Sirimiri, clown marches, and botas de trekking

Sirimiri? Huh?

Oh, vaunted and imaginary readership, you ask yourself, "Just what in the hell is sirimiri?" Well, sirimiri is a Basque word which means light rain or drizzle. We might call it a farmer's rain. People in the Northwest - you know what I'm talking about.

Well, sirimiri is what it sounds like: a mischievous and pesky trickle of water from the sky, one that might slightly interrupt any plans you may have to go tanning on the beach, but won't ruin much else. Sometimes it's almost like a constant  spray bottle, or one of those automated misters at Disney World to keep the huddled, sunburnt throngs placated.

In fact, as I was typing this, I heard a commotion outside my window. I stuck my head out and indeed, there was a parade of children in clown costumes plunking on down the street, marching band and all, totally unencumbered by the sirimiri. In fact, they say that a real Basque doesn't even feel the droplets. They are a strong people.

Why were these children marching dressed as clowns? A true Bilbaíno, no matter how small, marches dressed as a clown whenever he damn feels like it.

Sirimiri, which I believe is an onomatopoeia (just imagine a Basque man in a txapela beret going "sirimirirmiririririri" imitating the a light rain - nice, right?) does indeed please and tickle the senses and placate.

However, when it doesn't stop for two weeks straight, it starts to suck.

Doesn't this just look downright pleasant to stare at for 16 days in a row?

 Also, when those relatively pleasing two weeks are peppered with violent hailstorms and knock-you-on-your-ass wind, it sucks even more. It is no longer pleasant sirimiri.

It becomes un poco annoying as hell.

Good thing I've got my typical Basque hiking boots. An ancient and noble tradition.

 

 

 

Every good Basque's got a pair of these somewhere.

I think it's important here to discuss the Basque-ness that is embodied by the noble hiking boot. I am convinced that every self-respecting person in the great land of euskal herria owns at least one, and probably two or three, pairs of hiking boots. They claim it's because "it rains all the time," which it does as I mentioned above, but I think there's more to it than that. There's something inherently Basque about the mountain-y ruggedness of a good pair of botas de trekking, as they are referred to in the local tongue. Yes, they claim it is to not get their poor, little feet wet, but that does not explain why one sees them being worn with abandon in every type of clime and meteorological event. You also see them gracing sturdy, Basque feet in every type of social situation, ranging all the way from climbing a mountain (where they are somewhat called for) to riding the metro (which does not require extra ankle support) to teaching in a high school (the teachers I work with wear them a lot) to dancing in a swanky club (I've seen it, multiple times).

They don't just support your insole, they support your inner soul.

Here's to you, Basques, and here's to your noble and water-impermeable footwear.

ROME: "I'ma talkina' youa, ragazzo!" (and other hurtful stereotypes)

They say Rome wasn't built in a day. They also say that all roads lead to it. They also say that when you are there, you should do as they do. So evidently, after you inevitably arrive at the place, which was apparently oft-delayed in construction (we know how the Italians can be), you have to do as they do, which means shout a lot, make really good dough-based foods, conquer most of the ancient Western world (leaving the masses to figure out your verb tenses), and make gesticulations a fine-tuned, precise art.

And you make better croissants than France. Or at least on par.

Whaddya mean French croissants?

One day, not so long in the past, Alex S. Johnson and myself, Alex Jr., decided we had had enough of Hispania - this corner of the former empire. Like that, we decided to head across the Mediterranean to the boot. Because we had had enough of madre mía.

It was time for mamma mía. Oh, and you can bet we exclaimed, while making pinching shapes with our hands in a pleading motion.

I don't know who this man is, but he knows how I feel.

As you have seen in my previous posts of images, o' cherished and imaginary reader, Rome has a lot of badass things apart from their native hand gestures. They've got Egyptian obelisks, giant stadiums where they fed Christians to lions, places on the outskirts of the city where partially eaten Christians were forced to do their burials, ornate graffiti-covered Opera houses, gargantuan statues of dudes on horses flanked by football-field-sized flags, epic views, Holy Sees, Unholy Sees, and green rivers.

They've truly got it all.

Like they say, you really have to be there to believe it, to drink it all in. No Canon PowerShot picture, regardless of the megapixels, is going to do justice to drinking a Heineken in an ancient plaza, overlooking more rounded church domes than you can shake a stick, all while watching the setting sun and listening to an out of tune trombone busker playing "Lowrider". Can't take a picture of that shit.

But I'll try anyway.

Also, for those who were worried, the Vatican has more gift shops than DisneyWorld. And I don't know which ornate paintings were cooler: the ones in the Sistine Chapel, or the ones covering the Rome subway trains. I mean it for real. They were awesome. Except some of them didn't work. Good to look at though!

We ate good, we saw a lot of awesome, old stuff, looked at some amazing street scenes, met a rad Chilean dude, avoided excessively party-hearty Australians and Israelis, hung out with the locals (well one local who was awesome to us - grazie, Laura, who will never read this), and we did not get robbed at the train station.

All in all, another small victory. Right, Trajan?

Roma, día tres

Más fotos de Rome