Back in May of last year, I googled "Baeza, Spain" like any kid of the 21st century. I had just found out, according to my new English teaching contract, I'd be living there for eight months. I had reason to know. Google produced a myriad variety of the same, the lion fountain, the cathedral, the plaza, but the real spirit of the town didn't appear: olives.
I hadn't been to Spain. I knew an embarrassing little about the cuisine (apart from "tapas" and paella). I was legless; I didn't even know how to say Jaén (my current home province) or find it on a map. (In other words, despite my four months in Chile, I could speak guiri talk, or tourist Spanish).
The education was quick. I remember that first week like a cocaine-influenced dream (think Requiem for a Dream). I was warped. In that honeymoon haze, I was relaxed in the friendly air that Spaniards are famous for, but as my words streamed from an email to a friend, I expected the year to be vexing, as in distressing, not annoying. In this small Spanish town, I didn't know how I was going to fit in. Tall, blonde and without an ear for the Andalusian accent (which is known unofficially as a different language, Andaluz), I was lost. Compound with a tongue ill-equiped to micmic the quick trills, I had little confidence. The opposite of the Spaniards who surrounded me.
I went through the next phase: negotiaiton, and soon enough, the adjustment phase. Baeza took on another sentiment. Not vexing nor stressing. Its spirit became evident: olivos, aceitunas, aceite de oliva. Which essentially all mean the same thing--derivable of the olive--olive trees, olives to be consumed, olive oil. Just as the Spanish language, even in its Andaluz form, became something I could understand.
On San Isidro, the celebration of the saint of agriculture, a procession of 20 band members, several well-dressed Spanish families, and the throned Saint marched through the heart of Baeza. The tallest image being the olive tree branch. Tourists clicked photos and I felt a twitch of pride. For one year, I knew what it meant to honor the olive.
In a total contrast, Madrid, too, celebrates San Isidro. Fireworks, concerts and a limitless number of drinking parties take over the public squares. It marks the beginning of the bullfighting season and the festival in Madrid. Their version of San Isidro only ends after two weeks of partying.
From what I know, not a single mention of olives or agriculture is made.
(Olive oil is like water here and its price reflects that mentality. That mega jug costs just 9 Euros at the supermarket.)
The education was quick. I remember that first week like a cocaine-influenced dream (think Requiem for a Dream). I was warped. In that honeymoon haze, I was relaxed in the friendly air that Spaniards are famous for, but as my words streamed from an email to a friend, I expected the year to be vexing, as in distressing, not annoying. In this small Spanish town, I didn't know how I was going to fit in. Tall, blonde and without an ear for the Andalusian accent (which is known unofficially as a different language, Andaluz), I was lost. Compound with a tongue ill-equiped to micmic the quick trills, I had little confidence. The opposite of the Spaniards who surrounded me.
I went through the next phase: negotiaiton, and soon enough, the adjustment phase. Baeza took on another sentiment. Not vexing nor stressing. Its spirit became evident: olivos, aceitunas, aceite de oliva. Which essentially all mean the same thing--derivable of the olive--olive trees, olives to be consumed, olive oil. Just as the Spanish language, even in its Andaluz form, became something I could understand.
On San Isidro, the celebration of the saint of agriculture, a procession of 20 band members, several well-dressed Spanish families, and the throned Saint marched through the heart of Baeza. The tallest image being the olive tree branch. Tourists clicked photos and I felt a twitch of pride. For one year, I knew what it meant to honor the olive.
In a total contrast, Madrid, too, celebrates San Isidro. Fireworks, concerts and a limitless number of drinking parties take over the public squares. It marks the beginning of the bullfighting season and the festival in Madrid. Their version of San Isidro only ends after two weeks of partying.
From what I know, not a single mention of olives or agriculture is made.
(A terrible ipod photo of Baeza and the procession. Do you see that olive tree branch? Yes, that's San Isidro.)
To give you a primer, check out this video. It explains Jaén and its reverence of olives.
I still haven't gotten used to the wafting smell of the olive oil factories in the streets and school hallways.
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