourism ·

San Diego, Bendito!

November 18, 2010 by · 5 Comments

“Diego, abrígate, que hace frío!”

Without a doubt the most overheard phrase in the small village of San Nicolás del Puerto. Diego, dress warmly; it’s cold.

In San Nicolás, San Diego reigns king over the pueblo of 700 farmers in the heart of the Sierra Norte de Sevilla hills. Amidst cork trees you’ll find his white-washed shrine, his photo framed above every living room couch as the family sits around the bracero keeping warm in the winter, and as the given name of the offspring of its citizens. My boyfriend’s great-great grandmother grew up in a house on Calle Hueznár, a house built before my town was founded, a house that lies on the street named for the very river that gives San Nicolás its name as a port, the river that flows through the family’s land and the tributary of the waterfalls that make the village a destination in the natural park.

I feel more and more of an affinity for the village and its people each time I go. Word spread quickly that El Bigote’s son was dating an American, so my pig cheek plate came with a side of a million questions from Murangaños who wanted to poke and prod the Americanita. Each time that first year of dating, I was introduced to a new rincón of the town – from Bar Higinio to Finca los Leones and its hermitage to the town’s patron to the camping with its exquisite migas. I’ve been there for many major holidays – the Romería, Reyes Magos and, most recently, El Día de San Diego.

From this little town came a devout and God-fearing Franciscan monk, a poor and humble man from a poor and humble town. After his burial in the 15th century in Alcalá de Henares (northwest of Madrid), miraculous things began to happen and a saint was born. A statue was erected in his honor in the plaza next to the Church of San Diego, built before Christopher Columbus was born, hordes of Diegos christened, and the equally devout eople of the village come to worship him once a year on November 13th.

My feeble attempt to sleep was made more difficult by the winding roads that snake from Lora del Río up through the Sierra Norte to Cazalla, Alanís and San Nicolás. After my usual siesta in Kike’s childhood bed, I took the main road in to its intersection with the main road out. There, sandwiched between the houses on Calle Diego, next to my favorite bar, was a charranga in full-swing and scores of small Diegos running around. The nearby owner of the camping, Diego (duh), welcomed me with a beer and I sang him the customary saint day song (Many children in Spain also receive gifts on the day the feast of the saint which bears their name is celebrated. San Enrique, for example, is July 13th. To my knowledge, there is no Saint Cat!), taught to me recently by my babies at school. The town was fuller than ever – Inma came from Córdoba to see her mother and ask that her son be baptised in the same church as she and other generations in her family had, and an old friend of Kike’s, María José, brought her small children and husband for the first time. The bailes, typically held on Saturday, were cut short due to the early morning parade to follow the next day.

I wussed out. I mean, all this talk about a big dance, like the one I went to in nearby Cerro del Hierro two years back where we marathon-drank guinda and beer, and I was asleep, fully clothed at 1am.
The following morning was welcome with a band and the parade of the humble saint, bird perched on his shoulder and gaze turned upward. It seemed to pause outside the window, so I drew up the siesta blinds, letting sunlight and fresh air in. The parade returned later and woke me again at 2pm, just in time for Alejandro to serve us some lunch. I spent the afternoon curled up under blankets reading under San Diego’s protective eye while the town marched up and down the streets with him. The celebrations also included the inauguration of his childhood home and a blessing from the cardinal. We met the procession as it came back, trumpets blaring and devotees burying their faces in scarves to keep warm.
I live in a city. I’m surrounded by bullfighting, flamenco wails and machismo daily. But in this small town with their big saint, I always witness that which defines the Spanish character: humility, tradition and devotion.
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Filed Under: Andalucia, Andalusia Tourism, holidays, Rural Tourism, San Nicolás del Puerto · Tagged: , ,
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