TEFLees in Spain

So we headed away from the aqueduct, pictures snapped and memories logged, in the direction of Segovia’s ancient cathedral. The gently sloping uphill walk took only about ten minutes or so, and we shortly found ourselves shivering in the damp darkness of the cavernous cathedral hall. Now, no matter how many cathedrals I’ve visited during my European conquests, the shear enormity of their size never ceases to amaze me. As I stood, neck craning and eyes squinting to make out the faint figures depicted on its many altitudinous apertures, I figured that from front to back, minus the gigantic choir lofts and pulpits occupying its center space, one could play a proper game of full-contact football, or at a stretch, a pickup game of summer stickball. Aside from these pre-modern Megadome fantasies, I took in the glowing golden altarpieces and intricately carved capillas, imagining with wonder the amount of time and money that must have gone into such a construction. If we’d taken just five seconds to examine each piece of artwork, I’d probably still be there today – no doubt jobless, dehydrated, and certainly not writing about it for your intellectual enjoyment. Regardless, we wandered around freezing through our t-shirts for about an hour or so before deciding to listen to our growling stomachs that it was finally time for our long awaited first taste of Segovia’s specialty: roast suckling pig, or cuchinillo.

To many this may seem a cruel endeavor, the slaughtering of innocent infant animals. My apologies to PETA. But to me, baby animals, adult animals, raw animals, small animals, fluffy animals, fried animals, happy animals, sad animals – everyone’s welcome to the palate party. My taste buds don’t discriminate. A bit barbaric, yes – but I’m an omnivore, damn it – all of the above simply spell delicious, and cuchinillo, the Spanish delicacy that I’ve for so long seen devoured by TV hosts on travel programs back home, was certainly worth the hype. Cute? I guess. Cuddly? Perhaps. Tasty? You bet your shorts. Would I like to pet one before I eat it? Well, let’s not get carried away, but we did have some laughs over the idea of a cuchinillo petting zoo before the meal was served. And when the food finally did arrive, it took all I had to keep from going face to plate like a county fair contestant in the no-hands pie race. It was therefore with a well-mannered exercise of sophisticated self control that, cutlery wielded and ready, I ignored the guilty gut pangs in my gullet and mother’s sorrow-sick sighs of sympathy, and, putting knife to piglet, crunched through. What ensued was a Graceland of gourmet goodness; a flavor phenomenon of paradisiacal proportions; in essence, the pinnacle of pork-dom on earth: an outer layer of crispy, khaki-colored skin giving way to a succulently savory, slightly salty white meat center; altogether so tender and delicate that the grinning camareros who quartered it tableside were able to do so using only the blunt edge of a dinner plate. It was a no holds barred display of carnivorous corpulence; a whizzing whirlwind of fork to mouth fiendery; the one negative about this delectable delight being that it had most certainly ended too soon. I could’ve eaten more – much more, and it saddens my heart (but not my waistline) to know that cuchinillo isn’t something I can order every day at my corner-side café. Regardless of this post-coital-like comedown, we dabbed satisfactorily at the corners of our now mollified mandibles, regrouped once again, and continued on to the day’s last destination: Segovia’s Alcazar.