On watching fireworks with an española
I'll never see fireworks the same way again.
I've been cackling nonstop about my experience watching the Virgen de la Vega fireworks with my landlady, Teresa. Since my coworkers have tired of hearing my española impressions, I'll tell all of you.
There was water coming in from next door. An ugly, blotch on my otherwise pristine bedroom wall. Teresa had stopped by to continue the ongoing negotiations with plumbers, painters and the entire population of Plaza S--, Door 2. Seems it absolutely, positively, without doubt wasn't anyone's fault.
I was enjoying the dance, which ended with the owner of the apartment from which the water entered mine declaring to a unanimous chorus of Pues, bueno's, Entonces and vigorously nodding heads that the water must have come through some secret passageway for water pipes - from the apartment above his, which would make all repairs the sole responsibility of the only property owner not present.
Ingenious.
Business concluded, an air kiss on either cheek and Teresa was out the door... until it hit her.
Los fuegos! Erin! La hora!
Time for the fireworks. And here she was inside an apartment with a front row view. We made for the double-width window in the salon.
And I learned something. I come from reserved stock, New England Irish Catholic, to be exact. My mother has just enough Scot in her to be tighter than tight and internationally famous (well, I live in Spain) for shhhhing any sound that might possibly reach the neighbors.
But I love fireworks. I haven't missed a single show in Salamanca, and we have plenty, although up to this point I had watched all of them alone.
No more.
Teresa ooohed. She aaaahhed. She grabbed my arm and gave little leaps in the air, and Teresa's at least 4 inches taller than me, and downright statuesque.
¡Los azules! Los azules, ¡miralos Erin! ¡Los azules!
And with every sonic boom:
¡Vaya bombazos! ¡Vaya!
Miralos, ¡cómo caen! Ay, ¡son estrellas desde el cielo, Erin! ¡O los corazones! ¡Los corazones! Ves, Erin, ¿ves?
Better than Dick Vitale, if anyone else out there spent the 80's watching Big 10 basketball. She couldn't keep quiet, and why should she? She was at that moment watching a damn good fireworks show. And all the excitement I get out of fireworks (well, I must like them, or I wouldn't scramble for the camera and race to the window every time) came tumbling out of Teresa.
She announced every color.
Oh Erin! Blue! Do you see the blue!! And oh! The greens! See the greens, how they hang?
Just look how they fall!
She squealed at every shape.
The hearts! The hearts! Oh, I love the hearts!! Erin, Erin, look at them, look at them! They're hearts!
(Yes, we have hearts in our fireworks, which strike me as little too 5th grade Friends 4ever for my taste, but they pleased the crowd. And it wasn't hard to tell.)
Twenty minutes later, I felt like I'd shared an intimate experience with Teresa.
Fiesta fireworks.
In short, I've found another piece of española I think I'll take inside and keep. When watching fireworks, watch fireworks.
And if the mood hits, squeal.
I've been cackling nonstop about my experience watching the Virgen de la Vega fireworks with my landlady, Teresa. Since my coworkers have tired of hearing my española impressions, I'll tell all of you.
There was water coming in from next door. An ugly, blotch on my otherwise pristine bedroom wall. Teresa had stopped by to continue the ongoing negotiations with plumbers, painters and the entire population of Plaza S--, Door 2. Seems it absolutely, positively, without doubt wasn't anyone's fault.
I was enjoying the dance, which ended with the owner of the apartment from which the water entered mine declaring to a unanimous chorus of Pues, bueno's, Entonces and vigorously nodding heads that the water must have come through some secret passageway for water pipes - from the apartment above his, which would make all repairs the sole responsibility of the only property owner not present.
Ingenious.
Business concluded, an air kiss on either cheek and Teresa was out the door... until it hit her.
Los fuegos! Erin! La hora!
Time for the fireworks. And here she was inside an apartment with a front row view. We made for the double-width window in the salon.
And I learned something. I come from reserved stock, New England Irish Catholic, to be exact. My mother has just enough Scot in her to be tighter than tight and internationally famous (well, I live in Spain) for shhhhing any sound that might possibly reach the neighbors.
But I love fireworks. I haven't missed a single show in Salamanca, and we have plenty, although up to this point I had watched all of them alone.
No more.
Teresa ooohed. She aaaahhed. She grabbed my arm and gave little leaps in the air, and Teresa's at least 4 inches taller than me, and downright statuesque.
¡Los azules! Los azules, ¡miralos Erin! ¡Los azules!
And with every sonic boom:
¡Vaya bombazos! ¡Vaya!
Miralos, ¡cómo caen! Ay, ¡son estrellas desde el cielo, Erin! ¡O los corazones! ¡Los corazones! Ves, Erin, ¿ves?
Better than Dick Vitale, if anyone else out there spent the 80's watching Big 10 basketball. She couldn't keep quiet, and why should she? She was at that moment watching a damn good fireworks show. And all the excitement I get out of fireworks (well, I must like them, or I wouldn't scramble for the camera and race to the window every time) came tumbling out of Teresa.
She announced every color.
Oh Erin! Blue! Do you see the blue!! And oh! The greens! See the greens, how they hang?
Just look how they fall!
She squealed at every shape.
The hearts! The hearts! Oh, I love the hearts!! Erin, Erin, look at them, look at them! They're hearts!
(Yes, we have hearts in our fireworks, which strike me as little too 5th grade Friends 4ever for my taste, but they pleased the crowd. And it wasn't hard to tell.)
Twenty minutes later, I felt like I'd shared an intimate experience with Teresa.
Fiesta fireworks.
In short, I've found another piece of española I think I'll take inside and keep. When watching fireworks, watch fireworks.
And if the mood hits, squeal.
posted by Erin at
11:09 PM
5 Comments:
What a great story. I love fireworks, and I haven't seen any in a long time, except for cheap do it yourself fireworks on the island.
In America it was easy, you always knew when you'd be able to see fireworks. I'm not sure what events are firework worthy in Greece (aside from the Olympics) so I always miss out.
By
melusina, at 7:52 PM
I don't think I'd ever get tired of listening to your espanola impression! :)
By
Angie, at 9:11 PM
That's cause you only "heard" it once, Angie. I carried on for weeks - at everything..... Miralos! Los papeles! Son blancos!! Qué blancos son!!
jejeje
By
Erin, at 9:42 PM
Someone knew Dick Vitale!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Oh, Terri, you can´t know what a joy it is to have someone actually pick up on an obscure cultural reference like that.....one downside of expat life...nobody gets your references :-)
By
Erin, at 9:42 AM
Hey, this is cool!
You may find a similar taste in my blog today, only I'm the one gushing!
Thanks for keeping tabs on me while I was distracted from posting.
And I agree; post some pictures!!!
By
Kate Winner, at 8:59 PM
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